The Brutal Telling (9 page)

“I’d say twenty years at least, judging by the wear and the materials used, but I’ve sent a sample along to the forensic dentist. Should hear by tomorrow.”

“Twenty years ago,” mused Gamache, doing the math, jotting figures in his notebook. “The man was in his seventies. That would mean
he had the work done sometime in his fifties. Then something happened. He lost his job, drank, had a breakdown; something happened that pushed him over the edge.”

“Something happened,” agreed Dr. Harris, “but not in his fifties. Something happened in his late thirties or early forties.”

“That long ago?” Gamache looked down at his notes. He’d written
20 ans
and circled it. He was confused.

“That’s what I wanted to tell you, Chief,” the coroner continued. “There’s something wrong about this body.”

Gamache sat up straighter and took his half-moon reading glasses off. Across the room Beauvoir saw this and walked over to the Chief’s desk.

“Go on,” said Gamache, nodding to Beauvoir to sit. Then he punched a button on the phone. “I’ve put you on the speaker. Inspector Beauvoir’s here.”

“Good. Well, it struck me as strange that this man who seemed a derelict should brush his teeth and even floss. But homeless people can do odd things. They’re often mentally unwell, as you know, and can be obsessive about certain things.”

“Though not often hygiene,” said Gamache.

“True. It was strange. Then when I undressed him I found he was clean. He’d had a bath or a shower recently. And his hair, while wild, was also clean.”

“There’re halfway homes,” said Gamache. “Maybe he was in one of those. Though an agent called all the local social services and he’s not known to them.”

“How d’you know?” The coroner rarely questioned Chief Inspector Gamache, but she was curious. “We don’t know his name and surely his description would sound like any number of homeless men.”

“That’s true,” admitted Gamache. “She described him as a slim, older man in his seventies with white hair, blue eyes and weathered skin. None of the men who match that description and use shelters in this area is missing. But we’re having someone take his photo around.”

There was a pause on the line.

“What is it?”

“Your description is wrong.”

“What do you mean?” Surely Gamache had seen him as clearly as everyone else.

“He wasn’t an elderly man. That’s what I called to tell you. His teeth were a clue; then I went looking. His arteries and blood vessels have very little plaque, and almost no atherosclerosis. His prostate isn’t particularly enlarged and there’s no sign of arthritis. I’d say he was in his mid-fifties.”

My age, thought Gamache. Was it possible that wreck on the floor was the same age?

“And I don’t think he was homeless.”

“Why not?”

“Too clean for one thing. He took care of himself. Not
GQ
material, it’s true, but not all of us can look like Inspector Beauvoir.”

Beauvoir preened slightly.

“On the outside he looked seventy but on the inside he was in good physical condition. Then I looked at his clothes. They were clean too. And mended. They were old and worn, but
propres
.”

She used the Québécois word that was rarely used anymore, except by elderly parents. But it seemed to fit here.
Propre
. Nothing fancy. Nothing fashionable. But sturdy and clean and presentable. There was a worn dignity about the word.

“I have to do more work, but that’s my preliminary finding. I’ll e-mail all this to you.”

“
Bon.
Can you guess what sort of work he did? How’d he keep himself in shape?”

“Which gym did he belong to, you mean?” He could hear the smile in her voice.

“That’s right,” said Gamache. “Did he jog or lift weights? Was he in a spinning class or maybe Pilates?”

Now the coroner laughed. “At a guess I’d say it wasn’t much walking, but a lot of lifting. His upper body is slightly more toned than his lower. But I’ll keep that question in mind as I go.”

“
Merci, docteur
,” said Gamache.

“One more thing,” said Beauvoir. “The murder weapon. Any further clues? Any ideas?”

“I’m just about to do that part of the autopsy, but I’ve taken a quick look and my assessment stays the same. Blunt instrument.”

“A fireplace poker?” asked Beauvoir.

“Possibly. I did notice something white in the wound. Might be ash.”

“We’ll have the lab results from the pokers by tomorrow morning,” said Gamache.

“I’ll let you know when I have more to tell you.”

Dr. Harris rung off just as Agent Lacoste arrived back. “Clearing up outside. It’s going to be a nice sunset.”

Beauvoir looked at her, incredulous. She was supposed to be scouring Three Pines for clues, trying to find the murder weapon and the murderer, interviewing suspects, and the first thing out of her mouth was about the nice sunset?

He noticed the Chief drift over to a window, sipping his coffee. He turned round and smiled. “Beautiful.”

A conference table had been set up in the center of their Incident Room with desks and chairs placed in a semicircle at one end. On each desk was a computer and phone. It looked a little like Three Pines, with the conference table as the village green and their desks as the shops. It was an ancient and tested design.

A young Sûreté agent from the local detachment hovered, looking as if he wanted to say something.

“Can I help you?” Chief Inspector Gamache asked.

The other agents from the local detachment stopped and stared. Some exchanged knowing smiles.

The young man squared his shoulders.

“I’d like to help with your investigation.”

There was dead silence. Even the technicians stopped what they were doing, as people do when witnessing a terrible calamity.

“I’m sorry?” said Inspector Beauvoir, stepping forward. “What did you just say?”

“I’d like to help.” By now the young agent could see the truck hurtling toward him and could feel his vehicle spin out of control. Too late, he realized his mistake.

He saw all this, and stood firm, from either terror or courage. It was hard to tell. Behind him four or five large agents crossed their arms and did nothing to help.

“Aren’t you supposed to be setting up desks and telephone lines?” asked Beauvoir, stepping closer to the agent.

“I have. That’s all done.” He voice was smaller, weaker, but still there.

“And what makes you think you can help?”

Behind Beauvoir stood the Chief Inspector, quietly watching. The young agent looked at Inspector Beauvoir when answering his questions, but then his eyes returned to Gamache.

“I know the area. I know the people.”

“So do they.” Beauvoir waved at the wall of police behind the agent. “If we needed help why would we choose you?”

This seemed to throw him and he stood silent. Beauvoir waved his hand to dismiss the agent and walked away.

“Because,” the agent said to the Chief Inspector, “I asked.”

Beauvoir stopped and turned round, looking incredulous. “
Pardon? Pardon?
This is homicide, not a game of Mother May I. Are you even in the Sûreté?”

It wasn’t a bad question. The agent looked about sixteen and his uniform hung loosely on him, though an effort had obviously been made to make it fit. With him in the foreground and his
confrères
behind it looked like an evolutionary scale, with the young agent on the extinction track.

“If you have no more work to do, please leave.”

The young agent nodded, turned to get back to work, met the wall of other officers, and stopped. Then he walked around them, watched by Gamache and his homicide team. Their last view of the young officer before they turned away was of his back, and a furiously blushing neck.

“Join me please,” Gamache said to Beauvoir and Lacoste, who took their seats at the conference table.

“What do you think?” Gamache asked quietly.

“About the body?”

“About the boy.”

“Not again,” said Beauvoir, exasperated. “There are perfectly good officers already in homicide if we need someone. If they’re busy with cases there’s always the wait-list. Agents from other divisions are dying to get into homicide. Why choose an untested kid from the boonies? If we need another investigator let’s call one down from headquarters.”

It was their classic argument.

The homicide division of the Sûreté du Québec was the most prestigious posting in the province. Perhaps in Canada. They worked on the worst of all crimes in the worst of all conditions. And they worked with the best, the most respected and famous, of all investigators. Chief Inspector Gamache.

So why pick the dregs?

“We could, certainly,” admitted the Chief.

But Beauvoir knew he wouldn’t. Gamache had found Isabelle Lacoste sitting outside her Superintendent’s office, about to be fired from traffic division. Gamache had asked her to join him, to the astonishment of everyone.

He’d found Beauvoir himself reduced to guarding evidence at the Sûreté outpost of Trois Rivières. Every day Beauvoir, Agent Beauvoir then, had suffered the ignominy of putting on his Sûreté uniform then stepping into the evidence cage. And staying there. Like an animal. He’d so pissed off his colleagues and bosses this was the only place left to put him. Alone. With inanimate objects. Silence all day, except when other agents came to put something in or take something out. They wouldn’t even meet his eye. He’d become untouchable. Unmentionable. Invisible.

But Chief Inspector Gamache saw. He’d come one day on a case, had himself gone to the cage with evidence, and there he’d found Jean Guy Beauvoir.

The agent, the man no one wanted, was now the second in command in homicide.

But Beauvoir couldn’t shake the certainty that Gamache had simply gotten lucky so far, with a few notable exceptions. The reality was, untested agents were dangerous. They made mistakes. And mistakes in homicide led to death.

He turned and looked at the slight young agent with loathing. Was this the one who’d finally make that blunder? The magnificent mistake that would lead to another death? It could be me who gets it, thought Beauvoir. Or worse. He glanced at Gamache beside him.

“Why him?” Beauvoir whispered.

“He seems nice,” said Lacoste.

“Like the sunset,” Beauvoir sneered.

“Like the sunset,” she repeated. “He was standing all alone.”

There was silence.

“That’s it?” asked Beauvoir.

“He doesn’t fit in. Look at him.”

“You’d choose the runt of the litter? For homicide detail? For God’s sake, sir,” he appealed to Gamache. “This isn’t the Humane Society.”

“You think not?” said Gamache with a small smile.

“We need the best for this team, for this case. We don’t have time to train people. And frankly, he looks as though he needs help tying his shoes.”

It was true, Gamache had to admit, the young agent was awkward. But he was something else as well.

“We’ll take him,” said the Chief to Beauvoir. “I know you don’t approve, and I understand your reasons.”

“Then why take him, sir?”

“Because he asked,” said Gamache, rising up. “And no one else did.”

“But they’d join us in a second,” Beauvoir argued, getting up as well. “Anyone would.”

“What do you look for in a member of our team?” asked Gamache.

Beauvoir thought. “I want someone smart and strong.”

Gamache tipped his head toward the young man. “And how much strength do you think that took? How much strength do you think it takes him to go to work every day? Almost as much as it took you, in Trois Rivières, or you,” he turned to Lacoste, “in traffic division. The others might want to join us, but they either didn’t have the brains or lacked the courage to ask. Our young man had both.”

Our, thought Beauvoir. Our young man. He looked at him across the room. Alone. Coiling wires carefully and placing them in a box.

“I value your judgment, you know that, Jean Guy. But I feel strongly about this.”

“I understand, sir.” And he did. “I know this is important to you. But you’re not always right.”

Gamache stared at his Inspector and Beauvoir recoiled, afraid he’d gone too far. Presumed too much on their personal relationship. But then the Chief smiled.

“Happily, I have you to tell me when I make a mistake.”

“I think you’re making one now.”

“Noted. Thank you. Will you please invite the young man to join us.”

Beauvoir walked purposefully across the room and stopped at the young agent.

“Come with me,” he said.

The agent straightened up. He looked concerned. “Yes, sir.”

Behind them an officer snickered. Beauvoir stopped and turned back to the young officer following him.

“What’s your name?”

“Paul Morin. I’m with the Cowansville detachment of the Sûreté, sir.”