A Great Reckoning (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #12) - Louise Penny Page 0,136
straightened up.
“Your father-in-law likes poetry. The death of the Duke was almost poetic, don’t you think? Knowing what we now know. A bullet through his brain. Come hither, and behold your fate.”
Jean-Guy heard the door click shut as he watched the cadets and Armand at the front of the chapel.
There was nothing at all poetic about what had happened. Or what was about to happen.
CHAPTER 40
Commander Gamache stood at the back of the classroom, listening as Professor Charpentier finished his lecture.
His students were third-year cadets, those who already had the basics and were into the next, critical level.
Advanced tactics.
Gamache watched as Hugo Charpentier, perspiring freely, explained that tactics wasn’t about the best position to get in to shoot someone.
“If you have to do that, then you’ve already failed,” he said. “A successful tactician rarely gets to that stage. It’s about manipulation, about anticipation. About outmaneuvering your opponent intellectually. Seeing his moves even before he does. And limiting them. Guiding him, forcing him to do what you want, without him even realizing it. Whether that opponent is a mob boss, a banker, or a serial killer.”
Charpentier turned to the large blackboard and wrote, “Your brain is your weapon.”
He turned back to them.
“Any idiot can use a gun. But it takes real skill, real patience and control to use your mind.”
A hand went up and Charpentier pointed. “Yes, Cadet Montreaux.”
“Was it an idiot, then, who killed the Duke?”
“Now there’s an interesting question. What do you think?”
“I think since the investigators haven’t yet made an arrest, the killer can’t be that stupid.”
“Good point,” said Charpentier. “I’ve been trying to teach you about being a Sûreté officer, not a killer. Murderers, of course, need to use a weapon of some sort. But again, the most successful start off using their brains.”
“And in your opinion, Professor, did the murderer of Serge Leduc use his brain?”
The students turned around, surprised by the voice from the back of the room.
Hugo Charpentier smiled.
“Oui, Commander. In my opinion, it started with a thought, that became a plan, that ripened into an action. A good one.”
“Good?”
“Not, perhaps, in the legal or moral sense,” said Charpentier. “But it meets the criteria.”
“Of what? A good tactician?” Gamache asked across the field of cadets.
“A great tactician,” said Charpentier.
“Based on what?”
“On the simplicity of the crime. On the apparent simplicity of the scene.”
“Apparent?”
“Well, yes. Once looked at closely, the depth of evidence becomes clear. Layer after layer, carefully placed.”
“Put there to misdirect?”
“To direct. Like a sheepdog, nipping at your heels, Chief Inspector.”
“Commander now,” Gamache reminded him.
“Once a homicide investigator…” Charpentier left that hanging.
“And once a great tactician…” replied Gamache. “We need to talk. May we?”
Charpentier looked at the clock above the doorway.
“Tomorrow you have a field test,” he reminded the students as he wheeled between the desks. “Back in the factory. If you need to resort to violence, it must be controlled. You use tactical thinking, with an emphasis on thinking, even as the bullets fly. As soon as it devolves into chaos, into panic, you’re doomed. You die. You control yourself, you control the situation. So far, I’m dumbfounded to report, you’ve failed every time. Been killed every time. We’ve been over the flaws in your last attempt. You have one more day to come up with a plan that will work. Now, go away.”
“Yessir,” came the chorus, as chairs scraped loudly on the floor.
But the cadets didn’t want to go away. They milled about as Charpentier arrived before Commander Gamache, and waited to hear what these two men were about to say to each other.
“Go,” Charpentier demanded, and they went.
And Armand Gamache and Hugo Charpentier were left alone.
* * *
“Where’s Commander Gamache?” Gélinas asked, as he entered the conference room at the academy.
“He had some work to do,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “He’ll be back soon.”
“Please tell me where he went.”
Paul Gélinas stood erect, his attitude and speech formal. Behind him, on either side, were two tall young Sûreté agents. Recent academy graduates. Their smug faces, if not their youth, told her that.
Getting up from her seat at the conference table, she walked over to the RCMP officer.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
“You know why I’m here,” he said, not unkindly. “I didn’t want to humiliate Monsieur Gamache in front of his friends and family.”
“He’s not easily humiliated,” said Lacoste, though her face had grown pale and her hands were tingling. As they always did when entering dangerous territory.
“I waited to do this until after we’d left Three Pines,” said Gélinas.