The Dead of Winter

give him something more than he can read in this rag,” he said, gesturing at the Journal de Montreal. “I can’t have him knowing more than I do just because his staff spoke to the bloody journalists. Treat this as a mass murder until we know it’s not. Pull out all stops, Luc. I need results. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. So, does that mean that I’m off budget? Even if I don’t get extra people, can we authorize overtime?”

“Luc, you know that we’re close to year-end, and I’m not going to piss away a good year because we panicked before we knew anything for sure. If you can tell me there’s a mass murderer loose, things will change. For the moment, do what you can with the resources you have.”

“What we have is a skeleton staff. Everyone is off singing carols.”

“People need family time at Christmas. Luc, do what you can. Give me something.”

“Yes, sir,” said Vanier. Figuring the meeting had ended, he got up from the chair.

“And think about this, Luc. How do these journalists know so much about this situation? Some of them were on top of this from the start. There are details here,” he said, lifting the paper for emphasis. “Stuff that only someone connected to the investigation would know: the Santa character, the unknown cause of death, the absence of a suspect. How do they know so much? Find out who it is, Luc. I don’t want anyone from my squad talking to the press.”

“Neither do I, sir, but I don’t think that it’s one of our people. It’s probably someone in the Metro Security.”

“Luc, if there is a madman loose I want you to catch him. I don’t want this played out in the media. And keep me informed of every move that you make.”

“Yes, sir.” Vanier turned and grabbed the door handle to leave.

“And, Luc, why didn’t you call me?”

“I did, sir,” Vanier lied, turning back to face him. “I called yesterday on your cell number. I couldn’t get through.”

“Well, OK. Sorry. I may have had my cell phone off for a few hours. You know how it is, Christmas and all. Anyway, from now on keep me informed.”

“Absolutely, sir. In fact, after my meeting with the team, I’ll call to debrief you.”

Bedard was on the phone before Vanier closed the door.

9.45 AM

D.S. St. Jacques had transformed one wall of the Squad Room, pinning photos of the five victims in situ on the map of downtown Montreal, with arrows leading from them to the places they were discovered. Next to each photo she had pinned a bullet-point list of what was known of each of the victims. Most of that came from Vanier’s notes on their possessions. Off to the side were several of the clearest prints of Santa, but nothing approaching a clear face shot. He was tall, probably six two or three, not overweight. His costume made it difficult to tell, but he looked fit.

Vanier took a seat. “So what do we know?”

St. Jacques looked over to Laurent and saw that he wasn’t going to take the lead.

“Well, sir, we have five unexplained deaths on Christmas Eve. From your work yesterday with the possessions, we have four unverified identifications: George Morissette, found at McGill, Joe Yeoman and Edith Latendresse, both found at Berri, and Pierre Brun in Cabot Park. We need to confirm the identifications and get a positive I.D. on the fifth. We’ve started tracking down the next of kin, and we also need to find the possessions of the fifth victim.”

“The identities are verified,” said Vanier. “Dr. Grenier confirmed them from the photos. We have names and ages. The fifth victim is Celine Plante, 52 years old, well, almost 52. An alcoholic who has been on the streets for most of her life. And Dr. Grenier says they were all terminally ill. What else?”

St. Jacques looked at Vanier. “That’s all I know,” he said. “The bastard wouldn’t give me specifics.”

St. Jacques continued. “The Coroner’s office reports that they can do two or three autopsies today and the rest tomorrow.”

“Ask them to request the medical records from Grenier. He refused to turn them over without an official request.”

“Will do,” said St. Jacques. “There’s not much else. We’re waiting to learn more from the Coroner.”

“We have a person of interest, Father Henri Drouin. He’s not a suspect, but I want to talk to him in a bad way. He’s a priest who works in the Cathedral, and Dr. Grenier says he was the spiritual advisor to the victims and knew them all. I went looking for him last night, and he’s disappeared. We need to find him as quickly as possible. Any luck on the Santa suits?”

“Not much, sir. There were almost 400 Santa suits rented out over the holidays. Four different companies — two downtown, one in NDG, and the other in Laval. We’ve talked to the owners of all the stores, and they’re all ready to show their records.”

“OK. Have a couple of officers pick them up and bring them to their stores. No, forget Laval for the moment. Let’s concentrate on the Island. Not all Santa suits are the same, so bring photos of our Santa and get the names and addresses of everyone who rented a similar suit. See if they recognize anything special. And tell them that when the rentals come back, they should check for dirt and moisture and hold onto anything that looks that looks like it was worn outside. You can’t go wandering around in the middle of winter in a Santa costume without getting wet.”

“Yes, sir,” said St. Jacques. “Oh, and the Coroner’s office is having someone dig out what they can on any similar deaths in the last year. They said that it might take some time but I’ll keep after them. Nobody seems to keep records on the numbers. I called the city, the hospitals, the shelters. Nobody counts them but people were guessing anywhere from twenty to forty people, depending on what you include: drug overdoses, beatings or just plain natural causes.”

“Any calls?”

“Since I came on shift, we’ve had 23,” said Janvier. I’m taking them with D.S. Roberge.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Nothing on the victims. The usual crap on Santa: looks like my cousin Pierre, that sort of thing. We’re taking the details but it’s going to take time to check them all out. But look at the photos. You can’t see the guy’s face, and he’s dressed in a costume.”

“So how did the papers get the photos? Can someone talk to Morneau and see if he has any ideas?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do it,” said Janvier.

“So, St. Jacques, you keep following up with the Santa suits. Janvier and Roberge, keep on the phones and let me know if anything strange turns up. See if you can track down next of kin. And can we all try to figure out who’s feeding the press? Laurent, you and I are going to find Father Drouin.”

Vanier’s phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and didn’t recognize the number.

“Vanier,” he said.

“Inspector Vanier, this is Sergeant Julie Laflamme. Just calling to tell you that I’ve had a call from Chief Inspector Bedard. He wants me to handle the media on the homeless cases. I am on my way to Montreal now, and I wanted to ask you not to make any public statements until we have had a chance to talk. Is that OK, sir?”

“Perfect, Sergeant Laflamme. When are you proposing to get here?”

“I should be there in two hours. I was skiing in Tremblant. I’m trying to set up a press conference for 3 p.m. They’re clamouring for information, but let’s keep things quiet until then, Inspector. It’s important that we manage the communications on this one, sir.”

“Sergeant Laflamme, the media seem to be doing pretty well without any help from me. But you have my word on it. I’ll hang up on any journalist who calls me. See you soon.” Vanier clicked disconnect.

Turning to Laurent, Vanier asked, “Who were you with on Christmas Eve? I didn’t see anyone.”

“D.S. Fletcher, sir. He worked Christmas Eve, but he’s off today.”

“So where was he when I was there?”

“He was interviewing staff, I think. It’ll be in his notes. He’s been following up, though. I spoke to him twice this morning.”

“Can’t he let it go? It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake.”