Detective Henri Casgrain asked to come along. The day would be his last on what he called ‘The Sunshine Shift’. Cinq-Mars appreciated that Henri preferred to be the senior officer in a pair. He saw the value in having a trusted colleague who worked the streets at night. The converse was true for Casgrain.
Émile offered his partner an early exit to his shift. What he had in mind for the rest of his own day was ‘Definitely not sunny.’
Casgrain declined to skip out. The mission would close out their time together in a way that was fitting, as it highlighted another side to Émile’s nature, one possibly in opposition to the other. Priest or cop was no longer an issue. Cop and part-priest remained.
Cinq-Mars accepted that being a detective was his true calling, yet the decision did not dovetail with the whole of his nature. The fact that he was undertaking this particular task, one he was not obliged to do, underscored that inner schism. He was perpetually conflicted.
He almost climbed into his Volkswagen Beetle when he noticed his partner looking at him. Of course. He’d been thinking he’d drive the Bug, allowing him to continue straight home after work. With Henri along, that would leave him a distance away from his own car. He locked up the Bug, looking sheepish, and took the squad car.
‘Finish early,’ Cinq-Mars suggested, ‘then a farewell-for-now beer?’
‘I’ll even have a whiskey. What are the chances of finishing early?’
Good point.
‘We’ll see.’
Miraculously, to Émile Cinq-Mars’s ecclesiastically-inclined mind, the parking spot always available to him when he visited the Reverend Alex Montour was open again. He parked. ‘O ye of little faith.’
‘What are you on about now?’
‘You probably believe this parking spot is an accident. A fluke.’
‘You don’t?’
‘Like I said. O ye of little faith.’
‘Nut bar.’
‘Infidel.’
They knew the humor was not meant to merely pass the time. They needed to comfort their worried minds for the sadness ahead.
‘Speaking of infidels,’ Casgrain chided him as they walked toward the United Church, ‘what are you doing hanging out with Protestants?’
‘Lesbian Protestants.’
‘Makes my case.’
‘Seems like I’ve discovered I have more in common with lesbian Protestants than I do with lapsed Catholics.’
‘I’m a never-was, except by birth.’
‘You’re baptized, boy. Grin and bear it.’
‘You’ll fall, sunshine. I’ll welcome you back to logic. Anoint your head with Balmoral.’
‘Never been to logic. What’s it like there? Hellish?’
‘Some days. You’re in heaven, I suppose.’
‘Not lately. Not often, truth be told.’
They were admitted by the deaf Portuguese custodian and warmly welcomed by the minister. They accepted tea. She pointed out that they were early. ‘They have enough on their plate. Don’t want to surprise them popping in before they’re ready. How are you two doing?’
Like most men, they had little to say on first reflection, not until Casgrain took the opening that presented itself. ‘I’m fine, Reverend, but our friend here is in a spiritual crisis.’
The minister was nobody’s foil. She knew his comment was meant to tease.
‘Our friend,’ Montour agreed, ‘is in a never-ending spiritual crisis. Then again, a spiritual life that is not in perpetual crisis is probably no spiritual life at all.’
The heads of both policemen turned to her in sync, for she’d suddenly won their attention and, to a greater degree, their admiration. Cinq-Mars smiled, as though he had finally put his finger on the nature of his own existence.
Casgrain noticed his friend’s reaction. ‘Careful, Émile. She’ll turn you into a Protestant.’
‘You’re in more danger, Henri. She’ll turn you into a believer.’
He laughed, but seemed a touch embarrassed to have that known in front of clergy.
‘Not to worry, Henri,’ she said. ‘I knew from the moment you stepped foot inside.’
‘Did you? How?’
‘God told me.’
A moment’s dismay, before the three of them broke into laughter. Kooks abounded whenever the issue of God came up, which allowed legs to be pulled by anyone who could play the part. Cinq-Mars was reminded of Moira Ellibee, whom he’d come to enjoy. How much had she pulled his leg, he wondered? But no, as much as he might want that to be the case, he had to accept that the poor woman suffered a pathology. Spiritual and sexual, both. Or they were one and the same.
Ice broken, they enjoyed their tea and discussed recent events. Reverend Montour had a question. ‘About the toasters,’ she asked. ‘How in God’s name, or anybody else’s name, did they land on your old captain’s doorstep?’
‘We have no idea,’ Casgrain stated, only to have Cinq-Mars raise a contradictory hand.
‘I woke up this morning with an idea.’ He winked at the minister to share his joke. ‘Maybe God whispered in my sleep.’
‘We know you’re a nut bar. What did God whisper?’ Casgrain asked.
‘I think the only people who might care enough to pull some silly trick on Captain Touton would only do so if they knew he was my former mentor and sought his council. Otherwise, the toasters would never mean a thing to anybody. They’d not think well of him to subject him to their humor. They’d have to have a connection to the young crooks, or to any gang of thieves aiding and abetting the kids, contributing to their juvenile delinquency. That’s borne out because the culprit was obviously in possession of the toasters.’
‘I’ll bite, Émile. What does God say?’
‘He’s confused, also,’ Cinq-Mars allowed, which pitched the other two forward in laughter. Then he added, ‘He’s willing to suggest that it might have been Detective Alfred Morin and Sergeant-Detective Jerôme LaFôret. Or one and not the other. Both had motive, maybe, and opportunity, maybe, and we will never know, maybe or maybe not, that they did it. Anyway, I’m inclined to go along with God’s suggestion until the Devil comes up with a better one.’
‘Or logic,’ Casgrain quipped.
‘That too. I have an open mind. There’s another part of it, though. I’m putting one of those two guys, if not both, behind the fake call supposedly from Moira Ellibee to get me out at night. Who else would know that a visit to Moira’s in the middle of the night would be a cruel joke?’
The three of them knew what they were doing: procrastinating, delaying the inevitable. When Reverend Montour finally lifted her hands, they understood. Time to go.
Outside on a lovely day, the minister agreed to travel with them in the squad car. ‘If you get into a high-speed chase, don’t slow down on my account.’
‘Let’s hope for bank robbers,’ Casgrain said. ‘I’m in the mood for a high-speed shootout.’
‘You two,’ Montour said.
‘This is our last day married.’
‘What? Why is that?’
‘We’re getting divorced,’ Cinq-Mars said, playing along.
‘Couples therapy, it’s my specialty.’ Montour could play their game as well.
A momentary quiet. Casgrain decided not to let it go. ‘So, you counsel men and women on how to stay married?’
‘Sure. Unless the woman is really cute. Then I recommend divorce.’
‘You should have been a cop,’ Cinq-Mars concluded.
‘I can dig it. Ride around in a car all day, cracking jokes and eating donuts.’
‘Whereas your life,’ Cinq-Mars noted as he pulled over, holding his thought until after he parked, ‘is not so easy.’
A pall descended upon the occupants of the car.
‘Come on. Let’s go.’ They all thought it. Reverend Montour said it.
They clambered out.
The three climbed the stairs to the apartment of the family whose daughter was missing. The young woman’s body had been located sixty miles downstream. Beyond recognition. The dental records conclusive. The official record would be recorded as a ‘probable suicide’.
A wretched afternoon. As a father, Henri Casgrain experienced physical as well as emotional pain throughout the encounter, feeling the couple’s torment but also fearing it, for the same could happen to him or to someone he knew or to anyone anywhere at any time. The couple’s grief came home, their unwarranted guilt, the calamity of their lives overwhelming them. Cinq-Mars and Montour walked them through their sorrow, reminded them of sweeter memories, eliciting a revival of their daughter’s life, the blessing of her, of whom she’d been for the time she’d been here. This was not the time to heal, a long way off, and they would never forget, but they held out hope for a time of restoration, and the comfort of each other and their children going forward.
Cinq-Mars told them that he had not taken the time to visit their daughter’s wall murals yet, but on his first day off, he would do so. Reverend Montour thought that was a grand idea, invited herself along, and suggested that the parents join them.
A date was set.
On the landing outside, departing, Casgrain wiped a few tears that welled up. Cinq-Mars touched his elbow, knowing how his reflections provoked his love for his own children. Casgrain wanted to say something but, pent up, couldn’t get the words out immediately. They went down to the car in silence and got in. The detective with poor posture rested a hand on his partner’s shoulder, as if upon a crux, to restrain him from starting back just yet. Then said, quietly, ‘Cop and priest both.’ He nodded. ‘Both of you. More one than the other. One is more cop, one is more priest. You figure out who’s who. Cop and priest, both, each of you. Nothing wrong with that.’
They let the exchange and the afternoon’s talk settle on them, then the Reverend Alex Montour spoke up from the backseat. ‘If I’m the one who’s supposed to be more part-cop, then how about we go for donuts?’
The two men turned around.
Casgrain broke it to her. ‘We don’t actually eat donuts.’
‘We had planned on a beer after work,’ Cinq-Mars said.
‘Or a whiskey,’ Casgrain said.
‘Whiskey! Now you’re talking. If you don’t mind, I’ll take my collar off before I step into the bar. It tends to give patrons the willies.’
‘No problem. Hey,’ Casgrain teased, ‘how about we go to a strip club?’
‘We’re not going to a strip club,’ Cinq-Mars intervened.
‘Why not?’ Montour asked, sounding disappointed.
‘It’s against my religion.’
‘He’s a fanatic,’ Casgrain explained.
‘He’s the fanatic,’ Cinq-Mars struck back. ‘A married man.’
‘Damn,’ Montour said. ‘Too bad. Good idea otherwise, Henri.’
‘Yeah,’ Casgrain conceded. ‘Too bad, though. He’s right. Bastard’s right half the time. It’s uncanny.’
‘Don’t you just hate that?’
‘Most of the time, Reverend. Most. Of. The. Time.’
‘Not me,’ Cinq-Mars said, and started the squad car.
The reverend wanted the last word on the subject. ‘You guys,’ she admonished them. ‘You really ought to develop a greater appreciation for donuts.’
They had a laugh. They needed it.
Cinq-Mars turned the police band radio up loud for the reverend’s benefit, in case bank robbers became active, and the three headed off to a local watering hole.