Laurent was busy taking notes, but hardly needed to. In three years with Vanier he had learned the drill. Vanier’s mantra was connections and history. Know the victim, find the paths he walked, and you will cross paths with the murderer. He had seen Vanier go through the same drill countless times.
“Chief, you think they were killed?”
“Laurent, I haven’t got a clue. But until we know differently, let’s assume they didn’t just slip away peacefully. Let’s get them identified and as much history as possible. These people have families that need to know what happened, even if their families don’t give a shit. I want everything we can find on them.”
“Oh, and this one,” Vanier said, pointing into the cleaning closet at the bearded corpse. “I gave him five dollars last week outside the Sherbrooke Metro. He grinned at me and said,
He turned to leave and caught a fleeting look in Laurent’s eyes and realized his mistake.
“Oh yeah, you’re off tomorrow. Find out who’s on duty in the morning and leave your notes with him. Enjoy Christmas, and we can talk later. And give my best wishes to your wife and those beautiful children. This is a time for family, Laurent. Enjoy it.”
Laurent was taken aback, “Merci, patron, and a Merry Christmas to you too, and to your family.”
Vanier turned and walked away, thinking of the flights of stairs that he would have to climb to get out of the station and of Laurent’s Christmas wishes. He had told few people that there was no longer any family. Marianne had left two weeks before Christmas last year, and Elise had followed her mother. Alex hadn’t lived at home for three years.
Leaving the station, he could see the top of his car over a wall of snow but had to walk to the corner and double back along the road to reach it. The crime scene people might still be at Atwater or McGill, he thought, no harm in trying. He decided to drive by and take a look.
1.30 AM
The drive was slow because he had to manoeuvre around the massed armies of snow removal crews along de Maisonneuve. While snowstorms envelop the city, crews fight to keep the roads open by plowing the snow to the sides of the streets. It is only when the snow stops falling that the focus shifts to getting rid of it with tractors, plows, snow-blowers and front-end loaders working day and night to fill eight-wheeler dump trucks. First they clear the main thoroughfares, one side of the street, then the other, then the smaller streets, then the side streets and alleys. The snow is pushed back into the middle of the street to feed giant snow-blowers that are shadowed by long lines of dump trucks fitted with towering wood panels to accommodate extra snow. When a truck is full, it pulls away and is replaced by the next in line. Within days, thousands of tons of snow are lifted off the streets and deposited in dumps all over the island. In the past, the snow was dumped into the St. Lawrence, but snow scraped from the street is toxic with salt, gasoline, chemicals, and garbage, and someone noticed the dead fish in the spring. Now they have to dump the snow in lost corners of the city where it sits in vast landscapes of dirty grey hillocks until early summer when it’s all finally melted.
A cruiser was parked at the University Street entrance to the McGill Metro with its motor running for heat; the snow under the exhaust was black with the crap spewing out. Vanier parked in front of the cruiser and got out. Police officers get very nervous when you approach them from behind. He pulled out his badge and held it in front of him as he walked towards the cruiser. Two officers were dozing in the front seat, and he was disturbing them. They both looked at the badge, and the driver got out of the car. The passenger went back to snoozing. Vanier smelled pizza and wondered if the constable could smell whiskey.
“Yes, Inspector. What can I do for you?”
“Have they finished with the body here, Constable Desjardins?” said Vanier, reading the officer’s name badge.
“Yeah. Everyone cleared out about half an hour ago,” he said, wiping his sleeve across his mouth to get rid of the food stains. “They brought the stiff to the morgue about an hour ago, but the crime scene people were dragging their asses inside. Christ, you’d think the fucking Premier had died. If you ask me, I think it’s the double time they get for the holidays. Anyway, they just left.”
“I guess they have their jobs to do.”
“Maybe that’s it, Inspector. But if we put in this effort for every homeless asshole that turns up stiff, we’d blow the budget in six months. Know what I mean?” He was grinning, inviting Vanier to share his insight. “Nobody cares if we treat them like the shit they are when they’re alive, but Christ, all of a sudden they’re dead and they’ve got status. We’re all falling over ourselves to find out how they died. But who the fuck cares? You know what I’m saying?”
“So there’s no use for me here,” said Vanier.
“It’s all over, Inspector. And a waste of time if you ask me.”
Vanier turned to leave. “Merry Christmas, Constable Desjardins, and the same to your colleague when he wakes up.”
“Thank you, Inspector. And the same to yourself.”
Vanier walked back to his car. As he drove off, he looked in the mirror and saw the Constable standing in the street looking after him. Vanier wondered what kind of horror it would be to be arrested by Constable Desjardins.
The Atwater Metro station was 12 blocks west, and Vanier circled the Alexis Nihon high-rise that stood over the station complex until he spotted a cruiser and a crime scene van parked by the entrance to the garage. Two officers were stamping their feet next to the cruiser, their breath billowing white in the cold. Vanier got out of the car and walked towards them, badge in hand. They seemed relieved to have some activity.
“Vanier, Major Crimes,” he said, shaking cold hands.
He turned to look up at the ledge overlooking the garage entrance where a crime scene technician was on his hands and knees.
The technician looked down and smiled.
“Inspector Vanier, good to see you again. I’m almost finished here. The body was just taken away, and there’s not much else. She must have stashed her bags somewhere before settling down for the night. Your people will probably find her stuff in the morning.”
“Mr. Neilson, isn’t it? Good to see you again. So you found nothing?” asked Vanier.
“Except this.” He held up a Second Cup coffee thermos. “Don’t even know if it’s hers. We’ll do the prints, but she was wearing gloves. Maybe she took off her gloves to drink her eggnog; you know, some people never lose their manners.”
“Eggnog?”
“Yes, sir, eggnog, with a healthy dose of rum by the smell of it. I was tempted to try it myself.” Neilson lowered himself to the ground and walked over to Vanier.
“You’d be amazed how warm it is up there. Every few minutes, the garage vents hot air that seems to just hang there. If I had to sleep outside in the middle of winter, this would be the spot. You don’t even have to climb up. You can go up the steps by the building doors and walk along the ledge.”
“How did they find her?” asked Vanier.
“One of the tenants was returning home at 8:30 p.m. and noticed her settling in for the night. She called security to have them move her on. Nice, eh? Like
“Any signs of violence?”
“Nothing. She died in her sleep looking real peaceful.”
“There’s another body?”
“Yes, Inspector. Just down the street in Cabot Park. I’m going there now. Why don’t you follow me? It’s in the south entrance to the Metro.”
“Let’s go.”
Vanier turned to the uniforms who were still clapping their hands together and stamping their feet in the cold. “You can close this up. We’ve finished here.”
