A Better Man

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

@SûretéCrooked: I knew it! Cops killing kids.

@dumbass: You morons. That tape’s doctored. Here’s the real one.

@CommonGround: @SûretéCrooked Can’t we all just get along?

@SûretéCrooked: @CommonGround Go fuck yourself.

“Your name?” asked Superintendent Lacoste.

“Pauline Vachon.”

“Your profession?”

“Web designer and manager.”

“Do you know this man?” Isabelle Lacoste placed a photograph on the metal table in the interview room.

Lysette Cloutier sat off to the side. Watching closely.

Pauline Vachon was younger than she appeared in the Instagram pictures.

Her hair was clean and nicely done. Makeup carefully applied. She was pretty.

Her clothes were simple, almost elegant, thought Cloutier. Black slacks and a white blouse, with a bright red silk scarf.

Lacoste was also taking in Vachon’s appearance. The makeup was cheap, clumping, and too heavily applied. The slacks were from a discount store, and the red scarf was rayon. Masquerading as silk. And hiding, Lacoste could see, a coffee stain on the white blouse.

Lysette Cloutier saw what she was meant to see. Isabelle Lacoste saw the truth.

Still, Lacoste knew that making the most of herself, on very little money, while holding together her own company at the age of twenty-one, was far from criminal. In fact, it was remarkable.

Pauline Vachon was a remarkable young woman. But she was also a nervous young woman. She clearly had not expected them to connect her to Tracey. And certainly not this quickly. And certainly not in any way that would lead her to be sitting in a Sûreté interview room.

Beneath Pauline’s calm, helpful veneer, Lacoste could sense alarm. Barely suppressed. But suppressed. This was indeed a self-possessed young woman.

So why had she hooked up with the mess that was Carl Tracey? That was just one of many questions that came to mind.

Pauline sat upright in the interview room. Almost prim. And looked down at the photo on the metal table.

“Yes. He’s one of my clients. Carl Tracey.”

“And what do you do for him?”

“I set up his website and manage his social media.”

“Which platforms?”

“Instagram mostly.”

“Can you give us the address of his website and social-media accounts?”

Cloutier wrote it down, though, of course, she already knew it. Vachon did not volunteer the private account.

“Many followers?” Lacoste asked.

“Not really. I tried to tell him that you need to post a lot to get interest, but honestly, what can a potter post that could go viral? More pictures of a lump of clay on a wheel?”

Lacoste smiled. “I sympathize. Unreasonable clients. The worst.”

Pauline relaxed a little. “He’s not really that bad. He just doesn’t understand.”

“You post for him?”

She nodded.

“Why doesn’t he do it himself?” asked Lacoste.

These were softball questions. Every interrogator had a particular technique. Hers was to set people at their ease. Have them lower their defenses.

“He’s an artist. Not great at technical things. Besides, there’s no internet at his place. Can you tell me what this’s about?”

It interested Lacoste that it had taken this long for Pauline Vachon to ask. It was normally the first question out of anyone’s mouth. But then, this young woman already knew the answer.

“Has something happened to Monsieur Tracey?”

She looked directly into Lacoste’s eyes. Not blinking. Brown eyes all innocent with just the right touch of curiosity. Without, it would appear, guilt or guile.

“I’m afraid his wife has drowned, and we just have some questions.”

“Oh, that’s terrible.” Pauline looked from Lacoste to Cloutier and back again.

“Yes,” said Lacoste. “Did Monsieur Tracey ever talk about his wife?”

Vachon paused to gather her thoughts. To sort through the truth and lies and decide which to choose.

“A bit. He didn’t seem happy. He said she drank. Was depressed. I felt sorry for him.”

“Pauline,” said Lacoste, leaning forward a little and dropping her voice so that it sounded as though she were about to confide in the young woman. “I really hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to ask you some questions that might seem odd. Is that all right?”

“Sure. Of course.” She looked at her watch. “I have an appointment in an hour—”

“Oh, this won’t take that long. Don’t worry,” said Lacoste with a motherly smile, despite the fact there weren’t that many years between them. It wasn’t years but choices that separated these two women.

“How old was your mother when she had you?”

Both Vachon and Cloutier looked at her with surprise.

“You weren’t kidding about the strange questions,” said Pauline with a laugh. Though she was slightly guarded now. “She was sixteen.”

“Young. Must’ve been difficult. And your grandmother? How old was she when she had your mother?”

“Do you really need to know this? What does this have to do with Carl’s wife?”

Cloutier had the same question and just barely stopped herself from nodding agreement.

“I’m sorry,” said Lacoste, and looked it. “I just need your help understanding some things about this community. How judgmental it can be of young women.”

It was a vague answer but seemed to satisfy, mollify, Pauline.

“My grandmother was fifteen.”

“And you’re twenty-one?”

“Yes.”

“How old were you when you first got pregnant?”

That hovered between the two women.

“Why—”

“Please, Pauline. It would help a lot.”

Cloutier could see that Vachon realized she’d created a problem for herself. She’d offered to help, needed to appear willing to help. And these questions were not, on the surface, threatening or even, it must be admitted, pertinent.

But they were deeply invasive.

“I was sixteen.”

“And what happened?”

“I had an abortion.”

“The next time?”

Now Pauline shifted in her seat. “Why are you asking this? It’s not illegal. It was all done by a doctor in a hospital.”

“Yes, I know. But I also know that small towns can be supportive, but they can also be pretty awful. You get a reputation.… Nasty rumors spread. Rumors with just enough truth in them to do damage. People don’t always like it when you’re a success, do they?”

“Not always,” Pauline said, lifting her chin slightly.

Isabelle Lacoste found herself admiring this young woman. Who refused to give in. She had guts. But did she have a conscience?

“Non,” said Lacoste quietly. “They’re not always as kind as we’d like. Especially painful when friends aren’t happy for you. You’re trying hard to get out, to make a career for yourself. To make a success of your business. Get a little money. And people are all, ‘Oh, she’s too good for us now,’ just because you dress nicely and take some care. Right?”

Pauline nodded but was guarded. Though not as guarded as she should have been.

“Can I tell you something?” Lacoste lowered her voice. “Something no one else outside the police knows.”

Pauline nodded, leaning forward.

“Vivienne was pregnant. That’s why I’m asking. But we don’t really know who the father was.”

“Really? Got it,” whispered Pauline. “Poor Carl.”

“Yes. Poor Carl. Who can blame him for wanting out of that marriage?” Lacoste leaned back in her chair, her voice once again businesslike. “Now, the second time you were pregnant, another hospital procedure?”

“D and C, yes.”

“And the third time?”

There was now, in Lacoste’s tone, a slight edge. Not of judgment but of warning. Tell the truth.

“How did you end that pregnancy, Pauline?”

“I know who you are,” said Toby, sitting at a desk in the station, not all that far from where Lacoste was interviewing Pauline.

“You’re the cop everyone hates,” said Daphne.

She was at the next desk over, also being booked.

Gamache smiled. “Not everyone, I hope.”

“Everyone I know.”

Gamache was not particularly surprised to hear that teens running a criminal operation might not be fans.

“I saw the video of you killing those kids,” said Toby. “Brutal.”

Cameron, the arresting officer, stopped typing on his computer. Jean-Guy Beauvoir, sitting nearby and going over messages, looked up.

And Armand Gamache tilted his head slightly, the smile fading. “What video?”

Toby laughed. “You haven’t seen it? Posted about an hour ago. Gone viral. Funny that I watched it, then there you were.”

Gamache drew his brows together. There was a video out there of him gunning down children? How could that be?

He turned to Jean-Guy, who still looked pale, after that confrontation in the alley. As they’d driven back, Gamache had noticed Beauvoir trembling, and quietly asked if he was okay.

“I didn’t think I’d get out of there alive,” Jean-Guy said, under his breath.

Gamache thought the same thing, but didn’t say it. He still felt the acid burning his stomach.

“You’ll be on the Champs-Élysées soon,” he’d said. “In the sunshine.”

“Not soon enough.”

While Jean-Guy knew Paris wasn’t immune to danger, it would at least be unlikely. There was a far better chance of returning home each day.

Now, on hearing what Toby said, Jean-Guy swung around to his laptop, hitting the keys.

Sûreté, video, kids.

Gamache, video, shooting.

“I coulda shot you, you know,” said Toby. “Payback. For what you did.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Toby sat back and crossed his arms. “You weren’t worth the bullet. And you sure aren’t worth dying for. He’da killed me.”

He nodded to Cameron, who was staring at the boy.

“You got that right,” said Cameron.

Toby turned back to the older man. With the gray hair. And that nasty scar by his temple. That made him so recognizable.

The cop’s face wasn’t so much wrinkled as lined. From a great distance, from half a century away, he looked to the boy like a man broken and pieced back together.

Humpty Dumpty. Who’d had a great fall.

“Patron,” said Beauvoir from the other desk, breaking into Toby’s thoughts.

His voice was hushed. Almost a whisper.

Annie was working from home in Montréal. Studying for the French law admission exams.

A friend from her firm in Montréal had sent a link. And a warning. But, of course, she had to look.

Clicking on it, she watched. Blood draining from her face.

Honoré, on her knee, was also watching. But she quickly took him away, placing him in his playpen. Then she returned to her laptop, approaching it warily.

The screen was paused on an image of her father.

Her eyes were wide. Her breathing shallow. She muted the sound and hit play.

Reine-Marie covered her mouth with her hand and closed her eyes. The bruise on her face forgotten, she now felt as though she’d been hit, hard, in the gut.

Then, opening them again, she asked Myrna to go back to the beginning.

“Are you sure?” Myrna asked.

They’d gone up to Myrna’s loft over the bookstore, where the internet was most stable. Annie had sent the link. She knew that her mother would want to know. To be warned about what was out there.

In the few minutes it had taken the women to get upstairs, more and more messages had come in from friends who were alarmed and upset. Who wanted to warn both her and Armand.

Myrna and Clara were in the loft with her. As were Olivier and Gabri. Ruth was sitting beside her in front of the computer, her veined hand holding Reine-Marie’s.

“Please,” said Reine-Marie.

Myrna clicked, and the short video played again.

“Do you mind if we use your meeting room?” Beauvoir asked the station commander, who, on seeing him at her door, clicked her computer closed. And reddened. But not before Beauvoir had heard the telltale sound of muffled gunfire coming from her laptop.

“Not at all.”

Beauvoir closed the door to the private office and placed his laptop on the table. Gamache stood beside him, staring at the frozen image on the screen. It was of himself, in flak jacket. Weapon out. And raised. Eyes sharp. Preparing to shoot.

“It’s bad,” said Beauvoir.

Gamache nodded. “Go on.”

He stood straight and faced the screen. Much as he’d faced the boy on the fire escape earlier that day.

Beauvoir hit play.

The images were jerky but still fairly clear. It had been pieced together from old video, taken from the raid on the factory. They were images both Gamache and Beauvoir had seen before. Many taken from the cameras they themselves had worn.

But there were other images. Ones neither had ever seen. Video culled from God-knew-where on the internet. Of kids being gunned down. Many of them black kids. Clearly unarmed.

As Armand Gamache watched the screen, Beauvoir watched him.

Saw the narrowing of the eyes, the wincing at the terrible images.

The video had been edited to make it appear that Gamache was responsible for all of it.

The editing was rough. Not really designed to fool anyone. Except those who wanted to be fooled.

As Jean-Guy Beauvoir watched Gamache, he realized he’d never seen anyone actually gutted before. Until now.

Madeleine Toussaint sat at her desk with her second-in-command and watched the video.

Her email, her phone lines, had lit up. All guiding her to this travesty.

She watched it three or four times.

“What’re you going to do?” her second-in-command asked. “There has to be a response. The Sûreté has to condemn—”

“I know what has to be done. Leave me.” After a moment she added, “Please.”

When alone, Chief Superintendent Toussaint got up and walked over to the wall map. It showed the current flooding. Of which there was a lot, and more to come.

But her eyes rested on the massive hydroelectric dams. Without her consent, without her knowledge, the floodgates had been opened.

And, more, the resources had been diverted south. Runoffs had been dug, were still being dug. River levels lowering. There was collateral damage, to farms and fields, but most farmers not only understood but had helped.

Toussaint accepted the congratulations from the Prime Minister for her handling of the situation. Smart enough not to acknowledge it hadn’t been her doing.

She herself had still been considering the options when she’d been told there were no more options. The decision had been made. An irreversible action had been taken.

And she suspected by whom.

She looked across her vast office, at the image on the screen. Of the former occupant. Gunning down black teens. Some, she realized with horror, not even that old. She felt sick. Physically ill.

They could be her own son.

Yes, something had to be done about Gamache. Something more than what she’d already done.

Madeleine Toussaint sat back down and composed her response. Then, before she could regret it, she hit send.

Reine-Marie was sitting in Myrna’s kitchen with a shot of scotch. Talking with Annie on the phone while the others huddled together. Conferring.

All except Ruth. Who’d returned to the computer. Drawn back, like a compass to magnetic north, to the unimaginable violence. Done to those children.

Done to Armand.

Reine-Marie, phone to her ear and listening to Annie vent, watched as Ruth clicked away on the keyboard. Her bony fingers thudding the keys as though punishing the computer for its complicity.

Then, with a final flourish, the old woman hit one last key and sat back. Smiling.

“Annie, I have to go,” said Reine-Marie.

“I need to call Reine-Marie,” said Armand, reaching for the phone.

“I’ll call Annie.”

Jean-Guy got through, but Armand did not. After trying home, then the bistro, he finally reached her at Myrna’s.

“I saw it,” said Reine-Marie before he’d even spoken. “Don’t worry. No one believes it. It’s crude.”

“It’s cruel,” came a voice shouted in the background. “But I fixed it.”

Ruth, Armand recognized. “How did she fix it?”

“Armand?”

It was Jean-Guy’s voice. He had Annie on the line and was sitting once again at his laptop.

“Hold on,” said Armand, and he turned to his son-in-law. “What is it?”

“Annie sent me a link. Just posted.”

“The same one…?” Armand began to ask as he walked around to the laptop.

But he stopped, walking. Talking. Breathing.

The image frozen on the screen was clearly from the same raid on the factory. But this was a different video. It was, he could see immediately, from the original recording. The true record of what had happened that day.

It was never meant to be made public. Never meant to be seen outside the Sûreté and the official inquiry. But the video had been leaked and posted years ago, in a violation so profound it had taken Gamache, Beauvoir, the families, years to get over.

Scenes had obviously been taken from it to create the bastardized video that had gone up that morning.

Armand now knew how Ruth had “fixed” it.

Thinking she was helping a friend, she’d reposted the original. In hopes of showing the truth.

What the old poet didn’t realize, or had forgotten, was that social media was less about truth than perception. People believed what they chose to believe.

Neither did she appear to understand the damage she’d just done.

“I have to let you go,” Armand said into the phone.

When he hung up, he looked briefly at the clear image on the screen, taking one deep breath after another. Trying to control his outrage.

Then, reaching for the phone, he said to Jean-Guy, “Can you give me a few minutes?”

Jean-Guy stepped toward the door, paused, then turned around. He knew what Armand was about to do. “Non.”

“Non?”

“I’m staying with you.” He sat down. There would be no argument.

Jean-Guy did not leave his side as Armand called the families of the officers who’d been slain that day. Whose deaths, like some horrific snuff film, were once again played out in public.

Armand placed call after call.

They were numbers he knew by heart, since he spoke to the mothers, fathers, husbands, and wives every week and visited the families whenever he was invited.

Now he called to warn them. To listen to their rage. To absorb, again, their agony.

When he’d finished, he asked Jean-Guy to leave him. Just for a couple of minutes.

And this time, Jean-Guy did.

When he was alone, Armand sat quietly, then dropped his face into his trembling hands.

Things are strongest where they’re broken, the young voice reassured him. And Armand gasped with pain as he held the agent, no more than a boy, in his arms.