Gamache’s paramedic supervisor had died a few years earlier of breast cancer, after having joined the campaign for gun control. As had Armand. And he continued to press for even tougher gun control. Arguing as a now senior Sûreté officer that there was absolutely no reason a member of the public should have a handgun. And certainly not an assault-style weapon. They were only designed, and intended, to shoot humans.
A few months after the shootings, Nathalie Provost found Agent Gamache and returned his paramedic coat.
“I had it cleaned,” the young woman said, holding it out to him. “But…”
There were stains that would never come out. Nor should they.
Yes. Armand Gamache hated guns.
Finally, after all the testimony before Parliament, it was the clear, thoughtful, powerful voices of the families of the victims and survivors that swayed lawmakers to enact stricter legislation. Though some politicians privately complained that tougher gun control was a huge overreaction. The fact only women were killed was a coincidence.
The Montréal Massacre, while tragic, held no greater lesson. It was the act of a single deranged individual. Not an indictment of society, they said.
These women, they said, were understandably upset. Emotional. But there was no need to pander to them. That would be wrong.
The shootings, the denials, the scoffing at all evidence of institutionalized misogyny, the pushback against gun control, the patronizing attitude of editors and politicians, only served to radicalize those women.
Before the shooting, they were students.
Now they were warriors.
Before I was not a witch, wrote Ruth Zardo. But now I am one.
Before that day, that long night, Agent Gamache had wanted to go into the Criminal Intelligence Division of the Sûreté. Had applied. Was waiting to hear.
The next day he withdrew his application. And instead applied to homicide.
CHAPTER 4
“Patron?”
Both Chief Inspector Gamache and Agent Beauvoir turned to look at Inspector Chernin.
A man, a stranger, had joined her by the woman’s body, still half in, half out of the lake. He was looking a little lost, very cold, and a lot unhappy.
The coroner, Gamache guessed. Called up from the nearest large town.
The Chief Inspector let go of Beauvoir’s arm, and the young agent suddenly felt set free, but also adrift. For the first time he realized how close “free” and “lost” were.
Gamache brushed by him, then turned. “Coming?”
“Oui, oui” was all Beauvoir could manage as he stumbled along the shore, losing his footing now and then on the wet rocks.
“And no more talking, right? You’ve probably said enough.”
“It’s murder,” Agent Beauvoir called after him. “She was murdered.”
Gamache stopped and turned. “You don’t take orders well, do you.”
“You need to know. It wasn’t suicide or an accident. The wound. Look at the shape. Look at what’s stuck in its”—at a scowl from Gamache, he adjusted—“her skull. It, she … her, it…” He was completely confused now about what he should say. Pointing to his own head, he said, “It wasn’t crushed by a rock or stone in the lake.”
“Then what, in your opinion, did it?”
“It’s not an opinion. I know. She was killed by a brick. Someone hit her with a brick and threw her into the lake.”
Gamache stared at Beauvoir, then walked away to join Chernin and the coroner.
After introducing himself, Gamache said, “Tell me what you know.”
“I know she’s dead,” said Dr. Mignon. “I have to get her onto my examining table before telling you more.”
It was maddening, though not unexpected. Chief Inspector Gamache knew that most local doctors, designated as coroners, had only accepted the position because it came with much-needed extra money and absolutely no responsibility.
Most deaths were not at all suspicious. There were some hunting accidents. Some suicides. Car accidents. All tragic. But not homicide.
A country coroner in Québec could, and most would, go through their entire career without meeting a murder victim.
But this poor man just had. Fortunately, he was also conscientious enough not to pretend to know more than he did.
Dr. Mignon looked down at the body, then at his shoes, soaked through and caked in muck. Then, as a loon called, he gazed out at the misty lake.
“A terrible place to die,” he said. “I’m guessing she’s the missing woman. Heard about it on the news.” His eyes returned to her body. “Her poor kids.”
The woman’s eyes were still open, her right arm lifting and dropping with the movement of the waves. Languid. Graceful, even. As though waving hello, or goodbye.
Like “free” and “lost,” it was often difficult to tell the difference.
After doing a slightly more thorough exam, the doctor stood back up and removed his gloves.
“A catastrophic wound on the side of her head. No other obvious injuries. I’ll need to look closer. See if there’s water in her lungs.”
If there was, she went in alive, and it might have been an accident or a suicide. If not, then she went in dead, and it was definitely murder.
While Gamache already knew the answer to that question, he would see what the coroner concluded.
“Merci” was all he said.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Agent Beauvoir practically vibrating with the effort not to shout out his opinion. To his credit, he remained silent, if not still.
Gamache nodded to Inspector Chernin. They could move the body now.
As his agents pulled her out of the cold water, Gamache walked Dr. Mignon to his mud-spattered vehicle and gave him some guidance on what to look for in the autopsy. The coroner listened, then thanked the Chief Inspector.
“Who’s going to break it to the children?”
“We need to confirm her identity first, but once we do, I’ll tell them.”
The coroner put out his hand. “Better you than me. I’ll be at the hospital, waiting for the body.”
From the shore, Agent Beauvoir watched the two men talk, then turned to Inspector Chernin, who was kneeling beside the corpse and going through her pockets.
“The coroner doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“And you do?” she said, not looking at him.
“I know enough to recognize murder. I told Gamache, but I don’t think he was listening. Here, let me show you.”
He knelt opposite her and reached out, but Chernin stopped him. “Don’t touch.”
“Then give me gloves.”
“You’re getting nothing. Step back before you contaminate the scene.”
“Hey, look, this was a murder,” he said, taking a few steps away. “I told Gamache to look closer at the wound.”
“For this?” Inspector Chernin held up a small evidence bag. In it were tiny chunks of red. Almost as red as Agent Beauvoir’s face became. “We saw it right away.”
“Then what was that talk about accident or suicide?”
“Just examining every possibility. But yes, before he took you aside, the Chief Inspector and I conferred about the shape of the wound, the sharp indent, and the red material embedded in her skull. Almost certainly a brick.” She looked around at the lake. “Where would someone get a brick out here?”
When Beauvoir opened his mouth, she held up her hand. “It was a rhetorical question, Agent Beauvoir. Thank you for your help. I’m sure the Chief was grateful.”
She watched as he seethed, his brilliance having gone unrecognized and unrewarded. With, perhaps, the dawning suspicion that in this company he might not actually be the brightest light. It was a new and unpleasant thought for Jean-Guy Beauvoir.