The Nature of the Beast

“Jesus,” he gasped. “You scared me half to death.”

“Something’s very wrong, patron,” said Isabelle Lacoste, getting up from her chair, “when seeing Ruth is normal and we’re the ones who frighten you.”

He laughed, recovering, though he’d been genuinely alarmed.

“I thought we locked the door,” he said.

“Ruth walks through walls,” said Jean-Guy. “You should know that by now.”

“What did you want to see me about?” Gamache dried his hands on a dish towel and turned to face them.

“The forensics are back,” said Isabelle, getting herself a beer and taking her seat again. “They found one set of fresh prints on the missile launcher. Laurent’s. But there were also smudges. Our killer touched it, but wore gloves.”

“What did you find on Laurent’s stick and cassette tape?” asked Gamache.

“All sorts on the stick, including yours. But on the cassette we only found three sets. Laurent’s own, of course, as well as his parents’. You were right. The cassette must’ve belonged to the Lepages.”

“Doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” said Armand, joining them at the long pine table.

“No,” Beauvoir agreed. “But it could mean everything. It could mean that the cassette dropped from the murderer’s pocket in the struggle, or as he picked the boy up. If not, then how did it get there?”

Armand nodded. It made sense, of course. It might not be a smoking gun, but it was a pointing finger. Right at Al Lepage. With some surprise Armand realized he felt protective of Al Lepage. Perhaps because he liked the man and felt Laurent’s father was suffering enough without the added weight of suspicion.

But suspicion was inevitable and often turned out to be true. People were almost always killed by someone they knew, and knew well, which compounded the tragedy and was probably why, Gamache thought, so many murder victims did not look frightened. They looked surprised. While Gamache liked Al Lepage, and sympathized with him, he’d arrested enough grieving family members for murder to know that Laurent’s father was a legitimate suspect.

And he wasn’t the only one who thought so. While he and Reine-Marie were at the bistro they’d heard the conversations, the rumors. Suspicion was settling on Laurent’s father.

“We’ve interviewed the Lepages once,” said Jean-Guy. “And searched the house. But we’ll go out again tomorrow.”

Gamache nodded. He understood that Beauvoir and Lacoste did not need to report to him, and they weren’t. They were simply informing him. It was a courtesy, not a requirement.

“I saw you taking some people into the woods.”

“Yes. Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme,” said Lacoste. “CSIS. Low-level functionaries.”

“File clerks,” said Jean-Guy, opening the fridge and taking out a ginger ale.

“But they know a great deal about Gerald Bull,” said Lacoste.

She told him what they’d told her about the arms dealer.

“They also know our Professor Rosenblatt,” said Jean-Guy. “And he knows them. There’s not a lot of love lost.”

“Why not?” asked Armand.

“He thinks they’re hiding something,” said Jean-Guy. “He suspects the Canadian government might’ve been more involved with Gerald Bull than they’re willing to admit.”

“His work or his murder?” asked Gamache.

“I’m not sure,” said Beauvoir. “But he did say Fraser and Delorme might not have been as surprised about the Supergun as they appeared. He doesn’t trust them.”

“And they don’t trust him,” said Lacoste. “They think it’s odd that the retired professor is so obsessed with a long-dead arms dealer. And so do I.”

“What do you make of the CSIS people?” Gamache asked.

“They seem straightforward enough,” she said. “A little out of their depth perhaps.”

“What is it?” asked Gamache. “You’re smiling.”

“They remind me of my parents,” said Lacoste. “Bickering and a little baffled. They’re sort of endearing. But they’re also not fools. They’re very good at what they do, it’s just that what they do is filing, correlating. Not fieldwork.”

“So why were they sent?”

“Probably because they know more than anyone else about Gerald Bull and his work,” said Beauvoir.

“Did you call them in?” he asked Lacoste, who shook her head.