my neighbourhood. As soon as they stop in my street, or collect in my parks, well flush them away somewhere else. Make them move on. Sure, we buy virtue by writing cheques to charity, a cheque for little Angelica in some godforsaken hole in Africa, or Juan in a hovel in the Dominican Republic. And maybe we get a yearly photo of our good works that we can stick on the fridge and tell our friends about our adopted kids in the Third World. But we turn away from the sick, destitute, beaten and just damn poor that live right here. Every day, we cross the street assuming that a Samaritan will turn up to help the broken man lying on the ground.”
His eyes were getting cloudy.
“These are my people, Inspector. Praying for them, and asking others to pray for them, doesn’t make me a murderer. I cared for them.”
Vanier was taken aback. St. Jacques spoke up.
“Dr. Grenier, in the prayer cards, we found five other cards that we’d like to ask you about.”
Vanier took out the second envelope from his pocket and laid the last five cards on Grenier’s desk. Grenier looked at them.
“Oh my God.” He reached out his hand and touched one with his finger. “Duane Thatcher died in November.”
“We know that, Doctor.”
“I haven’t seen or heard from Antonio Di Pasquale in, what, six to eight weeks.” He shifted his eyes to the third card. “Mary Gallagher, a lost soul in need of help, but what’s the point. She’s dying, like Denis Latulippe and Gaetan Paquin. They all know it. They know they are on their way out, and I think they accept it. Like it’s the natural trajectory of their lives. But don’t think for a moment that I wanted them to die. Nothing is more ridiculous. I put their names on these cards because, deep down, I want to have some grain of hope for them.”
“If four are still alive, where can we find them?”
“Inspector, these people are nomadic. They’re here one day and somewhere else the next. They might keep to regular haunts for weeks and then, a whim or a new friend might take them to a squat in St. Henri for a month. Try the missions, the shelters. That’s all I can say. And I’ll ask around. If they show up at my clinic, I’ll call you. Find them, Inspector. If they’re in danger, find them.”
“I intend to,” said Vanier. “But who else is looking for them? Any ideas?”
“You mean the prayer group?”
“That seems a reasonable conclusion. Maybe someone is doing some divine intervention of their own.”
“No, that couldn’t be. It’s impossible. The people in the group are all devout Catholics. They’re not murderers.”
“Why don’t we start with some names?”
“Names? It’s not a social club, Inspector. If I know anyone who attends, it’s because I know them from somewhere else.”
“We have to start somewhere. You give us some names, and we talk to them, and they give us some more. Eventually, we should have everyone in the group, and we’ll talk to them all.”
“Well, I can tell you the ones that I know.” He started with Father Drouin and excused himself. “Of course, you know Father Drouin already.” He continued with others; a few doctors, two lawyers, a businessman. The mayor of a small town on the West Island was an occasional participant. St. Jacques wrote them down, recognizing a few from occasional mentions on the news or in the newspapers.
“If you think of any others, you’ll call me or Sergeant St. Jacques.” It wasn’t a question, more of a statement.
“Yes, of course, Inspector.”
1 PM
The dining hall of the Old Brewery Mission had been decorated for the holidays with grinning plastic Santas stuck to the walls, and ropes of red and gold tinsel that failed to hide the grim functionality of the room. The room was hot, the air thick with the smell of institutional food, and long mess-hall tables were lined with men and women waiting for a plate to be put in front of them, or slurping down food with the speed of the half-starved. Two cooks stood behind a counter filling plates with a thick stew and a roll of bread. Volunteers moved quickly between the serving counter and the tables.
Vanier and Laurent were sweating in their overcoats. Pools of melting snow were gathering around their boots. Robert Bertrand, the director of the mission, stood beside them surveying the room. “It won’t be long now. Serving is what takes the time. They don’t linger over the food. Probably ten minutes and you can talk to him.”
Every now and then, one of the patrons would look up furtively, trying to decide whether the obvious presence of cops involved them.
As the last plates of stew were placed on the tables, fruit salad was ladled from industrial-sized cans into small bowls, and the volunteers began the circuit again, removing the empty dinner plates and replacing them with the dessert.
“When you’ve been doing this as long as we have, you get efficient. Three hundred people a day on average, three hours of prep, and it’s all over in twenty minutes. Another hour to wash up and we begin the preparation for dinner. We never stop, Inspector!”
“I’m impressed, Mr. Bertrand. It’s quite the operation you have here,” said Vanier.
“Well, we couldn’t do it without help from an army of good people. We exist because of human kindness.”
Vanier watched the volunteers move with practiced efficiency. Every plate was served with a quick comment, a smile or a hand on a shoulder; food for the body and food for the soul. As they moved through the room, islands of laughter would erupt from the volunteers and the diners.
“Your people are having fun, Mr. Bertrand,” said Vanier.
“Compassion is good for the spirit, Inspector. Our volunteers enjoy themselves. If any of your men are feeling depressed, send them to us and we’ll have them fixed up in no time. Perhaps you’d like to try a shift yourself?”
Laurent smiled at the image of Vanier serving fruit salad to the homeless.
“Not me, Mr. Bertrand. But Laurent here might be just the man. He could do with a little exercise in the compassion department.”
“Well, gentlemen, anytime either of you want to try something new, you’re more than welcome. Just walk in off the street, and we will find something for you to do. I guarantee it will open your hearts. You won’t regret it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Vanier.
Lunch was ending. “Come along gentlemen. Let’s go meet Gaetan.”
Gaetan Paquin’s dinner companions had already left, and he was wiping greasy sauce from his lips with a serviette. He eyed them suspiciously as they approached,
“M. Paquin, do you mind if we sit down?” asked Vanier.
“I don’t own the table.”
Laurent and Vanier sat down opposite Paquin on the long bench.
“I’ll leave you to your business then,” said Bertrand and walked off towards the kitchen.
Paquin glared at the two men but couldn’t hold the eye contact. He looked down at the table, and then back to each of them. His hands were dark with dirt. On a farmer, it would have been testimony to honest work in the fields, but on Paquin it was just dirt. You could have grown vegetables in his fingernails.
“Police. Right?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want with me? I haven’t done nothing. Think I would be sitting here accepting charity if I had?” he said.
“We’re not here for anything that you’ve done,” said Vanier.
Paquin exploded in disconcerting laughter. You couldn’t tell if it was amusement or relief. “Ha. What a joke? I haven’t done nothing. I’ve broken every single one of your fucking laws and I’m proud of it. So lock me up. Do me a favour, lock me up.”
“We’re here about those deaths on Christmas Eve,” said Vanier.
His demeanor changed. He was paying attention.
“That wasn’t right. I knew two of them. Good people. Just a little down on their luck, that’s all. They didn’t
