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Though something perplexed Gamache. That scarring. Football players wore helmets with grilles to protect their faces. While they could get concussions and twisted arms and legs, it would be almost impossible to get injuries like that to his face.

Those came, Gamache knew, from other types of blows.

“When was the first time she called for help?”

“Last summer sometime. I answered the call.”

“You obviously remember it,” said Gamache. He saw Cameron flush and tucked that away.

“And she called you more than once?” said Cloutier.

“Not me, 911. But yes, mostly when welfare checks came out.”

“They’re unemployed?” asked Gamache.

“Yeah, but Tracey does pottery.”

“Pottery?” said Gamache, far from sure he’d heard right. “Like clay?”

“Yes. He makes things that people can’t use. Useless. Like the man.”

Carl Tracey was an artist, thought Gamache. But then, why not? Having known many artists in his life, especially through Clara, he’d grown to realize they were often not the most stable, or house-trained, individuals.

“When was the last time you were called to the home?” Gamache asked.

“Two weeks ago. Again she refused help.”

“Why would she call, then refuse help?” asked Cloutier. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“She just wanted the beating to stop,” said Cameron. “But she didn’t want him arrested. I think she knew he’d be out in hours and then things would get really bad.”

Gamache nodded. It was the terrible flaw in the system. It appeared to help the abused while actually just piling on more abuse. Worse abuse.

“There was nothing more we could do, really,” said Cameron.

“Really?”

“Sir?” asked Cameron.

“You said there was nothing you could do … really.” Gamache let that sit for a moment. “But was there something you did do?”

Cameron hesitated before finally answering. “I took Carl aside when I saw him in town last week. I warned him.”

“What did you say?” asked Gamache.

“I told him I knew what he was doing to his wife and if there was one more complaint, I’d beat the shit out of him.”

“You did what?” asked Gamache while beside him Cloutier muttered, “Good.”

Gamache stood up and faced the mammoth man.

The small room grew even smaller. Suffocating.

“That was the wrong thing to do,” said Commander Flaubert, recognizing that something needed to be said, though her tone was without real reproach.

“Why was it wrong?” asked Cameron, addressing Gamache. “He needed to know.”

“Know what?” asked Gamache. “That cops with an ID card and a gun will be judge and jury and carry out the sentence? Did you want him to know that punishing one beating with another is the way we do things in the Sûreté? Did you want to cede all moral high ground?”