“No, Inspector, just because you don’t have any friends doesn’t mean that you have enemies. The truth is, nobody cared about these people, and certainly nobody cared enough to kill them.”
“There was nothing that struck you as odd in the last few weeks?”
“No, nothing. The usual grumbling and complaining about their lot.” Drouin semed to have a flash of memory and Vanier waited.
“There is something. George Morissette was particularly troubled about money recently.”
“George?”
“Yes, George Morissette, he used to be a notary, very smart when he’s sober. He kept saying that the shelter was cheating him. Every time we talked, he would bring it up. I thought nothing of it. I know M. Nolet, and he is a dedicated man. I just thought George was confused.”
“We’re going to need a full statement from you, your dealings with the victims, the last time you saw each of them, who they knew, that sort of thing.”
“Of course, I am happy to tell you everything I know. I just don’t know that it will be of any help.”
“You never know, Father. Laurent here will drive you to the station.”
“I just need a few minutes to close up.”
Drouin began to close down the shop, extinguishing candles and folding the linen that lay across the altar.
“So what was the service? Benediction?” Vanier asked, remembering childhood Sundays, mass in the morning, and benediction in the afternoon.
“No. A simple prayer service. People who come together in faith to seek the intercession of the Saints, in this case, St. Jude. As I said, Inspector, prayer is a wonderful thing. Prayer works miracles.” Drouin touched the box of cards. “After every service I put a date on the new cards, and we pray for the request for ten days. We meet three times a week, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. That comes to about two-and-a-half weeks of prayer.”
“So if I put my card in the box, you’ll pray for me?”
“Yes, Inspector, but if you want the Circle to pray for you rather than your request, perhaps you should fill out another card.”
“The Circle?”
“The Circle of Christ. That’s the name of the group. People like to belong, Inspector. It helps if the group has a name. If you put your card in the box, it will be read and the Circle of Christ will pray for your intention, or for you, at our next meeting.”
“I feel better already, Father. Could I ask you a favour?”
“Of course.”
“Could I borrow this box for a day? See what people are praying for? I’ll have it back, with its contents, in time for the next meeting.” Vanier was already holding the box.
Drouin hesitated. “It’s private. It’s the prayers of sincere believers. I can’t see what possible relevance it can have to your investigation.”
“Father, it’s going to sit here untouched overnight. Indulge me.”
“Well, I suppose so,” said Drouin.
“Great,” said Vanier, putting the box under his arm.
As they took the step down out of the crypt, Vanier turned to Drouin.
“We’ll find him, Father. And when we do, we’ll find everyone who put obstacles in my path, or who failed to raise their hand and point him out. If there’s anything on your mind, Father, call me,” he said, handing him a business card and turning to leave. “Laurent will wait for you and take you to the station.”
11 AM
Vanier was running the engine to keep the car warm. He pulled St. Jacques’s note from the envelope and scanned the list of numbers, names and comments. One name stood out, Rene Gauthier, a journalist with the Journal de Montreal. Vanier recognized the name from the Journal’s coverage of the Christmas Eve murders. He punched in the numbers and it picked up after two rings.
“Oui?”
“M. Gauthier?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Detective Inspector Vanier.”
There was a brief pause, then, “Detective Inspector, I’m honoured. What can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to congratulate you on your coverage of the homeless deaths. You must be working very hard on the story.”
“Very kind of you, Inspector. I do what I can.”
“You seem to be in front of the pack on this one. You always know more that your competitors.”
“I work harder than them. Simple as that.”
“Tell me, do you know my colleague, Detective Sergeant Fletcher?”
Another pause. “Of course I do. He’s my brother-in-law.”
Vanier looked at St. Jacques’ list again. Fletcher had been calling two Gauthiers, the list said: the other was Marie-Chantal Gauthier, Wife. “Marie-Chantal is your sister?”
“Correct.”
“And what are you going to tell Marie-Chantal when her husband gets his ass kicked off the force?”
“What?”
“Simple question.”
“Listen, Inspector, if you think that David is my source, you’ve got it dead wrong. In fact, he’s been pissed at me for the last few days. Every time I do a story that’s a bit too accurate he’s on my case wanting to know where I’m getting my information. He was worried. He knew someone would make the connection soon enough.”
“So what did you tell him?”
“What I told you; that I work harder than the others.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Believe whatever you like, Inspector. I have a job to do, and just because my brother-in-law is on the investigation doesn’t mean I stop working. But don’t think that he’s feeding me information. He’s not.”
“Just so we’re clear, M. Gauthier. If you have a source in my division, he or she is finished. Understand?”
“Good day, Inspector.”
3 PM
Vanier was sitting with his back to a wall in Magnan’s Tavern, his attention divided between watching the door and watching highlights of last night’s hockey game on the big screen. Magnan’s was almost empty, the lunch crowd long gone and the evening crowd not yet arrived. Only the serious drinkers were bridging the gap. Beaudoin walked in and quickly spotted Vanier. As he sat down, a waitress close to retirement age appeared behind Vanier with a tray in one hand, the other resting on Vanier’s shoulder. Beaudoin ordered a beer and Vanier a refill.
“I wanted to follow up on our conversation. We were interrupted,” said Beaudoin.
“Yes, I noticed. It must be hard.”
“What?”
“Becoming a professional, and then finding that you’re not in charge. You’re still taking orders.”
“Are you in charge, Inspector?”
“Ha,” Vanier’s eyes brightened. “Good question. Can we ever be independent?”
“Win the lottery, I suppose.”
“No. Not even then. So what else is there?”
“What?”
“The Shelter. What should I know?”
The waitress put two frosted drafts on the table and walked off, and Beaudoin started talking. There was a company, Blackrock Investments, and they were interested in acquiring the Holy Land property. Not acquiring exactly, because acquiring implied buying it, it implied a cost. They were interested in having the Shelter’s land and a lot less interested in paying for it. Henderson got wind of it somehow and, all of a sudden, Blackrock became a client. Henderson concocted a plan. It was a land swap. Blackrock owned land on the fringe of the fringe of the lower island under the expressway, a worthless patch of land good for nothing but low-rent warehouses and chop-shops. It was known as The Stables, because people had once kept horses there, maybe a hundred years ago, but it was now one of those useless, polluted urban islands, rendered inaccessible by highways and train tracks. The plan was to swap the Holy Land property for The Stables, along with a promise to build a state-of-the-art refuge for the homeless. Because promises and plans are cheap, no expense was spared. It would be a comfortable home for the destitute, designed for rehabilitation, retraining and reintegration; an ambitious plan to bring the homeless back into society instead of just warehousing them for a night.