Kingdom of the Blind

CHAPTER 3

“State your name, please.”

“You know my name, Marie,” said Jean-Guy. “We’ve worked together for years.”

“Please, sir,” she said, her voice pleasant but firm.

Jean-Guy stared at her, then at the two other officers assembled in the boardroom.

“Jean-Guy Beauvoir.”

“Rank?”

He gave her a filthy look now, but she just held his stare.

“Acting head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec.”

“Merci.”

The inspector gazed at the laptop in front of her, then back at him.

“This isn’t about you, you’ll be happy to hear.” She smiled, but he did not. “Your suspension was lifted several months ago. But we still have serious questions about the decisions and actions of Monsieur Gamache.”

“Chief Superintendent Gamache,” said Beauvoir. “And how can you still have questions? You’ve asked, and he’s answered, every possible question. You must’ve cleared him by now? It’s been almost six months. Come on. Enough.”

Again he looked at who he thought were his colleagues. Then back at her. His gaze becoming less hostile and more baffled.

“What is this?”

Jean-Guy had been in many such interviews and had felt confident he could control the situation, knowing they were all on the same side. But as they stared at him from the other side of the table, he realized his mistake.

He’d entered the room expecting this would just be a formality. A last interview before, like him, the Chief was exonerated and returned to work.

The atmosphere had indeed been convivial, almost jovial. At first.

Beauvoir was sure they’d tell him that a sternly worded statement was being drafted, explaining that a rigorous investigation had been held. It would lament the fact that the covert Sûreté operation in the summer had ended with such bloodshed.

But it would, ultimately, voice support for the unconventional and bold decisions taken by Chief Superintendent Gamache. And unwavering support for the Sûreté team involved in what turned out to be a wildly successful action. A commendation would be given to Isabelle Lacoste, the head of homicide, whose actions had saved so many lives but who’d paid so high a price.

It would end there.

Chief Superintendent Gamache would go back to work, and all would return to normal.

Though the fact an investigation that had begun in the summer was still going on in the depth of the Québec winter was disconcerting.

“You were second-in-command to your father-in-law when decisions were taken leading to the action we’re investigating?” the inspector asked.

“I was with Chief Superintendent Gamache, yes. You know that.”

“Oui. Your father-in-law.”

“My boss.”

“Yes. The person responsible for what happened. We all know that, Chief Inspector, but thank you for clarifying.”

The others nodded. Sympathetically. Understanding the delicate position Beauvoir found himself in.

They were, Beauvoir realized with some surprise, inviting him to distance himself from Gamache.

It would be easier to distance himself from his hands and feet. His position was not at all delicate. It was, in fact, firm. He stood with Gamache.

But he was beginning to get a sick feeling deep in his gut.

“Neither of us is guilty, mon vieux,” Gamache had said months earlier, when the inevitable investigation had begun. “You know that. These are just questions that need to be asked after what happened. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Not guilty, his father-in-law had said. What he didn’t say was that they were innocent. Which, of course, they were not.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir had been cleared and had accepted the post as acting head of homicide.

But Chief Superintendent Gamache remained on suspension. Though Beauvoir had been confident that was about to end.

“One last meeting,” he’d said to his wife that morning as they fed their son, “and your father will be cleared.”

“Uh-huh,” said Annie.

“What?”

He knew his wife well. Despite the fact she was a lawyer, a less cynical person would be hard to find. And yet he could tell there was doubt there.

“It’s taken so long. I’m just worried it’s become political. They need a scapegoat. Dad let a ton of opioids through his hands. Drugs he could’ve stopped. Someone has to be blamed.”

“But he’s got most of it back. And he had no choice. Really.” He stood up and kissed her. “And it wasn’t quite a ton.”

A clump of oatmeal Honoré had flung hit Jean-Guy’s cheek, then dropped onto the top of Annie’s head.

Picking the glop out of her hair, Jean-Guy looked at it, then put it into his mouth.

“You’d have made a great gorilla,” said Annie.

Jean-Guy started searching her scalp, aping a gorilla grooming its mate, while Annie laughed and Honoré flung more oatmeal.

Jean-Guy supposed he knew that Annie would never be the most beautiful woman in any room. A stranger wouldn’t look at her twice.

But if one did, he might discover something it had taken Jean-Guy many years and one failed marriage to see. How very beautiful happiness was. And Annie Gamache radiated happiness.

She would always be, he knew with certainty, not just the most intelligent person in any room but also the most beautiful. And if anyone didn’t see it, it was their loss.

He unbuckled Honoré and walked to the door with him in his arms.

“Have fun today,” he said, kissing both of them.

“Just a moment,” said Annie.

She took off Jean-Guy’s bib, wiped his face, and said, “Be careful. I think this might be a two-holer.”

“Deep merde?” Jean-Guy shook his head. “Non. This’s the last of it. I think they just have to make it clear that there was a thorough investigation. And there was. But believe me, after looking at the facts, they’ll be thanking your father for what he did. They’ll understand that he faced a shitty choice and did what had to be done.”

“Please, no swearing in front of the kid. You’d hate his first word to be ‘shit,’” she said. “I agree with you. Dad had no choice. But they might not see it that way.”

“Then they’re blind.”

“Then they’re human,” said Annie, taking Honoré. “And humans need a place to hide. I think they’re hiding behind him. And preparing to shove Dad to the predators.”

Beauvoir walked briskly to the subway and what he knew would be the final internal-affairs interview before all returned to normal.

His head was down, and he concentrated on the sidewalk and the soft, light snow hiding the ice below.

One misstep and bad things happened. A turned ankle. A wrist broken trying to break the fall. Or a fractured skull.

It was always what you couldn’t see that hurt you.

And now, sitting in the interview room, Jean-Guy Beauvoir was wondering if Annie had been right and he had, in fact, missed something.