“As though he were showing us where to look.”
“That’s what worries me. He may be sending us down the wrong path while he continues with his plan.”
“You believe there’ll be more deaths?”
“I fear there may be.”
“Serial?”
“Did Jacinthe mention that? It’s too early to talk about serial killings, Paul. Though their victims have common traits, serial killers usually choose them at random. This is too organized, too structured to be the work of a serial killer. I don’t think that’s what’s going on.”
“Serial killers tend to be methodical …”
“Up to a point, yes. But not like this. And then there’s the message Lawson received.”
“Another message, besides the CD?”
Victor told Delaney about his discussions with Adèle Thibault and the mail boy. Both had mentioned a sheet of paper. The two cops talked briefly about the possibility that the lawyer had received an envelope containing both a letter and the CD.
Then the chief spoke. “So, he received threats?”
“Seems that way. Which would explain why Lawson left the office so fast. He was in a big hurry, Paul. He received a message, took the Northern file, and went into hiding.” Victor drained his coffee cup. “In the Judith Harper case, we found magnetic numbers on her fridge.” He fell silent for a few seconds. “If you ask me, the victims were chosen with care. It’s like the killer was after specific targets. Lawson was on the run, and the killer still got him.”
Without seeming to notice, Delaney was rhythmically pressing the button on his ballpoint, causing an incessant clicking noise that irritated Victor.
“I agree with you,” Delaney said. “When I mentioned serial killings, I was playing devil’s advocate.” He seemed to lose his train of thought for an instant. “Either way, Lortie’s suicide doesn’t fit. Then there’s the writing on the carboard, and the skier,” he murmured to himself. Delaney sighed, seemingly lost, before gathering himself. “Hey, I know I’m not being logical here, but when you see Berger, tell him to get his ass in gear. It would be damn helpful to know what the murder weapon was.”
The detective sergeant raised his arms helplessly. “You know Berger. Let’s not piss him off. Anyway, with what we’ve learned already, it’s not hard to guess that it’ll be something unusual.”
Victor looked at his watch and stood up. “I’d better call that lawyer, Rivard. I want to notify him of Lawson’s death and ask him a few questions about the Northern file. I’m also curious to find out whether anyone came forward after the statement he made to the media.”
Victor dialed Rivard’s number as he returned to his desk, but the call went to voice mail. He left a message. Then he turned around and hurried back to Delaney. “Hey, Paul?”
Bent over his keyboard, Delaney had started to type in his password. He looked up.
“About Madeleine … hang in there.”
33
THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA
The night was inky black. The gates of the Mount Royal Cemetery were locked, but Louis-Charles Rivard slipped in without difficulty. Covering his flashlight beam, he found the Mordecai Richler monument in minutes. Carefully, with the back of one hand, he brushed the accumulated snow off the top of the gravestone. As Lawson had indicated, the key was hidden under one of the rocks placed there in honour of the writer.
The damp pierced him to the bone. The wind moaned in the trees; the twisted branches came to life, as though wanting to touch him. Was it the lugubrious surroundings or his own imagination that made him shiver? Rivard pulled up his hood, tugged his hat low over his eyes, and set off again, leaving the Richler monument behind.
A family vault came into view a hundred metres away, at the end of the path. The lock wasn’t a problem. The metal door swung open on well-oiled hinges.
There was no coffin inside, only an altar topped with votive candles, a congealed puddle of wax, and a book wrapped in protective plastic. Rivard pointed his flashlight at the cover: the book was a vintage edition of Gaston Leroux’s novel The Phantom of the Opera. On the altar’s stone surface, the flashlight beam found a weathered inscription: In Loving Memory of Jane Margaret Sophia Lawson 1912–1986.
Rivard gave himself a shake. He had work to do.
The two garbage bags were lying in a corner. Louis-Charles went to them, opened one, and saw that it contained documents. He closed it immediately. Lawson had spoken to him about the file without telling him what it contained — but the less Rivard knew about it, the better off he would be.
Lawson had called him from a confidential number the day of his disappearance. The old man hadn’t said where he was hiding; he had simply given the necessary instructions for locating the file.
His directives had been clear: he would call each evening around 6:00 p.m. If he failed to call, that would mean he was dead. In which case Louis-Charles was to retrieve the file, convene a press conference, and make its contents public.
By way of compensation, Lawson had suggested that he check his bank balance. Rivard couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw that the old man had transferred fifty thousand dollars into his account. Lawson had also made it clear that he would get twice that much after the press conference.
But Rivard was smart enough to read between the lines.
Believing the file was his insurance policy, the old man had threatened to reveal its contents, hoping that would be enough to discourage attempts on his life. Now that he’d failed, more than once, to call at the appointed time, Rivard was forced to draw the obvious conclusion: Lawson had played for keeps and lost.
At the time, Rivard hadn’t known the identity of the man who wanted the file, but he knew that if the man was ready to kill for it, he must value it very highly.
The lawyer had consequently seized the opportunity that presented itself. He had applied the most basic of economic principles: the law of supply and demand. Lawson was dead. There was no reason to have qualms about getting rid of the file. Rivard knew the value of money. He stood to gain far more from breaking his promise to Lawson than from keeping it and making the file’s contents public.
And so, in his statement to the media, he had sent a clear message to the person who wanted the file: it was in his possession, and it was for sale. The message had been received. Initial contact had been made by phone after the press conference.
The man who had contacted him at the office hadn’t raised the issue directly. He had simply offered assistance in searching for Lawson. But the subtext had been clear to Louis-Charles.
After delaying for a few hours, Rivard had called the man from home. “I can get what you’re looking for,” he had said flat out.
The man had responded by suggesting that he purchase a prepaid cellphone, so they could “communicate more freely.”
Rivard regretted not having brought the assault pack that he’d kept after his stint in the army. The garbage bags were heavy. He couldn’t carry them both by hand over such a long distance.
Besides, although Lawson had doubled the bags, the plastic might tear.
Tough luck. He’d make two trips.
After twenty metres, Louis-Charles realized that the cargo was more awkward than he’d anticipated. He was struggling to make progress, sinking into the snow. Getting the bags to the car wasn’t going to be easy. But he gritted his teeth and redoubled his efforts. This little challenge was nothing compared with the rigours he and his fellow recruits had faced, long ago, at the hands of Drill Sergeant Deschenaux.
His trained eye glimpsed movement on his right. He advanced, then stopped. Senses alert, he tried to make out the silhouette in the darkness. Was he seeing things? Was that a tree or a human form on the high ground?
Rivard waited. The cemetery was still, the trees motionless. The lawyer was about to set out again when the shadow moved. Fear seized him. A shudder ran through his body. Someone was on the hill.
The shadow extended one arm, pulling
the other back before opening its hand. The shaft sliced through the air. Rivard’s stomach exploded with pain. Horrified, he lowered his gaze to the arrow that had impaled him.
He dropped the bag, which slid on the snow. Then the pain came. It was blinding. He tried to get away between the gravestones, but fell to his knees.
The shadow skied down the slope.
Rivard hiccuped, fighting for air, and spat up blood. Behind him, the shadow stopped and pulled down his hood. Rivard turned. His eyes widened — he knew that face.
The shadow pulled back the bowstring once more. A second arrow flew past Rivard’s ear and was lost in the snow. A flood of images passed before his eyes, then another projectile hit him in the solar plexus.
Darkness enveloped him.
34
BURGERS
Thursday, December 22nd
Jacob Berger’s face was barely visible over the stack of papers on his desk. It was stiflingly hot in his windowless room on the twelfth floor of the building on Parthenais Street, where the offices of the Forensic Science and Legal Medicine Laboratory were located.
“Kinda warm in here.” With her fingers in her collar, Jacinthe was tugging at her sweater for ventilation. “And take that thing off your face, you damn nitwit,” she growled. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
Victor did as he was told, reddening like a schoolboy busted mid-prank.
Every time he visited Berger’s office, he would put on the goalie mask that the medical examiner had kept after performing an autopsy on a rapist dubbed “Jason” by the media — the man had spread terror through suburban Laval for three years before being stabbed to death by the last woman he tried to attack.
“So, Jacob,” Victor said, “what you’re telling us is that Lortie couldn’t have killed Lawson.”
“Correct,” Berger replied, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “His suicide occurred too soon. Lortie died on Saturday. I’d say Lawson was murdered on Monday, or shortly afterward. I’ll be able to give you a more precise window after I finish the autopsy. But I can tell you now that he was suffering from dehydration.”
“And the wounds are the same, right, Burgers?”
Despite numerous attempts by the medical examiner to make her stop using that nickname, Taillon had persisted. After years of trying, the doctor had finally given up. Taillon wasn’t malicious, but some of her bad habits were beyond correction.
“Right, Jacinthe. For the moment, I can’t tell you anything more about the murder weapon, but it’s the same projectile path, entering the back of the neck and exiting the throat. Lawson has similar punctures on the chin and sternum, which are deeper than the ones on Judith Harper.”
“And the abrasions on the neck and wrists?”
“Same on both victims. And Lawson also has the same adhesive residue on his ankles and thighs. I’ll be able to supply more details in a few days.”
“Okay, well, that confirms what we suspected. The two murders were committed with the same weapon, using the same modus operandi. Which means, logically, that Lortie didn’t kill Harper either. Anyway, he had an alibi. The homeless guy you spoke to, Nash, says he was with him that night.”
“This is what we expected.” Victor sighed, discouraged. “But it’s still frustrating as hell. The only link we had connecting the two murders was Lortie and the wallets.”
“Yep,” Jacinthe said, also sounding disappointed. “We’ve officially lost our prime suspect. Back to scare one, my friend.”
“That’s square one, Jacinthe,” Victor snapped. “Got it? Square one.”
Jacinthe rolled her eyes. “Settle down there, big guy. No need to get snippy just because I put a little poetry in your life.”
The detective sergeant felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. “We’ve still got Will Bennett and the skier,” he called over his shoulder as he left the room to take the call.
“You’re not even sure the skier had a gun,” Taillon retorted.
Too late. He was gone.
35
MIDDLE AGES
Victor was walking with difficulty along Ontario Street as a savage wind did its best to knock him off his feet. He looked around, trying to spot a Ford Escape parked near the café entrance. No luck.
Inside the establishment, two customers sitting near the window were deep in conversation. Having arrived first, Victor took a table at the back of the shabby room. A jowly waiter approached. Though the detective sergeant had already had a cup at Berger’s office, he ordered a coffee.
What with the discovery of Lawson’s body, the examination of the crime scene, and the animated discussion in which he, Jacinthe, and the Gnome had engaged until the small hours of the morning, Victor was running on very little sleep.
For breakfast, he and Nadja had eaten a couple of croissants in the kitchen while talking about their plans for the day. Walking on eggshells, Victor had brought up the subject of the holidays. He had learned with relief that she was neither surprised nor offended to hear he might not make it to the cottage between Christmas and New Year’s Day.
The Major Crimes Unit office party was already scheduled for the next day. Then, accompanied by Victor’s kids, they’d be spending Christmas Eve with Victor’s surrogate father, Ted Rutherford, and his partner Albert Corneau …
“So, you see, I’ve already got a lot on my plate.”
“Of course. You’ll come up when you can. If you can.”
Nadja was so perfect that it sometimes put a knot in the pit of his stomach. The fact that he hadn’t even started his Christmas shopping did nothing to reduce his stress level. As usual, he had no idea what he’d buy for Martin and Charlotte. Whenever he asked for suggestions, they said they wanted money. So he had become a regular issuer of holiday cheques, but he felt guilty for not being able to recapture the magic of their childhood Christmases. With Nadja, the challenge was just as great. He could always fall back on jewellery, but she hardly ever wore it.
And what about Ted? And Albert?
Victor sighed. Just thinking about it wore him out.
He looked at his watch. What was keeping the guy? They’d met in Chinatown last time because it was midway between them and Victor had had other engagements in the area. Now he was starting to have doubts. Had he misunderstood the instructions he’d received about the meeting place? He was checking the messages on his phone when a small, spare man wearing unfashionable glasses came in and walked straight toward him.
“Hey, Doug,” Victor said, standing up and extending a hand. “How’s it going?”
The man placed a yellow envelope on the table before shaking his hand vigorously. “Not bad, Vic. Not bad. Sorry, I couldn’t find a parking space.”
Doug Adams was the crime-scene technician Victor had worked with regularly while he was at Station 11. He was a quiet, solitary man, difficult to approach. Like Victor, he’d done some suffering in his life.
Their working relationship had started out with frequent disputes, but over time, Victor had come to trust Adams completely. And the trust was reciprocated.
Though he wasn’t normally given to paying compliments, the detective sergeant hadn’t hesitated to proclaim to the world that he considered Adams to be the best in the business.
For that reason, and because he hadn’t yet forged a similar relationship with the crime-scene people he now worked with, Victor occasionally made a discreet call to the retired forensic technician, asking him to apply his talent and intuition to a case.
Because Adams no longer worked for the Montreal Police, consulting him was risky, especially as a matter of confidentiality. Victor knew he’d be in trouble if the practice were ever revealed. Which was why he did it in secret, without his colleagues’ knowledge.
“How was China, Doug?”
Adams had turned in his badge a few months previously and was living in quiet retirement with his wife and their cats in a condo on Nuns’ Island.
“Ahh … incredible! I’ll be
able to show you, one of these days. I’m in the process of editing a video.”
They went on talking amiably for a little while, then Adams ordered a coffee. When it came, the retired expert, true to his old form, got straight to the point.
“I looked over the forensics file,” he said, placing a hand on the yellow envelope. “I did a good deal of digging, and I think I have a lead.”
Adams leaned forward, looking Victor straight in the eye.
The detective sergeant felt his heart beat faster. Adams’s leads were always based on meticulous research and analysis. “Did you figure out what the murder weapon was?”
“In part, maybe.” The little man cleared his throat and took a sip of coffee. “What I discovered doesn’t explain the fatal injury, but it could have caused the wounds on the chin and sternum.”
Victor took out his notebook and, with his teeth, pulled the cap off his ballpoint. “Go ahead, Doug,” he said, spitting the cap into his palm. “I’m all ears.”
Adams removed his glasses, breathed on each of the lenses, and wiped off the fog with his paper napkin. “I warn you, we’re talking about a nasty little contraption that dates back to the Middle Ages.”
36
HERETIC’S FORK
The steel-rimmed glasses of the former forensics technician had returned to their perch at the end of his nose.
“Does the term heretic’s fork mean anything to you?”
Victor’s expression registered puzzlement. “Not a thing. What is it?”
“It’s an instrument of torture that was used in medieval times to extract confessions by depriving subjects of sleep. I’ve printed up an article that I found online.” Adams took a sheet from his jacket pocket, unfolded it, and placed it on the table in front of Victor. “The device was an iron bar with a two-pronged fork at either end.” Adams gestured to a drawing of a man harnessed to a heretic’s fork, his face twisted with pain. “As you can see, two points pressed down on the sternum, while the other two points pressed up on the raised chin, with the iron bar parallel to the distended neck. A strap or collar around the neck would hold the instrument in place.”
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