Page 73 of The Grey Wolf
“Brain damage? How severe? Could it cause delusions? Paranoia?”
“For sure, but only if he was using. He wasn’t so far gone that he’d hallucinate while straight. No—” She looked down at Charles. “Here’s a now healthy young man.”
“Can you tell where he’d been recently?”
“I’ve taken swabs of his hands, face, and feet, in case there’s residue, but there’s nothing obvious. Maybe on his clothing.”
“Merci.”
Beauvoir, before leaving, had sent out the report from forensics.Langlois’s clothes were newly washed. There was nothing on or in them to say where he’d last been.
After that, Isabelle Lacoste collected a team and headed out to execute the search warrants for Action Québec Bleu and the home of its Executive Director, Margaux Chalifoux.
Chief Inspector Gamache had called from the airport just before they’d taken off, telling her to lead the search herself of Madame Chalifoux’s place, figuring if there was anything to hide, it would most likely be there. Besides, the Exec would be occupied with the Sûreté search at the office. Lacoste and her team could work without being disturbed or distracted.
The small home in East End Montréal was, on first entering, a shambles.
“Great,” said the head of the forensics team. “Another hoarder.”
But a few minutes in and it became apparent Madame Chalifoux was anything but. Hoarders tended to collect items at random. Their homes were filthy and neglected and piled high with junk and mummified cats.
Here there was actually order. What appeared a jumble was in fact a collection of boxes from different investigations. All orderly. All apparently in the fight to protect fresh water in Québec.
“We have plenty of water,” said one of the Sûreté agents, going through the boxes. “Why does it need protecting? Just a bunch of left-wing alarmists.”
“It’s a crazy world, with crazy people,” said another agent. “Nothing is safe.”
Lacoste had also gained access to Madame Chalifoux’s bank records. She had $49 there. And $1,456 in credit card debt. Her last purchase was T-shirts, made from bamboo. To promote AQB.
“She used her own money,” said Lacoste, to the senior agent.
“A fanatic,” he replied.
The two of them were standing in the basement on the only square feet of carpet that were clear of clutter. They were looking at a map stapled to the wall.
It was of Québec, with little flags of different colors stuck into various lakes and rivers.
“I started with the Sûreté in the Abitibi,” said the agent, taking a step closer and pointing at the map. “Some of those flags are in the smelters and the pulp mills up there.”
“Get photos. I want to know what those flags mean.”
“All of them? There must be hundreds.”
“All of them. And I want a list of any pollutants.”
“Well, I can tell you that the copper smelters emit arsenic.”
“Christ,” muttered Lacoste as she took a photo of the entire map and emailed it to Gamache and Beauvoir.
Two hours later the searches of the offices and home were complete, and Lacoste was sitting with Margaux Chalifoux in her kitchen, having had the Executive Director of Action Québec Bleu brought home.
The search of their offices had revealed nothing.
Her home was another matter.
“Tell me about arsenic.”
Chalifoux knew she was in trouble. Not from the tone of the woman sitting across the table from her. The senior homicide investigator’s voice actually sounded calm, even kind.
