basement level of surrounding buildings. There are only three street entrances to the station, but there are six others through the adjoining shopping centres. The middle of the station concourse is cut open like a trench, and you can watch the trains on the lower level. Two sets of turnstiles guard access to the platforms, one at each end of the concourse.
Vanier tried an office building on University Street but the door was locked, with access only for those with electronic keys. He crossed the street to use one of the street entrances.
It was warm inside, and he undid his coat as he walked towards the ticket booth. A metro security officer was waiting for him. A kid, Haitian by the look of him, with everything hanging from his belt but a gun.
“Inspector Vanier, I presume,” he said, reaching out his hand with an ear-to-ear grin that lit up his face.
Vanier took his hand and smiled broadly, reading the name badge, “Constable Duvalier.”
“Yes, sir. And before you ask, no relation.”
“Well I’m glad to hear that,” said Vanier, “Papa and Baby Doc were not the best of people. So, Constable Duvalier, can you show me where the body was found?”
“Of course, Inspector. It was on the eastbound platform, last night. Follow me.”
Constable Duvalier waved him through the turnstiles with a sign to the sullen ticket seller locked in his booth.
“He’s not happy to be working on Christmas,” said Duvalier apologetically, leading Vanier down the stairs. “Time and a half, and an extra day’s vacation and he’s not happy. What does it take?”
He led Vanier down one flight of stairs to the eastbound platform.
“The body was found down there in the corner,” said Duvalier, pointing to the end of the platform. “He was asleep on the floor.”
“And nobody told him to leave?”
“That’s the thing, Inspector. The rules are clear, no sleeping in the metro. Believe me, it’s on the exams to become a metro officer. We all know it. But just because you put on a uniform doesn’t mean you hang up your humanity.”
Vanier thought about that.
“And all the others, they’re in the union. It’s not part of their job description.”
“And we’re all human.”
“Christmas Eve, it’s minus twenty degrees outside, all the shelters are full, or closed, or they won’t take them because they’ve been drinking. So what do you do? You throw someone out in the street? No. People look the other way. The cleaners push the machines up and down the platform and notice nothing. The train drivers come and go and see nothing. And my colleagues don’t happen to look in that direction. The guys on the screens, for some reason, they can’t pick it up. What’s that? A conspiracy? So he lay there. And he was dead. Who knows how long? Who’s to blame?”
“Constable Duvalier, if I was blamed every time I looked the other way I’d be selling newspapers.”
“It’s not easy. Do it too much and the rules become arbitrary.”
Vanier thought about that too.
They walked down the platform to where the body was found. Duvalier stood in a corner at the end of a metro platform and pointed at the floor. The sleeper would have been clearly visible to a driver going in the opposite direction, and to the cameras trained on the platform.
“That’s it?” said Vanier, almost to himself.
“That’s it,” said Duvalier.
They went back upstairs.
“You’ll have to exit to the street. All the building entrances are closed.”
“Thank you, Constable Duvalier,” said Vanier as he turned to climb a shut-down escalator to the street.
1.35 PM
On Christmas afternoon, the building housing the Montreal Police Headquarters was almost deserted. Interview Room 6 had been set aside for the personal possessions of the victims, and Vanier was in there because he had nothing better to do. Four separate piles of garbage bags were propped against the wall; the possessions of the fifth victim had still not been found. On a sheet of white paper, someone had given each pile a number. He grabbed two garbage bags that sat under the sheet marked Number 1 and brought them to the edge of the table, next to where he had dropped a yellow note-pad and a pen. He tipped the contents of the first bag onto the table and started taking inventory, listing each piece before putting it back into the bag. Before he had refilled the first bag, he changed his mind and decided to walk to the exhibit room to get cardboard boxes and labels. He grabbed as many of the flat, unfolded boxes as he could manage, putting sheets of sticky labels and a felt pen in his pocket. As an afterthought he grabbed a pair of latex gloves and returned to the room. He pulled on the gloves and got to work, ignoring the fetid smell filling the room.
Sorting through the first pile again, he began listing bulkier items: a sleeping bag and two blankets; a couple of T-shirts, one from St. Petersburg, Florida, the other from the last world tour of the Police; three pairs of formerly white Y-front underwear, three pairs of socks, and three oversized acrylic sweaters. He wrote it all down. Next was a roll of toilet paper and a copy of the
Taking a felt pen from the desk, he wrote on a sticky label: George Morissette. Putting a name on the possessions was progress. He reached back into the bag and pulled out a thick envelope of papers. He emptied the envelope, laid the papers on the table, and sat down.
There was a disintegrating certificate issued by the Ordre de Notaires du Quebec certifying that Maitre George Edouard Morissette was admitted as a Notary of the Province of Quebec in 1970. Next, there was an old photograph of a pretty woman holding a child of about two on her lap, sitting in a garden, and smiling at the camera. There was a social insurance card, a driver’s license that expired in 1980 and gave Maitre Morissette’s date of birth as March 25, 1949 and a booklet entitled:
Morissette never got to see December 25. Maybe he would have been thankful if he did. Vanier wasn’t sure. He got up and started to assemble the first folded box. Even though the instructions were clear on the box, and he had seen it done countless times, it took effort and cursing until he had a functional Exhibit Box. He filled it, throwing the half-eaten hamburger in the garbage. Assembling another box, he filled it too, and then a third. When he finished, he reached for the sheet of labels. He looked at the name he had written on the first label, George Morissette, and added
He continued methodically, stopping only after the third pile to go to the staff canteen for a coffee. When he started in the force, the only choice in coffee was milk and sugar. Now the machines interrogated you: Columbian, Costa Rican, Sumatran, or House Blend? And not just regular coffee, perhaps a latte or cappuccino, or even an espresso? Caffeinated or decaffeinated? Vanier pushed the buttons for his usual blend of Columbian regular, milk, no sugar. It tasted a little better than when he had started in the force.
