“Well, yes,” said Nathaniel. “Who else could I mean? Or maybe the Duke wanted to see the map, and instead of giving him their own, they stole Amelia’s.”
“Again,” said Huifen, “you mean one of us.”
“I mean either you or Jacques, yes. I know it wasn’t me. You had maps and were the closest to him, after all.”
“Were we?” asked Jacques, staring hard at the younger man.
Amelia amended her opinion of Nathaniel. It was both comforting and disconcerting to see how cunning he actually was. And how clearly he saw things.
“I’m not accusing you,” Nathaniel hurried on. “I’m just saying there’re lots of ways to look at this.”
“Okay, then, let’s look at what we do know,” said Huifen. “The facts. A copy of the map was found in the Duke’s drawer. Why?”
Though the real question still seemed to be who.
Their eyes drifted from the three maps on the table to Amelia.
CHAPTER 19
The photos of the crime scene were spread out on the long boardroom table in front of the investigators. Chief Inspector Lacoste was bringing Gamache and Gélinas up to speed.
“Most of the professors have been interviewed, along with the students.”
“Did that produce anything?” asked Deputy Commissioner Gélinas.
“Not much so far. Leduc was very private, almost to the point of compulsion. Yesterday, from what we gather, was the same as every other day. Serge Leduc taught his classes, worked in his office without interruption in the afternoon, then dined last night at the professor’s table. I believe you were there.”
Gamache nodded.
“Professor Godbut is here, Chief Inspector,” said an agent, popping her head in.
“Good.” She turned to Gamache. “I thought you’d like to be here when we spoke with him.”
“Merci,” said Gamache, with just a hint of sarcasm.
“Show him in, please,” said Chief Inspector Lacoste.
A large man entered. He might have had muscle tone once, but now his middle jiggled and shifted as he walked.
“Marcel Godbut,” he introduced himself, then took the chair offered. “This is terrible. I can’t quite believe it.”
“You’ve been at the academy for five and a half years, it says in your record,” said Chief Inspector Lacoste.
“Oui.” He looked at Lacoste the way an uncle looked at a pretty young niece. “Before that I was a senior investigator in the Abitibi detachment.”
“Of the S?reté,” said Deputy Commissioner Gélinas.
“Of course,” said Godbut, regarding the RCMP officer with slight distaste.
“And you teach forensics?” said Gélinas, consulting his notes. “But not the DNA kind. You teach the cadets how to investigate records, finances. To look for fraud, racketeering. A paper trail, not a blood trail.”
“Oui. Not very sexy, but effective. Not all of us get to chase murderers.”
“Important work,” agreed Gamache, but he was watching Godbut through narrowed eyes.
This was a man who, until Gamache arrived, had patrolled the hallways sniffing out cadets who were a little late for class, whose uniforms were slightly askew, whose hair a little long.
And he made them pay.
He humiliated and belittled students. While never actually beating them, he made them beat themselves up, giving them exercises in the quad, in their underwear, in winter. He made them run stairs and do near impossible numbers of push-ups and sit-ups. And when they failed, he doubled the numbers.
Marcel Godbut took them to the very edge of breakdown. Then brought them back.
It was an age-old form of torture. Some considered it training. Torment, relent. Torment. Relent.
They were made an example of. So that other students fell into line quickly. Eagerly. Some even, by third year, joined in the humiliation. Those were considered the successes and fast-tracked into good jobs in the S?reté.
If Leduc was the architect, this man was the builder. Taking good material and making it rotten.
When he’d taken over as commander, Gamache had been sickened by what he’d found. The degree and depth of the abuse. And Marcel Godbut had not even been the worst. Those Gamache had summarily fired. One he’d had arrested. But he didn’t quite have enough on Godbut. It was all anecdotal. Professor Godbut, the master of paper trails, would be careful not to leave one himself.
But Commander Gamache had watched him closely and made sure Godbut knew it. The abuse had stopped.
But when all that bile had to be contained, it created a volcano.
Had Professor Godbut erupted last night and attacked Leduc?
But motive was missing. It was not enough to simply say he blew. There had to be a reason. A push, however trivial it might appear from the outside.
And the crime scene didn’t look like an explosion. It looked like an execution. Neat, orderly, bitterly cold.
“Tell us about the contract to build this school,” said Gamache.
Godbut slowly turned in his chair and stared at the Commander.
“I know nothing about that.”
“You taught fraud. You taught students how to spot it and yet you missed it when it was happening in your own house?”
“Was it? That’s news to me. I’m just a professor. And as you’ve made clear since you arrived, Commander, I’m not a very good one.”
“Did I ever say that? I think you are probably very good at what you do,” said Gamache. “The question is, what do you do? What was your real job here?”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning Serge Leduc was on the take,” said Paul Gélinas. “This whole structure was built on bribes and contract fixing. Someone organized it for him. Someone who not only knew how to do it, but how not to get caught.”
“I hope you have proof, Commissioner. That’s a serious charge.”
“Not a charge, a theory.” Gélinas smiled. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Dinner last night. We discussed tactical exercises, as you know, Commander. And then Professor Leduc and I discussed the Montréal Canadiens.”
It was a clear shot at Gamache. His opinions on the curriculum were no more important than a hockey game.
“And after dinner?” asked Gamache, as though unaware of the barb.
“I went back to my rooms and corrected papers and did coursework. Like any good professor.”
“Did you see anyone? Any phone calls?” asked Isabelle Lacoste.
“No phone calls. No visitors. It was a quiet evening in. I awoke to that pathetic cadet screaming.”
“You knew Professor Leduc as well as anyone,” said Lacoste. “What do you think happened?”
“I think you’re partly right,” said Godbut. “I think his death did have something to do with this building. But not from the inside. I’d look outside, if I were you.”
He gestured through the plate glass, past the quad, to the church spires beyond.
“The town?” asked Lacoste.
“Do you think Serge Leduc was killed by an ally? Or an enemy?” said Godbut. “That town is teeming with people who hated Serge Leduc.”
Jean-Guy Beauvoir had slipped into the room. He and Godbut nodded to each other, the chill obvious.
Professor Godbut got up and paused for a moment to look out the window. The sun was just beginning to set and the huge sky was changing color, from blue to a soft rose.
And against it were the lights of Saint-Alphonse.
“One man’s hatred stands above the rest,” he said, turning away from the window. “That’s where I’d start to look. But then, I’m not very good at my job, am I?”
If he expected Commander Gamache to mollify him, he was disappointed. Gamache sat silent and eventually Professor Godbut nodded and left.
“There’s a piece of work,” said Lacoste.
“A piece of shit,” said Beauvoir, and beside him Gélinas gave a gruff laugh of agreement.
“But he might be right,” said Lacoste. “It’s not the first time today that’s been mentioned. The hatred in the town toward the academy.”