Nolet picked up each photograph and named each one.
“What do you know about them?”
“They were all hardcore street people, desperate cases — and we know desperate in this business. These are the kind of people who brought me into this work. Back in those days, I thought I could change things, you know, really help people. But, I’ve known Joe Yeoman for close to twenty years, and nothing’s changed. The others, ten, fifteen years each. It doesn’t matter. You know what I’ve learned over twenty years? We can’t change them. Sometimes we can make them comfortable, but their fate is what it is. Or was, I suppose. And worse than that, they kill the idealism that was in you. They don’t change, but you do. You get hard, immune. It’s a tough life, Inspector.”
“You don’t seem surprised that they’re dead.”
“Surprised? No. With these, and too many others, it’s just a matter of time. You get to recognize it, Inspector, when people are on their way out.”
“I can understand that, M. Nolet, but all five on Christmas Eve?”
“Coincidences don’t happen. Is that it? You sound like an educated man, Inspector, and I get educated people in here all the time, from the universities or the government. Like they just figured out the solution to the problem. They tell me about the importance of measurement, of empirical data: probabilities, cause and effect, action and consequence, and all that shit. Last week someone told me that if you can’t measure it, you can’t manage it, like that was supposed to help me. Well, I know a little bit about statistics. I understand the odds. And let me tell you, statistics don’t predict real life. Real life happens. Shit happens. So all five of them died on Christmas Eve. You know what’s surprising? That they weren’t all dead years ago. They defied the odds for years. And, you know what the tragedy is? It’s the lives that they led for the last twenty years. You didn’t come to me last month and ask why these people were on the streets. That’s the goddamn crime.”
“M. Nolet, if these people were killed on Christmas Eve, I want to find out who did it.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry. If they were killed, that’s just one more affront they shouldn’t have had to endure. It’s just I don’t believe they were killed.”
“Why not?”
“Because nobody cared enough about them to kill them.”
“Maybe somebody did.”
“It will be a first. What do you need to know?”
“Well, when was the last time you saw them?”
“That’s difficult, Inspector. Of course, if they stayed the night, there would be a record. But we don’t keep records of people who simply come in for a meal. And these were not regular sleepers. We have rules here, and lots of people can’t deal with the rules. Doors close at eight o’clock, a shower and a shave and in bed by nine. No smoking, no booze, and no drugs. We’re not running a hotel here. That’s why so many still stay out, even in winter.”
“Could you check your records and let me know if any of them stayed overnight in the last month?”
“Of course, Inspector.”
“And the monitors,” Vanier pointed to the bank of screens. “Do you keep the tapes?”
“Well, I’m not an expert, but I’m told that everything is held on a disc for forty-eight hours, and then it disappears. So that won’t help you. Everything before Christmas will be gone.”
“Did they have any friends?”
“Friends? Inspector, these people don’t have friends. They might have a regular spot where they go and whoever is there is their friend for the moment. If they don’t show up, they’re not missed. This is a sad community of loners. Look,” he said, pointing at one of the monitors, “that’s the dining room. What do you see?”
They looked up to see men sitting around tables and servers passing out food.
“Who’s talking to who?”
When asked to look for one, the officers saw a pattern. The servers touched shoulders and elbows and whispered into ears while depositing plates. Some diners reacted with a smile, others didn’t. But between the diners, there was silence. It wasn’t so much a communal meal but a hundred men eating alone.
“Our people are trained to say a word or two to everyone. Food for the soul you might say. But look at how our clients act with each other.”
“It’s like there’s no one there,” said Laurent.
“Right. If you’re living on the street, you’re alone.”
Laurent was staring intently at one monitor. Then he got up and moved to the wall behind the door just as Audet came bursting in. Nolet rose sheepishly to his feet like a child caught sitting in his father’s chair.
“I was just…” Nolet said to Audet.
Audet ignored him, turning to Vanier. “You still here?”
Vanier grinned at Audet.
“Very useful, these monitors, M. Audet,” said Laurent.
Audet spun around to face Laurent.
“So, why would you be assaulting one of your own clients?” asked Laurent.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“On screen three. About ten minutes ago. I saw you punch an old man in the stomach. He fell to his knees. What was that about, M. Audet?”
“Listen, my job is to keep order. It’s for everyone’s good. If someone gets out of hand, well, I have to calm them down. That’s all. I didn’t do any damage to him. I just calmed him down.”
“He didn’t look excited, M. Audet. He was eating his dinner. Looked like you called him over, said a few words in his ear, and then punched him in the stomach. It looked like an unprovoked assault to me, M. Audet.”
“Well, why don’t you go see him? See if he wants to press charges.” Audet pushed passed Nolet and sat down behind the desk. It might have been Nolet’s office, but Audet was in charge.
“Now, if you’re finished wasting my time, I’ve got work to do.”
Vanier rose, “Thank you, gentlemen.”
In the parking lot, Vanier turned to look back at the shelter before getting into his car and saw Audet staring at them from the office window.
“Curious,” said Vanier, as he turned the ignition.
“What’s that, sir?” asked Laurent, buckling himself into the passenger seat.
“Marcel Audet, working in a homeless shelter. A man more at home kicking the life out of a bum than helping him into his pajamas. What’s he up to? ”
“Conversion is out of the question?”
“Conversion? Doesn’t happen with people like that. When he punched that guy, he was showing his authority, you know, like a schoolyard bully, one punch just to show who’s boss. He’s not changed. Only question is, what’s he up to?”
Vanier was lost in thought as they drove west along St. Antoine, parallel with the Ville Marie expressway, the unofficial border between rich and poor. North of the expressway were the offices and high-rises of downtown; south were the working-class neighbourhoods of the Point and St-Henri, whose proximity to downtown was making them vulnerable.
In most cities, the poor clung as close to downtown as they could, while the middle classes and the jobs moved to satellite towns along circling freeways that sucked the heart out of a city. But Montreal is an island, and the drift out of downtown wasn’t an easy option. Everyone wanted to live on the island to avoid nightmare commutes across the bridges. So, instead of retreating to the leafy suburbs and leaving the poor to reign over a hollow shell of an empty city, the rich have been fighting the poor in a street-by-street campaign for territory. Gentrification almost always wins, pushing the working poor out, or limiting them to the least accessible enclaves. The Ville Marie expressway used to be a natural barrier, a concrete river that repelled the condominium developers, but now the concrete river had been forded. Condominium projects in abandoned factories next to the canal served as beachheads from which developers launched drawn-out campaigns to take block after block of the surrounding neighbourhood. Working class communities that had thrived for generations in the shadow of downtown were being destroyed as condo developments raised rents and made the poor unwelcome in their own streets. Families scattered to find affordable places to live, always further away, and, inevitably, with less of a community than they had known before.
