The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

If she had to she’d go up, but that was one of the perks of being Chief Inspector. She could assign someone else to do that now.

“The forensics team and Scene of Crime are doing their job,” said Beauvoir, joining her. “Time to talk to Brian.”

Jean-Guy had spoken with him briefly on his way to find Lacoste.

“How does he seem?” Lacoste asked.

“Stunned. Numb.”

But neither was under any illusion. As they walked back down the hallway, both seasoned homicide investigators knew they were about to speak to their main suspect.

Brian Fitzpatrick got to his feet when they entered. He was about to say something, but then looked as though he’d forgotten how to speak.

“I’m so sorry, Brian,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “This is terrible.”

He nodded. His eyes darted from one to the other.

“What happened?” he asked, sitting back down on his chair at the Formica table.

Lacoste looked at the agent from the local S?reté detachment, standing bored by the doorway.

“Can you make a pot of coffee?” she asked. The agent looked put out, but agreed.

The kitchen had also been ransacked, though the damage did not seem as great. Mostly flour, sugar and cornflakes spilled out onto the counter, and drawers opened and emptied.

It seemed more pro forma, as though the robber-turned-killer had run out of steam or was running out of time. Or conviction.

Brian looked at them, all eyes, wide and red.

“What time did you find her, Brian?” Lacoste asked.

“I left Montréal about seven thirty this morning, so I got here about nine.”

“You were in Montréal last night?” asked Lacoste.

“Yes, at a meeting. I stayed over. I wish I hadn’t.” He had that haunted look people got when alternate endings began to appear. Endings in which they did something different. What might have been, if only …

“What did you find when you got home?” Lacoste asked.

Jean-Guy had assumed the role Chief Inspector Gamache favored in interrogations, of just listening. And watching. Occasionally contributing, but mostly absorbing what was being said, or not said.

“The door wasn’t locked—”

“Did that surprise you?” asked Lacoste.

“Not really. Antoinette would’ve been up and working by nine. She’d have unlocked the door already. But it did seem strange that the curtains were still closed.”

“She was a translator, is that right?” said Lacoste.

“Yes. She works from home.”

There was a conflict of tenses that would resolve itself with time.

“So you opened the door,” Lacoste prompted.

“I yelled ‘Hi,’ but there was no answer. Of course.” He seemed to deflate a little at those last two words. “I hung up my coat and walked toward the living room and saw—” he gestured, but Chief Inspector Lacoste did not fill in the blank. “Everything was all over the place. I think I sorta went blank. Froze. And then I panicked and started shouting for Antoinette. I ran into the room and must’ve tripped because I ended up on the floor. That’s when I saw…”

“Saw what, Brian?” asked Lacoste quietly when the silence had gone on.

“Her foot. I’m not sure what happened next. I’ve been sitting here trying to put it together but it just seems like…” He struggled for the word. “I remember seeing her face, and her eyes. And knowing. I think I might’ve touched her because I remember feeling cold. And then thinking I was about to pass out. It was just too…”

He stared out the kitchen window and seemed to have ground to a halt, overwhelmed.

“What did you do then?” Lacoste asked.

She had the impression that had she not prompted him, Brian would have spent the rest of his life staring out that window. Stuck.

Lacoste glanced over at Jean-Guy, who also sat very still, absorbing it all.

“I panicked,” said Brian softly, not meeting their eyes. “I ran away. I had to get out. I went over to Madame Proulx’s place next door. She called the police.”

“Did you come back here?”

He shook his head. “Only when the police arrived. They asked me to come back with them, and they put me in here.”

The coffee was ready and Beauvoir poured them each a mug. When they’d taken a sip of the strong coffee, Lacoste resumed the interrogation. She made it sound like a conversation, but only a fool, or a man numb with grief, could mistake it for that.

“Can you tell us what you did last night?”

“I was in Montréal. The monthly meeting of the Geological Survey. We go through our reports.”

“Last night?”

“No, yesterday afternoon but I stayed over. Some of us go out for drinks and dinner after. We always do.”

“Can you give us the details, a phone number of someone who was there?”

“Yes.”

Beauvoir took it down.

“What time did you finish?”

“About eight, eight thirty. Not late.”

“Where did you stay? A hotel?”

“No, we have a pied-à-terre. Just a studio. I stay there when I’m in town for meetings and will have a few drinks.”