The Dead of Winter

John was so close that Drouin had to lean back in the chair and tilt his head back to look up at the looming figure.

“I am concerned. Did you hear about the deaths on Christmas Eve?”

“I did, Father. It’s shocking. But they have gone to their Lord. Isn’t that a good thing? Perhaps this answers our prayers. Didn’t we pray for their deliverance from pain and suffering?”

“We prayed for these people, John. But not for their death. Murder cannot be God’s answer to our prayers. Do you know anything about this?”

“Who are we to question how the Lord answers our prayers? Who are we to question His works?”

“I’m not questioning His works. The Lord didn’t kill these people, John. Tell me the truth, do you know anything about this?” His eyes pleaded.

The man smiled.

“No, Henri. I know nothing. I am as shocked as you are. But why do you think it was anything but God’s work, calling his servants home after desperate suffering? That’s how I would like to remember them. That in their last hours, the Lord took an interest in them and called them to his arms.”

“I don’t know, John. I just have a bad feeling.”

“Father Henri, the police will do what they have to do, and we will see that our friends simply passed on peacefully to a better place. To their reward.”

“Perhaps you’re right, John.”

“I am right, Father. It was inevitable they would die soon. It saddens me that they left, but it’s my loss that I mourn, not theirs. They are all much happier now. Remember the struggles of Joe Yeoman. Isn’t he better off? And Mary Gallagher, how much more was she going to be forced to endure?”

“Mary Gallagher?” Drouin, blurted, immediately wishing he could take the words back. John said nothing, but both men knew. Drouin tried to rise but John didn’t budge, he was still standing over him, and Drouin was forced to remain seated.

The tension was broken when John smiled. “Father, while I am here, could you hear my confession?” He stepped back and allowed Drouin to rise from the chair, the rosary beads still hanging from his hands.

“Of course, John.”

They walked together to a confessional box that looked like three wooden phone booths against the wall. The central one was for the priest with a small grille on each side linking into the other two. One penitent would kneel and whisper his confession through the grille, while the other penitent waited for the wooden slat to open the grille when the priest was ready. Drouin hesitated, he didn’t want to hear a confession because he knew too much already. He entered the centre box and sat down heavily, taking comfort in the familiar, polished wood smell, leaning forward to pull the door closed. The door stuck, then swung back open, and John entered the priest’s box. He had put on latex gloves. He grabbed Drouin by the neck and pushed his knee into the priest’s chest to hold him in place.

“John, what…?”

“I’m sorry, Father.”

“John….”

John tightened his grip on Drouin’s throat and cut off the words. Using his free hand, he pulled a plastic bottle from the inside pocket of his winter coat and inserted the pointed end between the priest’s lips, forcing liquid into his mouth. He let go of the priest’s neck and clapped his hand over his mouth and nose. Drouin stared up in terror, his mouth full of liquid and his lungs pleading for air. John withdrew the bottle and put it in his pocket. He reached behind the priest’s neck, grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled, forcing Drouin to look up at the wooden ceiling of the box. Drouin’s mouth opened slightly, and the liquid flowed down his throat. He gasped like someone drowning, but the hand on his mouth stifled even a cough. Again the bottle, and again his mouth filled with liquid. The knee on his chest was pushing forcefully. In seconds, the liquid had flowed down his throat, and he was drowning again. He couldn’t get enough air. Another mouthful, and he looked into John’s eyes, pleading. John stared back, and Drouin realized it was hopeless and began to pray in his mind, giving himself up to his creator.

“Father Henri. It’s God’s work. Even this. You should not have interfered.”

Before leaving the box, John checked for a pulse, and then placed the bottle into Drouin’s hand, the same hand that was still clutching the rosary beads. He removed an envelope from his inside pocket and placed it on the handrail inside the confessional. He took off the latex gloves, placed them in his pocket and left the box, closing the door behind him. Leaving the Cathedral, he dipped his hand into the holy water in the font by the front door and blessed himself.

NOON

Vanier was sitting across the table from Mme. Paradis and the sketch artist. Mme. Paradis’s eyes were sparkling incongruously from within a tired face and a slouching body. She was enjoying her big day, but her body would have preferred to be lying down somewhere quiet.

“Now, Mme. Paradis, take a good look at the sketch and take your time. Tell me if you think that it’s a good image of the man you say placed the ads in the Journal de Montreal. The man who signed himself Pious John.”

She studied the sketch for a few moments, squinting her eyes.

“That’s him. That’s him perfectly,” she said. “You’re very good, M. Beaucage,” she said, giving him a practiced smile.

“Thank you Madame, but I am only as good as the witness’s memory.”

“Are you sure, Madame? Are you confident that this is a good likeness?” asked Vanier.

“Positive,” she said, turning back to Beaucage with another smile.

Vanier hated eyewitness identification, and he hated sketched likenesses even more. Eyewitnesses were notoriously unreliable. When six people inside a bank couldn’t come up with the same number of men carrying guns, how could you expect them to get the eye colour or even the height correct? But it was easy, and too many cops went along with it. He knew it had put thousands of innocents in jails and helped as many guilty go free. And if eyewitness identification wasn’t bad enough, an artist’s rendition of what the witness thought they remembered was even worse. A bad sketch, and they were all bad sketches, was a-get-out-of-jail-free card when it didn’t look anything like the accused.

Vanier turned to the artist, “M. Beaucage, could you get some 8? by 11 copies, maybe twenty, made up as quickly as possible?”

“Yes, Inspector. There’s a machine on the fifth floor that I’ve used before. I can do it immediately.”

Beaucage took his sketch and left Vanier and Mme. Paradis together.

“So, Mme. Paradis, tell me about Pious John.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whatever comes to mind.”

Mme. Paradis played with her empty coffee cup, but Vanier didn’t take the hint. “Well, as I said to the other officers, he was a special sort. He would come in, take a number, and wait for his turn, sitting in that long black cassock like he was just like everyone else. Yet he stood out, like a film star. And when he sat in front of you, I’ve never seen eyes like that. It wasn’t the colour, lots of people have brown eyes, but they looked into you like they knew your soul. I see all kinds of people every day, but he was different. There was deepness about him, a sad look in his eyes, like he knew so much more than the rest of us. And when he talked to you, it was like you were the only person in the world. Like that song from the seventies, “and read each thought aloud.”

“Killing me softly.”

“What?”

“The song, Roberta Flack, Killing Me Softly With His Love.”

“Oh, yes. You’re right.”

“How long had he been placing ads?”

“I think he started a few months ago. It would be easy to tell because all the forms were signed by Pious John. He always paid cash and never wanted a receipt. And, you know, I never saw him smile. And not that he looked sad, just peaceful. Like he knew there was nothing to be happy about and was OK with that. It’s often like that with the St. Judes. But he was different somehow.”

“The St. Judes?”