The Twenty-Year Death (3 page)

Pelleter didn’t point out that somebody had been murdered in town the night before. After all, Letreau was right.

“It looks this bad on a sunny day too. I hate coming out here.”

At the front door, there was a loud clank as the lock was released, and then the door was opened to admit them. It was musty inside, and the only light came from two exposed light bulbs high on the wall.

“I’ll take your coats, gentleman,” the guard said.

“How are you today, Remy?” Letreau asked the guard.

“I’m still alive, Chief,” the guard said, hanging the coats in a small booth just inside the door.

“There’s always that.”

Pelleter pushed open the door to the administrative offices, while Letreau stayed to talk a moment with the guard. Nothing had changed in the two years since Pelleter had been there last. It was the same large room with two rows of desks down the center. The same filing cabinets lined the walls. The same people sat behind the desks. The same drab paint reflected the electric bulbs hanging from the ceiling.

The warden, a large gray-haired man, must have been informed that Pelleter was there, since he was waiting with a look of impatience just inside the door. He managed to use his irritation to add to his air of importance.

“Inspector Pelleter. I’m so glad. If you had been even five minutes more, we would have missed each other. I have promised my wife a holiday in the city, and she is expecting me an hour ago.”

A neat, sharp-angled man stood with his hands crossed in front of him just behind the warden.

“Let me introduce Monsieur Fournier. I don’t believe you’ve met. Fournier is the Assistant Warden here now. He takes care of the jobs I don’t want to.”

Fournier took Pelleter’s hand. “He jests.”

None of the men smiled.

“Fournier will be in charge while I am away, and he will be more than capable of assisting you with anything you need. Not that you need much assistance. You are an old hand at this.” The warden smiled at that, but it was an expression of pure malice. “You could have probably gone to get the prisoner yourself.”

He looked around the office. The people at the desks made an effort to focus on their paperwork, but they were clearly uncomfortable.

“I really must be going.” He looked at his watch and then the clock on the wall. “I shouldn’t have even stopped to say hello. Fournier, you have everything you need.”

“Yes,
Monsieur le Directeur
.”

The warden stepped towards his office, but stopped when the outer door opened to reveal Letreau.

“Chief Letreau,” the warden said, and he glanced at Fournier, confused and accusatory. “Nothing is wrong, I trust.”

Letreau paused in the doorway, surprised at being addressed so suddenly. He looked at Pelleter, but Pelleter was unreadable. “As Remy says, I’m still alive.”

“Yes,” the warden said, almost sneering as he took possession of himself. “There’s always that.”

Letreau stepped in and greeted the other people in the office including Fournier.

The warden excused himself, and disappeared into his office.

“If you’ll follow me, Chief Inspector,” Fournier said. They left the administrative offices, and went down a barren hallway. Fournier conducted himself with an icy precision throughout. “I understand you have been here before.”

“This will be my third visit.”

“The warden feels you give this man too much credit and that you make him feel important. It is our job to be sure that these men do not feel important. They are criminals.”

Pelleter said nothing. He retrieved his partially smoked cigar from his pocket and put it between his lips without lighting it.

“There is no question that there is a certain intelligence in some of them, and that their crimes require guts. Perhaps in
another time they would have been something else. But here they are still criminals. They are to be punished, not applauded. And it is dangerous to make any of them feel important.”

They were outside one of the visiting rooms, which also served as interrogation rooms if needed. “Is that what the warden says?”

“It’s what I say,” Fournier said, his expression unchanged. He unlocked the door with a key on a large ring. “Wait here.”

Pelleter paused, but resisted asking Fournier if he knew just what Mahossier had done. The assistant warden hadn’t seen the way those children had been brutalized. A man who could do that felt important all on his own.

Pelleter went into the room. The door closed behind him, and his jaw clenched around his cigar at the clang. The room was devoid of any distinguishing features, just stone below, above, and all around. No sounds penetrated the walls. If this was not enough punishment for a criminal, than Pelleter didn’t know what was.

The door opened only a moment later, and two guards led Mahossier in. He was a small old man, bald, with deep wrinkles across his forehead, and a beaked nose. His hands had been cuffed in front of him, and another set of cuffs chained his legs together. These had been linked by a third chain between the two. The guards sat Mahossier in the seat across from Pelleter.

Fournier had also come in with the three other men. “We will be right outside the door. If he tries—”

“We’ll be fine,” Pelleter interrupted.

“But if—”

“We’ll be fine.”

Fournier flared his nostrils, the first time he had allowed his emotions to be seen.

“The Chief Inspector and I go way back,” Mahossier said, his
eyes locked on Fournier, his voice so quiet it was almost soothing.

Fournier nodded to the guards, and the three men left the room, closing the door behind them and engaging the lock.

“How’s Madame Pelleter?” Mahossier said.

Pelleter moved his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. Facing the man, it was all he could do to keep the images of those children out of his mind.

Mahossier seemed to know it.

“Still no children?” Mahossier smiled. “But, of course... That ship has sailed. It’s much too late for you now. Such a shame. Children really make the world worth living in.” His eyebrows furrowed and his lips fell in a theatrical frown. “Of course, there are never any children here.” His expression went cold. “Plenty of rain though.”

Pelleter bit his cigar again. He’d have to light it soon just to help him breathe.

“But of course, even if it’s too late for Madame Pelleter, it’s not too late for you. A Chief Inspector! Plenty of young girls out there. Someone to take care of you in your old age. Think of it!”

Mahossier’s excitement at his own fantasy took him over, and he looked up, almost overjoyed. The chains weighing him down were nothing to him. He looked back at Pelleter.

“So how is Madame Pelleter? Well, I trust.”

Pelleter waited patiently. It wouldn’t do to rush him. If Mahossier thought that he was getting a reaction from the inspector, then he would go on forever.

“How do you like this room? You must...they keep putting you in it. It’s much like mine, although I do have a little window.” He held up his right hand, which forced him to draw his left hand with it because of the cuffs, and he indicated a narrow
space with his thumb and forefinger. “It’s a small window, but at least it’s a window. And I have you to thank...Thank you... Thank you...I must have you up some time. You should tell the warden that you are more than welcome...Or Fournier. But then he’ll think I like you, he’s not as smart as you, he wouldn’t know you’re not my type.”

He looked up again, and it made the wrinkles in his forehead even deeper.

Pelleter chose to light his cigar. He took his time about it, ignoring the chained man across from him, extracting a single match from his pocket, scratching it on the table, and taking several puffs, making sure the cigar was really lit. Mahossier watched in silence.

“Okay, I understand you.” His expression had turned serious. “And it’s not as though Fournier will leave me in here forever. The rules are the rules are the rules are the rules...But it’s safer in here with you than it is out there...You’ve had more than one chance to kill me, but I’m still here.” He tapped his chest, and the chains jingled together.

“There’s a first for everything,” Pelleter said. The smoke from his cigar hung in the air between them.

“Well said! Right to my point. That’s why I can talk to you. Your wife is a very lucky woman...Still no children?” He raised his eyebrows, but then shrugged when the inspector made no response. “Here is the thing—there are fewer of us than there were before...At first it was just one, but now it’s two, three, four...I don’t really know, it’s a big prison and they don’t let me out all that often.” His theatrical frown again. “Glamieux’s gone. He was another one of yours, right? They slit his throat. And there have been others.”

“What’s that have to do with me? People get killed in prison all the time.”

“Not all the time...not all the time...Sometimes. Not that often, actually. Not many people in one month. Not many people and nothing’s done about it, said about it...outside. Even here.”

“What’s the warden say?”

“What does the warden say?”

The two men watched each other, both calm, but each in his own way. Pelleter smoked. Mahossier smiled.

“We need somebody on the outside. Someone we can trust... Someone like you. There should at least be an inquiry.”

“You want an inquiry into several dead prisoners?”

“They were people too.” Mahossier’s theatricality undermined any sense of real feeling in his expression. It was chilling as always.

Pelleter leaned forward. “You want an inquiry?” He stood up. “That’s easy. Let’s have an inquiry. Fournier’s right here. He’s Assistant Warden. He’ll know.” Pelleter was at the door now, his hand raised to knock on the door. “I’ll ask him about all these dead prisoners. He doesn’t seem to like the lot of you very much, but if someone’s killing you...” He motioned to knock. “Let’s inquire.”

“Please don’t do that,” Mahossier said. His voice was still quiet and even, and for that reason it was commanding.

Pelleter let his hand drop. “Is there nothing to inquire about then?”

“It’s just that there are the right people to inquire it of.”

The two men stared at one another. Mahossier’s face remained self-assured, Pelleter’s steely. The last time Pelleter had come out here, Mahossier had given him the information necessary
to capture a murderess in a case that was nearly three years cold.

He waited for Mahossier to say something else, but the prisoner just sat looking up at him, the lines in his forehead drawing deeper as he widened his eyes in mock innocence. It certainly felt as though he was simply making trouble, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask a few questions. Pelleter could always turn it over to the central prison commission, if need be.

Pelleter waited a moment longer and then turned and knocked on the door. There was the sound of the key in the lock.

“Send my regards to Madame Pelleter,” Mahossier said behind him.

The door opened, and Pelleter stepped out of the tiny room.

Fournier didn’t ask what Mahossier had said as he led Pelleter back to the front offices. It was hard to know if this was out of professionalism, a show of contempt, or a genuine lack of interest. The man was so particular in every movement that it was hard to read him at all.

Letreau stood as they came into the front office. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Please let me know if you need anything else,” Fournier said.

“I’m sure I will. Send my regards again to your boss.”

“Yes, I’m sure he regrets that he could not stay. His wife can be really insistent sometimes.”

They shook hands, and went out to retrieve their coats from Remy.

“So?” Letreau said as he slipped his on.

“We’ll see,” Pelleter said, and then to Remy, “Have you had many prisoners die recently?”

Remy thought about it, helping the inspector with his coat. “There was one about two months ago.”

“Disease?”

“Stabbing, I think.” Then he shrugged. “People die anywhere, I guess.”

“Any others?”

Remy shook his head. “I don’t know. There have been other stabbings, if that’s what you mean. But that happens.”

Pelleter pressed his lips together. There was no way to know what he was thinking.

Outside, the rain was still coming down strong. The two men hastened to their car, and slammed the doors behind them. It was hot and humid in the car, adding to the general sense of discomfort.

“Have you heard anything about prisoners dying?”

“No,” Letreau said, starting the car. “But I might not have. It’s not really our business.”

“Where would they get buried?”

“Depends on where they’re from, I guess.”

“But you haven’t heard of any bodies getting shipped out on the train?”

Letreau shook his head. “No. But that doesn’t mean anything.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Pelleter looked out the window.

“Is that what Mahossier got you out here about?”

“Yes.”

“You think it’s anything?”

“I don’t know.”

They remained silent the rest of the trip, but this time Pelleter didn’t see the wet landscape before him, didn’t see the barns, or the cows, or even notice when the town started up again.

When they pulled in front of the station, the rain had eased up enough so that they could get out of the car without hunching their shoulders.

“Are you going back to the city tonight?” Letreau said.

“I don’t know.”

“If you stay around, my wife wouldn’t hear of you having dinner anywhere else.”

“Thank you.”

Letreau waited, and then he went into the station. Pelleter followed him.

The same young officer, Martin, was behind the desk. He didn’t even wait for the chief to get around the counter before saying, “Another message for you, Chief.”

Letreau crossed and took the paper before the officer could say another thing. “This just gets worse.”

Pelleter came up behind him, and looked at the paper.

The fingerprints of the dead man had turned up in the system. His name was Marcel Meranger. He had a long record as a safecracker who had worked with a number of the large crime cartels around the country.