Like LaPointe, Bouvier is a bachelor, and he puts in a prodigious amount of time down in the bowels of the QG, where his duties have spread far beyond those normally assigned to a staff pathologist. His authority has expanded into each vacuum created by a departing man or a new reorganization, until, by his own admission, his domain is so wide that the department would collapse two days after he left.
Not that he’s ever likely to leave. From medical school he went directly into the army, where he served through the Second World War. When he got out, money was tight and he took a temporary job with the police until he could set up in practice. Time passed, and his eyesight began to fail. He stayed on with the department because, as he used to say himself, a patient’s confidence might be eroded a bit if, as a brain surgeon, Bouvier had to begin by saying: “Now, sir, if you would please direct my hands toward your head.”
He sits in the straight-backed kitchen chair behind his heaped-up desk, sniffing as he pushes up the glasses that continually slip down his stubby nose. He broke them a few years ago, and they are patched at the bridge with dirty adhesive tape. He intends to get new ones one of these days. “Well?” he asks, as LaPointe presses his refilled cup into his hand, “I assume you’re here on behalf of that kid who got reamed on your patch. Anything special about the case?”
LaPointe shrugs. “I doubt it.”
“Good. Because I don’t think you will close this one. If you took the time to read my report, written in crisp but lucid professional language, you would know that there were no fingerprints on record with Ottawa. And we all appreciate the heavy significance of that.”
Bouvier reveals his bitterness at ending up a police pathologist by his sarcasm and cynicism, and by a style of speech that mixes swatches of erudition with vulgarity and gallows humor. To this he adds a jerky, non sequitur conversational tactic that dazzles many and impresses some.
LaPointe long ago learned to handle the technique by simply waiting until Bouvier got around to the point.
“Can you tell me anything that is not in the report?” LaPointe asks.
“A great deal, of course. I could tell you things ranging through aesthetics, to thermodynamics, to conflicting theories concerning the functions of Stonehenge; but I suspect your interests are more restricted than that. Informational tunnel vision: an occupational hazard. All right, how about this? Your young man used hair spray, if that’s any help.”
“None at all. Is the press release out?”
“No, I’ve still got it here in my out-box.” Bouvier waves vaguely toward the heaped tabletop. By departmental practice, information concerning murder, suicide, or rape cases is not released to the newspapers until Bouvier has finished his examination and the next of kin are informed. “You want me to hold it?”
“Yes. For a couple of days.” When pressure from newspapers or family allows, LaPointe likes to start his inquiries before the press release is out. He prefers to make the first mention of the crime, to watch for qualities of surprise or anticipation.
“I could probably block it up here forever,” Bouvier says. “I doubt that anyone will be around inquiring after this one. Except maybe a woman claiming breach of promise, or a pregnancy suit, or both. He made love shortly before his death.”
“How do you know that?”
Bouvier sips his coffee, makes a face, and cocks his nicotine lens at the cup. “This is terrible. I think something’s fallen into the pot. I’ll have to empty it one of these days and take a look. On second thought, maybe I don’t want to know. Say, I hear you’ve broken down and taken on a Joan.”
Three-quarters blind and never out of his den in the bowels of the building, Dr. Bouvier knows everything that is going on in the Quartier Général. He makes a point of letting people know that he knows.
“Gaspard sent his Joan over to me for a few days.”
“Hm-m. I can’t help feeling sorry for the kid. He’s an interesting boy, too. Have you read his file?”
“No. But I suppose you have.”
“Of course. Did very well in college. Excellent grades. The offer of a scholarship to do graduate study in social work, but he chose instead to enter the force. Another instance of a strange demographic pattern I have observed. Year by year, the force is attracting a better class of young men. On the other hand, what with kids bungling their way through amateur holdups to get a fix, crime is attracting a lower class than it once did. It was simpler in our day, when the men on both sides were of the same sociological, intellectual, and ethical molds. But what you really wanted to know was how I divined that the young man in the alley made love shortly before he was killed. Simple really. He failed to wash up afterwards, in direct contradiction to the sound paternal advice given in army VD films. I wonder if they ever consider how carefully they’re going to be examined after they get themselves gutted, or in some other way manage to shuffle their mortal coils off to Buffalo. I remember my mother always telling me to wear clean shorts, in case I got hit by a truck. For much of my youth I entertained the belief that clean shorts were a totemic protection against trucks—in much the same way that apples keep doctors away. When I think of the daring and dangerous things I used to do in the middle of heavy traffic to amuse my friends, all in the belief that I was invulnerable because I had just changed my shorts! So tell me, what are the gods up to these days? Is our anointed Commissioner Resnais still driving toward a brilliant future in politics, as he drives the rest of us toward dreams of regicide?”
“Every day they dream up a new form, a new bit of paper work. We’ve got paper work coming out of our ears.”
“Hm! Have you talked to your doctor about that? I just read in a medical journal about a man who drank molten iron and pissed out telephone wire. Something of an exhibitionist, I suspect. Even more to the point, we haven’t finished checking out your stiff’s clothing. The analysis of dust and lint and crap in pockets and cuffs isn’t quite done. I’ll contact you if anything comes up. Matter of fact, I’ll give the case a bit of thought. Might even come up with one of my ‘interesting little insights.’ “
“Don’t do me any favors.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. And to prove that, how about another cup of coffee?”
Guttmann is typing out an overdue report when LaPointe enters. He has taken the liberty of going through the Lieutenant’s desk and clearing out every forgotten or overlooked report and memo he could find. He tried to organize them into some kind of sequence at first, but now he is taking them in random order and bungling through as best he can.
LaPointe sits at his desk and surveys the expanse of unlittered surface. “Now, that looks better,” he says.
Guttmann looks over the piles of paper work on his little table. “Did you find out anything from Dr. Bouvier, sir?”
“Only that you’re supposed to be a remarkable young man.”
“Remarkable in what way, sir?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I see. Oh, by the way, the Commissioner’s office called again. They’re pretty upset about your not coming right up when you got in.”
“Hm-m. Any call from Dirtyshirt Red?”
“Sir?”
“That bomme you met last night. The one who’s looking for the Vet.”
“No, sir. No call.”
“I don’t imagine the Vet will be out on the streets before dark anyway. He has drinking money. What time is it?”
“Just after one, sir.”
“Have you had lunch?”
“No, sir. I’ve been doing paper work.”
“Oh? Well, let’s go have lunch.”
“Sir? Do you realize that some of these reports are six months overdue?”
“What does that have to do with getting lunch?”
“Ah… nothing?”
They sit by the window of a small restaurant across Bonsecours Street from the Quartier Général, finishing their coffee. The decor is a little frilly for its police clientele, and Guttmann looks particularly out of place, his considerable bulk threatening his spindly-legged chair.