The Brutal Telling

“I’m sorry?” said Inspector Beauvoir, stepping forward. “What did you just say?”



“I’d like to help.” By now the young agent could see the truck hurtling toward him and could feel his vehicle spin out of control. Too late, he realized his mistake.



He saw all this, and stood firm, from either terror or courage. It was hard to tell. Behind him four or five large agents crossed their arms and did nothing to help.



“Aren’t you supposed to be setting up desks and telephone lines?” asked Beauvoir, stepping closer to the agent.



“I have. That’s all done.” He voice was smaller, weaker, but still there.



“And what makes you think you can help?”



Behind Beauvoir stood the Chief Inspector, quietly watching. The young agent looked at Inspector Beauvoir when answering his questions, but then his eyes returned to Gamache.



“I know the area. I know the people.”



“So do they.” Beauvoir waved at the wall of police behind the agent. “If we needed help why would we choose you?”



This seemed to throw him and he stood silent. Beauvoir waved his hand to dismiss the agent and walked away.



“Because,” the agent said to the Chief Inspector, “I asked.”



Beauvoir stopped and turned round, looking incredulous. “Pardon? Pardon? This is homicide, not a game of Mother May I. Are you even in the Sûreté?”



It wasn’t a bad question. The agent looked about sixteen and his uniform hung loosely on him, though an effort had obviously been made to make it fit. With him in the foreground and his confrères behind it looked like an evolutionary scale, with the young agent on the extinction track.



“If you have no more work to do, please leave.”



The young agent nodded, turned to get back to work, met the wall of other officers, and stopped. Then he walked around them, watched by Gamache and his homicide team. Their last view of the young officer before they turned away was of his back, and a furiously blushing neck.



“Join me please,” Gamache said to Beauvoir and Lacoste, who took their seats at the conference table.



“What do you think?” Gamache asked quietly.



“About the body?”



“About the boy.”



“Not again,” said Beauvoir, exasperated. “There are perfectly good officers already in homicide if we need someone. If they’re busy with cases there’s always the wait-list. Agents from other divisions are dying to get into homicide. Why choose an untested kid from the boonies? If we need another investigator let’s call one down from headquarters.”



It was their classic argument.



The homicide division of the Sûreté du Québec was the most prestigious posting in the province. Perhaps in Canada. They worked on the worst of all crimes in the worst of all conditions. And they worked with the best, the most respected and famous, of all investigators. Chief Inspector Gamache.



So why pick the dregs?



“We could, certainly,” admitted the Chief.



But Beauvoir knew he wouldn’t. Gamache had found Isabelle Lacoste sitting outside her Superintendent’s office, about to be fired from traffic division. Gamache had asked her to join him, to the astonishment of everyone.



He’d found Beauvoir himself reduced to guarding evidence at the Sûreté outpost of Trois Rivières. Every day Beauvoir, Agent Beauvoir then, had suffered the ignominy of putting on his Sûreté uniform then stepping into the evidence cage. And staying there. Like an animal. He’d so pissed off his colleagues and bosses this was the only place left to put him. Alone. With inanimate objects. Silence all day, except when other agents came to put something in or take something out. They wouldn’t even meet his eye. He’d become untouchable. Unmentionable. Invisible.



But Chief Inspector Gamache saw. He’d come one day on a case, had himself gone to the cage with evidence, and there he’d found Jean Guy Beauvoir.



The agent, the man no one wanted, was now the second in command in homicide.



But Beauvoir couldn’t shake the certainty that Gamache had simply gotten lucky so far, with a few notable exceptions. The reality was, untested agents were dangerous. They made mistakes. And mistakes in homicide led to death.



He turned and looked at the slight young agent with loathing. Was this the one who’d finally make that blunder? The magnificent mistake that would lead to another death? It could be me who gets it, thought Beauvoir. Or worse. He glanced at Gamache beside him.



“Why him?” Beauvoir whispered.



“He seems nice,” said Lacoste.