“Hello?” a young voice, a girl.
“Hey, Chickadee!”
“Papa,” she squealed. “Where are you? Maman made shepherd’s pie, your favourite.”
“I’m still at the office, my love. I have to work late. Can you pass me Maman?”
“Maman,” she yelled into the phone. There was silence. Then she said, “Maman says if you’re going to be late, you can heat up your supper in the microwave. Are you going to be here before I go to bed? I can wait for you.”
“No, my love. It’s going to be late. Tell you what, though, I’ll see you in the morning. Tell Maman and David good night from me, and give them both a big kiss and a hug. I love you, Chickadee.”
“Me too, Papa. But I gotta go. Dinner’s on the table. Bye.”
He heard the click of disconnection and put the phone back in the receiver. He turned back to M. Blanchard’s problem, which was quickly becoming Westmount’s problem.
5 PM
From where he sat, Vanier could see the back of D.S. Fletcher’s head. Fletcher had just returned to work and was catching up. Vanier had spent the last hour reading interview reports and watching Fletcher. Eventually, Fletcher pushed his chair back and rose from his desk, stretching. “Anyone want coffee?”
“Sure,” said Vanier, fishing for change. “Regular Colombian, milk, no sugar.”
Fletcher took the coins and three other orders and left. His jacket was still on the chair, and Vanier was on his feet immediately, walking towards the wall that held the maps, photos and notes of the investigation. As he passed Fletcher’s desk, he bent slightly and pulled Fletcher’s cell phone from his jacket pocket. Back at his desk he quickly scribbled the numbers in the call log since Christmas Eve, along with the times and duration. He looked up from time to time and scanned the room, but if anyone had noticed, they were not saying anything. When the list was done, he wandered back towards the photo wall and slipped the phone back into Fletcher’s pocket. He was studying the wall when Fletcher returned with the coffee.
“So what do you think, sir?” said Fletcher, handing him the coffee.
“Thanks. Don’t know what to think. Maybe we’re wasting our time.”
“We won’t know till we get the cause of death, I suppose.”
Fletcher went back to his desk. An hour later, he went to the bathroom, and Vanier approached St. Jacques and handed her a paper.
“I have a job that needs discretion.”
She looked at the list.
“I want all these numbers identified, but don’t do the checking from here, and don’t tell anyone what you’re doing.”
She couldn’t help glancing at Fletcher’s desk.
“Yes, sir. When do you need this?”
“Soon as you can, Sergeant.”
11 PM
Vanier was wandering fitfully around his apartment, picking things up and putting them away, keeping busy. An unopened bottle of Jameson was calling to him, and he was doing his best to resist. It was late, and he wasn’t tired, but sleep would be the only way to quiet the bottle. The phone rang.
“Luc?”
“Anjili. What’s new?”
“Bad news. The five victims from Christmas Eve all died of poisoning. Potassium cyanide.”
“Are you sure?”
“Normally toxicology can take weeks of tests, if you don’t know what you’re looking for. There are just too many variables. But we decided to test directly for potassium cyanide. All the victims were flushed.”
“Flushed?”
“Pink looking. First, we put it down to alcohol, but one of the doctors reported smelling almonds, which is typical with potassium cyanide poisoning. So we got one of the bottles from your people and tested the residue. It showed positive for potassium cyanide, along with rum and eggnog. Then we did blood tests and found significant concentrations in each of them. Luc, each of them had ingested enough to kill a horse. These people were poisoned, Luc.”
“Shit. What exactly is potassium cyanide?”
“It’s the same poison that Jim Jones used for the mass suicide of his followers. Remember Georgetown?”
“That was a cult, right?”
“Yes, it was a cult. He killed himself and 600 of his followers with potassium cyanide dissolved in Kool-Aid. Apparently, Kool-Aid hides the taste. It’s a gruesome death. It kills by inhibiting aerobic respiration. The blood cells can’t absorb oxygen and all of the body’s organs become oxygen deprived — it’s like smothering someone, cutting off their air supply. The victim goes into a coma in minutes, and then suffers cardiac arrest. We’re writing up the reports now, Luc, but I thought you would want the news early. You have a murderer out there, and you need to find him.”
“How much of the stuff do you need to kill someone?”
“It doesn’t take much, less than a gram will do it for a normal adult, and it’s very soluble in water.”
“So they all drank poison?”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“How do you get this stuff? Can you buy it in the pharmacy?”
“No. But it’s a common industrial chemical. It’s not rare, it has several industrial uses, and plating jewelry is a big one. There are probably dozens of businesses in Montreal that keep stocks of it.”
“That’s nice to know. Isn’t it controlled? Isn’t there a central list of everyone who keeps the stuff?”
“I had someone check. Seems that there are rules for how you have to deal with it in workplaces, health and safety rules, that sort of thing. But there’s no central registry.”
Vanier was thinking, first start with the Canadian manufacturers, then the importers, then onto the distributors and end-users. “It sounds like a big job, tracking it down.”
“Isn’t that what you guys do best?”
“Yeah, if I had unlimited resources. This could take days. Anjili, listen, I have to go. Thanks for this. I’ll be talking to you. Can you fax the preliminary findings over?”
“First thing in the morning. Luc, you have to find this person.”
“I know Anjili. I’m working on it. Thanks,” he said, as he hung up the phone.
He remembered Santa Claus handing Edith Latendresse a gift and then bending down to kiss the old woman on the head. Santa Claus as executioner. That was a new one, even for Vanier. He checked the time, it was probably well past Bedard’s bedtime. He smiled as he punched the Chief’s number on his cell phone.
“Huh?”
“Chief Inspector? It’s Vanier here.”
“Inspector Vanier, do you know what time it is?”
“Yes, sir. But you said that you wanted to be kept informed of developments. We have confirmation that it’s murder. All of the victims were poisoned. Potassium cyanide. Apparently, it’s the same stuff that Jim Jones used.”
“Who?”
“Jim Jones, sir. Remember the mass suicide in Guyana?”
The Chief Inspector was awake. “What? Jesus, he killed hundreds, didn’t he? You’re telling me that we have a lunatic loose poisoning people?”
“Looks like that, sir.”
“I have to talk to communications. We have to manage this properly. Christ, a mass murderer, that’s all I need.”
“Sir, you said that I could go off budget, get more people. Well, I think that we need to ramp this up. Apparently, there’s lots of potassium cyanide lying around. If we need to track it down, I’m going to need resources.”
“Luc, you need overtime and extra people. I’ll give you the overtime; I’ll see what I can do about the extra people. I have to make some calls. How do we know this?”
“I just had a call from Dr. Segal.”
“OK, so it’s reliable. Let’s keep this quiet until we can talk to communications. Jesus, this could set the city into a panic. Do you have any leads yet? Do we have a suspect?” He was pleading.
“Not yet, sir. No suspects. But we’re following up some ideas. Sir, I need more people.”
“Yes, Inspector, I’ll get back to you on that. Listen, thanks for calling. Keep me informed.”
The line cut before Vanier could answer. “Yes, sir,” he said to a dead line.