The Nature of the Beast

“With a few fairly noticeable differences,” said Armand.

“Really? And yet it wasn’t all that long ago you were the head of homicide.”

Beauvoir turned to the agents and saw Brassard’s eyes widen.

“Yes,” said Beauvoir, leaning close to them. “Ohhhh shit.”

Gamache and Beauvoir walked a few paces away from the two agents, putting their heads together to discuss what was found.

“You asshole, do you know who that is?” Agent Brassard hissed into Favreau’s ear. “That’s Chief Inspector Gamache. The one who found all that corruption. Didn’t you see him on the news, at the trials? At the inquiry?”

He looked over at Gamache and Beauvoir, standing side by side, heads bowed. Inspector Beauvoir was talking and the former Chief Inspector was listening, nodding.

“The former head of homicide. Former,” Favreau stressed. “Yes, I saw him on the news. But he quit the force. He’s a burnt-out case, a pathetic old man who couldn’t take the pressure and retired to this shithole.”

A few paces away, Gamache heard the words, as did Beauvoir.

“Do you want me to…?” Jean-Guy asked, but Gamache smiled and shook his head.

“Ignore it. Did you find something?”

Beauvoir glanced quickly over to the Lepages, who were watching them closely. “It was shoved into the side of the opening. I left it there for forensics.”

“What is it?”

“I think you need to see.”

Gamache followed Beauvoir back through the tear and saw what Jean-Guy had found. There, half buried under rotting leaves, was a cassette tape. Armand leaned in to read the words.

“Pete Seeger,” he said, straightening up. “It’s an old recording, obviously.” He found his glasses in his breast pocket and looked closer. “But I don’t think it’s been here very long. There’s some dirt, but no moss or mold.”

“My thinking too,” said Beauvoir. “How did it get here? And who in the world still listens to cassettes? And who’s Pete Seeger?”

Gamache sat back on his haunches and stared at the tape, illuminated by the flashlight. He was aware of the darkness all around, and keenly aware of what loomed behind them.

“He was a folk singer. American. Very influential in the civil rights and peace movements.”

“Ahhh,” said Jean-Guy.

Ahhh, thought Gamache.

From outside they heard familiar voices, and both men crawled out of the opening to find Chief Inspector Lacoste talking to the Lepages, offering her condolences. Behind her Olivier was just lowering a ladder to the ground, and the forensics team was organizing floodlights and ladders and unrolling thick cable for power.

Isabelle Lacoste turned to Beauvoir and Gamache, who’d magically appeared.

“Where did you two come from?” Lacoste asked.

“From there.” Beauvoir waved behind him.

“Where?”

Lacoste peered, and then her eyes widened and her face went smooth with wonder.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s camouflage netting, overgrown.”

“What’s it camouflaging?”

“I think you need to see,” said Beauvoir.

Chief Inspector Lacoste turned to Gamache. “Would you…?”

She indicated the opening, but he shook his head and smiled slightly.

“Non, merci. Your case. I’ll head back home, if it’s all right with you.”

“Oui. Oh, and patron.” Gamache paused a few paces away. Lacoste walked back to him. “I’m sorry. I was wrong about Laurent. I should have looked more closely.”

“I know you’ll find out who did this to him. That’s all that matters.”

Gamache waited until she’d disappeared inside, then walked over to the two young agents.

“I know you think this is beneath you,” he said. “And that I’m some feeble old man, but I’m begging you. Stay alert. Keep your eyes open. This is no joke. Do you understand?”

“Yessir,” said Agent Brassard.

“Agent Favreau?”

“You’re not with the force anymore. You have no authority over me.”

Gamache stared into the defiant eyes. “We’ll see.”

*   *   *

Lacoste looked around, acclimating to the strange new environment. Inspector Beauvoir was directing the Scene of Crime and forensics teams, and once he’d set them in motion he joined her.

Together they walked over to the spot where agents were setting up a cordon of yellow police tape. Beauvoir’s flighty beam played on the ground then came to rest on the stick. It was about ten feet from the entrance.