A Great Reckoning

CHAPTER 28

“Salut, Armand.” Michel Brébeuf rose from behind the desk in his office. “I’m sorry. Commander.”

There was a slight nip in the air.

He put out his hand with exaggerated courtesy and Gamache shook it, then introduced Deputy Commissioner Gélinas.

“Of the RCMP.” Brébeuf pointed to the small pin Gélinas wore on his lapel. “I’ve noticed you in the halls. Here to assure fairness in the investigation?”

When Gélinas nodded, Brébeuf turned to Gamache.

“Still doing the right thing, I see.”

The nip became a bite.

“And we’re hoping you will too,” said Gamache, and saw the smile drift off Brébeuf’s face. “May we?”

But before Brébeuf could answer, the two men had taken seats. Gamache crossed his legs and made himself comfortable.

“Now, Michel, we have a few questions.”

“I’ve already been questioned, but always happy to help further. Are you any closer to finding out who killed Leduc?”

“We’re plodding along,” said Gamache. He turned to Gélinas, who’d been watching with interest.

To say there was animosity between the men would be a gross understatement. The air was almost unbreathable for the sulfur. Most of it emanating from Brébeuf, but Gamache was giving off his fair share. It was hidden beneath a razor-thin, and crackling, sheen of civility. But the stink of a long-rotted relationship was squeezing through the cracks.

Any thought the RCMP officer had that these two had colluded in the murder of Serge Leduc disappeared immediately. He doubted these men could bake a cake together, never mind plan and execute a killing.

“How well did you know Serge Leduc?” Gélinas asked.

“I’d heard of him, of course. I was still with the Sûreté when he was transferred here. Second-in-command under that old fool, though Leduc actually ran the place.”

“You were a senior officer at the time,” said Gélinas. “A superintendent.”

Michel Brébeuf gave a shallow nod of assent.

“You won’t remember, but we met once,” said Gélinas. “Years ago, at a consular function.”

“Did we?”

It was said politely, but it was clear Brébeuf did not remember and didn’t care to put in the effort to try. Paul Gélinas would have been just another guest. But Michel Brébeuf was always memorable. A small man who took up a lot of space, not because he demanded it but because he radiated authority.

Unintentionally, or perhaps not, he became the center of attention in any room.

The only other person Gélinas had met who could immediately and naturally command a room was the man sitting beside him. But Armand Gamache had another skill that Brébeuf didn’t seem to possess.

He could disappear, when he chose. And it appeared he chose to disappear at that moment.

Armand Gamache sat quietly. Almost a hole in the room.

It was in some ways more disconcerting than the energy throbbing off the man across the desk.

“So you knew him,” said Gélinas.

“Serge Leduc? We were introduced a few times, at formal occasions. When I came here to speak to the graduating class, and at parades. But he was generally on the field with the cadets while I was on the podium.”

A not-so-subtle reminder of their relative positions.

“And when you accepted to teach here, did you rekindle the relationship?”

“Now you’re being deliberately misleading,” said Brébeuf with amusement that did not extend to his gray winter eyes. Eyes, Gélinas thought, that looked like the slush in the street. Not water, not snow. Some in-between state. March eyes.

“There was nothing to rekindle. We were barely acquainted, but yes, we came to know each other slightly better after we were thrown together here.”

“You make it sound like you were trapped.”

“Do I? I don’t mean to.”

“How well did you get to know him over these past few months?”

Brébeuf looked at him, and Gélinas could almost see his thoughts. He’s wondering how much we’ve found out. He knows by now the DNA and fingerprint results are in.

He knows exactly what steps we’re taking, and in what order. And how to be a step ahead.

“I’d visited him a few times in his rooms.”

“And did he go to yours?”

The question surprised Brébeuf and he raised his brows slightly. “No.”

“What did you talk about, when you were together?”

“We exchanged war stories.”

“And did he tell you about fraud and contract fixing and the numbered accounts he holds in Luxembourg?” asked Gélinas.

There was a slight movement off to his left, from Gamache.

He doesn’t approve of my telling Brébeuf about Leduc’s criminal activities, thought Gélinas. But it was too late, and the RCMP officer had done it deliberately, to see Brébeuf’s reaction.

“He alluded to some less than legal activity on his part,” said Brébeuf. “I think in an attempt to flatten the playing field. He was aware, of course, of my history.”

“He wanted to let you know that he didn’t judge you?” asked Gélinas, and saw Brébeuf bristle.

“Believe me, Deputy Commissioner, Serge Leduc’s judgment was of no importance to me.”

“And yet, it appears you had a great deal in common. You were both senior Sûreté officers. Both misused your positions and were eventually caught and expelled from the Sûreté for criminal activity. Both of you were saved from prosecution by friends in high places. In your case, Monsieur Gamache. In his case, the Chief Superintendent. And you both found yourselves here, at the academy.”

“Have you come here to insult me, or ask for my help?”

“I’m pointing out the commonalities in your CVs,” said Gélinas. “That’s all.”

“There might be commonalities, as you put it, but I had nothing in common with him,” said Brébeuf. “He was just that. Common. A lump of coal that thought it was a diamond. He was a moron with a big office.”

“Then what were you doing in his living room? His bathroom? His bedroom?” asked Gélinas, his voice no longer quite so cordial. He shoved a hard copy of the forensics report across the desk. “What were you doing handling the murder weapon?”

Beside him, Gamache stirred again, and then subsided.

Brébeuf picked up the paper and scanned it with the practiced eye of a seasoned investigator. Going straight to the pertinent information.

His face, at first grim, relaxed a fraction. Gélinas realized, in that moment, why Gamache had reacted, albeit subtly, when the report was given to Brébeuf.

Yes, it showed that Michel Brébeuf might have held the murder weapon. But it also showed it was even more likely that Gamache had.

“You know as well as I do,” said Brébeuf, sliding the page back to Gélinas, “that this is supposition. Inadmissible.”

“Then you deny it?”

“Of course I do. I had no idea he had a gun, though I should’ve guessed. Only a fool would keep one in his rooms at a school. Though I’d never have expected this type of gun. A revolver? Does this make sense to you?”

He’d asked the question of Gamache.

“I would’ve expected a missile launcher,” said Gamache, and Brébeuf laughed.

And in a flash, in that easy laugh, Gélinas saw something else.

How these two could have once been friends. They’d have made a formidable team, too, had one not stepped back and the other stepped up.

The mood in the room seemed to have changed, with that moment between the two men.

Michel Brébeuf grew quiet, contemplative.

“Do you want to know why we sometimes had dinner and drinks together?” Brébeuf asked. His voice deepening, softening.

Paul Gélinas nodded and glanced over at Gamache, who hadn’t moved. He was still watching Brébeuf with keen, attentive eyes.

“I went there because I was lonely,” said Brébeuf. “I was surrounded by people here, but no one wanted anything to do with me. I don’t blame them. I did this to myself, and I came here to try to make amends. I knew it would be difficult to talk to the senior cadets, every day, about corruption and my own temptation. About all the things that can go wrong, when you’re given authority and a gun and no boundary but your own. It’s one thing to be told that power corrupts,” he turned to Gamache, “but you were right. It’s far more effective to see an example. I told them about what I’d done, how it started small, insignificant even. And grew. I told them about the dangers of falling in with the wrong people. I taught an entire class on the theme of one bad apple. And admitted that had been me. And on the very first day of class, I wrote Matthew 10:36 across the top of the blackboard, and left it there. It was humiliating, but necessary.”

He’d spoken quietly, and directly to Armand.

“I thought the worst would be the classroom, but it wasn’t. The worst was the evenings, when I could hear laughter and music. When I knew you were just down the corridor, talking to your cadets. And I sat there, alone, waiting for someone to perhaps show up.”

Paul Gélinas felt he had vanished, been overwhelmed, buried. A climber caught up in the avalanche that was the relationship between these two men.

“I visited Serge Leduc every now and then because he was the only one who smiled when he saw me.”

“Did you kill him, Michel?” asked Armand quietly.

“Would you put a bullet in your life raft?” asked Brébeuf. “No, I didn’t kill him. I didn’t like or respect him. But then, I don’t like or respect myself. But I didn’t shoot the man.”

“Do you have any idea who did?” asked Gélinas, clawing his way back into the interview.

“I wish I could tell you I think it was a professor and not a student, but I can’t,” said Brébeuf. “The cadets these days aren’t like we were. They’re rough, coarse. Look at that freshman, the one with all the tattoos and piercings. And the language I’ve heard out of her. To professors. Shocking. What’s she doing here? One of Leduc’s recruits, no doubt.”

“Actually, she’s one of mine,” said Gamache. “Amelia Choquet is top of her class. She reads Ancient Greek and Latin. And she swears like the criminals she’ll one day arrest. While you, Michel, are gentility itself. And have broken most of the laws you promised to uphold.”

Brébeuf took a deep breath, either steadying himself, or readying the attack. The thin ice they’d been on had given way. Gamache himself had shattered it.

There was a moment when the world seemed to stop entirely.

And then Michel Brébeuf smiled. “I was the more senior officer, Armand, but you were always the better man, weren’t you? How comforting for you to know that. And to always remind me.” He leaned his lean body across the desk. “Well, fuck you.”

It was said with a strange mixture of humor and anger. Was he joking, Gélinas wondered, or was the insult real?

He looked over at Gamache, who’d raised his brows but was also smiling. And Gélinas understood then how well these two men knew each other. And while there was malice, there was also a closeness. An intimacy.

It was a bond that could only have been formed over many years. But hate bonds as surely, and closely, as love.

Paul Gélinas made a mental note to look into their pasts. He knew them professionally, but now it was time to dig into their personal lives.

“The murder of Serge Leduc didn’t happen out of the blue,” said Brébeuf. “If it had, you’d have caught the person by now. No. It was considered. He enjoyed tormenting people. Especially people who couldn’t fight back. But he obviously chose the wrong target.”

“You think Leduc hurt and humiliated someone so badly that they got their revenge?” asked Gamache.

“I do, and I can see you do too. And you, Deputy Commissioner?”

“I reserve judgment. You’re both more experienced in murder than I am.”

“Do you think he means murder, or investigating murder, Armand?” asked Michel as they got to their feet.

“I think Monsieur Gélinas says exactly what he means,” said Gamache.

“Then I think you’re in a bit of trouble,” said Brébeuf. He laughed. With genuine pleasure.

Paul Gélinas felt nauseous as he walked down the hall. Made seasick by Brébeuf’s wildly corkscrewing emotions.

Neither man looked behind him, but they could feel Brébeuf’s eyes on their backs. And then they heard the office door quietly click shut.

“You two were friends?” asked Gélinas.

“Best friends,” said Gamache. “He was a good man, once.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think he still is?” Gélinas asked when they reached the stairs.

Gamache paused at the top step. The stairwell was flooded with light from the three-story window that framed the vast thawing prairie.

The echo of cadets calling to each other to hurry bounced off the walls, and urgent steps were heard on the marble stairs below.

And Armand remembered how he and Michel would race up an old, scuffed mahogany staircase, taking them two at a time. Late for class. Again. Because of some sudden discovery the young men had made. A trap door. The way into the attic. A bone that might be human. Or from a chicken.

The poor pathology professor. Dr. Nadeau. Armand smiled slightly at the memory of the harried man, bothered yet again by the two cadets and another bone, or a piece of hair, that might be human. Or mouse.

And each time the verdict. Not human.

But Michel and Armand developed a pet theory. Their finds were in fact some poor victim, and Dr. Nadeau the killer. Covering up. They didn’t believe it, of course, but it became a running joke. As was their search for more and more ludicrous things to take to the poor man for analysis.

“Gamache?” said the RCMP officer. “Do you think Brébeuf is still a good man, underneath?”

“I wouldn’t have brought him here if I didn’t think there was good still in him,” said Gamache, the distant laughter echoing off the glass and concrete.

“But do you regret the decision? Do you think he killed Leduc?” asked Gélinas.

“Not long ago you were accusing me, now you’re accusing him,” said Gamache, taking the steps down, his hand on the rail. He stopped on the landing as cadets raced by, late for class. They paused to salute, then ran on, taking the stairs two at a time.

“I’ve found in homicide it’s natural and even necessary to suspect everyone,” said Gamache, when the stairwell was clear, “but best not to say it out loud. Undermines your credibility.”

“Thanks for the advice. Fortunately, in the field of homicide, I have no credibility.”

Gamache grinned at that.

“I actually thought you might’ve done it together,” said Gélinas, as they continued down the steps.

“Killed him together? Why in the world would we do that?”

“To get rid of a problem. You wanted Leduc dead, to protect the cadets. But you couldn’t quite bring yourself to do it. But you knew someone who could. Someone who owed you. That would also explain Brébeuf’s presence at the academy. As an object lesson for the students, perhaps, but mostly as a tool for you. To get rid of someone you couldn’t just fire. So while it was your idea and planning, Brébeuf was the one who actually did it. It was one last spectacular amend for what he did to you.”

“And now?”

“I no longer think that.”

“And yet you just asked if I thought he’d killed Leduc.”

“I asked if you thought he did it, I didn’t say I thought so.”

“You mean you wanted to see if I’d throw him under a bus, to save myself?”

Gélinas was silent. That was exactly what he’d done. He’d handed Gamache an opportunity to condemn Michel Brébeuf. And he hadn’t taken it.

“Brébeuf is the only person in this whole place who actually needed the dead man alive,” said Gélinas. “While I said I’d learned never to underestimate hatred, I’ve learned something else since the death of my wife.”

Gamache stopped at the next landing and gave his full attention to Paul Gélinas.

“Never underestimate loneliness,” said the Mountie. “Brébeuf wouldn’t kill the only person not just willing but happy to keep him company. What did he call Leduc?”

“His life raft. And now? Are you still lonely?”

“I was talking about Brébeuf.”

“Oui.”

He paused to let Gélinas know he was listening, if he wanted to talk. The RCMP officer said nothing more, but his lips compressed, and Gamache turned away to give the man at least the semblance of privacy.

He looked out the window, across a snowy field gleaming in the sun, to an outdoor rink where the village children were playing a pickup game of hockey. One of the last of the season. Even from a distance, Gamache could see the puddles where the ice was melting. Before long the rink would be gone, would be grass, and another game would begin.

It seemed not so much a window as an opening into another place and time. A million miles from where they stood.

“I remember doing that on the lake at our chalet in the Laurentians,” said Gélinas, so quietly it was almost a whisper. “When I was a kid.”

When I was a kid, thought Gamache. Now there was a sentence. When I was a kid …

The two men stood in silence, watching the game.

“They could be using the indoor rink of the academy,” Gélinas gestured toward the arena. “But maybe they prefer to be outside.”

“Would you have?” asked Gamache, and Gélinas smiled and shook his head.

“Non. Give me a warm arena and scalding hot chocolate from the vending machine after the game,” he said. “Heaven.”

“The mayor has stopped them coming to the academy,” said Gamache.

He watched as one of the players had a breakaway and another plowed him into the snowbank surrounding the rink. There was a great poof of flakes and then they emerged, covered in snow, red-faced, laughing.

“They’ll be back,” said Gélinas. “Give it time.”

The kids skated up and down, up and down the rink, chasing the puck. All of them wore blue and red tuques with bobbing pompoms and Montréal Canadiens hockey sweaters. It was impossible to tell one team from another. But they seemed to know. By instinct.

They knew who was on their side.

When did it get so difficult to tell? Gamache wondered.