“These people would have a fairly regular existence?
“Of course, they are human beings like you and me, Inspector. We all have routines and follow them. The homeless have routines, too. You just have to be able to see them. Haven’t you ever seen the same person every day at a particular spot? With each of these five, if I wanted to find them on a particular day, it wouldn’t be too hard. They all had more or less regular routines; areas of the city where they hung around, shelters they frequented, parks or lost corners of the city where they rested during the day.”
“And who are the people that connect these five?”
“Well, to start with, me, I suppose. I ministered to them all. But there are many others, Inspector. The people who work at the shelters and the drop-in centres, the social workers, the doctors, the nurses. That may seem like a lot, but think about all of the people you have contact with every day. With these people, it’s possible to name everyone who might have had some real contact with them. I doubt you could say that about you or even me.”
Vanier resisted the urge to tell him that he knew what it was like to go an entire weekend without talking to anyone other than clerks at the supermarket and the liquor store.
“How did you minister to them, Father Drouin?” asked Vanier.
“I talked to them. No, more importantly, I listened to them. I got to know them. And I’ll tell you something, Inspector, I loved each one of them. If these people were murdered, you must find the person who did that. These people were children of God, not garbage. Society would like to ignore them. But remember, Jesus said, Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers, you do unto me.”
Vanier tried to look beyond all the priests he had known, and tried to understand the man in front of him.
“So what were you doing on Christmas Eve, Father?”
“I’ve told you. Christmas is a very difficult time for me. I battle resentment. I resent all those people who show up in church only at Christmas, all those seasonal Christians. God’s house is full one or two days a year and empty all of the others. I can’t understand that. I want to tell these people if you don’t believe, don’t come, don’t waste your time and mine. And yet I have to welcome them. And I have to work very hard at being welcoming.”
“So where were you on Christmas Eve?”
“I was free until Midnight Mass when I was needed for the big show with all the costumes. I skipped supper. I went for a walk at about 4.30 and didn’t come back to the Cathedral until about an hour before Mass. About 10.30, I suppose.”
“Where did you go?”
“I walked, Inspector. There was a snowstorm. It was like being in one of those glass souvenir balls that you shake to make the snowflakes float all around. It was beautiful. The city was silent and I felt God’s presence. Perhaps that’s an occupational hazard, but it was peaceful in the storm. I felt like I was walking with God. I walked for hours.”
“You walked for six hours?”
“I suppose so. Is that odd?”
“Did you meet anyone, talk to anyone?”
“No. I avoided contact. If I saw someone approaching, I crossed the street. Sometimes I would turn into a side street and walk the other way to avoid contact. I craved solitude. Well, not solitude exactly. I just didn’t want to share the experience. As I said, I felt like I was walking with God and I didn’t want to share that with anyone.”
“And what time did you get back?”
“I told you. I got back to the Cathedral at 10.30.
“Who was the first person you saw when you got back?”
“Monsignor Forlini, when I presented myself for duty. That would have been about 11.”
“So, just so that I can get this clear, between 4.30 p.m. and 11 p.m. on Christmas Eve, there is nobody who can confirm where you were?”
“That’s correct, Inspector. I suppose you could say I was missing in action during that period.”
“Father Drouin, do you own a Santa suit?”
Drouin looked at Vanier as though he had asked if he wore a yarmulke.
“That’s what’s wrong with Christmas. Christmas is about Jesus Christ, not Santa Claus. Christmas is the celebration of the birth of humanity’s Savior. And Santa Claus is the last thing that Christians should be thinking about. So, to answer your question, Inspector, no, I don’t have a Santa Claus costume.”
“I need to ask these questions, Father,” said Vanier.
“I understand, Inspector. If someone killed these poor people, you must find him.”
“I intend to,” said Vanier. “I will probably have more questions for you. But that’s it for now.”
“Anything I can do to help, just ask me. You know where I am.”
“I do, Father.”
Through the two-way mirror, Laurent watched both men rise from the table. Vanier led Drouin out and walked him down to the main entrance, and waited in the cold while he went to his car. The priest didn’t look back.
Vanier returned and joined Laurent in the viewing room.
“What do you think, sir?” asked Laurent.
“I don’t know. I’m struggling to get over my prejudices against the Church, trying to see him simply as a man with a mission to love his fellow man. I have no problem understanding people who dedicate their lives to others. But I don’t get the inner joy from him. People who do this type of work, the ones I’ve seen exude goodwill, they’re happy. Drouin is angry, not joyful. Maybe he was shocked by the deaths. Who knows? But he was missing when Santa was giving out his gifts.”
“So he’s a suspect?”
“Damn right. So let’s see what we can find out about him. Get some history, but do it delicately. I don’t want the Archbishop calling the Chief. And nail down the time of the last image of Santa in the Metro. Would he have had time to get back to the Cathedral for 10.30? While you’re at it, check out the alibi. Can we get confirmation that he was seen at 11?”
“I’ll get onto it.”
12.45 PM
There was a line of people waiting in the numbing cold to be let into the Holy Land Shelter for lunch. A few were recognizable as down-and-out street people, but others would not have been out of place on the bus, or in the checkout line at the supermarket. Some were only boys trying their best to look like men; others looked old before their time. Most of those in line ignored Vanier and Laurent as they walked past, but some instinctively reached out a hand with an ingratiating smile, unable to miss an opportunity to ask for change.
Laurent held the door for Vanier and followed him into the warmth. Their path was blocked by an unsmiling man standing like a nightclub bouncer in a suit cut tight to emphasize muscle that you can only build with regular work with weights.
“Don’t I know you?” Vanier asked, searching his memory for a name.
“I’ve met a lot of cops. After a while they all look the same. Know what I mean?”
“We’re looking for M. Nolet.”
“Through those doors, to your right.”
The detectives started to move towards the door, and then Vanier stopped. “Audet. Marcel Audet, isn’t it? You were put away, what was it, seven years ago?”
“Yeah. And? I’ve done my time.”
“Got lucky, didn’t you? The poor bastard didn’t die from the beating, just became a vegetable. So it was assault, not murder. Now you’re back out on the street.”
“Like I said, I’ve done my time.”
“And the other guy’s probably still hooked up to some machine somewhere, wishing you’d come back and finish him off.”
“That’s all behind me. I’m clean. I’ve found a purpose in life.”
“I bet you have,” said Vanier.
“What do you know? When you deal with filth every day, you become filth,” he said, turning away from Vanier.