A Fatal Grace
‘I remember he once got on the 34 bus and ended up in Westmount.’
‘Lyon reminds me of Sonny. Eager to please, hungry for company. And I think he’s got a good heart.’
‘Good hearts get hurt. Good hearts get broken, Armand. And then they lash out. Be careful. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said any of that. You know your business better than I. Forgive me.’
‘It’s always good to be reminded, especially about my ego. Who was that character in Julius Caesar who described his job as standing behind the emperor and whispering, “You’re only a man.”’
‘So now you’re an emperor? This isn’t going in a promising direction.’
‘Careful,’ he said, wiping the last of the gravy off his plate with a crispy piece of baguette, ‘or you’ll crush my ego completely. Then I’ll disappear.’
‘I’m not worried.’ She gave him a kiss as she collected their plates and made for the kitchen.
‘Why wasn’t CC sitting with her family?’ she asked a few minutes later as Gamache washed up and she dried. ‘Doesn’t that strike you as strange?’
‘The whole thing strikes me as strange. I’m not sure I’ve ever had a case where so little made sense from the get-go.’ Gamache’s sleeves were rolled up and his hands soapy as he vigorously scrubbed the Le Creuset pot.
‘Why would a woman leave her family in the cold stands while she took a comfortable chair under the heater?’ Reine-Marie seemed genuinely perplexed.
‘I guess that answers it.’ Gamache laughed, handing her the pot. ‘It was comfortable and warm.’
‘So she was selfish and he’s odious. If I were Crie I’d disappear too.’
Once the dishes were done they took their coffee tray into the living room and Gamache carried over the box with the evidence from Elle’s murder. It was time to change gears, at least for a while. Sipping coffee and occasionally lowering a report to stare into the fire, he went through the box more thoroughly than he’d been able to that morning.
Maybe the C fell off. Maybe it sat in that hole between the B and K.
He picked up the autopsy report. Elle had been strangled. Alcohol was found in her bloodstream and there were signs of chronic alcoholism. No drugs. Some bruising round her neck, of course.
Why kill a bag lady?
The murderer was almost certainly another homeless person. Like any sub-culture, this one interacted mostly with itself. A regular pedestrian would probably not care enough about Elle to kill her.
He opened the craft paper envelope which held the crime scene photographs. Her face was smudged and surprised. Her legs were splayed and wrapped in layers of clothing and newspapers. He lowered the picture and peered into the box. There they were. Some yellowing newspaper, some fresher, curled into the shape of Elle’s legs and arms and torso, like a dismembered ghost.
There were pictures of Elle’s filthy hands, her nails grotesque. Long and twisted and discolored with God knew what beneath them. Actually, the coroner knew what. Gamache consulted the report. Dirt. Food. Excrement.
One hand had some blood on it, her own blood according to the report, and a few fresh cuts in the center of the palm, like stigmata. Whoever had killed her might have gotten some blood on him. Even if the clothes were washed there would still be some DNA left. Blood was the new albatross.
Gamache made a note of that and turned to the final photograph. It was of Elle naked on the coroner’s cold gurney. He stared at it for a moment, wondering when he’d get used to seeing dead bodies. Murder still shocked him.
Then he picked up his magnifying glass and slowly examined her body. He was looking for letters. Had she written or taped K L C B and M onto her body? Perhaps the letters were some obsessive talisman. Some madmen drew crucifixes all over their bodies and all round their homes, to ward off evil. Maybe these letters were Elle’s crucifix.
He lowered the magnifying glass. Her body, while free of consonants, was thick with dirt. Years of it. Even the occasional bath or shower at the Old Brewery Mission couldn’t lift it off. It was engraved on her body, like a tattoo. And like a tattoo it told a story. It was as eloquent as a Ruth Zardo poem.
I understand. You can’t spare
anything, a hand, a piece of bread, a shawl