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| ...and now, back to our story... |
Louis Shalako
Having detained Faubert and Fritz fairly late in the
day, the two men had been transported separately to cells in a metropolitan
prison. No holding cells in a precinct station for these guys. They were in
separate blocks, and they were sequestered in the sense that they would be
given their meals in their cells. They would have no chance to mingle, or to
communicate, not with any other prisoner. The guards would give them the bare
minimum of communication and report any unusual requests. This gave the police
time to examine a few documents from the files of the restaurant operation,
hopefully prevented them from communicating, and gave them a long night in a
prison cell just to think things over.
Officers had compared the two sets of time-sheets and
schedules. They had combed through the invoices. They had all kinds of signed
statements, for example who had been in that kitchen on the evening in
question…those statements had been signed by pretty much everybody. Attending
officers had taken down names, addresses and phone numbers, and checking the
identification of anyone actually having any. This was by no means universal.
People without a driver’s license, foreigners who had resided in the country
for years might not necessarily carry a passport at all times. There were
folks, even today, who didn’t always have a birth certificate or any other form
of identification. Under the odd-ball circumstances, with no real suspects and
everyone telling the same story, the police hadn’t had cause to fingerprint
them—the whole damned lot of them as it were.
It would have been the right thing to do, and yet the
investigators had been unsure, right
from the minute they walked in…a difficult mistake to rectify after the fact
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| A room without a view in a metropolitan prison... |
As for the gentlemen in question, they’d had time to
call a lawyer, and they’d been transported, also separately, from the prison to
the Quai, where they waited, still handcuffed and having met up with their
lawyers. They’d been kept in two small consulting rooms meant for exactly this
purpose. Brought in separately again, they awaited events. Their escorts,
presumably, were the two officers seated rather morosely on the long, hard pew
in the hallway.
Gilles had gone over the
material, given them a few pointers, and then, let Édouard and Janine have a go. One of the techniques, one of
their tactics, was to have one
officer interview one subject, and then go away for a while. Next, a different
officer would come along and ask the exact same questions…this may, or may not,
elicit the exact same answer, or a slightly different answer, or it might prompt
a subject to expand on a previous explanation. It was often enough to try the
patience of a subject. Too many got impatient and thought a brief explanation
would send them home. A brief explanation would bring more questions, and it
was enough for some to entrap themselves in unnecessary lies and
overly-detailed stories.
This was why the
lawyers would mostly speak for the client—assuming the clients had any brains
at all and could keep their mouths shut in the first place.
The lawyers would
promise bail; and the police would hang onto them for as long as possible under
the law of the land, or until presented with a writ of habeas corpus.
Their uniformed escorts, a nice word, were completely
uninvolved in the case, and yet they had their role. The prisoners would be
kept cuffed as much as possible, only taking them off at the door of the
interview room. And when they came back out; why, it would be right back on
again. With the lawyer there, and flics right outside the door, it was up to
them how they wished to behave. And these guys hadn’t been charged yet—
As someone had once
said, there is nothing quite like the feeling of the cuffs being snapped onto
the wrists. Admittedly, this was only a close second to the sound of a prison
door locking behind your sorry ass. Your fate was longer in your own hands by
the time this happened and it was a real shitty feeling.
In some strange way, it
was a game.
There were limits, in
terms of wearing people down, and so far, neither had actually been charged
with an offence. They had merely been detained for questioning.
They were assisting the
police in their investigations, as the British might have put it.
And in terms of
teaching, and training, Gilles and Hermione would observe the proceedings from
behind their one-way mirrors. Interestingly, Faubert’s lawyer turned out to be
Monsieur Savarin, who was not known to be cheap.
Armed with a fresh pen
and a clean note-book, Hermione had heard all of his briefing and she went off
ahead. All she had to do was to open and shut the door as quietly as possible…
“So. What fucking day
is this, anyways.”
Levain looked up from
his desk.
“Thursday—why.”
“Because I have a
follow-up with the doctor tomorrow.”
“Ah.”
He’d have to put some
thought into that, but in the meantime, it was time for the interviews to
begin. Rising, he headed on down the hall to the interview rooms.
Maintenon stepped into
the slender passageway between Interview Three and Four.
Hermione’s eyes gleamed
in the dim light as he carefully closed the door behind.
Click.
***
 |
| Pelletier. |
Interview Three was
Janine, Monsieur Fritz and his lawyer, one Jacques St. Pierre.
And, turning one
hundred eighty degrees, there was the other mirror and Interview Four, with Édouard,
Monsieur Faubert and Savarin.
It was all
soundproofed, yet they spoke in whispers.
The soundproofing had
two purposes, one, so they didn’t give themselves away, two, so that external
noises wouldn’t interfere with the microphones. Their lawyers would have warned
them, of course. They knew the game and how it was played. Some listened, and
some didn’t. Everything said would be recorded, the key thing here was to keep
the volume down and listen to one interview at a time…Gilles pushed a button
and there was the voice of Édouard.
“Well, thank you for attending, gentlemen…” The voice
was silky-smooth, and whatever feelings anyone might have about it, he was
clearly in control. “I am ever so sorry, we’re running just a little bit late
this morning. I do so hope you slept well, Monsieur.”
Yeah, and how was your breakfast—
Predictably enough, Savarin was all over it and came
out swinging.
“What is the meaning of this, er, Sergeant Pelletier?
My client has done nothing wrong.” Not unexpectedly, he pulled an envelope from
an inner pocket and presented it to Édouard,
who had his instructions simply to ignore it.
“It was you, was it
not, Monsieur Faubert, who phoned in the homicide report on the evening in
question. Were you working late that night or were you alternating shifts
somehow. You will be interested to learn that so far, police have not recovered
any bodies, and we do have one or two more questions there—”
The lawyer’s face was
turning red, and Faubert’s was rather pale.
“My client has nothing
further to add.”
Pelletier nodded
dramatically, seemingly in full agreement.
“Of course, of course. Ah. But. It’s just that we have a few questions about record-keeping at
the Hemingway Room, of which Monsieur Faubert is manager and part-owner.” Who
did the purchasing, for example, carving knives, also just for example…
They stood, fascinated, as Savarin went into a long
tirade about government over-reach, how they were all Bolsheviks, and how they
were all traitors, and the cops were all crooked, the courts were all rigged,
and they would get everything that was coming to them, when the time came and
if he had anything to say about it. It was a strangely reasonable tone of
voice, but that was what he said. Was he bored or something? Poor Pelletier sat
there impassively, waiting for him to finish.
Perhaps the man was trying to talk him to death.
“…and don’t you think we’ve forgotten about that writ
you fucking idiots ignored…” There would be consequences, as he put it.
Ah. Gilles nodded sharply—
“Charming.” She looked at him.
“I don’t know what he’s oozing. But it sure as hell
isn’t charm.” Thoughtfully, he snapped the switch over to Interview Three.
The pair of them turned to observe.
Not that she knew much about it—
It was fascinating enough in its own way.
***
 |
| Constable Janine Lacorse. |
Janine was calm, cool
and collected—like a cucumber as some people would say.
“All right, Monsieur
Maissen.”
“Fritz.”
“Yes, Fritz. Can you
tell me if there was some reason why you and Monsieur Faubert would transfer
half of one shift, even more than half, from one schedule to another?”
“No.”
His lawyer put a hand
on his forearm, which Fritz twitched away.
“My client stands on
his rights, Constable.”
“Okay. Ah. Was there
some reason, for you and or Monsieur Faubert to counterfeit, and to provide a
set of false time sheets and schedules to the police.”
“Go to hell.”
She nodded; his lawyer
sighed—deeply.
“That is truly
unfortunate…”
“When will my client be
released, Constable.”
“Oh, I don’t know.
That’s up to the courts, sir.” She thought for a moment, and looked down at her
notes. “Interference, obstruction, conspiracy, accessory to murder, tampering
with evidence…well, it doesn’t look too good for your client, Monsieur.”
And all of that would
be without the bodies. Once those turned up, things would get a lot more
serious.
“My guess would be
fifteen to twenty-five, on Devil’s Island. Assuming Monsieur Maissen was not
directly responsible, er, for the actual killing. If that was the case, then we
would be looking at the guillotine, Monsieur. We’ll leave that sort of thing to
a jury of his peers, sir…”
For a black man, poor
old Fritz was looking pretty pale. He swallowed, looking around at the mirrors,
the walls, anywhere but her.
“Monsieur Maissen. If
that was not your hand on the knife, if that is indeed the case, this may be
our only chance to help you.”
Finally, he met her
eyes, not liking much what he saw in there—
Jacques, Monsieur St.
Pierre, put up a palm.
“If you don’t mind, may
I please have a few minutes to consult with my client? We’ve only just met and
I have only a bare idea of the details of the case.”
“Naturally. I’ll have
one of the officers take you back to the consulting room.”
“Thank you.”
***
With their two subjects
having been interviewed and back in their prison cells by now; where they would
spend at least one more night, Gilles and Édouard were still chasing those
elusive loose ends.
They had their list of
names in the restaurant case, and were checking addresses, checking to see if
they could find one of the restaurant workers, off duty and at home. They were
talking to the neighbours whenever they could get someone to answer the door.
This was not always a
sure thing in the more impoverished areas, where the police were seen as just
as much of an enemy as the more familiar criminals, who were rampant but at
least familiar. Bad as those folks were, the police had something they didn’t.
This was power, which was something
else entirely.
Having hit a dead end
with one Sylvain Duquesne, who was apparently not known at the listed address,
they were back in the car and cruising down the street looking for their next
address…
“Shit! I know that
face.” Pelletier slammed on the brakes, popped it out of gear and snapped on
the parking brake.
“Huh? What?” Gilles had
been daydreaming a little, bored with the day so far in spite of all. “Who?”
A pale face, turned
their way, staring through that windshield as Pelletier opened the door,
stepped out—
“Hey!”
The young man turned
and bolted, and then Pelletier was flying after him, all thoughts of the car
and Gilles gone.
“Merde.” Undoing the
seatbelt, Gilles slid over.
His stomach was rumbling,
and it seemed lunch would have to wait a little longer—
He had it in gear, he
had to take off the parking brake. He got the thing rolling. He reached for the
microphone, and gave a quick turn on the volume knob.
“Officer in foot
pursuit, Inspector Maintenon is following in an unmarked car. Are there any
units in the vicinity…” The neighbourhood was Belleville, very much
working-class, and this street was about as poverty-stricken and over-crowded
as any.
Surely there would be a
cruiser somewhere nearby.
All he could do was to
try and follow along, and the pair of them had already rounded the first
corner.
Fuck.
END
Previous Episodes.
See his free audiobook, Dead Reckoning, Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #10 on Google Play.
Here are his pictures on ArtPal.
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