But Isabelle Lacoste had been in the S?reté long enough to know how much easier it was to shoot than to talk. How much easier it was to shout than to be reasonable. How much easier it was to humiliate and demean and misuse authority than to be dignified and courteous, even to those who were themselves none of those things.
How much more courage it took to be kind than to be cruel.
But times had changed. The S?reté had changed. It was now a culture that rewarded cruelty. That promoted it.
Chief Inspector Gamache knew that. And yet he’d just exposed his neck. Was it on purpose? Lacoste wondered. Or was he really so weakened?
She no longer knew.
What she did know was that over the past six months the Chief Inspector had watched his department being gutted, bastardized. His work dismantled. He’d watched those loyal to him leave. Or turn against him.
He’d put up a fight at first, but been pounded down. Time and again, she’d seen him return to his office after arguing with the Chief Superintendent. Gamache had come back defeated. And now, it seemed, he had little fight left in him.
“Next,” said Gamache.
And so it went, for an hour. Each agent trying Gamache’s patience. But the headland held. No sign of crumbling, no sign this had any effect at all on the Chief. Finally the meeting was over and Gamache rose. Inspector Lacoste rose too and there was a hesitation before first one then the rest of the agents got to their feet. At the door the Chief Inspector turned and looked at the agent who’d lied. Just a glance, but it was enough. The agent fell in behind Gamache and followed him to the Chief’s office. Just as the door closed Inspector Lacoste caught a fleeting look on the Chief’s face.
Of exhaustion.
*
“Sit down.” Gamache pointed to a chair, then he himself sat in the swivel chair behind his desk. The agent tried on some bravado, but that faded before the stern face.
When he spoke, the Chief’s voice carried an effortless authority.
“Are you happy here?”
The question surprised the agent. “I suppose.”
“You can do better than that. It’s a simple question. Are you happy here?”
“I have no choice but to be here.”
“You have a choice. You could quit. You’re not indentured. And I suspect you’re not the fool you pretend to be.”
“I don’t pretend to be a fool.”
“No? Then what would you call failing to interview a key suspect in a homicide investigation? What would you call lying about it to someone you must have known would see through that lie?”
But it was clear that the agent never thought he’d be caught. It had certainly never occurred to him that he’d find himself alone in the Chief’s office, about to be chewed out.
But mostly, it never occurred to him that, instead of ripping into him, tearing him to shreds, Chief Inspector Gamache would simply stare at him, with thoughtful eyes.
“I would call it foolish,” admitted the agent.
Gamache continued to watch him. “I don’t care what you think of me. I don’t care what you think of your assignment here. You’re right, your being here wasn’t your choice, or mine. You’re not a trained homicide investigator. But you are an agent in the S?reté du Québec, one of the great police forces in the world.”
The agent smirked, then his expression shifted to mild surprise.
The Chief Inspector wasn’t joking. He actually believed it. Believed the S?reté du Québec was a great and effective police force. A breakwater between the citizens and those who would do them harm.
“You came from the Serious Crimes division, I believe.”
The agent nodded.
“You must have seen some terrible things.”
The agent sat very still.
“Difficult not to grow cynical,” said the Chief quietly. “Here we deal with one thing. There’s a great advantage in that. We become specialists. The disadvantage is what we deal with. Death. Every time the phone rings, it’s about a loss of life. Sometimes accidental. Sometimes it’s suicide. Sometimes it turns out to be natural. But most of the time it’s very unnatural. Which is when we step in.”
The agent looked deeply into those eyes and believed he saw, just for an instant, the terrible deaths that had piled up, day and night, for years. The young and the old. The children. The fathers and mothers and daughters and sons. Killed. Murdered. Lives taken. And the bodies laid at the feet of this man.
It seemed Death had joined their meeting, making the atmosphere stale and close.
“Do you know what I’ve learned, after three decades of death?” Gamache asked, leaning toward the agent and lowering his voice.
Despite himself, the agent leaned forward.
“I’ve learned how precious life is.”
The agent looked at him, expecting more, and when no more came he slumped back in his chair.
“The work you do isn’t trivial,” said the Chief. “People are counting on you. I’m counting on you. Please take it seriously.”
“Yessir.”
Gamache rose and the agent got to his feet. The Chief walked him to the door and nodded as the man left.
Everyone in the homicide office had been watching, waiting for the explosion. Waiting for Chief Inspector Gamache to rip into the offending agent. Even Lacoste waited, and wanted it.
But nothing had happened.
The other agents exchanged glances, no longer bothering to hide their satisfaction. The legendary Chief Inspector Gamache was a straw man after all. Not quite on his knees, but close.
Gamache looked up from his reading when Lacoste knocked.
“May I come in, patron?” she asked.
“Of course.” He got up and indicated the chair.
Lacoste closed the door, knowing some, if not all, of the agents in the large room would still be watching. But she didn’t care. They could go to hell.
“They wanted to see you tear into him.”
The Chief Inspector nodded. “I know.” He looked at her closely. “And you, Isabelle?”
There was no use lying to the Chief. She sighed.
“Part of me wanted to see that too. But for different reasons.”
“And what were your reasons?”
She jerked her head in the direction of the agents. “It would show them you can’t be pushed around. Brutality is all they understand.”
Gamache considered that for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right, of course. And I have to admit, I was tempted.” He smiled at her. It had taken him a while to get used to seeing Isabelle Lacoste sitting across from him, instead of Jean-Guy Beauvoir.
“I think that young man once believed in his job,” said Gamache, looking through the internal window as the agent picked up his phone. “I think they all did. I honestly believe most agents join the S?reté because they want to help.”
“To serve and protect?” Lacoste asked, with a small smile.
“Service, Integrity, Justice,” he quoted the S?reté motto. “Old-fashioned, I know.” He lifted his hands in surrender.
“So what changed?” asked Lacoste.
“Why do decent young men and women become bullies? Why do soldiers dream of being heroes but end up abusing prisoners and shooting civilians? Why do politicians become corrupt? Why do cops beat suspects senseless and break the laws they’re meant to protect?”
The agent that Gamache had just been speaking with was talking on the phone. Despite the taunts of the other agents, he was doing what Gamache had asked of him.
“Because they can?” asked Lacoste.