by John Farrow
Happy enough being a cop, he was happier still that the khaki-green uniform had brought Camille Choquette into his life. They both lived on the same side of the lake, she in a small village, he in the countryside. From time to time she had noticed him shopping for himself in a local supermarket. She had discerned the bachelor traits, particularly a predilection for frozen dinners to augment a diet of chips and beer. Camille made the first move.
“It’s not that I love cops,” she cooed. “I don’t know any cops. It just seems to me that a man who straps on a gun to go to work in the morning has to be more interesting than some toad who checks to make sure he has his comb and calculator.”
Painchaud was not going to argue the point. Accepting his elevated status above mere toads, he smiled, and conceded that she might be right.
Camille made the relationship amazingly easy for him. Initially wary, he understood the situation soon enough. He was no prime catch, but she was an unwed mother, which limited her options and opportunities. Everybody carried baggage, and if he possessed liabilities—not too tall, not particularly charismatic, a wonky smile—well, so did she. Love was a guessing game for him. Camille made him happy, and he offered her the convenience of an established man with a regular job and a natural affection for children. He was someone to take her to dinner and a movie on a Saturday night. Love? Maybe. She offered him intermittent companionship—she didn’t seem to want him around too much—and aggressive sex. They were a fit.
Painchaud showered, shaved, and put on his uniform. He’d pulled a half-shift in the morning and planned to record his meeting with Cinq-Mars and Camille as being his second half-shift of the day. As he geared up for the meeting, his excitement intensified. His purpose in all this was to save Camille, and that thrilled him, for it would make him look good, possibly heroic, in her sight. He also hoped that he could save Lucy. While his primary interest was to help the two women, he knew that if he succeeded he’d reap personal benefits. If he continued to work alongside Cinq-Mars and crack this case, his own reputation within the department might soar. Suddenly, he’d be looked at differently. He did not require the adulation that consistently befell Cinq-Mars, but he was hoping that, finally, he might earn simple respect from his colleagues.
That would be nice.
Emerging from his bedroom, Painchaud heard the cranky buzz of his doorbell and checked his watch. Too early for Cinq-Mars. He crossed through his small living room to answer the door and neither saw nor heard either of the two men who emerged behind his back, crouching, moving silently forward, one from the kitchen, the other from behind a bookshelf. Opening the inside door, he saw the back of a man’s head outside the locked storm door, then white light as a blow to his scalp drove him to his knees. Too late, he resisted, grasped a leg, but he had lost his bearings, his strength was gone, his coordination. Vaguely conscious, he remained unresponsive while he was dragged back across the living-room floor. He wanted to kick, or flail, but he could not. Through his daze he tried to make out the man who had rung the bell and who had been admitted into his house, and at first he saw only that he wore a suit and tie. Something was wrong with the guy’s face. It looked grotesque. Suddenly, Painchaud understood, and he was terrified. This attack was not the work of drugged thieves or juvenile hooligans. The man who had entered through the front door was wearing a nylon stocking over his face.
Simpler to blindfold him. Simpler still to knock him out cold. Apparently, the men in his house wanted him to see what was coming next, and so had disguised their identities.
Mathers stayed behind Roland Harvey at a safe distance. The rolling, wooded terrain allowed him to catch sight of the squad car ahead of him through the trees or on the crests of hills while simultaneously providing camouflage. In his rickety wreck he remained inconspicuous on Indian land.
They crossed into Oka, then left that town behind.
Suddenly, he lost him. The road skirted a hill with broad views of the valley sweeping down through parkland to the lake. The vehicle was no longer ahead of him on a straight run. Mathers did a U-turn and slowly headed back, watching for side roads and drives. This time he spotted the squad car as he passed the Oka Monastery.
He continued on by and turned again, and he was passing the monastery a third time when he pulled off into a visitors’ parking lot, close to the store where the monks sold their cheese, maple syrup and sundry farm products. Famous for their cheese, the monks had sold their operation to Kraft, but they continued to maintain small cottage industries. From the lot, Bill Mathers strolled down through the snow and the trees to lower ground, and there, in a much smaller parking area, were two cars—Roland Harvey’s squad car, and a blue Honda Accord.
His cellphone vibrated in his pocket. Behind a maple tree, Mathers answered. “Hello?”
“Bill?”
“Emile, give me the number.”
“Excuse me?”
“The license plate for Lucy’s car, do you have it yet?”
“Hang on.” Cinq-Mars read the plate number back to him.
“I’ve found her, Emile. The car, anyway, but I bet she’s here. I bet she’s in the east wing of the Oka Monastery. Harvey led me right there. How about them apples?”
His partner whistled at the news.
“What should I do?”
“Beat it. Don’t be seen. Knock off for the day. I’ll call tonight.”
“Take care, Emile.”
At the monk’s store he purchased a pound of cheese, then headed back to the city. Along the way Mathers passed Charles Painchaud’s house—out of curiosity, he’d looked for it on the way out—and noticed, beside an SQ, squad car and a Dodge Neon, a white stretch limo parked in the front yard. Some cops, although not too many, lived charmed lives. Mathers assumed that Painchaud’s big-shot father was paying his son a visit, and he continued the drive around the frozen lake toward home.
The impact of the first blows to his gut was thunderous, robbing him of air and strength, and Charles Painchaud was reduced to gasping on the pinewood floor. As a skinny kid he’d been bullied often, and he knew that he had to keep his mind together, he couldn’t panic, he’d have to start talking soon. But this was already different, he felt paralysed, he couldn’t breathe and he was scared for his life. The men were waiting for him to recover, and nobody had pulled a knife or a gun. That gave him hope. Then a big man commenced beating him again, raising his fist back and smashing whatever part of him Painchaud could not protect, and the policeman cried out and groaned.
The gorilla started methodically kicking him. Painchaud buckled with each blow and he was moaning now continuously as blood filled his mouth and nostrils and a horrendous pain in his groin made him scream, and he was spitting blood when he was skimmed off the floor and thrown against one wall and picked up again and thrown against another. He crashed through furniture and blood blinded him and suddenly he was tossed back up on the arm of his sofa.
“Sit up,” a voice instructed him.
Painchaud groaned and held his arms wrapped across his chest as though holding himself together, and he tried to concentrate on breathing.
He looked up through the blood in his eyes.
The three men who faced him wore nylon stockings over their heads.
“Sergeant Painchaud,” said the man who had been at the door, as he put on a pair of leather gloves, “call me Jacques. I answer to that name if you speak to me in a civil tongue.”
“What do you want, Jacques?” Painchaud’s own voice was faint, breathless, it sounded far away to him. Breathing hurt. One of the punches had probably cracked a rib and the pain had begun to overwhelm him now. He saw that the goon who had done most of the damage had huge hands and wore a massive set of brass knuckles that dripped blood. His blood.
“Explain to me why you killed my good buddy, Andrew Stettler.”
“I didn’t.”
That was the wrong answer. A fury of blows drove him over the side of the sofa onto the floor again where he was kick
ed and stomped and the policeman sheltered his eyes in the crook of an elbow and curled up to protect his groin. Painchaud was spitting up blood now and he was delirious, wanting to get away, wanting to be released from the hammering punches and the scrum of boots, and when it was finally over he wanted to crawl away but he could not, he could only curl up with the pain and moan.
His assailant pulled him off the floor again as if he were weightless and propped him up on the sofa’s armrest once more.
He could see through only one eye now and breathing caused sharp pains in his chest.
“Now that’s a shame,” Jacques commented. “I was hoping we could get along. You’re a professional, I’m a professional, I thought we could conduct business in a professional manner. In a practical way. You know what I mean? If you killed Andy Stettler, say so. I’d like to discuss that with you. Find out what happened. Just don’t bullshit me, Sergeant. That’s all I’m asking of you right now.”
He wobbled on the armrest. He tried to look at his inquisitor, but had trouble raising his head, and when he did he only glimpsed that nylon stocking through his one undamaged eye.
“So I’ll ask you again. Why’d you whack Andy?”
To answer honestly would be to receive another drubbing. In his misery he was tempted to lie, to confess to the crime. He had to believe that they were beating on him because they were not sure of their facts and wanted things confirmed. If he was going to prove his innocence in this courtroom, he would have to convince the judge and jury through the crucible of punishment.
“I didn’t do it,” he said.
The thug held him up with one hand and slammed blows to his midsection with the other. With every punch, Painchaud emitted the last of his air and spittle, and his body convulsed and he moaned aloud. He fell to his knees and the man punched his face then. He heard his nose break and felt teeth pop loose, and his jaw cracked, and that punch turned him around and dashed him to the floor again.
He was being raised up once more, but now the pain and the shock and the misery raged inside him, and he was seated once more on the armrest, where he tottered.
“My man will keep whaling on you until you learn to speak truthfully. I know you think you’re Camille Choquette’s boyfriend, I know you were jealous that Andy was giving it to her the same time as you, and I know you killed him because you’re a jealous little prick. Now hold your head up and look at me, Sergeant!”
Fearfully, Painchaud managed to do so.
“Do you want me to take off my stocking? I’m asking you fair and square. Do you want me to take off my stocking?”
He knew what that meant. “No,” he mumbled.
“That’s the first smart thing you’ve said since I got here. I’m not going to knock you around for that. See how it goes? If you make sense, we leave you alone. We’ll listen to what you have to say. If you want to be an idiot and waste my time, then I’m sorry, but my partner’s going to work you over. Understood?”
Jacques was speaking rapid-fire French. Painchaud wanted to plead with him. He resisted, knowing that it would do him no good. With every unbroken bone in his body he wanted to reason with this man’s good nature, because with every pore of his flesh he wanted to believe the man had to have a good side to his nature—his life depended on it.
“I’ll ask you again. Do you want me take off my stocking?”
“No, don’t take it off,” Painchaud insisted, slurring his words as his tongue, which he had bitten himself, and his swollen lips no longer functioned properly.
He suddenly vomited blood, and the men waited for his retching to cease.
“Why’d you kill Andy?”
The thug was already raising his fists, the knuckles dripping blood. Those hands could do him serious damage. “I think I know who did it,” Painchaud managed to murmur. “But it wasn’t me.”
The man’s fist seemed the size of Painchaud’s head, and he raised it back with the brass glinting in the light as though to unleash a horrendous blow. The policeman cringed and was trying to back his head away when Jacques dropped an arm across the goon’s chest to deter him. “I’m listening,” he said.
“Werner Honigwachs,” he gasped. Painchaud winced as he tried to draw a decent breath.
“Look at this!” Jacques yelled at him as the third man in the room came over with the policeman’s holster and pistol. “We’ve got your weapon. We’ll use your own weapon! Now, do you want me to show you my face or not?”
“No! No! Don’t show me your face. I’m the Investigating Officer on this case.” He had to talk without moving his smashed mouth. “I believe it was Honigwachs!”
“Prove it.”
“I can’t! Yet.”
“I’m taking off the stocking now—” Jacques threatened.
“No! No! It wasn’t me!”
The next punch came right across his jaw, his head spun out and back, and Painchaud flew up and landed hard on the floor. The three men stood over him and he was breathing in pain and he was in shock and not wholly cognizant of his circumstances any more.
Then the two larger men came around to where he had fallen and between them they kicked him awhile.
Jacques bent down beside him when the other two had stopped. “Your own gun,” he said in a low, soft voice. “Think about the indignity of that. That’s gotta be the worst thing for a cop. Everybody in the SQ will know it. They’ll say, poor bugger, he bought it the worst way there is. That’s a stinking way to die, if you ask me. Me, I’ll take my mask off. I’ll let you see my face. Then I’ll blow your brains out. But your buddies? The cops? They’ll kill you a thousand times over. Poor little shit, they’ll say. Took it up the ass with his own gun. Oh yeah,” he whispered. “First I’ll blow your brains out, as a kindness, then I’ll shoot one up your ass. For posterity, you know? You’ll be remembered that way. The cop who took it up the ass from his own weapon.”
He shifted his weight around to rest one of his bent knees. “Hand me his pistol,” he said to an associate. He took the gun in his hand. Jacques snapped the safety off. He pulled back the hammer and placed the cold steel of the barrel’s tip against Painchaud’s temple. He began to tug his stocking up and off.
“It wasn’t me,” Painchaud coughed, and with his words he spit blood.
“Why’d you kill Andy? Just tell me why, that’s all, and I will leave you.”
“It wasn’t me,” he pleaded.
Jacques tugged the stocking higher, revealing his chin and then his mouth. “Why?”
“It wasn’t me!” He breathed out heavily and a tooth that had been rammed through his lower lip tumbled out, pulled from its socket by the effort of speaking.
“Why’d you kill Andy?” The policeman’s head lolled around and Jacques followed it with the pistol.
He was weeping now. Painchaud sputtered quietly. “I didn’t. It wasn’t me.”
Jacques pulled the stocking up to his nose.
The cop dropped his head down and he found the strength to raise his hands and cover his eyes. He awaited death.
Jacques held the gun to his head.
Then he said, “Shit,” and he pulled the stocking down. He stood up. “The goddamned system gives us a reasonable doubt. I’ve gotten off on a reasonable doubt myself once or twice. Maybe it was three times. So I’ll do the same thing for you. This is your lucky day, asshole. I won’t do no cop-killing if I got a reasonable doubt.” He tossed the pistol onto the sofa. “Beat on him awhile,” he told his confederates, “just in case I’m wrong and he killed Andy. I wouldn’t want him to think he got away with something here.”
The two other men beat him with their boots and their brass-covered fists, and the only sounds in the room were the terrible thuds into the man’s body and the grunts emitted by his attackers. Finally Jacques said, “All right. Now wreck the room.” His goons went around the room smashing things until Jacques called them off.
The three left by the front door.
Long after they were gone, Painchau
d was awakened from his stupor by the buzzing of his telephone. The instrument had been knocked from its table onto the floor, and the phone emitted a repetitive burring to alert the occupant that the receiver was off the hook. Painchaud gazed at the phone awhile. Then he crawled toward it. He had a little bit farther to go, although his body screamed to stay still.
Painchaud worked his thumb onto the small plastic bar that closed the line, then released it to get a dial tone. He had automatic dialling. The phone had been a Christmas gift from a brother who thought the convenience necessary for the proper enjoyment of life. Concentrating, Painchaud tapped Camille’s code. One digit. The only speed-dialling numbers he had entered were hers. He intended to call her at work, but in his pain and delirium he’d dialled her home answering machine by mistake. “Camille,” he stammered. “It’s Charlie.” His voice was guttural, plaintive, slurred. “Need help. My place. Get help. Call someone. Hurry.” He never did hang up. The receiver fell at his side as he succumbed first to a tide of pain, then to a growing grey fog that seemed to rise from the floor like smoke and, entering through his skin and larynx, comforted him.
The same day, after dark, Tuesday, February 15th
Camille Choquette pushed her child ahead of her into the house, toting the groceries, yearning for the day when somebody else would perform these chores. Freedom! From the mundane, from crap! She was so close. She just had to get through these days, and she and Werner would be home free.
She’d had to pick up food for dinner, and something to serve Charlie and Cinq-Mars when they dropped by in the evening. She had had to dash to make it in from work, pick up Carole from her after-school babysitter, tidy the house, feed herself and her child, and plan what she was going to say and how she was going to say it. Damn you, Charlie—springing this on me!
And yet, she could not have refused. Cinq-Mars knew things now, Charlie had said, and it would be just like the little prick to have revealed those things himself! She planned to wring his neck. He had actually sounded excited when he’d called. She didn’t think she had to worry, but things were moving so fast it was hard to stay calm. And she had to stay calm.
