The Dead of Winter (24 page)

“And for that I thank you. Listen, I have to go.” Vanier thought for a second of suggesting dinner but let the thought pass; he wasn't sure what time he would be finished.

“Let me know what happens. Luc, you'll find him. I know you will.”

Vanier put the phone back in his pocket.

The front desk called twenty minutes later to say that Mme. Collins was asking for him. He told them to put her in the family room. It was still an interview room, but a little softer, with a couch and two armchairs squeezed into the impossibly small space. She was standing up when he arrived. He started to reach his hand out to shake hers but realized that she wasn't offering.

“Please, Mme. Collins, sit down,” he gestured to one of the armchairs. She sat stiffly on the armchair and put her bag on the floor, leaning it against her leg.

“I have just come from the Coroner's office. It's good news,” she said. “It's not him. It's not my son.”

“Dr. Segal called me.”

“I thought I had lost him forever.”

Vanier watched her carefully, wondering if she would, or even could, be any help in finding him. He doubted it. Mothers couldn't be trusted to turn in their sons. There was always a sub-plot, a faint hope that they could do something to make things turn out right. They would help you just as much as was absolutely necessary, always hoping that along the way they could save him.

“That doesn't help us find him, and we need to find him. Mme. Collins, it's time for you to help us. And we can help you. You couldn't do it on your own but maybe we can do it together.” He decided to fight dirty. “Who is the father, Madame Collins?”

The blow was obvious, and she took it like a boxer past his prime.

“What does it matter? It has never mattered.”

“If John is alive, and it seems that he is, then someone may be hiding him. And right now, he may be in danger.”

“That's rich, Inspector. You don't care about him. You think he's a mass murderer.”

“He's a suspect, and I want to talk to him, but this is a messy business. Someone else might think that one way to clean it up is to get rid of him.”

She looked at him. He imagined she was calculating, but her eyes gave no clue.

“Mme. Collins, I've seen too many bodies this week, and I want it to stop. If someone is helping him, they are both are in danger. Don't get me wrong, I want your son in custody. I think he's killed several people and could kill more. He needs help. And I need your help.”

There are moments when people make decisions and change directions in a heartbeat. The tipping point is unpredictable, but we all have one, when the old arguments finally lose their potency, and we clutch at whatever lifeline is thrown. She slumped forward, and then looked him in the eyes.

“Perhaps you're right. I have not told the story to anyone. It was 30 years ago. If it all happened today, things would be different. I can see that. There would have been counseling, some support. Perhaps it would have helped to talk to someone about it. But life was different back then. I was alone. I have loved three things in my life, Inspector, and each has taken that love and then rejected me. I joined the Church when I was 17 years old to escape my family. It was the only escape. I gave my life to the Church, and then the Church destroyed me. John's father is Monsignor Michael Forlini. Back then, he was just an ambitious young priest following a calling that he thought he had. He's been very successful. I loved him as much as I loved the Church, and I thought he loved me. He didn't. He used me and then rejected me like I was nothing. As soon as our relationship was discovered, I was sacrificed, and he was protected. His sin was to have given in to the temptations of the flesh, an understandable sin that could be forgiven. My sin was the treachery of a woman, the devil's handmaiden. I was left with nothing except my child, and I raised him with no help from his father. Then, 18 years later, he left without saying goodbye. But I still love him. John needs my help and I need him.”

She reached for the box of Kleenex on the floor but it was empty. Vanier pulled a Second Cup napkin from his pocket and gave it to her.

“I won't give you the sordid details of how it happened. But, believe me, the holy Monsignor Forlini does not know where John is. He never even acknowledged that he was John's father. He has never had anything to do with either of us. He even arranged to have me banned from the Cathedral. Not officially, of course, but any time that I go in, I am quickly asked to leave. When John first disappeared, I was convinced that his father might have something to do with it. Even though I couldn't enter the Cathedral, I spent months walking around it, hoping to catch sight of John. I would wait outside all the Masses. I watched the doors for hours, more than I care to think of, winter and summer, but I never saw him.”

“But that was years ago, Mme. Collins. Have you stopped watching the Cathedral?”

“I came to the conclusion that I was wasting my time, so I stopped.”

“If Monsignor Forlini decided to help John, is there any place he might hide him?”

“I have no idea. His life is the Cathedral, and you can't hide someone in the Cathedral.”

“I suppose not. Thank you, Mme. Collins, this has been very helpful, and I promise that I will do everything in my power to find your son. Let me have someone drive you home.”

“Thank you, Inspector. That would be kind, if it's not too much trouble.”

“No trouble. You just sit here and take it easy while I get a ride organized.”

“It's been a long day.”

“I'm sure it has. I will be in touch.”

Vanier arranged for Mme. Collins to get a blue-and-white taxi home. The uniform reported back that she had asked to be dropped off two blocks away. She didn't want the neighbours talking.

2 PM

Vanier and Janvier followed a young priest down a carpeted hallway lined with fading drawings and photographs of the Church's real heroes: not the saints on public display, but the men – and they were all men – who spent their lives in the back corridors and closed rooms nurturing the growth and power of the institution that gave their life importance. The dictators, bureaucrats, fixers and politicians of Mother Church. The priest stopped and knocked on one of the closed doors, then waited for some inaudible sign before ushering them into the presence of Monsignor Forlini. Walking on the plush ivory-coloured carpet was like walking on sponge. A wall of photographs of the Monsignor with famous people dominated the room. Vanier had seen these walls of self-celebration before, an invitation to an ice-breaking conversational opener for any meeting. He declined to break the ice.

The Monsignor was all smiles and offered coffee. They declined, and the young priest left them alone. Vanier placed the sketch of Collins on the dark mahogany desk in front of the Monsignor.

“Do you recognize this man?”

Vanier and Janvier watched closely as he studied the drawing. There was nothing but a calm interest.

“Of course I do. This is the sketch of the suspect in the homeless deaths, isn't it?”

“Yes. Do you recognize him?”

“From the news, and the newspapers, yes. But apart from that, I'm afraid not. Should I?”

“We're told he's your son, John Collins.”

If that had an impact on him it didn't show. He looked up and gave a short laugh. “I don't know who you've been talking to, Inspector, but I don't have a son. There was a malicious accusation many years ago but it was totally unfounded. I do not have a son.”

There are several kinds of liars. The good ones actually believe they are telling the truth. Others are arrogant enough to think the rest of the world is too stupid to know the difference. Still others work from a rule book only they know, strategizing like poker players, mixing it up: truth, lies, truth that sounds like a falsehood, and invention that sounds like fact. Vanier couldn't make up his mind about the Monsignor, but he didn't have to, just yet.

“Just for the record, sir, I am going to ask you a series of simple questions, and Sergeant Janvier here will record your answers. Will that be OK?”

“Perfectly.”

“So, once again, you do not know the person in the photograph.”

“Just for the record, Inspector, it is not ‘once again.' You did not ask me if I knew this person, you asked if I recognized him. But the answer is the same in both cases. No.”

“Does the name John Collins mean anything to you?”

“Of course it does. If I recall the news correctly, Collins is the suspect in these recent deaths. But just in case you fell that I am not being entirely forthright, there is another reason for me to recognize the name John Collins. It's a little delicate, but I can tell you. There is nothing to hide. Many years ago, a certain Yvette Collins, Sister Agnes as she was then, accused me of fathering her son. Absolutely preposterous of course, but she maintained that I had seduced her and caused her to become pregnant. She had a son, and I believe he was called John. She carried on a campaign against me and against the church for several years. I'm sure you understand Inspector, women can be, how shall we say, irrational at times, and the sisterhood seems to attract more than its fair share. It's likely that her sin pushed her over the top, so to speak, and she became convinced that I was the child's father.”

“Have you had any contact with John Collins in the last few years?”

“None at all. I wouldn't know him if he were to walk in here.”

“So, just for the record, you deny ever having contact with this man, John Collins.”

“Correct, Inspector. Now, was there something else?”

“I don't think so. Sergeant Janvier, did you get everything.”

“Yes, Chief.”

Vanier stood up, “Well, I think that will be all for the moment.”

The Monsignor came around the desk, hand out for a shake.

“Well, I don't think that I have been of much help, but anytime you want to talk, feel free to set something up with my secretary. I'll have him show you gentlemen out.”

As they walked to the car Vanier looked up at the clear blue sky and nodded at Janvier, “It's a change from the darkness in there.”

“Yeah,” replied Janvier. “Did you notice the smell?”

“I think it was the absence of women,” said Vanier.

4.30 PM

The investigation had been shut down prematurely, and it was proving difficult to get the extra people back. Everyone was involved somewhere else. Vanier and St. Jacques were the only ones in the Squad Room. Roberge, Janvier, and Laurent were out interviewing workers from Xeon Pesticides and from the homeless shelters, trying to find anyone who might have been close to John Collins.

Vanier turned to St. Jacques. “Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir? Just a second.” She was typing at a screen.

“Where did Audet do his time?”

“He got eight years, so he must have been at a Federal facility. I'll check.” She started typing searches and pulled up what they had on Audet. It didn't take long. “Donnacona, sir.”

“That will do. Give them a call and get his medical records as quickly as you can. Then get them over to Dr. Segal.”

“You think Audet might be the guy in the van?”

“Not really. It's a bit of a stretch, but it's worth a try. Nobody's seen him since the day of the fire, and we have an unidentified corpse. Who knows? It's worth a shot.”

St. Jacques was on the phone immediately, sweet-talking her way through the bureaucracy of Donnacona penitentiary. Fifteen minutes later she walked over to Vanier's desk. “Denis said that if he could put his hands on it he would fax it to me, otherwise it would have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Denis?”

“Yes, Denis. He sounded like a nice guy, not at all like a prison guard.”

Sergeant St. Jacques must have made an impression on Donnacona Denis, because a bundle of pages came through the fax 90 minutes later. St. Jacques faxed them on to Dr. Segal and then called Denis to thank him. Vanier heard them on the phone for twenty minutes, and St. Jacques was laughing. He hadn't heard that in a long while.

8 PM

Knowledge is power. And in the Church the humble confessional box has always been fertile black soil for harvesting knowledge. Monsignor Michael Forlini knew that, and he loved the sacrament of confession, as long as he was doing the listening. The anonymity of the confessional box was a farce. Its dark boxes separated only by a grille, covered and uncovered for each new penitent, served only to lull the unsuspecting into believing in a protected spiritual conversation with the Almighty. But a priest could identify the most of the penitents by their voices, and was familiar with their weaknesses and unimaginative appetites for the forbidden. But you can build dependence by instilling guilt and then releasing it with divine forgiveness. Priests carry the secrets of the confessional with them, and when they look into the eyes of a sinner leaving Sunday mass with his wife and children, when they greet the wife with a beaming smile and tousle the heads of the children, the sinner knows how much is owed. It isn't blackmail, it's a sacrament. A tool that Jesus gave his priests to help them build and protect the Mother Church, the first and most important goal of every member of the clergy, all the way up to the Papacy.