Never Forget

by Martin Michaud

  A framed photograph of Pope John Paul II hung on the wall behind the documents expert.

  “It’s a pleasure,” she said, putting down the rosary she’d been fingering when the officers had walked in. She smiled for the first time, revealing small, closely packed teeth that overlapped a little in front. Bathed in the office’s humid warmth, she seemed to move slowly through the thick air.

  Jacinthe sat down. With her cheeks already flushed, she picked up an envelope from the desk and began fanning herself.

  Mona Vézina started out with the usual disclaimers, telling the officers what they already knew: that her opinion was based on her examination of the Polaroid photo and the cardboard found in Lortie’s room, the sheets on which the tangle of writing that she called “the mosaic” had been inscribed. She added that her opinion was provisional and subject to change if new facts were subsequently brought to her attention. Then she opened a file folder, withdrew a sheet of paper, and consulted it.

  “What I can tell you straight off is that the mosaic was laid down in numerous stages, using different kinds of ink. If you want to date them and find out when they were created, you’ll have to talk to a chemist. I can recommend one who works with the Montreal Police.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Jacinthe said.

  “Good. Also, I’ve gone over the materials carefully with a magnifying glass and microscope, and I have no reason to believe any parts of the mosaic have been falsified or simulated. Which leads me to conclude that the mosaic is the work of a single person. However, I’m not in a position to identify Mr. Lortie as the author of the mosaic. If you want me to go further, you’ll have to provide me with a sample of his handwriting for comparison. A letter, for example …”

  “At the moment,” the detective sergeant said, “the only other writing sample we have is the word on the Polaroid: ‘Sylvie.’”

  “And for that matter,” Taillon added, “we can’t connect the photo to Lortie with certainty.”

  “Lortie is the writer, Jacinthe,” Victor said. “I think we can take it for granted that the contents of his room belonged to him.” He turned to Mona Vézina. “Does the handwriting match?”

  “You have to understand, a single word isn’t a representative sample, so I can’t give you a definite conclusion,” the woman answered. “But I’d say there’s a better than seventy-five percent chance that the writing on the Polaroid and the mosaic came from the same person.”

  “Anyway, it’s a man’s writing, that’s for sure,” Jacinthe declared.

  “I don’t like to contradict you, Detective,” the documents expert said, “but contrary to popular belief, there are three things that can’t be categorically determined from handwriting analysis: whether the person is left- or right-handed, the person’s sex, and the person’s age.”

  In her surprise, Jacinthe fell briefly silent. Then, thinking about it, she came at the problem from another angle. “What can you tell us about the writer’s personality?”

  “I’m a documents expert, not a graphologist.”

  Still fanning herself with the envelope, Taillon refused to be dissuaded. “You must have an opinion. What was your first impression as you examined the mosaic?”

  Mona Vézina looked at Victor, as though asking for permission. He nodded.

  “Well, I don’t imagine you’ll be surprised to hear that I think the writer was disturbed. This may sound odd, but he seems to be simultaneously confused and methodical. All handwriting contains natural variations. In this case, the writing comes from a single person, but in certain respects, there are clear, radical breaks. If I had to bet, I’d say the writer was affected by some kind of personality disorder.”

  Something in the body language of the documents expert caught Victor’s attention — perhaps it was the way she lowered her eyes when she spoke. He had a vague sense that she didn’t dare express herself unreservedly.

  “Did you notice anything else, Ms. Vézina?”

  The woman hesitated, twisting her hands nervously. There was an awkward silence.

  “Listen … how can I say this?” She paused, gathering her thoughts, choosing her words with care. “As you know, I’m a police consultant. I have a specific mandate, and that’s to analyze handwriting. As a rule, I examine the container and ignore the contents. You understand? But in this case, because it’s a murder and I was intrigued, I allowed myself to do an analysis that went beyond my usual area of competency. I just want you to understand that I have no desire to tread on the specialists’ toes …”

  Victor understood perfectly. Ever since popular TV shows like CSI had started glorifying their work, some of the bigger egos on the forensics team had come to see themselves as intellectually superior to lesser mortals. The documents expert, being curious by nature, had been told more than once, with some condescension, to stick to her job description.

  Still, it would cost them nothing to hear her out. The forensics unit was analyzing the mosaic as well, but had come up with nothing so far.

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Vézina, this stays between us.”

  Reassured, she gave Victor a grateful smile. She appreciated this indication of his faith in her.

  “Most of the writing on the mosaic consists of isolated words or word sequences without apparent meaning, often repeated many times. For several hours, I looked for some kind of pattern or underlying logic, but without success. So I changed my approach. I tried to isolate sentences. There aren’t many, but in the end I found a few.”

  Mona Vézina placed a photograph on the table in front of them.

  “I got this from forensics. It’s a segment of the mosaic measuring about ten by eighteen centimetres.”

  The documents expert withdrew another sheet of paper from the folder and handed it to the detective sergeant before continuing.

  “I identified the four sentences that appear most often and retranscribed them. By the way, I had fun counting the appearances. And I don’t know if it’s a coincidence, but if you look carefully at the photo, you’ll see the four sentences in close proximity to each other. This is the only section of the mosaic where they’re grouped like that.”

  Victor examined the sheet for a moment, then handed it to Jacinthe:

  Meeting with Mr. McGregor at Federated Laymen of Quebec, May 1st 1965 (3)

  Richard Crosses The Door (7)

  My ketchup uncle Larry Truman relishes apples (9)

  Watermelon man is watching (13)

  “My ketchup uncle?” Taillon erupted. “What a fucking whack job!”

  “Do you have any insights?” Victor asked.

  “You see the crosses here and there? Religion seems to be a preoccupation. I note a possible opposition between the crosses and the term ‘Federated Laymen of Quebec.’ Are we looking at some kind of split between religious and secular values? A conflict of some sort? In any case, I did an internet search. As far as I can tell, no organization called the Federated Laymen of Quebec has ever existed.”

  “Don’t tell me we’ve got another religious case on our hands!”

  Victor gave Jacinthe a scolding look.

  “Go on, Mona,” he said.

  “While we’re on the subject, look at the second sentence. Does the word Crosses have any special value in this context? Also, there are three references to food: two to fruit — apples and watermelon — and the third to a condiment, ketchup. Don’t ask me whether that means anything. I have no idea.”

  Jacinthe’s forehead was bathed in sweat; she looked ready to faint. The detective sergeant was also starting to wilt in the heat. But Mona Vézina was on a roll.

  “The black dots seem to be eyes, which may suggest that Lortie thought he was under surveillance,” she said. “Especially in light of the last sentence, ‘Watermelon man is watching.’ Is that a reference to a man with a large head? To someone who eats a lot of melon? Who knows?” she concluded with a theatrical shrug.

  “Do you have any opinions?” Victor asked.

&n
bsp; Of course she did. Mona Vézina allowed herself a small smile, like someone who knew more than she’d been letting on.

  “Since you ask, I think we could be looking at coded messages of some kind,” she said, only too pleased to be contributing to the solution of the mystery. “But that’s all I’m going to say.” She mimed zipping her mouth shut. “I’ve gone far beyond the limits of my expertise.”

  For the twentieth time, Victor pushed aside a leaf from a plant that was creeping along his shoulder and tickling the back of his neck.

  “Well,” he said to Jacinthe, “at least we have a date and names that we can run through the databases: Larry Truman and Mr. McGregor. It’s a starting point. We can also do some research on the Federated Laymen of Quebec.”

  “Send that to Gilles,” Jacinthe said. “He loves crosswords. He should be able to help.”

  “Good idea,” Victor said. He turned to the documents expert. “Can you fax a copy of this to Gilles Lemaire at the Major Crimes Unit?”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have a fax machine.”

  Jacinthe stood up suddenly and squashed Mona Vézina’s hand in her own. “I’m sorry, but I can’t take this heat anymore. Thanks, ma’am.” Charging out into the corridor, she called over her shoulder. “I’ll be downstairs, Lessard.”

  Victor stood up and took a deep breath. His partner’s bad manners exasperated him, but he tried not to let it show. “We’re very grateful to you, Mona. You’ve been most helpful.”

  The documents expert blushed with pleasure.

  “May I keep this?” he asked, pointing to the sheet.

  “Of course. It’s your copy.”

  On the ground floor, Victor bent over a water fountain to take a drink. Jacinthe was approaching as he straightened up.

  “Here’s a thought,” he remarked, wiping his mouth. “If you take the initials of Federated Laymen of Quebec, you get FLQ. And ‘Richard Crosses the Door’ could be a reference to the kidnapping of Pierre Laporte.”

  “Just because ‘the Door’ in French is la porte?” Jacinthe exclaimed. “Why not add an S and make it a reference to Jim Morrison?” She was about to have a good laugh when she saw the look on her partner’s face and suppressed the urge. “Uhh … so what about the Richard Crosses part?”

  “You’ve never heard of James Richard Cross?” Victor asked with a faint note of disdain in his voice.

  “Is he a singer, too?” Jacinthe asked, without irony.

  Victor zipped up his jacket and they stepped outside into the parking area. The cold air revived him. “Cross was a British diplomat. I don’t remember the precise date, but he was kidnapped by the FLQ in 1970, a few days before they got Pierre Laporte.”

  22

  PRESS CONFERENCE

  Victor was floating in an alternate reality: his lips were moving in slow motion; his words were distended; his voice plunged so low that it was inaudible. The woman in the front row kept crossing and uncrossing her legs — did she want him to notice? He finished reading the statement in a monotone, then seized his glass of water. The continuous flashing of cameras blinded him.

  When they returned to Versailles, they had briefed Paul Delaney. In light of the most recent developments, he had authorized them to draw up a warrant to obtain André Lortie’s psychiatric file. Jacinthe was sending off the paperwork as the detective sergeant faced the reporters.

  Squinting, Victor looked at his notes to make sure he’d covered everything. Then he grabbed the pitcher and refilled his glass. “I’ll take your questions now,” he said, sighing.

  The room, which was oppressively hot from the camera lights, erupted in a clamour of voices. A reporter with a sparse beard stood up. A jumble of papers overflowed from his jacket pocket.

  “Yes, sir?” the detective sergeant said, wiping his forehead.

  “Jacques-Yves Brodeur, Radio-Canada. If I understand correctly, you don’t think Mr. Lawson’s disappearance is linked to another case …”

  “That’s correct,” Victor answered after taking several gulps of water.

  “So, why the press conference? Why not a simple missing person alert?”

  Victor had expected this question, but not so soon. In his discussion with Delaney, they had concluded that, considering Lawson’s high profile, regardless of how they put out the news, the media would jump on the story. They might as well maximize their return by putting it out as widely as possible.

  “Because Mr. Lawson is an important member of Montreal’s business community.”

  “Do you think his disappearance is linked to the death of Judith Harper? Is Lawson considered a suspect?”

  Victor took another gulp of water before answering. Either Brodeur was sharp, or someone had been feeding him information. “For the moment, we’re treating the two cases separately.”

  The woman with the crossed legs raised her hand.

  Victor pointed to her immediately. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Virginie Tousignant, La Presse. You know that Lawson said he was going on vacation, but you have no information confirming that he left Montreal, is that it?”

  “Yes. We know he has his passport, but as of now, he hasn’t been spotted at any border crossing.”

  Victor watched her as she held her iPhone at arm’s length, recording their exchange. She had long, dark hair, thick-rimmed rectangular glasses behind which large green eyes shone, an Angelina Jolie mouth, and something indefinable in her expression that made his pulse quicken.

  “Do you think Lawson has been kidnapped, Detective? Or worse, murdered?”

  Victor drained his glass. “We’re not ruling out any theories, but for the moment, nothing points conclusively in that direction.”

  The detective sergeant answered a few more questions before the public relations officer at his side called an end to the press conference and the reporters filed out in controlled disarray.

  With too many water molecules in his system, Victor made straight for the men’s room to relieve his bursting bladder. The floor tiles in the washroom showed traces of mildew in several places, and the joints in the pipes that ran along the walls were covered in black slime. There were two stalls with crooked doors and three urinals lined up along the back wall. Victor walked past the yellow-ringed sinks, glanced at himself briefly in one of the mirrors, then walked to the middle urinal, unzipping his pants.

  The detective sergeant didn’t turn around when the door opened. For a few seconds, he was caught up in the sensation of relieving himself.

  When he returned to reality, the sound of footsteps had ceased. Victor suddenly became uneasy; someone had stopped behind him. He was aware of being watched, and his peripheral vision was no help because the watcher was standing directly behind him. A tingle went up his spine. He couldn’t help remembering John Travolta’s character in Pulp Fiction, ambushed in the bathroom. With his cock in his hand, Victor was equally vulnerable. In a fraction of a second he made his move, closing his pants and spinning around, loaded Glock in his upraised fist.

  The terrified Radio-Canada reporter waved his hands in front of his face, ducking his head between his shoulders. “Whoa, whoa! I just had one last question for you.”

  Victor holstered the pistol, his heart pounding, and released the air from his lungs, shaking his head.

  After escorting the reporter to the exit, Victor joined his colleagues in the conference room. It was nearly 3:00 p.m. Seated at one end of the table, Delaney was quartering an apple with a knife. He offered a section to Victor and congratulated him on his performance in front of the reporters. Victor sank into a chair and put the piece of fruit in his mouth. As he chewed, he realized that he had skipped lunch.

  Jacinthe announced that the request for access to Lortie’s psychiatric file had been submitted, and she was waiting to hear from the legal department before sending it to Dr. McNeil. The detectives then discussed certain aspects of the investigation: the discovery of the plastic fridge-magnet numbers, the statements made by the orderly at Lo
uis-H., and the documents expert’s theories.

  So far, forensics hadn’t found anything of interest in the apartments of Lortie and Judith Harper. For now, Nathan Lawson and Lortie were considered the two main suspects.

  The possible involvement of Harper’s lover, Will Bennett, was also raised, but since it was the Gnome who was following up on that point, and he wasn’t present at the moment, the matter went no further.

  “We can come at it from any direction we like,” Taillon grumbled. “The fact remains: we have no link between Harper, Lawson, and Lortie.”

  The comment threw a damper on the conversation. Everyone was quiet until Delaney broke the silence. “Have you heard from Loïc?”

  Just then, the Gnome rushed into the room, out of breath. He immediately switched on the television and tuned it to a twenty-four-hour news station. “Take a look,” he said, turning up the volume.

  On the screen, they saw Louis-Charles Rivard, who was holding a semi-improvised press conference on the subject of Lawson’s disappearance. Answering questions in front of the Radio-Canada building, he declared that his firm was prepared to pay a large reward to anyone who could provide information regarding the case. Then Rivard gave a number at which he could be reached.

  “I’m addressing the person who kidnapped Nathan Lawson,” he said. “No matter what happened, we can find common ground. Get in touch. I have what you’re looking for.”

  Delaney, whose face had darkened, said, “If they think they can obstruct our investigation, they’re sorely mistaken.”

  “They sure are acting like they’ve got something to hide,” the Gnome observed.

  “The guy’s a jackass,” Jacinthe summed up.

  Victor’s phone, which was lying on the table, came alive and started to hum. When he saw the number on the caller ID, he left the conference room to take the call in the privacy of the kitchenette.

  With one foot on a chair, his elbow resting on his knee and his chin in his hand, he looked out the window as he talked. In the parking lot, a woman was scraping her ice-encrusted windshield. “Do you have anything for me?” he asked the caller.