The Nature of the Beast

CHAPTER 30

Once again the investigators sat around the conference table in the Incident Room. Jean-Guy watched as Gamache put on his reading glasses and looked down at the report Beauvoir had handed out. Then Gamache took off his glasses and turned thoughtful eyes on his former second-in-command and Jean-Guy had to remind himself that Gamache was a guest and not in charge anymore.

As a joke he’d given his father-in-law a Walmart greeter’s vest as career advice. Gamache had laughed with genuine amusement and once even wore it when his son-in-law and daughter visited, opening the door with, “Welcome to Walmart.”

But now Jean-Guy regretted the vest and the implication that the Chief Inspector could not possibly be happy in retirement. That something else, something more, was expected of this man who had given his life to his job.

He remembered what Mary Fraser had said, the hurtful words. And realized he’d essentially said the same thing to his father-in-law with that vest.

Beauvoir didn’t need to consult his own report. There was not much to say.

“We’ve interviewed Antoinette Lemaitre’s friends, clients and the members of the Estrie Players. There’s no doubt her decision to produce the Fleming play caused a lot of bad feeling. People were angry, to say the least.”

“Do you think the play had anything to do with her death?” Lacoste asked.

“No, I don’t. We’re checking alibis now, but so far everyone seems in the clear.”

“And Brian?” asked Lacoste.

“He’s a little more difficult, of course. His prints and DNA are all over the crime scene, but you’d expect that. The clothes he was wearing also had her hair and some minute particles of skin and blood, but he found her, and he thinks he touched her body, so again—”

He put up his hands.

“His alibi checks out,” Lacoste read from the report.

“Oui,” said Beauvoir. “His cell phone shows him in Montréal the whole time, but as we know, he could have deliberately left it there.”

“We know Antoinette took her uncle’s things over to the playhouse the day she died, maybe even that evening,” said Gamache. “Anyone see her do it?”

“No,” said Jean-Guy. “We have witnesses though who saw her that afternoon at the grocery store, the bakery and the Société des alcools, where she bought two bottles of wine.”

“The autopsy reports a dinner of pizza, tarte au chocolat and red wine,” said Lacoste. “Her blood alcohol was well above the limit, and there was an empty bottle in recycling.”

“And the other bottle?” asked Gamache.

“In the cupboard, unopened,” said Beauvoir.

Gamache pondered for a moment. “What does it sound like to you?”

“Sounds like an alcoholic,” said Jean-Guy.

“Sounds like a woman letting herself go for a night,” said Lacoste. “You guys have no idea how attractive sitting around in sweats eating junk and guzzling wine sounds to any woman. Nice dinner in Paris? Forget it. Give me pizza, wine, chocolates and sweatpants and I’m happy.”

Beauvoir and Gamache looked at her.

“Motherhood,” she explained. “Annie will understand one day. And I bet if you ask Reine-Marie—”

“But she wasn’t in sweats,” said Gamache. “She was in her street clothes.”

“True,” said Lacoste. “She had casual clothing in her closet. She could’ve changed.”

“But didn’t,” said Gamache. “Why not?”

“Maybe she meant to, but got into the wine right away,” said Beauvoir. “And got so shit-faced she no longer noticed or cared what she was wearing. I think the wine was to numb herself. She was obviously afraid. Why else take those things to the theater?”

“But if she was so afraid, why did she let Brian go to Montréal?” asked Lacoste. “If I was afraid, I think I’d want company.”

“Brian?” asked Beauvoir.

“Okay, he’s no Rottweiler, but it’s better than being alone if you’re that afraid.”

“Why was the door unlocked?” asked Gamache. “She was afraid enough to get her uncle’s things out of the house, but then she gets home and leaves the door unlocked?”

“Habit?” asked Lacoste. But she was unsatisfied with that answer.

“Maybe we have it all wrong,” said Beauvoir, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms in annoyance. “Maybe she wasn’t really afraid. Maybe she wanted Brian out of the way so she could meet someone.”

“A lover?” asked Lacoste, but shook her head and looked at Beauvoir, her eyes gleaming. “No. A buyer. That’s what you’re thinking.”

“I’m wondering,” said Jean-Guy. “It fits too, I think. Guillaume Couture tells his niece about Project Babylon and his role in creating it, to warn her. Tells her about the firing mechanism and the plans that he’s hidden. But she’s not really interested, it’s an old gun her elderly uncle is babbling on about. But then, when it’s found, she realizes what she has, and she knows it must be worth something to someone.”

“When she’s approached,” said Lacoste, working her way through this scenario, “she invites him—”

“Or her,” said Beauvoir.

“Or them,” said Gamache.

“Over. And makes it the one night she knows Brian won’t be around.”

“Yes,” said Gamache. “I think that’s important. It’s the one night he was away.”

“Then why did she take the things to the theater?” asked Beauvoir, then held up his hand. “Wait. Don’t tell me. It’s to get them out of the house, so that the buyer can’t find them without her. And she won’t tell, without the money.”

He slammed his hand down on the conference table.

“Solved.”

“Aren’t you leaving out one detail?” asked Armand.

“The name of the killer?” asked Jean-Guy. “I got us this far, I think the Chief Inspector can do the rest, don’t you?”

Isabelle Lacoste was leaning back in her chair, tapping a pen against her lips. No longer listening, which was wise, but thinking.

“The wine,” she said. “Why would Antoinette drink a whole bottle before an important meeting? Wouldn’t she want a clear head?”

“Maybe she needed courage more,” said Beauvoir. “Besides, we don’t know that she drank it all herself. The killer might’ve had a couple of glasses then washed up. Or Antoinette might’ve been nervous and drank more than she meant to. After all, she knew she was meeting someone who’d already killed at least one person.”

Lacoste was nodding. “That could also explain her injury. It doesn’t look deliberate. If she was drunk and got into an argument, a shoving match, let’s say, with the buyer, she might’ve lost her balance.”

“And once she was out of the way, the buyer was free to search the house,” said Gamache. “Not realizing Antoinette had taken everything away.”

“Well, now, there’s another problem,” said Lacoste. “The search of the theater turned up nothing. No firing mechanism, no plans. So where did she put them?”

They stared at each other.

“We seem to have hit a dead end,” said Lacoste. “We obviously need more information.”

She looked over to Adam Cohen, who was sitting at a desk staring at his computer screen. If he’s playing games, she thought, and getting up, she crossed the room.

“We’re ready for your report.”

His hands rested on the keyboard but didn’t move as he stared at what Lacoste was relieved to see was text. Documents, it seemed.

“Almost ready,” he said, distracted. Then he looked up. “Sorry, sir. Ma’am. Chief Inspector.”

He bobbed slightly in what might have been a curtsy had he been standing.

“Come over when you’re finished.”

She’d given him the thankless task of tracking down documents, materials to support their investigation. Dr. Couture’s will. Antoinette’s tax returns.

“He’ll be another few minutes,” she said, returning to the conference table. “Did you ever hear back from your friend at CSIS?”

“I spoke to her just before coming here,” said Gamache. “She doesn’t know Mary Fraser or Sean Delorme personally but she looked up their records and confirmed that they work there. Their area of expertise is the Middle East, and Gerald Bull was indeed one of their dossiers.”

“If their field of expertise was the Middle East,” said Lacoste, “wouldn’t you expect her to know the difference between Arabic and Hebrew? When she saw the writing on the etching she thought it was Arabic.”

“I think she was playing dumb,” said Gamache. “I suspect she does that a lot. She might have also wanted to see if you knew.”

“Well, her act worked,” said Lacoste. “I told her.”

“No harm done,” said Gamache. “I’m sure Mary Fraser speaks Arabic and Hebrew and knew exactly what it said. My source said Fraser and Delorme have been with CSIS since the beginning.”

“When was that?” asked Beauvoir.

“Nineteen eighty-four,” said Gamache, and saw both of them raise their brows.

“You’re kidding. In 1984 Canada created a Big Brother?” asked Lacoste. “I hope at least one person appreciated the irony.”

But Beauvoir was looking less amused. “They’ve been there that long and they’re still file clerks?”

“That was the crux of our conversation. When my contact saw that, she also wondered, but it seems to be the truth.”

“I guess some people get lost in the system,” said Lacoste.

But Gamache knew the Mary Fraser he’d met the night before in the B and B might be the type to hide, but not the type to get lost.

“My friend did have one thought,” said Gamache.

“They aren’t really file clerks?” asked Beauvoir.

“Oh, they are who they say they are,” said Gamache. “My friend made sure of that. They’re file clerks, but with, perhaps, some added value.”

“Meaning?”

“CSIS has a mandate to collect and analyze intelligence both domestic and international. That’s why Fraser and Delorme were able to collect so much information on Gerald Bull’s activities here and in South Africa and Iraq and Belgium. But to do that effectively, to know what information is real and what is, in Mary Fraser’s word, misdirection, you need a field agent who knows what to look for.”

“A file clerk?” asked Lacoste, and Gamache smiled. “Who can also be sent out on assignment.”

“It appears that’s a possibility. My contact said it was something instituted early on, but then bureaucracy and civil service unions got in the way. Multitasking was out and jobs became more compartmentalized. Delineated. There was support staff and there were field agents. Two distinct areas.”

“But some of the originals might’ve quietly stayed on,” said Lacoste. “Doing both jobs. Genuine file clerks part of the time, researching, analyzing, but going into the field too, to collect intelligence.”

“You have no idea of the world you’ve entered,” said Gamache. “Remember Mary Fraser saying that, Jean-Guy?”

Beauvoir nodded. He’d never forget the chill in the room and had been surprised the words hadn’t come out in a cloud of vapor.

“I don’t think she meant the world of sorting and filing,” said Gamache. “Now, my contact was quick to point out that there’s no evidence to support this. It’s all a bit of CSIS mythology, that these deeply covert agents exist. In fact, all the evidence points to Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme being exactly who they say they are. File clerks approaching retirement.”

“Finally being sent into the field,” said Lacoste. “And being given one last chance to distinguish themselves. That’s how they struck me when they first arrived. Two slightly bumbling, likable, but not very effective low-level bureaucrats, sent because they’re the only ones who still know something about a long-dead arms dealer and his long-abandoned project. They were playacting at being real agents.”

“And do they still strike you that way?” asked Beauvoir.

“No.”

“Me neither.”

“Will your contact at CSIS dig some more?” asked Lacoste.

“She said she would, but I could tell it was getting more delicate,” said Gamache. “And if Fraser and Delorme really are field agents, then it might be best left as is.”

They heard the sound of a printer in the background.

“Isn’t the deputy head of CSIS a woman?” Beauvoir asked. “She’s not your…?”

“There are a lot of women who work for CSIS,” said Gamache.

“Right,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “As file clerks. But there is one high up enough to get this information. You said you’d been speaking with her recently.”

“This afternoon,” said Gamache.

“No, I mean before that. Did she offer you a job? Her job maybe, once she moves up?”

“We had a pleasant catch-up, that’s all. We’ve known each other for years. Worked a few cases together.”

“Of course,” said Lacoste.

Beauvoir had been listening closely, watching his old boss. He’d make a very good intelligence officer, Jean-Guy realized. He suspected Gamache had been approached, maybe even for the top job, and was considering it.

Welcome to CSIS.

Gamache was just about to tell them what he’d found in Highwater, when Adam Cohen interrupted.

“I have information on Al Lepage,” he said, sitting down. “Do you want me to give it to you now?”

Lacoste looked over at Gamache, who gestured to the young man to continue. Cohen seemed so anxious, any delay might make him combust.

“Laurent’s father is not Al Lepage.”

“Quoi?” asked Beauvoir, rocking forward in his chair and leaning across the table toward Agent Cohen. “Then who is Laurent’s father?”

“No, sorry, I put that badly. I didn’t mean biologically…”

He could see he’d already confused them.

“Let me start again. Al Lepage is not his real name. We sent his fingerprints to police across Canada and into the U.S., and since he was a draft dodger, we also sent them to the Department of Defense in Washington.”

“Right,” said Lacoste. “It turned up nothing.”

“Which was strange,” said Cohen. “He admits he’s American, a draft dodger. There should have been something. But then I tried the Judge Advocate General’s office. It’s the legal part of the U.S. Army, based in Washington, and look what I found.”

He handed a printout to Chief Inspector Lacoste, who read it, her face growing graver and graver. After taking a deep breath, she handed it to Beauvoir, and then turned to Cohen.

“Show me.”

She followed him to his computer while Beauvoir read, then handed the page to Gamache.

Al Lepage’s real name was Frederick Lawson. A private in the U.S. Army.

“Not a draft dodger,” said Gamache, looking at Beauvoir over his reading glasses. “A deserter.”

“Keep reading,” said Jean-Guy, his face solemn.

Gamache did. He could feel his cheeks grow cold, as though a window had been left open a crack and an ill wind had slipped in.

“Not just a deserter,” said Beauvoir, when Gamache had lowered the page to the table. “He was about to be tried for his part in a massacre.”

“The Son My Massacre,” said Gamache. “You’re too young to remember, but I do.”

Isabelle Lacoste had sunk into a chair and was scrolling through photographs on Cohen’s computer. Beauvoir joined her, as did Gamache, reluctantly. He’d seen them once before, as a young man, barely more than a child. Photographs of the atrocity were on the evening news in the late 1960s. It was something you never forgot.

The four of them, three seasoned homicide detectives and one rookie, looked at the pictures, almost too horrific to comprehend. Hundreds and hundreds of bodies. Little limbs. Long dark hair. Bright clothing put on by men, women, children, infants that morning, not knowing what was approaching over the ridge.

“Al Lepage was one of the soldiers who did this?” asked Lacoste.

“Frederick Lawson was,” said Agent Cohen. “And he became Al Lepage when he came across the border.”

“Not running from a war he didn’t believe in, but from justice,” said Beauvoir.

Beside him he heard Gamache take a deep, deep breath and then sigh.

“We now know Al Lepage’s capable of killing a child,” said Beauvoir.

“What do we do with this information?” Adam Cohen asked Chief Inspector Lacoste.

“We keep it to ourselves for now,” said Lacoste. “Until our investigation’s over. And then we decide what to do.”

As they walked back to the conference table she glanced at Gamache, who gave her a subtle nod. It was what he’d do.

“What’s this?” asked Beauvoir, reading another printout.

“That’s the other thing I found,” said Cohen. “You asked me to look into Dr. Couture’s will, which I did. He left everything to his niece. That’s pretty clear, but then I got to wondering what ‘everything’ was. The contents of his home, a twenty-thousand-dollar life insurance policy and a bit of savings, and the house itself. But the real estate search showed he once owned another property.”

“Just outside Three Pines?” asked Lacoste. “Where the gun is?”

“No. A distance from here,” said Agent Cohen. “In a place called Highwater.”

“Ahhhh,” said Gamache, putting his hands together on the table. “That is interesting.”

“Isn’t that where the CSIS agents went the other day?” asked Lacoste.

“And where I went after leaving you at the Knowlton Playhouse,” said Gamache. “I retraced their route. And this is what I found.”

He handed his device with the pictures on it to Lacoste, and described what he’d done. And what he’d seen.

“But what is it?” asked Lacoste, handing the device to Beauvoir via Cohen, who snuck a quick peek.

“You remember the redacted information Reine-Marie found on Gerald Bull?” asked Gamache. “Most of the interesting information had been blacked out, but there was the one word the censors missed.”

“Superguns,” said Beauvoir, his brows rising. “Ssssszzzz.”

“Plural.” Gamache nodded toward the device in Jean-Guy’s hand. “I think that was another one of Gerald Bull’s, or Dr. Couture’s, missile launchers. A much smaller version, maybe a test model before building the real thing.”

“Project Babylon wasn’t one gun, but two,” said Lacoste. “And the land belonged to Dr. Couture?”

“Until he sold it to a numbered company,” said Cohen. “I’m trying to track it down.”

“I think we’ll find it’s the Space Research Corporation,” said Jean-Guy. “Gerald Bull’s company.”

“I think you’re right,” said Gamache. “But why abandon what looked like a perfect site on the top of a hill looking directly into the U.S.? Why move everything here? I’ve asked Reine-Marie to use her archive access and see what she can find out.”

“And I’ll keep looking, if it’s okay with you,” Agent Cohen said, looking at Gamache, then over to Lacoste, then back again, like a confused puppy.

Gamache however was not confused. He looked at Chief Inspector Lacoste, who nodded to Cohen.

“Can your contact at CSIS help?” Beauvoir asked Gamache. “I know you don’t want to press her, but it seems important to know what CSIS really does have on Gerald Bull. The agents clearly knew about Highwater, or suspected.”

But Gamache shook his head. “If Fraser and Delorme are who we suspect, then they’ll be monitoring things very closely. I don’t want them to know that we know.”

“But you asked your contact at CSIS about their work and their real jobs,” said Beauvoir. “Aren’t you worried that Fraser and Delorme will find out about that?” He watched Gamache, then smiled. “I see. You want them to find out that you’ve been asking.”

“I want them to think we’ve been, to once again use Mary Fraser’s word, misdirected. I think the one thing they don’t want us to find out about is that.”

He pointed to his device with the photographs of another Babylon.

Come hell or high water, he thought.

“Hello? Bonjour?”

They heard the voice before they saw the man, though they knew who’d called out. A moment later Professor Rosenblatt appeared around the big red fire truck that shared the space with the homicide unit. He wore a rumpled black raincoat and held a dripping umbrella that he’d furled up.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked, shaking his umbrella. “I can come back.”

“Not at all,” said Lacoste. “We were just finishing.” She got up and walked over to him. “How can I help you?”

“This is so trivial I’m a little embarrassed.” And he looked it. “I was just wondering if I could use one of your computers? My iPhone won’t receive or send messages in the village.”

“No one’s does,” said Beauvoir, joining them. “It’d be relaxing if it wasn’t so infuriating.”

The professor laughed, until his attention was caught by the image on Agent Cohen’s screen.

“Is that—?”

Cohen quickly stepped in front of it.

“Why don’t you use this computer, Professor,” said Lacoste, directing the elderly scientist to a desk across the room. “It’s hooked up but not in use right now. Need to check your email?”

He might have laughed again, but all humor had withered in the face of the fleeting image on Agent Cohen’s computer.

“No, no one really writes to me. I wanted to look up a reference.” He turned to Gamache. “You might know where it’s from.”

“Is it obscure poetry?” asked Beauvoir.

“As a matter of fact, it is,” said Rosenblatt, and saw the alarm on Beauvoir’s face. “Though I don’t think it’s all that obscure. I just can’t place it. The Bible, I think, or Shakespeare. Your friend Ruth Zardo wrote it in her notebook when we were told about that woman’s murder.”

“One of hers, probably,” said Lacoste.

“No, I don’t think so. Something about some rough beast moving toward Jerusalem.”

“It sounds familiar,” said Gamache.

“Oh, we’re in luck,” mumbled Jean-Guy.

“But I don’t think it’s Jerusalem,” said Gamache.

“No, you’re right,” said Rosenblatt. “It was Bethlehem.”

The two men pulled chairs up to the terminal, and while the others investigated murders and massacres, they looked up poetry.

“Any luck finding the plans?” Rosenblatt asked, as they typed in a few words: rough beast, Bethlehem. Then hit search.

“Not so far,” said Gamache. “We found some things belonging to Dr. Couture, but no plans and no firing mechanism.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Would you like to have a look?” Gamache asked, and brought over the box while they waited for the dial-up to download.

Professor Rosenblatt poked through the things without great interest until he came to the Manneken Pis. He picked it up and smiled.

“I bought one of these for my grandson. My daughter wasn’t impressed. David spent six months urinating in public after that. That child could pee for Canada.”

He then picked up the desk set. Taking out the pens, he studied them, then rummaged through the box until he found the bookends. He turned one over, put it down and picked up the other. By now Lacoste and Beauvoir had joined the elderly scientist, watching as he toyed with the items.

“What are you—” Lacoste began but stopped, not wanting to break his concentration.

They watched as the professor manipulated the items, and then there was a small click. Rosenblatt frowned, then, picking up the two pens, he inserted them into holes at the base of the bookend.

After studying it for a moment, he held it out, as a bright child might who’d made something for Mother.

“Is it…?” Lacoste asked, taking it from him.

“The firing mechanism? I think so,” said the professor, as astonished as everyone else. “Ingenious.”

Gamache stared at the piece in Lacoste’s hand while she turned it over and over and around. It looked nothing like a pen set and bookend now. Just as the pen set and bookend had looked nothing like a firing mechanism.

“How did you know?” asked Beauvoir, taking it from her and also turning it around and around, studying it.

“I didn’t, I just tried. A prerequisite for being a physicist, I think. Good spatial reasoning. But the first clue was the pens, of course.”

“The pens?” asked Beauvoir.

“They don’t work,” Rosenblatt pointed out. “No nibs. They wouldn’t write.”

Lacoste and Beauvoir looked at each other, then over at Gamache, who was staring at the firing mechanism in Beauvoir’s hand. Then he dropped his eyes to the computer screen, where the poem had appeared.

In his line of sight, forming a tableau, were the firing mechanism, the Son My Massacre, John Fleming’s play on Beauvoir’s desk, and the words on the computer:

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?