A Great Reckoning

CHAPTER 26

“He could have done it,” said Isabelle Lacoste.

They’d gathered in the conference room at the Sûreté Academy. Gamache, Professor Charpentier, Beauvoir, and Gélinas listened as Lacoste reported on their early morning meeting with the mayor.

Light poured in through the picture window, and outside the snow was melting in the brilliant sunshine.

“He had the motive and the opportunity. Even, perhaps, the expertise to override the security system here.”

“Though we don’t know if it was done intentionally, or the system just failed on its own,” said Beauvoir.

“What did you make of Mayor Florent?” Gamache asked.

“I liked him. An interesting man. He put up a sort of mist of bonhomie. Of good cheer. But he readily, almost cheerfully, admitted he could’ve left his home, driven over here, killed Leduc and got back home without anyone knowing he was gone.”

“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.

The second page was the receipt, which they all scanned.

“I see that Madame Coldbrook-Clairton insists they didn’t make the silencer,” said Lacoste.

“I believe her,” said Beauvoir. “She had no reason to lie, and it would be easy enough to disprove. We’re trying to trace it now. She’d assumed by my email that it was a suicide. She was upset to find out it was murder.”

“You’d think she’d be used to it by now,” said Gélinas. “Why else have a handgun?”

“Did she say why he might have ordered a revolver instead of, say, an automatic weapon?” Gamache asked.

“She said collectors like them, but when I pointed out that Leduc wasn’t a collector, she had no answers.”

Lacoste nodded, then looked up as Gamache cleared his throat.

The Commander was still studying the first page, then he looked over his reading glasses to her. Taking them off he used them to point to a paragraph.

“This is interesting.”

They consulted their screens again.

“How?” asked Chief Inspector Lacoste. “It’s a boilerplate sales pitch giving the history of this model.”

“Yes. The McDermot .45 came into its own in the First World War,” said Gamache. “In the trenches.”

“Oui,” said Lacoste. “Soooo?”

“It’s probably nothing,” admitted Gamache. “But you know that a copy of the map that was in Leduc’s bedside table was found in the stained-glass window in Three Pines. The one of the soldiers from the Great War. The soldier had the map, but he also wore a revolver. I’m guessing a McDermot.”

“Pardon?” said Gélinas. “I’m not following.”

“Are you saying the two are connected?” Beauvoir asked.

“Wait a minute,” said Gélinas, holding up his hand. “A map?”

“Yes. A few months ago, an old map was found in a wall of the bistro in Three Pines,” said Gamache. “We were talking about it yesterday in the meeting.”

“I remember, but you didn’t say a copy was found in Leduc’s bedside table.”

“It’s in the report,” said Lacoste.

Gélinas turned to her. “There’s a lot in the report. Not all of equal weight. That’s why context is important, don’t you think?”

He spoke as though lecturing a failing cadet. Then he returned to Gamache.

“You kept this from me.”

“We’re telling you now,” said Gamache. “A couple of weeks ago, before any of this happened, I decided to use the map as a training tool. A few of the cadets were invited to investigate it. I gave them copies of the map.”

“And one of them was found in the dead man’s bedroom?” Gélinas asked. “How did it get there?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” said Lacoste.

“Whose fingerprints are on it?” Gélinas scanned the report.

“There’re three sets,” said Beauvoir, not needing to consult his iPad. He’d read the report when it had arrived in his inbox that morning. And while not everything was memorable, a few things leapt out. Including this.

“Leduc’s, Cadet Choquet’s, and Commander Gamache’s.”

“Monsieur Gamache made the copies and handed them out,” said Lacoste. “So his prints would naturally be there. Cadet Choquet’s copy of the map is missing.”

“Then it’s his,” said Gélinas. “Who is this Cadet Choquet? He seems very involved.”

“She,” said Gamache. “Amelia Choquet. A freshman.”

Gélinas went back a page in the report. “I see her name in the list of people whose prints were on the revolver case and might be on the revolver itself.”

“Right next to Nelson Mandela’s,” Lacoste pointed out.

“Still, we need to speak to her,” said Gélinas. “Can you have her brought here now?”

“She’s not in the building,” said Chief Inspector Lacoste.

“Where is she?”

Lacoste looked at Gamache, who said, “Three Pines. I had her and three other cadets taken there the day of the murder.”

Gélinas stared at Gamache, his mouth open. Unable to process what he’d heard.

“You what?” he rasped. “Is that what was meant by the four cadets in the village? Not Saint-Alphonse, but your own village? Who are they?”

“The students closest to Professor Leduc,” said Gamache. “Amelia Choquet and Nathaniel Smythe are freshmen—”

“—Smythe? The one who found the body?” demanded Gélinas.

“Oui. As well as two seniors. Cadets Laurin and Cloutier.”

“And you knew?” Gélinas looked at the others.

When even Professor Charpentier nodded, the Deputy Commissioner exploded.

“Everyone knew, except me? Why? What are you playing at?” Now he was staring directly at Gamache. “Do you know how serious this is? You’re withholding evidence, you’re hiding witnesses. My God, man, what’re you doing?”

“I took them there to protect them, not to hide them. And the chief investigating officer knows exactly where they are. But it’s vital that no one outside of this room knows.”

“Well at least one person in this room didn’t know,” said Gélinas, his anger only mounting. “You had no right, no authority, to do that. You’re actively interfering with an investigation.”

“I had every right, and all authority,” said Gamache. “I’m the Commander here. These students are my responsibility. Their training is entrusted to me, and so is their safety.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Gélinas leaned close to him. “You’re as bad as Leduc. Treating the Sûreté Academy as your personal city-state. This isn’t the Vatican and you’re not the pope. You’re behaving as though you’re all-powerful. Infallible. Well, you’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“Not necessarily,” said Charpentier. “Tactically it makes sense if—”

“The fewer who know where the students are the better,” said Gamache, cutting off the tactician.

“Better for who?” asked Gélinas. “Not me. Not the investigation. Better for you, perhaps.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Beauvoir.

“Whose prints were on the murder weapon?” Gélinas demanded.

“Partials,” said Beauvoir.

“Whose prints were on the map? Who stayed with the body, refusing company, until others arrived?” said Gélinas. “How many minutes? Ten? Twenty? Plenty of time to set the scene, to manipulate it. And then almost the first thing you do, sir, is scoop up important suspects, including the one who actually found the body, and take them away. That’s why you left right after the murder, isn’t it? To take the cadets down to the village.”

“To make sure they were safe, yes,” said Gamache.

“Safe? What danger could they be in here, any more than any of the other cadets? Why them?”

“As I said, they were closest to Leduc,” said Gamache, the throb underneath the words warning that he was straining to keep his temper. “Don’t the prints alone tell you that? They had extraordinary access to the man. And he to them. They’re the most likely to know something. They had to be protected.”

“The only thing that will protect them is telling us everything they know,” said Gélinas. “And it’s possible, probable, that if they do know something it’s because one of them did it. One of them killed Leduc. Have you thought of that, your holiness?”

“Don’t call me that, and of course I have,” said Gamache. “Even more reason to isolate them, don’t you think?”

“Or to hide them,” said Gélinas. “So they can’t tell me and others who mentored them into murder.”

Gélinas glared at Gamache.

“Are you suggesting Commander Gamache did this?” asked Lacoste, trying to control her own anger. “That he convinced one or all of the cadets to murder a professor?”

“The evidence is suggesting it,” said Gélinas. “His own actions are screaming it. It’s as though you’re just begging me to suspect you.”

“I didn’t kill Serge Leduc,” said Gamache. “You know it.”

“You asked for me specifically, monsieur, apparently to make sure it’s a fair and thorough investigation—”

“You asked for him?” Lacoste looked at Gamache, confused, while Charpentier leaned back in his chair and watched. No longer perspiring.

“Now I’m beginning to wonder if you chose me because you thought after years away, I’d be out of practice,” Gélinas continued. “I might be easily misdirected. Might even fall under your influence, like the cadets? Be flattered by the great man’s attentions? Was that it?”

“I asked for you, Deputy Commissioner, because I admire you and knew you’d be rigorous and fair,” said Gamache. “And would not be taken in by attempts to confuse. You would defend the law.”

“Oh, is that what this is?” Gélinas pointed to the tablet and the forensics report. “Not an indictment of your own actions, but an attempt to confuse? Are you saying someone is setting you up?”

“Why are there prints on the revolver?” asked Gamache. “Don’t you think it’s strange in the extreme that the killer knew enough to drop the weapon, but not enough to wipe it or wear gloves? If I killed Leduc, don’t you think I’d at least do both?”

“So you think all this is staged?”

“I think we have to consider that.”

“Who better to stage it than the former head of homicide for the Sûreté? The man most learnèd in murder? I want you to consider something.”

Deputy Commissioner Gélinas turned away from Gamache and spoke to the others.

“Is it possible he killed Serge Leduc,” he held up his hand to stop Beauvoir’s protest, “to protect the students? He came to suspect abuse. Not simply inappropriate punishments of cadets, but something systematic and targeted and shattering. The emotional, psychological, physical and perhaps sexual abuse of certain cadets. He had no proof. He invited those students he suspected were most at risk to join his informal gatherings, in the hopes they’d grow to trust him. He invited them to research the map, as a way of bonding with them. But they kept running back to Leduc. To their abuser. There was only one way to save them. And others.”

Beauvoir and Lacoste sat silent. Imagining the scenario.

“Could you see Monsieur Gamache murdering, to save young lives?”

It was clear both Lacoste and Beauvoir wanted to deny it. To defend Gamache. But it was also clear that they could, in fact, see it. If Armand Gamache was ever to commit murder, if would be to save others.

“He’s also the only person here who didn’t have to kill him,” said Charpentier, calmly, and all eyes swung to him.

“Explain,” said Gélinas.

“He’s the Commander. He alone could get rid of Leduc by just firing him.”

Beauvoir nodded approval and turned to the RCMP officer. Waiting for his reply.

“And pass the problem on to someone else?” asked Gélinas. “The Commander himself has admitted he would not do that.”

“You know he didn’t do it,” said Beauvoir. “You’re just playing into the murderer’s hands. Chasing the whale.”

“All that most maddens and torments,” said Gélinas, glaring at Gamache. “All truth with malice in it, all evil were visibly personified, and made practically assailable—”

“—in Moby Dick,” said Charpentier, finishing the quote. “You got it mostly right. I have the students read it as an insight into obsession. Into what can drive a man mad. I see you know it too.”

“—but not a whale,” said Gélinas, his eyes never leaving Gamache. “A man. For you, sir, it was personified by Serge Leduc. And like Ahab, you had to stop him.”

Gamache sat immobile. Neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

In the face of his silence, Gélinas continued. “The pick of the litter. You used that phrase just now. Your wife had the pick of the litter and she chose the runt. You did the same thing. You picked the runts and invited them to your soirées. Invited them into your home. Like she did with Gracie. You want to save them. Sometimes that means removing them from danger. And sometimes it means removing the danger.”

Armand Gamache took a deep breath and looked at the photograph of a man he’d grown to despise. A man now dead. Then he looked up at Gélinas.

“I’m not Ahab. And Leduc was not my whale. Yes, I know a lot about murder. Enough not to commit it.” He tapped his glasses a couple of times on his hand, considering Paul Gélinas. “I just finished telling the cadets that it’s in the murderer’s best interest to create chaos. To make us turn on each other. Suspect each other even.”

“Maybe, but last night when you, Professor Charpentier, were asked where you’d start to look for the killer, do you remember what you said?”

Charpentier hesitated, perspiration now pouring off him. He glanced at Gamache, who gave the slightest of nods.

“I said Matthew 10:36.”

“Oui.” Gélinas turned to Gamache. “You know the reference.”

“I taught it to all the new Sûreté agents,” said Gamache. “I’ve asked Michel Brébeuf to use it as the core of his course.”

“And a man’s foes shall be they of his own household,” said Gélinas. “Powerful advice. You were right, professor. That’s where I’d start too, to look for the killer. In our own household.”

“He didn’t do it,” said Lacoste. “You know that. Why are you even pursuing it?”

“Because you won’t.”

And for a moment he looked like a man with a whale in his sights.