The Twenty-Year Death

by Ariel S. Winter

  “Did you have any trouble?” Pelleter asked Lambert.

  “We were getting that speech from both of them at first, but when I insisted, he got really quiet. He’s been like that since.”

  “Sorry to bring you out here like this. We’ll go back together tonight.”

  “That’s no problem. After a day with those two, I’m curious to see where this is all going.”

  Pelleter opened the passenger door of the police car. The warden’s wife was still complaining. “So am I,” he said, and got into the car.

  The scene at the Verargent police station was amusing to Pelleter’s practiced eye for its studied busyness. Every desk was occupied by an officer diligent about his paperwork, and an additional officer stood near one of the walls with a case file open much as a man reads a newspaper while waiting for the bus. Word must have spread that Inspector Pelleter was bringing in the chief suspects. All eyes darted up at their entrance.

  “Monsieur Letreau, you tell me what’s going on. No one is talking to me. And I keep telling them, if they would just get in touch with Monsieur Fournier, he will take care of any problem at the prison. These city people treat us like we can be pushed around...”

  It was the warden’s wife, still voicing her complaints with no regard for who was around her.

  “Marie!” the warden snapped, the first he had spoken since arriving on the train. He grabbed his wife by the arm and pulled her to him, whispering fiercely into her ear.

  She screwed up her face, tightening the muscles of her arm and pulling away from him, but without any serious attempt to break free.

  Philippe Servières was in a corner writing excitedly in his open notebook. He caught Pelleter’s eye, nodded, and smiled, holding up the notebook in thanks. Pelleter did not acknowledge the reporter.

  “Has Martin returned with his prisoners?” Pelleter asked the man at the front desk.

  The officer stammered and looked away as though to hide the fact that he had been paying attention to the new arrivals, “I, um, no, Martin? Martin’s out with Arnaud, sir.”

  “Let me know when he arrives.” Pelleter turned to Letreau. “Your office?”

  “That’s fine.”

  Pelleter nodded, flicking his eyes to Lambert, and then the warden. “Monsieur le Directeur.”

  Lambert stepped in to separate the warden and his wife, and the warden’s wife began to complain again at once, her voice carrying despite her attempt at restraint. “No, this will not do.” Lambert tried to take her arm, put she pulled it away, and stood her ground. “This is not acceptable.”

  Ignoring the woman’s protestations, Letreau, Pelleter, and the warden went into Letreau’s office where Pelleter offered the warden a chair as Letreau closed the door on the now buzzing squad room.

  Pelleter had arranged the files that Officer Martin had borrowed from Malniveau Prison into a pile on the corner of the desk closest to the warden. They formed an uneven sheaf of papers as thick as a phone book.

  Pelleter leaned back against the desk, reaching into his pocket for a cigar, but he still had not replenished his supply. He was eager for a smoke.

  The warden’s eyes darted to the files and then to Pelleter.

  Pelleter crossed his arms. “Do you know what these are?” he said, indicating the stack with a nod of his head.

  Letreau made a noise as he positioned himself against the closed door, and the warden looked behind him, having to raise himself against the arms of the chair in order to do so. He turned back with an exhalation, and shook his head.

  Pelleter smirked despite himself. “Do you have a guess?”

  “Should I have my lawyer present?” The warden spoke with the restraint of a powerful man uncertain if his power was a handicap in the situation.

  “I think we’re all interested in keeping this simple,” Pelleter said, glancing over the top of the warden’s head at Letreau as though they were all coming to an agreement. “We’ll just try to keep to the truth, and be quick about it, and it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  The warden sat with his lips pressed together.

  “These files,” Pelleter said, tenting his fingers on top of them, “are your records and the records of guards Passemier and Soldaux and of a prisoner named Renaud Leclerc.”

  The warden’s shoulders slumped, his whole body adopting the aspect of a man too tired even to sit.

  “Could you tell us about the prisoner Renaud Leclerc?”

  “Oh—” The warden’s voice broke, and he cleared his throat, coughed, and adjusted himself in the seat with the assistance of the armrests again. “Well, I’d have to look in his file and...”

  “I would have thought that you would have been familiar with the case of the last prisoner to be murdered under your watch. Perhaps we should contact Monsieur Fournier as your wife said...”

  The warden sighed, and looked back at Letreau who was impassive. He faced forward, adjusting himself in the chair again. “Leclerc was an anarchist back when the anarchists were dropping bombs everywhere...He was involved in a bombing and was caught, and he was sent here. This must have been in the early ’90s. But then some years later he killed a fellow prisoner here, and his sentence was extended. After that, he was a model prisoner until he was killed himself two months ago.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill Leclerc?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But he was the first of this series of killings?”

  The warden didn’t answer.

  “In your opinion, Monsieur le Directeur, did Leclerc kill that other prisoner? Think before you answer!” Pelleter added.

  The warden opened his mouth. He looked again at Letreau and then back at the stack of files on the edge of the chief of police’s desk.

  Pelleter jumped on this. “Are you wondering how much the files say? Are you worried you might tell us more than we know? What could we possibly know other than that Soldaux and Passemier were also guards on Cell Block D in 1899? Leclerc’s file must certainly show that he really killed the prisoner he was accused of killing.”

  “Did you say there had been other stabbings?” the warden said, trying on his authority again to see if he still had it. “What does this have to do with that, such an old business?”

  He appealed to the silent Letreau again, for there was no one else to appeal to, and this time the chief of police’s face did seem to carry the same question.

  Pelleter ignored this, leaning in until his face was only inches from the warden’s, “What you should really be asking yourself is, how much have Soldaux and Passemier already told us?”

  Pelleter sat back and recrossed his arms.

  The warden looked around the room, and then back at Pelleter.

  “I should have a lawyer here,” the warden said, his eyes pleading.

  Pelleter didn’t soften. Neither of the lawmen spoke.

  The warden brought his right palm to his hairline, kneading his temples, and then slid his hand to the back of his head. He looked away from either of the other two men. “It was thirty-two years ago...” he began. “I had just started at Malniveau. I was young and a bit of a brute. There are only so many ways to get into trouble in Verargent without going too far...I had finished school, and I knew I was too old to keep getting into little fights, but I didn’t know what else to do. So I started working in the prison. I liked the idea of being in charge...Passemier started with me at the same time. We hadn’t been friends in school, but we ran in the same circles...Soldaux was the senior guard on the duty, although he was only a few years older...He was like a big brother to us.”

  The warden shrugged and shook his head, smiling ironically at the memory.

  “Back then, you could do more to the prisoners and get away with it. Sometimes on night duty, if we were really bored, we’d give one of the prisoners...a hard time.”

  He checked to see if Pelleter had understood. The chief inspector’s expression was easy, but his eyes were locked on the warden, and it made the wa
rden look away again. The hand went again to the back of his head.

  “One night we went too far and the prisoner died...I wasn’t in the room when it happened, naturally...I don’t know which of Soldaux or Passemier struck the fatal blow...”

  “Naturally,” Pelleter said, straining to keep his voice level.

  “We were kids really, and we were just fooling around, but this guy was weak, and he didn’t make it...”

  “Jesus,” Letreau said, behind the warden.

  “We panicked. We didn’t want to end up as prisoners ourselves. The man had clearly been beaten, so we couldn’t claim that he had died of natural causes...So we fell on the man’s cellmate, Leclerc...We gave him a light beating, just enough to land him in the infirmary, in order to make it appear as though the two men had fought. When Leclerc came around the next day, he learned that he’d already taken the fall for the murder. We let him know we would look out for him, and make sure that nobody bothered him.”

  “Which was better for him than him having an ‘accident’ if he ever claimed a different story.”

  The warden said nothing.

  “Well, somebody got to him in the end.”

  The warden shrugged and looked down. “In the end. I’m warden now, so I’m rarely on the cell block myself. Soldaux had retired. Passemier was on a different duty. We couldn’t protect him always.”

  “And he couldn’t go anywhere.”

  Letreau cleared his throat. “Inspector, this is revelatory, but what does it have to do with anything?” The chief of police needed his murder solved, not just any murder.

  Pelleter held up a staying hand to quiet Letreau. He prompted the warden. “So when Leclerc was murdered...”

  “It was a shock.”

  “But at the same time a relief, no? You were off the hook. Finally.”

  The warden didn’t respond, and Letreau shifted, impatient. The buzz from the squad room had grown enough to penetrate the office door, a quiet roar from the room outside.

  Pelleter said, “But then another prisoner was killed...”

  “It’s one thing for one prisoner to die in a stabbing,” the warden said, almost annoyed. “That happens. But a second one...it would have raised questions. Maybe even reopened the first case. I couldn’t risk my position as warden.”

  “Especially when you and Passemier are only three years away from retirement yourselves.” Pelleter looked up at Letreau and he saw that the chief of police got it, or at least this part of it. Pelleter didn’t want the warden to stop talking now that he was so unrestrained. The chief inspector pushed him again: “They had already sent Fournier to look after you. You hoped that he would just be your successor when you retired, but you couldn’t know for sure he wasn’t there to replace you...”

  “It wasn’t just me. Passemier was even more worried—and Soldaux, for his pension. I told them, it’s been three decades, there’s no way the old incident would come to light now, and yet...Unnecessary questions might just uncover unnecessary answers about Leclerc’s past...Soldaux built the coffin, and we used his truck. We’re not young men anymore, but we were able to rise to the challenge.”

  “So when the third prisoner was killed, and the fourth...”

  “That’s right. We just kept on.”

  “How many in all?”

  “After Leclerc? Five, plus Meranger. Six, then.”

  “What if the prisoners’ families came looking for them?”

  “Some had no family, or none who cared to stay in contact. For those that did...We’d record the prisoners as having been transferred...The ensuing investigation would either give us time to get out of the country, or come up with an alternate explanation.”

  “And the prison is large enough that you were able to keep the number of stabbings, and how many of them had ended in deaths, a secret...”

  “People might know some things, but no one would know everything.”

  “But what about Meranger,” burst out Letreau, not happy with how long Pelleter was taking to get there.

  Pelleter reached for a cigar again, and then remembered that he didn’t have any before his hand even went inside his jacket. “The night Meranger was killed it was raining. It was raining much too heavily to bury a body in a field. So they had to get rid of it another way. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” the warden said.

  “They changed Meranger into civilian clothes and dumped him in town, figuring that it would be assumed he had escaped, and then been killed by his accomplices after the fact.”

  Letreau shook his head, and said, “The things people do.”

  “Of course, the same downpour that prevented them from burying Meranger uncovered the hastily buried coffins of the other prisoners.”

  The warden just shook his head in disbelief. “Thirty-two years...” he said.

  The pitch of the noise from the squad room changed, and Letreau stepped away from the door, a puzzled expression on his face.

  Pelleter stood. When Letreau looked back, the inspector nodded that the chief of police should open the door.

  Everyone was on their feet in the station. Martin, Arnaud, and Lambert were wrestling a large man in his sixties around the booking desk. His arms were pulled back, his hands cuffed behind his back. In the background, a stunned Rosenkrantz, his arm protectively enveloping his wife, floated near the front door.

  The warden stood, and Pelleter put a hand on his upper arm, although he was not concerned that the warden was about to run.

  Letreau stepped up to where the struggle was going on as the prisoner kicked one of the desks several inches, and then Lambert tripped the man so that he came down onto the desk face first, dragging Martin and Arnaud with him, who held on.

  Pelleter was pleased to see that he had been right. The man was six-four, easily two hundred fifty pounds, and looked like a powerhouse despite his gray hair.

  Pelleter led the warden out of Letreau’s office, and as soon as the downed man saw the warden, he shouted, “You bastard!” Lambert knew to step forward and relieve Pelleter of the warden. “You ran out on us!” Soldaux shouted at the warden.

  “Monsieur Soldaux, thank you for joining us,” the chief inspector said. “It’s so nice to see you again, and really get a good look at you.”

  The large man struggled on the desk, wriggling his shoulders. “I’ve never seen you before in my life, and I wish I never did.”

  Pelleter brought his hand up to his bruised cheek, reassuring himself with the tender throb that was there under pressure. He looked over the prisoner, thinking. The warden’s wife stood, so stunned that she was speechless. Servières was writing it all down.

  “Where’s Passemier?” Pelleter said suddenly.

  “He wasn’t home.”

  Pelleter turned to the warden. “Does he have a car?”

  “No.”

  Letreau stepped forward, reasserting his command. “Put these men in the holding cell. Everyone else must have something to do. So start doing it.”

  The stunned atmosphere began to retake its normal shape. Letreau trailed his prisoners further into Town Hall.

  Lambert joined Pelleter, who had not moved since asking about Passemier.

  “We need to find the other guard. He attacked me last night.”

  “I’d wondered what happened to your face. I figured you’d fallen while shaving.”

  Pelleter gave that as much of a smile as it deserved. There was yelling from the back corridor now, and the warden’s wife was arguing with two of the other officers, asking where her husband had been taken.

  “Inspector.” It was Rosenkrantz.

  Pelleter raised an index finger to hold him off and continued talking to Lambert. “See if you can get Letreau. Tell him we need to start a stakeout. The train station, all of the major roads out of town. If Passemier’s still here, we don’t want him to get away.”

  Lambert began to go, but stopped when the chief inspector spoke again.

  “And we’ll need a wa
rrant. I want to search the man’s house.”

  “Inspector, I wanted to thank...”

  Pelleter let his raised hand drop. Rosenkrantz had stepped up to the booking desk. He held Clotilde so close that she had to stand at an angle to walk. Her hand lay flat on her husband’s chest.

  “Inspector...you were as good as your word, and I want you to know I’m grateful. For everything you did.”

  The words seemed to carry an extra weight, as though he meant to thank Pelleter for more than just his wife’s return. Had he told Clotilde of his binge the other night? Probably not.

  “No need to thank me,” Pelleter said. “Anyway, it’s not over yet.”

  14.

  Roadblock

  In Verargent, searching for missing children could be done on anyone’s authority. Arranging the complicated machinations involved in tracking down a fugitive—the necessary roadblocks, the search warrant for his home, informing the railroad—required the approval of the town magistrate.

  The portion of Town Hall used for the administrative operations of the town distinguished itself from the police station with high ceilings. The light fixtures hung on long cords overhead, casting self-important shadows.

  Pelleter paced in the hall outside the magistrate’s office. Letreau was inside. Pelleter imagined he was taking great care to show that all actions had been taken under his authority, embarrassed now at how flustered he had been in the preceding few days. In the meantime, he had had the sense to set up the roadblocks first and to get the paperwork done afterwards.

  Pelleter cast an impatient glance at the closed office door with each pass. The bruise on his face seemed alive with worry, three pinpricks of red in the center of the wound. He had sent Lambert to the train station in anticipation of the midday train to the city. Servières had gone with Lambert, certain that the story was with him.

  Pelleter stopped in front of the magistrate’s door, willing it to open. Letreau’s officers were in the process of cutting off the main routes of escape, but something worried him. It was not that they might be too late. If Passemier had been planning to run the night before, then following and attacking Pelleter would have been counter to his plans. It was the attack itself that bothered him. People made rash decisions when they felt cornered. Passemier was violent and a murderer and he had already shown what something as simple as an informal interrogation would drive him to. If they cut off his escape routes, what would be his next move?