“I didn’t touch a drop,” he said firmly.
Despite the fact that it was a legal holiday, the whole team was at work at 11:00 a.m. Jacinthe and Victor were pursuing their discussion. The Gnome was following up with forensics to get an update on the cemetery crime scene. And Loïc, at Victor’s request, had set aside his research on the heretic’s fork to concentrate on shops that sold archery equipment.
Victor asked Jacinthe to read the email that he’d received from the lawyer at Baker Lawson Watkins concerning the Northern file. Jacinthe couldn’t decipher the legalese any more than he’d been able to. Her reaction was summed up in a single question, accompanied by an abdominal rumble. “Are you starting to get hungry?” The detective sergeant asked her to stay focused for a few more minutes. The previous night, while he was dozing, an idea had taken root in his mind, and he wanted to hear her impressions. The Gnome finished up his call and joined them.
Victor took a few seconds to put his thoughts in order before he started to speak.
“Based on what Gilles found out, and on the details we’ve received from Lawson’s office, it seems like the Northern file was insignificant. But we’re convinced that the documents Lawson took out of the firm’s archives were very valuable to him. So, here’s my theory, and I’d like you to tell me if it makes sense. Could a major file have been stored under the name of an unrelated client — in this case, Northern Industrial Textiles — so that it couldn’t be found by means of keywords?”
“You’re saying Lawson deliberately stored these documents in the archives under the Northern Industrial Textiles name by setting up a fictitious file?”
“You wouldn’t need to create a fictitious file. You want to be sure no one stumbles across it by accident, so you go through your old client list and pick out a company that’s been dissolved, a minor file, confident that no one will have any reason to poke around in it.”
“Northern Industrial Textiles was dissolved in 1974,” the Gnome mused. “Does that mean we’ve been going up a blind alley the whole time we were checking out the company’s management?”
Jacinthe was the first to react. “You want to know what I think? If Lawson had really wanted to hide a file, he’d have put it somewhere other than the archives.”
“Not necessarily,” Lemaire answered. “There are some advantages to putting it there: it’s protected from police searches, it’s swallowed up in a mass of similar items, and also, sometimes, the best place to hide something is in plain sight.”
“And then if you go out of your way to mislabel it,” Victor added, “it becomes impossible to trace, except for the person who knows where it’s hidden.”
“Your idea makes good sense,” the Gnome observed.
“I wish I could agree,” Jacinthe growled, “but I can’t imagine files just lie in the archives forever. At some point, they must get destroyed. So, I’ll say it again: I’d be surprised if Lawson took the risk of leaving valuable documents in there.”
Lemaire intervened. “Before giving birth to Dwarf Number 5, my wife was a paralegal. At the firm where she worked, they had a policy: each lawyer had to review archived files periodically and decide which ones should be kept. I imagine all the big firms have a similar policy, because the cost per square foot of hanging on to old papers is bound to be very high. Some out-of-date documents are destroyed. Others get transferred to digital platforms so they can be saved without taking up space. Every archived document is regularly reviewed by the lawyer responsible for it. So, yes, Lawson could preserve what he wanted.”
The debate continued for a little while, with Jacinthe unwilling to relent. Then they went downstairs to the Place Versailles food court. Because it was Boxing Day and the shopping mall was crawling with bargain-hunters, the cops ordered takeout meals and went back upstairs to eat in the conference room.
To Victor’s considerable relief, the delicate subject of Martin’s arrest didn’t come up.
The Gnome entertained them with an account of his two oldest children’s latest adventure: making the basement toilet overflow by putting their turtle in it.
Numbers 1 and 2 had pleaded not guilty, swearing that they’d placed the turtle in the toilet bowl simply to “give him a change of scenery.” Then, while playing on the PS3, they had forgotten about the reptile. The trouble had started much later, when Number 4 had tried to flush after a nocturnal pee.
Luckily, Torvald the turtle had emerged from the ordeal unharmed.
After lunch, Lemaire got ready to pay a visit to a pawn shop owner in the Hochelaga district. Mark McNeil’s widow had received threats from a man who had showed up at her door, demanding money. Far from being intimidated, the young woman had turned to the Gnome for help. Apparently, McNeil had been borrowing money to stay afloat.
While he buttoned his coat, uncertain how to broach the subject, Lemaire asked Victor if he’d seen the online news reports.
Victor shook his head.
The Gnome stood there, not moving. “Maybe you should have a look,” he said, visibly ill at ease.
“I don’t want to know about it, Gilles.”
Victor was getting ready to consult with Loïc, who had just returned from lunch, when he got a call from Lagacé, the pit bull lawyer he had contacted about representing Martin. Lagacé confirmed that he would take the case. They discussed it briefly, with Victor communicating the limited information he possessed. Lagacé was reassuring: he promised to visit Martin and take the necessary steps to examine the evidence that prosecutors were holding. Then the discussion turned to the matter of professional fees.
“Money is no object. This’ll cost what it costs. I’m not a rich man, but I’ll give the shirt off my back to keep my son out of prison.”
Before ending the call, they agreed to meet later in the day.
Victor sighed. The ten-ton weight had finally been lifted from his shoulders.
Just then, Paul Delaney walked in, wearing a grim expression, and asked Victor to come into his office.
After closing the door, the head of the Major Crimes Unit exploded: “Goddamn jackals!”
65
PRESS RELEASE
For a moment, Victor feared that the higher-ups wanted him suspended, but Delaney put his mind at ease. The police chief and top brass were behind him. Delaney was fulminating, rather, about the online media’s sensationalist coverage of Martin’s arrest and their moralistic eagerness to link that event with Victor’s troubled past.
“Is it really that bad, Paul?”
“Imagine the worst it could possibly be … then double it. Some people want you suspended until the matter is closed. Others want you fired outright. It’s a lucky thing most reporters are off this week and the newspapers aren’t being printed today.”
Victor took a deep breath. He could well imagine what the city’s columnists and bloggers were saying: how could the public have faith in a detective who hadn’t noticed that his own son was engaged in terrorist activities? They would also surely remark on the fact that the son in question belonged to an ultraviolent right-wing group that was seeking to rid Montreal of its immigrants.
Not to mention the old skeletons that would be dragged out of the closet.
“I’m not ready to deal with it yet, Paul.”
“I’d understand if you wanted to take time off …”
Delaney read the answer in the detective sergeant’s expression: the last thing he wanted to do was brood at home.
“The pressure will intensify over the next few days. You realize how the media will treat this.”
“I know, Paul. The classic line: we need to avoid any appearance of conflict of interest. We need to make sure the public has full confidence in the impartiality of Montreal police officers as they investigate the son of a colleague.”
“Exactly. The chief wants us to put out a press release to help calm things down. We’ll start out by saying you have no knowledge of the facts alleged against your son, and, on a personal level, you intend
to offer him the full support that parents naturally give their children in situations like this.”
The press release would go on to say that Victor had devoted his career to enforcing the law, and he had no thought of seeking an exception for his son. Depending on the outcome of the case, Martin might have to answer for his actions in court, and Victor would accept the verdict. Without saying anything to Delaney, Victor cringed inwardly at those words: he had taken steps in the past to hide certain offences, protecting his son from arrest. Of course, the crimes back then had been less grave than terrorist conspiracy.
“After that,” Delaney went on, “we’ll put in a few lines promising that you’ll make yourself available to investigators to answer their questions.”
Victor cleared his throat and added, “We’ll finish up with the usual stuff about the Montreal Police Service reiterating its full confidence in the judgment and integrity of one of its finest officers.”
“And that settles that,” Delaney said, winking. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
The head of the Major Crimes Unit would finalize the text with the public relations officer, who would then get the necessary approvals before the press release went out for distribution.
For an instant, Victor caught himself thinking that he’d actually dodged a bullet. Someone could have caught him on video as he was attacking Fernandez in the restaurant parking lot, then posted the clip on YouTube. He almost told Delaney what he’d learned about Martin’s claim that he’d been working as an RCMP informant, but he decided not to say anything until he had more information.
The conversation then turned to Madeleine’s medical condition. Things were stabilizing; her strength was gradually coming back. Delaney and his kids were taking shifts so that someone was always at her side.
With ancillary matters out of the way, the two men got down to business.
“Okay. Tell me what happened at Le Confessionnal last night.”
“Let’s save that for last, Paul.”
In a few sentences, Victor summarized recent developments, particularly the discovery of the arrow in the cemetery. Then he set out the theory that he had proposed to Jacinthe and Lemaire about the Northern file. Finally, he brought Tousignant into the discussion. Delaney pounded himself on the chest, like a man with indigestion or possibly a heart problem. He made a face and burped.
“You still think Rivard was blackmailing Tousignant with the Northern file? Or do you suspect that the senator killed him to get his hands on it?”
“I’m not sure, Paul. But I’d like to bring him in for questioning.”
The suggestion was more of a shot in the dark than anything else.
“You’ve already checked their cell records,” Delaney said. “You still believe they might have communicated with each other?”
“Rivard had two phones on him: an iPhone and a prepaid burner. If Tousignant was also using a burner, there’s no way to track their calls. Same thing if Tousignant was making the calls from his home phone. And how do we even know they were communicating by phone?”
“Considering the senator’s status, I’d like to have something more substantial before poking the wasp nest. We’re in enough trouble as it is.”
As Victor tried without success to conceal his disappointment, a sly smile came to Delaney’s lips. “But that doesn’t prevent us from putting his home phone under surveillance.”
The detective sergeant smacked the desk. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way!” He winked at his boss. “I’ll talk to Jacinthe. We’ll get to work on the warrant now.”
Delaney raised his hands to slow Victor down. “Hang on. I want to hear what happened last night.”
Victor described his evening at Le Confessionnal in detail and talked about the unsuccessful online search he’d done overnight. “I’m sure the guy in the baseball cap was the killer, Paul.”
Delaney rubbed his coarse grey beard, then ran a hand through his hair. “Seems like your guy in the cap wants us to find something. An event that apparently happened on October 23rd, 1964. But where? In Montreal? In Quebec? Elsewhere in the world? We could search forever. Before the seventies, police record-keeping was nowhere near as systematic as it is today. Plenty of old files were never entered into the Police Information Centre database when it was created.”
The desk phone started to ring. Without looking away from Victor, Delaney picked up the phone and disconnected the line. The ringing stopped, and the chief reacted with obvious relief.
“That’s the problem, Paul. If it’s a cold case, there’ll be a physical file somewhere. But we have to know what we’re looking for.”
“If it’s a murder case, there should be a file. But — and I’d never say this in public — in the past, regional forces were less organized than in Montreal. Remember the Thérèse Luce murder in Longueuil? Nearly all the major evidence was lost. The lead detective was fired. And this was in the eighties. Imagine what it was like in the sixties.”
Victor closed his eyes, discouraged.
“For now, I’m limiting my search to Quebec, even though some clues point elsewhere.” Silence. “We can’t very well start pestering Interpol or the FBI, can we?”
“You’re saying this because of MK-ULTRA and the reference to Kennedy on the hangman drawing?”
Victor nodded. Above their heads, a neon tube flickered and went out.
“There’s no point in contacting anyone until we have a better idea of what we’re looking for.”
Delaney opened his drawer and pulled out a little canister of cloves. He threw several in his mouth and started chewing. “And what does ‘there were others’ mean?”
“Could it be a series of murders or violent crimes that took place in 1964?” Silence. “You’re an old man, Paul. Doesn’t the date ring a bell?”
Delaney smiled at the joke. He closed his eyes, put his chin in his hands and scoured his memory. “Nothing comes to mind.” Silence. “Maybe you should go see Joe Beans.”
Victor’s face lit up. He jumped to his feet. “That’s a stroke of genius, Paul! Thank you.” His eager hand was already on the door handle.
“He doesn’t have a phone, but he lives at …”
Victor didn’t turn. His footsteps were echoing in the corridor. “I know where to find him.”
66
JOE BEANS
His name was Joseph Binet, but everyone called him Joe Beans. During his first months as a Montreal police officer, an older cop had given him the nickname, and it had stuck.
From that moment on, over a career that had spanned more than forty-five years, everyone on the force had called him by that name. It irritated him at first, but if anyone had asked how he felt about it now, looking back, Joe Beans would probably have said he found it funny.
Nearly blind, the old archivist had retired three years ago. At his age, with his years of service, he could enjoy full retirement without any actuarial penalty.
Joe Beans had never entirely succeeded in adapting to computers, which might help explain how he had become indispensable. Instead of relying on technology, he had only ever trusted his own mental faculties.
The man was, in a way, the memory of the Montreal Police.
He could recite by heart the names of the children of the last three heads of the Financial Crimes section. He could tell you about obscure unsolved murders, including ones that dated back three decades, for which files were hard to locate.
Joe could also give you the names of numerous players on the roster of each edition of the Montreal Canadiens, from the founding of the club in 1909 until the firing of coach Jacques Demers in 1995.
He had never accepted that dismissal. From that day forward, he’d ceased to be a Habs fan, transferring his allegiance to the Detroit Red Wings, a “classy” organization, in his opinion, that was perennially competitive and treated its employees “with respect and consideration.” Not to mention the fact that they knew how to make the most of late-round draft picks an
d put winning teams on the ice season after season.
But that was a separate issue.
Joe Beans had finished his career as principal archivist at the Major Crimes Unit. While other departments didn’t want him because of his age, his declining eyesight, and his inability to carry out database searches, Paul Delaney had kept him on as long as possible, because he liked the man and because he knew that when Joe left, he would take a piece of the force’s history with him.
Before being demoted to a local station because of the blunder that had cost the lives of two of his men, Victor had known Joe Beans well and had felt genuine affection for him.
The old man lived in a rooming house as shabby as the one in which André Lortie had spent the final months of his life. Joe didn’t have a phone, which complicated matters for Victor when he knocked on the door and no one answered.
A man approached and, gazing at a spot on the wall behind the detective sergeant’s head, suggested that he might find Joe in the basement of the nearby church, where it was bingo night.
Victor, who had no particular fondness for senior citizens, found himself in a crowd of them when he arrived in the church hall. Indeed, he had a distinct impression that all heads had turned to look at him as he walked in, so much so that he felt obliged to raise a hand and offer a general wave of greeting. But by then the players had already turned back to their cards as the caller announced, “B-12!”
Long tables were set out in rows, with players jammed together at each. Country music was playing softly, and all the players were trying, more or less successfully, to keep their conversations in an undertone, with the result that a sort of booming drone filled the room, making things worse than if people had been speaking in regular voices.
At first glance, Victor was unable to spot Joe Beans among the hundred or so players.
“G-48,” the caller announced.
A voice rang out and a hand went up. “BINGO!”
Never Forget Page 31