The Nature of the Beast (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #11) - Louise Penny Page 0,78
hadn’t known Antoinette well. Beauvoir had seen her and Brian in the bistro a few times, and once at dinner with the Gamaches.
The Gamaches, he thought. He’d have to tell them.
Knowing the victim was both a help and a hindrance. It meant they knew something of the victim’s habits, her personality. But it also meant they came at it with preconceptions.
Jean-Guy studied Antoinette Lemaitre and realized he hadn’t liked her.
She’d been childish and coquettish in a way that creeped him out. Antoinette did not behave like a woman in her forties. She wore too much makeup, had spiky hair dyed purple and clothes that were too young and too tight and too short. She could be willful and bossy.
He looked again at the blood, sticky on the hair and carpet.
But his main objection had little to do with her appearance and more to do with the fact she’d chosen to produce a play by a serial killer. He wondered if her murderer had had the same objection.
“She doesn’t seem to have been violated,” said Dr. Harris, standing up.
“Anything under her fingernails?” asked Lacoste.
“No flesh or hair. Whoever did this seems to have taken her by surprise. This”—Dr. Harris gestured at the room—“wasn’t done in a fight.”
They looked around at the overturned furniture, the drawers pulled from the desk and cabinets and dumped on the floor. The books splayed in piles on the carpet. Some even lay on Antoinette’s body.
“What does it look like to you?” Jean-Guy asked Lacoste.
“Not vandalism. Nothing’s broken. No spray-paint or excrement. I agree with Dr. Harris, it looks like she disturbed a robber.”
“A pretty desperate or persistent robber, wouldn’t you say?” he asked. “Most just grab the TV and run. Maybe pull out a few drawers looking for money.”
Lacoste considered. “Oui.”
It just wasn’t adding up, though. A robber generally waited for the home to be empty, or the person to be asleep. But the lamps were still on. Whoever did this knew the owner was probably at home and almost certainly awake.
And most of the mess was made after Antoinette was dead by someone who knew he wouldn’t be disturbed. And who was not disturbed by having just killed someone.
And that bothered Jean-Guy Beauvoir. A lot. Most robbers were just that. Robbers. They had no desire or stomach for murder. This was different. Someone had killed Antoinette, then spent hours searching her home while her body cooled.
The Scene of Crime team arrived and got to work. Jean-Guy directed them while Chief Inspector Lacoste walked around the rest of the house. Looking into rooms but not touching anything.
It was a modest single-story home with a basement. Even that had been ripped apart. It must’ve taken hours. The further she got into the house the more convinced Lacoste became this was not a simple robbery, and Antoinette Lemaitre not a random target.
Carpets had been ripped up, floorboards lifted. Paneling hung from the walls. A chair stood in the middle of the hall beneath an opening in the ceiling. Lacoste got on it and shone her light into the attic. She heard scampering and got off the chair.
If she had to she’d go up, but that was one of the perks of being Chief Inspector. She could assign someone else to do that now.
“The forensics team and Scene of Crime are doing their job,” said Beauvoir, joining her. “Time to talk to Brian.”
Jean-Guy had spoken with him briefly on his way to find Lacoste.
“How does he seem?” Lacoste asked.
“Stunned. Numb.”
But neither was under any illusion. As they walked back down the hallway, both seasoned homicide investigators knew they were about to speak to their main suspect.
Brian Fitzpatrick got to his feet when they entered. He was about to say something, but then looked as though he’d forgotten how to speak.
“I’m so sorry, Brian,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “This is terrible.”
He nodded. His eyes darted from one to the other.
“What happened?” he asked, sitting back down on his chair at the Formica table.
Lacoste looked at the agent from the local Sûreté detachment, standing bored by the doorway.
“Can you make a pot of coffee?” she asked. The agent looked put out, but agreed.
The kitchen had also been ransacked, though the damage did not seem as great. Mostly flour, sugar and cornflakes spilled out onto the counter, and drawers opened and emptied.
It seemed more pro forma, as though the robber-turned-killer had run out of steam or was running out of time. Or conviction.