The devils choir, p.6
The Devil's Choir, page 6
part #3 of A Victor Lessard Thriller Series
“Why?”
“He said Elizabeth didn’t like it when he was away.”
“Did she strike you as jealous? Possessive?”
“I don’t think so. I imagine she was just anxious, worried that something might happen to John. A wife thing, if you ask me. Are we almost finished? I need to go to the bathroom.”
“A couple more minutes, and we’re done. Do you know anyone named Viviane?”
Deschênes searches his memory for a few seconds, then answers unhesitatingly.
“No.”
“Did John know a Viviane?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Could she be a co-worker, a cousin, a neighbour?”
Deschênes seems genuinely puzzled.
“Not a co-worker, that’s for sure. If there was a Viviane at Royal Tobacco, I’d know. As for the rest of it, I’d say no, not to my knowledge.”
“Was he having an affair?”
Deschênes reacts. He’s visibly surprised.
“John? We never talked about that kind of thing, but I don’t think so.”
“Would he have told you if he was having one?”
“Not necessarily. He wasn’t a boastful guy, and he was smart enough to know that the best way to keep people from finding out is not to talk.”
“Why did you run when you saw me?” Lessard asks, looking Deschênes in the eye.
“I did it without thinking,” the man says, looking ashamed. “You’re not like the rest of them, but man, I hate the fucking police. Always getting in my face over stupid shit, just because I have a record …”
Lessard feels sympathy for Deschênes. Though he isn’t yet altogether convinced, he has a feeling the guy’s telling the truth.
“You can open up now, Garneau,” he says, pressing the intercom button.
He looks at Deschênes. “Go on home. All I ask is that you respect your curfew and not leave town — in case I have more questions.” He hands over his business card. “If you remember anything else about Cook, don’t hesitate to call.”
The two men are on their feet, looking at each other without animosity. A mutual respect has grown between them during the interrogation. Deschênes turns and walks toward the door, putting on his sweater.
He stops in the doorway and looks back.
“I hope you catch whoever did this to John and his family.”
It’s after 8:00 p.m. when Lessard comes out of the interrogation room. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast, and his clothes are still damp.
He considers returning to the crime scene on Bessborough Avenue, but he’s so tired that there’s only one thing he wants: to go home, have a bite to eat, take a hot bath, and get a few hours’ sleep.
Sitting at his desk, he calls Fernandez’s cell number.
“I questioned Deschênes,” he says.
“I know. I spoke to Garneau a little while ago, while you were with him. What have you got?”
“I just let him go. The guy panicked because he’d missed his curfew. He hates cops. I’m pretty sure he had nothing to do with the killings.”
Fernandez smiles, but refrains from saying she told him so.
“How are things on your end?” Lessard asks.
“Tanguay left at five, like the good civil servant that he is. He asked me to remind you that he’s expecting your report tomorrow, without fail. I gave Pearson and Sirois permission to go home fifteen minutes ago. They didn’t find anything — at any rate, no suicide note, no email, nothing like that. Doug and his assistant will be at it until late tonight. I went to the clothing store where Elizabeth Munson worked. Nothing there, either. All her co-workers are shocked, no one can understand. She seemed to be in love with John Cook, and when I asked whether she might have had a lover, the reaction was unanimous: she really wasn’t that kind of person. So that’s where it stands. We’re looking at a domestic murder-suicide, but we don’t know what’s behind it. In any case, whether we come up with a motive or not, we can’t take our time with this thing, or we’ll end up with Tanguay on our backs.”
“Speaking of which —”
Fernandez cuts him off. “Oh, I almost forgot. Berger called. He wants you to go see him in the morning. He’ll be able to give you the preliminary autopsy report.”
“Perfect. Meanwhile, I may have found a —”
Lessard hears a voice in the background.
“Hang on, Victor …”
He catches snippets of conversation, but he can’t make out what’s going on.
“I’m going to have to call you back. Adams needs me for a few minutes. His assistant has gone out for a bite to eat.”
“Sure. No problem.”
“Was there something you wanted to discuss? Should I call you back?”
Lessard checks his watch. He considers inviting Fernandez out for dinner to talk about the case, but decides against it. They’ve often had meals together during past investigations, but he never had to worry that she might suspect ulterior motives.
So why is he hesitating today? Could it have something to do with the knot that forms in the pit of his stomach every time he sees her?
By now he’s convinced himself that it makes no difference whether he mentions his discovery to Fernandez tonight or in the morning.
“No, we’ll talk tomorrow. I’m going home soon. You should do the same.”
“I’ll be on my way as soon as Doug’s assistant gets back. See you tomorrow.”
“Good night, Nadja.”
Lessard spends a good minute staring at his phone in a haze of exhaustion.
He walks slowly along the hallway, waving at Constable Garneau as he goes by.
He doesn’t even have the energy to appreciate her looks.
He parks the car in front of his apartment on Oxford Avenue.
He lifts his gaze skyward and contemplates the rain, which is falling in chaotic sheets. As he turns the key in the front door, he’s struck by an odour that he knows all too well.
He’s smoking pot again.
Apart from a flickering glow in one corner, the room is pitch-dark.
A candle?
He hears laughter, a woman’s voice.
“Martin?”
He presses the light switch and stares in amazement.
His son, two girls he vaguely recalls having seen before, and another boy — a boy he doesn’t recognize — are stark naked in the middle of his living room. The remnants of a large white candle are guttering out on a low table.
To top it off, Martin’s the one holding the joint.
An indescribable commotion ensues, as everyone struggles desperately to cover up. Hiding his erection with both hands, the boy jumps around as though he were walking barefoot on burning sand; the panic-stricken girls dart all over the room, grabbing at the same bra, emitting little shrieks.
Apart from calmly putting on his briefs, Martin remains motionless.
The chaos continues for another few moments, after which the three junior nudists leave the apartment, half-clothed, mumbling apologies as they go. Unfazed by everything that’s just transpired around him, Lessard’s son takes an occasional puff while looking at his father.
“What the hell was going on here, Martin?”
“Three guesses,” the young man retorts.
“Hey! This isn’t a motel!”
Martin’s face flushes with anger. He throws on his clothes.
“Go on, say it! You’d rather we got up to this stuff somewhere else.… You were supposed to be home late tonight!”
“What the hell’s wrong with you? Why do you always have to go overboard? One girl at a time isn’t enough?”
“Don’t lose your shit, man. It’s just a foursome, no big deal. I’m having a little fun, same as you did at my age —”
“I’ll lose my shit if want to! And put out that goddamn joint!” Lessard grabs the burning stub from his son’s fingers and crushes it under his heel.
“You’re one to talk,” Martin says. “Like getting behind the wheel after a dozen beers is so much better than smoking a blunt with a couple of friends!”
The reference to Lessard’s alcoholism and former bad habits couldn’t be clearer.
Martin grabs his jacket and marches toward the door. Lessard tries to prevent him, but the young man shoves him aside.
“Where are you going?”
“Anywhere but here.”
“Martin! Get serious —”
“I am serious. By the way, your sister called.”
The door slams.
6
There is another world, but it lies within this one.
— Paul Éluard
Montreal
May 6th
Having showered and shaved, Lessard arrives early at the mobile command post, hoping to speak to Fernandez.
He wants to tell her about yesterday’s discovery before getting an update from the rest of the team. He’s decided not to share the information with the other detectives until he hears Fernandez’s thoughts on the matter. Does this slip of paper justify widening the investigation? It’s not that Lessard distrusts Pearson and Sirois. Quite the contrary. But he knows from experience that the more people he lets in on the secret, the harder it will be to keep Commander Tanguay from finding out about Cook’s note.
And he definitely wants to keep Tanguay from finding out.
The commander has already practically closed the case, having announced to the media that it’s a domestic murder-suicide. So, before raising doubts about whether Cook is the killer — and thus undermining the boss’s credibility — Lessard wants to be sure that he’s got something solid. Otherwise, he knows very well what will happen: Tanguay will dismiss the idea out of hand.
For that matter, Lessard himself isn’t convinced that the note proves much. The implications are serious. If Cook didn’t commit the murders before killing himself, then this isn’t just a domestic crime. Rather, Lessard and his team are looking at a quintuple murder disguised as an act of family violence.
Which means there’s a killer at large.
That’s not a trivial claim, and it’s certainly not one that Lessard wants to make to his boss in an offhand way.
But the real reason for his hesitation is much simpler: he wonders whether he’s imagining things, whether he’s trying to transform this domestic murder-suicide into a different kind of crime, seeking to sublimate his past, refusing to believe that Cook could have been driven by the same murderous madness that drove Lessard’s own father to perpetrate a massacre.
He’s pouring himself a cup of hot water, lost in thought, when Pearson speaks.
“Victor, Fernandez just left a message on my voice mail. She says we should start without her. She’s running late.”
“Late? That’s not like her. Did she say why?”
“Huh …? Oh, no,” Pearson says, absorbed in typing an email into his BlackBerry.
Lessard and the investigation team review the various pieces of information that have been gathered: Depositions from friends, relatives, neighbours, and co-workers are examined with care. The cleaning lady’s brief account is noted. Sirois, having spoken to the neighbour across the street, confirms what the detective sergeant heard from Deschênes — that Cook and Munson were religious, but they didn’t belong to a cult. Lessard tells the other cops what Cook’s boss and Deschênes both said: that Cook had shown no signs of depression. Lessard also notes that, according to Deschênes, the move into the new house seems to have had an adverse effect on Cook’s state of mind. Pearson observes that the month preceding his own most recent move was the worst period in his whole life. Even so, Lessard wants the team to get further information from Munson’s mother. Did Cook’s behavior change during the weeks before and after the move?
The meeting is wrapping up. Lessard can now go to Berger’s office.
A glance outside makes his heart sink. Rain is pounding the cars in the driveway.
“Okay. Let’s keep digging for a few more hours. But unless something unexpected turns up in the autopsy or in Adams’s report, we’ll close the case by the end of the day, whether or not we find a suicide note or something else that explains the crime.”
The other cops nod.
Suddenly, Lessard feels ill at ease. He’s just evoked the possibility that something unexpected may turn up, yet he’s hiding the fact that he found a note in the shed.
“Let’s not forget the flies,” Sirois says.
Garneau and Pearson exchange skeptical looks. They see the multitude of insects as nothing more than an inexplicable coincidence, the kind of anomaly that inevitably crops up now and then, out of pure happenstance.
To be honest, Lessard hasn’t had a moment to consider the matter.
“Good point. I’ll discuss it with Berger. Any news from Fernandez?” he asks, gathering his papers.
“No,” Pearson says.
“Okay. I’m outa here. When she arrives, have her call me.”
Lessard finds Berger in his office at the Forensic Science and Legal Medicine Laboratory on Parthenais Street.
The room is small and windowless.
Stacks of papers are lying on the desk and floor in an elaborate lattice, giving the impression that the removal of a single document might throw the whole structure off balance.
A shelf on the wall holds knives, machetes, handguns, and various other items that Berger has accumulated from the many investigations he’s worked on. The piece that Lessard finds most fascinating is the goalie mask that was used by a rapist who briefly terrorized the city of Laval — a mask that recalls the one used by Jason in the Friday the 13th series of cult horror films.
“How’s it going, Jacob?”
“Badly,” Berger grumbles. “I’m completely worn out. I was up all night working on the couple’s autopsies. I haven’t gotten around to the children yet. I’m going to lie down for a few hours, then get back to work this afternoon.”
The medical examiner can be a prima donna sometimes, and his haughty attitude gets on Lessard’s nerves, but over time, the cop has come to like Berger and, above all, to trust his judgment, which has shown itself to be reliable.
“You’re going to do the three children’s autopsies by yourself?”
Berger sighs. “No choice. Cloutier’s at a seminar in Rhode Island.” He rolls his eyes irritably. “I left two voice mails. She’s unreachable. Want a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’ve stopped drinking the stuff.”
“You have?” Berger asks, surprised.
“I still have a decaf every morning. I’m taking pills for my reflux.”
“Really? No more Pepto-Bismol?”
“That’s right,” Lessard says, laughing, “No more Pepto-Bismol. I do miss the taste, though,” he adds, without a trace of irony.
“You’re aware that reflux sufferers shouldn’t drink decaf, either?”
“Yeah, but it’s the only pleasure I have left. What have you come up with so far, Jacob? Any surprises?”
“Not really. I can confirm that the man started out by inflicting a number of shallow cuts on his own torso, as though he were trying to commit hara-kiri and hadn’t yet worked up the nerve. Next, he cut out his tongue. And finally, he drove the knife into his throat. That’s what killed him. The blade sliced right through an artery. Hemorrhaging was massive.”
“Was he intoxicated?”
“Either that or highly motivated.”
“How did he manage to cut out his tongue? Seems to me that grabbing a tongue would be as tricky as catching a bar of soap in the bathtub — slippery, hard to keep in place.”
“He used a dishtowel to hold on to it.”
Lessard shakes his head, incredulous. “I see. Anything else?”
“It’s the injury to the shoulder that bothers me.”
An image flashes in front of Lessard’s eyes. He remembers the open wound on John Cook’s shoulder, exposing nerves and tendons.
“I’ve tried to re-create the injury with the axe that was found at the crime scene, but I can’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“Judging from the angle, it’s hard to see how that wound was self-inflicted.”
“Are you saying it’s impossible?”
“Not impossible, but unlikely.”
“Who else could have inflicted it?” Lessard asks.
“His wife,” Berger says. “She might have managed to wrestle the axe out of his hands and tried to defend herself with it.”
“His wife? That would support the theory of a single killer, as opposed to a suicide pact. Are her prints on the murder weapon?”
“I just spoke to Adams. His report is preliminary, but it seems like they are.”
“Alternatively,” Lessard muses, “she might have participated in the killings at first, then changed her mind partway through and turned the weapon against Cook. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.”
“Both theories are valid,” Berger says.
There’s a moment of silence, then Lessard says, “She was found on her bed, but according to Adams, she was moved.”
“I think so, too.”
“Could she have been drugged?”
“Possibly. I won’t have toxicology results for a few days.”
“If so, Cook would have carried her to the bed after drugging and killing her.”
Lessard pulls out his notebook and scribbles briefly.
“What did she die of, Jacob?”
“Five or six of the axe blows were fatal. I estimate that she received fifteen in all.”
Lessard shudders. The darkness of the human soul chills him.
“Anything else?”
“Nothing, except that I found semen in Elizabeth Munson’s vagina. I checked: it’s her husband’s.”
“So they had sex before —”
“Yeah. Pretty strange.”
“Unless he raped her.”
“I found no signs that would indicate rape, but yes, that’s a possibility.”
There’s a low hum. Berger unclips his pager from his belt.
“What do you know? It’s Cloutier, calling me back. Give me five minutes, Victor. I need to talk to her.”
“No problem. I’m done here, anyway. One last question, Jacob. The flies — can you explain why there were so many of them?”
