The Dead of Winter

“And how was he in the kitchen?”

“He was shit in the kitchen. Just over here to get his photo taken.”

“That’s what the politicians are for, Alex, spooning out the shit!”

“Yeah, that’s funny. It’s true. But my time’s up. I gotta go. There are guys lined up behind me, Merry Christmas, Dad. Take care.”

“Love you, Alex. Take care.”

The phone clicked dead. Vanier picked up the cold coffee and focused on the conversation, trying to recognize what was really said; the statements, the inflections, the pauses. It was a police technique to squeeze meaning from everything. Often what was unsaid was the most important. He knew that he couldn’t understand what it meant to serve in Afghanistan. But he knew enough to be scared. He was scared for Alex. And scared of what he recognized in his son. When Vanier was honest with himself, and it didn’t happen often, he saw in Alex the same attitude that he saw in the violent scumbags that he spent his life trying to shut down. And when he tried to dismiss those thoughts, he’d think of his father, and know his fears were justified.

It was still dark outside. The sun wouldn’t rise until after seven. Vanier looked down on the white and grey city. He turned back from the window and put the half cup of coffee into the microwave and pushed one minute. It was steaming when he took it out. He thought about cooling it with a shot of whiskey and decided against it.

8.30 AM

Vanier pulled into the parking lot of Police Headquarters and saw Chief Inspector Bedard’s car parked in its reserved spot nearest the door. It was a bad sign. There was nothing going on except the homeless deaths, and Vanier hated to think that the Chief Inspector was taking a special interest in the case.

Even in the quick walk to the door Vanier felt the cold. It was at least minus twenty Celsius, and he didn’t think it was going to get any warmer. The last storm was long gone, and the temperature had tumbled under the cloudless sky. The only consolation was the sunlight.

In the first floor Squad Room, Sylvie St. Jacques was pinning photos and coloured arrows to a map of downtown Montreal mounted on corkboard, putting together the visual layout of what had happened. Sergeants Janvier and Roberge were staring at computer screens, and D.S. Laurent was reading a newspaper. When he saw Vanier, he held up the Journal de Montreal, his bald head disappearing behind it. The headline read: “Santa Slays the Homeless.”

“And a good morning to you too,” said Vanier.

“The Chief asked to see you as soon as you got in,” Laurent said.

“Shit.”

It was the last thing Vanier needed after a few hours sleep on the couch. He took the newspaper from Laurent and opened it to the main story, scanning it quickly. It was accurate, with too many details, even down to Santa as a suspect.

“They got everything pretty much right, didn’t they?” said Vanier. “But they don’t know anything we don’t know. I suppose that’s a good thing. How do they know about Santa?”

“My guess is someone in the Metro Security told them,” said Laurent. “The only ones that knew about the Santa character are us and the Metro guys. It had to be one of them.”

“And where did they get the murder angle? Suspicious, yes, but murder?”

“Suspicious doesn’t sell papers, sir. Mass murderer on the loose gets people out of their beds to buy the rags.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Vanier, imagining what the Chief would make of it. The Chief had probably already taken calls from the Mayor.

Vanier glanced at the other newspapers lying on the desk. They each had the story on the front page. The Gazette: “Christmas Spirit Dies With Five Homeless Deaths;” The Globe and Mail: “Mass Murderer in Montreal?;” La Presse: “Homeless Deaths Ruled Suspicious;” and the National Post: “Metro Deaths: Montreal’s Homeless at Risk.” Only Le Devoir, Montreal’s intellectual daily, reputed to have a paid circulation in the high three figures, was understated: “System Failing the Homeless.” Only the Journal de Montreal had the Santa angle.

Vanier turned to leave, “I’m off to see the Chief.”

As he passed St. Jacques, she turned to him. “I’ll be finished with this in a few minutes.”

“You’re doing a great job,” Vanier said, glancing at the map as he walked out.

9 AM

Chief Inspector Bedard’s door was open, the secretary who usually guarded his lair off for the holidays. The Chief was sitting behind his desk in full dress uniform reading the papers. When you started as a cop, you got a uniform, and if you climbed the ladder high enough, you finished with a better uniform, but there were two differences between recruits and the polished brass. The obvious one was the amount of equipment you carried on your belt; recruits had more stuff hanging from their belts than New Guinea headhunters. Vanier sometimes thought that when he retired he could make a fortune designing stuff that could be attached to the belts of recruits. The Chief had nothing, not even a gun. The other difference was the amount of bullshit you could generate and consume before you felt sick. Recruits had a low tolerance for bullshit, but if you wanted to rise up the ladder, you had to develop a taste for it.

Vanier walked in and stood in front of the Chief’s desk, waiting for him to look up, examining the fat that bulged under his uniform. He was like a giant, over-ripe pear with his neck bulging three chins out of a white shirt collar. Bedard looked up warily.

“Good morning, Luc, sit down.”

Vanier dropped into the wooden chair in front of the desk, and the two men stared at each other in a test of who would speak first. There was no contest. Vanier was still a working cop, and Bedard broke.

“The press, Luc. How does Journal de Montreal know more about this investigation than I do? Am I supposed to read the damn newspapers to know what is going on in my own squad? Does that make sense?”

Again the stare, eye to eye, Bedard trying to remember the old days interrogating suspects. Vanier stared back.

“No, sir. But they have more staff than we do. We’ve been working with close to zero.”

“It’s Christmas, Luc. I know how you feel. But all you have are five suspicious deaths. I can’t cancel leave on the basis of a suspicion. It’s going to take time to find out how they died. Even so, I need to show some progress. Results, Luc, I need some results. And I need to know what’s going on.

“Does that mean that I get more officers?”

“No. Not unless you tell me that you have something real to go on. Are these five deaths a coincidence, or do we have a maniac on the loose?”

“We don’t know yet. It could be nothing, sir.”

“I know that. But the papers don’t think it’s nothing. Have you seen the TV? It’s the first story on every newscast. Before long, the entire city will be yelling for answers. The Mayor called me at home last night. Did you ever try to bullshit the Mayor?”

“No, sir. I’ve never spoken to the Mayor. But I suspect that he recognizes bullshit.”

“He’s an expert. He can recognize it a mile away. And I don’t want to be giving him too much.”

“Sir, we’re doing what we can. Any available officers you can throw our way would be appreciated. That way, you can tell the Mayor that you’re dedicating resources to the case.”

“I know what I can tell the goddamn Mayor, Luc. And I am dedicating resources to the case, Luc. You have a bloody team. What leads are you following?”

“Sir, we’ve got a good start on the identities, and we’re following up with the families and people who knew them. We’re canvassing the shelters and other spots to see what we can find out. We’re also following up on Santa suit rentals. Even without a cause of death, that’s a lot of work, sir. The more people we have, the quicker we can get through all the details. With more manpower we can cover leads faster.”

“Look, I’ll see what I can do about extra officers. In the meantime do what you can. And Luc, you have my numbers, call me. When the Mayor calls I have to answer the phone even if I’m taking a shit. I want to be able to