Never Forget

by Martin Michaud

  “What exactly is number theory?”

  The homeless man lifted his head and gave Victor a wry smile. “You really want me to get into it?”

  “On second thought, maybe not.” The detective sergeant sighed.

  The three men chuckled.

  “How can you work on a doctorate if you’re homeless?”

  “I’ve been writing my thesis for the last eighteen months. On the streets for six. This isn’t the first time it’s happened.”

  “And you’re making progress with the thesis?”

  Nash looked up and saw that Victor wasn’t judging him. “It’s going okay. I have my laptop.”

  “That’s gotta be tough.” The police officer gave him a sympathetic nod. “Can you talk to me about Lortie? Where did you meet him?”

  Nash plunged filth-encrusted fingers into the bag and grabbed another bagel.

  “At Bonneau. André doesn’t get along with people. Neither do I. There’s a common room at the shelter where you can get some peace, sit by yourself. Not too many people go in there. He and I would see each other. I usually brought a chess set and played against myself. One night, he asked if I felt like a game.”

  Nash was shoving pieces of bagel into his mouth and chewing while he talked, as though he feared someone might snatch the food away.

  “Is he a decent chess player?”

  “Hopeless.” Nash laughed, revealing scurvy-ravaged teeth. “But he’s one hell of a storyteller. I can listen to him for hours. You know, like your specialty is police work. Mine’s numbers. His is telling stories.”

  Victor lit two cigarettes and gave one to Nash. Loïc had opened his mouth several times to participate in the conversation, but hadn’t actually spoken.

  “What kind of stories does he tell? What do you talk about?” asked Victor.

  “Oh!” Nash exclaimed, coughing as he took a drag. “You name it. André has opinions about everything. He knows a lot about politics and economics.”

  “He must have said some things that struck you …”

  “When he gets going, he says all kinds of things.”

  “Such as?”

  “He claims he was part of the FLQ. Says he was in on the kidnapping of James Cross and Pierre Laporte. I don’t know if it’s true, but he also says they planted bombs near some consulate. I forget which one. Funny thing is, he’s pretty convincing. When he talks, he throws out so many details that you end up believing him.”

  “What kind of details?”

  “Well, for instance, the technical aspects of making bombs. He seems to know all about that stuff.” Nash put a hand to his chest and hiccuped. Then he burped and let out a satisfied sigh.

  “Did Lortie ever talk to you about wallets?” Victor asked casually.

  Nash laughed. “He tried that blackout story on you, too, huh? He told me that when he was younger, he killed some people he didn’t know. When he woke up, he had their wallets.”

  Victor turned to Loïc, inviting him to ask the question that was eating at him.

  “Did Lortie ever mention the names of his victims?” Blouin-Dubois asked.

  Nash searched his memory for a few seconds, then said, “If he did talk about them, I’ve forgotten.”

  “What’s he like?” Victor asked.

  “André? Super suspicious. I’ve never seen him talk to anyone apart from me. And he’s pretty weird. Always watching, like a hunted animal. One time, we were sitting in the common room and he said we had to get up and sit in a different part of the room. He said you should never sit with your back to the door, and never be too far from the exit. Like, you’ve got to know who comes in and be ready to react. When we’re outside, he’s always looking behind him, saying he needs to make sure no one’s following us.”

  Nash took a long swig of coffee.

  Victor thought for a few seconds before continuing. “Do you remember anything else about him?”

  “He can handle himself in a fight,” Nash said, taking another bite of his bagel.

  “What do you mean?”

  “One night, we were sleeping here and three squeegee kids came up. Punks. They were getting in our faces, saying they wanted smokes, drugs, food. Finally, André got fed up and told them to leave. The three guys just laughed. They called him grandpa. He went straight at them, started pounding on one of them. Fucked the guy up so bad the other two had to carry him away.”

  “Apart from playing chess and talking, what do you do together? Where do you go?”

  “We don’t do anything else. Sometimes we’ll sleep here for a couple of days. Then he’s gone for weeks.”

  “Did you know he has a room in a rooming house?”

  “Yeah, but he’s more comfortable on the street.”

  “Does he take drugs?”

  “No.”

  “Medications?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Victor saw that Nash was eyeing his pack of cigarettes. He handed it to him.

  “Keep it.”

  “Thanks,” the young vagrant said, and put a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

  “When was the last time you saw Lortie?”

  “A couple of days ago. I’d have to check.” He pointed to a camouflage-pattern rucksack lying beside his sleeping bag. “I note everything down in a journal. I’m thinking I might write a book about my experiences someday.” He was silent for a moment. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Go ahead,” Victor said.

  “Is André dead?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m thinking the cops wouldn’t send two detectives to ask questions unless something bad had happened to him.” Nash’s eyelids blinked for the ten-thousandth time since the start of their conversation.

  The detective sergeant couldn’t think of any reason to conceal the truth. “He killed himself Saturday night. We have reason to believe he was implicated in a murder that was committed Thursday night.”

  Silence fell over the trio. At first, Victor thought Nash was too emotional to speak, but then he realized he was thinking.

  “I’d be surprised if André had anything to do with the murder,” the young man said.

  “Why?” Victor asked, surprised at his certainty.

  Nash had already gone over to his rucksack and was pulling out a weathered notebook. “Because he was here,” he said, turning the pages agitatedly. “He showed up Thursday afternoon and didn’t leave until Saturday morning.”

  25

  CORPSES IN THE CLOSET

  His eyelashes fluttered; the image of the ceiling wavered for a moment on his retinas, then steadied itself.

  The mattress was soaked, swamp-like.

  Shuddering, Will Bennett raised a hand to his jaw: a dull pain coursed through his gums. He stared for a moment at his wet fingertips. Droplets of sweat were running down his rough cheeks. It had happened again. The fever had returned. It was crawling under his skin, devouring him.

  He had wanted to silence the voice in his head, the loathsome music that maddened him. Since Judith’s death, he could no longer hold back the urges. He gave in to them without restraint. Because nothing mattered anymore. It was just a question of time before the inevitable end.

  Bennett got up and, in the half light, looked around the disordered room. Twisted clothing was strewn across the arm of the couch. Liquor bottles littered the coffee table. On the frayed carpet, pieces of chicken and limp French fries swam in a puddle of congealed sauce beside an overturned plate.

  Bennett stiffened at the sight of the bedspread, covered with brownish stains, rolled into a ball in one corner. He didn’t need to wonder whether those were bloodstains. What would he tell Daman this time? He shook his head to chase away the thought. What did it matter? There was nothing to say, nothing to do. He had looked into himself, tried to understand how all this had started, but he couldn’t locate the root of the evil. Yet, even if he was unable to locate its origin, he knew that his descent into the abyss was c
oming to an end; that he was very close to hitting bottom. And, after all, perhaps it was better this way. Perhaps now he’d be compelled to stop. Perhaps, in truth, it was what he wanted.

  An image of Judith flashed before his eyes. For a fatalistic instant, he grasped the irony of the situation: she would surely have spoken of satisfying unconscious urges.

  Staggering, leaning on the nightstand, he took a few tentative steps. He swallowed to produce a little saliva; his throat felt like he was ingesting pearls of fire. He licked his index finger and ran it along the table to pick up the powdery white residue, which he rubbed on his gums.

  The cocaine numbed the membrane and anesthetized his tongue.

  Bennett crossed the wasteland of the room, went to the closet and found his phone in the breast pocket of his jacket: 6:32 a.m. He’d been out of circulation for nearly forty-eight hours. The number of messages in his voice mail confirmed the extent of the damage. He put the phone back without even listening to the messages. At this point, there was nothing to gain from trying to make amends.

  What difference did a few missed meetings and appointments make?

  Soon he would be delivered; soon he would atone for his sins.

  Will Bennett walked to the bathroom sink and turned on the tap. Head bent forward, he stood for a moment with his hands on the cold porcelain. Then he leaned down and drank at length from the stream of water. He splashed his face until the skin no longer felt the cold water’s bite, then pressed the switch, steeling himself to confront his reflection in the harsh light.

  His cracked lips and inflamed nostrils paled in contrast to his bloodshot eyes. He turned his head. To his right, a turd floated in the toilet.

  Suddenly, he reacted with a start as memories of the last forty-eight hours crowded back into his head.

  The girl lay curled in the bathtub, her flesh drained of colour. With her head thrown back, mouth open, and the collar around her neck, she looked like a dead fish.

  He put his hands to his temples. Daman mustn’t find him here.

  Silent laughter seized him. When you have corpses in the closet, everything comes out sooner or later.

  He looked at the girl again. One breast glimmered, hanging out of her bra. A pathetic swelling took shape in his pants. Because nothing mattered. Because it was all just a question of time. They might as well hang him, or spit on his grave.

  Bennett unzipped himself, drew closer to the tub, and began to masturbate.

  26

  NORTHERN INDUSTRIAL TEXTILES

  Loïc hit the switch and the neon tubes started to crackle.

  The light directly above Victor’s desk flickered at the rhythm of his heartbeat for a moment before igniting. The detective sergeant looked at his watch: 7:00 a.m. Aware that the office would soon be a hive of activity, he let himself savour this brief moment of peace.

  In the washroom, Victor used his fingernails and some hand soap to wash out the mug he’d retrieved from his desk. Once he’d scrubbed out all the crust that clung to the bottom, he filled it with water, returned to his chair, and watered the plant he’d rescued from Lortie’s room.

  Loïc was sprawled at his workspace, feet up on the desk, his gaze blank as he waited for his PC to start up.

  Victor had found the solution to that problem: he never shut down his computer. He simply turned off the screen each evening to avoid scoldings from the ayatollahs of secrecy who got upset whenever they found a computer running after hours. The detective sergeant pushed a button; within seconds, his screen lit up.

  Looking through his emails, he answered the urgent ones and sorted through the ones that could wait. He was about to log out when he noticed that he’d received a message the previous evening that had gone straight to spam. He didn’t recognize the sender’s address: adth1952@hotmail.com.

  Assuming it was an advertisement for a miracle treatment to lengthen his penis or increase his IQ — one measurement often being, he thought, the corollary of the other — Victor almost deleted the email without reading it. But he decided he’d better click on it, just in case.

  He was glad he did. It was from Adèle Thibault, Nathan Lawson’s assistant, who had written to give him further details about the file that Lawson had taken from the archives before disappearing. She mentioned that she was writing from her personal email address because she was under orders not to talk to the police.

  Her message was short. The database to which she had access contained only fragmentary information about the contents of the folders in question. That information included the name of the client — a provincially incorporated company specializing in the production and distribution of work uniforms — and the fact that the file had been opened in 1971 and closed in 1972.

  Thibault ended the message by noting that further digging on her part would risk alerting her employers, which would mean trouble for her.

  Victor logged in to the website of the Quebec Enterprise Register, intending to call up a CIDREQ, a digital file that contained essential information on every company in the province, such as date of incorporation; head office address; names and addresses of principal shareholders, board members, and officers; sphere of activity; and so on. The detective sergeant made sure he had the spelling right and repeatedly re-entered the corporate name the secretary had given him, but the same message came back each time:

  Northern Industrial Textiles Ltd.

  No files found under that name.

  Having done many such searches in the past, he knew he wasn’t using the web service incorrectly. This problem was beyond his capability. He’d have to ask the legal experts at the provincial Justice Ministry for help.

  Victor wrote an email, copied in the relevant information, and sent it to the expert with whom he regularly collaborated, asking her to find available details on the company.

  Then he waved his mug in the air. “Coffee, kid?”

  The two cops went to the kitchen. Allowing himself to break his usual rule, Victor gave the decaf a pass. A little caffeine would help him get through the day.

  Nash had become agitated when Victor asked him to come with them to the station. The detective sergeant had seen terror in Nash’s eyes. Obviously, Victor could have forced Nash to come, but he’d decided that wouldn’t be helpful.

  In exchange for a promise not to get him in trouble, Victor had obtained Nash’s real name. He was sure the young man had a criminal record. But, as he’d told Nash, his past crimes were of no concern: this was a murder investigation. Nash had promised to make himself available if the police needed him, and to drop by the Accueil Bonneau shelter now and then. If investigators were looking for him, they could leave word there.

  Before leaving, Victor had also given him Pearson’s contact details at Station 21, and a little money. “If you go over there,” he’d said to the young vagrant, “tell him I sent you. There’s a multidisciplinary team called EMRII. They offer help and advice to homeless people. There are two social workers on the team, as well as a nurse.”

  Nash’s account gave Lortie an alibi for the day of the murder. But could they consider him totally reliable? He might have gotten his dates mixed up. Yes, he kept a journal, but he wasn’t exactly a personal assistant. And time of death was another issue that had to be considered. A discrepancy of a few hours would be enough to invalidate the alibi.

  On that score, until they had definitive results from Berger’s autopsy, they’d have to go with the medical examiner’s preliminary findings. The final report wouldn’t be available for another few days, at least.

  Victor searched his notebook, turning pages without finding what he sought. “What’s his real name again?”

  “Eugène Corriveau,” Loïc said, blowing on his coffee. “Do you think we can believe him?”

  “I hope I haven’t made a mistake trusting him,” Victor muttered. He was silent for a moment. “Run his name through the system, confirm his identity. Then go get some rest.”

  “Okay.” Loïc hesitated. “
Nash’s story raises doubts about Lortie’s guilt, huh?” Blouin-Dubois got to his feet, slipped his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans, and pulled them up. “You know, it could be the other dude, the one who’s missing …”

  “Lawson? I don’t know, Loïc. But one thing’s for sure. Until we find him, we won’t have the whole picture.”

  “Maybe it’s nothing, but I’m thinking there’s a possible connection between the warehouse where Harper’s body was found and the rail bridge where Lortie and Nash camped out.”

  “Oh, yeah? What connection?” Victor asked, clearing his throat. He spat voluminously into the sink, then ran the water for a few seconds.

  “The bike path … it runs between the two locations.”

  Just then, a string of obscenities erupted in the reception area.

  “You better get out of here, kid. I get the feeling that Jacinthe and I are about to have a little discussion.”

  Before leaving, Loïc turned toward the detective sergeant. “Hey, Vic,” he said, wringing his hands, “thanks for giving me a break.”

  “Don’t mention it, Loïc. You did some damn fine work.”

  A smile lit up the young man’s face. He stepped out just in time to avoid Taillon, who, with spittle-flecked lips, rolled into the room like an unpinned hand grenade.

  “Well, well, look who’s here! You might’ve called so I could go with you, instead of leaving me a message after!”

  “Good morning, Jacinthe,” Victor said in a low, soft voice. “I didn’t want to wake you up for nothing.”

  “Wake me up for nothing? Oh, that’s a good one. Wake me up for nothing! Go fuck yourself, Lessard. Your idea of nothing seems pretty damn flexible to me. You were just fine with waking me up for nothing in the middle of the night when you wanted to go check out the Harper woman’s apartment!”

  “Sit down, Jacinthe. Let’s have some coffee. I’ll tell you what I found out.”

  Taillon kicked the table, sending several chairs flying. “You can stick your coffee where the sun don’t shine!” she yelled, stomping out of the room.