sense?”
“A little,” she said. “Think he’s a suspect?”
“He has to be, but I’m having trouble with the idea.”
Why?” She turned away to look out the passenger window.
“I don’t know. It’s not just the timing, although that should be enough. But he seems like he’s struggling with himself too much to take on murder. Like he’s carrying some personal burden that has all his attention. But he’s not telling us everything.”
“I doubt he’s telling anyone everything. But I get your point. He’s focused, but it’s inward.”
“So how do we get him to open up?”
“Good question. We turn left here.” St. Jacques was reading the street signs. They parked in the driveway, and St Jacques looked at the facade of the big house.
“Strange,” she said, as they walked up the steps to the front door. Vanier agreed. It was one of those houses that tried to make a statement but didn’t manage it, leaving you wondering about the architect, but not in a good way. It was a Frank Lloyd Wright imitation with all of the lines but none of the flow; concrete and glass without the poetry. She rang the doorbell, and a mouse of a woman in a blue nylon dressing gown and matching blue slippers answered the door, holding onto it for protection.
“Good morning, I’m Detective Inspector Vanier of the Montreal Police, and this is Detective Sergeant St. Jacques. Is Dr. Grenier home?”
She looked at Vanier as though he was speaking Farsi. She was saved by a voice from within asking who it was. She stepped back, opening the door wider to give a better view of the visitors, “It’s the police,” she said, almost an afterthought.
Dr. Grenier appeared behind her, clutching a newspaper. He put his free hand on her shoulders, and she moved out of the way.
“Thank you, Evelyn. I will see to our visitors.”
“Good morning, Doctor. I wonder if we can bother you with a few questions,” said Vanier.
“Certainly,” said Grenier, taking up a position in the doorway that said there would not be an invitation to come in.
“Can we come in?”
“Oh. Of course,” he said, backing away from the door. “If you would take your shoes off and leave them here.”
Vanier thought about keeping his on for show, but relented. St. Jacques was already shoeless. Grenier handed them each paper, disposable slippers, the kind they give out in dentists’ offices, and led them into a study that was as bare as his office.
He sat at the desk and beckoned them to sit down.
“I hope your investigation is progressing. It’s a terrible business.”
“Police business?” said Vanier. “It’s not so bad.”
Grenier looked him in the eye. “I meant the deaths of these poor souls.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“What can I do for you?”
“We’re interested in Father Drouin’s Circle of Christ. You were an active member, I believe.”
“Well, that depends on how you define active, doesn’t it? But I suppose you could say I am a regular member. I participate as much as my work permits. I find prayer is good for the soul.”
“Don’t we all,” Vanier lied. “But what did you pray for?”
“I don’t see what this has to do…”
“Humour me, Doctor. What did you pray for?”
“Like everyone else, I prayed for the intentions that were expressed. They were varied, Inspector, success in school, family troubles. People used to bring …”
“What about your own prayers, Doctor? Did you ask the group to prayer for your wishes?”
“I filled out cards from time to time, like everyone else. That was the purpose of the group. And, yes, I asked the group to pray for the five individuals who died. You already know that.”
Vanier and St. Jacques exchanged a glance. Drouin had called Grenier after their visit. Vanier took an envelope out of his pocket and pulled out five prayer cards. Each was sitting inside its own plastic bag. He laid them face up in front of Dr. Grenier. “So you acknowledge that you filled out these cards?”
Grenier looked up, past the two officers. “No.”
St. Jacques turned to see Mme. Grenier reversing out of the room, a tray in her hand. She stood up and followed the woman.
“You didn’t write these cards, Doctor?” said Vanier.
“No. I mean, yes. I was confused. My wife was bringing coffee. They are the cards that I wrote for the prayer circle. Yes.”
Grenier looked at them, his hands palm down on the desk, not wanting to touch them.
“Do you see the names?”
“Of course I do. They’re the five victims from Christmas Eve,” he said, straining not to shout. “Of course I see them.”
“Do you think that your prayers have been answered?”
“What are you suggesting? That I prayed that they would be killed? Are you insane?”
”No, Doctor. I’m not insane. I see five cards begging St. Jude to deliver five people from their suffering, and I’ve got five corpses lying in cold drawers in the morgue. They’re not suffering any more. Haven’t your prayers been answered, Doctor?”
“I didn’t pray that they’d be killed. I prayed that they would be spared the suffering they were enduring. I didn’t pray for more suffering. Have my prayers been answered? Who knows?”
“Who knows?”
“Inspector. You can’t understand. You don’t know the pain that these people were enduring. You have no idea. You see someone pushing a supermarket trolley full of their possessions, and you think you understand.”
“So death is better?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.”
St Jacques walked back into the room with two mugs of coffee.
“You wife was coming in with a tray and turned around. Thought I’d salvage some coffee. We haven’t had breakfast.”
She put a mug of coffee before Vanier. He picked it up and leaned back.
“Sergeant, while you were away, Dr. Grenier admitted that he wrote the five prayer cards that name our victims, but he’s not sure if his prayers have been answered. Now, you were saying that I shouldn’t put words in your mouth, Doctor.”
“That’s right. Who are you to accuse me of being involved in this?”
“I’m not accusing…”
“I’ve spent thirty years bringing comfort to destitute people. I tended them, loved them. What I did, I did out of love, and with God’s blessing. You, Inspector, you might toss the occasional dollar in the direction of someone who holds his hand out in the street, but I live with these people every day.”
“What I was saying, Doctor-”
“Let me finish, Inspector. I’m not the one who decided to empty Quebec’s mental health institutions and force the sick and dysfunctional into the streets. I wasn’t the one who waved them goodbye and sent them off to fend for themselves with nothing but a bottle of pills. Blame the politicians, the liberals in the universities. Blame society. Those people who sit safe and warm in cozy houses, far away from the street, those who decided that the state shouldn’t pay to look after the sick and broken. They said,
Vanier and St. Jacques stared as Grenier continued as though a long-sealed tap had been opened. He was the one trying to ease the suffering caused by others, and it was an affront to think that he could do harm.
“We poured them out of the institutions like shit from a bucket to float away God knows where; but not into
