Page 143 of The Grey Wolf
Gamache already knew this. Had spent a few days up in the Saguenay looking into the murder. He had the file practically memorized. But still, they’d go over it, and over it, until they found whatever they were missing.
Someone went to this woman’s home, a modest bungalow in a nice part of Chicoutimi, in the early evening. She’d begun to prepare dinner, a stir-fry, and had the television on. She’d left with the person. It seemed voluntary, though that was hard to tell. There was no evidence of a struggle, but then there probably wouldn’t be.
Her neighbors hadn’t seen anything. It had been a pleasant summer evening, and those on either side of her were in their backyards barbecuing.
It was immediately obvious to the investigators that this was no random home invasion gone sideways. Her handbag was left on the chair by the door, with money and credit cards still in it. Her home hadn’t been ransacked or even, from what they could tell, searched. The killer was not looking for anything except her.
“I’m beginning to wonder if it was mistaken identity,patron.”
It was possible. But surely the killer would have realized that by now. If this murder was a mistake, wouldn’t he have corrected it? Gone after the real target.
But there had been no other murders in the Saguenay since. And it was hard to see how a quiet bureaucrat could be mistaken for anyone else. Though it was even more difficult to see why she was taken to a park, had her hands zip-tied behind her back. Her mouth covered. Pushed to her knees.
He imagined what that had been like for the poor woman. How terrified she must have been. Then she was shot in the base of the skull. Why? Why her?
It was a classic execution.
The killing of the teacher on the Magdalen Islands was just two days later.
Gamache had no doubt the two were connected. He’d considered the possibility that the real target was the schoolteacher, and somehow the Canada Post clerk got mixed up in it. But that made even less sense.
They had absolutely nothing in common and lived a thousand kilometers apart.
The teacher was days away from retirement when he’d been murdered.
Why? His widow had pleaded through sobs, alternately clinging to the Chief Inspector when he’d joined the investigation for a few days, and hitting him in the chest with her fists. As though, in a twist of logic, his failure to find the killers was somehow responsible for her husband’s death.
Gamache knew that in the face of sudden, violent death, especially murder, logic was overwhelmed by grief. And one question drowned out all the rest. Not who, but…
Why? his grown children had demanded.
Why? the man’s colleagues had asked.
Why? Gamache asked himself.
Why had a schoolteacher, beloved by pupils and coworkers, beentaken to a cliff edge, where his hands had been zip-tied behind his back. His mouth covered. Pushed to his knees, he’d been shot at the base of the skull. Execution-style.
Exactly like the postal clerk. Exactly. With no effort made on the part of the murderer to disguise that fact.
There was a pause. “I’m sorry, Chief, but I can’t think where else to look. I spoke to her sister again in case she’d remembered something. But nothing.”
“She had a nephew, right?”
“Yes. Ferdinand. But they haven’t been in touch for years. No estrangement, just grew apart. He isn’t in her will. She left most everything to the church, though there wasn’t much. I can’t find a motive.”
“Same here, Chief,” said the investigator on the Magdalen Islands. “No motive. No connection to the other. Someone said they saw a boat land at one of the jetties where the victim liked to fish. It wasn’t there in the morning. I’m trying to figure out why the killer didn’t dump the body in the ocean. Why take him to the edge of a cliff, kill him, and not just kick the body over?”
“Well, there’s one obvious reason.”
“Yes, I know. The murderer wanted him to be found. But why? For the insurance? His wife is in the clear. His children live in BC and Ontario and are all doing well. I can’t find a motive, or any sense to this killing, especially if it’s a hit. It must be mistaken identity.”
Gamache grunted. Not another one. The killer could not be a made man if he’d made two mistakes like that. If he really had, there was a pretty good chance he’d be the next victim, and not by mistake.
No, this was a professional hit. He might,might, have made one mistake, but not two. And despite what Chief Inspector Tardiff in Organized Crime said, these were mob executions.
If the murderer wanted his victims found, it was because he wanted no doubt that the same person had done both jobs. And that he was a pro. And that there was some connection.
“Their mouths being taped shut is an interesting detail,” said one of the investigators.
