Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(83)

There was silence now, except for the crackling of the fire.

“And he does,” she said quietly.

Reine-Marie and Clara stared at her. Their wine and cheese forgotten. The fireplace gone. The cheerful loft in the pretty village replaced by that antiseptic room, with the scientist, the learner, the subject, and an ugly truth.

“But it was a one-off, right?” said Clara.

“No,” said Myrna. “They conducted the experiment with hundreds of subjects. Not all of them did it, but the majority did. Far more than you’d expect.”

“Or hope,” said Reine-Marie.

“They were just following orders,” said Clara. She turned to Reine-Marie. “Would you have given that last shock?”

“If you’d asked me five minutes ago, I’d have said absolutely not. But now?” She sighed. “I’m not so sure.”

Armand nodded. It was a terrible admission. But it was also a brave one. The first step to not actually doing it.

Facing the monster. And recognizing it. Knowing that it was not a vile few. It wasn’t “them.” It was us.

That was one of the many horrors of the Nuremberg trials. Of the Eichmann trial. Something all but forgotten today.

The banality of evil.

It wasn’t the frothing madman. It was the conscientious us.

“Always let your conscience be your guide,” Clara sang in a thin voice, the words drifting into the fire. “Not so easy after all.”

“Why were you talking about Pinocchio?” Armand asked.

He was beginning to think it was more than Reine-Marie describing the nightly ritual of reading to Honoré.

“Oh, it’s silly,” she said. “Especially now, after what we just talked about. Never mind.”

“No, really,” he said.

Reine-Marie looked at Clara, who raised her brows.

“Go on,” Clara urged, and got a “thanks a lot” look from Reine-Marie.

“Do you remember why Pinocchio wasn’t a real boy?” Reine-Marie asked Myrna and Armand.

“Because he was made out of wood?” asked Myrna.

“Well, that didn’t help,” she admitted. “But what really stopped him from being human was that he had no conscience. In the film, Jiminy Cricket played that role. Teaching him right from wrong.”

“Cricket as cobrador,” said Clara. “A singing and dancing one, but one nonetheless.”

“There’s a difference between having a weak conscience or a misdirected one,” said Armand, “and none at all.”

“You know what psychologists call it when someone has no conscience?” Myrna asked.

“Antisocial personality disorder?” asked Reine-Marie.

“Smart-ass,” said Myrna. “Okay, yes, officially. But unofficially we call that person a psychopath.”

“You’re not suggesting Pinocchio is a psychopath?” said Reine-Marie. She turned to Armand. “We might have to amend Ray-Ray’s nighttime reading.”

“Well, those scenes sure didn’t make it into the movie,” said Clara. “The part where Pinocchio slaughters the villagers. I wonder what Jiminy sang then.”

“You see, that’s the problem,” said Myrna. “We’re used to the film versions of psychopaths. The clearly crazies. But most psychopaths are clever. They have to be. They know how to mimic human behavior. How to pretend to care, while not actually feeling anything except perhaps rage and an overwhelming and near-perpetual sense of entitlement. That they’ve been wronged. They get what they want mostly through manipulation. Most don’t have to resort to violence.”

“We all use manipulation,” said Armand. “We might not see it that way, but we do.”

He pointed to the wine, the lure Myrna had used to get them there. Myrna lifted her glass in acknowledgment. But without remorse.

“Unlike most of us, who tend to be transparent, people rarely see through a psychopath,” she continued. “He’s masterful. People trust and believe him. Even like him. It’s his great skill. Convincing people that his point of view is legitimate and right, often when all the evidence points in the other direction. Like Iago. It’s a kind of magic.”

“Okay, so I’m confused,” said Clara. “Is the cobrador the psychopath, or was Katie Evans?”

They looked at Armand, who raised his hands. “I wish I could tell you.”

What he was beginning to think was that this crime didn’t have such a tight circle. The cobrador and Katie Evans. It was possible there was a third person, who had manipulated both of them.

And was now manipulating the investigators.

Which meant that there was someone in the village who might look it, but who was in fact not quite human.





CHAPTER 27

The gavel came down with such force that several spectators leapt in their seats.

A few had been dozing, overcome with lethargy induced by the extreme heat.

Most, though, had fought off the urge to nap, wanting to hear what the Chief Superintendent would say next.

And what the Chief Crown would do next.

To the spectators it looked like a battle of wits. Thrust. Parry. Riposte. Lunge.

But to Judge Corriveau, who was closer and could see what others could not, it had stopped being a battle and had become a relay. One man handing off to the other.