The trial had, of course, been put on hold.
Maureen Corriveau had gone up to the Gamaches’ apartment, along with Barry Zalmanowitz, to discuss the case and what should happen next.
When they knocked on the door of the second-floor walk-up in the Outremont quartier of Montréal, Gamache himself opened it.
“Bonjour,” he said. “Thank you for coming to me.”
He showed them into the living room, while the two people behind him exchanged glances. They’d heard about the grave injuries to Chief Inspector Lacoste. And had read the preliminary reports, written by the senior officers. Including Chief Superintendent Gamache.
They had heard, through the information and misinformation swirling around government buildings, that Gamache himself had sustained some injuries. But they weren’t prepared for the bruised face, his one eye almost swollen shut. The cuts where the boot had scraped flesh off bone.
When he’d opened the door to them, Judge Corriveau had searched his eyes, worried that they’d been hollowed out by the events in the village. In the woods.
That the warmth would be replaced by bitterness. The kindness by cruelty.
And the decency would be gone completely.
The look of pain she saw now wasn’t new, and wasn’t physical. It had always been there, in Gamache’s eyes, like an astigmatism that meant he saw things slightly differently from the rest of them.
He saw the worst of humanity. But he also saw the best. And she was relieved to see that the decency remained. Stronger, even, than the pain. Stronger than ever.
“Thank you for your flowers,” he said, pointing to the arrangement of cheerful cut flowers on the side table.
“You’re welcome,” said Judge Corriveau.
The card had simply read, “Merci.” And had been signed Maureen Corriveau and Joan Blanchette.
Judge Corriveau had never discussed her personal life, but she felt she needed to give him that much. And besides, Joan had insisted.
She took in the room around her. It was a pied-à-terre, she knew, their real home being in that little village. The one-bedroom apartment was in a classic Outremont walk-up. The ceilings were high, the room bright and airy and welcoming, with books on shelves and on side tables. La Presse, Le Devoir and The Gazette newspapers were scattered around. It was casual but not messy.
The sofa and armchairs were inviting, lived in. Upholstered in fresh, warm colors. It was a room she and Joan could happily occupy.
Another man was in the living room, leaning slightly on a cane.
“You know Inspector Beauvoir, I believe,” said Gamache, and they all shook hands.
“You all right?” asked Barry Zalmanowitz.
“This’s for effect,” said Jean-Guy, waving it in front of himself, as he’d seen Ruth do thousands of times. He wondered, briefly, what would happen if he called the Chief Crown numbnuts.
“How’s Chief Inspector Lacoste?” asked the Crown.
“We’re going to the hospital as soon as we’ve finished here,” said Gamache. “I spoke to her husband this morning, and he said that there’s some activity in her brain.”
The other two nodded. When that was the good news, there was nothing more that could be said.
“I don’t think you’ve met my wife,” said Gamache, as Reine-Marie came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with cold drinks.
He took the tray and introduced her to Judge Corriveau.
“We’ve met, of course,” said Monsieur Zalmanowitz. “I interviewed you as part of the witness process. You found the body of Katie Evans.”
“Oui,” said Reine-Marie. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“Of course not,” said Judge Corriveau, while all the time wondering if she should mind, and if she should have brought a court reporter, to take down what was said.
But it was too late, and in the morass of unusual events, this departure from the norm would probably be forgiven if not overlooked.
Judge Corriveau turned to Chief Superintendent Gamache and Chief Crown Zalmanowitz.
“This is a meeting that had been scheduled for two days ago, in my office. But of course, it would be foolish not to realize things have changed. And yet, some things have not. A woman is still on trial for the murder of Madame Evans. I need to know if she really is guilty, in your mind, or if it was all part of what was clearly a long and detailed scheme.”
She looked from one to the other, then settled on Gamache.
The architect. The leader, who had led them all into this.
“Tell me,” said the judge, “about the murder of Katie Evans.”
“It began,” began Gamache, “as most murders do. Long ago. Though not far away.”
He looked to his left.
“Just a few blocks from here. At the Université de Montréal. When one of the students killed himself. Doped up, out of his mind, on drugs supplied to him by a third-year political science student. Anton Boucher.”
Judge Corriveau was very familiar with the name.
In the pretrial reports, Anton Boucher had been the dishwasher at the bistro.
In the reports she’d just read, Anton Boucher was the head of the Québec syndicate.
“His uncle is Maurice Boucher,” said Corriveau, wanting to show she’d done some homework. “He was the head of the Hell’s Angels here. In prison now for murder and trafficking.”
Beauvoir nodded. “Right. When he was sent up, his nephew took over. He did what Mom Boucher couldn’t.”
Beauvoir had used the nickname the elder Boucher went by. Apparently because he “mothered” the members of his gang. Though that didn’t stop him from slaughtering other people’s children.
“Anton moved quickly,” said Jean-Guy. “He was named after his uncle’s best friend, Antonio Ruiz, who guided him in consolidating the three cartels. Anton could see where organized crime was heading.”
“And where was that?” asked Corriveau.
“It was on the verge of becoming far bigger, far wealthier, more powerful than anything anyone had known in the past,” said Gamache. “And the catalyst was the opioids.”
“Like fentanyl,” said Zalmanowitz. “I know all about them. My daughter was addicted. We got her treatment, but…”
He lifted his hands, then dropped them.
“This isn’t parents overreacting to a recreational drug,” he continued. “This’s something else. It’s brutal. It changes them. It changed her. And she’s one of the lucky ones. She’s still alive.”
“Fentanyl was the first to really explode onto the streets,” said Gamache. “But there were others. And now they’re coming in, being created faster than we can stop them. Faster than we can even get the opioids onto the banned list. A tweak of the formula, and it reads differently. It’s no longer illegal. Until we catch up with it.”
“A hole in the law,” said the judge. “The chemical compounds need to be clearly described. Even a slight change means there’s nothing we can do. We have to release the traffickers.”
“It’s a modern-day Black Death,” said Zalmanowitz. “And the syndicates are the plague rats.”
“Anton Boucher saw it coming,” said Gamache. “And he moved quickly, viciously, to take control.”
“A new generation of criminal,” said Corriveau. “For a new generation of drug.”
“Oui,” said Gamache.
“Was Katie Evans part of the cartel?” asked Corriveau.
“Non. Her crime was that she was at school with the young man who killed himself. She was his lover for a few months, before breaking it off. His name was Edouard Valcourt. He was Jacqueline’s brother.”
“I remember his name from the pretrial reports.”
“Madame Evans, her husband, Patrick, along with Matheo Bissonette and Lea Roux, were all friends with Edouard. Classmates,” said Beauvoir. “Lea and Matheo were at the rooftop party when he jumped.”