He took the coffee and walked back to the interview room. With only one more pile to go, his mood was lightening. He felt comfortable with this work in the quiet of the deserted building. He was fascinated by the lives of others and how much you could tell about someone by looking at what they hold precious. He was doing something, and time was passing.
The smell from the possessions in the interview room had become stronger, filling the place with a human smell of sweat and dirt. After a struggle, he got one of the windows to open, and cold air entered with a cleansing presence. He kept his face in the rush of outside air flooding into the room while he sipped his coffee and surveyed the work. Eleven boxes were stacked against the wall; he had put a photograph of each victim on their boxes. George Morissette, the Notary from McGill; Joe Yeoman, a Mohawk from the cleaning room in the Berri Metro; and Edith Latendresse kissed by Santa. Mme. Latendresse had four boxes, more clothes but fewer papers, only a social insurance card and some prescription medicine to identify her.
He began emptying the contents of the last two bags onto the table. Victim number 4’s bags contained the usual assortment of old clothes, rotting food and little else. There was $8 in change in a sock, a roll of toilet paper and drugs, again prescribed by Dr. Alain Grenier, this time for Pierre Brun: Zeldox and an empty bottle of Oxycodone, a powerful painkiller with street value. Pierre Brun could have eased his pain by taking the pills or selling them. Vanier wondered which he did. And he wondered about Dr. Alain Grenier, who had prescribed drugs for all of the victims.
It was 4.30 p.m. and already dark when he finished by placing the picture of Pierre Brun on top of two boxes piled against the wall. Feeling cold for the first time, he struggled again with the window and closed it.
The temperature outside was still falling, but he had no idea what the weather was supposed to be doing. He hadn’t listened to a weather forecast in days. He had all but given up listening to the radio weeks ago, admitting defeat to the omnipresent Christmas spirit. The only exception was the hourly news. Several times a day he tuned to CBC to listen to the news. If there was a death or serious injury of a soldier in Afghanistan, it was always the first story. If nobody had been killed or injured, if there were no ambushes or roadside bombs, he turned it off, relieved until the next time.
He wondered about the people sleeping outside, realizing how little he knew about them. The last few nights had been cold and damp, and he imagined the shelters were full. But there were still people who chose to stay out in the cold. People who refused the warmth of a shelter to hide in a corner somewhere and take the ultimate risk. He grabbed a phone book, turned to the A’s and sat down. Minutes later he grabbed his cell phone and pushed number 6 on his speed dial.
“Allo?”
“Anjili, it’s me.”
Dr. Anjili Segal was one of Montreal’s six coroners. She and Vanier had been friends for over ten years until a brief affair at the end of the summer ended quickly when they realized that they were better friends than lovers. As lovers, they brought out the worst in each other. Vanier hoped that they could salvage their friendship, but it was proving difficult; they had crossed so many lines.
Silence, and then, “Calling to wish me Merry Christmas, Luc?”
“Well, yes. Anjili, Merry Christmas. How was your Christmas?”
“Just bloody marvelous, as you Anglos say.”
“Anjili, how many times do I have to tell you I am not an Anglo. My name is Luc Vanier, you can’t get more Quebecois than that.”
“Luc you’re an Anglo. You spent too much time in Ontario. OK, so we’ll settle for Franco-Ontarian. You prefer that?”
“Call me whatever, Anjili. The bodies from the metro.”
“Ah, business.”
He ignored the rebuke. “I thought maybe you could help me. I’ve found prescription bottles in the belongings of the victims from Christmas Eve. They all have Dr. Alain Grenier as the prescribing doctor on them, but I’ve checked. There are 23 people listed as Alain or A. Grenier. I was wondering…
“The code?”
“Well, yes. The numbers on the label. They link to the doctor, right?”
“That’s why you’re the detective. Give me the numbers Luc, I’ll look them up.
He grabbed a bottle from Pierre Brun’s box and read off the numbers. “Wait,” she said, and he heard the clunk of the phone on a table. She was back in three minutes. “Dr. Alain Grenier. His office is at 5620 boulevard St. Joseph. That’s it, no suite number. The phone number is 514-450-1872. By the way, he was admitted in 1973, which would put him in his sixties. Anything else?”
“I was wondering. I know it’s the holidays, but how soon can we get autopsy results?”
“Luc, you never change. Always work, isn’t it?”
“Anjili, this is important. There are five people dead.”
“I know, Luc.”
“I’d like to see something as soon as possible, even something preliminary. We’re spinning our wheels here until we get a cause of death.”
“We can probably start the autopsies tomorrow morning, I’m not certain but I’ll try. It’s going to take two days at least to do all five. Listen, I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know some specifics.”
“Thanks, Anjili. And listen, Happy Christmas.”
“Yes, Luc. You too.” Vanier knew that tone of voice, tired and unhappy. And he wished he could do something about it.
“I’m sorry to bother you on Christmas Day, but if we have a murderer out there, I want to get him.”
“I know you do Luc. I know.” She disconnected before him. He dialed Grenier’s number, leaving a message with the operator of the answering service for him to call. Vanier clicked off his phone, turned the light off and made his way to the parking lot.
7 PM
Two hours later, Dr. Grenier faced Vanier from behind his desk in his office on St. Joseph Boulevard. He had been at home when he got Vanier’s message and called back to suggest they meet at his office where he kept his records. Grenier was tall and thin, with an angular face that struck Vanier as not much given to smiling. He was having trouble making eye-contact. The doctor was wearing a canary yellow cardigan that Vanier decided must have been a Christmas present; it was too bright for him to have chosen it himself.
The office was spartan, a cheap desk with two chairs in front of it, and two grey filing cabinets against the wall. Files were stacked neatly on the right corner of his desk, and others, with notes attached by paperclip, on the left. There was an impressive collection of framed certificates on one wall and a large black crucifix with a suffering Christ on another. Unless you counted the bleeding Christ or the certificates, there was no artwork.
“Thanks for seeing me at short notice, Doctor. The holidays are always hard and I appreciate your time,” said Vanier.
“What can I do for you?” asked Grenier.
Vanier opened the envelope and slipped five photographs onto the desk. Grenier spread them out and looked shaken. He didn’t look up. “These are the victims from Christmas Eve?”
“Yes, Doctor. Four of them had prescription bottles with your name on them. We’re still looking for the possessions of the fifth. Do you recognize them?”
“Of course I do. I was their prescribing physician.”
“For all of them?”
“Yes.”
Grenier confirmed the names of the first four and identified the fifth, Celine Plante. Then he stood and pulled five files from one of the cabinets. He looked at each and rattled off the dates of birth. Mme. Plante would have been fifty-two on January 3. He looked at Vanier like he was finished.
“I’m trying to piece together as much information about them as possible. Anything will help”
“Well, I’m not sure that I can be of much help. I was only their doctor.”
“Why were they seeing you?”
“They were sick, Inspector.”
“How sick were they?”
