A Trick of the Light

“Because it would be nearly impossible for a hacker to find the video file. And if one had, the investigators would have found him. That’s what they do. There’s a whole department that only investigates cyber crime. They’d have found him.”

Therese and Jerome were quiet. Then Jerome turned to his wife.

“What do you think?” he asked.

She looked from her husband to her guest.

“You say someone inside the Surete is trying to cover up the truth. What do you think is the truth?”

“That it was an internal leak,” said Gamache. “Someone inside the Surete released the video, deliberately.”

Even as he spoke he realized he wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know, or suspect.

“But why?” she asked. It was clearly a question she’d been asking herself.

“I think the ‘why’ depends on the ‘who,’” said the Chief. He watched her closely. “This is no surprise to you, is it?”

Therese Brunel hesitated then shook her head. “I also read the report, as did all the other superintendents. I don’t know what they thought, but I came to the same conclusion you did. Not necessarily that it was an inside job,” she looked at him with warning, “but that for some strange reason, the investigation was inconclusive. Given that it involved the deaths of four officers and the betrayal of their families and the service, I’d have expected the investigation to be rigorous. I’d have thought they’d throw everything they had at it. And they claimed to. And yet the conclusion, under all the rhetoric, was shockingly thin. The tape was stolen by an unknown hacker.”

She shook her head and took a deep breath, exhaling before she spoke again.

“We have a problem, Armand.”

He nodded, looking at both of them. “We have a big problem.”

Superintendent Brunel sat and indicated chairs for the other two, who joined her. She paused, about to cross the Rubicon. “Who do you think did it?”

Gamache held her intelligent, bright eyes. “You know who I think.”

“I do, but I need you to say it.”

“Chief Superintendent Sylvain Francoeur.”

Outside they could hear the shrieks of children chasing each other, running and laughing.

“This’ll be fun,” Jerome Brunel said, rubbing his hands together at the thought of a thorny puzzle.

“Jerome!” said his wife. “Haven’t you been listening? The head of the Surete du Quebec may very well have done something not only illegal, but deeply cruel. An attack on officers dead and alive. And their families. For his own ends.”

Therese turned back to Gamache. “If it was Francoeur, why would he do it?”

“I don’t know. But I know he’s been trying to get rid of me for years. He might have thought this would be the final shove.”

“But the video didn’t make you look bad, Armand,” said Jerome. “Just the opposite. It made you look very good.”

“And what would cripple you, Jerome?” Gamache looked with affection at the man across from him. “Being falsely accused or being falsely praised? Especially when there was so much pain and so little to praise.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” said Jerome, looking his friend square in the face.

“Merci,” Gamache inclined his head, “but it wasn’t my finest hour either.”

Jerome nodded. The spotlight could be a tricky thing. It could send a person rushing for someplace dim to hide. Away from the crippling glare of public approval.

Gamache hadn’t run, but both Jerome and Therese knew he’d been sorely tempted. Had come within a breath of handing in his warrant and retiring. And no one would have blamed him. Just as no one blamed him for the deaths of those young agents. No one, except Gamache himself.

But instead of retiring, retreating, the Chief Inspector had stayed.

And Jerome wondered if this was why. If there was one more thing Chief Inspector Gamache needed to do. His final duty, to both the living and the dead.

To find the truth.

*   *   *

Agent Isabelle Lacoste wiped her face with her hands and looked at her watch.

Seven thirty-five in the evening.

The Chief had called earlier with what seemed a strange request. A suggestion really. It had meant extra work, but she’d assigned another agent to the search. Now five of them were going over the files in the morgue of the Montreal daily La Presse.

It was going much more quickly, but not knowing when the review had been published, not the year, not even the decade, was difficult. And Chief Inspector Gamache had just made it more difficult still.

“Look at this,” one of the junior agents said, turning to Lacoste. “I think I’ve found it.”

“Oh, thank God,” moaned another.