The Brutal Telling Read Online Free PDF Page A

first.”
    “What did you think?” Gamache held the cup in his large hands. The tea was strong and fragrant.
    “I thought he’d had a stroke or maybe a heart attack. Something sudden, by the look on his face. He seemed surprised, but not afraid or in pain.”
    That was, thought Gamache, a good way of putting it. Death had surprised this man. But it did most people, even the old and infirm. Almost no one really expected to die.
    “Then I saw his head.”
    Gamache nodded. It was hard to miss. Not the head, but what was missing from it.
    “Do you know him?”
    “Never seen him before. And I suspect he’d be memorable.”
    Gamache had to agree. He looked like a vagrant. And while easily ignored they were hard to forget. Armand Gamache put his delicate cup on its delicate saucer. His mind kept going to the question that had struck him as soon as he’d taken the call and heard about the murder. In the bistro in Three Pines.
    Why here?
    He looked quickly over to Olivier who was talking to Inspector Beauvoir and Agent Lacoste. He was calm and contained. But he couldn’t be oblivious of how this appeared.
    “What did you do then?”
    “I called 911 then Olivier, then went outside and waited for them.”
    She described what happened, up to the moment the police arrived.
    “
Merci
,” said Gamache and rose. Myrna took her tea and joined Olivier and Gabri across the room. They stood together in front of the hearth.
    Everyone in the room knew who the three main suspects were. Everyone, that was, except the three main suspects.

THREE

    Dr. Sharon Harris stood, brushed her skirt clean and smiled thinly at the Chief Inspector.
    “Not much finesse,” she said.
    Gamache stared down at the dead man.
    “He looks like a tramp,” said Beauvoir, bending down and examining the man’s clothing. It was mismatched and worn.
    “He must be living rough,” said Lacoste.
    Gamache knelt down and looked closely at the old man’s face again. It was weathered and withered. An almanac face, of sun and wind and cold. A seasoned face. Gamache gently rubbed his thumb across the dead man’s cheek, feeling stubble. He was clean shaven, but what might have grown in would’ve been white. The dead man’s hair was white and cut without enthusiasm. A snip here, a snip there.
    Gamache picked up one of the victim’s hands, as though comforting him. He held it for an instant, then turned it over, palm up. Then he slowly rubbed his own palm over the dead man’s.
    “Whoever he was he did hard work. These are calluses. Most tramps don’t work.”
    Gamache shook his head slowly. So who are you? And why are you here? In the bistro, and in this village. A village few people on earth even knew existed. And even fewer found.
    But you did, thought Gamache, still holding the man’s cold hand. You found the village and you found death.
    “He’s been dead between six and ten hours,” the doctor said. “Sometime after midnight but before four or five this morning.”
    Gamache stared at the back of the man’s head and the wound that killed him.
    It was catastrophic. It looked like a single blow by something extremely hard. And by someone extremely angry. Only anger accounted for this sort of power. The power to pulverize a skull. And what it protected.
    Everything that made this man who he was was kept in this head. Someone bashed that in. With one brutal, decisive blow.
    “Not much blood.” Gamache got up and watched the Scene of Crime team fanning out and collecting evidence around the large room. A room now violated. First by murder and now by them. The unwanted guests.
    Olivier was standing, warming himself by the fire.
    “That’s a problem,” said Dr. Harris. “Head wounds bleed a lot. There should be more blood, lots more.”
    “It might’ve been cleaned up,” said Beauvoir.
    Sharon Harris bent over the wound again then straightened up. “With the force of the blow the bleeding might have been massive and internal. And death almost