One or the Other (20 page)

“But he's not saying a word.”

“Claims he doesn't speak English.”

“Maybe he doesn't.”

Meekins shrugged, and Dougherty figured Meekins, like every other Anglo, probably believed that every French person in Quebec actually could speak English if they wanted to. Or if you spoke to them in English slowly and loudly enough it would rub off.

“Well, if we can make the conspiracy case he might start talking Swahili — it's real jail time, three to five for sure.” Meekins looked at Dougherty and said, “You think he threw those kids off the bridge?”

“His name came up in the investigation. It's a long shot.”

“It always is,” Meekins said, “until one of the long shots comes through.”

A man was at the office door then, and he said, “He's in one.”

Meekins stood up, saying, “Thanks,” and then to Dougherty, “This way.”

They stopped a little ways down the hall at the door to interview room number one, and Meekins said, “You want to be interrupted, hold up your hand,” and he pointed to the observation room next door where he was planning to wait.

Dougherty said, “It's okay, I'll just talk to him.”

“I have to listen in,” Meekins said. “You know how it is.” He walked into the observation room and closed the door, and Dougherty nodded at the other cop who opened the door to the interview room.

Martin Comptois looked about exactly the way Dougherty had expected him to: defiant, trying to look bored now that the initial shock of being arrested had worn off and he hadn't been beaten and thrown into a pit.

Dougherty sat down and said, in French, “I'm Detective Dougherty from Montreal. How you doing?”

Comptois shrugged, looked away.

Dougherty got out his cigarettes and held out the pack, and Comptois took one. Then Dougherty held up the lighter and said, “I almost missed you, you're getting bailed out tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” He was holding up his hand for the lighter.

Dougherty figured Comptois was in his mid-twenties, a few years younger than Dougherty, and he also figured they were at about the same place in their stalled careers. Comptois was likely looking to impress a boss by not saying anything during his incarceration just as much as Dougherty was looking to impress his by working this investigation.

He said, “I don't care what happens in Ontario, I'm looking to find a friend of yours in Montreal.”

Now Comptois was staring at Dougherty with the cigarette dangling from his lips, waiting for the light. He didn't say anything.

“A guy named André Marcotte.” No recognition from Comptois. “He got arrested for rape a few years ago. You were with him on the Jacques Cartier Bridge before it happened.”

Comptois made a face,
you expect me to remember that
, and said, “A few years ago?”

“But you still work Île Sainte-Hélène, you still sell drugs there, at the concerts and at La Ronde.”

Comptois didn't say anything.

“And a few weeks ago, after a concert by Gentle Giant, there was another rape.”

“I don't know anything about any rapes.”

“Just drugs.”

He shrugged. “If you say so.”

“I say you know about the rapes, too. I say you know who was there and you know who did it. I say you did it.”

“Say whatever you want,” Comptois said. “You're wrong.”

But Dougherty didn't think he was.

“You saw a couple of girls headed for Longueuil so you grabbed them, but it turned out one of them was a boy. You strangled him and threw him off the bridge.”

Comptois smirked and looked away like this was the craziest thing he'd ever heard.

“Then you raped the girl and strangled her and threw her off the bridge. Her name was Manon Houle. The boy was Mathieu Simard. They both lived in Longueuil.”

Comptois said, “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Dougherty was still calm, not raising his voice. He had all the time in the world. He said, “I didn't pick you at random, Martin. I know you were on the bridge. I know you were selling dope. I know you raped Manon and killed her and Mathieu.”

“I didn't kill anyone!” Comptois slammed his hand on the table and glared at Dougherty.

Dougherty looked back at him, calm and now a little understanding, nodding slightly. He handed the lighter to Comptois and said, “You didn't mean to, you were just going to talk to them, sell them some dope.”

Comptois took the lighter and said, “I never saw them. I wasn't there.”

“You were surprised Mathieu was a boy, and he said something to you, he laughed and you got mad.”

Comptois lit his cigarette and exhaled smoke at the ceiling.

Dougherty said, “It was an accident.”

“It wasn't me.”

“Who was it?”

There was enough of a pause that Dougherty knew — Comptois knew who it was. He knew all about it.

Dougherty said it again, “Who was it?”

“I don't know anything about it, this is the first I heard of it.”

“If you don't tell me who it was,” Dougherty said, “I'll pin it on you.”

Now Comptois looked scared. It passed, though, and he said, “Bullshit. I don't know nothing.”

Dougherty took a moment, took a drag on his own cigarette and blew out smoke, flicked some ash in the tiny tinfoil ashtray and then said, “I've got plenty of time. You'll be doing three years in the Kingston Pen for this, and one of your boys will give you up.”

Comptois didn't say anything.

“You think you're moving up,” Dougherty said. “You think if you do what your boss wants, you do your time inside and keep your mouth shut, you'll get something for it. You think it matters what you do.

“But everybody moves on, Martin. Nobody waits for you. You fall behind, you get stuck where you are. You get out of jail, you go back to what you were, you start over.” The way Dougherty felt every time one of his temporary assignments to detective ended and he went back into uniform. What he knew was waiting for him when the Olympics were over. “So when you get out, you won't have anything Martin, you won't have any friends. Why protect them now?”

“I wasn't on the bridge.”

“Who was?”

“I don't know.”

Dougherty was sure he did. He wasn't sure if Comptois was actually involved in the rape and the murders, but he was sure the guy was there and knew who did it.

“This won't go away,” Dougherty said. “I won't go away.”

Comptois looked at him and shrugged. He didn't believe it.

Dougherty wanted to punch him in the face. Punch that fucking smirk right off him, but he also knew he was screaming mad inside because what Comptois believed might be true.

Now Dougherty wished Legault were here. He'd been used to working by himself on the fringes of these investigations, but after a few of these interviews with Legault he was starting to see the benefits of a partner, of a good one.

He said, “All right, have it your way.”

Dougherty stood up and stubbed out his smoke in the ashtray. He took two steps to the door and knocked.

The door opened and Meekins was standing there. “You done?”

Dougherty looked back at Comptois and said, “Yeah, he's done.”

They walked down the hall back to Meekins's office and the Cornwall cop said, “I didn't realize you could speak French like that.”

“In Montreal,” Dougherty said, “you have to. What do you think about Comptois?”

Meekins turned into his office, and Dougherty waited by the door.

“From what I got, he knows something.”

“He does, doesn't he.”

“You rattled him, that's for sure. But he still thinks he can beat this.”

“He thinks he's part of something bigger that'll protect him. From what I can see he's been selling drugs on St. Helen's Island for a few years. He's probably moved up and he expects to keep going.”

“If he didn't do it,” Meekins said, “whoever did is probably long gone, out to Alberta or something, cooling off. They all think they're tough guys, but actual murder? It's something else.”

Dougherty said, “Yeah, for sure.” He nodded towards the desk and said, “What did he give you for an address?”

Meekins picked up the file and opened it. “1388 Rue Overdale. No phone number.”

“Thanks, I appreciate this.”

“Don't worry,” Meekins said. “I'll call you if there's anything you can do for me.”

On the drive back to Montreal, Dougherty started to wonder if he wanted to solve these murders for some kind of justice or if he was really just after a promotion. Or did he want to be a hero? Didn't all men want to be heroes?

He turned up the radio, hoping to think about something else, but the pop song, something about fooling around and falling in love, didn't take him away. Then he was thinking about “Knockin' on Heaven's Door” again, the scene in that movie, Slim Pickens shot in the stomach, trying to be a good guy, helping Sheriff Pat Garrett bring in Billy the Kid. Slim staggers down to the river, his wife coming after him and that song starts playing. Seeing that movie was another one of the things Dougherty and Judy did together, but that one was his idea, a Hollywood western. But a good one. Guys trying to be heroes.

At Station Ten, Dougherty phoned Legault in the hospital to tell her about Comptois and she said it didn't matter now.

“What are you talking about?”

“The detectives found someone who told them Mathieu Simard was selling drugs,” Legault said. “It's a different investigation now.”

“No, it fits,” Dougherty said. “Mathieu started working for Comptois and something went wrong, he owed him money or something.”

“No, he was working for someone else, someone from Longueuil,” Legault said. “They picked him up, the dealer, and he told them everything — that Mathieu was selling drugs, that he was using drugs. They believe Mathieu killed Manon and then himself.”

“But you don't believe it.”

There was a long pause and then Legault said, “I would like to talk to this drug dealer myself.”

“All right,” Dougherty said. “Then that's what we'll do.”

He hung up and headed out to the parking lot.

Now he was certain he just wanted to find out who really killed the two kids.

Dougherty parked in the driveway beside the house and walked up to the front door. Legault was already starting to come out and he grabbed the screen door and held it.

“Hold on.”

She said, “I've got it,” and came out onto the concrete steps.

The front porch was under construction, the two-by-four frame in but nothing else. It looked to Dougherty like it may have been like that for a while and he said, “The cobbler's kids have no shoes, right?”

Legault was making her way down the steps, hopping a little, the cast on her ankle looking like a ski boot, and holding her crutch. “Every time he starts to work on it he gets another job.”

The house was an older wood-framed two-storey building, but the roof looked new and so did the picture window in the front. A work in progress.

Dougherty said, “Hang on,” and started around the car to the passenger side but Legault said, “I got it,” and had the door open and was getting in before he could get there.

“Nobody signed it yet.” He motioned to the cast as he was backing out of the driveway.

“It wouldn't look professional.”

Legault gave him directions, and Dougherty drove through the residential streets of Longueuil. On a busy street, Legault said, “I spoke to her yesterday,” and motioned to an apartment building as they passed.

It took Dougherty a moment to recognize it as the one where Mathieu Simard's mother lived, and he said, “How's she doing?”

“Awful,” Legault said, “terrible.” Then she pointed and said, “Turn left here.”

“She doesn't believe it, does she?”

“No, of course not.”

They drove a few more blocks, a few more turns, and ended up in a newer part of town, mostly bungalows with carports or a garage.

Dougherty was thinking, Of course she doesn't believe it, it's her son we're talking about, and he didn't want to believe it, either. He wanted it to be a homicide, he wanted to arrest someone and have them confess and go to jail.

Legault said, “This guy's name is Benoît Cloutier, he's twenty-three.”

“Where does he work?”

“He doesn't, he goes to university,
à
l'UQAM
.” She pointed and said, “There, number seventy-nine.”

Dougherty parked on the street and said, “Are you going to be okay?”

“To walk to the house?” Legault said. “Yes, I'll be fine.”

Dougherty wanted to go around the car and open the door for her, but he stood and watched as she got out and managed the crutch with her one good arm and made her way up the walk to the front door.

“Nice house.” Dougherty was walking slowly beside her.

“His parents', of course.”

Legault knocked, and a few minutes later a man's voice came from behind the door, speaking French, saying, “What do you want?”

“Police, we want to talk to you.”

The door opened and a guy in his twenties stood there looking at them. Dougherty figured the guy was just waking up: he was wearing a t-shirt with the Pink Floyd prism ironed-on and jeans but he was barefoot.

“What is it now?”

Legault said, “Can we come in, Benoît? We just want to go over the details again.”

“Again? I think I'm supposed to call my lawyer, hang on.”

Dougherty shoved the door hard, knocking it into Benoît and knocking him off balance.

Legault hopped over the doorway and into the house. She said, “Have a seat.”

Benoît was scared and didn't know what to do. Legault motioned with her crutch to a stuffed chair in the living room and said, “Right there.”

He walked into the living room and said, “Where are the other cops?”

“Sit down.”

He sat down.

Legault moved farther into the living room, and Dougherty stayed by the doorway. He was the threat, waiting, watching how it went. Benoît seemed to get this, and he looked from Dougherty back to Legault and said, “I told them everything.”

“So this won't take long. You sold marijuana and cocaine to Mathieu Simard, that's right?”

“Yes.”

“At the concert at Place des Nations?”

“Gentle Giant, yes.”

“Both drugs?”

“Yes.”

“How did he pay you?”

“What?”

“How did he pay you? One-dollar bills? Two-dollar bills? Tens?”

“I don't remember.”

“How much did he buy?”

“Couple of grams.”

“Couple grams of each?”

“I guess, I don't know,” Benoît said. “He wasn't my only customer.”

“Did you sell to him before the concert or after?”

“Before.”

“Was Manon with him?”

He thought about that and then said, “Yes, she was.”

“They were together?”

Now he was certain. “Yes.”

“Did you sell drugs to Mathieu any other time?”

“Yes, many times.”

It sounded rehearsed to Dougherty, but he didn't say anything, he didn't move, he just kept staring at Benoît as threateningly as he could.

“Where?”

“What?”

Legault said, “Where did you sell drugs to Mathieu? You go to UQAM, do you usually sell drugs at school?”

“No, not at school. Here.”

“Longueuil?”

“Yes.”

“At Mathieu's school, Monseigneur Parent?”

He looked at Legault and considered it, and then said, “No.”

She said, “But you sold to Mathieu before?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I can't remember.”

Legault stared at Benoît and didn't say anything for a long moment, then she looked at Dougherty and said, “You hear this?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Legault looked back at Benoît and said, “That's enough for now.” She turned, using her crutch maybe more than she needed to, and made her way to the doorway. She turned back and said, “We'll talk again.”

Outside by the car, Dougherty said, “Wasn't even close.”

“Why would they do this? Just to close a case? It's crazy. That guy never met Mathieu in his life.”

“Your sources for drugs are more reliable at high schools,” Dougherty said. “If Mathieu was using drugs, especially cocaine, you would have found the source.”

“This guy,” she motioned with her crutch, “might be selling weed and coke, but not in high schools. They must have picked him up and shown him Mathieu's picture. Just to close this case.”

“It happens all the time,” Dougherty said.

“At least you didn't punch him.” She started getting in the car.

“I would've if I'd had to,” Dougherty said. “But he wasn't a good enough liar.”

They pulled away from the curb, and Legault said, “I wonder what they offered him?”

“Guy like that, easy to make a deal with.”

“What do you mean, guy like that?” She was accusing.

“Because he's got something to lose,” Dougherty said. “Look at him, living in a nice house with his parents, going to school, he's got a good future ahead of him.”

Legault relaxed a little. “That's what you think?”

“Sure, he's not like the guys we busted in the Point or Ville-Émard — dropouts, losers.”

Legault said, “You see it all the time?”

“Well, to be honest,” Dougherty said, “my girlfriend explained it to me — she was studying sociology. But it makes sense.”

He was thinking of the song then, one of the ones Judy would play on her old record player, Janis Joplin singing about freedom being nothing left to lose, but he didn't think the guys he was talking about saw it that way.

“So what now?”

Dougherty said, “I think we should keep doing what we're doing. Somebody was on the bridge that night, they saw Mathieu and Manon and they killed them.”

“I think so, yes.”

“So, we keep talking to anybody who might have been there.”

“Louise Tremblay,” Legault said. “She had some information.”

“What was it?”

“She was the girlfriend of Marc-André Daigneault, we spoke to his mother in Ville-Émard.”

“Oh yeah,” Dougherty said, “I remember. She
was
his girlfriend, she isn't anymore?”

“That's right. Daigneault was in jail for a few months last winter, his mother said, remember?”

“Right.”

“She said when he got out of jail she didn't see him much. He spent his time with his girlfriend, Louise Tremblay.”

“Yeah.”

“So, I spoke to Louise. She said he moved in with her when he got out, but it didn't last. She said he was back to dealing drugs, hanging out with some bad guys, and she didn't want him to. They fought, he moved out.”

Dougherty said, “She told you that?”

“Not right away.”

“You think it's true? Or is she just mad they broke up?”

“I think she was sad. Disappointed. I think she really liked him.”

Dougherty said, “That's good work, getting her to talk like that.”

“Took a while,” Legault said.

“Well, it's good work.” Dougherty pulled into the driveway of Legault's house. “Did she have any idea where he is now?”

“I'm going to go see her again in a couple of days, she's going to try and find out.”

“You really did get through to her.”

“Well,” Legault said, “I didn't punch her.”

“Wait till next time.” Dougherty looked sideways at Legault, who was almost smiling at him. She had the car door open and was getting out. Again Dougherty wanted to run around the car and help her, but he felt she didn't want that.

She looked back inside the car and said, “I'll let you know what she says as soon as I can.”

“All right.”

Dougherty watched Legault make her way up to her front door and go inside her house.

He drove away thinking they were going to do it, they were going to keep on it until they found the guy who did it. Someone was going to talk, he was sure, they just had to keep asking.

The apartment was on the second floor of the three-storey building and from the balcony off the living room Dougherty could see the top of the round white church across the street. He thought it really did look like the top of a rocket ship that at any moment could rise up out of the ground and take off.

He'd been surprised the place was still available when Judy had called. July first was moving day, changed a few years earlier from May first, what his mom and the other women working in the assigning office of the phone company had always called the May Move, and it seemed like half the city of Montreal packed up and changed apartments. Dougherty and Judy paid the full month's rent for July, 235 bucks, and moved in the second week. Dougherty brought his bed and kitchen table and two chairs and Judy brought a pullout couch and a dresser and a few cardboard boxes marked
kitchen stuff.
When they spread it out all over the apartment Judy said, “This place is huge.” A one-bedroom, with living room/dining room and kitchenette — what was called a three-and-a-half in Montreal.

They'd moved in without anything to mark the occasion, no ceremony, no speeches, no party. It didn't really feel to Dougherty like it was a life-changing event, like it had any permanence or significance — no matter how much his mother tried to make him feel it did — and he hadn't talked about that with Judy, so he wasn't sure how she felt about it.

Now Dougherty was standing on the balcony, looking at the rocket ship church across the street, and he saw Judy coming across the street, Bishop Power, carrying a couple of paper grocery bags from Steinberg's in the mall, and he went back into the living room and lifted the cover off the turntable he'd just set up. He turned on the receiver and slid the new album out of its sleeve and put it in place. He waited a few minutes, and when he heard the apartment door opening, he lifted the arm and moved it over the edge of the record, which started turning automatically.

Crowd noises filled the apartment, a huge arena of people cheering and then Bob Dylan singing, “Don't Think Twice, It's All Right.”

Judy said, “What's this?”

“Housewarming present.”

She put the grocery bags down on the table and came into the living room. Dougherty handed her the album cover,
Before the Flood
, the live recording of the same tour they'd seen at the Forum a couple of years earlier.

“Nice stereo.”

“I got a great deal. Remember that store on St. Catherine that was robbed a few months ago? We caught the guys and the owner was so happy.”

“Not so happy,” Judy said. “They were employees, weren't they?”

“Relatives, too, I think. Anyway the guy gave me a deal.”

Judy was looking at the record cover and said, “Somebody rob Sam the Record Man, too?”

“All the time, but I had to pay full price for that.”

“You know I'm going to play a lot of Janis Joplin and Jesse Winchester.”

“I know.”

Judy was smiling. “It's like a real apartment.” She walked back to the table and started getting groceries out of the bag. “I got a barbecued chicken and some salads from the deli counter — I wasn't sure you'd be home.”

“Yeah, I went with Legault to talk to a guy, didn't take long.”

“Your day off.”

“Crime never sleeps.”

“How did it go?”

“Good.” Dougherty walked over to the dining room, really just the end of the living room by the kitchenette, and said, “About what we expected. The guys in Longueuil, they're saying the kid killed his girlfriend and then himself.”

Judy said, “You were worried about that.”

“Now they've got a guy who says he sold the kid some drugs, weed and coke.”

Judy closed the fridge door and said, “You don't believe him?”