by Louise Penny
Gamache made a note of that and turned to the final photograph. It was of Elle naked on the coroner’s cold gurney. He stared at it for a moment, wondering when he’d get used to seeing dead bodies. Murder still shocked him.
Then he picked up his magnifying glass and slowly examined her body. He was looking for letters. Had she written or taped K L C B and M onto her body? Perhaps the letters were some obsessive talisman. Some madmen drew crucifixes all over their bodies and all round their homes, to ward off evil. Maybe these letters were Elle’s crucifix.
He lowered the magnifying glass. Her body, while free of consonants, was thick with dirt. Years of it. Even the occasional bath or shower at the Old Brewery Mission couldn’t lift it off. It was engraved on her body, like a tattoo. And like a tattoo it told a story. It was as eloquent as a Ruth Zardo poem.
I understand. You can’t spare
anything, a hand, a piece of bread, a shawl
against the cold,
a good word. Lord
knows there isn’t much
to go around. You need it all.
A good word. That reminded him of something else. Crie. Like Elle, she longed for a good word. Begged for it as surely as Elle had begged for food.
The tattoo of filth spoke of Elle’s external life, but was mute about what happened inside, beneath the layers of fetid clothing and dirt and alcohol-shriveled skin. Staring at the picture of the body on the gurney Gamache wondered what this woman had thought and felt. Gamache knew those things had probably died with her. Knew he might find her name, might even find her killer, but he would probably never find her. This woman had been lost years ago.
Like Crie, only further down the road?
And then he saw it. A small discoloration different from the rest. It was dark and circular, too even to be random filth. It was on her chest, on her breastbone.
Lifting his magnifying glass again he spent some time looking at it. He wanted to be certain. And when he looked up Armand Gamache was.
He took out the other pictures again and stared at one in particular. Then he rooted through the evidence box, looking for one small thing. Something that would be easy to overlook. But it wasn’t there.
He carefully replaced everything in the box and put it by the door. Then he returned to his warm chair by the fire and sat a moment watching Reine-Marie reading, her lips moving ever so slightly now and then and her brows rising and lowering in a way only he, who knew her so well, could see.
Then he picked up Be Calm and started reading.
FOURTEEN
Jean Guy Beauvoir reached for his Tim Horton’s Double Double coffee, cradling it in his hands to keep them warm. The huge black wood stove in the center of the room was trying its best, but so far it hadn’t managed to throw much heat.
It was ten o’clock on a snowy morning, almost exactly twenty-four hours after the murder, and the Sûreté team had assembled in their situation room in Three Pines. They shared it with a large red fire truck. The white walls above the dark wood wainscoting were plastered with detailed maps of the area, diagrams of firefighting strategies and a huge poster commemorating past winners of the Governor-General’s Awards for Literature.
This was the home of the Three Pines Volunteer Fire Department, under the baton of Ruth Zardo.
‘Tabernacle. She’s a senile old hag. Won’t let us move that out.’ Beauvoir shoved his thumb toward the truck taking up half the room.
‘Did Madame Zardo give you a reason?’ Gamache asked.
‘Something about needing to make sure the truck doesn’t freeze up in case there’s a fire,’ said Beauvoir. ‘I asked her when the last fire was and she told me it was confidential. Confidential? Since when was there a secret fire?’
‘Let’s get started. Reports, please.’ Gamache sat at the head of the table wearing a shirt and tie and crew neck merino wool sweater beneath his tweed jacket. He held a pen in his hand, but rarely took notes. All around technicians were wiring phones and faxes and computers, setting up desks and blackboards and unloading equipment. But Gamache heard none of that. He concentrated totally on what was being said.
Agent Robert Lemieux had put on his Sunday best and polished his shoes and now was grateful the little voice of instinct had spoken, and even more grateful it had been heard. Beside him a young woman agent sipped her coffee and leaned forward attentively. She’d introduced herself as Agent Isabelle Lacoste. Lemieux wouldn’t describe her as attractive, not the kind you’d notice immediately in a bar. But then she didn’t seem the sort to hang around bars. More the kind you’d find on Mont St-Rémy. Natural and relaxed, without artifice. Her clothes were simple and well cut to fit her comfortable body, a light sweater, scarf and slacks. Her dark eyes were alert and her light brown hair was held off her face by a wide band. Lemieux noticed a string of earrings piercing one ear. She’d come up immediately and welcomed him. Instinctively he’d checked her left hand, and found, to his surprise, a wedding band.
‘Two kids,’ she said, with a smile, her eyes not leaving his face and yet she’d followed his quick glance. ‘A boy, René, and a girl Marie. Toi?’
‘Not married. Not even a girlfriend.’
‘Just as well. At least while the investigation is on. Pay attention.’ She’d leaned in and whispered, ‘And be yourself. The chief only chooses people who don’t pretend.’
‘And who are good at their jobs, presumably,’ he said, thinking he was giving her a compliment.
‘Oh, mais, franchement, you can’t be good at this job if you don’t know who you are. How can you possibly find the truth about someone else if you won’t admit the truth about yourself?’
‘Bon.’ Beauvoir leaned forward. ‘The good news is, I know how the electricity got to the curling rink on the lake. Yesterday afternoon I interviewed Billy Williams, the guy who drove the truck with CC to the hospital. He told me he wired up that heat lamp. Here, let me show you. Some of you haven’t been to the site yet.’
Beauvoir picked up a chocolate-glazed doughnut in one hand and a magic marker in the other and walked to a large sheet of paper tacked to the wall.
‘This is Lac Brume, and this is the town of Williamsburg. Here’s the Legion. Right?’
Beauvoir was no Picasso, which was a good thing for a homicide inspector. His drawings were always very clear and straightforward. A large circle was Lac Brume. A smaller circle, like a moon, touched its edge. Williamsburg. And an X marked the Legion Hall, close to the shores of the lake.
‘Now, you can’t actually see the lake from the Legion. You have to go down this road and round a corner. Still, it’s only about a five-minute walk. Everyone was at a community breakfast at the Legion just before the curling. Billy Williams told me he’d gotten to the rink before the breakfast and driven his truck onto the ice.’
‘Is that safe?’ one of the officers asked.
‘The ice is about a foot and a half thick right there,’ said Beauvoir. ‘He tested it before Christmas when he put up the stands and the lamp. All he had to do the day of the curling, yesterday, was shovel the rink again and wire up the heat lamp. It was a clear morning so he decided to do both before going to the Legion himself for breakfast. Here’s where he parked his truck. You can see the tire tracks in the crime scene photos.’ He handed out the pictures after marking a small X on his drawing. It was on the ice near the shore.
‘Now, this is important. Here’s his truck, here’s the heat lamp – it’s called a radiant heater – here’re the stands and out here,’ he drew a rectangle on the paper, ‘is the curling rink. Billy Williams is the Canadian Automobile Association’s mechanic in the area, so he has this monster truck. I saw it. Huge mother. Wheels up to here.’ Gamache cleared his throat and Beauvoir remembered where he was. ‘Anyway, he has a generator on the flatbed of his truck for boosting cars. But again, not just any generator. This is immense. Says he needs the power to boost frozen semis and construction equipment. So he simply took his booster cables and connected them onto
Agent Lemieux shifted in his seat then caught the eye of Agent Lacoste. She looked at him and gave a curt nod. Of encouragement? he wondered. She nodded again and widened her eyes.
‘Sir,’ he said, grateful his voice didn’t break. Beauvoir turned surprised eyes on the newcomer who had the audacity to interrupt.
‘What is it?’
‘Well, those things’ – he motioned to the drawing – ‘the heating thing? When we saw it yesterday I had a question but I wanted to check it out before I said anything. Those heaters are almost always powered by propane. Not electricity.’ He looked round the table. All eyes were on him. ‘I called a friend who’s an electrician. He also plays hockey in a men’s league here.’
To Lemieux’s surprise Beauvoir smiled. An easy, open smile that made his face seem quite youthful.
‘You’re right. This one was propane once too,’ he said. ‘But it broke and was going to be thrown away when Billy Williams saved it. Knew he could wire it up and it would work well enough for the once-a-year curling extravaganza. That was a couple of years ago. So far it’s held up. But he needs a generator to juice it up.’
‘Agent Lemieux here suggested a generator to me yesterday.’ Gamache nodded to Lemieux who sat up a little taller in his chair. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t take the suggestion seriously. I’m sorry.’
Lemieux had never had a superior apologize to him. He didn’t know what to do, so he did nothing.
‘Was Mr Williams’s generator powerful enough to kill?’ Gamache asked.
‘That’s the question. The other stop I made yesterday was to the Cowansville hospital to speak to the coroner, Dr Harris. She gave me the autopsy report. She knows Williams and says his generator is powerful enough to do the job. In fact, it doesn’t really take much.’ Beauvoir returned to his seat and ate the last bite of his doughnut while stirring his coffee with a pen. ‘She wants to speak to you, chief. Says she’ll be by later this morning with a more detailed report and the clothing the victim was wearing. But she made it clear this was no accident, in case any of you were wondering.’
Beauvoir looked down at his notes. He didn’t really know where to start. He certainly didn’t want to repeat that this was a bizarre, even possibly insane way to commit a murder. Chief Inspector Gamache already knew that. They all did. But Dr Sharon Harris had said it to him yesterday afternoon several times.
‘I don’t think you completely appreciate the situation, Inspector. Look at this.’ Dr Harris had taken the white sheet off the victim. There on the cold, hard gurney lay a cold, hard woman. She had a snarl on her face and Beauvoir wondered whether her family would recognize the look. Sharon Harris had spent a few minutes circling the woman, pointing out areas of interest like a necropolitan tour guide.
Now, in the morning briefing, he passed out more pictures, these ones taken by Dr Harris at the autopsy. The room grew silent as everyone went through them.
Gamache looked carefully at the images then passed them to Agent Lacoste. He turned slightly in his chair, crossed his legs and stared out the window. Snow was falling and gathering on the cars and houses and piling up on the branches of the trees. It was a peaceful scene, in sharp contrast to the pictures and conversation inside the old railway station. From where he sat he could see the arched stone bridge that connected their side of the Rivière Bella Bella with Three Pines. Every now and then a car would pass slowly and silently, the sound muffled by the snow.
Inside, the room smelled of wood smoke and industrial coffee in wet cardboard with a slight undercurrent of varnish and that musky aroma of old books. Or timetables. This had once been the railway station. Now abandoned like so many small stops along the Canadian National Railway the village of Three Pines had found a good use for the old wood and brick building.
Gamache brought his hand, warmed by his coffee, to his nose. It was cold. And a little wet. Had he been a dog it would have been a better sign. Still, the room was warming up and there was nothing quite like the comfort of being cold, then slowly feeling the heat approaching and arriving and spreading.
That’s how Armand Gamache felt now. He felt happy and satisfied. He loved his work, he loved his team. He’d rise no further in the Sûreté, and he’d made his peace with that because Armand Gamache wasn’t a competitive man. He was a content man.
And this was one of his favorite parts of the job. Sitting with his team and working out who could have committed the murder.
‘You see her hands? And feet?’ Beauvoir held up a couple of the autopsy pictures. ‘They’re charred. Did any of the witnesses report a smell?’ he asked Gamache.
‘They did, though it was very faint,’ Gamache confirmed.
Beauvoir nodded. ‘That’s what Dr Harris suspected. She thought there’d be a smell. Burning flesh. Most of the electrocution victims she sees these days are more obvious. Some are actually smoking.’
A few of the homicide investigators winced.
‘Literally,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Most people who die this way are killed by the high tension wires. They’re hydro workers or maintenance men or people just unlucky enough to come in contact with one of those wires. They blow down in a storm or get cut accidentally and pouf. Killed immediately.’
Beauvoir paused. Now Armand Gamache leaned forward. He knew Jean Guy Beauvoir well enough to know he didn’t go in for dramatics. Disdained them in fact. But he did enjoy his little pauses. They almost always gave him away. Like a liar who cleared his throat before telling a big one, or a poker player who rubbed his nose, Beauvoir telegraphed some big piece of news with a dramatic pause.
‘Dr Harris hasn’t seen a death by low voltage in more than ten years. The automatic shut-offs put an end to that. She says it’s almost impossible.’
Now he had everyone’s attention. Even the technicians, so busy in their work a moment earlier, had slowed down and stopped to listen.
A near impossible murder.
Doughnuts and coffee were arrested on their way to mouths, photographs were laid on the table, breathing seemed to have stopped.
‘Almost,’ repeated Beauvoir. ‘A number of things had to come together for this to work. CC de Poitiers had to have been standing in a puddle. In the middle of a frozen lake at minus ten Celsius she had to be standing in water. She had to have had her bare hands come in contact with something that was electrified. Bare hands.’ He brought his hands up, as though perhaps the homicide team needed the reminder of what hands looked like. ‘Again, in freezing cold temperatures she had to have taken off her gloves. She then had to touch the one thing in the whole area that was electrified. But even that wasn’t enough. The current had to travel through her body and out her feet, into the puddle. Look at your feet.’
Everyone looked at him.
‘Your feet, your feet. Look at your feet.’
All faces disappeared below the table, except Beauvoir’s. Armand Gamache bent down and looked at his boots. They were nylon on the outside. Inside there were layers of Thinsulate and felt.
‘Look at the soles of your feet,’ an exasperated Beauvoir said.
Down they went again.
‘Well?’
‘Rubber,’ said Agent Isabelle Lacoste. Beauvoir could tell by her clever face that she understood. ‘Pre-formed rubber with ridges for traction, so we don’t slip on the ice and snow. I bet we all have rubber soles.’
Everyone agreed.
‘That’s it,’ said Beauvoir, barely able to contain himself. ‘We’ll have to call round to confirm, but I bet there isn’t a boot sold in Quebec that doesn’t have rubber soles. That was the final element, and maybe the most unlikely in a series of unlikely events. Had CC de Poitiers been wearing boots with rubber or even leather bottoms she wouldn’t have died. She grabbed onto something metal. Metal conducts electricity. The earth conducts electricity. Our bodies conduct electricity. According to Dr Harris, electricity is like a living thing. It’s desperate to stay alive. It races from one form to another, through the metal, through the body, and into the earth. And along the way it races through the heart. And the heart has its own electrical current. Amazing, isn’t it? Dr Harris explained all this to me. If the electricity goes right through the body it only takes a few seconds to affect the heart. It screws up the normal rhythms and causes it to’ – he checked his notes – ‘fibrillate.’
‘Which is why they use those electrified paddles to start the heart,’ said Lacoste.
‘And why pacemakers are implanted. Those are really just batteries, giving the heart an electrical impulse,’ agreed Beauvoir, excited by the topic. Thrilled to have facts to deal with. ‘When CC touched the metal her heart was affected within seconds.’
‘But,’ Armand Gamache spoke and all eyes turned to him, ‘Madame de Poitiers had to have been grounded.’
The room sat in silence. By now it had warmed up, but still Gamache felt a chill. He looked at Beauvoir and knew there was more to come.
Beauvoir reached into a bag at his side and plunked a pair of boots onto the table.
Before them sat CC de Poitier’s footwear, made of the youngest, whitest, finest baby seal skin. And on the bottom, where everyone else would have rubber, the investigators could see tiny claws.
Beauvoir turned one of the boots on its side so that the sole was visible. Twisted and charred and grotesque, the claws were revealed to be metal teeth, protruding from the leather sole.
Armand Gamache felt his jaw clench. Who would wear such boots? The Inuit, maybe. In the Arctic. But even they wouldn’t kill baby seals. The Inuit were respectful and sensible hunters who’d never dream of killing the young. They didn’t have to.
No. Only brutes murdered babies. And only brutes supported that trade. Sitting in front of them were the carcasses of two babies. Animals, certainly, but all senseless killing appalled Gamache. What sort of woman wore the bodies of dead babies shaped into boots, with metal claws imbedded in them?
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