Gamache was nodding. “The professors in particular. They’d know what we’d be looking for.”
“And be able to stage a crime scene,” said Lacoste. “Make it look like something it’s not.”
“A single shot to the temple,” said Gamache. “Most murderers would at least try to make it look like suicide. Not a stretch. The narrative would be obvious. Serge Leduc knew I was closing in on him, and so he took his own life rather than go to prison.”
“And all the killer had to do was drop the gun on the correct side of the body,” said Lacoste.
“But he didn’t,” said Gélinas, looking at the photos. “Instead he does the opposite. Why?”
“He wants us to know it wasn’t suicide,” said Lacoste.
“But why?” asked Gélinas. “Why make sure we knew it was murder? So that we’d know that justice was done?”
They stared at the pictures. In certain ones, Serge Leduc looked like he was asleep. In others he was unrecognizable.
Perspective.
“You’re being awfully quiet.” Gamache turned to Beauvoir and saw a familiar expression on his face. “What do you know?”
“The alarm system was off last night.”
As one, Chief Inspector Lacoste, Deputy Commissioner Gélinas, and Commander Gamache leaned toward him.
“But how’s that possible?” asked Gamache. “It’s integrated, computerized. The guards would have noticed. The board would have lit up.”
“Well, guess where Leduc cut corners?” said Beauvoir. “Apparently, the guards knew the system was crap and had complained to the former commander, and gotten shit from Leduc for it. When you came, they said nothing.”
“What do you mean by crap?” asked Lacoste.
“It’s a cheap job—”
Gamache winced and shook his head. “They paid hundreds of thousands for the security system.”
“Well, according to the guards, you could buy a better one at Canadian Tire.”
Now Gamache groaned and massaged his head, trying to rid himself of a creeping headache. “There’s an armory of weapons here. And almost no protection. This isn’t just contract fixing, this is stupidity on a monumental scale.”
“I’ve set up a meeting with the head guard for tomorrow morning,” said Beauvoir, “to review security.”
“Good,” said Gamache.
“But whoever turned off the system would still have to know how,” said Lacoste.
“True, but this system allows for more than one code,” said Beauvoir, then turned to Gamache. “You have one—”
“I thought it was the only one.”
“—and I suspect Leduc had his own code.”
“And there may be others floating around?” said Gamache.
Beauvoir nodded, barely able to make eye contact with the Commander.
“You’re thinking Leduc himself turned it off?” asked Gélinas. “But why?”
Beauvoir shrugged. “Beats me, and that’s just one possibility. Someone could have easily hacked in and closed it down.”
“And the guards wouldn’t know?”
He shook his head. “And even if they saw some warning light, they tell me they’re always going off. False alarms ten times a day.”
“Could it be done remotely?” Gamache asked. “By someone outside the academy?”
“It would be more difficult,” said Beauvoir, “but yes, it could be done. What’re you thinking?”
“I’m thinking of a conversation I had with the mayor a few months back at his office. Being mayor of Saint-Alphonse isn’t exactly a full-time job. He moonlights as a consultant in software design.”
“I’ll make an appointment with the mayor,” said Lacoste. “Let’s move on. We found the bullet from the gun. It was lodged in the wall across the room. We’re having it analyzed, of course, but it looks like it came from the murder weapon.”
“I’ve sent an email to the manufacturer,” Beauvoir reported. “Some place in England. But Leduc could’ve picked the gun up secondhand on the black market.”
“I haven’t seen the weapon,” said Gélinas. “Where is it?”
“Sent to the lab for tests, but we have pictures,” said Lacoste.
As Gélinas studied them, his expression grew more and more perplexed.
“At what height was the bullet?” Gamache asked.
“Five feet eight inches.”
“He was standing when killed. I wondered if he might’ve been kneeling.”
“Begging for his life?” asked Beauvoir.
“Or killed execution-style,” said Gamache.
“No,” said Lacoste. “He seemed to be just standing there.”
“Huh,” was all Gamache said. “Huh.” But it was what the others were thinking.
Huh. Why would someone just wait to be murdered, and not at least try to fight back? Especially someone like Serge Leduc.
Gélinas lowered the photographs and was staring at Isabelle Lacoste.
“It’s a revolver. With a silencer?”
“Oui,” said Beauvoir. “Custom. That’s why no one heard the shot.”
“Was he a gun collector?”
“Non,” said Gamache.
“Then why would he have an old-fashioned revolver?” asked Gélinas, and got only blank stares in reply. He replaced the pictures and shook his head.
“Something very strange is going on in your school, monsieur.”
CHAPTER 20
“Hello,” Nathaniel Smythe called. “Bonjour?”
The front door was ajar. He took a deep breath and opened it enough to get his head in.
“Madame Zardo?”
He stepped inside, hitching his satchel up on his sloping shoulders.
It was past six. He was tired and hungry. Enough to finally seek out his billet.
The door opened straight into the living room, which was in darkness except for a single lamp.
He stood still.
There were no sounds. Not a creak. Or a quack. In the demi-darkness, all he saw were books. The walls were made of them. The tables were stacked with books. The one chair, illuminated, was covered in them, splayed open. Upholstered in stories.
He’d been holding his breath, pretty sure the place would stink. Of decay. Of dander and old lady. But now, no longer able to hold it, he breathed in. Deeply.
There was a familiar smell. Not a scent. Not an aroma. Nothing that exotic. It was more earthy. It certainly wasn’t cooking.
It was books. Musky words filled the air.
“I’m in here.”
Amelia dropped her bag in the kitchen and followed the voice.
At the door into the back room, she stopped.
Clara Morrow was sitting on a wooden stool with a wind-up seat, her back to the door. A paintbrush in her mouth. Staring at a canvas.
Amelia couldn’t see that much of the painting. It was hidden behind a mass of Clara’s hair.
“So what should I do?” asked Amelia. “Aren’t you supposed to cook or something?”
Clara snorted, then turned. At her feet, a very tiny lion stirred.
She looked at her guest.
Jet-black hair. Luminous white skin, almost transparent. Piercings through her nose, her brows, her cheek. But the studs weren’t black or blood-red. They were tiny faux diamonds. Gleaming where they caught the light. Like stars.
Her ears were encased in rings. Her fingers looked like they’d been dipped in metal.
It was as though this girl was encasing herself in armor.
And where skin was exposed, there were tattoos.
But the one thing this girl could not mark or pierce or hide were her eyes. The only original bit left. They were bright, like diamonds.
“What?” said Huifen when Gabri handed her an apron and pointed to the dishes in the bistro kitchen. “I’m—”