‘I’m no fool. Something’s going on and I want to know.’
‘You must have followed it on TV or in the papers,’ said Beauvoir.
‘I did. And in police college it was all anyone was talking about.’
Beauvoir’s mind went back to that dark time, when the S?reté was rent. When the loyal and cohesive organization started making war on itself. It put its wagons in a circle and shot inwards. It was horrible. Every officer knew the strength of the S?reté lay in loyalty. Their very lives depended on it. But the Arnot case changed everything.
On one side stood Superintendent Arnot and his two co-defendants, charged with murder. And on the other, Chief Inspector Gamache. To say the S?reté was split in half would be wrong. Every officer Beauvoir knew was appalled by Arnot, absolutely sickened. But many were also appalled by what Gamache did.
‘So you know it all,’ said Beauvoir.
‘I don’t know it all, and you know that. What’s wrong? Why are you freezing me out of this? I know there’s something going on. The Arnot case isn’t dead, is it?’
Beauvoir turned and walked slowly down the road, further into the woods.
‘What?’ Lacoste called after him. But Beauvoir was silent. He brought his hands behind his back and held them, walking slowly and thinking it through.
Should he tell Lacoste everything? How would Gamache feel about that? Did it matter? The chief wasn’t always right.
Beauvoir stopped and looked behind him to Isabelle Lacoste standing firmly in the middle of the road. He gestured her to him and as she approached he said, ‘Tell me what you know.’
The simple phrase surprised him. It was what Gamache always said to him.
‘I know Pierre Arnot was a superintendent in the S?reté.’
‘He was the senior superintendent. He’d come up through narcotics and into serious crime.’
‘Something happened to him,’ said Lacoste. ‘He became hardened, cynical. Happens a lot, I know. But with Arnot there was something else.’
‘You want the inside story?’
Lacoste nodded.
‘Arnot was charismatic. People liked him, loved him even. I met the man a few times and felt the same way. He was tall, rugged. Looked like he could take down a bear with his hands. And smart. Whip smart.’
‘What every man wants to see in the mirror.’
‘Exactly. And he made the agents under him feel powerful and special. Very potent.’
‘Were you drawn to him?’
‘I applied to his division but was turned down.’ It was the first time he’d told anyone that, except Gamache. ‘I was working in the Trois-Rivières detachment at the time. Anyway, as you’ve probably heard, Arnot commanded a near mythic loyalty among his people.’
‘But?’
‘He was a bully. Demanded absolute conformity. Eventually the really good agents dropped out of his division. Leaving him with the dregs.’
‘Bullies themselves or agents too scared to stand up to a bully,’ said Lacoste.
‘Thought you said you didn’t know the inside story.’
‘I don’t, but I know school yards. Same everywhere.’
‘This was no school yard. It started quietly at first. Violence on native reserves unchecked. Murders unreported. Arnot had decided if the natives wanted to kill themselves and each other then it should be considered an internal issue and not interfered with.’
‘But it was his jurisdiction,’ said Lacoste.
‘That’s right. He ordered his officers on the reserves to do nothing.’
Isabelle Lacoste knew what that meant. Kids and sniff. Glue and gasoline-soaked rags inhaled until their young brains froze. Numb to the violence, abuse, despair. They didn’t care any more. About anything, or anyone. Boys shot each other and themselves. Girls were raped and beaten to death. Perhaps calling the S?reté post desperate for help and getting no answer. And the officers, almost always a kid on his or her first assignment, were they staring at the phone with a smile knowing they’d satisfied their boss? One less savage. Or were they scared to death themselves? Knowing that more than a young native was being killed. They too were dying.
‘What happened then?’