Never Forget Read online

  How long had he been kept like this, on a drip?

  Fear flowed into him, releasing a current of adrenalin.

  He was trapped. He began to scream.

  9

  RESIDUE

  Though located in the Place Versailles retail complex, the headquarters of the Major Crimes Unit was nothing like a royal palace. Even so, cops had gotten into the habit of referring to it simply as “Versailles.” Standing at the intersection of Sherbrooke and Highway 25 in Montreal’s east end, the large building also housed the anti-gang squad, the sexual assault team, and the fraud unit.

  As they strode past a series of large outlets and smaller boutiques, Victor smiled at the thought that this time, at least, he and Jacinthe had managed to avoid the shopping mall’s food court.

  They emerged from the elevator and walked through the impersonal beige office, passing a row of workspaces piled with computers, boxes, and stacks of documents. At the far end of the row, they saw Gilles Lemaire in the midst of a phone conversation, gesturing energetically.

  Taillon tiptoed forward, slipped behind her former partner, and touched his ear. Lemaire whirled around. Clamping one small hand over the mouthpiece, he glared at Taillon. With his slicked-back hair, impeccably tailored and creased suit, and silk tie, he looked like a dandy. His nickname within the unit was “the Gnome.”

  “Do you mind?” the diminutive cop said, his eyes at the level of Taillon’s ample bust. “I’m on a call with Forensic Identification.”

  Jacinthe scowled and sat down, grumbling, on the chair in front of Lemaire. “Nobody can take a joke anymore …”

  Seated at the neighbouring desk, Victor went through his emails. Berger had sent him photographs of Jane Doe’s lifeless face.

  Within minutes, the detective sergeant had drafted an electronic alert detailing the circumstances of the body’s discovery and inviting anyone with information to contact him. As soon as the alert was complete, Victor emailed it to all the police stations on the island of Montreal, with Berger’s photos attached.

  Then he opened the message that he’d saved for last:

  Just heard about the homicide.

  Hope you’re having a good day anyway.

  Still on for tonight?

  ILY

  N xx

  A smile lit up his face.

  He and Nadja Fernandez, his ex-partner at Station 11, had been in a relationship for several months now. She’d often stayed at his tiny apartment on Oxford Avenue while he was in rehab. Nadja and Victor’s son, Martin, had become thick as thieves, working in shifts to look after him during that difficult period. Recently, she’d begun to raise the possibility of their moving in together. Perhaps because he feared losing her, Victor hadn’t yet admitted that he didn’t feel ready for that. Nadja gave him balance, helped him stay organized, endured his moods. She was smart, funny, sexy, and unfailingly upbeat. He loved her. But he hadn’t yet found the courage to say so.

  What was he afraid of?

  Maybe he wanted to avoid the pitfalls that had ended his marriage. Having sunk into comfortable complacency, he and Marie had lost sight of each other so completely that when professional trauma plunged Victor into drinking and depression, they’d been unable to reconnect.

  Maybe he feared himself.

  Victor became aware that Jacinthe was behind him, reading the reply he was typing. When he turned, he saw no trace of mockery in her expression.

  The detectives both looked over when Lemaire slammed down his phone. “The techs found a piece of metal near the body.”

  Jacinthe rolled her eyes with impatience. “Jesus, Gilles. It’s a scrap warehouse.”

  “I’m aware of that, Jacinthe. I was just filling you in.”

  “What else?” Victor asked.

  “How do you know there’s something else?”

  “You speak more slowly and your voice deepens when you’re hiding something.”

  The Gnome smiled, impressed. “I’ll have to remember that next time I lie to my wife.”

  “We’re waiting,” Taillon said impatiently.

  “There was adhesive residue on the concrete floor at the foot of the table.”

  “What kind of adhesive?” Jacinthe asked.

  “The kind used on duct tape.”

  Feeling the onset of a migraine, Victor pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. It always took some time for him to settle on an impression of a new case. If his dawning premonition was right, this one wouldn’t be easy. “What does Horowitz say?”

  “He didn’t tape anything there. Berger also told me the same adhesive residue is present on our Jane Doe, around the ankles and thighs.”

  10

  IDENTIFICATION

  After eating his lunch hunched over a crossword puzzle, Chris Pearson had resolved to go for a walk along Saint-Catherine Street. But when the icy wind had forced him back indoors, he’d returned to his office and poured himself a cup of sludgy coffee.

  A call home to see how the girls were doing had earned him a scolding from Corinne, whom he’d disturbed mid-nap. Pearson had apologized and hung up.

  Looking out his window, lost in thought, he’d spent some time watching the sprays of slush thrown up by the cars speeding along René Lévesque.

  Medical files often contained an emergency contact name. Administrative offices were closed on Sunday, but Pearson hoped a few calls the following day might help him find André Lortie’s next of kin.

  Checking his emails, he saw the alert Lessard had sent out a few minutes earlier and clicked on the link to download the attached photographs.

  Pearson had noticed long ago that when life departed a body, the remaining husk no longer seemed quite real, as though it were stripped of its essence. He had that impression now as he looked at the Jane Doe’s ashen face, which, at first glance, he didn’t recognize.

  But as he was about to shut down the computer and go home, he took a second look at the dead woman’s photograph. The penny dropped. A moment later, he was sprinting up the corridor.

  Hurriedly, Pearson filled in the requisition forms and signed out the items he had logged in to Room 50 that same morning. The attendant handed him the wallets. Pearson took the one belonging to the woman and rifled frantically through the cards until he found the driver’s licence. One glance was enough.

  Lessard answered on the first ring. “Your Jane Doe … her name is Judith Harper. I have her wallet in my Room 50.”

  SEPTEMBER 1964

  YOU WON’T GO TO HEAVEN

  Near Joliette, Quebec

  The nasal ringing of the bell, the teacher’s sharp voice, the squeals of the other children. Running madly down the hallway, coat in hand, Charlie barrels through the door into a flood of sunshine, slowing down at last in the schoolyard.

  A look to the right: Lennie’s massive form looms on the other side of the fence, under a shelter of trees. Heat wave, rain, blizzard, ice storm — nothing can keep Lennie from showing up on time.

  Baseball cap pulled low, Charlie hurries over.

  “Hel-lo, Cha’lie.”

  The slurred speech seems barely comprehensible, but Charlie’s used to it. “Hey, Lennie. Help me with this.” The schoolbag changes shoulders and the small hand disappears into the big one.

  “Di’ you have a ni’ day, Cha’lie?”

  “Pfff. Nothing special. You?”

  “It won’ l-l-lea’ me al-l-lone, Cha’lie.”

  “What?”

  Lennie stops walking and looks into Charlie’s eyes. “The v-voice in m-my ’ead.”

  The giant crosses himself, and the two of them disappear into the brightness at the end of the sidewalk.

  The blond stalks of grain are rocking gently in the wind. Léonard loves to run his hand along the tops of their heads. A ’57 Chevy roars past on the gravel road, kicking up dust, enveloping them in a fine, gritty cloud. They walk by a decrepit farm. The Boivins’ dog runs in circles around them, barking. Terrified, Lennie cowers
behind Charlie.

  “Don’t worry, Lennie. He’s nice. You can pet him.”

  Lennie reaches forward tentatively, but his nerve fails him. Charlie takes the immense hand and guides it gently toward the animal’s back.

  “There. Like that. Good dog.”

  “Goo’ doh’,” Léonard repeats. There’s still a faint note of worry in his voice.

  “Don’t be scared.”

  Little by little, the giant’s anxious features relax, brightening at last when the border collie rolls onto its back to be rubbed. Now he’s smiling broadly. “He’s s-s-soft …”

  Voices call out behind them. Charlie turns quickly, darkening.

  René Desharnais, a big jackass with sunken eyes and holes in his pant legs, is swaggering toward them, flanked by his cronies. “Hey, Charlie! Having fun with your buh-buh-brother?”

  The children’s laughter claws at Charlie’s ears. One voice rises above the rest. “Your idiot brother!”

  One of the kids brushes a lock of hair out of his eyes and, with a sleeve, wipes away the snot hanging from his nose. “My dad says he’s a retard.”

  Retard. Handicapped. Slow. Charlie’s parents have never explained the mystery of Lennie’s condition. Charlie flares, stung by the slur. “Lennie’s different, that’s all. You’re the one who’s a retard!”

  “Oh yeah? Come here and say that!”

  Charlie flies at the snot-nosed kid and the two of them roll in the dust, fists flying, until an overwhelming force lifts them both off the ground. The yells fall silent. Jaws drop. Mouths gape in awed silence.

  “Let me go!” Charlie rages, spitting a gob of blood onto the dirt.

  Léonard is holding them both effortlessly by the seats of their pants.

  “Th-this is b-bad, Cha’lie. You … you … you won’ go t’ heav’n.”

  The last shimmers of daylight are licking the treetops, and the breeze is rustling in the woods as Charlie, riding the giant’s back, sings lustily. “The ants go marching ten by ten, hurrah, hurrah …”

  “Again, Cha’lie, again,” Léonard begs, his face illuminated by a beatific smile.

  In the distance, the glow of the house is visible through the trees. Two strange points of brightness dance in the air, and suddenly they’re caught in the headlights’ beam. The ’57 Chevy slows to a stop beside them. The driver’s window is open. Two men are in the car. In the half light, Charlie makes out the malignant gaze of the man at the wheel.

  A stream of saliva lands at their feet.

  “It’s a goddamn shitty life, kids. I’d watch out for the boogeyman, if I was you. I hear he’s prowling in these parts.”

  The evil laugh is drowned out by the rasp of tires on gravel, then by the engine as it thunders away.

  Léonard and Charlie arrive in front of the house. On the porch, a man is on his hands and knees, gasping for breath. A woman is bent over him, her hand in his hair. Charlie knows something is wrong even before hearing the stifled sobs.

  With the cry of a wounded animal, Léonard rushes into the driveway.

  Climbing the steps, Charlie freezes at the sight of their father’s swollen face.

  11

  WARRANTS AND SEARCHES

  A lava flow couldn’t have ignited the atmosphere at Versailles more completely than Pearson’s phone call did. After giving instructions to his colleagues, Victor had moved quickly to brief his boss, Paul Delaney.

  The detective sergeant was now coming to the most delicate aspect of the operation. “We’re drawing up the warrants, Chief. Can you fast-track them the way you did last time?”

  Victor was referring to a previous case in which his commanding officer had secured a judge’s approval with impressive speed.

  His face dotted with acne scars, the head of the Major Crimes Unit sighed and scratched the crown of his head, where, for the last few years, a bald spot had been widening. “I’ll see what I can do, Vic,” he answered, clasping his hands across his round abdomen, against which several shirt buttons were straining. “But in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s Sunday …”

  “I know. Thanks, Paul.”

  Delaney’s best friend from law school was now a provincial court judge. Godfather to one of his daughters, Paul Delaney called the man on his cellphone and pulled the strings he’d pulled before. Perhaps because it was a murder case, the warrants were issued even more promptly this time.

  Siren screaming, emergency lights activated, the patrol car raced through the darkness, zigzagging through traffic on René Lévesque Boulevard. The unmarked car followed in its wake.

  “Who’s going to Judith Harper’s place with Gilles?” the detective sergeant asked, keeping his eyes on the road.

  Taillon leaned back in the passenger seat and sighed. “The kid.”

  Victor frowned and shook his head, displeased. “Loïc? I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “The kid kept asking. Gilles finally gave in.”

  Victor executed a tight turn onto Berri Street. “He’d better not screw up again.”

  Irritated, Taillon looked at her BlackBerry for the tenth time. “Still nothing from the patrol unit we sent to Lawson’s place …”

  The officers who’d been dispatched to the lawyer’s residence were under instructions to call Jacinthe as soon as they found him. At this stage, the detectives had no cause to fear for Lawson’s safety, nor any reason to think he was involved in Judith Harper’s death. Nevertheless, the fact that they’d been unable to reach him, combined with the circumstances surrounding the wallets’ discovery, required explanation.

  “Give them time. If they find him, we’ll know soon enough.”

  “I bet you a tenner Lawson’s body will be lying in Lortie’s room.”

  “You lose. Pearson had a look around the room earlier.” Victor glanced in the rear-view mirror before speaking again. “And you know as well as I do that we’re getting ahead of ourselves. The fact that some homeless man had Judith Harper’s wallet, and Lawson’s, doesn’t make him their murderer. We can’t even say if the lawyer’s dead.”

  Jacinthe raised a finger. “Yeah, but the homeless guy killed himself.”

  Victor’s expression changed. “Speaking of bets, you still owe me ten bucks.”

  “Fucking Habs,” she grumbled. “You’ll get your money.” She paused. “By the way, how did Pearson get involved in the Lortie case? He wasn’t on duty last night.”

  “He’d been trying to find Lortie for a couple of weeks. Patrol cops at Station 21 were under instructions to get in touch if they found him.”

  “Why?”

  “Lortie stole a parking officer’s ticket pad.”

  Jacinthe laughed and opened a package of candy. “They should give him a posthumous medal. Licorice?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Wasn’t Lortie staying at the rooming house?”

  “Apparently he bunked in other places, too.” He looked at the licorice package. “Ah, what the hell. Gimme one.”

  After chewing a sticky mouthful, Victor ran a finger along his teeth to be sure he hadn’t lost any fillings. “Disgusting,” he muttered.

  “Pearson didn’t find anything of interest in the wallets?”

  “Nothing.”

  “And he didn’t insist on coming with you?”

  As they rolled across Saint-Antoine Street, the hulk of the Château Viger, a former train station and hotel, slid by on their left. Victor pulled up at the corner of Saint-Louis and parked next to a patrol vehicle at the curb. “Not when I told him you’d be in the car,” he said as he opened the driver’s door.

  Taillon laughed loudly. A joke after her own heart.

  A few blocks to the east, white vapour rose from the Molson Brewery’s brick chimney.

  On this stretch of Saint-Louis, carefully renovated heritage buildings were interspersed with rundown structures and vacant lots. Real estate signs had gone up in front of several properties.

  Unsurprisingly, the building they stepped into w
as the shabbiest on the block. Victor looked up the stairwell: grimy streaks disfigured the yellowing plaster, which, in several places, had caved in altogether. As the cops ascended the stairs, the stench of piss filled Victor’s nostrils.

  On the landing, a single bulb cast its weak light.

  According to standard procedure, the detectives should have called a locksmith. But since Lortie was dead, they asked the caretaker to let them in.

  The caretaker was about to open the door when something made her step back. Jacinthe and Victor had also heard a noise inside the room.

  Unholstering his Glock, the detective sergeant banged on the door. “Police! Open up!”

  The partners didn’t need to say a word. Taillon threw open the door and Victor rushed in. He took a fraction of a second to evaluate the situation before running to the open window. He pulled aside the curtain that was fluttering in the wind. A man in his underwear was hurrying down the spiral fire escape, which overlooked a tiny backyard and, beyond it, a vacant lot dotted with skeletal trees.

  Victor was about to take aim at the fleeing man and order him to freeze, but the two patrol officers who had stayed downstairs appeared in the yard, weapons drawn.

  Barefoot in the snow, the individual stopped and offered no resistance. The officers took him into custody at the base of the stairs.

  In the corridor, a drunken man came out of his room wearing jeans and an undershirt. Another, dressed in rags, stepped onto the landing.

  “There’s nothing to see here,” Victor announced, holding up his badge. “Get back in your rooms.”

  The urinous fumes rising off the mattress were enough to convince him to leave the window open. The grey-walled room contained a filthy bed, a broken chest of drawers, and a rickety chair. In a corner, a balled-up bundle of clothes reeked of sweat and mildew.