The Brutal Telling

“If it was a poker it would be clean. The coroner will take a closer look, of course, but there’s no obvious sign of dirt, ash, wood, anything, in the wound.”



Gamache was staring at the gaping hole in the man’s head. Listening to his agent.



“No weapon, then?” asked Beauvoir.



“Not yet. We’re searching, of course.”



“Who was he?”



“We don’t know.”



Gamache took his eyes off the wound and looked at the woman, but said nothing.



“We have no ID,” Agent Lacoste continued. “We’ve been through his pockets and nothing. Not even a Kleenex. And no one seems to know him. He’s a white male, mid-seventies I’d say. Lean but not malnourished. Five seven, maybe five eight.”



Years ago, when she’d first joined homicide, it had seemed bizarre to Agent Lacoste to catalog these things the Chief could see perfectly well for himself. But he’d taught them all to do it, and so she did. It was only years later, when she was training someone else, that she recognized the value of the exercise.



It made sure they both saw the same things. Police were as fallible and subjective as anyone else. They missed things, and misinterpreted things. This catalog made it less likely. Either that or they’d reinforce the same mistakes.



“Nothing in his hands and it looks like nothing under his fingernails. No bruising. Doesn’t appear to have been a struggle.”



They stood up.



“The condition of the room verifies that.”



They looked around.



Nothing out of place. Nothing tipped over. Everything clean and orderly.



It was a restful room. The fires at either end of the beamed bistro took the gloom out of the day. Their light gleamed off the polished wood floors, darkened by years of smoke and farmers’ feet.



Sofas and large inviting armchairs sat in front of each fireplace, their fabric faded. Old chairs were grouped around dark wooden dining tables. In front of the mullioned bay windows three or four wing chairs waited for villagers nursing steaming café au lait and croissants, or Scotches, or burgundy wine. Gamache suspected the people milling outside in the rain could do with a good stiff drink. He thought Olivier and Gabri certainly could.



Chief Inspector Gamache and his team had been in the bistro many times, enjoying meals in front of the roaring fire in winter or a quiet cool drink on the terrasse in summer. Almost always discussing murder. But never with an actual body right there.



Sharon Harris joined them, taking off her wet raincoat then smiling at Agent Lacoste and shaking hands solemnly with the Chief Inspector.



“Dr. Harris,” he said, bowing slightly. “I’m sorry about disturbing your long weekend.”



She’d been sitting at home, flipping through the television channels, trying to find someone who wasn’t preaching at her, when the phone had rung. It had seemed a godsend. But looking now at the body, she knew that this had very little to do with God.



“I’ll leave you to it,” said Gamache. Through the windows he saw the villagers, still there, waiting for news. A tall, handsome man with gray hair bent down to listen as a short woman with wild hair spoke. Peter and Clara Morrow. Villagers and artists. Standing like a ramrod beside them and staring unblinking at the bistro was Ruth Zardo. And her duck, looking quite imperious. Ruth wore a sou’wester that glistened in the rain. Clara spoke to her, but was ignored. Ruth Zardo, Gamache knew, was a drunken, embittered old piece of work. Who also happened to be his favorite poet in the world. Clara spoke again and this time Ruth did respond. Even through the glass Gamache knew what she’d said.



“Fuck off.”



Gamache smiled. While a body in the bistro was certainly different, some things never changed.



“Chief Inspector.”



The familiar, deep, singsong voice greeted him. He turned and saw Myrna Landers walking across the room, her electric yellow boots clumping on the floor. She wore a pink tracksuit tucked into her boots.



She was a woman of color, in every sense.



“Myrna,” he smiled and kissed her on both cheeks. This drew a surprised look from some of the local Sûreté officers, who didn’t expect the Chief Inspector to kiss suspects. “What’re you doing in here when everyone else is out there?” He waved toward the window.



“I found him,” she said, and his face grew grave.



“Did you? I’m sorry. That must’ve been a shock.” He guided her to a chair by the fire. “I imagine you’ve given someone your statement?”



She nodded. “Agent Lacoste took it. Not much to tell, I’m afraid.”