The Dead of Winter (2 page)

A cruiser was parked at the University Street entrance to the McGill Métro with its motor running for heat; the snow under the exhaust was black with the crap spewing out. Vanier parked in front of the cruiser and got out. Police officers get very nervous when you approach them from behind. He pulled out his badge and held it in front of him as he walked towards the cruiser. Two officers were dozing in the front seat, and he was disturbing them. They both looked at the badge, and the driver got out of the car. The passenger went back to snoozing. Vanier smelled pizza and wondered if the constable could smell whiskey.

“Yes, Inspector. What can I do for you?”

“Have they finished with the body here, Constable Desjardins?” said Vanier, reading the officer's name badge.

“Yeah. Everyone cleared out about half an hour ago,” he said, wiping his sleeve across his mouth to get rid of the food stains. “They brought the stiff to the morgue about an hour ago, but the crime scene people were dragging their asses inside. Christ, you'd think the fucking Premier had died. If you ask me, I think it's the double time they get for the holidays. Anyway, they just left.”

“I guess they have their jobs to do.”

“Maybe that's it, Inspector. But if we put in this effort for every homeless asshole that turns up stiff, we'd blow the budget in six months. Know what I mean?” He was grinning, inviting Vanier to share his insight. “Nobody cares if we treat them like the shit they are when they're alive, but Christ, all of a sudden they're dead and they've got status. We're all falling over ourselves to find out how they died. But who the fuck cares? You know what I'm saying?”

“So there's no use for me here,” said Vanier.

“It's all over, Inspector. And a waste of time if you ask me.”

Vanier turned to leave. “Merry Christmas, Constable Desjardins, and the same to your colleague when he wakes up.”

“Thank you, Inspector. And the same to yourself.”

Vanier walked back to his car. As he drove off, he looked in the mirror and saw the Constable standing in the street looking after him. Vanier wondered what kind of horror it would be to be arrested by Constable Desjardins.

The Atwater Métro station was 12 blocks west, and Vanier circled the Alexis Nihon high-rise that stood over the station complex until he spotted a cruiser and a crime scene van parked by the entrance to the garage. Two officers were stamping their feet next to the cruiser, their breath billowing white in the cold. Vanier got out of the car and walked towards them, badge in hand. They seemed relieved to have some activity.

“Vanier, Major Crimes,” he said, shaking cold hands.

He turned to look up at the ledge overlooking the garage entrance where a crime scene technician was on his hands and knees.

The technician looked down and smiled.

“Inspector Vanier, good to see you again. I'm almost finished here. The body was just taken away, and there's not much else. She must have stashed her bags somewhere before settling down for the night. Your people will probably find her stuff in the morning.”

“Mr. Neilson, isn't it? Good to see you again. So you found nothing?” asked Vanier.

“Except this.” He held up a Second Cup coffee thermos. “Don't even know if it's hers. We'll do the prints, but she was wearing gloves. Maybe she took off her gloves to drink her eggnog; you know, some people never lose their manners.”

“Eggnog?”

“Yes, sir, eggnog, with a healthy dose of rum by the smell of it. I was tempted to try it myself.” Neilson lowered himself to the ground and walked over to Vanier.

“You'd be amazed how warm it is up there. Every few minutes, the garage vents hot air that seems to just hang there. If I had to sleep outside in the middle of winter, this would be the spot. You don't even have to climb up. You can go up the steps by the building doors and walk along the ledge.”

“How did they find her?” asked Vanier.

“One of the tenants was returning home at 8:30 p.m. and noticed her settling in for the night. She called security to have them move her on. Nice, eh? Like
Merry Christmas now fuck off
. The security guard didn't go for it at first, says he was alone and couldn't leave the desk. Anyway, the tenant called back at about 10 p.m. and had a fit when she was told that nothing had been done. She called the building manager at home and the security guard finally went out a little after 11 p.m. He couldn't wake her, so he called 911. So we have a time of death between 8:30 p.m. and 11 p.m.”

“Any signs of violence?”

“Nothing. She died in her sleep looking real peaceful.”

“There's another body?”

“Yes, Inspector. Just down the street in Cabot Park. I'm going there now. Why don't you follow me? It's in the south entrance to the Métro.”

“Let's go.”

Vanier turned to the uniforms who were still clapping their hands together and stamping their feet in the cold. “You can close this up. We've finished here.”

“That's good news, sir. I hear my bed calling me.”

“Enjoy your Christmas, officers,” said Vanier.

He got into his car and waited for the crime scene van to pull out. Cabot Park took up a city block in front of the Children's Hospital but, despite its location, it was a lost space, a watering hole for the city's destitute. Every time he passed it, Vanier wondered why some places are shunned by the majority of the citizens and become a gathering point for the outcasts. Were transients simply claiming an unwanted patch of land, or was their presence scaring off everyone else? It was one of the ugliest parks in Montreal. In summer, too many trees choked off light, so that, instead of grass, the ground was hard- packed clay. In fall, mud made it impassable. In winter, the gloom of the bare, black trees darkened even the freshest snowfall. And every day, buses lined up in a circle around the park waiting to start their routes, running their engines, and filling the air with the stink of exhaust fumes.

A squat, ugly building of glass and prison-grey concrete that housed an entrance to the Métro and a control room for bus traffic sat on the northwest corner, an architectural marriage of bunker and telephone booth with less charm than either. When it was freezing, people sheltered inside the bunker waiting for their bus to arrive and uneasily shared space with clutches of drinking and arguing street people.

Neilson parked close to a snow bank on St. Catherine Street, and Vanier pulled in behind him, leaving room for access to the back doors. Flashes of light from the police photographer lit up the bunker as they approached. Neilson was first to the building and pulled open the heavy door for Vanier. It was cold inside. The waiting area was unheated and, even though it was sheltered, the concrete floor and walls radiated damp cold as the wind howled through the doors. But, despite the constant circulation of cold air, the place still stank of alcohol and urine.

The body was tucked under a concrete bench with an empty bottle of wine at its head. Another cocoon wrapped against the elements, hoping to preserve some warmth at the centre. Vanier nodded at the two officers protecting the scene. The photographer was repacking his equipment, getting ready to leave.

“We'll have head shots of all of the victims ready first thing in the morning,” he said to Vanier, lifting the strap of his shoulder bag.

“That's great. Much appreciated,” said Vanier.

Neilson knelt down to begin his work, peeling the blankets away. Another weather-beaten face lined by deep wrinkles. A man, perhaps in his forties, perhaps younger, the street ages people quickly. Vanier looked at the body and wondered how you could retain heat on the concrete floor in the freezing Montreal night. Even with all the layers, the newspapers closest to the skin, covered by a shirt and pants, a sweater and an overcoat, all wrapped in dirty blankets, eventually the cold would seep into the core of the body. How long could you sleep like that, without the cold waking you? Alcohol might buy you some time, but after a few hours the cold would take over, forcing you to wake up or die.

Neilson talked into a hand-held recorder. Vanier looked around but could see nothing unusual, just another victim who went to sleep and never woke up. He turned away. There was nothing he could do.

“Unless you need me, Mr. Neilson, I'll be off. When you've finished, tell these men they can close up the scene.”

As he turned to leave, Vanier had a thought. “Mr. Neilson, did you see the body at the McGill Métro?”

“Yes, Inspector. That was my first stop tonight.”

“And?”

“There's not much to say. Much the same as this situation, Inspector. A man sleeping rough. No signs of violence, looks like a peaceful end to a hard life. Nothing suspicious, except for the number of them. Could be a bad coincidence. Maybe they all realized it was Christmas Eve and couldn't take it anymore, but that's unlikely. I don't suppose you survive on the streets by being sentimental. Hopefully, the autopsies will tell us something.”

“Maybe,” said Vanier, almost to himself as he turned to leave.

“Have a good Christmas, Inspector.”

“You too, Mr. Neilson. Merry Christmas.”

Vanier walked out of the death-cold building into the colder night, got into his car and headed home.

Twenty minutes later he stood at the window in his living room looking down over the city with a fresh glass of Jameson in his hand. Hot air from heating systems rose straight up from rooftop vents to condense into white vapour in the cold, like the smoke from so many campfires. He took in the city below him down to the river and beyond, to the endless blanket of white and grey stretching to the horizon. It would be cold again tomorrow. Yesterday's snow had given way to clear skies that were expected to last for several days and the temperature would fall to a punishing deep freeze. There would be sunlight without heat. Montreal winters are unforgiving, a relentless cold tempered by snowstorms that allow the temperature to rise by a few degrees, then clear skies, and cold again.

He wondered how many people slept outside in weather like this, and what madness drove them to it? And if someone was killing them, why stop at five?

THREE
DECEMBER 25

8.25 AM

The jangling phone woke Vanier
from a fitful sleep on the couch. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out.

“Hello?”

“C'est moi, Papa. Joyeux Nöel.”

“Élise, ma belle. How are you? Merry Christmas. God it's great to hear your voice. Where are you?”

“Chez Maman, in beautiful downtown Toronto, as they say.” She was whispering in a perfect English accent. He knew that she was talking softly so as not to let her mother know.

“You sound like you're still in bed.”

“I am, Papa. I wanted to call you to say Merry Christmas before the day gets started. It's the first thing I did, Papa. I haven't even checked to see if there is a sock from Santa at the end of my bed. Probably not, though. That was your job wasn't it?”

“What? Élise, how can you suggest such a thing?” he said, continuing the fable. “I had absolutely nothing to do with any socks – except for lending you one of mine, because they were the biggest!”

She giggled like the child she no longer was. And then there was silence. He could hear her breathing. He listened, wanting the moment to last, enjoying the unconscious communication of love. Words would break it so he said nothing. Eventually, she stirred.

“I got your present. I love getting parcels in the mail.”

“I hope you like it.”

“I'm sure I will, Papa. I haven't opened it yet.” He knew it was probably in her room, out of the way, not to disturb Marianne with a sign of his presence. Élise would open it when she had time to herself.

“Will you let me know what you think? It's only a small thing.”

“I'm sure it's wonderful.”

There was a silence. Then, “So, Papa, have you heard from Alex?”

The moment was broken, and the tension flooded in.

“Not yet, Élise. I've booked a call for tomorrow. It's hard to get to speak to him, but he told me that you guys email each other.”

“Yeah. He emails me all the time, and we talk on Skype. You should get yourself set up on Skype. It's easy, I'll show you how next time I'm in Montreal. Alex would like that, I know he would.”

He knew it would be a while before she was next in Montreal. Maybe in the summer, but he couldn't ask. She would take that question as pressure.

“That would be great, Élise. How does he sound to you?”

“It's tough in Kandahar. But he seems to be holding up. It's like he's found his place in the Van Doos. He's assigned to protect the Provincial Reconstruction Team, that's what he calls it. Says he's doing good work too. But it's dangerous. I think of him all the time.”

“So do I, Élise, so do I.”

“So, when you speak to him tomorrow, wish him Merry Christmas from me. And be easy on him, Papa. I know that you guys fight sometimes but he loves you, Papa, just like me.”

“I know, Élise, I know. I am a lucky man.”

“So, Papa. Merry Christmas. Je t'aime.”

“And I love you too, ma belle. Come back to Montreal soon. Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah. I love you too, Papa. Joyeux Nöel.”

“Joyeux Nöel, ma belle.”

With a click the phone went dead, and Vanier stared at the floor. The single thing that he wanted to do on Christmas Day, and it was done. He looked at the clock. 8.40.

He rose stiffly from the couch and walked to the bathroom, replaying the conversation in his head.

11.15 AM

The Métro Security Headquarters consists of a small series of windowless offices deep under the street in the Berri Métro station. Vanier pulled the door open and walked in, already impatient with the diplomatic burden of not stepping on toes. Most people, even policemen, bristle at the sight of métro officers. They don't carry guns, and they make up for that inadequacy with intimidating swat-team uniforms, complete with bulletproof vests and the swagger of schoolyard bullies. But when below ground in their system, even cops have to show them respect.

An officer approached Vanier and introduced himself with an outstretched hand. He was dressed like he was going to lead a Special Forces team to take out a bunch of terrorists.

“Inspector Vanier, it's wonderful to see you again. Inspector Morneau, Métro Security.”

Morneau flashed a white-toothed smile that was more formal than friendly, and Vanier racked his brain to remember where the hell he had seen him before.

“Inspector Morneau, good of you to come out on Christmas morning.”

“Thank you, Inspector. We're taking this very seriously. We must get it cleaned up as soon as possible.”

“It not easy to clean up five bodies, Inspector. It's not like litter.”

Morneau didn't notice the rebuke. “Your Detective Sergeant St. Jacques has already been here for some time,” he said, gesturing to the back of the office. Vanier followed the gesture and saw Sylvie St. Jacques looking over the shoulder of a computer operator at a bank of TV screens. She was wearing black pants and a thick sweater and had the aura of someone tightly coiled but in control. She smiled up at Vanier as he approached, beckoning with her hand as if to get him to move more quickly.

“Take a look at this, sir,” she said. “Victim number four in the station at 8.30 last night.”

Vanier looked at the screen she was pointing to. There was a bag lady in a heavy dark coat shuffling down the platform with two large bags in each hand and two smaller ones tied to her belt. She kept her head down as she moved forward to a bench and sat down, arranging the bags around her feet. Then she leaned back against the wall and was still.

“She sits there for half an hour without moving, and nobody so much as looks at her. People wait for trains, get on them and leave or get off and leave. And it's like she isn't there. They all walk around her. Now, fast forward to 9.05.”

Vanier watched as the image jumped and then stilled, with 21:05 printed in the bottom left hand corner of the screen.

“Just here, sir. Look.”

On the screen, the unmistakable figure of Santa Claus appeared from the platform entrance, complete with a white beard and a bag slung over his shoulder. He looked up and down the platform and then walked directly up to the bag lady, put his bag down beside her, and leaned forward, seeming to whisper to her.

They watched as she raised her head and then her arms as if to welcome Santa. He reached into his sack and pulled out something in the shape of a fire log and handed it to her. She took it and held it for a moment before smiling up at him again. Vanier wondered if she recognized him, or was simply happy to see Santa Claus.

“Now watch this, sir.”

In the grainy black and white image, Santa leaned in even closer to the woman, held her chin and kissed the top of her head.

St. Jacques counted, “One, two, three, four, five. Five seconds, sir. He held the kiss for five seconds!”

Breaking the kiss, Santa stroked the old lady's hair and, again, seemed to whisper something to her. Then he picked up his sack and started back along the platform. Before he turned into the platform exit, he stopped and lifted his arm in a farewell wave to the bag lady. Then he was gone.

“We have him going up the escalator and out the door onto St. Catherine Street. Then we have nothing more until 10 p.m.,” said St. Jacques.

The operator skipped the tape forward to 22:00, and the image showed the bag lady slowly rise to her feet and put Santa's gift in one of her bags. Then she pulled them all up and began shuffling along the platform, away from the entrance.

“What did he give her?” asked Vanier, trying to understand what he had just seen.

“They found a brand new woolen throw with her, the sort you can find anywhere. Probably useful to keep you warm if you're sleeping rough. Rolled up tight, it could be the gift.”

“Anything else from the CC cameras?”

“That's all we have for the moment, but we've lots to review. M. Savard here has been a lot of help.” She put her hand on the operator's shoulder and he swiveled around in his chair to face the pair, a huge grin on his face. He was enjoying working with St. Jacques.

“I'll let you get on with it, then. I want every image of Santa that we can get. See if we can get a face shot. And get Santa's timing down; time in, time out.”

“What about the Santa suit, sir? Maybe it's a rental.”

“Right. Have someone contact the owners of every rental shop in town; there can't be that many. Let's get the names and addresses of everyone who rented a Santa suit. I don't care if it is Christmas morning.”

St. Jacques was writing things down. “I'll get onto it but there aren't many people about today. Everyone is off.”

“See what you can do. And find out if anyone keeps records of homeless deaths. Take a look at the numbers over the last few months and see if there's anything suspicious. OK?”

“Yes, sir. Oh, and this, sir.” She picked up a brown envelope from the table and handed it to Vanier. “These are the photos of the victims.”

Vanier reached into the envelope and pulled out five colour photographs. Each was a front-on headshot, like mug shots except the eyes were all closed.

Inspector Morneau had been watching from a discreet distance, listening to the exchange.

“Inspector Morneau. If I go to the McGill Métro, could you have one of your people meet me and show me where the victim was found last night?”

“Certainly, Inspector. I'll send someone. When you arrive, he will be waiting at the ticket booth inside the University Street entrance. He'll be in uniform. Just introduce yourself.”

12.30 PM

Montreal is rooted in hard, volcanic rock by a giant system of tunneled spaces, an underground city that grew like an ant colony. It started with the métro system, opened just before Expo 67, and hasn't stopped spreading. Tunnels are main streets connecting underground neighbourhoods where food courts in shopping centres replace village greens. A 35 square kilometre, neon-lit, climate controlled, private metropolis, a Disney-like masquerade of public space controlled so tightly that real city mayors are jealous. Métro Security and private guards swarm through the spaces keeping order, while security cameras manned in real-time see everything so that reaction is always swift. Doors that open early in the morning to welcome consumers are locked at night like the gates of ancient walled cities. By unwritten and ever-changing rules, access is granted and denied at the whim of high school dropouts with uniforms and failed candidates for the police force. It's a modern world where piped music replaces birdsong and artificial scents replace flowers.

In this world, the homeless must adjust to a constantly changing level of scrutiny. They may be grudgingly tolerated in one area, providing they keep moving through, and forbidden in others. When they walk from a semi-public métro tunnel into a commercial space they are picked up on security cameras, and guards appear to make sure that they either don't come in or that they leave quickly.

The McGill Métro station is the heart of the underground city, occupying a four-acre rectangle at the 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 métro 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?”