“But what’s the connection between the recording, the fridge numbers, and MK-ULTRA?”
“Do you remember when we were talking a couple of days ago about the symbolic value of the recording?”
“Sure, it was a reference to someone who’d been treated unjustly.”
“That’s kind of what happened to the MK-ULTRA patients, isn’t it? For Harper, the symbolism was in the numbers. Maybe they referred to a significant date associated with the project.”
“Which leaves Lawson,” Delaney said. “What did he do wrong? It’s hardly a crime to represent McGill in court.”
“I’m just speculating, but maybe he helped hide or even destroy evidence. He wouldn’t be the first lawyer to do some ‘housecleaning’ in the files and ‘inadvertently’ dispose of key documents.”
“Okay. It all makes sense. But why wouldn’t McNeil just walk away with the money? Why kill Harper and Lawson?”
“That’s the big question, Chief. For now, all we have is theories. But we know these things often go sour. Once a scheme is in motion, it’s too late to back out. We know McNeil has a criminal record. We know he can be violent under the right conditions. Maybe Judith Harper talked to Lawson. Maybe they decided not to pay, or else threatened to go to the police. Who can say?”
Delaney picked up his ballpoint and resumed his doodling. There was a pregnant silence. “And the vagrant who killed himself?” the chief asked after a moment. “How does he fit into all this?”
“Lortie?” Taillon said. She’d stayed quiet until now. “He’s the perfect fall guy. A former victim of MK-ULTRA — fragile, psychologically unstable. McNeil slips the wallets among his possessions to incriminate him. But Lortie finds them and, for reasons we don’t understand, jumps off a building before we can follow the trail back to him.”
“Everything hinges on MK-ULTRA, Chief,” the Gnome said. “That’s our key element. It’s the common thread that links all the other details.”
The head of the Major Crimes Unit didn’t ponder long. “All right. Draw up the warrant application and I’ll sign it. The connection with Lawson seems iffy to me, but whatever …” Silence. “Do you want to move on this tonight? I don’t mind, but it’ll mean the party’s over.”
Victor looked over at his teammates, who nodded. “The party was already over, Chief. Jacinthe’s had her dessert.”
There were smiles all around.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Delaney said, looking irritably at his watch. “I’m not promising anything. At this hour, sometimes even judges are in bed.”
Victor shrugged. “Do what you can, Chief. At this point, whether it’s tonight or in the morning won’t make much difference.”
Delaney tore the top page off his notepad and crumpled it into a ball. “When we get the warrant, you can bring McNeil in for questioning and search his home. But let’s keep it quiet for now. If some reporter starts asking questions, you know the standard line …”
“By heart, Chief.” Victor nodded. “‘Dr. McNeil isn’t considered a suspect; he’s simply an important witness.’”
OCTOBER 30TH, 1995
MONEY AND THE ETHNIC VOTE
Jacques Parizeau gave a stirring speech to the troops.
“We fought well.
“We were so close to being a country.
“Never forget: three-fifths of French-speaking Quebec voted YES. That wasn’t quite enough, but soon it will be. We will have our country!”
But then I was startled to hear Monsieur Jacques blame money and the ethnic vote. I wish I could have put those words back in his mouth, for the sake of his reputation. I wish I could have hit the rewind button and scrolled back thirty seconds.
Because Monsieur Jacques did fight well, and respect is owed to those who have the courage to fight for their convictions.
This second NO hurts me, in my being, in my flesh.
From now on, my pain is an interior country.
WATERMELON MAN
50
I ALWAYS CALLED HIM “SIR”
The officers obtained their warrants quickly. At this hour, judges were sometimes in bed, but they were also sometimes partying with friends at a tapas bar in the Plateau-Mont-Royal. Despite his protests, Loïc didn’t accompany the group. Paul Delaney wanted to be sure his experienced detectives were unimpeded as they undertook this delicate operation.
Outside, snow had begun to fall. With the wind rising, it was beginning to look like another blizzard was on its way.
They drove past an outdoor rink. Under the bright lights, a handful of players in Canadiens, Bruins, and Canucks colours were braving the bad weather for a game of shinny. Sitting in the back of the car, the Gnome turned his head to watch the game through the window until the players were no more than dots in the distance. He was lost in his memories for a moment.
“There was an old man in my neighbourhood, in Rosemont. In the wintertime, he used to water the rink and keep it clear of snow so we could play hockey. I never knew his name. I always called him ‘sir.’ He lived alone. When my mother did her holiday cooking, she always made a few extra meat pies and sugar tarts. On Christmas Eve, she’d tell me to bring them over to him. I remember how I hated having to do that, just like I hated asking for the paternal blessing on New Year’s Day. The old man always insisted on making me a cup of hot chocolate and showing me pictures of his grandchildren. I never knew what to say. One day, I showed up at his doorstep with the bag my mother had prepared. I rang the bell a couple of times, but he didn’t answer. So I tried the door. It swung open. I found him in his armchair in the living room. He had died there, by himself.” Silence. “Whenever I go by an outdoor rink, I think of him.”
Lemaire’s eyes met Jacinthe’s in the rear-view mirror. He lowered his gaze.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I mentioned that.”
Victor was unfamiliar with the wealthy suburb of Town of Mount Royal, with its winding avenues of spacious homes, opulent facades, and curving driveways. The psychiatrist’s residence was one of the most imposing homes on his crescent. The detectives had to argue through the closed door, and Taillon was forced to hold up her badge before Mark McNeil’s wife finally let them in.
Though he’d known she was thirty years younger than her husband, Victor hadn’t expected her to be so pretty. Silken strands of black hair fell across her face, accentuating her almond eyes. She had a delicate complexion and wore a dark kimono-style robe that stopped mid-thigh, revealing slender legs and red-painted toenails.
“Did something happen to Mark?” she asked anxiously as they entered. “Has there been an accident?”
Realizing that McNeil wasn’t home, the Gnome took the initiative and reassured her. There was no reason to worry about her husband’s safety, but they had a warrant to question him and a second warrant to search the house.
When Lemaire asked where her husband was, she answered warily, “He told me he had a few errands to run after work, and he’d be home later.”
Once the initial surprise had passed, the young woman was admirably self-possessed. She tried without success to reach McNeil on his cellphone, left him a message, looked over the warrant with Lemaire, inquired about the possibility of consulting a lawyer — adding that she had nothing to hide. Then, with her head in her hands, she became anxious about logistics. During the search, would she be allowed to stay in the house with her child, who was sleeping upstairs?
The Gnome, who had long since exchanged his elf costume for street clothes, nodded to his two fellow cops. He’d handle the formalities with the young woman, whom he was already guiding toward the living room.
“Don’t worry,” he said, offering her his arm, “my colleagues will be careful not to wake up your little girl.”
Victor and Jacinthe headed straight for the kitchen. The colourful magnets were still on the fridge door. The two detectives tallied them. The letters of the alphabet were all there, but, assuming there was only one of each digit between 0 and 9, six we
re missing: 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, and 6.
Victor leafed backward through his notebook until he found the entry he’d made days before, while looking through Judith Harper’s apartment.
“0 blue, 1 red, 2 orange, 3 yellow, 4 purple, 6 green,” he said, showing the page to Jacinthe. “The numbers and their respective colours correspond.”
Jacinthe nodded. They bagged the remaining numbers, then did a thorough search of McNeil’s office.
The effort was painstaking and unproductive. McNeil’s computer was password protected, and his wife didn’t know the password. So she claimed, anyway — but they had no reason to doubt her word. Apart from that, there were very few files in the office. The documents that were present turned out to be routine paperwork.
Jacinthe went down to the basement while Victor scoured the bedroom.
Here, too, there was nothing of interest, unless you counted the twin sinks in the bathroom and the his-and-hers walk-in closets. Victor couldn’t help noting that the square footage of the bedroom and ensuite bath exceeded that of his entire apartment.
Standing in the doorway of the child’s room, seeing her steady breathing, Victor hesitated. But he couldn’t run the risk that McNeil was hiding in the room. The detective sergeant entered and searched the room noiselessly. Everything was in order.
Before leaving, he stopped for a few seconds and looked with a tender smile at the curly-haired angel sleeping peacefully in the bed.
Coming back down to the ground floor, he saw the Gnome sitting beside McNeil’s wife on the couch. The detective was handing her a glass of water as they spoke in low voices. Gilles Lemaire was a perfect gentleman with an undeniable human touch, which the detective sergeant envied. Gilles knew how to talk to people, how to listen, and how to show empathy.
Not that Victor was entirely incapable of these things, but sometimes he found it hard to communicate. Still, like a good wine, he was improving with age.
Or, as Jacinthe might say, he was getting softer. It all depended on your point of view.
Victor advanced without making a sound, his feet sinking into the thick rug.
When he was just a few steps away, Lemaire and the young woman turned toward him. Gilles barely had time to confirm, in response to Victor’s question, that there was no news of McNeil, when a low roar came up from the basement.
“Lessard!” Jacinthe bellowed. “Lessard! Get down here!”
Victor excused himself and headed for the basement stairs. As he descended, he heard a clatter of metal striking metal.
What was she up to?
It was only after crossing the family room and stepping into the garage that he saw her from behind, bent over a plastic ski case.
“Check it out,” she said excitedly, straightening up.
She was holding cross-country skis in one hand and poles in the other.
51
PARC MAISONNEUVE
Mark McNeil was walking along the deserted path, his head bowed against the biting wind. The tower of the Olympic Stadium glowed vividly white in the darkness. A line of trees stood to his right. Behind him, the blowing snow swept away his footprints.
The masks had come off earlier that day.
“I know it’s you,” he’d said into the telephone.
The answer hadn’t come right away over the crackling line. The psychiatrist had expected protests, vigorous denials, or attempts at explanation, but no, there had been none of that.
“What do you want?” The voice was calm, but icy.
He had specified what he wanted, and the voice had given him this nocturnal rendezvous in Parc Maisonneuve. And then: nothing. The line had gone dead.
The psychiatrist had left his car on Rosemont Boulevard. Entering the park from that thoroughfare, he had a better view of the entire area. Convinced that he was in control of the situation, he felt no fear. But he wasn’t about to get careless. With his fingertips, he touched the handle of the knife in his pocket.
Coming around a turn in the path, he saw the hill.
Nobody in sight.
Was he in the wrong place? The snow was falling hard. McNeil squinted and looked around. He closed his eyes to dislodge the frost from his eyelashes. To his left, with a cap pulled low over the eyes, a shadow emerged from the line of conifers and stopped ten metres away from him.
“Did you really think you could go on lying and duping the world forever?” the psychiatrist crowed.
Was that a smile? He wasn’t sure. He could barely see.
“I’m pleased with our arrangement,” he said. “You pay, I keep quiet. And the police go on searching in all the wrong places. It happened so long ago, they’ll never find their way back to the truth. Do you have the money?”
The shadow held up a plastic bag and put it down on the snow. “It’s all here.” Without another word, the shadow turned and walked away into the night.
Savouring the moment, McNeil walked unhurriedly to where his reward lay. He picked it up and plunged his fingers into the bag to seize the bills, then froze — his fist was full of matchbooks.
Furiously dumping out the contents of the bag, he roared in anger. He was about to set off in pursuit of the shadow when he heard a noise behind him: a hiss on the snow.
With the knife in his hand, he turned sharply. A skier was approaching at high speed.
The skier stopped and McNeil relaxed. He was about to walk away when he realized that the skier was watching him. A shudder raced up his spine — the skier was drawing back a bowstring, aiming at him.
The psychiatrist knew that if he wanted to survive, he’d have to make it to the cover of the trees. He started to run as fast as he could. A whistling sound near his ear alerted him; he dived to his left and rolled.
The arrow hadn’t missed by much.
McNeil jumped to his feet and started running again. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that his pursuer was in motion, gaining fast.
The line of trees was getting closer. No more than a hundred metres, he estimated. He could make it.
Once he was among the trees, anything could happen. For one thing, the trunks and boughs would deflect arrows; for another, speed would no longer be a factor. The skis might even be a disadvantage. And at close quarters, with his knife, he could do some damage.
At that moment, Mark McNeil was cursing himself for having left his phone in the car. But he was glad of the rigorous training program that he’d followed in recent years.
Just a few more metres …
The trees were close. He could practically touch their branches.
Panting, he took refuge behind the trunk of a large spruce. The knife was trembling in his hand. Had his attacker followed him into the trees? He had to get his breathing under control, so as not to give away his position.
Little by little, his auditory awareness became sharper. He heard the wind’s shriek, the swaying of the boughs, and, farther off, the street traffic.
No sound of footsteps. No cracking of snow or rustling of branches. McNeil risked a look toward the spot where the skier should be.
Nobody. He was alone.
With infinite caution, the psychiatrist turned and began to walk, bent low. He paused every ten metres to listen before continuing his progress. Suddenly he stopped. His eye had glimpsed something, ahead and to the right.
The skier appeared in front of him, features concealed by a hood, fingers poised near his mouth, drawing back the bowstring, ready to let fly. The psychiatrist began to shake. Where had he come from?
McNeil wanted to run, to dive into the sheltering vegetation, but fear had frozen his limbs. He couldn’t take his eyes off the bow.
His heart was pounding. His lips were twisted in a bitter rictus. “Please,” he heard himself murmur, “not like this.”
An image imprinted itself on his retinas: his assailant’s thumb and forefinger releasing their hold. The arrow left the bow, whispering.
Thoughts flashed through his mind. His desire to live had never been as in
tense as it was at this moment. All the years he’d believed he had left were vanishing, slipping from his grasp, flying away among the trees. He thought of his wife, of his daughter.
The little girl loved him. He would never see her grow up, and he had only himself to blame. He thought of the gambling demon that he’d allowed to crawl into his life — into their lives.
Knowing all the mental processes by which people became pathological gamblers, he had imagined himself stronger than the disease, protected from it.
McNeil’s eyes widened. His brain knew it was too late; he couldn’t escape the projectile hurtling toward him. His thoughts sped up as the arrow whistled through the air. Only nanoseconds remained before impact. The whirling of his mind ended in questions.
What would have happened if he’d been honest with Marsha from the start? He was convinced that she loved him. But what did that even mean? Did she love him genuinely, or merely for what he represented? McNeil had never reflected on this. Now he would never know the truth.
The arrow reached its destination, shattering the breastbone, piercing the heart. His mouth half opened. His fingers tensed, then released their grip on the knife. A second arrow entered his throat. His lifeless body collapsed to its knees and toppled backward.
His staring eyes no longer saw the outline of the trees.
52
VIDEO CLIP
Saturday, December 24th
The ringing of his cellphone roused Victor from a deep sleep. Stretching out his arm, he groped along the bedside table for the phone. His elbow knocked over the bottle of sleeping pills, then bumped a glass, which teetered for a moment, hanging between solidity and empty space, then tipped over and fell to the floor. Sitting up in a tangle of damp sheets, Victor opened his eyes and was blinded by daylight.
Never Forget Page 23