help?”
“Not much,” Gary admitted. “Thanks for setting it up, though.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “We learned a bit about the family dynamics. It’s a start, anyhow. Maybe we ought to ask you, Gilles, what if anything you want to do about this?”
Lacombe sat back down thoughtfully as Gary Smith shot me a quick hard look. “The Deschamps family is a very big deal for us,” he said. “Especially if the conflict between the Angels and the Rock Machine takes place. It would be nice to have a …” he glanced at Paul Spraiger.
“Pince-à-levier?”
“Crowbar,” Spraiger explained.
“Yes. A crowbar we could use to get more inside. I would like to explore the situation. In fact, I would like to make a task force, since we are several jurisdictions. This way, we would all know what is happening.”
Gary was visibly in need of getting something off his chest. “Can I ask a question?”
We all looked at him silently.
“I know I’m the odd guy out here—the small-town cop who’s never been across the border. But this is my department’s case,” he looked straight at me, “unless that support role pitch you gave us was a crock.”
I shook my head. “Nope—that was straight.”
Lacombe smiled broadly, leaned forward, and patted Smith on the knee, catching him off guard. “I understand your worries,” he assured him. “You are feeling on the bottom of the totem. It is why I proposed the task force. You have a dead body, we have a crime family we are wanting to open up. I hope this way we all get a reward. I would like to invite everyone—someone from the Sherbrooke police, all of us here, and a
procureur de la couronne
to work with yours—a prosecutor. Also, if you are agreeable, a member of the RCMP. They would be interested in the federal offenses, like narcotics and smuggling. But only,” he repeated, “if that is no bother to you.”
Lacombe paused to reflect and then added, “I am saying this because I do not wish the Deschamps to slip away. It is a very old murder that seems the most weak link, and I do not think we should place all the eggs in that one basket. A task force will approach from all angles. Am I saying this wrong?”
Gary shook his head slowly. “No, I get the point.”
I considered Gary’s seemingly small-minded objection in a wider context and said in part to help him out, “Rumor is the SQ and the RCMP don’t get along very well.”
“There was a time, perhaps,” Lacombe conceded. “New attitudes are making it easier. But you are right—there is still some rubbing.”
“What happens if we shut them out?” I asked for argument’s sake.
“They will bang on the door. The name Deschamps is in their computers, too.”
I looked at Gary Smith and raised my eyebrows inquiringly.
“The more the merrier,” he said with a weak smile.
Lacombe nodded, apparently satisfied. “Very good. Now, I would like to ask you more about what you found that brought you here.”
Gary picked that up. “Not much—basically his driver’s license, his clothes, a ring from his finger, a few odds and ends from his wallet, and an autopsy report. I called my office to see if anything else had come up from the computer search we ordered, but so far there’s nothing to indicate he was ever in the United States, at least not legally.”
“Which brings up an interesting point,” Paul Spraiger said. “Jacques Chauvin listed all the people who might’ve had it in for Jean, including some unnamed competitor. Who’s to say that competitor wasn’t an American? We’ve been assuming the body was dropped from a plane that flew in from Canada, but there’s nothing to prove that.”
“Nothing is right,” added Gary. “The office also said that an analysis from the various radars covering the Stowe area over the last two months came up empty, meaning either there was no plane or it flew into the drop zone at under two thousand feet.”
“Okay,” Paul said. “If we’re
“Not much,” Gary admitted. “Thanks for setting it up, though.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “We learned a bit about the family dynamics. It’s a start, anyhow. Maybe we ought to ask you, Gilles, what if anything you want to do about this?”
Lacombe sat back down thoughtfully as Gary Smith shot me a quick hard look. “The Deschamps family is a very big deal for us,” he said. “Especially if the conflict between the Angels and the Rock Machine takes place. It would be nice to have a …” he glanced at Paul Spraiger.
“Pince-à-levier?”
“Crowbar,” Spraiger explained.
“Yes. A crowbar we could use to get more inside. I would like to explore the situation. In fact, I would like to make a task force, since we are several jurisdictions. This way, we would all know what is happening.”
Gary was visibly in need of getting something off his chest. “Can I ask a question?”
We all looked at him silently.
“I know I’m the odd guy out here—the small-town cop who’s never been across the border. But this is my department’s case,” he looked straight at me, “unless that support role pitch you gave us was a crock.”
I shook my head. “Nope—that was straight.”
Lacombe smiled broadly, leaned forward, and patted Smith on the knee, catching him off guard. “I understand your worries,” he assured him. “You are feeling on the bottom of the totem. It is why I proposed the task force. You have a dead body, we have a crime family we are wanting to open up. I hope this way we all get a reward. I would like to invite everyone—someone from the Sherbrooke police, all of us here, and a
procureur de la couronne
to work with yours—a prosecutor. Also, if you are agreeable, a member of the RCMP. They would be interested in the federal offenses, like narcotics and smuggling. But only,” he repeated, “if that is no bother to you.”
Lacombe paused to reflect and then added, “I am saying this because I do not wish the Deschamps to slip away. It is a very old murder that seems the most weak link, and I do not think we should place all the eggs in that one basket. A task force will approach from all angles. Am I saying this wrong?”
Gary shook his head slowly. “No, I get the point.”
I considered Gary’s seemingly small-minded objection in a wider context and said in part to help him out, “Rumor is the SQ and the RCMP don’t get along very well.”
“There was a time, perhaps,” Lacombe conceded. “New attitudes are making it easier. But you are right—there is still some rubbing.”
“What happens if we shut them out?” I asked for argument’s sake.
“They will bang on the door. The name Deschamps is in their computers, too.”
I looked at Gary Smith and raised my eyebrows inquiringly.
“The more the merrier,” he said with a weak smile.
Lacombe nodded, apparently satisfied. “Very good. Now, I would like to ask you more about what you found that brought you here.”
Gary picked that up. “Not much—basically his driver’s license, his clothes, a ring from his finger, a few odds and ends from his wallet, and an autopsy report. I called my office to see if anything else had come up from the computer search we ordered, but so far there’s nothing to indicate he was ever in the United States, at least not legally.”
“Which brings up an interesting point,” Paul Spraiger said. “Jacques Chauvin listed all the people who might’ve had it in for Jean, including some unnamed competitor. Who’s to say that competitor wasn’t an American? We’ve been assuming the body was dropped from a plane that flew in from Canada, but there’s nothing to prove that.”
“Nothing is right,” added Gary. “The office also said that an analysis from the various radars covering the Stowe area over the last two months came up empty, meaning either there was no plane or it flew into the drop zone at under two thousand feet.”
“Okay,” Paul said. “If we’re
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