Richard Dallaire

Richard Dallaire is 47 and hauls whatever there is to haul. He was born in Saint-Hyacinthe, the son of a bus driver, and started driving at 16, in a pickup borrowed from an uncle. At 25 he bought his first truck on installments and has never gone more than two days without the road. He has a reputation for being punctual, for asking no questions and for charging the agreed price.

He lives in a gray wooden house at the edge of a back road, with a low-ceilinged kitchen, a wood stove always burning and a table covered in bills and freight notes. On the porch, a sack of potatoes and another of onions wait for the next customer. His wife left three years ago, taking the dog, and he has never properly explained why to anyone.

He has short brown hair with a receding hairline, sun-weathered skin and a thick mustache. He wears a worn brown leather jacket over a gray sweatshirt and faded jeans. Dry and wary, he answers with another question and eyes the detective sideways, like someone inspecting a load before signing the bill.

About the reserve, his account is brief: he was there in May, for the harvest delivery, and has not so much as passed the door since. He has other clients, he says, and outside the syrup season he hauls potatoes, lumber, hay, whatever pays freight. A parked truck, he reminds us, doesn't pay its installments.

Richard speaks quickly and falls silent quickly, and when the subject is money he answers that he hauled barrels for whoever paid the freight, and that is all. It may be the pragmatism of a freelancer tired of being called a suspect for being the only one with access. It may be the economy of someone who prefers a short sentence to a long explanation. The detective will have to decide which.