7 PM
Two hours later, Dr. Grenier faced Vanier from behind his desk in his office on St. Joseph Boulevard. He had been at home when he got Vanier’s message and called back to suggest they meet at his office where he kept his records. Grenier was tall and thin, with an angular face that struck Vanier as not much given to smiling. He was having trouble making eye-contact. The doctor was wearing a canary yellow cardigan that Vanier decided must have been a Christmas present; it was too bright for him to have chosen it himself.
The office was spartan, a cheap desk with two chairs in front of it, and two grey filing cabinets against the wall. Files were stacked neatly on the right corner of his desk, and others, with notes attached by paperclip, on the left. There was an impressive collection of framed certificates on one wall and a large black crucifix with a suffering Christ on another. Unless you counted the bleeding Christ or the certificates, there was no artwork.
“Thanks for seeing me at short notice, Doctor. The holidays are always hard and I appreciate your time,” said Vanier.
“What can I do for you?” asked Grenier.
Vanier opened the envelope and slipped five photographs onto the desk. Grenier spread them out and looked shaken. He didn’t look up. “These are the victims from Christmas Eve?”
“Yes, Doctor. Four of them had prescription bottles with your name on them. We’re still looking for the possessions of the fifth. Do you recognize them?”
“Of course I do. I was their prescribing physician.”
“For all of them?”
“Yes.”
Grenier confirmed the names of the first four and identified the fifth, Celine Plante. Then he stood and pulled five files from one of the cabinets. He looked at each and rattled off the dates of birth. Mme. Plante would have been fifty-two on January 3. He looked at Vanier like he was finished.
“I’m trying to piece together as much information about them as possible. Anything will help”
“Well, I’m not sure that I can be of much help. I was only their doctor.”
“Why were they seeing you?”
“They were sick, Inspector.”
“How sick were they?”
Grenier hesitated. “Very sick. If you were to ask me to name ten of my patients who feature most in my prayers, these five would be on the list.”
“Why is that?”
“Different reasons. I can go through the files individually and give the Coroner the precise information. However, to put it bluntly, each of them was terminally ill.”
“That’s why you prayed for them?”
“What do my prayers have to do with anything?”
“Well, if you prayed for them, you were worried about them. And now they’re dead.”
“Yes, I prayed for them. I pray for many people. I see pain every day, and terrible suffering is the companion of many of my clients. I suppose that’s an inevitable part of human existence, but in the bosom of a close family it can, at least, be endured. For the homeless, there is no relief. Without family or friends there’s only the pain. That is why I devote so much of my time to my clinic at the Old Brewery Mission. I try, as best I can, to ease their burden, and when medicine isn’t enough, I pray for them.” His fingers were running slowly over the photographs, touching each one in turn.
“So all five were terminal cases?”
“For one reason or another, yes. But it’s more than that. It’s hard to understand the level of suffering they were enduring, Inspector. It’s not just physical. Street people, the homeless, the destitute, they were all children once, although for most, even their childhood was hell. But, they were all young once with ambitions higher than the streets. And things went wrong and kept going wrong. These five all had their own stories. Pathetic, tragic, inhuman, whatever. Their lives were hell and they knew it. Well, except for Madame Latendresse.”
He picked up her photograph and stared at it.
“Except for Madame Latendresse, they were all aware of how bad their situation was. You don’t lose your ability to feel just because you’re on the street. You can still hurt. And these people hurt terribly. Not just because of their diseases. That’s why I prayed for them. That their burdens be eased.”
Vanier looked at him. The doctor’s eyes were fixed on the photos, and he was talking without giving any information, as if filling the room with sound was enough.
“Was prayer that important to them? You ministered to their health.”
“Prayer is important for all of us, even for you. When all else fails, there is always prayer. These people were hopeless cases. There was nothing left to do for them medically except ease their pain. They had entered the jurisdiction — as you policemen are fond of saying — the jurisdiction of St. Jude.”
“The patron saint of hopeless causes?”
“I see you remember something of your religious training.”
“Were they aware of that?”
“Of what?”
“That there was no hope.”
“As aware as they could be.”
“So they could have decided to end it all? Suicide?”
Dr. Grenier thought for a moment and looked up at Vanier.
“No. Not suicide. It’s true that some street people kill themselves, but it’s the younger ones, the drug addicts, people who have fallen too fast. If you can survive two years on the streets, you can survive 30. The streets weed out the suicidal very quickly, and these five were veterans. None of them was suicidal. Madame Latendresse, for example, is, I’m sorry, was — Madame Latendresse was so disconnected from reality that she couldn’t contemplate non-existence. She would have carried on in her own world until that world stopped. The others? The others were like the Legionnaires of Cameron.”
“What?”
“Not what, Inspector. Who. The Legionnaires of Cameron. Sixty soldiers of the French Foreign Legion who held off two thousand Mexican infantrymen and cavalrymen for twelve hours. At the end, only six legionnaires remained, and when they ran out of ammunition, instead of surrendering, they fixed bayonets and charged the Mexican army. Surrender was simply not an option. It is the same with these people. Suicide was not an option in their universe. If it had been, they would have done it long ago. These people have been losing all their life but they just didn’t know how to give up. They had fallen as far as they did precisely because they couldn’t give up and end it all.”
“So why would they all die on the same evening?”
Grenier’s hands gave a slight tremble. He was making an effort to control himself. “I believe the Coroner will find it was natural causes. Quite a coincidence, I agree. And the scientist in me hesitates to believe in coincidences of that magnitude. But the believer in me knows that it is often difficult to understand God’s work.”
“Is there anyone else I can speak with to find out more about these people? Who else would have known them?”
Dr. Grenier had a distant look on his face, as though he was operating on two levels, talking to Vanier and thinking; and thinking was taking up more of his mind.
“Well, they were all known in the community, the shelters and the drop-in centres. You might try their social workers; there would be files on them. But social workers have case loads so unmanageable that they can never get to know their clients.”
“Anyone else?”
Grenier hesitated again. “If you’re looking for someone who might know these people as individuals rather than faces or numbers, you might try Father Drouin. My friend, Henri Drouin. He works out of the Cathedral. He’s a good man, a holy man. If he knows these people, he will be able to tell you much more than I.”
“How do you know him?”
“Our paths crossed in our missions, and we became friends. He does wonderful work with this community. Sometimes I think that my drugs are a pale substitute for the spiritual comfort he gives to his flock. Because of him, I started attending mass in the Cathedral.”