A Great Reckoning (24 page)

It was an age-old form of torture. Some considered it training. Torment, relent. Torment. Relent.

They were made an example of. So that other students fell into line quickly. Eagerly. Some even, by third year, joined in the humiliation. Those were considered the successes and fast-tracked into good jobs in the Sûreté.

If Leduc was the architect, this man was the builder. Taking good material and making it rotten.

When he'd taken over as commander, Gamache had been sickened by what he'd found. The degree and depth of the abuse. And Marcel Godbut had not even been the worst. Those Gamache had summarily fired. One he'd had arrested. But he didn't quite have enough on Godbut. It was all anecdotal. Professor Godbut, the master of paper trails, would be careful not to leave one himself.

But Commander Gamache had watched him closely and made sure Godbut knew it. The abuse had stopped.

But when all that bile had to be contained, it created a volcano.

Had Professor Godbut erupted last night and attacked Leduc?

But motive was missing. It was not enough to simply say he blew. There had to be a reason. A push, however trivial it might appear from the outside.

And the crime scene didn't look like an explosion. It looked like an execution. Neat, orderly, bitterly cold.

“Tell us about the contract to build this school,” said Gamache.

Godbut slowly turned in his chair and stared at the Commander.

“I know nothing about that.”

“You taught fraud. You taught students how to spot it and yet you missed it when it was happening in your own house?”

“Was it? That's news to me. I'm just a professor. And as you've made clear since you arrived, Commander, I'm not a very good one.”

“Did I ever say that? I think you are probably very good at what you do,” said Gamache. “The question is, what do you do? What was your real job here?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning Serge Leduc was on the take,” said Paul Gélinas. “This whole structure was built on bribes and contract fixing. Someone organized it for him. Someone who not only knew how to do it, but how not to get caught.”

“I hope you have proof, Commissioner. That's a serious charge.”

“Not a charge, a theory.” Gélinas smiled. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Dinner last night. We discussed tactical exercises, as you know, Commander. And then Professor Leduc and I discussed the Montréal Canadiens.”

It was a clear shot at Gamache. His opinions on the curriculum were no more important than a hockey game.

“And after dinner?” asked Gamache, as though unaware of the barb.

“I went back to my rooms and corrected papers and did coursework. Like any good professor.”

“Did you see anyone? Any phone calls?” asked Isabelle Lacoste.

“No phone calls. No visitors. It was a quiet evening in. I awoke to that pathetic cadet screaming.”

“You knew Professor Leduc as well as anyone,” said Lacoste. “What do you think happened?”

“I think you're partly right,” said Godbut. “I think his death did have something to do with this building. But not from the inside. I'd look outside, if I were you.”

He gestured through the plate glass, past the quad, to the church spires beyond.

“The town?” asked Lacoste.

“Do you think Serge Leduc was killed by an ally? Or an enemy?” said Godbut. “That town is teeming with people who hated Serge Leduc.”

Jean-Guy Beauvoir had slipped into the room. He and Godbut nodded to each other, the chill obvious.

Professor Godbut got up and paused for a moment to look out the window. The sun was just beginning to set and the huge sky was changing color, from blue to a soft rose.

And against it were the lights of Saint-Alphonse.

“One man's hatred stands above the rest,” he said, turning away from the window. “That's where I'd start to look. But then, I'm not very good at my job, am I?”

If he expected Commander Gamache to mollify him, he was disappointed. Gamache sat silent and eventually Professor Godbut nodded and left.

“There's a piece of work,” said Lacoste.

“A piece of shit,” said Beauvoir, and beside him Gélinas gave a gruff laugh of agreement.

“But he might be right,” said Lacoste. “It's not the first time today that's been mentioned. The hatred in the town toward the academy.”

“But what's the story?” asked Gélinas, sitting forward and turning to Gamache. “What happened? The dossier you gave me refers to it, but only in terms of the subsequent contracts, not what led up to it.”

“The town wanted this site for a recreation complex,” Gamache explained. “Leduc promised to help them get it if they helped him find a site for the academy on the outskirts of town. They were thrilled to have the Sûreté Academy, knowing what it could mean to their economy. The mayor trusted him completely. Three months later, the site of the new academy was announced.”

“The town's site,” said Lacoste.

“The mayor and the townspeople had been lobbying and fund-raising for years to build a skating rink, a pool, an athletic center and community hall. It was more than a piece of land, more than a building. The people of Saint-Alphonse saw it as vital for their town's future. Especially the children. The mayor was apoplectic. Almost put him in the hospital.”

There was silence in the room.

People had been murdered for far less.

“Could he have done this?” Lacoste asked.

The Commander thought for a moment. “I don't know.”

Gélinas's brows rose. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard a senior officer say,
I don't know
.

“I think it's possible,” mused Gamache. “But if the mayor was going to murder Leduc, I think it would've been a few years ago, when it first happened. I know him a little. I like him. He's a decent man, doing his best.”

Gamache considered, then added, “But he does hold on to things. Lets them fester. Now, to be fair, it was a huge betrayal of his trust. It took a long time and a lot of effort to get him to agree to see me when I took over. Finally I convinced him to allow the community to share our facilities.”

“You were doing that?” asked Gélinas.

“Seemed only fair, and didn't go nearly far enough to make amends. But it was a start. We were developing a program where the cadets would mentor and coach some of the children. And then this happened.”

“Could your approaching the mayor have reopened old wounds?” Paul Gélinas asked. “Unintentionally, of course.”

“It might have. On the one hand, the mayor is extremely upright, to the point of rigidity. A moralist. Almost fanatical in his defense of his town and his views of right and wrong.”

“He'd consider murder wrong, I'm assuming,” said Lacoste.

“True. On the other hand, he might see it as justice. Most killers manage to justify their actions. They don't see what they've done as wrong.”

“The person getting what they deserve,” said Gélinas.

“Often, yes.”

“And in this case, Commander? Do you think the killer was after justice?”

Gamache looked at the photographs in front of them.

“Maybe.”

“But?” said Lacoste.

“You've interviewed the professors and the students,” said Gamache, and she nodded. “Each of the professors was a highly experienced Sûreté officer. All the students are being taught investigative skills.”

“You're saying this is a school for murder,” said Gélinas. “You might be teaching them how to catch a criminal, but in a roundabout way you're also teaching them how to be one, and not get caught.”

Gamache was nodding. “The professors in particular. They'd know what we'd be looking for.”

“And be able to stage a crime scene,” said Lacoste. “Make it look like something it's not.”

“A single shot to the temple,” said Gamache. “Most murderers would at least try to make it look like suicide. Not a stretch. The narrative would be obvious. Serge Leduc knew I was closing in on him, and so he took his own life rather than go to prison.”

“And all the killer had to do was drop the gun on the correct side of the body,” said Lacoste.

“But he didn't,” said Gélinas, looking at the photos. “Instead he does the opposite. Why?”

“He wants us to know it wasn't suicide,” said Lacoste.

“But why?” asked Gélinas. “Why make sure we knew it was murder? So that we'd know that justice was done?”

They stared at the pictures. In certain ones, Serge Leduc looked like he was asleep. In others he was unrecognizable.

Perspective.

“You're being awfully quiet.” Gamache turned to Beauvoir and saw a familiar expression on his face. “What do you know?”

“The alarm system was off last night.”

As one, Chief Inspector Lacoste, Deputy Commissioner Gélinas, and Commander Gamache leaned toward him.

“But how's that possible?” asked Gamache. “It's integrated, computerized. The guards would have noticed. The board would have lit up.”

“Well, guess where Leduc cut corners?” said Beauvoir. “Apparently, the guards knew the system was crap and had complained to the former commander, and gotten shit from Leduc for it. When you came, they said nothing.”

“What do you mean by crap?” asked Lacoste.

“It's a cheap job—”

Gamache winced and shook his head. “They paid hundreds of thousands for the security system.”

“Well, according to the guards, you could buy a better one at Canadian Tire.”

Now Gamache groaned and massaged his head, trying to rid himself of a creeping headache. “There's an armory of weapons here. And almost no protection. This isn't just contract fixing, this is stupidity on a monumental scale.”

“I've set up a meeting with the head guard for tomorrow morning,” said Beauvoir, “to review security.”

“Good,” said Gamache.

“But whoever turned off the system would still have to know how,” said Lacoste.

“True, but this system allows for more than one code,” said Beauvoir, then turned to Gamache. “You have one—”

“I thought it was the only one.”

“—and I suspect Leduc had his own code.”

“And there may be others floating around?” said Gamache.

Beauvoir nodded, barely able to make eye contact with the Commander.

“You're thinking Leduc himself turned it off?” asked Gélinas. “But why?”

Beauvoir shrugged. “Beats me, and that's just one possibility. Someone could have easily hacked in and closed it down.”

“And the guards wouldn't know?”

He shook his head. “And even if they saw some warning light, they tell me they're always going off. False alarms ten times a day.”

“Could it be done remotely?” Gamache asked. “By someone outside the academy?”

“It would be more difficult,” said Beauvoir, “but yes, it could be done. What're you thinking?”

“I'm thinking of a conversation I had with the mayor a few months back at his office. Being mayor of Saint-Alphonse isn't exactly a full-time job. He moonlights as a consultant in software design.”

“I'll make an appointment with the mayor,” said Lacoste. “Let's move on. We found the bullet from the gun. It was lodged in the wall across the room. We're having it analyzed, of course, but it looks like it came from the murder weapon.”

“I've sent an email to the manufacturer,” Beauvoir reported. “Some place in England. But Leduc could've picked the gun up secondhand on the black market.”

“I haven't seen the weapon,” said Gélinas. “Where is it?”

“Sent to the lab for tests, but we have pictures,” said Lacoste.

As Gélinas studied them, his expression grew more and more perplexed.

“At what height was the bullet?” Gamache asked.

“Five feet eight inches.”

“He was standing when killed. I wondered if he might've been kneeling.”

“Begging for his life?” asked Beauvoir.

“Or killed execution-style,” said Gamache.

“No,” said Lacoste. “He seemed to be just standing there.”

“Huh,” was all Gamache said. “Huh.” But it was what the others were thinking.

Huh. Why would someone just wait to be murdered, and not at least try to fight back? Especially someone like Serge Leduc.

Gélinas lowered the photographs and was staring at Isabelle Lacoste.

“It's a revolver. With a silencer?”

“
Oui
,” said Beauvoir. “Custom. That's why no one heard the shot.”

“Was he a gun collector?”

“
Non
,” said Gamache.

“Then why would he have an old-fashioned revolver?” asked Gélinas, and got only blank stares in reply. He replaced the pictures and shook his head.

“Something very strange is going on in your school, monsieur.”

 

CHAPTER 20

“Hello,” Nathaniel Smythe called.
“Bonjour
?
”

The front door was ajar. He took a deep breath and opened it enough to get his head in.

“Madame Zardo?”

He stepped inside, hitching his satchel up on his sloping shoulders.

It was past six. He was tired and hungry. Enough to finally seek out his billet.

The door opened straight into the living room, which was in darkness except for a single lamp.

He stood still.

There were no sounds. Not a creak. Or a quack. In the demi-darkness, all he saw were books. The walls were made of them. The tables were stacked with books. The one chair, illuminated, was covered in them, splayed open. Upholstered in stories.

He'd been holding his breath, pretty sure the place would stink. Of decay. Of dander and old lady. But now, no longer able to hold it, he breathed in. Deeply.