The Marble Mask

by Mayor, Archer

  With unexpected tenderness, Lacombe reached out and laid his hand on Marcel’s. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll talk later. Preserve your health.”

  There was a knock at the door, and a police officer gestured to Lacombe. Behind him we could see Gaston Picard, dressed as if ready for the races at Ascot. Lacombe exchanged a few words with the cop and then gestured to us to come over.

  “I will now have to talk with these people. You may stay if you like, but you might also like to look at Marcel’s office down the hall. I will be there soon in any case—it is where much evidence will be found, I think. At least I hope,” he added with a smile.

  We began taking his advice, filing past Picard, Guidry, Michel, and the others without comment, when suddenly Michel exploded, bursting from behind his elders and flying at Lacombe with his arms out. I saw the flash of those wide eyes, the glitter of saliva on his lips as he shoved me aside, and then saw Lacombe smoothly lean out of the way, grab one of Michel’s wrists, and use his own momentum to hurl him up against the wall, where our police escort pinned him in place, mashing his cheek against the ornate wallpaper.

  Picard began to say something to him, but it was a short command from the bedroom that instantly calmed things down. Like a trained Doberman, Michel dropped from attack mode, becoming silent and compliant. Lacombe nodded at the cop to let him go, and everyone resumed their demeanor of moments ago. It had been a jarring and odd display, and as Paul and I continued to move away, I began to seriously wonder about the mental health of this crooked clan.

  Paul and I followed the officer down the hall to a room as English in appearance as the bedroom had seemed French. Here the walls were all dark wood paneling, the windows leaded glass, and the shelves filled with as many books as we’d seen in the library. There was an empty fireplace, lots of indirect lighting from heavily shaded lamps, and a scattering of rugs and overstuffed leather furniture that tinted the air with an essence of old wool and saddle soap. There was also a wall covered with stuffed animal heads and exotic ancient weaponry.

  “Reminds me of some pictures I saw of the Playboy mansion once,” Paul said as we entered. “Very hormonal—not unlike what we just witnessed.”

  The search team technicians were most earnestly at work here, and we ended up standing in the middle of the room, watching the equivalent of a three-dimensional training film as they slowly took the place and its contents apart. Lacombe had joined us by the time they’d reached the point of sounding the paneled walls for hollow spots, one of which they found among the animal heads and weaponry.

  After some discussion and the use of an electronic sensing device, one of the search team worked her way back to the oversized desk across the room and located what looked like a television remote. She hit a button on it, and we all watched as one of the wall panels moved back slightly into a cavity and then slid from sight to one side, revealing a trophy wall of a wholly different nature.

  Before us, mounted on a felt-covered surface, was an artful array of modern pistols, rifles, and shotguns, knives, blunt objects, a single garrote, and even something that vaguely looked like a bear trap. Some of the items looked factory-fresh and never used, others like debris left behind by a war—stained, rusted, and ruined with use.

  But the item that caught all our eyes almost as soon as it was revealed was modest, domestically practical, and curiously homely by comparison.

  Carefully suspended against the dark green surface, surrounded by weapons designed to crush, maim, and mutilate, was a tool almost dainty in contrast, its fancy silver handle reminiscent of the butt end of an orchestra conductor’s baton.

  It was an ice pick.

  Chapter 15

  I SLOWLY SLID MY STOCKINGED FEET UNDER GAIL’S bottom, careful not to spill the mug of soup cradled in my hands. We were sitting opposite one another on an overstuffed couch in her condo outside Montpelier, wrapped in heavy terry cloth robes, our legs entwined, our bodies tired and pampered from making love and sitting too long in a hot tub afterward. I’d taken a short break from the investigation to allow Lacombe and his bunch time to build a case against Marcel Deschamps, and to report our progress to Bill Allard in Waterbury, just a short drive from Gail’s.

  As usual, she was analyzing the recent past in practical political terms. “This must have made your various bosses happy,” she said. “It’s not every day you get handed a half-century-old homicide and solve it overnight. I heard the governor blowing VBI’s horn on the news this afternoon—talking about how well a tactical approach can cut through the red tape.”

  I let the strong aroma of hot soup fill my nostrils before taking a cautious sip. “I hope he doesn’t have to apologize later,” I said after a pause.

  Her eyebrows rose. “Is there a chance of that?”

  I tried a vague approach. “It’s up to the prosecutors now. It is an extradition case, after all—we can’t have at him unless the Canadians think there’s just cause. You know how that can go.”

  I should have known better. Her expression turned serious. “You sound like the case might be shaky.”

  “There are questions. We all think this came together pretty easily.”

  “Marcel Deschamps didn’t do it?”

  I made a face and shrugged. “The evidence said he did. Means, motive, and opportunity are in place. It even makes sense logically, sort of.”

  “But you’re not convinced,” she concluded.

  “I’ve still got inquiries going,” I admitted. “That’s what I told Bill this afternoon. Despite the supposed straight line between Jean being murdered and his son killing him, there’re a lot of messy, unexplained details and a couple of awfully convenient coincidences.”

  “Was Bill sympathetic?”

  “More or less. He wanted assurances that (a) nothing I had going would unnecessarily upset the apple cart, and that (b) Willy wasn’t involved in any of it.”

  Gail laughed. “I can’t blame him there. What did you tell him?”

  “I lied on both counts. Willy’s one of the best diggers I know, and how the hell do I know if we’ll upset any apple carts? We might. We might not.”

  She gave me a rueful smile. “Hardly the best start to a new career.”

  “You should know.”

  It was an unnecessarily pointed comment, which she absorbed thoughtfully, concentrating on the contents of her own mug. Just a few months earlier, she’d been a newly hired deputy state’s attorney. Unfortunately, she’d quickly found it an awkward fit, given her penchant for championing the disadvantaged, and had locked horns with her boss during her first major case, winning in court and being all but fired in the process. Her advice on new careers, therefore, carried some cautionary baggage.

  But I wasn’t guiltless, either. I hadn’t left a lifelong job as a municipal cop just because VBI suddenly came knocking. I’d been falsely accused of a theft a while back—a headline maker that a hungry deputy attorney general had tried and failed to mold to his political advantage. During the mudslinging, he’d suggested that I’d committed the theft out of feelings of inadequacy—being a frustrated, aging flatfoot living with a rich, attractive, upwardly mobile younger woman.

  Baloney, as the woman in question and I had rationally assured each other. But the portrait had stung, and when VBI became a reality, I joined as much out of pride as for its mission’s altruism. That tainted motivation continued to nag me, especially now that we were living apart once more and in distant towns for months at a time. In Brattleboro, whether under the same roof or not, we’d seen each other all the time. Ever since those opportunities had become more haphazard, they’d been laden with doubts and worries with no real basis in fact.

  Which is why I’d asked Gail from my hospital bed how we were doing.

  Apparently, my rudeness had now given her pause. “I told you how I felt about us after they pulled you out of the snow,” she began almost timidly. “But I didn’t ask you the same question. Should I have?”

  I shook
my head, irritated with myself. “Only if you’d wanted the same answer. I’m sorry about that crack—not sure where it came from.”

  “I am,” she said more confidently. “You’ve spent your entire professional life as an insider—the hometown cop. Now you’re on the outside, trying to win the trust of everyone you meet, including your own bosses. You’ve got no base, no organization, a patchwork squad, and a seriously distracted girlfriend.”

  I wagged a finger at her. “Better not let your feminist friends hear you say that.”

  She poked me with her toe. “They’re as sentimental as the next person. What do you think, though? Are we heading for a crash with all this career stuff, or can we make it work?”

  I wanted to choose my words carefully this time. “We’ve gone through a lot worse. I’d like to think we can beat this, too. Might take some adjusting—now and then.”

  She smiled warmly and snuggled down more securely into the pillows behind her. “I can do that. Tell me about Willy and Sam.”

  I laughed at the abrupt shift. “I’m more of a wishful thinker there. It’s tough to tell—they’re so buttoned down about it. He’s softened up a lot, though, so selfishly speaking, I hope they can pull it off. And they are fun to watch—hardheads in love. I guess time’ll tell.”

  Along with everyone else I knew, Gail didn’t like Willy Kunkle, but she also couldn’t help looking pleased. “And the team in general?”

  “I like Paul Spraiger. He doesn’t talk unless he has something to say. Gary Smith and I knocked heads early on because of the VBI thing, but I think we’ve made up. And I don’t know about Tom Shanklin, except that he’s done nothing wrong and hasn’t taken any potshots. He seems to be a nice guy. Just keeps his own counsel.”

  She appeared satisfied by all that, nodding ever so gently as she sipped her soup.

  “Is Montpelier life living up to expectations?” I asked in turn.

  Since we’d already addressed our mutual misgivings, the question was less loaded than it might have been ten minutes ago. Gail was relaxed enough now to show real enthusiasm. “Even better. It’s like everything I did before suddenly coming together. All those boards I used to be on, the selectman job, going back to law school, even selling real estate. They all make sense now—being put to use at the same time. I love making things happen that affect the whole state. The hassles are familiar, but the rewards make them more worthwhile.”

  “So, you’re happily upwardly mobile,” I said.

  She didn’t deny it, which made me feel just the smallest bit mournful. “Who knows?” she answered. “There’s so much going on here, so many bright people… It’s exciting to think of the possibilities.”

  It was that, and I knew I was sitting with a woman who had the smarts and drive necessary to be governor or a member of Congress. I therefore couldn’t but wish her well in the pursuit of her dreams—while also casting backward to when things had been quieter and less ambitious. A farmer’s son, I was more attuned to an evolutionary pace—and not so enamored of change for change’s sake, which often seemed to rule in Gail’s new environment. I had never undersold her sense of right and wrong, but it made me nervous to see her so avid about a lifestyle society was largely trained to mistrust. Politicians and lawyer/lobbyists weren’t often credibly combined with integrity and idealism. As one-sided a view as any other prejudice, it still made me uneasy when it involved someone I loved.

  · · ·

  Kathy Bartlett waited until I’d settled into one of the chairs in her temporary office on the second floor of the Sûreté building back in Sherbrooke. Paul Spraiger and Gary Smith were already there. I was newly returned from my trip to Vermont.

  “The case against Marcel Deschamps is going soft,” she announced.

  I glanced at the other two, recalling how I’d told Gail that the governor’s optimism might have been premature. From their neutral expressions, I guessed they’d already been briefed. “I can’t say I’m surprised,” I said. “What’s been going on?”

  “I think the crown prosecutor is starting to buy Marcel’s line that he wasn’t in Vermont in ’47, didn’t kill his father, and honestly thought some rival had done him in.”

  “Based on what?”

  “The video of Marcel’s interrogation,” she explained. “Canadian law demands that all police interrogations be videotaped. After Marcel’s session, Lacombe and company began kicking around how credible he seemed. My counterpart, Boulle, decided he wanted an expert opinion, so he sent the tape to a behavioral science team in Montreal—apparently that’s an option they use now and then. It would drive me nuts.”

  Guillaume Boulle was the Sherbrooke crown prosecutor Lacombe kept invoking, and the same man who’d accompanied us the night we’d raided Marcel’s house. I’d heard his and Kathy’s styles were beginning to clash, she being more type-A, and he having a barely veiled contempt for assertive women. This latest glitch wasn’t going to help.

  “The report come back yet?” I asked.

  She didn’t look happy. “That’s why you’re here. They say he sounds truthful. That he has the right personality for a leader of a bunch of cutthroats, but that he didn’t do this one.”

  “And you don’t buy that,” I guessed.

  “It’s too fine a line for me. How the hell can you tell if a guy sounds like he either killed or didn’t kill his father half a century ago, especially if he’s ordered hits in the meantime? I think it’s a psycho-babble crock they’ve chosen over hard evidence. Why I don’t know, unless somebody’s playing footsie under the table.”

  In the silence following that comment, I could hear the hard drive of her portable computer humming on her desk.

  “Kathy,” I said cautiously, “are you blowing off steam, or do you really believe that? ’Cause if you do, you’ve got to act on it.”

  She gave me a rueful smile. “I’m a fish out of water here. It pisses me off.”

  I didn’t say anything. I could feel the other two looking from one of us to the other, like spectators at a tennis match.

  “All right,” she relented. “I don’t really believe there’s any corruption going on. At least I don’t have proof of it. But these guys are so mellow, I’d like to strangle them. I know goddamn well if I had Marcel in the U.S., I could find five shrinks to say those Canadian profilers are full of it. I don’t understand why they’re bending over backward to tank such a strong case.”

  I had my own doubts about that strength, which made me duck the debate entirely. “What’re they going to do?” I asked instead.

  “They’ve asked him to take a lie detector test.”

  Gary Smith laughed. “The head of a crime family? What the hell do they expect?”

  “That he might accept,” Kathy explained grimly. “Problem is, if he does—and passes—it means we’re in shit up to our necks.”

  Smith’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding. I thought polygraphs weren’t acceptable in court.”

  “We’re not talking about court, Gary. We’re talking about the crown prosecutor not pursuing the case because he doesn’t believe the guy’s guilty.”

  Gary thought back a moment. “What about all those weapons they found behind the wall—the murder museum? Can’t they make a connection between any of those and Marcel?”

  “They’ve been trying,” she told him, “but they’re mostly old hat. The bear trap’s a perfect example—it had traces of human blood on it, but there’s no record of a trap being used in an unsolved crime. The ice pick’s a minor miracle as it is. Marcel’s fingerprints would have decayed by now, but the handle was silver and became permanently etched by the skin oil—pure dumb luck, along with DNA matching being invented in the meantime to pin the blood to Jean Deschamps. Without that, we wouldn’t have gotten this far.”

  “How ’bout the lawyer, Picard?” Gary continued. “He was in Stowe two days before they found Deschamps. What’s he say about that?”

  I could tell from Kathy’s expression where that w
as headed. “Sorry,” she said. “He claims he was taking in the sights. A little day trip. ‘People do it all the time,’ to quote him. And in case you were going to ask,” she added, “it’s a no-go putting Marcel in Stowe in 1947—or Picard or Guidry for that matter. They can’t find anyone who’ll admit to knowing where any of them were when Jean was killed.”

  I stood up to stop a discussion I knew had no happy outcome, especially if my personal misgivings were going to be called into play. “Then it’s wait and watch time. I take it Marcel’s people haven’t responded to the polygraph offer yet?”

  “Right.”

  Gary was looking confused. “What does happen if he passes? Don’t we get a shot at him? I thought this was an American case.”

  Kathy frowned. “It is, but only if we can extradite him, and that won’t be easy. They’re already muttering about the age of the crime, the lack of witnesses, the suspect’s failing health, and their own lack of enthusiasm as legal stumbling blocks.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We keep digging,” I said from the door, “and hope we can turn things around.”

  I ran into André Rousseau of the RCMP outside in the hallway a few minutes later.

  “You’re back,” he said smoothly. “Good trip?”

  “Mostly just reporting to twitchy superiors. They’re nervous about making a good impression.”

  “The debut of the VBI? There must be a lot of people hoping you’ll fail.”

  I was getting tired of hearing that. “A few. I hear Marcel sounded credible to your behavioral scientists.”

  He shook his head. “Not mine—the SQ’s. All very chummy.”

  I looked at him sharply. “Meaning?” I asked, Kathy’s similar implication still fresh in my mind.

  “Nothing,” Rousseau answered vaguely. “We have a file on Marcel Deschamps that goes back to when he took over—bribery, assault, intimidation, jury tampering, homicide—you name it. He’s been connected to all of it one way or another, although never close enough to put him in jail. And yet he lives here comfortably in a big house, expecting to die of old age. It makes you wonder how that came to be, assuming the local police were on their toes.”