The Main

“Good. Because I don’t think you will close this one. If you took the time to read my report, written in crisp but lucid professional language, you would know that there were no fingerprints on record with Ottawa. And we all appreciate the heavy significance of that.”

Bouvier reveals his bitterness at ending up a police pathologist by his sarcasm and cynicism, and by a style of speech that mixes swatches of erudition with vulgarity and gallows humor. To this he adds a jerky, non sequitur conversational tactic that dazzles many and impresses some.

LaPointe long ago learned to handle the technique by simply waiting until Bouvier got around to the point.

“Can you tell me anything that is not in the report?” LaPointe asks.

“A great deal, of course. I could tell you things ranging through aesthetics, to thermodynamics, to conflicting theories concerning the functions of Stonehenge; but I suspect your interests are more restricted than that. Informational tunnel vision: an occupational hazard. All right, how about this? Your young man used hair spray, if that’s any help.”

“None at all. Is the press release out?”

“No, I’ve still got it here in my out-box.” Bouvier waves vaguely toward the heaped tabletop. By departmental practice, information concerning murder, suicide, or rape cases is not released to the newspapers until Bouvier has finished his examination and the next of kin are informed. “You want me to hold it?”

“Yes. For a couple of days.” When pressure from newspapers or family allows, LaPointe likes to start his inquiries before the press release is out. He prefers to make the first mention of the crime, to watch for qualities of surprise or anticipation.

“I could probably block it up here forever,” Bouvier says. “I doubt that anyone will be around inquiring after this one. Except maybe a woman claiming breach of promise, or a pregnancy suit, or both. He made love shortly before his death.”

“How do you know that?”

Bouvier sips his coffee, makes a face, and cocks his nicotine lens at the cup. “This is terrible. I think something’s fallen into the pot. I’ll have to empty it one of these days and take a look. On second thought, maybe I don’t want to know. Say, I hear you’ve broken down and taken on a Joan.”

Three-quarters blind and never out of his den in the bowels of the building, Dr. Bouvier knows everything that is going on in the Quartier General. He makes a point of letting people know that he knows.

“Gaspard sent his Joan over to me for a few days.”

“Hm-m. I can’t help feeling sorry for the kid. He’s an interesting boy, too. Have you read his file?”

“No. But I suppose you have.”

“Of course. Did very well in college. Excellent grades. The offer of a scholarship to do graduate study in social work, but he chose instead to enter the force. Another instance of a strange demographic pattern I have observed. Year by year, the force is attracting a better class of young men. On the other hand, what with kids bungling their way through amateur holdups to get a fix, crime is attracting a lower class than it once did. It was simpler in our day, when the men on both sides were of the same sociological, intellectual, and ethical molds. But what you really wanted to know was how I divined that the young man in the alley made love shortly before he was killed. Simple really. He failed to wash up afterwards, in direct contradiction to the sound paternal advice given in army VD films. I wonder if they ever consider how carefully they’re going to be examined after they get themselves gutted, or in some other way manage to shuffle their mortal coils off to Buffalo. I remember my mother always telling me to wear clean shorts, in case I got hit by a truck. For much of my youth I entertained the belief that clean shorts were a totemic protection against trucks—in much the same way that apples keep doctors away. When I think of the daring and dangerous things I used to do in the middle of heavy traffic to amuse my friends, all in the belief that I was invulnerable because I had just changed my shorts! So tell me, what are the gods up to these days? Is our anointed Commissioner Resnais still driving toward a brilliant future in politics, as he drives the rest of us toward dreams of regicide?”

“Every day they dream up a new form, a new bit of paper work. We’ve got paper work coming out of our ears.”

“Hm! Have you talked to your doctor about that? I just read in a medical journal about a man who drank molten iron and pissed out telephone wire. Something of an exhibitionist, I suspect. Even more to the point, we haven’t finished checking out your stiff’s clothing. The analysis of dust and lint and crap in pockets and cuffs isn’t quite done. I’ll contact you if anything comes up. Matter of fact, I’ll give the case a bit of thought. Might even come up with one of my ‘interesting little insights.’ “

“Don’t do me any favors.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. And to prove that, how about another cup of coffee?”

Guttmann is typing out an overdue report when LaPointe enters. He has taken the liberty of going through the Lieutenant’s desk and clearing out every forgotten or overlooked report and memo he could find. He tried to organize them into some kind of sequence at first, but now he is taking them in random order and bungling through as best he can.

LaPointe sits at his desk and surveys the expanse of unlittered surface. “Now, that looks better,” he says.

Guttmann looks over the piles of paper work on his little table. “Did you find out anything from Dr. Bouvier, sir?”

“Only that you’re supposed to be a remarkable young man.”

“Remarkable in what way, sir?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I see. Oh, by the way, the Commissioner’s office called again. They’re pretty upset about your not coming right up when you got in.”

“Hm-m. Any call from Dirtyshirt Red?”

“Sir?”

“That bomme you met last night. The one who’s looking for the Vet.”

“No, sir. No call.”

“I don’t imagine the Vet will be out on the streets before dark anyway. He has drinking money. What time is it?”

“Just after one, sir.”

“Have you had lunch?”

“No, sir. I’ve been doing paper work.”

“Oh? Well, let’s go have lunch.”

“Sir? Do you realize that some of these reports are six months overdue?”

“What does that have to do with getting lunch?”

“Ah… nothing?”

They sit by the window of a small restaurant across Bonsecours Street from the Quartier General, finishing their coffee. The decor is a little frilly for its police clientele, and Guttmann looks particularly out of place, his considerable bulk threatening his spindly-legged chair.

“Sir?” Guttmann says out of a long silence. “There’s something I’ve been wondering about. Why do the older men on the force call us apprentices ‘Joans’?”

“Oh, that comes from long ago, when most of the force was French. They weren’t called ‘Joans’ really. They were called ‘jaunes.’ Over the years it got pronounced in English.”

“Jaunes? Yellows? Why yellows?”

“Because the apprentices are always kids, still wet behind the ears…”

Guttmann’s expression says he still doesn’t get it.

“…and yellow is the color of baby shit,” LaPointe explains.

Guttmann’s face is blank.

LaPointe shrugs. “I suppose it doesn’t really make much sense.”

“No, sir. Not much. Just more of the wiseass ragging the junior men have to put up with.”