Never Forget

by Martin Michaud

  The Crown Vic’s engine roared. Victor looked over and saw that Taillon’s jaw was clenched.

  “Duca must have been in the woods across from the house,” he said as he caught his breath. “I think I hit him.”

  “Those dumbass patrol cops let themselves get spotted.”

  Duca had a substantial head start. Even with Jacinthe at the wheel, Victor knew they’d need to take risks to catch the fleeing suspect. At the same time, Duca didn’t have Taillon’s experience with high-speed driving; nor was he familiar with the car he’d stolen. He might make mistakes at the wheel.

  And that was precisely what happened.

  Passing the Trafalgar Building, they saw a car farther down the hill, angled crosswise in their path. Duca had spun out after colliding with a Hyundai Elantra, which now straddled the median at the intersection. The fugitive floored the gas pedal on the patrol car, which skidded around until it was facing down the hill once more, then accelerated, zigzagging through the snow. The detectives were now just two hundred metres behind.

  Victor grabbed the radio mic. “I have visual contact at Côte-des-Neiges and Cedar. Suspect is approaching Doctor Penfield Avenue.”

  Victor also relayed the location of the accident.

  On the radio, multiple police units were responding, indicating their positions. A fellow cop had been hit — this wouldn’t go unpunished. There were now numerous other patrol cars involved in the chase.

  Car 26-11 abruptly jumped the median, rolling southbound in the northbound lane of Côte-des-Neiges.

  Taillon executed the same manoeuvre. As she slalomed among the oncoming vehicles, Victor saw that she was white-knuckling the steering wheel.

  They raced past the Montreal General Hospital, leaving a cacophony of honks and spun-out cars behind them. Fortunately, because of the snowfall and the fact that it was a holiday, traffic was sparse. Even so, one false move would have been enough to cause catastrophe and death. They came perilously close more than once. But miraculously, they arrived unscathed at the merge with Pine Avenue.

  Victor let out his breath and began to relax: surely Duca would bear right onto Doctor Penfield and get back into the flow of cars. But instead, the fugitive executed an improbable swerve and headed up Pine, once again into the oncoming traffic. On Côte-des-Neiges, at least, the width of the thoroughfare had made it possible to see cars approaching and steer clear. But now, as Duca sped along the narrow strip of Pine Avenue, dodging vehicles, he was flirting with suicide.

  The prohibition against parking on the south side of the street meant it was possible to roll on the sidewalk, which is what Duca did, followed promptly by Jacinthe. It still took lightning reflexes to avoid the lampposts, mailboxes, and fire hydrants that rushed at them.

  The hydrant that stood a few metres west of the Polish consulate didn’t survive their passage. The Crown Vic was shaken by the impact, but Jacinthe held the car on course. In a trancelike state, totally focused on her objective, she was wrenching the steering wheel left and right, alternating between the brake and accelerator, yelling at the top of her lungs and spewing a steady stream of invective at the man she was pursuing, calling him a wide variety of names, among which motherfucker took pride of place.

  And with each manoeuvre, she was getting a little closer to car 26-11. Slowly, but surely.

  Feeling queasy and, above all, conscious of the insane risk to public safety, as well as their own, Victor placed a hand on his partner’s forearm. “Ease up a little, Jacinthe. You’re going to get us killed. Worse, you’re going to kill someone else.”

  “Forget it. We’re gonna nail him. I’m betting he’ll turn onto McGregor. We’ll hit him as he goes around.”

  Sure enough, Duca turned right onto McGregor Avenue.

  Victor felt relief to be rolling in the direction of traffic once again. The Crown Vic was now just a few metres behind the patrol vehicle. Jacinthe floored the gas pedal: the car hurtled forward and hit the patrol car’s bumper. Duca skidded before managing to get the vehicle straightened out, but not fast enough to avoid the metal guardrail to his left, which he scraped at high speed in a shower of sparks.

  Far from slowing him down, though, the impact had the opposite effect, helping Duca get around the corner, which would otherwise have been difficult, since he was rolling too fast to make the turn cleanly.

  Jacinthe nodded. She appreciated Duca’s daring. “Ohhh, you son of a bitch! You’re good!”

  Her kick to the gas pedal had brought the Crown Vic into the turn too fast. She followed the fugitive’s lead and let the car hit the guardrail, then shot down the slope of the avenue. Desperately, Victor lowered his window ten centimetres.

  The wash of cold air braced him. It was either that or vomit.

  At the bottom of McGregor, Duca turned left onto Doctor Penfield, heading east at breakneck speed, closely followed by the Crown Vic, its siren screaming. Clinging to his armrest, Victor relayed their position for the twentieth time. The two cars were flying along the avenue, skillfully getting past obstacles and avoiding uncontrolled skids.

  Another officer’s voice suddenly came through the radio. “This is 37-9. We’re setting up a roadblock at the corner of McTavish.”

  Seizing the microphone, Victor rattled off the street names as they flashed by: Du Musée, De la Montagne, Drummond …

  Jacinthe had come up behind the fleeing vehicle and was about to knock it off course, but Duca swerved hard, narrowly escaping the impact.

  As they emerged from the long curve of Doctor Penfield, car 37-9 lay dead ahead of them like a nightmarish apparition. Placed transversely in the middle of the avenue, the car wasn’t long enough to block it altogether. If Duca decided to try his luck and hit the stopped vehicle, patrol cops seeking refuge behind it would be crushed.

  So the two officers of 37-9 had taken up position on the escarpment of Rutherford Park, guns drawn, ready to open fire if the fugitive tried to go around on their side. That was the riskiest option for Duca, who would find himself in a hail of bullets if he went for it.

  Which left him the choice of trying to slam right through with a direct hit on the stopped patrol car, or seeking to get past the blockade on the right side by climbing up onto the sidewalk. That was the most tempting alternative, and it was the one the fugitive opted for. As he did so, Victor told himself he would have done the same thing.

  Unfortunately for Duca, that was where the jaws of the trap snapped shut.

  A semicircular stone barrier, topped with an iron handrail, closed McTavish Street to vehicle access. From the barrier, a flight of stairs allowed pedestrians to descend the five metres from Doctor Penfield to McTavish.

  Coming in at high speed, the fleeing patrol car tipped to its right as it hit the edge of the sidewalk. It was a matter of centimetres, but Duca, who must have thought he had leeway, couldn’t stabilize the vehicle before it struck the barrier. Because of its speed, the car caromed off the stone surface and was launched into the air, grazing the handrail. It hung in space for an instant, wheels spinning, before plummeting to the street below amid a din of smashed metal and broken glass. The vehicle did several barrel rolls and finally came to rest on its roof.

  Jacinthe stopped the Crown Victoria. She and Victor jumped out, leaving the car in the middle of Doctor Penfield, and ran down the stairs. Curious onlookers were already gathering around the stone barrier. One of the patrol officers hurried with the detectives toward the crumpled vehicle, while the other called for backup and began to direct traffic.

  Pistol in hand, Victor crouched beside the carcass of the patrol car and was momentarily surprised to see that it was empty. Then he spotted a human figure lying on the pavement ten metres away, near the McGill Students’ Society building.

  The impact had thrown Duca from the car.

  He lay on his back. The detective sergeant knew before reaching him that his body was shattered; all that remained was the broken shell of an unstrung marionette.

  Victor knelt
beside the dying young man and slipped a cradling hand under his head. Blood was flowing from his nostrils, his mouth, and his ears.

  Duca’s blue eyes wavered, struggling to focus, then locked onto Victor’s as his hands gripped the detective sergeant’s sleeve. Duca wanted to speak, but he was struggling to breathe as the blood filled his throat. Victor put an ear next to his mouth, trying to hear his whisper.

  Duca’s eyes widened. His mouth fought to contract one last time. Then his head fell to one side. The detective sergeant laid it softly on the ground.

  “Game over,” Taillon said, panting, as she stood over him. “What did he say?”

  Victor stood up, frowning, and looked at the bloodstained palm of his hand. He was trying to understand. “I’m not sure I heard right, but it was something along the lines of …” He hesitated. “‘I remember.’”

  76

  DEAD LETTER

  “Bedtime, Lessard.”

  Victor woke up with a start. His elbows were resting on the dining room table. He had dozed off, his chin in his hands. He scratched his face and yawned. Tobacco and caffeine had ceased to have any effect: he could hardly keep his eyes open. Taillon was right. In any case, it would be hours before the forensics team finished collecting evidence and running tests.

  After carrying out standard procedures at the scene of the crash, the two detectives had spent the evening and part of the night searching Lucian Duca’s house. A pair of skis had been found in the basement. According to the technician Victor had spoken to, the skis’ width matched the tracks in Summit Woods and Parc Maisonneuve.

  The bow and arrows recovered from the wrecked patrol car were being analyzed at the Forensic Science Lab. The fact that the arrows had pink and grey fletching like the one found in the cemetery left little room for doubt. Duca was their man.

  Still — and this was the only reason they hadn’t stopped working, despite their exhaustion — they had yet to find any clues that might help them locate Tousignant.

  Loïc and the Gnome had been sent to the senator’s house to retrieve the documents and put them into safekeeping. Victor had insisted that they handle the job. He had no desire to cope with the destabilizing effect of going back to the house. Because Virginie Tousignant definitely destabilized him.

  The two detectives had decided to give themselves another thirty minutes before calling it a night. Feeling groggy, the detective sergeant had gone outside for a cigarette in the blowing snow. The ground began to vibrate. He heard the rumble of a snowplow coming up Hill Park Circle several seconds before the plow itself appeared. Between drags on his cigarette, Victor sent a new text to Nadja, a little mechanically. To his great surprise, a reply arrived a few eyeblinks after:

  we can talk later … my brother won’t let Martin down …

  Furious, he flicked his cigarette butt into the air. The little red-tipped cylinder was snatched by the wind and carried out of sight. Yes, he should have been happy. He should have been relieved that things were going to work out for Martin. And in fact he was relieved.

  But Nadja’s choice of words deepened his sense of rejection. She’d made no mention of their relationship. How hard would it have been for her to pick up her phone and tell him to go fuck himself?

  “We don’t have much to go on, partner.” Facing Victor at the table, Jacinthe held a notebook in one hand. In the other, she gripped a ballpoint pen, the end of which she was chewing. “Lucian Duca, born in Quebec, age thirty-three, six foot four, two hundred and twenty pounds. Celtic knot tattoo on his left biceps. No criminal record. Employed in the mailroom at Baker Lawson Watkins for the last two years. His mother, Silvia Duca, born in Romania, died in the late nineties —”

  “Say again?” Victor interrupted. He rubbed his temples. His thoughts were foggy. His mind was on information overload. Data storage had become chaotic.

  “His mother died in the late nineties.”

  “No, before that. What did you say before that?”

  Jacinthe repeated what she’d said. An idea had bobbed to the surface of Victor’s mind, but he had no chance to consider it before it sank out of sight. He asked Jacinthe to continue.

  “Silvia Duca owned a ballet school on Sherbrooke Street. It was pretty successful for a while. She also made some smart investments. When she died, her son inherited this house and a fair chunk of money. On his birth certificate, Duca’s father is listed as unknown. He had no other family. No sign of a girlfriend … We’ll have a complete financial profile shortly. Am I forgetting anything?”

  Jacinthe stopped and scanned her notes to be sure she’d covered all the available facts. Then she looked up at Victor. Seeing his face, she knew instantly that something was wrong. “You okay, Lessard? You’ve gone green.”

  Since Duca’s death, the detective sergeant’s stomach had been churning. Now, perhaps from lack of sleep, he was starting to experience a dizzy, bittersweet sensation of floating in space beside his own body. Drops of sweat emerged on his forehead. The room began to spin.

  “Oh, by the way, congratulations. You haven’t lost your touch. Burgers confirmed that you hit him in the shoulder.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Duca. You put a bullet in his shoulder.”

  Victor lurched to his feet and hurried into the hallway, desperately opening several doors before finding the washroom. Plunging into the tiny space, he fell to his knees in front of the toilet bowl and vomited.

  He flushed several times, and the contents of his stomach were carried away.

  How long did Victor stay there, bent over the bowl, catching his breath and recovering his composure as he stared at the wall tiles?

  As he was about to get up, he had a sudden feeling of déjà vu. There was a colour variation in the grout between two ceramic tiles near the bowl. He remembered the bathroom in the rooming house where Lortie had lived. An idea took shape in his head — he dismissed it at first.

  But then, as he washed his hands, he decided there was nothing to lose.

  In his imagination, he could hear Jacinthe’s sarcastic voice: Lessard and his hunches!

  With a pair of scissors taken from the medicine cabinet, he had no difficulty prying out the tile. In the space behind it, he found a little plastic bag. Inside the bag, there was a sheet of paper folded in quarters.

  In disbelief, Victor pulled on his latex gloves and carefully opened the bag.

  The sheet had been folded and unfolded so many times that the paper had separated in some places. The note was handwritten, the letters pressed tightly against each other:

  My darling Lucian, mica mea draga,

  I’m so very sorry you had to find out this way. But he wasn’t lying. It’s true, André Lortie is your father. I don’t know what he said that upset you so terribly, but you mustn’t listen to him. After the things they did to his brain, he doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore. I should have told you the truth a long time ago. Can you forgive me before I’m gone?

  Your mother who loves you more than anything,

  Silvia

  MARCH 1981

  THE MAN WITH THE DIRTY CLOTHES

  “You’ve gotta let me in! I have nowhere else to go. I’m begging you, Sylvie!”

  The banging on the door had gone on for several long minutes. Silvia was standing in the vestibule, unsure of what to do. Should she open up or not?

  The man’s voice, broken and desperate, touched her heart and brought back memories of a time she had sworn to herself she would never think about again. She looked through the peephole and was hardly surprised at his pitiful condition.

  André Lortie had become a homeless man.

  The early days of their relationship had been a happy time. Then, one evening in January of 1969, he had vanished without a word of explanation. Six years later, as suddenly as he’d evaporated, he had reappeared, freshly shaven and wearing a new suit. Silvia had just had a painful breakup with her boyfriend at the time, and André’s return had been a balm to her wounded hear
t.

  André had always been vague about the reasons for his disappearance. When she’d pressed him, he said he’d spent some time in the United States, looking after a sick relative and working in the insurance business. He’d always had a mysterious side, which she had finally gotten used to.

  Silvia gradually became aware that some things about him had changed. The confident, self-assured man she’d known had given way to a taciturn, closed-off individual. Afflicted by night terrors, André had developed phobias: he never stood with his back to a doorway, and he scrupulously avoided walking in front of windows. And at times, especially when he stopped taking his medications, he fell into a terrible state of depression.

  Months went by. Silvia and André had some happy times and some dark stretches. In late 1977, after they’d been living together for a couple of years, André had once again left without any warning. She had come home from the dance school one evening to find him gone, having carried off his personal effects in a small leather satchel. His departure had almost come as a relief to the young woman, who was finding it hard to cope with his increasingly frequent changes of mood.

  Silvia hadn’t known it at the time, but she was pregnant.

  Lucian was born in 1978. She raised him alone. Silvia was the kind of woman who put her heart and soul into motherhood and the upbringing of her child, leaving little room for anything else. Lucian made her happy. She had what she wanted, and she was consequently uninterested in burdening herself with a man.

  Worn down by the begging and banging, Silvia finally pulled the bolt and opened up. This was the second time since his departure in 1977 that André Lortie had arrived on her doorstep. On the first occasion he had stayed only a few hours, leaving again after she’d fed him and given him some money.

  His filthy, ragged clothes reeked of liquor and the street. His tangled hair fell to his shoulders. A beard hid his face and throat, and when he held out his hand, the grime under his fingernails repelled her.