“McNeil? Mark McNeil?”
“Could be. I don’t remember anymore. Anyway, do I need to tell you what kind of experiments those two were doing? Mind control and brainwashing, using methods that enabled them to manipulate mental states and alter brain function: administering drugs and other chemical substances, hypnosis, sensory deprivation, isolation, verbal and sexual violence, not to mention various forms of torture. Harper and her assistant were twisted human beings, Detective.” For a moment, he gazed intensely into Victor’s eyes. “Harper’s father had been an Adrien Arcand sympathizer. Arcand admired Adolf Hitler and was a leader of Quebec’s fascist movement. Forgive the language, but Judith was the worst kind of nasty-ass bitch. She could commit atrocities in private, while preserving her public image as a respected academic. Now, when that accountant started talking about irregularities, Tousignant and his team first tried to buy his silence. That was standard procedure for them. The senior managers of the accounting firm handling the audit had been on the take for a long time. The audit was meant to be a formality. No one was supposed to raise any difficulties at all. But the accountant assigned to the file was newly hired, and this was one of his very first cases. With a beginner’s zeal, he dug deeper than anyone had expected him to. When he refused to take the money and shut his mouth, Tousignant initially turned to Judith Harper to deal with the problem.”
“So Harper and Tousignant knew each other?”
“They never let on in public, but behind closed doors, Tousignant, Harper, and Lawson worked as a team. It was through Lawson that Harper and her assistant were given the job of ‘deprogramming’ the accountant. At the same time, Tousignant had gotten in touch with CIA headquarters in Langley to have them send out a black ops asset.”
“Black ops?”
“The agency had a secret roster of killers.”
Victor’s mind was racing. The image of a face appeared to him. The pieces fell into place. The fog lifted, and suddenly everything was clear. Now he understood the references to “BO” and “AL” that he’d found in Tousignant’s correspondence with Lawson.
“André Lortie?”
“The very one. It was Nathan Lawson who called to advise me that Langley was sending a black ops specialist to the consulate. He was beside himself. He’d been vehemently opposed to Tousignant’s initiative. Within a few hours, I received confirmation through official channels that Lortie had arrived. I can still remember the wording of the message: the mission objective was to ‘tie up a loose end.’ Since I was responsible for logistics, it was my job to provide Lortie with whatever he needed to accomplish his mission. He was a dual citizen. His father was American, while his mother was from Quebec. The father had walked out on the family, so Lortie had taken his mother’s surname. He was a former marine, and this was his second or third black ops assignment. The moment I met him, I knew he was a sadist. He enjoyed violence. Killing gave him pleasure.”
“He was the one who murdered the accountant and his son, right?” Victor asked.
Willis nodded. “The afternoon he arrived, I went with him to the accountant’s home. The man lived in the country with his wife and two kids. If I remember correctly, one of the kids was mentally retarded. While they were at school, Lortie threatened the accountant and gave him a beating. Lortie said if the man didn’t take the money and shut his mouth, he’d be back, and next time, he’d hurt the man’s family.”
Willis’s eyes filled briefly with tears of helpless outrage. His lower lip trembled. Victor’s throat tightened; he didn’t know what to say.
“I sat there and did nothing. I tried to convince myself that I was following orders, but the truth is, I was afraid. Excuse me …” The old man paused and took a few sips of water. “Unfortunately, the accountant was a brave man. Far from letting himself be intimidated, he told two colleagues about his discovery. That was the beginning of the end. Following Tousignant’s instructions, Lortie abducted the accounting firm’s three employees, one at a time, and brought them to Harper. She and her assistant administered their treatments. Knowing the agency’s penchant for compartmentalizing information, I would bet that they knew nothing about the conspiracy or the stakes involved. They just did what was expected of them: they erased the memories of the three subjects. I’ll spare you the details, Detective. Those three people were tortured. They were broken human beings when Lortie dumped them back on their doorsteps.”
“But someone must have called the police,” Victor said indignantly.
As the detective sergeant raised his eyes, he was constricted by an unpleasant sensation that left a metallic taste in his mouth. Was his imagination playing tricks on him? Twice now, he had seen the same black car with tinted windows roll by, slowing down as it passed them. Victor touched the empty space on his left side. He bitterly regretted not having bothered to fill in the forms that would have allowed him to bring his service weapon across the border.
“You’ve got to bear the context in mind,” Willis said, not seeming to have noticed anything. “The accounting firm was well established in the Joliette area. Tousignant and Lawson were paying hefty bribes to the police chief and subordinate officers to ensure that they’d look the other way. The three employees turned up again within a few days, their pockets stuffed with cash. The whole matter would have sunk without a trace if it hadn’t been for that one accountant’s stubborn honesty. He stayed quiet for a few weeks, then, despite the fact that he’d been fired from his job, he tried to get back in touch with his two colleagues. Harper’s treatment had failed: the accountant’s memory was intact. That’s when he signed his own death warrant, and those of the two others.”
Victor’s tension eased: the car with the tinted windows had just disappeared along the highway entrance ramp at the end of Elm Street.
“From the start, there had been animosity between Lortie and me. But at this point, I blew up. I was bitterly opposed to the execution of three innocent people.” Willis’s lower lip began to tremble again. “One night, I woke up with a knife at my throat. Lortie had slipped into my bedroom. He whispered in my ear that next time, he’d kill me.”
A tear ran down his cheek, and then another. The two droplets wound their way to the old man’s chin.
Victor gave him time to compose himself before speaking. “Lortie made the killings look like accidents.”
“He was a monster, but I can’t deny that he was skilled at his work. And, of course, Tousignant and Lawson came along in his wake and made sure the right people got brown envelopes.”
Two carefree young women were walking on the grass, their feet bare in the sunshine, holding their sandals in their hands, utterly heedless of the tragedy that had played out on this spot forty-eight years earlier.
“What happened next?” Victor asked.
Willis shrugged. “Nothing. Back then, Montreal was the city of a thousand pleasures. Lortie convinced his superiors to let him make it his base of operations. I stayed as far away from him as possible. But I know that at one point, he infiltrated the FLQ. The U.S. was in the grip of anti-Communist paranoia, and the agency was worried that Fidel Castro might gain control over Quebec’s independence movement. Lortie participated in a number of FLQ operations, principally bank robberies. In 1965, the FLQ set off a bomb in front of the American consulate, where I was employed. There were no injuries, but seventy-eight windows were shattered. I happened to bump into Lortie after. When I asked if he’d taken part in that operation, he answered, laughing, that the consulate’s facade had been in need of renovation.”
“He also participated in the kidnappings of Pierre Laporte and James Richard Cross, didn’t he?”
“No. But I can guess why you think he did. You see, by early 1968, Lortie was becoming uncontrollable. He’d descended into alcoholism. When he was drunk, he’d let down his guard and talk too much. Tousignant and Lawson started worrying. They considered bringing up a second black ops asset to get rid of him, but Lortie had already proclaimed to anyone who would
listen that he’d taken protective measures. If he died, the media would learn the truth. Tousignant and Lawson couldn’t run the risk that he’d stashed a compromising file somewhere — a file that might surface after his death.”
Fresh images appeared in Victor’s mind: the space behind the ceramic tile in the bathroom of Lortie’s rooming house, and the one Victor had recently discovered at Duca’s place. These were some of the locations where Lortie might have concealed the documents Willis had in mind.
“They couldn’t risk eliminating Lortie. But they couldn’t afford to let him keep talking. So, Tousignant decided to send him to Judith Harper, first in 1969, then again in late 1970, for a tune-up.” Willis chuckled. “Lortie was tough. The first time, it took three marines to overpower him.” Silence. “Judith had refined her techniques over the years. She erased his memory, and, to create confusion in case he was ever questioned, she planted false memories in Lortie’s brain. That’s why he was so sure he’d participated in the Laporte and Cross kidnappings.”
“Lortie was first admitted for psychiatric care in Montreal in 1969. He had no identification, no family, no past. How did he end up like that? How was it possible?”
“Don’t be so naive, Detective. What you’re describing is a CIA specialty. It’s as easy for the agency to obliterate a person’s past as it is for a dentist to pull a tooth. Let’s walk, shall we?”
The two men stood and advanced toward the building from which Oswald had fired on the president.
“Things went downhill for Lortie after that. No one had suspected it, but he was afflicted by bipolar disorder. His first breakdown was probably caused by the drugs he’d been given during his treatment by Judith Harper. In fact, it was Harper, acting on Tousignant’s instructions, who had him admitted to the psychiatric hospital. By then, Lortie was a broken man, a shadow of his old self. In those days, severe psychotic cases were institutionalized. Harper saw to it that Lortie was kept in isolation for months.”
“Was she the one who got Dr. McNeil his job at the hospital where Lortie was being treated?”
“The man you mentioned earlier? I wouldn’t know. But if you’re wondering whether they could have gone on subjecting Lortie to their secret treatments through the intermediary of an agency-linked doctor, I’d say that was entirely possible.”
“What do you mean? I looked at his file. Lortie was eventually discharged, same as any other mentally ill patient in Quebec. He was readmitted a number of times, but he spent most of his life on the outside. Wasn’t he a threat, as far as they were concerned?”
Eyes closed, head back, Willis let the sunshine caress his face. When he turned to look at Victor, he was wearing a little smile. “Let’s get one thing straight. From the time he was set free, Lortie posed no threat to anyone. His bipolar diagnosis was a blessing for them. It explained all his delusions and undermined the credibility of any claims he might make. I ran into him on the street one day, quite by chance. This would have been in 1973 or thereabouts … I can’t recall, exactly. No matter. Lortie was in the midst of a full psychotic breakdown, raving about Pierre Laporte and the FLQ. He didn’t even recognize me. He was living on the streets, homeless.”
“He had a relationship with a woman at one point. Silvia Duca, a former ballet dancer. Does that name mean anything to you?”
This time, the little smile was supplemented by a wink in Victor’s direction.
“Not that one in particular. But Lortie had lots of girlfriends. He used them when he needed to lie low. Somewhat like Carlos the Jackal.”
“Do you remember whether Lortie had a child? A son?”
“Considering what I’ve just told you, I’d be surprised if he had only one!”
Willis laughed before being seized by another coughing fit. He covered his mouth with his handkerchief. When Victor questioned him about the blackout from which Lortie had awakened in possession of his victims’ wallets, Willis shrugged. He knew nothing about that.
Victor was in the company of a very sick man who clearly no longer cared about consequences. So why was Willis talking to a Montreal cop and not the media?
Willis was silent for a long time before he answered. “I left the agency in 1975 and moved down here to Dallas, the place where the president was assassinated. I worked in real estate until my retirement. My decision to make this city my home was motivated by a single thought. Never forget. John Kennedy was my hero. He was the idol of my youth. I owe my political awakening to him. He’s the figure who ignited my patriotic feelings. The news of his death shook me to the core. A few months later, before I’d fully recovered from that shock, I learned facts that changed my life forever. A few lines on a financial statement. A loose end that I was told to help tie up. Since then, I’ve spent every single day of my life regretting what I did. I was crushed by the machine. I was forced to do things that might have allowed men who plotted a president’s death to get away with it. I spent my life in Dallas so that I would never forget. So I’d be reminded each day of my failure to do the right thing.”
Overcome with emotion, Willis fell silent, struggling not to cry. Victor didn’t speak. He put a sympathetic hand on the old man’s arm and waited for him to continue.
“You wonder why I never broke my silence, why I never said anything … What can I tell you?” He paused. “I should have spoken out against evil, but I was afraid. Afraid of retribution — against me, against my wife and children. Afraid that I would die along with my ideals.” His eyes were glistening. “I kept quiet because I gave up on my dreams. Because I forgot that it’s better to resist than to regret. Because I was, and always will be, suffocated by shame.” Willis took a deep breath and regained his composure. “I decided not to say anything. To wait until someone came along and started asking questions. As fate would have it, that someone was you.”
Victor didn’t speak, but simply lowered his eyes.
The old man was walking with difficulty, leaning on his cane, his back bent. They had left the grassy knoll behind and come to the corner of Elm and North Houston Streets, near the book depository, when Victor saw it again: the black car with tinted windows had just pulled up across the street.
“Wait here.”
Driven by an unthinking impulse, the detective sergeant stepped into the street, fists clenched at his sides, arms slightly spread, determined to confront the threat. At the same moment, the driver-side door opened and a uniformed chauffeur emerged.
As Victor approached with a menacing expression, the chauffeur, taking no notice of him, opened the rear door and helped an elegantly dressed woman in her forties get out of the car. Two young children, a boy and a girl, got out after her. The woman spoke into the chauffeur’s ear and he nodded. The chauffeur smiled as the woman walked away, holding the children’s hands. The little girl waved to him, and he waved back.
Victor had reached the man when he realized his mistake.
The chauffeur asked in a friendly voice if he could help Victor with anything. The detective sergeant stammered a vague excuse and walked away, apologizing. The chauffeur watched him cross the street and shrugged, clearly thinking, just another weirdo.
Victor rejoined Cleveland Willis, who hadn’t moved from his spot on the sidewalk and seemed to be wondering whether there was a problem. The detective sergeant mumbled something about wanting directions for the trip back to his hotel, then restarted the conversation by mentioning Tousignant’s disappearance.
Willis described an ambitious, ruthlessly calculating man whose public image was the opposite of his true nature.
“Was he the one in the shadows, pulling the strings?”
“I don’t think Daniel Tousignant and his helpers ever knew who was behind the plot to kill President Kennedy. They were simply instructed by the agency to pay the operatives — which is to say, the shooters. That’s as far as it went.”
“So, you really believe there was a conspiracy?”
“I’ve always thought the killing of the accountant and
his two colleagues lent credence to the multiple shooters theory, but I’ve never had hard evidence to prove it. Much of the information I’ve shared with you was given to me by Nathan Lawson. I don’t know why, but he always trusted me.” Willis closed his eyes and was silently contemplative for a moment. “The truth is, I’ve often suspected that he saw me as a kind of insurance policy. You’ve somewhat confirmed that suspicion by telling me my name and address were in the file he assembled. And it doesn’t surprise me at all to hear you suggest that the purpose of the file was to prove Lawson’s innocence and Tousignant’s guilt. That was Lawson. A lawyer to his core. Whatever the reason, one of the last things he told me about Lortie was that Judith Harper had had a lot of trouble deprogramming one particular sentence. It was something Lortie would repeat over and over, with a mocking laugh, whenever he was drunk: ‘I didn’t shoot anybody, no sir!’”
In his mind’s eye, Victor saw himself in the bedroom with Virginie, watching the frail young man in the video clip.
“This may surprise you. I don’t know if Lee Harvey Oswald was one of the shooters on November 22nd, 1963. But I’ll wonder to my dying day whether, as the presidential limousine rolled through Dealey Plaza, André Lortie was in a window of a nearby building, holding a rifle.”
81
A BIT OF SIGHTSEEING
The white minivan had come to pick up Willis on the tree-lined plaza near the commemorative monument. As she placed her father in the passenger seat, Willis’s daughter was hardly friendlier to Victor than she had been upon arrival; she offered him a pale imitation of a smile.
As he thanked the old man, the detective sergeant would have liked to find a graceful way to wish him well at the close of his life, but the words didn’t come. In the end, Victor simply urged Willis to take care. They shook hands, and amid the noise of the minivan’s exhaust, the retired CIA agent rolled out of Victor’s life, just as he had rolled into it a few hours earlier.
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