Drouin’s face lost what little colour it had, and he stared at Vanier, as though willing him to say more. Vanier looked back. Drouin turned to St. Jacques and saw he wouldn’t get anything better from her.
“I’d thought about that. I don’t remember all of the cards, there are so many. But I recalled praying for some of the victims.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“It didn’t seem important.” Drouin removed the stole, absentmindedly kissed its cross and hung it on a wooden valet.
“The prayers call for their release from suffering. Could that have been a message? Could someone have acted on it?” said Vanier.
“You think that someone in our group took it upon themselves to ensure that our prayers were answered? That can’t be true. It must be a coincidence, Inspector.”
The priest reached down and grabbed the hem of his white and gold chasuble, pulling it up over his head and draping it carefully over the valet. He turned back to them standing in his white alb, a symbol of purity.
“This is the Church. Human life, all human life, is sacred. You must know that, Inspector. It is inconceivable that any Catholic would do such a thing. Inconceivable.”
“So you think it’s a coincidence that your group has prayed for five people in the last few weeks and now they’re all dead? That’s some coincidence, Father.”
“Inspector, I don’t know what it is. All I know is that I cannot think of any connection between our prayer group and the kind of person who is capable of such an atrocity.”
“And if I told you that some prayers haven’t been answered yet? That we’re trying to track down five other people who’ve been singled out for divine intervention in your prayer sessions?”
Drouin was in the process of pulling the alb up over his head, revealing his civilian clothes beneath, but he stopped and stared at Vanier. His hands were shaking.
“Dear God. What’s going on? Tell me I can help.”
“You can help, Father. There’s nothing wrong with voicing your suspicions, no matter how far-fetched. In my job I see the far-fetched and ridiculous every day. How many newspaper stories have you read that start with, “The neighbours were surprised. He seemed such a nice family man”?
“What are you asking me to do? If there were anyone in our group I thought was capable of such acts, you would be the first to know. But there isn’t, Inspector. You’re asking me to imagine, to speculate, who might be capable of this. Well, I have no idea. But I will think hard about it, and I will pray for guidance.”
“While you’re doing that, why don’t you pray for the next victims?”
Drouin clutched the edge of the wooden countertop.
“Mary Gallagher. Know her? What about Denis Latulippe? Or Gaetan Paquin? Antonio Di Pasquale? Duane Thatcher? Know them? I have men looking for them right now. But I’ll bet someone else is trying to track them down as well. Pray that we get there first.”
The two officers couldn’t help but hear the intake of breath. Drouin sat down.
“Mr. Thatcher died in late November. He died of exposure one night in the entrance to the Simons department store on St. Catherine. And Antonio hasn’t been seen in months. People have been asking after him.”
“When in November?”
Drouin looked at the calendar on the wall. He got up and flipped it back a page. “November 20. I remember it was a horrible night. It was cold, not cold enough to freeze, but too cold to sleep outside. It had been raining, and the poor man was soaked, trying to sleep in a doorway. Everyone assumed he simply died of exposure. It’s more common than you think.”
“He may have been helped on the way. Father, anything you can think of that might be useful.”
“Inspector, I will go through all of the people that have attended the prayer services. If I can think of anything that might be helpful, I will call you.”
“How many people are we talking about?”
“Fifty, perhaps sixty.”
Vanier was surprised. “Do you have names, addresses?”
“No. This isn’t an organized group, nobody has to give their name. Some people show up every few weeks. Others are more regular. Please, Inspector, let me sit quietly and think about it. I’ll write a list of everyone I can think of and bring it to your office this afternoon.”
“That would be helpful.” Vanier reached into his pocket and pulled out two sheets. One was a photocopy of the prayer cards from the five victims on Christmas Eve. The other had the cards for the five remaining people. “Who wrote these?”
Drouin sat down with a sheet in each hand and scanned the cards. “Alain.”
Vanier could barely hear. ”Who?”
“Dr. Alain Grenier. They’re all signed by the initial A. I’ve noticed he does that. But he couldn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps all he’s doing is giving directions. But you have no doubt that these, these prayers, were all written by Dr. Grenier?”
“He wrote these,” he said, handing the sheets back to Vanier.
“And you’ll bring the list over this morning?”
“I said this afternoon, but as soon as it’s done. I promise.”
Vanier handed him his card. “Just in case you lost the last one.”
He turned to leave, followed by St. Jacques.
Drouin sat down heavily on the wooden chair. Fifteen minutes later he was still there. He pulled up the hem of the alb, and reached into his pants pocket for his phone. Typing the first three letters of Grenier, the screen gave him a choice and he selected Call Home. It picked up immediately.
“Alain?”
“Father Henri, how good to hear from you. My best wishes to you for the season.”
“I’ve just had a visit from Inspector Vanier.”
“Yes. He came to see me on Christmas Day. A terrible business.”
“Alain, he says that the names of the victims were all on the Circle’s prayer cards.” There was silence on the other end of the line.
“He says that they were all on cards written by you, Alain. How can that be?”
“They were my patients, Father Henri, and they were all desperately ill. I don’t remember, but I could have asked for prayers for them. There was nothing else I could do for them but pray.”
“So there might be a connection. It’s not simply the Inspector’s imagination.”
“Father Henri, I’m not sure I would go that far. There’s nothing wrong in praying for those in desperate need. But that’s a long way from making a connection to murder. These people led very dangerous lives. If you ask me, it’s just coincidence.”
“The Inspector doesn’t seem to believe in coincidence, Alain. And, quite frankly, I find it hard as well. What if someone in our group took it upon themselves to kill them just to ease their suffering? Isn’t that our responsibility?” Drouin said, as though he were practising walking through the thoughts that were clouding his mind.
“I suppose it’s possible, anything’s possible, but it’s unlikely. Anyway, let the police do their work, and they’ll get to the bottom of this. Do what you can to help, but this is for the police. Let them do their work.”
“I suppose you’re right, Alain. But they said that there were five other names. One’s dead, one’s disappeared and the three others, who knows? What about them?”
“Do you know them?”
“I know one fairly well, Mary Gallagher, poor soul. The others I know vaguely. The Inspector gave me the names, but they’re not people that I’ve worked with. But it wouldn’t take me long to track them down. I didn’t tell him that. That’s strange, Alain. I should have told him I could help him to find them. But I didn’t.” Drouin fingered Vanier’s card.
“So why don’t you call the Inspector and tell him that you can help. If they’re in danger and you can help to locate them, let him know.”
“Yes, Alain. I’ll call the Inspector.”
Drouin clicked disconnect on his phone and started punching another name into his address book. Just one number showed up. He pushed the Call Mobile button.