The Madness of Crowds

CHAPTER 6

The reaction was immediate and so overwhelming that it almost knocked Gamache back a step.

He’d heard roars, uproars, before. From the stands during hockey playoffs when the Habs scored. Or Grey Cup finals. At concerts, when the group finally took the stage.

But this was a whole other creature.

He looked out.

Perhaps it was the density of the crowd, though he’d been careful to underestimate capacity. Perhaps it was the acoustics in the old gymnasium, but the noise was far more than five hundred people should have been able to produce.

And he quickly realized what was causing it.

There was cheering, shouts of support, chanting. But there were equal parts booing. Cries of “Shame!” Howls of derision.

And there were shrieks. It was impossible to tell if they were cries of support, of contempt, or just from people overwhelmed with emotion and needing to blow it off.

It all came together in an acoustic body blow.

He stepped farther out from behind the curtain, to get a better look. He expected to see Professor Robinson stopped in her tracks, or even turning back, backing up. Momentarily staggered, even paralyzed, by this assault.

Instead she kept walking. Slowly. Calmly. As though she were alone in the room.

Armand Gamache watched her measured progress through the cacophony, and recognized courage when he saw it. But this was not what he’d call valor.

It was the courage that came with conviction, with absolute certainty. When all doubt was banished. It was the courage of the zealot.

And then came the stomping, heavy winter boots hitting the old wooden floor. The place was heaving. Gamache spared a thought for the caretaker, who must have been in despair right about then.

At the back of the auditorium, Jean-Guy Beauvoir stood on tiptoes to see.

Everyone in front of him was doing the same thing, and he needed to sway back and forth to catch glimpses of the woman walking, almost strolling, across the stage.

Apparently oblivious to the sensation she was causing.

He’d watched the video of her event ten days earlier. That had been raucous. But nothing like this.

From her vantage point on a riser halfway down the room, Isabelle Lacoste took in the movement of the crowd. People were swaying back and forth, side to side. Like some great churning ocean. Had she suffered from seasickness she’d have been green.

Her sharp eyes scanned for trouble spots. For eddies and surges. This was one of the danger points. When the crowd first sees the focus of their adoration, and rage.

She looked at the agents she’d installed at various points around the walls and in the crowd itself. Some in uniform. Some in plain clothes.

Inspector Lacoste then turned to the stage. Not to the single person on it, almost at the podium, but to the Sûreté agents lined up in front of it.

And then, from the middle of the crowd like some tribal call to war, the stomping began.

“Chief,” she said. “This’s about to explode.”

“Hold on,” Gamache said, opening the channels so all officers could hear him. “Steady. Steady. This will pass.”

He was within twenty feet of the agents lined up in front of the stage. If there was a rush, they’d be the first to get it.

He looked at their faces. Mostly young. Strong. Determined. Eyes forward. He saw the officer in charge of that section say something, and they, as one, stepped their right legs back. A subtle move to brace themselves, while not threatening the men and women facing them.

None of his agents had a gun. It was far too easy, in an unpredictable and potentially violent crowd, to have someone take the weapon off them in the mêlée. And use it. He’d seen it happen, with tragic results.

So Gamache had ordered their firearms be left in the detachment. But they did have truncheons.

Before the doors had been opened to admit the spectators, he’d briefed the agents on the worst-case scenario. And he made it clear that the worst case was when the cops, there to restore order and protect people, escalated the violence.

“This”—he held up the bat-like truncheon—“is a tool, not a weapon. Understood?”

“Oui, patron,” they said. Many were still annoyed at having to leave their guns behind.

As Gamache gave them a quick refresher course, Monsieur Viau, the caretaker, watched, gripping the handle of his mop as though it were a club.

“These are your neighbors, your friends,” said Gamache. “Think of them as your mother and father, your brothers and sisters. These are not bad people. They’re not your enemy. Do not hit them except as a very last resort.”

He’d looked into their eyes, drilling home his point. They nodded.

Then the Chief Inspector demonstrated how to use the club defensively, to pry people apart if they were fighting. To restrain, while using restraint.

He could see by their faces that they really had no idea what they’d be facing. Many were feigning boredom, implying experience they did not actually have. Because those who’d been in a riot were paying close attention. Mostly the senior officers. Lacoste, Beauvoir, and a few others.

They knew what could happen. How ugly it could get, and how quickly.

When this event was first assigned to him, two days earlier, Chief Inspector Gamache had asked that a single local agent, already on duty, be loaned to him. Just for the hour.

Then, as he’d learned more about the professor, his contingent had grown to fifteen agents, brought in from regions nearby. He’d placed the calls himself, asking junior agents and senior commanders if they’d be willing to join him that one day.

None had refused.

And now there were thirty-five Sûreté agents watching, as he went over, quickly, expertly, how to drop their grandmothers to the floor. If necessary.

Abigail Robinson had reached the podium. She bent the microphone closer to her and spoke her first words.

“Hello? Bonjour? Can you hear me?” Her voice was calm, cheerful, almost matter-of-fact.

It was not what Gamache had expected, nor was it what the crowd had expected.

The surge stopped. The stomping petered out. The crowd grew still, and quiet, except for a few random shouts.

And Gamache immediately saw the genius of it.

Instead of launching into her talk, she’d greeted them in the most polite, most familiar fashion. And since these were, for the most part, good, decent people, they responded. In the most polite fashion.

Gamache wasn’t fooled. This disarming start hadn’t miraculously eased all the emotions. It was a respite that allowed Professor Robinson to begin, to be heard.

Yes, it was brilliant. And calculated.

She smiled. “Oh, good. I’m always afraid when I make what feels like such an endless walk from way over there”—she pointed to the wings—“to here, that once I arrive, the microphone won’t work. Can you imagine?”

Now her shoulders rose and she chortled. There was no other word for it. A cross between a laugh and a giggle. It was charming, self-deprecating. And, once again, calculated.

The place grew even quieter. A few laughs could be heard.

The friends and neighbors, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers were listening. Drawn in. Far from the frothing maniac the protesters had expected, what they saw was their sister, their aunt, the woman next door. Standing alone on the gym stage, smiling.

She wished them a merry Christmas, a joyeux Noël. A happy new year and a bonne année.

There was scattered applause for her Anglo-accented French.

And then she went into a dissertation. Citing figures. Dates. Data. Facts compiled by various sectors both before and during the pandemic.

She cited projections.

As she talked, Gamache realized it wasn’t just words. There was a rhythm, a cadence, to what she was saying.

There was a musicality in her voice, a beat not unlike Bach, as she went through the litany of disasters. Of crises facing not just the health sector but also education. Infrastructure. The environment. Pensions. Jobs. The monstrous national debt that would eat the children’s futures.

What was clear was that there were too many calls on dwindling resources. It was a crisis heightened but not created by the pandemic.

The place had grown quiet as she methodically built her case.

Her voice never wavered, never rose above a drone. It was calming, mesmerizing, and somehow made what she was saying sound reasonable.

The Chief Inspector knew, from years of interrogating murderers, that if you yelled at someone, they clammed up. Walls rose. Minds and mouths closed.

But if you spoke softly, their defenses might drop. At least you had a better chance of it.

That’s what she was doing. With a melodic voice, Abigail Robinson was crawling into people’s heads. Mining their bleakest thoughts, drawing forth their buried fears.

As he listened, Armand Gamache realized that the Chancellor had been right.

This lecture on statistics, on mathematics, was also music. And it was art. Albeit a dark art. Not at all the sort Clara Morrow created, with her luminous portraits.

Professor Robinson was, before their very eyes, turning thoughts into words, and words into action. Facts into fear. Angst into anger. It was artful.

Abigail Robinson was not simply an academic, she was an alchemist.

This was the moment, Gamache knew from watching her previous talks, when she’d reached the turning point.

Having painted a bleak picture of a society on the verge of collapse, she would now offer hope. All will be well. Professor Robinson would tell them what they needed to do to move forward into a bright new world.

She would give them her simple solution. One revealed, ironically, by the pandemic itself.

Abigail Robinson paused now and looked at the gathering.

As did Gamache.

What he saw in their upturned faces was desperation. They’d just been through hell. They might’ve lost family members, friends. Many had lost jobs.

But he also saw hope.

Still, he wondered how many who’d followed her this far would be willing to take this next step. And he wondered how many who’d come to protest had changed their minds after listening to her rhythmic litany of disaster.

He could even see some of the agents, especially the younger ones lined up in front of the stage, turning to grab quick glances at her.

Their senior officer obviously said something because the faces snapped back forward. But still …

A child was hoisted up on a man’s shoulders. Then another one.

“Inspector Lacoste—” he began.

“I see them, patron,” she said. “I have eyes on twelve children in the auditorium. Agents are ready to grab them if things turn.”

“Bon. Inspector Beauvoir, how many children came into the hall?”

There was silence.

“Inspector?”

“Sir,” came an unfamiliar female voice. “He’s not here, but Inspector Beauvoir did make note. There are fifteen children.”

“Merci. Inspector Lacoste, did you hear that.”

“I did. I’m on it.”

Gamache could see that the press forward had begun. Professor Robinson had come to the moment juste.

The noise in the auditorium rose, as demonstrators awoke from their daze.

“Shame!” they shouted.

“Too late!” the others screamed back.

It became a primal call and response. The beating of drums before battle.

“Where did Inspector Beauvoir go?” Gamache asked the agent at the door.

“But there is a solution,” he heard Professor Robinson break her silence, as his sharp eyes scanned the now pulsing crowd. “It takes courage, but I think you have that.”

“He’s inside,” the agent said.

“Inside?” said Gamache. “Are you sure?”

If it was true, Jean-Guy Beauvoir had disobeyed orders, abandoned his post, and, worst of all, brought the gun in with him. There was now a loaded weapon in this crowd.

It was not only shocking, it was unforgivable.

“Yessir.”

“Shame, shame,” half the crowd chanted.

“Too late,” came the angry response.

“—money and time and expertise are being spent on what is futile. Hopeless. Even cruel. Do you want your parents, your grandparents, to suffer, as too many already have?”

“No!” came the cry from the crowd.

“Do you want your children to suffer?”

“No!”

“Because they will. They are. But we can change that.”

Gamache stepped out onto the stage, quickly assessing the situation. He saw that, while the situation was volatile, his officers had it under control.

Still, he could … No one would blame him …

But he did not stop it. Instead he gave a brief, reassuring nod to the nearest agent on the front line. A young man who reminded him of another impossibly young agent from a lifetime ago.

The man nodded back and turned forward, to face the crowd.

“But it’s not too late. I’ve done the numbers and the solution is clear, if not easy,” Abigail Robinson was saying. “If the pandemic taught us anything, it’s that not everyone can be saved. Choices must be made. Sacrifices must be made.”

Gamache kept his eyes forward.

“It’s called—”

From the middle of the auditorium there came a rapid series of explosions.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Gamache flinched but recovered almost immediately. Running to the center of the stage, he pointed into the crowd. “Lacoste!”

“On it.”

He saw her leap off the riser and head toward the smoke rising from the middle of the hall. Saw the line of Sûreté officers brace.

Saw the crowd ducking down as it reacted to the explosions. Heard the screams. Saw the beginning of a panicked surge for the doors.

Holding up his arms, he shouted, “Arrêtez! Stop. They’re firecrackers. Stop.”

He knew they weren’t shots. He’d heard too many of those to be fooled. But the fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, husbands and wives squeezed together in the hot gym had not.

It sounded to them like automatic weapons fire. Rat-ta-ta-ta-tat. And they did what any reasonable person would do.

They ducked, then turned toward the exits, in the natural instinct to get out.

“Stop,” he shouted. “There’s no danger.”

No one was listening. No one heard.

He pushed Professor Robinson aside and grabbed the microphone off the podium.

“Stop!” he commanded. “Those are firecrackers. Stop where you are. Now.”

He repeated it quickly, in French and English. In a clear, authoritative voice, until slowly, slowly the panic eased. The surge ebbed, stopping just sort of a crush.

Isabelle Lacoste found the string of firecrackers, black and smoldering, and held it up.

The room began to settle. There was even some nervous laughter as foes a moment earlier smiled at each other in relief.

And then there was another loud bang and the wood of the podium beside Gamache splintered.

This was no firecracker.

Gamache knocked Professor Robinson to the floor as another shot hit the stage inches from them.

He covered Robinson’s body with his own, squeezing his eyes shut, and waited for the next shot.

He’d had to do this once before, when there’d been an attempt on the Premier’s life. They’d been out for dinner together at the bistro Leméac in Montréal and were walking along rue Laurier one summer’s evening. The Sûreté du Québec security detail was just ahead and just behind the leader of the province as Armand strolled beside him, the two deep in conversation when the shots were fired.

Fortunately, the would-be assassin was a terrible shot and the Chief Inspector was quick to react, knocking the Premier to the ground and covering him.

When it was over and they were safe, the Premier, who was openly gay, joked that that would be the photo on social media within minutes. The Premier and the head of homicide frolicking together on the grass.

“You could do worse, mon ami,” said Gamache.

“As could you.”

Still, neither man would forget the look on the other’s face in those split seconds, as they hit the ground and the bullets struck around them. As each waited for the sharp shock, as one found its mark.

Now Gamache covered Abigail Robinson with his body. To die for the Premier was one thing, but for her?

“Got him,” came Lacoste’s crisp voice in his earphone. “We’ve got the shooter. Chief, are you all right?”

“Oui.” He got quickly to his feet and saw that Lacoste and two others had wrestled a man to the floor.

But he also saw a terrible sight. Bodies everywhere. Hundreds of people sprawled on the floor. He knew, in his rational mind, that they were not hurt. That the only bullets fired had come in his direction.

But still, he felt a wave of horror.

And then they stirred.

Mere seconds had passed since the first shot. He knew this was the gap, the gasp, before shock turned to real panic. It was that moment of grace when a riot might be avoided.

He found the microphone among the debris of the podium and, grabbing it, he called for calm.

Keeping his voice steady, standing visible and reassuring on the stage, apparently unperturbed, Gamache repeated over and over, in French and English, that they were safe.

He almost said, “Ça va bien aller.” All will be well. But stopped himself.

The problem was, Gamache had no idea if there was another shooter still out there. Or even a bomb.

They needed to evacuate the place as quickly as possible. And he saw his agents doing exactly that. Monsieur Viau, the caretaker, was also guiding people to the exits. Using his mop to push them along.

“Abby!” Debbie Schneider ran across the stage to where Professor Robinson was sitting up.

He turned briefly, saw she was unhurt, and told them to get off the stage.

As he directed the operations, as the place emptied out, as Lacoste contained the gunman, Inspector Beauvoir appeared.

“Patron—” he began, but was cut off.

“I’ll deal with you later,” Gamache snapped. “Go outside. Help the injured.”

He could see through the open doors the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. In another act most had considered a vast overreaction, Gamache had asked that two ambulances and a team of first responders be at the ready.

“We’ve secured the gunman,” said Lacoste.

“Search the building,” he commanded. “Block the roads into and out of the University. Search every person and go over every vehicle.”

The auditorium was almost empty now. The place littered with boots and tuques and mittens. Buttons and papers. A few handbags and knapsacks and phones were on the floor. But no people. No bodies, Gamache saw with relief.

The officers not searching the building were outside, along with the paramedics, tending to the shocked and frightened people. Checking for injuries. Checking IDs. Checking for weapons, in case a second attacker had slipped out with the crowd.

The gunman, head down and cuffed, was being led out the back way.

Monsieur Viau stood at the far end, by the big doors, gripping the long handle of his mop. A warrior-king surveying his land after a battle.

Through the open door, through the darkness, Gamache could see the outline of men and women moving in front of the flashing lights of emergency vehicles.

People were sitting in snowbanks, while others knelt to help. All animosity forgotten. For now.

Monsieur Viau lifted his mop in acknowledgment, as Gamache lifted his hand. In thanks. Then the caretaker left, and Gamache was alone.

He looked at the room and thanked God and his lucky stars that no one, as far as he knew, had been killed. Though the shock, the psychic damage, would be with each person for a long time to come.

“Could’ve been worse,” came the voice behind him.

Gamache didn’t turn. Couldn’t turn. Could not stand to look at her. “Please leave.”

“You saved my life,” said Professor Robinson. “Thank you.”

He continued to stare straight ahead until he heard her footsteps recede and the place again fell into silence.

He closed his eyes, and in that silence Chief Inspector Gamache again heard the shots. The shouts and screams. The wails of the children.

And he heard the last word Professor Abigail Robinson had uttered. “Mercy—”

The solution is called mercy—

And then the firecrackers had gone off, and the shots were fired. But Gamache could finish her sentence. The word she didn’t get a chance to say.

Killing. But it wasn’t mercy killing she was proposing. It was, he knew, just plain old killing.