“I have to do more work, but that’s my preliminary finding. I’ll e-mail all this to you.”
“Bon. Can you guess what sort of work he did? How’d he keep himself in shape?”
“Which gym did he belong to, you mean?” He could hear the smile in her voice.
“That’s right,” said Gamache. “Did he jog or lift weights? Was he in a spinning class or maybe Pilates?”
Now the coroner laughed. “At a guess I’d say it wasn’t much walking, but a lot of lifting. His upper body is slightly more toned than his lower. But I’ll keep that question in mind as I go.”
“Merci, docteur,” said Gamache.
“One more thing,” said Beauvoir. “The murder weapon. Any further clues? Any ideas?”
“I’m just about to do that part of the autopsy, but I’ve taken a quick look and my assessment stays the same. Blunt instrument.”
“A fireplace poker?” asked Beauvoir.
“Possibly. I did notice something white in the wound. Might be ash.”
“We’ll have the lab results from the pokers by tomorrow morning,” said Gamache.
“I’ll let you know when I have more to tell you.”
Dr. Harris rung off just as Agent Lacoste arrived back. “Clearing up outside. It’s going to be a nice sunset.”
Beauvoir looked at her, incredulous. She was supposed to be scouring Three Pines for clues, trying to find the murder weapon and the murderer, interviewing suspects, and the first thing out of her mouth was about the nice sunset?
He noticed the Chief drift over to a window, sipping his coffee. He turned round and smiled. “Beautiful.”
A conference table had been set up in the center of their Incident Room with desks and chairs placed in a semicircle at one end. On each desk was a computer and phone. It looked a little like Three Pines, with the conference table as the village green and their desks as the shops. It was an ancient and tested design.
A young S?reté agent from the local detachment hovered, looking as if he wanted to say something.
“Can I help you?” Chief Inspector Gamache asked.
The other agents from the local detachment stopped and stared. Some exchanged knowing smiles.
The young man squared his shoulders.
“I’d like to help with your investigation.”
There was dead silence. Even the technicians stopped what they were doing, as people do when witnessing a terrible calamity.
“I’m sorry?” said Inspector Beauvoir, stepping forward. “What did you just say?”
“I’d like to help.” By now the young agent could see the truck hurtling toward him and could feel his vehicle spin out of control. Too late, he realized his mistake.
He saw all this, and stood firm, from either terror or courage. It was hard to tell. Behind him four or five large agents crossed their arms and did nothing to help.
“Aren’t you supposed to be setting up desks and telephone lines?” asked Beauvoir, stepping closer to the agent.
“I have. That’s all done.” He voice was smaller, weaker, but still there.
“And what makes you think you can help?”
Behind Beauvoir stood the Chief Inspector, quietly watching. The young agent looked at Inspector Beauvoir when answering his questions, but then his eyes returned to Gamache.
“I know the area. I know the people.”
“So do they.” Beauvoir waved at the wall of police behind the agent. “If we needed help why would we choose you?”
This seemed to throw him and he stood silent. Beauvoir waved his hand to dismiss the agent and walked away.
“Because,” the agent said to the Chief Inspector, “I asked.”
Beauvoir stopped and turned round, looking incredulous. “Pardon? Pardon? This is homicide, not a game of Mother May I. Are you even in the S?reté?”
It wasn’t a bad question. The agent looked about sixteen and his uniform hung loosely on him, though an effort had obviously been made to make it fit. With him in the foreground and his confrères behind it looked like an evolutionary scale, with the young agent on the extinction track.
“If you have no more work to do, please leave.”
The young agent nodded, turned to get back to work, met the wall of other officers, and stopped. Then he walked around them, watched by Gamache and his homicide team. Their last view of the young officer before they turned away was of his back, and a furiously blushing neck.
“Join me please,” Gamache said to Beauvoir and Lacoste, who took their seats at the conference table.
“What do you think?” Gamache asked quietly.