The Last Witness

normal frantic hubbub of the squad room would noticeably subside and a few eyes would avert and look down, suddenly absorbed with desk paperwork. It was as if he’d had a close relative die, not an informant.

‘Was it the original registration?’ he asked Maury.

No, the plates had been switched. ‘The original to match the chassis number was reported stolen in the early hours yesterday morning. We pulled it up just minutes ago on the bulletin board.’

Pretty much as Michel had expected. Maury informed him that forensics and two mechanics were going over the van with a fine tooth comb, but Michel wasn’t holding his breath. One of the Lacailles past enterprises had been an auto-chop shop. They knew how to make sure a vehicle was left clean.

Three hours later Maury came back with the news that it looked like it had been steam and chemically cleaned.

Michel simply nodded and cast his eyes down, numbed more by a pervading lethargy that this would be the pattern at every turn than his lack of surprise. And partly lack of sleep. He hadn’t slept well the night before the Savard sting operation, turning over in his mind all manner of possible scenarios; now only two hours last night. He felt ragged.

Trying desperately to avoid his department head, Chief-Inspector Pelletier, hadn’t helped. He already knew what was coming. Pelletier had left him alone the first few hours of the day: respect for Savard or the dead case? But then Pelletier obviously thought sufficient mourning time had passed, so that Michel could explain, clearly and succinctly, how everything could have fallen apart so disastrously.

The calls, one just before lunch and another early afternoon, came from Maggie Laberge, Pelletier’s PA, through Christine Hebert, one of two Constables on the open squad-room message desk. Always protocol and distance with Pelletier.

Michel parried the first call by passing the message through Hebert that he knew what it was about, but he was still busy gaining vital information to be able to give Pelletier the full picture. With the second call, he spoke directly to Laberge and sold her more of the same: ‘We’re close to breakthrough on a couple of key things. Each extra second I spend close on top of everything right now is vital. Hopefully things should free up in an hour or two.’

Soon after, Chac informed him that yet again Arnaiz in Mexico hadn’t turned up anything suspicious on Donatiens; then Maury came in with the news about the steam-cleaning. Each extra hour he delayed only made the picture worse, not better. Screw-up of the year, and any hope of redemption was fast disappearing with each extra head that appeared at his door or fresh file slapped on his desk.

Early forensic findings had been the biggest body blow. Some blood had been found under the fingernails of Savard’s right hand. The hope had been that Savard might have clawed the neck or face of one of his abductors, or even through their clothing as he frantically grappled at their arms when they swung him. But the report concluded that it was Savard’s own blood. The first shot had struck his chest, and he’d put his hand up defensively to the wound before the final two shots came: one to the neck, one to his head. The report made chilling reading, brought Savard’s screams back too vividly.

Just before signing off, almost as a by-the-way, Laberge informed him that they had to liaise on time because Pelletier wanted Tom Maitland, Crown Attorney, to also be present at the meeting. Michel knew what that meant. While Pelletier might justifiably reach the conclusion that a potentially prosecutable case now looked out of reach, it would carry more weight with Maitland’s legal-eagle viewpoint at his right arm.

Michel knew then why he was delaying: not so much for a fresh lead to salvage something from last night’s disaster — the past track record with the Lacailles had long ago made him cynical — but because he was desperately seeking an angle to convince them, and himself, there was still mileage left in the case. If he presented Donatiens — soon to become part of the Lacaille family — as his only remaining hope, they’d kill the case straightaway.

He took a hasty sip of his sixth coffee of the day, trying to clear his thoughts and focus. But no ready answers came.

The only light relief of the day came when Chac responded gruffly, ‘Well, they can suck my dick,’ when he’d explained the pending dilemma with facing Pelletier and Maitland, fearing that they’d now want to hastily close the Lacaille file.

‘Is that because you’ve already asked everyone else and they’ve said no?’

Chac beamed broadly, despite the barb. And Michel realized then how impossibly intense he’d been all morning. The pall hovering over the squad room each time he opened the door was not just in respect of Savard’s death, but also for the possibly dead case and his feared reaction. Chac was simply glad to see a chink of his old self re-surface.

But the mood died quickly as Chac reminded him that even if he convinced Pelletier to keep the case open, at best it would only give him a few months grace. ‘Once Donatiens is married, it’s game over. And Roman Lacaille knows it.’

His desk phone started ringing. He looked through his glass screen towards the squad room. Christine Hebert was looking over at him, pointing to the receiver.

No doubt Laberge chasing for Pelletier again. A film of sweat broke on his forehead. He couldn’t delay any more. What would he say? Maybe bluff for now, say that they had reliable inside information that Donatiens would soon about-turn and testify. That at least might give him a week or two’s grace to either make good on that claim or come up with something else.

The seed of the idea was still only half-formed as he picked up the receiver at the end of the third ring. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s your wife Sandra,’ Hebert said.

He was caught off guard for a second. ‘Oh… right. Put her through.’ She rarely phoned him. Hebert never termed her ex, despite it now being four years they’d been parted.

Then, with her first words, ‘Michel, you said four O’clock and it’s already four-twenty…’ he pushed back sharply from his chair, suddenly remembering.

‘Oh, Jesus, yeah… I’m right there.’ Basketball championship with a rival school with his son Benjamin, now nine years old.

‘If you couldn’t make it or it was somehow awkward, you should have said so earlier. He’s been looking forward so much to-’

‘I know, I know. I’m there, I tell you. I’ll be with you in under ten.’

‘It’s not often that he has things like this. What happened?’

‘Something came up, that’s all.’ He didn’t want to be specific or shield behind the dramatics of the past eighteen hours: the biggest case of my career has just gone down in flames. Besides, she’d heard it all before. The stake-outs that ran hours over, the last minute suspects and late night emergencies. The steady stream of late nights crawling into bed and so little quality time with her and the children that had finally led to the collapse of their marriage. She’d moved to Montreal so that she could have her mother’s help with babysitting while she went back out to work. He followed ten months later so that he could be nearer his children, but history was repeating itself. Chac had always claimed that his absorption with the Lacailles was partly to fill the void from losing his family, and perhaps he was right. He looked thoughtfully at his desk photo of Benjamin and young Angelle, only six, against the overbearing backdrop montage of the Lacailles. Certainly in the last twenty- four hours, his family hadn’t got a look-in. ‘It’s completely my fault, I’m sorry. But I’m leaving right now.’

He hung up swiftly before Sandra could draw breath to grill him more. He grabbed his coat and was halfway across the squad room as Hebert waved frantically at him.

‘It’s Maggie Laberge again. Wondering whether-’

He held one hand up. ‘I’ll call her back from my car. Ten minutes, no more.’

A bit more time to refine what he was going to say. He thought of little else as he sped through the traffic. How would he know if Donatiens was likely to turn turtle and testify? Their only feed from within the Lacaille camp was Azy Menard, bar manager at their night club on Rue Sherbrooke. Was it likely Donatiens would confide directly in him? No. He’d have to think of a credible go-between to be able to sell the story.

He tapped his fingers on the wheel as he hit a small tailback of traffic at the first stop light on Saint Catherine. The early rush hour was starting, it was going to take him a little longer. Snow flecked with dark-grey slush was banked over the kerbs each side, and the exhaust outflows of the cars ahead showed heavy in the freezing air.