The Madness of Crowds

CHAPTER 14

“Armand,” said Colette Roberge, and surprised the Chief Inspector by kissing him on both cheeks as though he were just a friend dropping in for a visit, and not the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec, in her home to investigate an attempted murder.

“Madame Chancellor,” said Gamache, stepping back and introducing Isabelle Lacoste.

Despite Jean-Guy’s assurances that he could be civil, Gamache had thought it better if he didn’t accompany them, but instead interview the lighting and sound techs.

“We’re in here,” said Colette as she led them through the house and to the kitchen.

It was a comfortable room, with open shelving displaying blue-and-white china. Tins lined up on the counter said Farine. Sucre. Café. Thé. And Biscuits.

The ceiling had whitewashed beams, and French doors at the far end opened onto a large garden, now buried in snow.

In the corner by the door, bathed in sunshine, was a card table with a child’s jigsaw puzzle. A remnant of the grandkids.

Two women stood by the fireplace and turned anxious faces to the newcomers. It was clear neither had slept much. They looked disheveled, exhausted.

“Has the gunman said why he did it?” asked Debbie Schneider, stepping forward.

“No,” said Isabelle. “He’s not saying anything. We’re not releasing his name or any details yet, but I can tell you that he’s not a professional. In fact, he has no prior record at all.”

“Just a local crazy,” said Madame Schneider.

“There’s no indication he’s that either,” said Lacoste, her voice cool.

Debbie Schneider opened her mouth to argue the point, but Abigail Robinson interrupted.

“Thank you again, Chief Inspector,” she said, offering her hand. “I watched the videos last night. I think I must’ve been in shock. It’s clear that if you hadn’t acted I probably wouldn’t be here.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, taking her hand.

Isabelle Lacoste considered the two women as they all took seats in front of the warm woodstove. She’d only seen Professor Robinson at a distance, onstage.

There she’d been calm, assured. There’d been a warmth about her that Lacoste had found disconcerting.

But this was a different woman.

She was tense. Haggard. It was a perfectly normal reaction to what had happened.

The other woman, Debbie Schneider, was new to Isabelle.

She and the professor must be about the same age, but there was about Madame Schneider the sense of harder roads. Steeper climbs. A life not longer in days, but longer in other ways.

“We have a photograph of the gunman,” said Isabelle. “I’d like to know if you’ve seen him before.”

As the women leaned in to look, Lacoste turned her attention to Chancellor Roberge. She was short and stout, elegantly dressed even mid-morning on New Year’s Eve.

Her eyes were clear blue like the winter sky and held an almost fierce intelligence.

Gamache was also observing Colette Roberge.

It had occurred to him that, in their conversation earlier that morning, the Chancellor hadn’t actually asked anything about the gunman. Neither had the President of the University, but then his curiosity ended with Cleopatra.

“He looks…,” said Abigail, studying the photograph and searching for the word.

“Normal?” asked Debbie Schneider.

“Nice,” said Abigail.

Armand was tempted to say that she did too, but of course, he did not.

“The people who were hurt?” said Abigail. “How are they?”

“Recovering. They’re keeping one in hospital to do more tests on his heart.”

“Can I send a card?” she asked.

“If you give them to me, I’ll make sure they’re delivered.”

“Debbie, can you…?”

While Debbie made a note, Professor Robinson said to Lacoste, “I imagine you’d much rather be with your family than figuring out why some nice man took a potshot at someone you probably think deserved it.”

“Abby!” said Debbie.

It was such an extraordinary thing to say that Lacoste was momentarily at a loss.

Extraordinary because it was partly true.

“I’m very glad he didn’t hit his target, Professor.”

Abigail smiled. “Thank you for that.”

Her smile wasn’t a beam. It was much more intimate than that. It was gentle and warm. Understanding and inviting. Isabelle Lacoste was being invited in from the cold. Into the world of Abby Robinson, where all would be well.

While Isabelle was far from taken in, she was very much taken by this effect the professor had on her. Abigail Robinson had discovered, within moments of their meeting, a crack in her well-fortified wall. One she herself didn’t even know was there.

Isabelle Lacoste, second-in-command in homicide for the Sûreté du Québec, also yearned for all to be well.

Who didn’t?

She knew then that the professor was dangerous not simply because of her views, but also because she was so very compelling. So very attractive. And, most dangerous of all, so very normal.

This was no charismatic maniac. This was the woman next door who you trusted with your dog when you went away. If she said something was true, you believed her.

“You’ve known each other long?” Isabelle asked, trying to recover her equilibrium. Trying to paper over the cracks.

“All our lives, it seems,” said Debbie Schneider. “Abby Maria and I lived next door to each other as kids. Grew up together.”

She looked at Abigail, who gave her a smile, though it seemed to Gamache, who was following this closely, that it was strained. That there was some warning in her eyes. One that brought blood to Debbie’s cheeks.

“And where was that?”

“Nanaimo,” said Abigail. “British Columbia.”

“Beautiful area. Do you still live there?”

Yes.

Lacoste’s questions continued.

While neither had children, and both were single, Debbie was divorced and Abby had never married. They’d eventually drifted apart, their lives taking them in different directions.

“You know she went to Oxford?” said Debbie. “While the rest of us were mooning over boys, she was reading about the curriculum, years before she was old enough to even go.” Debbie turned to the Chancellor. “That’s how you two met, right?”

The Chancellor nodded. She, like Gamache, had been sitting back. Observing.

“I knew Abigail’s father, Paul. He was a good friend and a great mathematician. Almost as gifted as his daughter.”

Abigail smiled. “Merci.”

“He died in Abby’s first year,” said Debbie. “We reconnected at the funeral.”

“I wonder what he’d make of what’s happening now,” said Abigail.

“I think we know,” said Debbie. “After all he did for you, he’d be very proud with what you’ve done with your life. And he’d be proud of your study. He felt strongly that the truth, no matter how awful, must come out. And sometimes, it’s pretty awful.”

Abigail stared at her friend and colored. She gave a curt nod and turned to the fire.

“I agree,” said the Chancellor. “He’d be proud of you for having the courage to speak up. He was a kind man, a brave man. A believer in mercy, in all its forms.”

Gamache tipped his head back so that he was looking at the support beams above his head. Giving himself that gap between thought and action. So that he didn’t speak his mind.

Merciful. Had Colette really just equated what Abigail Robinson was promoting with an act of mercy?

But he did have an answer to one of his questions. He lowered his head and looked at the Chancellor, who seemed to agree with Abigail Robinson after all.

“You two work together now,” Lacoste was saying to Debbie and Abigail.

“That’s a nice way of putting it,” said Debbie. “I work for Abby, yes. Though it doesn’t actually feel like work.”

“What do you do?”

“Everything,” said Abigail. “Debbie does everything.”

“Except the research, the writing, the meetings, the lectures. But yes,” Debbie said with a smile, “besides that, I do everything.”

“She finds the flights,” said Abigail, “books hotels, pays the bills, fixes the laptops, finds the chimney sweep, organizes the winter tires, the lawn mowing, the—”

“Social media?” asked Gamache.

“Yes.”

“You post videos of the events?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Debbie. “You wouldn’t believe how popular they’ve become.”

Gamache, who’d been watching the likes tick up, would.

“The videos seem to be getting better,” said Lacoste. “More professional.”

“They are. At first the footage was from what people sent in,” Debbie explained, “but we needed something easier to watch, so now I hire local videographers.”

“And yesterday? Was the event recorded?”

“If it had been, Inspector, we’d have given you the tape,” said Debbie. “It was too last-minute to find anyone.”

“I saw the recording of your event before Christmas,” said Gamache, his voice casual.

“Yes, well, most of that was taken by people in the audience,” said Debbie. “We decided not to put up the one we had.”

“Because of the violence?”

There was silence.

“It seems you pick and choose which truth you’re going to tell,” said the Chief Inspector.

“Don’t we all?” asked Professor Robinson. “I can’t imagine you’re telling us everything you know. For instance, how did that man get into the gym with a gun? I saw your people at the door. They were checking everyone as they went in.”

Gamache looked at the Chancellor, to see if she’d told them about the suspected accomplice, but it seemed Abigail Robinson had figured this out on her own.

“We’re looking into it. There is a chance he wasn’t alone.”

The only sound was the crackling of the fire.

“So someone’s still out there?” said Debbie, her wide eyes going to the French doors and the garden beyond.

“We have Sûreté agents watching this house,” said Gamache. “And we’re doing all we can to find the accomplice. If there is one.”

“You don’t even know that? How can you find someone you’re not even sure exists?” demanded Debbie, her voice rising.

“It’s all right,” said Colette. “They’re very good at their jobs.”

“Like they were yesterday, when a gunman got in?” demanded Debbie.

Abigail placed a hand over her friend’s. Debbie took a deep, calming breath and squeezed Abigail’s hand.

One thing was becoming clear to Gamache. Abigail Robinson and Debbie Schneider were a couple, as surely as any lovers. Perhaps even more than most. Having sex did not define an intimate relationship, any more than not having sex prevented one.

“Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt you?” Lacoste asked. “Colleagues? Former partners, anyone who might hold some grudge?”

“Well, there’s half of Canada, it seems,” said Abigail.

“I mean personally.”

“I can’t think I hurt anyone so badly they’d want to kill me. Can you?” she asked Debbie, who also shook her head.

“You work at the University of Western Canada, is that right?” Lacoste asked.

“UWC, that’s right. I actually took over my father’s old job.”

Isabelle considered all the dynamics that suggested. It felt Shakespearean. Greek even. But was it a tragedy, or kindly Fate bestowing a gift on a gifted child?

“He must’ve been relatively young when he died,” said Lacoste.

“He was. Stroke.”

“And you were in Oxford when it happened?”

“She was,” said the Chancellor. “I got the call and had to tell her.”

“The hospital called you?” said Gamache.

“Oui. Paul put me down as the person to be notified. If anything happened, he didn’t want Abigail to hear any news like that on her own.”

“He sounds like a careful man,” said Gamache.

“He was a loving father,” said Colette. “Preparing for the unpredictable.”

“Practicing probability theory?” asked Gamache.

“You’d know, Chief Inspector,” said Abigail. “Don’t you generate theories, based on probability, and then eliminate them as facts come in? Isn’t that how you find killers?”

“Very true. But we also have to consider emotions. How we feel about things influences how we see them.”

“Bit of a wild card,” said Colette.

“Oh, you’d be surprised how clearly the heart can see. What I do know is that how we feel drives what we think, and that determines what we do. Our actions leave behind evidence, those facts you mention. But it all starts with an emotion.”

“Fortunately, numbers don’t have feelings,” said Abigail.

“No, but the mathematician, the statistician, does. Can’t help but. As do homicide investigators. We can make mistakes. Overinterpret evidence. Even manipulate some facts to suit a convenient theory. We try not to, but we’re human and it’s tempting. Fortunately, if we do misinterpret facts and arrest the wrong person, the case is dismissed.”

“But not always,” said Chancellor Roberge. “Innocent people are sometimes convicted. And the guilty are freed.”

“My point exactly,” said the Chief Inspector. “The same set of facts can lead us to different conclusions. Our interpretation of facts can depend on our experiences. Even our upbringing. On what we want the facts to say.”

“Lies, damned lies, and statistics?” asked Abigail.

He raised his brows, acknowledging the famous quote. But said nothing.

“You think that’s what I’ve done?” She didn’t seem defensive, merely curious. Almost amused. “You’re not the first person to say that. Can statistics be manipulated? Absolutely. We’ve all seen it. Politicians, pollsters, ad execs. Anyone with an agenda can spin statistics. But I can tell you, and I suspect Chancellor Roberge will agree, that few academics would do that, if only because we’d soon be found out in peer review. We’d lose all credibility, lose the respect of colleagues, and risk censure by our university.”

“As you have.”

There was a pause as that dug in.

“True,” she finally said. “But it’s not because I’m wrong. In fact, it’s because they know I’m right and it makes them uncomfortable.”

And Gamache remembered what the Chancellor had said, as he’d left her office. That while shocking, even abhorrent, Professor Robinson’s figures were actually correct.

But correct and right were two different things. As were facts and truth.

He leaned forward. “Why are you here?”

“The Chancellor thought it would be more comfortable,” said Abigail.

“No, I mean why come to Québec? This area? At this time of year? It wasn’t to do an event. That wasn’t organized until after the decision had been made. What brought you here?”

“We wanted to see Colette,” said Abigail. “It’d been a difficult few months since the Royal Commission turned down my report. I wanted a change of scene and I wanted her advice.”

“And yet you didn’t exactly rush over to see her.”

Abigail glanced at the Chancellor, who’d dropped her eyes.

“Okay, you want the truth?”

“Please.”

“The main reason we came now is simple. I’ve sold my house, and the place is filled with boxes.”

“It’s a complete mess,” agreed Debbie.

“So you flew across the continent to get away from boxes?” asked Lacoste.

“It’s hard to explain,” said Abigail with a sigh. “After my father died I’d just stuck all the boxes from his place in the attic and forgot about them. But now I have to go through it all and decide what to keep. It was”—she thought for a moment—“emotional. I felt overwhelmed. Colette had always said how beautiful it is here, especially at this time of year. How peaceful.” She looked at Gamache. “I wonder if you understand. All I wanted was peace.”

“So you held a rally?” asked Lacoste.

“One hour out of my holiday,” said Professor Robinson. “Who could have seen what would happen?”

Gamache took a breath and chose not to pursue that again.

“Still, some good has come of it,” said Debbie.

“And what’s that?” asked Gamache.

“We had a call this morning. Haven’t had a chance to tell you yet, Colette.”

“From?” said the Chancellor.

“The Premier of Québec,” said Debbie. “He saw the news reports. I guess he realized there’s growing support. He wants to meet to discuss Abigail’s findings. You might have to enforce a whole new law.”

What had been political suicide two days earlier had suddenly become viable.

Gamache didn’t react except to grow even more still. While beside him, Isabelle Lacoste imagined forcing the elderly and sick to accept a lethal injection.

Gamache glanced at the Chancellor and said, softly, “I wonder if that was predictable.”

But she was paying no attention. Colette was looking out the window at her husband walking hand in hand with one of the grandchildren.

“They’re still here?” Gamache asked. “The children?”

“Leaving after lunch,” said Colette.

“We’ve also had calls from most of the major news organizations. I’ve lined up interviews for Abby all afternoon,” said Debbie. “In fact, we have a live one with CNN in a few minutes, then the BBC after that. We’ve already done the Canadian shows. Our followers on social media have doubled since last night.”

Gamache knew this. He’d been tracking the surge since the shooting.

“May I have a word?” Gamache asked Chancellor Roberge, who nodded and rose.