Gamache smiled at that image. The refined Brébeuf and the pug that was Leduc, kicking back. Then he remembered that evening in his rooms early in the semester. Reine-Marie, the students. The fire lit and drinks handed around. The snowstorm pounding the windows, just feet from where they sat.
The first informal gathering with the cadets. It seemed ages ago now, but was only a couple of months.
Michel Brébeuf had arrived late and Serge Leduc went over to him, all but genuflecting. Clearly recognizing the man, and admiring him despite, or probably because of, Brébeuf’s disgrace.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir had also noticed, and been afraid that that was the beginning of some unholy alliance. And he might have been right.
“They seemed friendly,” said Gamache, “though I doubt you’d call them friends. I’ll talk to him about this.”
“Perhaps it would be better if I did,” said Gélinas.
The implication was obvious, and Gamache raised his brow but could hardly object. This was, after all, the reason the outsider was there. To assure a fair investigation. And it was well known that Gamache and Brébeuf had a history, as great friends and colleagues, and as near deadly adversaries.
“With your permission, I’d like to be there,” said Gamache, and when Gélinas hesitated he went on. “There’s an advantage to knowing him well.”
Gélinas gave a curt nod.
Beauvoir and Lacoste exchanged glances before Lacoste said, “What about the mayor? Any of his prints?”
“No, none.”
“Then who do these other prints belong to?” she asked, pointing to the unclaimed dots in the bathroom and bedroom.
“Some aren’t identified yet,” said Beauvoir. “But most belong to cadets.”
“In a professor’s bathroom and bedroom?” asked Gélinas. “That would be unusual, wouldn’t it?”
“I encouraged the professors to meet with students casually,” said Gamache.
“Just how casual did they get?”
“That, unfortunately, is a good question,” said Gamache. “My instructions were to meet in groups.”
“You were afraid of something happening?”
“It seemed wise,” said the Commander. “For everyone’s protection.”
“And did they?”
“Oui,” said Beauvoir. “Most met once a week with students. My group came over on Wednesday evenings. We had sandwiches and beer and talked.”
“A sort of mentorship?” asked Gélinas.
“That was the idea,” said Gamache.
“Were they assigned or did they choose the professors?”
“They chose.”
“And a few went with Serge Leduc?” asked Gélinas, looking down at the black spots on Lacoste’s screen, then back up again. Incredulous.
“I expected that,” Commander Gamache admitted. “For the seniors especially, he was their leader.”
“He wasn’t a leader, he was a bully,” said Gélinas. “Surely they’d welcome the chance to get out from under his thumb.”
“When police first started intervening in child abuse cases,” said Lacoste, “they developed a simple test. It was often clear the child was being abused, but it wasn’t clear which parent was doing it. So they put the child at one end of a room and the parents at the other. And they watched to see who the kid ran to. The other was obviously the abuser.”
“Can we get back on topic?” asked Gélinas.
“It took a while before they realized they were wrong,” Lacoste continued quietly. “The child ran to the abuser.”
That sat like a specter in the room, the revelation nesting comfortably among the photographs of a murdered man.
“How could that be?” asked Gélinas. “Wouldn’t they run as far as possible from the parent who hurt them?”
“You’d think. But abused children become desperate to please the abuser, to appease them. They learn early and quickly that if they don’t, they pay a price. No child would risk upsetting the parent who beat them.”
Gélinas turned to Gamache. “Is that what happened with Leduc?”
“I think so. Some cadets no doubt gravitated to him because they’re cut from the same cloth. He offered a free pass to cruelty. But some went to him because they were afraid.”
“But they’re adults, not children,” said Gélinas.
“Young adults,” said Gamache. “And age isn’t a factor. We see it in adults all the time. Those desperate to please a powerful, even abusive, personality. At home. At work. On sports teams. The armed forces, and certainly in police forces. A strong, often brutal, personality, takes over. He’s followed out of fear, not respect or loyalty.”
“And in a closed school environment, he becomes a role model,” said Lacoste.
“But that stopped when you showed up,” said Gélinas to Gamache. “And deposed the Duke. And tried to teach them Service, Integrity, Justice.”
He tried not to make it sound as though in quoting the S?reté motto he was mocking it, or the Commander.
“Oui,” said Gamache. “Exactement.”
The RCMP officer had rarely met anyone who actually knew the motto, never mind believed it. Though he was also familiar with Gamache’s history, and knew that he sometimes had his own definitions of those three things.
The Royal Canadian Mounted Police motto was more prosaic.
Maintiens le droit. Defend the Law.
Paul Gélinas had never been completely comfortable with that. He knew that law wasn’t always the same as justice. But it had the advantage of being fairly clear. Whereas justice could be fluid, situational. A matter of interpretation. And perception.
He looked down at Serge Leduc.
His murder broke the law, but did it uphold justice? Maybe.
“When you took over, Commander, Leduc went from being the teacher to being the lesson,” said Charpentier. “The students learned a tyrant always falls, eventually.”
“But some still chose Leduc as their mentor,” Gélinas pointed out. “That doesn’t show much of a learning curve.”
“These things take time,” said Gamache. “Their world had been turned upside down. Some might not have believed it was permanent. They might’ve thought that I’d last a semester and Leduc would rise again. I was honestly surprised that more students didn’t go with him.”
“Most went with you?”
Gamache smiled. “The new sheriff in town? Non. Hardly any. I think I might’ve been a step too far, a clear sign of disloyalty. But more and more cadets were coming to the gatherings in my rooms. Mostly freshmen. And some I especially invited.”
“And who were those?” asked Gélinas. “The most promising?”
Gamache smiled. “The pick of the litter?”
Gélinas tilted his head slightly at that phrase.
“Can we get back to the forensics report?” asked Lacoste, looking at her watch.
“Of course,” said Gélinas. “Désolé.”
They dropped their eyes to their screens once again as Beauvoir walked them through it.
“As you see, the fingerprints of a number of students were in Leduc’s bathroom,” said Beauvoir. “Including the cadets in the village. No surprise there, I think. We knew they were among his protégées. But one was also on the chest of drawers and the gun case.”
He hit a key and only a single dot remained.
“The cadets in the village?” asked Gélinas, looking from Beauvoir to Lacoste. “Saint-Alphonse? Are some of the cadets local?”
Beauvoir glanced at Gamache in slight apology.
“Whose was on the gun case?” asked Gamache.
“Cadet Choquet’s.”
Gamache drew his brows together.
“And the weapon?” asked Lacoste.
“The prints on the revolver were smudged, unfortunately, but there were partials of a number of people. The coroner’s report came in too. Nothing unusual about Leduc. He was a healthy forty-six-year-old male. No evidence of recent sexual activity. He’d had a meal and some Scotch.”
“Intoxicated?” asked Gélinas.
“No. And no bruising or cuts to indicate a fight.”
“So he just stood there while someone put a gun to his temple and pulled the trigger?” asked Lacoste.
She looked around the conference table, all of them also trying to imagine how that could happen. Especially to someone like Leduc who was, by all accounts, combative at the best of times.
The RCMP officer leaned forward and shook his head. “No. It makes no sense. We’re obviously missing something. The partials on the gun. Could Leduc have handed it around? And eventually handed it to his killer?”
“Who shot him in front of a crowd?” asked Lacoste.