SIX
“Chief Inspector? It’s Sharon Harris.”
“Oui, Dr. Harris,” said Gamache into the receiver.
“I haven’t done the complete autopsy but I have a couple of pieces of information from my preliminary work.”
“Go on.” Gamache leaned on the desk and brought his notebook closer.
“There were no identifying marks on the body, no tattoos, no operation scars. I’ve sent his dental work out.”
“What shape were his teeth in?”
“Now that’s an interesting point. They weren’t as bad as I expected. I bet he didn’t go to the dentist very often, and he’d lost a couple of molars to some gum disease, but overall, not bad.”
“Did he brush?”
There was a small laugh. “Unbelievably, he did. He also flossed. There’s some receding, some plaque and disease, but he took care of his teeth. There’s even evidence he once had quite a bit of work done. Cavities filled, root canal.”
“Expensive stuff.”
“Exactly. This man had money at one time.”
He wasn’t born a tramp, thought Gamache. But then no one was.
“Can you tell how long ago the work was done?”
“I’d say twenty years at least, judging by the wear and the materials used, but I’ve sent a sample along to the forensic dentist. Should hear by tomorrow.”
“Twenty years ago,” mused Gamache, doing the math, jotting figures in his notebook. “The man was in his seventies. That would mean he had the work done sometime in his fifties. Then something happened. He lost his job, drank, had a breakdown; something happened that pushed him over the edge.”
“Something happened,” agreed Dr. Harris, “but not in his fifties. Something happened in his late thirties or early forties.”
“That long ago?” Gamache looked down at his notes. He’d written 20 ans and circled it. He was confused.
“That’s what I wanted to tell you, Chief,” the coroner continued. “There’s something wrong about this body.”
Gamache sat up straighter and took his half-moon reading glasses off. Across the room Beauvoir saw this and walked over to the Chief’s desk.
“Go on,” said Gamache, nodding to Beauvoir to sit. Then he punched a button on the phone. “I’ve put you on the speaker. Inspector Beauvoir’s here.”
“Good. Well, it struck me as strange that this man who seemed a derelict should brush his teeth and even floss. But homeless people can do odd things. They’re often mentally unwell, as you know, and can be obsessive about certain things.”
“Though not often hygiene,” said Gamache.
“True. It was strange. Then when I undressed him I found he was clean. He’d had a bath or a shower recently. And his hair, while wild, was also clean.”
“There’re halfway homes,” said Gamache. “Maybe he was in one of those. Though an agent called all the local social services and he’s not known to them.”
“How d’you know?” The coroner rarely questioned Chief Inspector Gamache, but she was curious. “We don’t know his name and surely his description would sound like any number of homeless men.”
“That’s true,” admitted Gamache. “She described him as a slim, older man in his seventies with white hair, blue eyes and weathered skin. None of the men who match that description and use shelters in this area is missing. But we’re having someone take his photo around.”
There was a pause on the line.
“What is it?”
“Your description is wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Surely Gamache had seen him as clearly as everyone else.
“He wasn’t an elderly man. That’s what I called to tell you. His teeth were a clue; then I went looking. His arteries and blood vessels have very little plaque, and almost no atherosclerosis. His prostate isn’t particularly enlarged and there’s no sign of arthritis. I’d say he was in his mid-fifties.”
My age, thought Gamache. Was it possible that wreck on the floor was the same age?
“And I don’t think he was homeless.”
“Why not?”
“Too clean for one thing. He took care of himself. Not GQ material, it’s true, but not all of us can look like Inspector Beauvoir.”
Beauvoir preened slightly.
“On the outside he looked seventy but on the inside he was in good physical condition. Then I looked at his clothes. They were clean too. And mended. They were old and worn, but propres.”
She used the Québécois word that was rarely used anymore, except by elderly parents. But it seemed to fit here. Propre. Nothing fancy. Nothing fashionable. But sturdy and clean and presentable. There was a worn dignity about the word.