She held her glass up for a toast, and he clinked the whiskey against it.
Gisele appeared before them, dumping fistfuls of quarters on the bar.
“Do me a favour, Anjili,” she said, as though continuing an uninterrupted conversation, “fill that maudit jukebox up with some happy music. It’s a time to celebrate, no?”
“Yes.”
With the help of Gisele, she filled the jukebox with happy music, and as the music, the drink, and the company worked on their spirits, they danced. Vanier and Anjili; Vanier and Gisele; Gisele with the two Poles, separately and together; and the two Poles with Anjili. Midnight came and went. At two o’clock, they finished with hugs and tears, promises, resolutions, and Polish vodka.
PART THREE
TEN
JANUARY 1
7 AM
Vanier was surfacing into wakefulness in the half-light before dawn, and he felt the sleeping presence next to him. He didn’t move, replaying the previous night. There were no flashes of regret or shame. He took an exaggerated deep breath and rolled over, pulling himself to her sleeping body. She stirred without opening her eyes, and relaxed again, and he wondered if she was also rewinding the night before committing to the day. They both lay still, and he fell back into sleep. When the sun finally blazed its way into the room, he felt her stir again.
“Well?” he said, the non-committal opener that says
“Well, Inspector. This is not what I expected,” she said, rolling into him and making eye contact.
He reached and brushed the hair back from her face. “Me neither. But I feel good, Anjili.”
“Careful, Inspector.”
“I was just thinking…”
“Don’t.”
He looked at her and saw that it was her mind that was racing. She was the one doing the thinking.
“I’m starving. How about breakfast in bed?” he asked. “I’ll be back in five minutes.” He kissed her on the lips and got out of the bed, pulling on a pair of boxers that were lying on the floor. She smiled at him, closed her eyes and lay bathed in the sunlight that was streaming through the window.
Standing up, he knew it would be a tough day. His stomach was churning, his head hurt and his mouth felt furry.
10 AM
“Ladies and gentlemen, I will read from a prepared statement and then I will take questions.” The journalists were subdued, and Vanier guessed that he wasn’t the only one nursing a hangover.
He was getting used to Sergeant Laflamme’s press conferences and knew his place was to stand behind her and look dignified, a difficult task on New Year’s Day, but not insurmountable. This one had been arranged too quickly, but the Chief had insisted. Vanier would have preferred a positive I.D. of the body first.
Laflamme continued, “During the course of our investigations relating to the murder of several homeless people on the evening of December 24, we identified a suspect, a Mr. John Collins. We believe that Mr. Collins may have been responsible for the deaths of several people, poisoning his victims with liquid laced with potassium cyanide that he stole from his place of employment. Several facts point to his involvement in these murders, and we have reason to believe that the suspect died in a fire at his home on the night of December 30. We are continuing our investigations to determine whether the suspect acted alone or with others. Now, I will take questions.”
“Two part question, Sergeant Laflamme. Did the suspect’s stash of potassium cyanide go up in the flames, or is it still missing? And if it did go up in flames, does this pose a health risk for Montrealers?”
Sergeant Laflamme was taken aback and was tempted to look behind her at Vanier for the answer. Vanier was enjoying it.
Recovering, she responded, “There is no evidence that the chemical was kept in the suspect’s apartment, and we are continuing our efforts to locate any traces of the chemical that may still be in existence. I must stress that this is still a very active investigation.”
“Sergeant, are you certain that the body recovered in the loft is Collins?”
“The body was very badly burned, but we are confident that it was the body of Mr. Collins. The Coroner’s office is performing tests to confirm the identity of the body, and we are awaiting those results. Nevertheless, we are confident that this investigation is drawing to a close.”
Jennifer Higgins from
Before he could even think of moving forward to speak into the microphone, Sergeant Laflamme answered, “Inspector Vanier’s view is the same as the one I have just given: while we are awaiting a positive identification, we have reached a level of confidence that it is Mr. Collins. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”
NOON
There wasn’t room to empty the dump truck inside the Laboratoire’s building, so they had worked out a protocol. An area of the parking lot had been scraped clean with shovels and covered in two layers of thick painter’s plastic. Vanier was there out of curiosity. He wanted to see how they would handle the logistics of emptying a truck full of dirty snow and body parts. Laurent was along for company, and they watched the dump truck back up to the plastic sheets until a man in a white plastic evidence suit raised his arms for it to stop and let its red-streaked load slide on to the plastic mat. Dr. Segal had taken charge of the operation and then moved over towards Vanier. They were both having trouble separating the private and public.
“That’s a lot of red snow,” said Vanier.
“There must have been a lot of leakage during the night. Don’t worry, we’ll still have lots to test,” she said.
After about a third of the truck’s load had emptied onto the floor, the guy in the evidence suit waved the driver to stop. The driver lowered the dumper, and three technicians moved in and began shifting through the pile of bloody, hard-packed snow and street garbage. They worked with shovels, bouncing clumps of snow like prospectors, and it soon became clear they weren’t looking for small human nuggets but sizable chunks of flesh. The body parts were separated from the snow and garbage, and they began filling large plastic buckets with flesh and bones, pushing the junk off to the side.
“The snow-blower driver removed the screen,” said Vanier, feeling the need to explain the size of the pieces being recovered.
“Nice,” said Segal.
The image of the technicians carefully fingering the dirty snow reminded Vanier of TV news footage of bombings in Israel and religious Jews picking through the debris of destroyed lives searching for human flesh so it could be treated with respect and buried properly. The more he watched, the more body parts Vanier recognized; a gloved hand with an arm up to the elbow, part of a leg, still clothed but without a foot, a chunk of the torso, and then the head. The technician brushed snow off the face and cradled the head gently in his hands, turning it face up towards the group of watchers. It had come through the blower cleanly, severed at the neck but otherwise undamaged.
“I’ve had enough,” said Vanier. “Dr. Segal, unless you need me here, I think that I can find something more useful to do. Oh, and by the way, his name is Denis Latulippe.”
“You knew him? I’m sorry, Luc.”
“He was on the list. Laurent and I tried to convince him to get off the streets for a while.”
“We can manage here,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “This is going to take some time. I’ll call you as soon as I have something to report.”
Light snow was falling again as they crossed the parking lot. Vanier opened the back door and pulled out a
