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The head of detachment had given them his office. It was a space they knew well from previous investigations.

“I spoke to the sound and lighting techs,” said Beauvoir. “Both are theater students at the University.”

He didn’t bring out his notes. Didn’t have to. There wasn’t much to remember.

“Lighting guy says he slept through until the firecrackers went off. He says he didn’t record the lecture for anyone, but he’s a bit of a shit. I doubt he follows rules.”

Gamache suppressed a smile. It was almost word for word what the station chief had said about Agent Beauvoir when they’d first met.

“The student doing sound?” asked Isabelle. “Did she see anything?”

“No. She only got the call that morning to go in. She showed up an hour before Robinson went on and hadn’t been to the auditorium since the Christmas break. She stayed backstage the whole time. She’s still pretty shaken. I’ve set up an appointment for her with our psychologist.”

Gamache nodded. This was the Jean-Guy he’d met years ago. A kind man in shit’s clothing.

There was a knock on the door and an agent put his head in.

“The lawyer’s here, Chief Inspector.”

“Merci. Can you show her into the interview room, please? Then wait ten minutes and bring Monsieur Tardif.”

“Entendu.”

“Fine way to spend New Year’s Eve, Armand,” said Maître Lacombe as she placed a notepad and her phone on the metal table. She nodded to Beauvoir and Lacoste. “The holy trinity? That’s a lot of firepower for a case that’s over.”

“Is it?” asked Gamache, taking a seat.

“Over? I think so. My client had no priors. He’s cooperating. Didn’t resist arrest and it was clearly not a serious attempt.”

“Well, that’s quite a list of lies and half-truths,” said Isabelle. “My people had to wrestle the gun from him, he took shots in a crowded enclosed place almost causing a riot, and it was only because the Chief Inspector shoved Professor Robinson aside that she wasn’t killed.”

“Perception, Inspector.” She leaned forward. “Listen, Édouard Tardif’s a decent, if deluded, man. He’s gotten it into his head that what Professor Robinson is saying is somehow a threat. He’s been wound up by a hostile media. By fake news. He took a wild shot—”

“Two,” said Beauvoir. “That barely missed.”

“But they did miss. And who’s to say he didn’t intend to miss all along? He’s an expert shot. Had he wanted to kill her, he would have.”

At a nod from Gamache, Édouard Tardif was brought in.

It was the first time Gamache had met him, beyond a brief exchange at the gym.

Here was a fifty-three-year-old man. Large, powerfully built.

“You can take them off,” Gamache said to the agent, pointing to the cuffs around Tardif’s thick wrists. After introducing themselves, Gamache said, “We have some questions for you, sir.”

“Before we start,” said Tardif, “how’re the people taken to hospital?”

His voice was as he looked. Gruff, rough. A kind of growl. But not, Gamache thought, vicious.

“Mostly scrapes and bruises,” said Isabelle. “Shock. One man is still in hospital for observation. A suspected heart attack.”

“I hope he’s all right.”

“If he dies, you’ll be charged with murder,” said Isabelle.

“Manslaughter at most,” said Maître Lacombe.

“Shall we begin?” asked Gamache. “We hope you can clear up some things.”