He focused on his breathing, belly out for the inward breath, in for the outward breath, and relaxed. Thoughts bubbled up from the depths, and he acknowledged them as he had been taught, and let them continue their upward journey out of consciousness. After five minutes, there were no more thoughts, just steady breathing, awareness and a sense of wellbeing. He let twenty minutes roll into thirty, like a child refusing to come out of the pool in summer, and finally surfaced with an unconscious smile on his face.
He got up, stretched, and went into the kitchen, cut chunks from a block of extra-old cheddar, and put an English muffin in the toaster. The kettle boiled, and he made a cup of instant coffee, then sat at the table eating and looking at downtown through the picture window. The phone rang.
“Vanier,” he said.
“Luc,” said Dr. Anjili Segal.
“Anjili. How are you?” said Vanier, happy that he didn’t sound like he had been drinking all night.
“I’m well Luc. So, you survived Christmas?
“It was wonderful,” he lied. “And you?”
“The same, Luc. But I’ll be glad to get back to work. I’m booked for the fourth and fifth autopsies of your Christmas Eve victims. If you want to be there, I am starting at 11.30 on the first. Probably three o’clock on the other one.”
“I’ll be there, Anjili. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
“You don’t have to be facetious, Luc. I just thought you would be interested in attending.”
“Anjili, I didn’t mean it like that. I’ll be there. I may even bring a guest.”
“I’ll see you then, Luc,” she said and hung up.
9 AM
St. Jacques put the phone down as Vanier walked into the Squad Room. She didn’t look happy.
“The Santa suits are a dead end, sir. We checked the rental stores on the Island without any luck. There are only four stores that rent them out, but there’s any number of other places that sell them. Even Wal-Mart sells them. Of the four rental places, only two rented suits with fur trim on the bottom of the pants. Apparently, it’s a premium item, and our Santa had fur on the hem of his pants. Only eight of those suits were still out on Christmas Eve. It seems that the big trade in rentals is for parties before Christmas, not for the night itself. Anyway, all but eight of them were returned before Christmas Eve.”
“Have we tracked them down?” asked Vanier.
“Seven were accounted for, and both the owners and their suits were far away from downtown on Christmas Eve. The eighth was rented by a Tony Martino, who was at home Christmas Eve, but he left the suit in his office. He was supposed to have returned it on December 23 but didn’t. He was nervous during the interview with the uniforms. He said he left the suit in the office after the Christmas party because there was a stain on it and he wanted to wash it out before giving it back.”
“He couldn’t bring it home for the wife to wash, I suppose?” said Vanier.
“Exactly, sir. Human frailty,” said St. Jacques. “The stain seems to have been semen, his own, the result of an encounter with one his staff that got out of hand, so to speak. Kind of like the Lewinsky dress. He wanted to clean it up before he brought it back, but didn’t have time, so he left it in the office. He told the officers where he left it, and that’s where it was when Martino brought the officers to the office. Martino says that nobody could have got into the office after it closed, and he was with his family on Christmas Eve.”
Vanier sighed. “So no easy trail to Santa. The perfect disguise at Christmas. Everyone sees it but there’s nothing special about it.”
St. Jacques continued her summary. “Two ticket sellers at the metro remember seeing Santa entering. He used tickets to clear the turnstiles, so we can’t check monthly pass information. Only one of them remembers seeing him leave. He said he was moving quickly and not looking around him. But there was nothing to distinguish him from any other Santa. From the camera images, we know he didn’t use the metro to go from one station to the next. He entered and left each station he visited. From the timing of his appearances, he didn’t have time to walk or take a bus either. We checked the taxi companies, and none of the drivers remembers picking up any Santa. He wouldn’t have been riding a bike in that weather. So that leaves a car. He must have driven from station to station. From the camera images, Santa was six foot two and, from the way he walked and filled out the suit, he was in good shape. Hard to tell an age, but probably under forty.”
“OK, St. Jacques. Keep looking at the films. What else do we have?”
D.S. Roberge spoke. “Dr. Grenier’s alibi checks out. I spoke to his wife, and he was home Christmas Eve. As for Drouin’s return to the Cathedral, I spoke to Monsignor Forlini, he was the senior priest at Midnight Mass. He wasn’t sure of the exact time when he first saw Drouin, but said that it could have been between 10.45 and 11.15 p.m. He said that Drouin was rushing to get into his vestments, and Mass started at 11.35.”
“And what was the last sighting of Santa?”
“10.30, sir, at the Berri Metro. I had them go back and confirm,” said St. Jacques.
“That’s tight, but possible. If he had a car he could get back to the Cathedral by eleven easy. But Drouin said he left his car at the Cathedral.”
“He could be lying,” said Laurent.
“Would be lying if it were him. Did we check out parking tickets in the area?”
“I’ll do it,” said Roberge.
Vanier noticed Laurent shuffling papers, getting ready to speak. “Laurent, we can talk about the Holy Land Shelter in the car. We have an opening to go to.”
A tired joke. Laurent sighed. “You drive or me?”
“I’ll drive,” said Vanier. “Give me a few minutes.” He turned to the group. “Everyone have something to do?”
Heads nodded, and Vanier picked up the phone.
11 AM
The drive to the Coroner’s building was easy. Most people were still on vacation, and the only serious traffic was caused by giant trucks loaded with snow going to the dump or returning empty for their next load. Vanier drove fast, speeding up through yellow lights and anticipating the greens.
“So what’s the story at the Holy Land Shelter?” asked Vanier.
“Well, up to last March, Father Drouin was on the Board.” Laurent was leafing through his notebook. “Then there was a huge turnover in March, seven new members on a ten-member Board. That means seven resigned or were kicked out. That has to be pretty disruptive for the organization. I’ve started to get the stories on the ones who resigned first. I figured, if there was a problem, the outgoing members would be more inclined to talk.”
“Who can we talk to besides Drouin?”
“I’m running through the names, trying to figure out how to get in touch with them. A likely one is Pascal Beaudoin. I found a listing for Pascal Beaudoin as the Secretary of the Board for the last four years. And I found a lawyer downtown called Pascal Beaudoin with Henderson amp; Associates.”
“How do you know it’s the same Pascal Beaudoin?”
“The new Secretary is a certain Gordon Henderson, the same name as the main guy in Henderson amp; Associates. I figure it’s not a coincidence.”
“So why don’t you call this Beaudoin and see if we can go to see him after the autopsies.”
Laurent got on the phone and had an appointment confirmed with Beaudoin by the time they were pulling into the parking lot. The Coroner’s building sat on rue Parthenais in the East End, in a poor residential neighbourhood. A typical 1960s government building, unimpressive in form, style, and functionality, someone’s idea of building up the local economy by dumping a government building in the middle of a depressed area.
The autopsy viewing room was a small, utilitarian space designed to allow students to watch and learn; wooden benches and a large picture window overlooked the business area. On December 27, the students had found better things to do, and the detectives were alone.