A Great Reckoning Read online

  “But when you asked if he killed Leduc, he said no,” Gélinas pointed out. “So I guess he didn’t do it.”

  “You tried that again?” asked Gamache.

  “Still hasn’t worked, eh?” said Beauvoir.

  She shook her head and smiled. “One day it will and we can all go home early.”

  “But the mayor did admit he despised the man,” said Gélinas, watching with interest and some envy the easy familiarity of these people. He had to remind himself that his job was to judge them, not join them. “That was the word he used. ‘Despised.’ And that he prayed him dead.”

  “If everyone we prayed dead died, the streets would be littered with corpses,” said Beauvoir.

  “Non,” said Gélinas. “We might wish someone dead, but for a religious man to sit in a church, before God, and pray that someone dies? Not a loved one who’s sick and in pain, whose suffering we want to see ended, but a vigorous man who could live, should live, another forty years? To pray that man dead is something else entirely. It’s a hatred that overwhelms his morals and ethics and beliefs. It’s a hatred that’s hooked in the soul.”

  Gamache listened to Gélinas and wondered if he was himself a religious man.

  “So you think Mayor Florent is a religious fanatic and God was his accomplice?” asked Beauvoir.

  “Now you just make it sound silly,” said Gélinas with a rueful smile, then he shook his head. “He might be a religious man, but I think if he killed Leduc, it was driven by hatred of the man and not love of God. I’ve learned never to underestimate hatred. There’s a madness that goes with it.”

  “We have the forensics report,” said Beauvoir, tapping the screen of his tablet.

  It was a relief to be investigating a murder in a place with high-speed Internet. The report flashed up on all their screens.

  It was also a relief to now be dealing with facts rather than speculation.

  “The bullet we dug out of the wall was the one that killed him. And it came from the gun we found. The McDermot .45. No surprise there.”

  “There is one surprise,” said Gélinas. “I’m not a homicide investigator, but I’d have thought most murderers take the weapon with them. To dispose of it. Less for the investigators to work with, if there’s no weapon.”

  “Amateurs,” said Charpentier. He’d been bone-dry and silent so far, but as he spoke, sweat began pouring from his pores.

  “Professionals know that as soon as murder is committed, the weapon stops being a gun or a knife or a club and becomes a noose,” he said. “It attaches itself to the killer. He might think he’s being clever, taking the weapon, but murder weapons are harder to get rid of than people think. The longer he holds on to it, the tighter the rope gets, the bigger the drop.”

  Charpentier mimicked a length of rope, and then jerked it with such sudden violence, and such relish, it gave those watching pause. A kind of ecstasy had come over the quiet man as he glistened in the morning sun and talked of execution.

  Gamache leaned forward slightly, toward Charpentier, his thoughtful eyes sharpening. And he knew then what his former pupil reminded him of. His thin, tense body was that rope, and his outsized head the noose.

  If Gamache was an explorer and Beauvoir a hunter, Charpentier seemed a born executioner.

  And Gélinas? Gamache shifted his gaze to the senior RCMP officer. What was he?

  “Amateurs panic and take it with them,” confirmed Beauvoir. “Leduc was killed by someone who knew what he was doing, or at the very least had thought it through.”

  “But why a revolver?” asked Gélinas. “Why did Leduc have one, and why did the murderer use it instead of an automatic?”

  “Well, the revolver had the advantage of already being there,” said Gamache. “And couldn’t be traced back to the murderer. And it has another advantage.”

  “What’s that?” asked Lacoste.

  But now Beauvoir smiled and leaned forward. “That we’re talking about it. And spending time wondering about it and investigating it. The revolver’s an oddity. And oddities eat up time and energy in an investigation.”

  “You’re thinking the revolver is both the murder weapon and a red herring,” said Lacoste.

  “Not a red herring, a red whale,” said Beauvoir. “Something so obviously strange we have no option but to focus on it, and maybe miss something else.”

  “It bears considering,” said Gamache.

  “Too much speculation,” said Lacoste. “Let’s move on. I see there’s a preliminary report on the DNA at the crime scene.”

  “A lot of different DNA was found,” said Beauvoir, returning to his screen. “It’ll take a while to process.”

  “Quite a few fingerprints too.” Gélinas scanned ahead. “And not just in the living room.”

  “True,” said Beauvoir, and tapped the tablet again.

  A schematic of Leduc’s rooms came up on everyone’s screen. It was a floor plan showing the layout of furniture and the body. Then another tap, and the image was overlaid with dots. So many they obliterated almost everything else.

  “The red dots are Leduc’s own prints,” said Beauvoir, and hit a key. They disappeared, leaving black dots. There were far fewer of those.

  “As you can see, the other prints are mostly in the living room, but some were found in the bathroom and a few in the bedroom.”

  “Have you identified them?” asked Lacoste.

  “Not all, but most. The majority belong to one person. Michel Brébeuf.”

  “Huh,” said Gamache, and leaned closer to his screen, bringing his hand up to his face. “Can you show us just his prints?”

  Beauvoir tapped again, and again the screen changed. The dots were in the living room, in the bathroom. In the bedroom.

  Gamache studied them.

  Gélinas hit an icon on his own screen and the forensics report replaced the floor plan. He found computer imaging of limited use. It helped to visualize, but it could also confuse. It was both too much information and too narrow.

  Instead, he preferred to read the report.

  “There’re other professors’ fingerprints, I see, besides Brébeuf’s,” he said. “Professor Godbut, for example. It looks like the three of them, Leduc, Godbut, and Brébeuf, spent some time together.”

  “It does,” said Beauvoir. “But of course we can’t tell if the prints were made at the same time or separately.”

  “How often were the rooms cleaned?” the RCMP officer asked.

  “Once a week,” said Beauvoir. “Leduc’s was cleaned three days before the murder.”

  “But it wouldn’t be thorough enough to wipe out all the prints,” said Gamache. “Some of these might be quite old.”

  “I can see Leduc and Godbut getting together,” said Gélinas. “But how does Michel Brébeuf fit in? I honestly can’t imagine him having a few beers with Leduc and watching the game.”

  Gamache smiled at that image. The refined Brébeuf and the pug that was Leduc, kicking back. Then he remembered that evening in his rooms early in the semester. Reine-Marie, the students. The fire lit and drinks handed around. The snowstorm pounding the windows, just feet from where they sat.

  The first informal gathering with the cadets. It seemed ages ago now, but was only a couple of months.

  Michel Brébeuf had arrived late and Serge Leduc went over to him, all but genuflecting. Clearly recognizing the man, and admiring him despite, or probably because of, Brébeuf’s disgrace.

  Jean-Guy Beauvoir had also noticed, and been afraid that that was the beginning of some unholy alliance. And he might have been right.

  “They seemed friendly,” said Gamache, “though I doubt you’d call them friends. I’ll talk to him about this.”

  “Perhaps it would be better if I did,” said Gélinas.

  The implication was obvious, and Gamache raised his brow but could hardly object. This was, after all, the reason the outsider was there. To assure a fair investigation. And it was well known that Gamache and Brébeuf had a history, as great friends and colleagues, and as near deadly adversaries.

  “With your permission, I’d like to be there,” said Gamache, and when Gélinas hesitated he went on. “There’s an advantage to knowing him well.”

  Gélinas gave a curt nod.

  Beauvoir and Lacoste exchanged glances before Lacoste said, “What about the mayor? Any of his prints?”

  “No, none.”

  “Then who do these other prints belong to?” she asked, pointing to the unclaimed dots in the bathroom and bedroom.

  “Some aren’t identified yet,” said Beauvoir. “But most belong to cadets.”

  “In a professor’s bathroom and bedroom?” asked Gélinas. “That would be unusual, wouldn’t it?”

  “I encouraged the professors to meet with students casually,” said Gamache.

  “Just how casual did they get?”

  “That, unfortunately, is a good question,” said Gamache. “My instructions were to meet in groups.”

  “You were afraid of something happening?”

  “It seemed wise,” said the Commander. “For everyone’s protection.”

  “And did they?”

  “Oui,” said Beauvoir. “Most met once a week with students. My group came over on Wednesday evenings. We had sandwiches and beer and talked.”

  “A sort of mentorship?” asked Gélinas.

  “That was the idea,” said Gamache.

  “Were they assigned or did they choose the professors?”

  “They chose.”

  “And a few went with Serge Leduc?” asked Gélinas, looking down at the black spots on Lacoste’s screen, then back up again. Incredulous.

  “I expected that,” Commander Gamache admitted. “For the seniors especially, he was their leader.”

  “He wasn’t a leader, he was a bully,” said Gélinas. “Surely they’d welcome the chance to get out from under his thumb.”

  “When police first started intervening in child abuse cases,” said Lacoste, “they developed a simple test. It was often clear the child was being abused, but it wasn’t clear which parent was doing it. So they put the child at one end of a room and the parents at the other. And they watched to see who the kid ran to. The other was obviously the abuser.”

  “Can we get back on topic?” asked Gélinas.

  “It took a while before they realized they were wrong,” Lacoste continued quietly. “The child ran to the abuser.”

  That sat like a specter in the room, the revelation nesting comfortably among the photographs of a murdered man.

  “How could that be?” asked Gélinas. “Wouldn’t they run as far as possible from the parent who hurt them?”

  “You’d think. But abused children become desperate to please the abuser, to appease them. They learn early and quickly that if they don’t, they pay a price. No child would risk upsetting the parent who beat them.”

  Gélinas turned to Gamache. “Is that what happened with Leduc?”

  “I think so. Some cadets no doubt gravitated to him because they’re cut from the same cloth. He offered a free pass to cruelty. But some went to him because they were afraid.”

  “But they’re adults, not children,” said Gélinas.

  “Young adults,” said Gamache. “And age isn’t a factor. We see it in adults all the time. Those desperate to please a powerful, even abusive, personality. At home. At work. On sports teams. The armed forces, and certainly in police forces. A strong, often brutal, personality, takes over. He’s followed out of fear, not respect or loyalty.”

  “And in a closed school environment, he becomes a role model,” said Lacoste.

  “But that stopped when you showed up,” said Gélinas to Gamache. “And deposed the Duke. And tried to teach them Service, Integrity, Justice.”

  He tried not to make it sound as though in quoting the Sûreté motto he was mocking it, or the Commander.

  “Oui,” said Gamache. “Exactement.”

  The RCMP officer had rarely met anyone who actually knew the motto, never mind believed it. Though he was also familiar with Gamache’s history, and knew that he sometimes had his own definitions of those three things.

  The Royal Canadian Mounted Police motto was more prosaic.

  Maintiens le droit. Defend the Law.

  Paul Gélinas had never been completely comfortable with that. He knew that law wasn’t always the same as justice. But it had the advantage of being fairly clear. Whereas justice could be fluid, situational. A matter of interpretation. And perception.

  He looked down at Serge Leduc.

  His murder broke the law, but did it uphold justice? Maybe.

  “When you took over, Commander, Leduc went from being the teacher to being the lesson,” said Charpentier. “The students learned a tyrant always falls, eventually.”

  “But some still chose Leduc as their mentor,” Gélinas pointed out. “That doesn’t show much of a learning curve.”

  “These things take time,” said Gamache. “Their world had been turned upside down. Some might not have believed it was permanent. They might’ve thought that I’d last a semester and Leduc would rise again. I was honestly surprised that more students didn’t go with him.”

  “Most went with you?”

  Gamache smiled. “The new sheriff in town? Non. Hardly any. I think I might’ve been a step too far, a clear sign of disloyalty. But more and more cadets were coming to the gatherings in my rooms. Mostly freshmen. And some I especially invited.”

  “And who were those?” asked Gélinas. “The most promising?”

  Gamache smiled. “The pick of the litter?”

  Gélinas tilted his head slightly at that phrase.

  “Can we get back to the forensics report?” asked Lacoste, looking at her watch.

  “Of course,” said Gélinas. “Désolé.”

  They dropped their eyes to their screens once again as Beauvoir walked them through it.

  “As you see, the fingerprints of a number of students were in Leduc’s bathroom,” said Beauvoir. “Including the cadets in the village. No surprise there, I think. We knew they were among his protégées. But one was also on the chest of drawers and the gun case.”

  He hit a key and only a single dot remained.

  “The cadets in the village?” asked Gélinas, looking from Beauvoir to Lacoste. “Saint-Alphonse? Are some of the cadets local?”

  Beauvoir glanced at Gamache in slight apology.

  “Whose was on the gun case?” asked Gamache.

  “Cadet Choquet’s.”

  Gamache drew his brows together.

  “And the weapon?” asked Lacoste.

  “The prints on the revolver were smudged, unfortunately, but there were partials of a number of people. The coroner’s report came in too. Nothing unusual about Leduc. He was a healthy forty-six-year-old male. No evidence of recent sexual activity. He’d had a meal and some Scotch.”

  “Intoxicated?” asked Gélinas.

  “No. And no bruising or cuts to indicate a fight.”

  “So he just stood there while someone put a gun to his temple and pulled the trigger?” asked Lacoste.

  She looked around the conference table, all of them also trying to imagine how that could happen. Especially to someone like Leduc who was, by all accounts, combative at the best of times.

  The RCMP officer leaned forward and shook his head. “No. It makes no sense. We’re obviously missing something. The partials on the gun. Could Leduc have handed it around? And eventually handed it to his killer?”

  “Who shot him in front of a crowd?” asked Lacoste.

  “So what’re you thinking?” asked Gélinas.

  “I’ll tell you what I think,” said Beauvoir. “I think Leduc was proud of that revolver for some reason and wanted to show it off. So when people visited, he brought it out and handed it to them. Maybe made up some story about a long-lost relative’s heroics in the war. That’s where all the prints came from.”

  “Did you read the footnote from the forensics team?” Gélinas asked.

  Gamache had, as had, he could see, Beauvoir and Lacoste. Though they’d chosen not to say anything.

  “It’s the extrapolation on the partial prints on the gun,” continued the RCMP officer. “Not admissible, but suggestive. Who the various prints might belong to. I see that this Cadet Choquet’s prints are there too.”

  “As partials. Too smudged to clearly identify. We don’t take that seriously,” said Lacoste. “It’s more guess than science. This is complex enough. We need to stick to facts.”

  “I agree,” said Gélinas, letting it drop. But not before he looked over at Gamache, who held his gaze.

  The footnote gave percentage likelihood of the partials belonging to certain people. Not surprisingly, the largest percentage match was Leduc himself. More surprising was another name that showed up, besides Amelia Choquet. There was a forty percent chance that at least one of the prints belonged to Michel Brébeuf.

  A number of other names showed up in the report. There was, according to the computer extrapolation, a very small chance Richard Nixon, the former American president, had handled the gun. Which was why the investigators tended not to take these results seriously. They also ignored the possibility, admittedly remote, that Julia Child was the murderer.

  But there was one other name that stood out.

  The analysis found a forty-five percent probability that at least one of the prints belonged to Armand Gamache.

  Gélinas looked from the report to the Commander, while Lacoste and Beauvoir looked away. Only Charpentier spoke, in a sputter of sweat.

  “Now, how did your prints get on the murder weapon?”

  Armand Gamache gave him a tight, cold smile.

  “Partials,” Beauvoir reminded Charpentier, and anyone else in the room who harbored doubt.

  “Did you handle the weapon?” Lacoste asked Gamache.

  “I did not.”

  “Good. Then can we move on, please?”

  “I spoke to the head of public affairs at the gun manufacturer,” said Beauvoir, changing the subject. “McDermot and Ryan. A woman named Elizabeth Coldbrook in,” he checked his notes, “Dartmouth, England.”

  He forwarded copies of her email and the attachments.

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