Gueule d'Ange (Angel Face)
Jacques Bissonnette
(Chapter 2, p. 21-32)
The shabby front doors in the neighbourhood opened directly on the sidewalk. Greenery was scarce. A few scrawny trees gave scant shade to the sun-baked streets. Anémone glanced with a certain discomfort through open doors that revealed impoverished-looking interiors.
"Where are we going?"
"We're going to question the little girl."
Anemone was surprised that a senior officer wanted to do such a minor interview himself.
"Didn't Mancini and Bernard do that already?"
"I want to know more."
The lieutenant seemed to be in a foul mood, and she didn't insist. They avoided a few street people armed with paper bags, who appeared to be standing guard in front of a building entirely covered with plywood sheets. They were greeted by a group of youths with multicoloured hair who aggressively held out their hands when they passed. Stifer only gave them an expressionless glance.
They took a side street and came to a completely different neighbourhood. Pink brick cottages line the street, behind flower beds and shrubs, and then a small tidy park decorated with a fountain. The place reeked of affluence and domestic tranquillity. It was amazing how different the mood was from the previous neighbourhood. Many "House for sale" signs were planted on the lawns, however.
They arrived at a cottage that looked like the others, except for the white plastic flower boxes decorating the windows. There was a motor boat on a trailer in the driveway.
"You'll do the interview," Stifer said.
"To ask what?"
"Little details."
"Like?"
Stifer shrugged his shoulders.
"The ones Mancini and Bernard didn't think off."
"But..."
He was already pushing the doorbell. Baffled by Stifer's lack of explanation, Anémone concluded that he wanted to test her. She was already feeling nervous when a corpulent man brusquely opened the door, as if he'd been waiting for them right behind it. He was wearing a white pullover and jeans with a big western buckle at his belt. His chin was darkened by a morning shadow.
"Detective Laurent and Lieutenant Stifer," Anémone said pleasantly. "Are you Mr. Therrien?"
"Yep."
"We'd like to ask your daughter a few questions."
"We'd already been questioned by officers. You just have to read their report."
"Certain details are missing. We are from the homicide squad. We need to speak with your daughter to complete her statement."
The man stared at them for a long time, as if he had been confronting an especially insistent and bothersome door-to-door salesman, then he stepped back and let them in. They went through a living room decorated with a brick fireplace, and went up a half level to a dining room where a little girl was sitting at a white mica table, eating ice cream. She furtively eyed the visitors then went back to scraping the bowl in front of her.
"Hello. What's your name?"
The child didn't answer and kept eating silently. Anémone glanced questioningly at the father. Looking annoyed, he was staring at the swimming pool in the backyard. Anemone wondered what had got into him to cause such a reaction. She turned to Stifer, but the lieutenant looked back at her with a neutral expression.
"You're having ice cream for breakfast?"
"It's to help her get over the shock." A woman was approaching, dressed in a pink bathrobe, with a coffee pot. "Do you want some coffee?"
Anémone accepted. The woman served them and ran a hand in her daughter's hair, adding with an afflicted voice.
"She's had a nasty shock, my little flower."
"Can you tell us about it?" Anémone asked.
The girl kept quiet, while on the screen of an enormous TV perched on the counter, a muscular young woman was rhythmically and cheerfully exercising.
"Explain to us how it happened."
Little Hélène's hair was hiding her forehead. Her arms and legs, long and thin, showed that she was beginning to undergo the first growing spurts of adolescence. She was wearing a green sweater and shorts. Her sport shoes, decorated with fluorescent stripes, were nervously swinging under the table.
"Hélène came to tell me that she'd seen a sick girl in the park, the father said at last. We went together. When I saw that girl, I knew at once she was dead. We came back in a hurry and I called the police."
"What time was it?"
"Around eight," the man answered.
"Tell me about your morning, in detail," Anémone said, leaning towards the little girl.
"She saw the girl and she came at once to tell me," Therrien repeated. "That's all."
Anémone, holding her irritation in check, thought the father must want to keep his daughter from being asked difficult questions.
"It will be good for her to tell it herself. Why not leave me for a few minutes alone with her?"
"You've had your answers, haven't you? Stop harassing her! Maybe she'll manage to forget the whole thing."
Anémone turned to the mother, looking for help. But the woman said instead, in an accusatory tone:
"Hélène is in shock, you should leave her alone!"
Stifer intervened: "It's standard procedure. Underage witnesses of criminal acts are always referred to professionals in human resources such as Ms. Laurent."
He opened the French doors behind him and invited the parents to step outside, gesturing both naturally and imperiously.
"It will only take a few minutes and you'll be able to watch them from outside."
Anémone was impressed by the lieutenant's skill. The parents also gave in to his aura of calm authority. They went out on the patio, followed by Stifer who carefully closed the sliding door behind him. Anémone, smiling, turned to the girl and asked amiably: "Tell me how you found that girl."
The child looked up, showing her ice cream smeared lips. She glanced at her parents, who stood immobile behind the French doors, then reluctantly decided to tell her story.
"I was rollerblading on the sidewalk when I saw something weird lying in the park. I went to check and I found the girl. She looked sick. I came back right away to tell my dad."
"You were alone?"
"Yes."
"Did you see other people around?"
"No, nobody. It was early."
"Did you know her?"
The girl looked at the trio standing behind the glass doors before answering.
"No."
"Do you know who her friends were?"
"I've seen her with other kids, but I didn't know them."
"What kind of kids?"
She shrugged her thin shoulders then said, making a face: "My dad doesn't want me to go with them."
Young street people, Anémone thought.
"What did you do, after you saw her?"
"I ran away."
"You know she was dead, then?"
The girl replied with a pained expression: "Just seeing her, it was easy to guess. Her body was all twisted, her throat was black, her tongue was hanging out! It was awful!"
She began to cry, shaken by long broken sobs. The father brusquely opened the sliding door and ran inside with such a threatening expression that Anémone thought he was going to hit her. He stopped very close to his daughter, convulsively clenching his big fists, as if it was the only way he knew to give comfort. The mother appeared behind him, a gauzy pink tornado, and picked up her daughter in her plump arms.
"Are you all right, my little princess?"
Hélène raised imploring eyes to her mother, her face showing love as much as fear, nodded and snuffled loudly.
"Why don't you leave her alone!" Therrien asked aggressively. "She needs to forget!"
"No, she needs to get it out," Anémone retorted, fighting to keep her cool. "The worst thing she can do is to repress the psychological trauma. She'll have anxiety attacks. She'll have nightmares. She'll stop eating and cry constantly. Those symptoms are normal, you know. Many children are treated for this kind of problem."
"We'll do it another time. Leave, now!"
Anemone felt she was in front of a boiler full of raw emotions ready to explode. She hated that aggressive demeanour she'd often seen in some disturbed children's fathers. Unable to express their own feelings, they violently manifested their helpless rage, too stupid to understand that their children's misbehaviour often was nothing but a desperate call for help.
"I think we should let Hélène rest," Stifer said.
Anémone glanced discreetly at Hélène. With a taciturn expression, the girl was staring at her ice-cream bowl, as if unable to accept it was already empty. Anémone sighed, disappointed by the way the interview had gone.
"All right."
The lieutenant nodded, as if approving her decision, and asked the mother:
"Could you take Hélène to her room?"
The woman hastily took the girl upstairs, as if she were afraid the officers would change their mind. Therrien was about to show them to the door when Stifer said calmly:
"Detective Laurent has a few questions to ask you."
The father grimaced, then sat down heavily, without bothering to offer them a seat.
"Tell us what happened."
"Again!"
The man sighed, then reluctantly, in an annoyed voice.
"Hélène came running back to the house, all upset. She told me she'd seen a girl in the Disraeli Park, who looked sick. I didn't pay much attention. The park has been invaded by druggies and prostitutes. We complain to the police, but they're always loitering there. I thought the girl was drunk or drugged. But Hélène insisted for us to go and see, she said the girl looked dead. I went with her. I saw at once the girl was a goner. We came back to the house, and I called the police. That's all."
"Did you see anyone in the park?"
The man sniggered.
"There was no one. Usually it's full of people. They must have told one another. Those rats can't even call an ambulance."
Anémone was startled by the violence of his tone.
"You knew the victim?"
Therrien looked at her with a disagreeable expression. As though she had insulted him.
"I saw her harassing people," his wife said, just coming back into the kitchen."
"Harassing how?"
"She was offering to turn tricks," the women answered, making a disgusted face.
"She prostituted herself?"
"That's it."
"Whom did she offer her services to?"
"Essentially people who drove by. She hitchhiked, sometimes right in front of our house!"
Therrien spoke again, acerbically.
"We created a neighbourhood association to clear out all those druggies and whores, but the city and the police don't want to do anything, they don't care a shit about us! As long as we pay our taxes, you know?"
"The victim was a regular in the neighbourhood, then, with the addicts and the prostitutes?"
"Yep, druggies and whores who came here with the Yellow Rosebush gang!"
"Yellow Rosebush? What is that? A street gang?"
"A gang of cretins who give syringes to addicts for free! What a nice gift!"
The man stood up, violently shouting at Anémone, pointing a finger to the glass doors opening on the swimming pool.
"They moved in two blocks from here, practically in my backyard! My taxes are paying for that! We bought the house here because the city promised to invest into rejuvenating the neighbourhood. Their big idea in order to beautify the place was building a house for drug addicts! Did you see the signs outside? Everybody wants to sell. But of course, nobody wants to buy! Our houses aren't worth anything now! We should have gone to the suburbs!"
His wife was also beginning to get worked up.
"They throw contaminated syringes in the kids' playgrounds, they use our garden for their bathroom, they make love in the park! How can you bring up children in a neighbourhood like that?"
"Do you think you could recognize some friends of the victim?"
"You just have to take a walk in the neighbourhood," the woman replied, disgusted. "You'll find them everywhere!"
"They should be arrested," the father said. "I don't want my daughter to end up like a dead rat too!"
Anémone was startled again, hearing the word. She very much wanted to put the ill-mannered slob in his place, but she refrained. The placid demeanour of the lieutenant was forcing her to stay calm too. Stifer got up and said in his slow voice: "I think the interview is over. Thank you for giving us these few minutes of your time."
Anémone said goodbye to the mother, but pointedly ignored the father. Stifer shook hands with both and followed Anémone.
"What an asshole!" she said when they were outside.
Stifer answered wearily:
"He's a citizen exasperated by the drug addicts taking over his neighbourhood. He's afraid his daughter will be contaminated and he's edgy because she's found a corpse near his house. It's not an easy-going character, but you can understand his anger."
"It's still not a reason to call that poor girl a dead rat!"
Stifer shrugged his massive shoulders.
"You'll hear a lot worse than that. If you want to correct everyone's language, you've got your work cut out for you!"
They walked past a series of absolutely identical brick cottages, with lawns gaily ornamented with the same red tulips, then they took the side street leading to Disraeli Park.
"What did you conclude from your conversation with Hélène?"
"That she was lying."
"What makes you say that?"
"I've had dozens of kids lie to me."
Stifer frowned. His thick, unruly hair was like a red crown swaying in the wind. He asked, in a suspicious voice:
"What was she hiding?"
"She knew Claudia."
"But why would she lie?"
Anemone shrugged.
"The usual. Kids lie to defend themselves, or because they're afraid. It's a survival tool when they confront adults."
"Who would she be afraid of? The murderer?"
"Her father."
Stifer shook his head, looking annoyed, but began walking again. Anémone felt miffed about the scant regard the lieutenant seemed to lend her explanation. She'd met hundreds of children at youth protection, though. She knew what she was talking about. They came across two young women wearing provocative bustiers who were pacing up and down the sidewalk, holding out inviting thumbs to passing cars. Then a gang of punks with dirty caps solicited the officers in front of a building with nailed down windows, covered with graffiti. Finally they reached their car, which they'd left at the park where there were still lots of people hanging around.
"We're going back to the station."
Anémone took back her place behind the wheel. She had to drive around a group of rollerblading teenagers who were chasing one another down the middle of the street. She then drove towards Sainte-Catherine Street. They were driving through the gay district, full of lean young men with meticulously cropped hair, when Stifer suddenly asked:
"You think Therrien hits his daughter?"
"I wouldn't go that far. But she's afraid of him and so she hides some things from him. He surely forbade her to hang out with people like Claudia."
They went up the steep slope to Sherbrooke Street, past the big yellow brick building of Notre-Dame Hospital. Anémone saw Stifer's hand gripping the dashboard, as if he'd wanted to control the speed of the car.
"Then arrange to interview the girl again."
"Aren't Mancini and Bernard in charge of the investigation?"
"Nobody ever says no to a little help."
Anémone doubted it. Everyone was jealous of her responsibilities and police officers were no exception. Mancini and Bernard wouldn't like to see her interview their witnesses without their authorization. She would have to team up with them and would end up being the third wheel. Not a very pleasant situation.
"So I'll work with them?"
"No, you're my assistant. The victim is already at the morgue. Go ask the M.E. for the preliminary report, instead."
"Isn't it a bit early for that?"
An odd light shone in Stifer's eyes.
"Never too early, never too late..."
© 2001 Éditions Alire
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