“I’m going down to the food court. I’m hungry.”
“And I want a smoke.”
The two detectives walked down the corridor without exchanging a word. Victor nodded a greeting to a fellow cop in another section, whom Jacinthe ignored.
“Who sent us the picture?” she asked at last. “It wasn’t the murderer, that’s for sure.”
Victor looked at her enigmatically. “I have a fair idea who it was.”
Neither the detectives’ hard expressions nor the fact that they’d threatened to arrest him if he didn’t see them immediately seemed to intimidate Dr. Mark McNeil. Whether feigned or genuine, his anger was plain to see.
“This had better be important. Do you understand that this is the only time in the month when the service chiefs get together, and I’m the one who’s supposed to be chairing the meeting?”
Jacinthe sprang from her chair, ready to return the doctor’s hostility. But Victor put a hand on her arm, and she sat down. In the car, they had discussed her hot temper and agreed that she’d let Victor lead the conversation. In return, he had promised not to waste time. He would be as direct as possible.
“Did you know Judith Harper?” the detective sergeant asked without preamble.
Cracks appeared in McNeil’s mask. Incomprehension was followed by surprise on his wavering features. “Uhh … yes. Everyone knew her by reputation.”
“Did you ever spend time with her?”
“As a matter of fact, she was one of my medical professors,” he said, smoothing his moustache, visibly nervous.
“You didn’t think to mention that the last time we met?”
“You didn’t ask. How is this relevant?”
McNeil pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his brow, on which a line of droplets had appeared.
“You tell me,” Victor said, and tossed the photograph onto the desk.
The psychiatrist picked it up and looked at it. McNeil’s mouth opened to object, but no sound came out.
“You can start by explaining your involvement in Project MK-ULTRA,” Victor said.
The words seemed to take their time reaching McNeil’s brain.
“What? My involvement in …” The psychiatrist was affronted. Reddening, he shook his head vigorously in denial. “This is ridiculous. It’s just a coincidence that I’m in this picture.”
“Oh, really?” Victor asked coldly. “How so?”
“I was doing my master’s studies at the time. Judith had hired me to write up abstracts, summaries of psychiatric research papers. I worked in a windowless cubbyhole. I had no contact with patients.”
The detective sergeant got up, took a few paces around the room, then came back to the desk, placing his hands flat on its surface and looming over the psychiatrist. “So why are you in the photograph?”
The doctor sighed, clearly distressed by the direction the conversation had taken. “Because Judith liked me. She took me everywhere that summer.”
“The summer of 1964.”
“I don’t remember exactly. If you say so …”
“Did you fuck her?”
McNeil’s eyes had shrunk to tiny slits. “Judith was married. I was her plaything … her hobby, if you like.”
“You had a relationship …”
“You don’t think about it in those terms when you’re young. My hormones were white hot, and I was having sex with a married woman a decade older than I was. Our affair lasted three or four months, until Judith put a stop to it. End of story.”
“Really?” Victor asked in an innocent voice.
The detective sergeant was watching the psychiatrist’s reaction. McNeil held his gaze without flinching.
“If you’re wondering whether I slept with Judith after 1964, the answer is no.”
Jacinthe and Victor had spent the hour before the meeting looking into the psychiatrist’s past and gathering all available information about him. The research report they’d obtained was still incomplete, but they’d found out that a few years previously, McNeil had married a young woman of Thai origin, thirty years his junior, with whom he had a daughter.
“Not even recently?” Taillon asked. “Apparently, some women lose their interest in sex after giving birth. A man your age has needs. Judith wasn’t young anymore, but once the dentures came out …”
“You’re disgusting,” the doctor said.
Victor tried to intervene, urging tact on Jacinthe, but the idea of showing any trace of restraint never crossed her mind.
“Then when she threatened to reveal the affair to your wife, you lost your head and …”
The psychiatrist rose from his chair, his face scarlet. “You suspect me of killing Judith? Seriously?”
“By the way, have you had a case of chlamydia lately?” Jacinthe asked, leering malignantly.
With a roar, McNeil rushed forward. Victor had to step between his partner, who hadn’t retreated an inch, and the doctor, who, with flecks of saliva at his lips, was intent on attacking her. Insults began to fly. Trying to calm them both down, struggling to hold them apart, the detective sergeant finally had to raise his voice. After a brief negotiation, he prevailed on Jacinthe to wait outside.
The psychiatrist took a moment to compose himself and sit back down.
Then McNeil apologized to Victor, repeating several times that he wasn’t in the habit of behaving this way. Victor said he understood and managed to get the conversation more or less back on track.
“It’s completely absurd. I’d run into Judith now and then at a cocktail party or a conference. But that’s it. You’ve got to believe me!”
“Did you take part in Dr. Cameron’s work?”
“Of course not.”
“And Judith Harper? Did she participate in his experiments?”
McNeil loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar before answering.
“They had a professional relationship. But Judith was a researcher, not a practitioner. Her collaboration with Cameron was limited to exchanging information. Since she specialized in memory disorders, Cameron would consult her sometimes to validate his hypotheses. That was as far as it went.”
“So, she wasn’t involved in the abuses inflicted on some of the patients?”
“No.”
Either McNeil wasn’t sure of what he was saying, or he was lying. Victor’s gaze fell on the psychiatrist’s folded hands, noted his manicured fingers, his monogrammed shirt cuffs, and his gold cufflinks adorned with a black cloverleaf.
“Nice cufflinks,” the detective said, raising his eyebrows.
“They were a gift,” the psychiatrist said distractedly.
Victor got up and drifted to the bookshelf, where he saw several framed photographs of McNeil with his wife and child.
One picture caught his attention. A small detail brought him up short, but he composed himself, making an effort to hide his reaction. Readjusting his pants, he stood directly in front of the psychiatrist.
“Was André Lortie one of Dr. Cameron’s patients?”
McNeil hesitated slightly, avoiding Victor’s gaze. “How would I know? I wasn’t involved in the work. And why are you asking me all these questions about Cameron?”
Victor described the handwritten note that the Gnome had spotted on the file tab. A light seemed to appear in the psychiatrist’s eyes, then it went out. As far as the detective sergeant could judge, McNeil’s surprise was genuine. “What about his file? If he was treated by Cameron, the file should be obtainable.”
“Lortie’s psychiatric file before he arrived at Louis-H.? If it existed, no one here ever saw it. I’ve given you all the documentation we have.”
Victor continued to grill McNeil until his store of questions was exhausted.
“Are you going to arrest me?” the psychiatrist couldn’t help asking.
The detective sergeant’s gaze strayed back to the photographs on the shelf.
“No. But I’m going to ask that you stay in town and be available at all times
.”
After leaving McNeil’s office, Victor spent a minute looking for Jacinthe in the corridor. When the head nurse told him Taillon had gotten into the elevator, he couldn’t resist a smile. He went down to the cafeteria, expecting to find her seated in front of a heaping plate.
To his surprise, she wasn’t there, either. Puzzled, the detective sergeant stepped outside to the parking lot. In the fierce cold, shielding his eyes with one hand, he saw that the car was no longer in its space. Pulling out his phone, he was about to call her when he was startled by a honk behind him.
The Crown Victoria pulled up. The passenger door swung open violently. “Been waiting long?”
Victor climbed in and said no. A Christmas tree, still covered in snow, was dripping on the back seat. The odour of sap filled the car’s interior.
“It’ll brighten up the room. Not bad, huh? I’ve asked Gilles to go buy some ornaments and tinsel at the dollar store.”
The detective sergeant gave voice to the thought that had been dogging him since the previous day: wouldn’t it be preferable to cancel the celebration, given the illness of Paul Delaney’s wife? Jacinthe assured him that the answer was no. She had spoken to the boss, who swore the party would do him a world of good.
And before Victor could say a word, she debriefed him. One: Loïc had made barely any progress in his research on the heretic’s fork. Two: the Gnome had received the names of the Northern Industrial Textiles directors from the legal expert at the Justice Ministry, and was now digging to learn more. Three: Bennett was still in a coma. And four: the forensics team hadn’t found anything that might constitute a lead.
When they came to a red light, Victor had a sudden thought. He turned, looked at the tree, then at Taillon, then back at the tree, back at Taillon, and … no! She wouldn’t have dared.
“Jacinthe, tell me you didn’t cut that tree down on someone’s property.”
She gave him a mischievous look. “Oh, come on! Do you think I carry a hacksaw in my bag?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Jacinthe laughed heartily. Then she questioned him about McNeil. Victor described the part of the conversation that she’d missed.
“He’s lying about some details, but I don’t know which ones,” Victor said. “We’ll need to get a warrant to see his call log and to put his cellphone under surveillance.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jacinthe asked, surprised. “For a guy who doesn’t know which details McNeil’s lying about, you’re awfully motivated. Is there something I’m missing here?”
The light turned green. She put the car in motion over the ice-covered asphalt.
“In his office, I saw a framed picture of his daughter.”
“So?”
The detective sergeant looked over at his partner. “She was in front of the fridge … which was covered in plastic number magnets.”
The Crown Victoria swerved, but Taillon managed to keep it under control.
45
BLACKJACK
It was 11:25 a.m. The buses and shuttles full of gamblers had already begun to arrive at the Casino de Montréal. Looking up at the building, Victor couldn’t help thinking it looked like a spaceship. Two old ladies in sweatsuits bustled past him and Taillon. Seeing their haste, Victor knew they were headed for the slots.
He took a drag on his cigarette.
For several weeks now, he’d been in a program to help him quit smoking. But the demands of the last few days had prevented him from going. In any case, with the stress levels he was facing, the timing was less than optimal. He promised himself that he’d go back when the investigation was over. He’d make it his New Year’s resolution, though he never made such resolutions. Nadja hadn’t asked, but he knew it would make her happy.
After one last puff, he stubbed out the butt in the wall-mounted ashtray. Taillon had just ended her phone call.
“The wiretap warrant is in the works. Paul spoke to his friend the judge. It shouldn’t take long. Gilles is putting together a financial profile. He was surprised when I told him about the picture in McNeil’s office.”
The detective sergeant shrugged as they walked toward the entrance.
“You’re always saying we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. The McNeils aren’t the only people with number magnets on their fridge.”
“You’re right. But it’s quite a coincidence.”
Victor opened the door for Jacinthe.
“Did you talk to Colonel Sanders’s assistant?” she asked. “Was she the one who sent us the picture of Judith Harper with Cameron and McNeil?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
While his partner was bringing the Gnome up to speed on recent developments, the detective sergeant had called McGill’s psychiatry department and spoken to the chair’s assistant. At first, the woman hadn’t wanted to talk, but she’d finally admitted that, yes, having overheard the detectives’ conversation with Richard Blaikie, she had sent Victor the photograph of the trio. Reluctantly, she had described the rumours that circulated about Judith Harper’s involvement in Cameron’s experiments. But she had no information that might confirm McNeil’s participation in the research.
“Why did Dr. Blaikie hide this from us?” Victor asked.
“They all cover for each other. And most importantly, they all protect the university’s holy name.”
“So, what prompted you to send me the picture?”
After a long silence, the assistant said, “For years, Richard has been promising me that he’ll leave his wife. But he never will.”
The two detectives had been waiting in the carpeted outer room for eight minutes when the door opened. An immense man stood in the doorway. Guillaume Dionne wore a tailored suit. His head was shaved and he had a few days’ worth of stubble on his chin. When he saw the detective sergeant, his hard features broke into a broad grin.
“Victor Lessard! What brings you here, my man?”
They exchanged a warm handshake, and Victor introduced Jacinthe. Dionne brought them into his office, which commanded a superb view of the river, Île Notre-Dame, and the Port of Montreal.
“Oooh, yeah.” Victor chuckled as he settled into a luxurious armchair. “You’ve got it good, Guillaume. I don’t imagine you spend a lot of time missing the force.”
The two men had become friends while working together as patrol cops. Since then, their paths had crossed occasionally on their new assignments. But they hadn’t really gotten back in touch until a few years ago, when Chris Pearson, Victor’s former protégé at Station 11, had married Dionne’s sister, Corinne. Since then, the three men had made a point of having lunch together now and then.
“Don’t miss it one bit. Oh, I know, some folks might say running casino security is no match for police work, but we get our share of action. And I don’t need to tell you the working conditions are way better. We could always use someone like you, Victor. But I’m guessing you didn’t come to talk about career opportunities. Hey, before we get started, can I offer you something? You name it, we’ve got it!” Dionne grinned, revealing nicotine-yellowed teeth.
“I’ll have a —” Jacinthe began.
Victor cut her off. “Thanks, Guillaume, but we’re in a hurry.”
Dionne leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head, while Jacinthe scowled. “I’ve gotta admit, your call intrigued me. What’s up?”
“Do you still have your cufflinks?”
Dionne looked at him blankly, then laughed.
“Lessard, you’ll never stop surprising me! Cufflinks? You didn’t really come out here to ask about that, did you?”
When Victor didn’t join in the mirth, Dionne glanced over at Jacinthe, looking for a sign to confirm that this was some kind of joke.
But Jacinthe was expressionless.
“This is important, Guillaume. I’m talking about the cufflinks you were wearing the last time we had lunch with Pearson at the Vietnamese place. Gold, with a cloverleaf.”
“Yeah, I remember. Y
ou were both razzing me about them. Pearson asked if you could buy them for men. I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”
“As I recall, you said there were only a limited number in circulation.”
“Right. The casino’s VIP service handed out forty pairs to our highest rollers. But that was chump change. They just brought over a Chinese group from Macao. The VIP service covered airfare, hotel rooms, meals, and promised to refund ten percent of their losses.”
“I don’t give a damn about the Chinese, Guillaume. At the moment, I’m interested in the players who got cufflinks. You must have a list of names.”
Guillaume Dionne had lost his good humour. “I should’ve known you’d give me headaches, Lessard.”
46
PAY PHONE
Mark McNeil descended to the basement, where there was a secluded pay phone. It was in one of the quietest, most isolated sectors of the hospital, where he could be sure he wouldn’t be bothered by the incessant comings and goings of patients and nurses.
Footsteps rang out on the polished floor. McNeil looked up, his heart racing. A maintenance man went by without a glance in his direction, pushing a garbage trolley and muttering to himself.
The psychiatrist waited for the man to disappear at the end of the corridor, then took a slip of paper from his pocket. Feeding coins into the slot, he dialed the number on the paper.
While the ringback tone trilled in his ear, he went over the events of the last few hours in his mind. The meeting with the police officers had shaken him badly. His nerves were a jangling mess.
Taillon was loathsome, certainly, but she was just an ignorant minion. It was her colleague, Lessard, whom McNeil feared. Had the officer believed him, or had he suspected something? Hard to say. The detective knew how to hide his emotions, which made him difficult to read.
McNeil’s thoughts turned to himself. How could he have lost his temper? Had he given himself away? Somehow, he’d returned to his meeting and managed to keep up appearances. Now he would have to take the necessary steps.
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