The Dead of Winter (22 page)

“Who noticed?” asked Vanier

“We had a car out working with the crew, and all of a sudden the driver of the blower was screaming. Seems there was an explosion of blood and body parts over his windshield and he lost it. That's him over there.”

Gamache pointed to a man sitting in the back of a cruiser. The door was open and the man sat immobile, staring straight ahead with a blanket around his shoulders, steam rising from a coffee in his hand.

Gamache continued, “So my guy looks up and sees the arm hanging there and stops the work. We're waiting for the Coroner to come and tell us what to do with the truck. Maybe he'll have us get into the back with shovels. Who knows?”

Vanier looked around. Other than the blood and some bits of flesh, there was little to see. He kicked into the snow where the plow had stopped. There was about two foot of loose, grimy snow, freshly ploughed from the street, and below it the older snow was hard as concrete. It hadn't been ploughed from the last storm. It had been dark and snowing since five o'clock, so it was possible that it happened just as Gamache described: the guy collapsed, was covered and disappeared until the plough came along.

Vanier bent to look at the business end of the blower. There was a four-foot hole behind the huge screw, but no screen over it. He turned back to Gamache. “Aren't these things supposed to have screens on them?”

“Yes. It's a city regulation. But when the snow is hard packed it slows down the work, everything gets clogged up. So the driver takes off the screen, and everyone's happy.”

“Till something like this happens.”

“The screen wouldn't have saved him,” said Gamache. “He might have taken a few more turns in the grinder but he would still have gone through.”

Just then, an Urgel Bourgie van arrived to pick up the body, causing murmurs of gallows humour; nobody had told them they would need a sieve. Vanier called Dr. Segal for a suggestion, and she arranged to have the truck parked outside the Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale for the night. Given the temperature, leaving the truck outside the Laboratoire was as good as putting it in a refrigerator. Vanier arranged to have a squad car watch it overnight, and they could figure out what to do in the morning.

10.30 PM

From the street, the Blue Angel looked like a dive, the kind most people avoid. It was Vanier's oasis. It was run by Jan and Pavlov, two Polish brothers who came to Montreal on a freighter in 1976 and never left. One of them married the beautiful Gisèle, and all three moved into an apartment over the bar. No one knew for sure which brother was Gisèle's husband. It was a delicate question to ask directly, and you couldn't tell by the way she treated either of them; she had no obvious favourite and was loving and caustic to both in equal measure, complaining to either about the other and praising the absent one to the chagrin of the present. Vanier had long since given up trying to figure it out, putting it down to a simple ménage à trois.

A long mahogany counter dominated one side of the room with wooden stools lined up in front. The wall behind the bar was lined with fridges topped with shelves of back-lit liquor bottles and a 1960s cash register. A single television screen sat on a shelf suspended from the roof. The rest of the room was lined by a Naugahyde-upholstered bench along the length of the back wall and filled with tables and chairs for those wanting a more intimate evening. There was even a postage-stamp dance floor with music from a jukebox that got stuck in 1986, the year the service company went out of business. It worked fine but didn't play anything released after 1986. The walls were decorated with neon beer signs, with their cords descending to electrical sockets. One advertised Dow, a Montreal beer that killed sixteen people in 1966 without denting its popularity. It was twenty years before the brewery finally pulled the plug on it.

People didn't go to the Blue Angel for the atmosphere; they went for the psychic and physical space to drink. No rubbing shoulders in crowds trying to catch the eye of an overworked bartender. No hustlers and preening hunters. When your glass was empty, someone would show up to fill it. If you wanted to talk, you could, and if you didn't, you could sit in silence.

The New Year's Eve trade was brisk, but nobody was rushed. The hockey game was on the TV, and the Canadiens were up 3 to 1 against Pittsburgh, so all was right with the world. Vanier was watching the game and listening to Van Morrison on the jukebox, drinking Jameson with the occasional beer when he got thirsty. He was thinking about Élise and Alex. Élise would be out with friends at some party in Toronto. There would be the inevitable boyfriend that she changed like library books. There would be the promise of a new beginning. On New Year's Eve, everything is possible, even love. And Alex? Vanier wasn't sure. Would he be on duty or celebrating in the comfort of camp?

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“I thought I would find you here, Inspector.”

He turned to see Dr. Anjili Segal standing behind him, not sure how he could have missed her entrance. He broke into a smile. “There's nowhere to hide, is there?”

“Not when you're so predictable, Luc,” she said, lifting herself onto the barstool beside him. “It's a hell of an evening to be alone.”

“Who said I'm alone?”

She raised an eyebrow as she settled onto the stool beside him, not even bothering to see if some woman was walking back from the Ladies.

“You never change, Luc.”

Vanier grinned. “What are you having, Anjili?”

“White wine.”

“White wine it is.”

Jan had been watching from a discreet distance, waiting to see how the meeting would play out. Now he approached with a broad grin, his arms outstretched as though he could hug her over the bar.

“Dr. Segal. How wonderful to see you again. I am thrilled. Thrilled and prepared!” He reached deep into the fridge on the back wall and pulled out a bottle of white wine. “This is just for you. It has been waiting, what, six months for you come back. Cloudy Bay, a Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand.”

Anjili examined the label and beamed.

“I can't wait to taste it.”

Jan made a show of uncorking it, and Anjili made a show of tasting it; swilling it in the glass, admiring its clear pale green-gold colour, smelling the bouquet, and finally tasting a sip, inhaling air through her lips. Her eyes flashed.

“Jan, it's wonderful, I hope you have a case of it back there, but only for me. Luc couldn't appreciate a thing of this much beauty.”

“Then Luc is a retard.”

“I'll have a Jameson, Jan. That is if you serve retards in here.”

“Of course we do,” he said, without taking his eyes off Anjili. “We serve almost anyone.”

A bottle of Jameson was in his hands as if by magic, and he poured a glass. And then, like all great bartenders, he faded into the background, leaving only goodwill behind.

“So how have you been, Luc?”

“I've had better times, Anjili. But I am glad to see you. And you?”

“I'm on the brink of a new year. What's not to like about that? The past is packed away, and I'm off to the future with a smile. This is a great night. Tomorrow is day one. The key is to make sure that it's not like day 365. And it's all in here, Luc,” she said, touching her head with her finger, “and in here,” touching her heart.

“Turn the page and everything changes. If only it were that easy.”

“It's not that easy, but you have to make the effort to break with the past and embrace the future.”

“Yeah.”

“Here's to the future, Inspector.”

She held her glass up for a toast, and he clinked the whiskey against it.

Gisèle appeared before them, dumping fistfuls of quarters on the bar.

“Do me a favour, Anjili,” she said, as though continuing an uninterrupted conversation, “fill that maudit jukebox up with some happy music. It's a time to celebrate, no?”

“Yes.”

With the help of Gisèle, she filled the jukebox with happy music, and as the music, the drink, and the company worked on their spirits, they danced. Vanier and Anjili; Vanier and Gisèle; Gisèle with the two Poles, separately and together; and the two Poles with Anjili. Midnight came and went. At two o'clock, they finished with hugs and tears, promises, resolutions, and Polish vodka.

PART THREE

TEN
JANUARY 1

7 AM

Vanier was surfacing into wakefulness
in the half-light before dawn, and he felt the sleeping presence next to him. He didn't move, replaying the previous night. There were no flashes of regret or shame. He took an exaggerated deep breath and rolled over, pulling himself to her sleeping body. She stirred without opening her eyes, and relaxed again, and he wondered if she was also rewinding the night before committing to the day. They both lay still, and he fell back into sleep. When the sun finally blazed its way into the room, he felt her stir again.

“Well?” he said, the non-committal opener that says
you go first.

“Well, Inspector. This is not what I expected,” she said, rolling into him and making eye contact.

He reached and brushed the hair back from her face. “Me neither. But I feel good, Anjili.”

“Careful, Inspector.”

“I was just thinking…”

“Don't.”

He looked at her and saw that it was her mind that was racing. She was the one doing the thinking.

“I'm starving. How about breakfast in bed?” he asked. “I'll be back in five minutes.” He kissed her on the lips and got out of the bed, pulling on a pair of boxers that were lying on the floor. She smiled at him, closed her eyes and lay bathed in the sunlight that was streaming through the window.

Standing up, he knew it would be a tough day. His stomach was churning, his head hurt and his mouth felt furry.

10 AM

“Ladies and gentlemen, I will read from a prepared statement and then I will take questions.” The journalists were subdued, and Vanier guessed that he wasn't the only one nursing a hangover.

He was getting used to Sergeant Laflamme's press conferences and knew his place was to stand behind her and look dignified, a difficult task on New Year's Day, but not insurmountable. This one had been arranged too quickly, but the Chief had insisted. Vanier would have preferred a positive I.D. of the body first.

Laflamme continued, “During the course of our investigations relating to the murder of several homeless people on the evening of December 24, we identified a suspect, a Mr. John Collins. We believe that Mr. Collins may have been responsible for the deaths of several people, poisoning his victims with liquid laced with potassium cyanide that he stole from his place of employment. Several facts point to his involvement in these murders, and we have reason to believe that the suspect died in a fire at his home on the night of December 30. We are continuing our investigations to determine whether the suspect acted alone or with others. Now, I will take questions.”

“Two part question, Sergeant Laflamme. Did the suspect's stash of potassium cyanide go up in the flames, or is it still missing? And if it did go up in flames, does this pose a health risk for Montrealers?”

Sergeant Laflamme was taken aback and was tempted to look behind her at Vanier for the answer. Vanier was enjoying it.

Recovering, she responded, “There is no evidence that the chemical was kept in the suspect's apartment, and we are continuing our efforts to locate any traces of the chemical that may still be in existence. I must stress that this is still a very active investigation.”

“Sergeant, are you certain that the body recovered in the loft is Collins?”

“The body was very badly burned, but we are confident that it was the body of Mr. Collins. The Coroner's office is performing tests to confirm the identity of the body, and we are awaiting those results. Nevertheless, we are confident that this investigation is drawing to a close.”

Jennifer Higgins from
The Gazette
yelled, “A question for Inspector Vanier. Inspector Vanier, are you confident that the body is that of Mr. Collins?”

Before he could even think of moving forward to speak into the microphone, Sergeant Laflamme answered, “Inspector Vanier's view is the same as the one I have just given: while we are awaiting a positive identification, we have reached a level of confidence that it is Mr. Collins. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”

NOON

There wasn't room to empty the dump truck inside the Laboratoire's building, so they had worked out a protocol. An area of the parking lot had been scraped clean with shovels and covered in two layers of thick painter's plastic. Vanier was there out of curiosity. He wanted to see how they would handle the logistics of emptying a truck full of dirty snow and body parts. Laurent was along for company, and they watched the dump truck back up to the plastic sheets until a man in a white plastic evidence suit raised his arms for it to stop and let its red-streaked load slide on to the plastic mat. Dr. Segal had taken charge of the operation and then moved over towards Vanier. They were both having trouble separating the private and public.

“That's a lot of red snow,” said Vanier.

“There must have been a lot of leakage during the night. Don't worry, we'll still have lots to test,” she said.

After about a third of the truck's load had emptied onto the floor, the guy in the evidence suit waved the driver to stop. The driver lowered the dumper, and three technicians moved in and began shifting through the pile of bloody, hard-packed snow and street garbage. They worked with shovels, bouncing clumps of snow like prospectors, and it soon became clear they weren't looking for small human nuggets but sizable chunks of flesh. The body parts were separated from the snow and garbage, and they began filling large plastic buckets with flesh and bones, pushing the junk off to the side.

“The snow-blower driver removed the screen,” said Vanier, feeling the need to explain the size of the pieces being recovered.

“Nice,” said Segal.

The image of the technicians carefully fingering the dirty snow reminded Vanier of TV news footage of bombings in Israel and religious Jews picking through the debris of destroyed lives searching for human flesh so it could be treated with respect and buried properly. The more he watched, the more body parts Vanier recognized; a gloved hand with an arm up to the elbow, part of a leg, still clothed but without a foot, a chunk of the torso, and then the head. The technician brushed snow off the face and cradled the head gently in his hands, turning it face up towards the group of watchers. It had come through the blower cleanly, severed at the neck but otherwise undamaged.

“I've had enough,” said Vanier. “Dr. Segal, unless you need me here, I think that I can find something more useful to do. Oh, and by the way, his name is Denis Latulippe.”

“You knew him? I'm sorry, Luc.”

“He was on the list. Laurent and I tried to convince him to get off the streets for a while.”

“We can manage here,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “This is going to take some time. I'll call you as soon as I have something to report.”

Light snow was falling again as they crossed the parking lot. Vanier opened the back door and pulled out a snow brush. He handed it to Laurent.

“You do the snow and I'll get it warmed up.”

Laurent took the brush and began clearing the snow off the car. It was light and came off without effort. He finished and got into the passenger side, throwing the brush onto the floor in the back.

“So. Denis Latulippe,” said Laurent.

“Yeah.”

“You think he was killed?”

“We'll know that soon enough. Either that, or I gave him too much money and he went on a bender and blacked out in the snow.”

They drove back to headquarters in silence.

6 PM

Two men sat in comfortable armchairs watching flames in a wood stove lick through foot-long logs of maple. An invisible sound system filled the room with a Bach English Suite. The older man was carefully dressed for the country, like he had planned to look relaxed; a thick maroon cardigan over a checkered flannel shirt and brown corduroys, all new. His hair was dyed a youthful dark brown but failed to hide his age. The younger man looked out of place beside him in jeans and T-shirt, with a borrowed sweater draped over his shoulders.

The older man looked at the firelight playing on his companion's face. “John, when was the last time you went to confession?”

“I couldn't say. Years for sure.” He didn't break his gaze on the burning logs, but his eyes became distant.

“It's a powerful sacrament, John. It reaches deep into the soul.”

“I know. But a good confession takes two people. An understanding listener is essential and they're hard to find. Hearing confessions is routine for most priests, the same sins repeated week after week. They stop listening. I mean really listening.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. That's always a danger. We're all human, and human sins tend to be an unimaginative repetition of human frailty. But a good priest learns to listen with his heart. The words aren't important. It's what's behind them. You try to understand and provide comfort and hope, maybe even some guidance. It's a heavy responsibility if it's done properly.”

“Standing between God and man is a heavy responsibility.”

“You have to destroy your own ego to separate God's message from your own. An old priest once told me you should be a pipeline, not a filter. Sometimes we manage it. Sometimes not. Our egos are strong and you must always ask the question:
is this God's message of love, or is it my opinion of what God's message ought to be
?”

“And how do you tell, Father? How do you know?”

“I don't know, John. You can never know. You must keep testing yourself. One thing I do know is that certainty is a red flag. Only saints and charlatans are ever certain. I am neither, so I always wrestle with doubt.”

“Are you certain of that, Father?”

Father Michael Forlini smiled, “Well, I'm certain I'm not a saint. A charlatan? I hope not.”

Silence settled as they watched the fire. Outside, snow continued to fall in big flakes covering the woods in a thick blanket, silently covering the tracks of their arrival.

The cottage was simply furnished, but in the storm it had a womb-like quality. Two armchairs and a couch filled the small living space, and an intricately woven Persian carpet lay on dark, polished wooden floorboards. Apart from the murmured conversation and the almost imperceptible harpsichord, the only noise was the occasional burst of the refrigerator motor from the kitchen.

“So, what are we to do?”

The question went unanswered for a long time, both men staring at the flames.

“I have not sinned, Father. I have done God's work.”

“So you believe, and if your belief is true, even if you are mistaken in that belief, then it is no sin.”

“Do you believe God speaks to you?”

“To me personally?”

“No. I mean that God does speak. To his people, if we have the courage to listen.”

“Yes, John. I believe that God does speak to his people, to all of us. The problem is we don't listen. Too often, we hear only what we want to hear.”

“God has spoken to me. I believe, with my whole being, that God has spoken to me. I have that certainty that you spoke of. But I am not a saint, or a charlatan. I've struggled for years. I fought against it. I know all the arguments; that it's human vanity, that I am delusional, that I am too unimportant. You cannot imagine how I resisted his voice. And then, one day, I came to the realization that it was wrong to refuse to listen.”

“My child, God speaks to us all, but our minds are fragile. We are unreliable.”

“That is why I resisted.”

“That's good.

“But I didn't give up. I didn't cut him off. I examined what people were asking; good people, people with faith. When there was an answer to a sincere prayer, I became an instrument.”

“Ah.”

“I can stand before anyone and tell them that I have done only good. All that I have done is to provide answers to the sincere prayers of the faithful. That's all.”

“I know, my child. But who would understand?”

“You'll help me, Father?”

“Of course I will help you. I understand your faith. But you must promise me it has stopped. There are serious theological issues we must understand before you do anything else. These acts must stop.”

“I know that, Father.”

“Was Father Drouin's death an answer to a prayer?”

Again, a long silence.

“He was going to interfere with God's work. What he was going to do would have destroyed everything. It would have harmed the Church and it was against God's wishes. Good Catholics have always done what is necessary to protect Mother Church.”

“The Church must be protected. And sometimes that involves very troubling decisions.”

“Isn't it our most sacred duty? To protect the Church?”

“Scandal must be avoided. The world is full of evil people, always waiting for any opportunity to destroy us.”