“Everything was normal last night? Nothing unusual?” she asked Havoc.
What followed was the same description as the other waiters had provided. Busy, lots of tips, no time to think.
Strangers?
Havoc thought about it and shook his head. No. Some summer people, and weekenders, but he knew everyone.
“And what did you do after Olivier and Old Mundin left?”
“Put away the dishes, did a quick look round, turned off the lights and locked up.”
“Are you sure you locked up? The door was found unlocked this morning.”
“I’m sure. I always lock up.”
A note of fear had crept into the handsome young man’s voice. But Lacoste knew that was normal. Most people, even innocent ones, grew fearful when examined by homicide detectives. But she’d noticed something else.
His father had looked at him, then quickly looked away. And Lacoste wondered who Roar Parra really was. He worked in the woods now. He cut grass and planted gardens. But what had he done before that? Many men were drawn to the tranquility of a garden only after they’d known the brutality of life.
Had Roar Parra known horrors? Had he created some?
SIX
“Chief Inspector? It’s Sharon Harris.”
“Oui, Dr. Harris,” said Gamache into the receiver.
“I haven’t done the complete autopsy but I have a couple of pieces of information from my preliminary work.”
“Go on.” Gamache leaned on the desk and brought his notebook closer.
“There were no identifying marks on the body, no tattoos, no operation scars. I’ve sent his dental work out.”
“What shape were his teeth in?”
“Now that’s an interesting point. They weren’t as bad as I expected. I bet he didn’t go to the dentist very often, and he’d lost a couple of molars to some gum disease, but overall, not bad.”
“Did he brush?”
There was a small laugh. “Unbelievably, he did. He also flossed. There’s some receding, some plaque and disease, but he took care of his teeth. There’s even evidence he once had quite a bit of work done. Cavities filled, root canal.”
“Expensive stuff.”
“Exactly. This man had money at one time.”
He wasn’t born a tramp, thought Gamache. But then no one was.
“Can you tell how long ago the work was done?”
“I’d say twenty years at least, judging by the wear and the materials used, but I’ve sent a sample along to the forensic dentist. Should hear by tomorrow.”
“Twenty years ago,” mused Gamache, doing the math, jotting figures in his notebook. “The man was in his seventies. That would mean he had the work done sometime in his fifties. Then something happened. He lost his job, drank, had a breakdown; something happened that pushed him over the edge.”
“Something happened,” agreed Dr. Harris, “but not in his fifties. Something happened in his late thirties or early forties.”
“That long ago?” Gamache looked down at his notes. He’d written 20 ans and circled it. He was confused.
“That’s what I wanted to tell you, Chief,” the coroner continued. “There’s something wrong about this body.”
Gamache sat up straighter and took his half-moon reading glasses off. Across the room Beauvoir saw this and walked over to the Chief’s desk.
“Go on,” said Gamache, nodding to Beauvoir to sit. Then he punched a button on the phone. “I’ve put you on the speaker. Inspector Beauvoir’s here.”
“Good. Well, it struck me as strange that this man who seemed a derelict should brush his teeth and even floss. But homeless people can do odd things. They’re often mentally unwell, as you know, and can be obsessive about certain things.”
“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.”