“Though not often hygiene,” said Gamache.
“True. It was strange. Then when I undressed him I found he was clean. He’d had a bath or a shower recently. And his hair, while wild, was also clean.”
“There’re halfway homes,” said Gamache. “Maybe he was in one of those. Though an agent called all the local social services and he’s not known to them.”
“How d’you know?” The coroner rarely questioned Chief Inspector Gamache, but she was curious. “We don’t know his name and surely his description would sound like any number of homeless men.”
“That’s true,” admitted Gamache. “She described him as a slim, older man in his seventies with white hair, blue eyes and weathered skin. None of the men who match that description and use shelters in this area is missing. But we’re having someone take his photo around.”
There was a pause on the line.
“What is it?”
“Your description is wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Surely Gamache had seen him as clearly as everyone else.
“He wasn’t an elderly man. That’s what I called to tell you. His teeth were a clue; then I went looking. His arteries and blood vessels have very little plaque, and almost no atherosclerosis. His prostate isn’t particularly enlarged and there’s no sign of arthritis. I’d say he was in his mid-fifties.”
My age, thought Gamache. Was it possible that wreck on the floor was the same age?
“And I don’t think he was homeless.”
“Why not?”
“Too clean for one thing. He took care of himself. Not GQ material, it’s true, but not all of us can look like Inspector Beauvoir.”
Beauvoir preened slightly.
“On the outside he looked seventy but on the inside he was in good physical condition. Then I looked at his clothes. They were clean too. And mended. They were old and worn, but propres.”
She used the Québécois word that was rarely used anymore, except by elderly parents. But it seemed to fit here. Propre. Nothing fancy. Nothing fashionable. But sturdy and clean and presentable. There was a worn dignity about the word.
“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 Sûreté 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.
