The Twenty-Year Death by Ariel S. Winter

been expected. He pushed his way into the infirmary.
    It was a small white room with six beds, three on each side of the room. The knifed man was in the furthest bed on the right. His shirt had been cut off, and two guards and a nurse were holding him down as the doctor stitched the wound on his chest and stomach. The man did not seem to be struggling.
    “He’s been given morphine,” Fournier said from just inside the door. He was taking notes on his clipboard. “He’ll live. It’s only a gash.”
    “Can we talk to him?”
    “He doesn’t know who did it. He was walking and then he was on the ground in pain. It could be any number of peoplewho were in his vicinity, but he’s not even sure who was nearby.”
    “Any enemies? Did he have a fight with someone?”
    Fournier held his pencil against his clipboard with a snap. “No. Nothing. I asked him.”
    “Would he tell you?”
    Fournier’s nostrils flared, and his movements were sharper than usual, the only indication that he was under a great deal of stress. “Listen, Inspector. If we’re all in this together, then you’re just going to have to trust me. He didn’t see anything. He doesn’t know who did it. That’s it.”
    A moan came from the prisoner. The doctor could be heard placating him. They were almost finished.
    “Now if you still need to see Meranger’s cell, let’s go and be fast about it. I have a lot of work to do. We’ve got to search all of the prisoners and all of the cells. Not that we’ll find anything, but it has to be done.”
    Pelleter would have liked to question the prisoner himself, but he had seen the incident and it was quite possible that the man knew nothing. It could wait.
    “Yes, let’s,” Pelleter said, and he stepped back as if to let Fournier pass. Then he stopped him. “And what does the warden say of all of these stabbings?”
    “All of them?”
    “The guard said that there have been at least four this month.”
    Fournier’s brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing. “If you count Meranger then this is three that I know of, and for all we know Meranger was stabbed on the outside.”
    Letreau started to speak, but Pelleter held up a hand to hold him off. “Surely, you will be calling the warden about this?” Pelleter said.
    “The warden has left me in charge because I am fully capable of being in charge. He will be informed when he returns on Monday. No need to ruin his vacation.”
    “Of course.”
    Fournier nodded his head once for emphasis, then led out the door.
    Letreau stepped in close to Pelleter. “What’s going on?”
    “There’s been a stabbing.”
    “I know there’s been a stabbing, but...”
    “Then you know what I know.”
    Fournier had gotten ahead of them, and he waited at the next door for the two of them to catch up. In the hallways, away from the courtyard, with no one in sight but the occasional guard, it was impossible to know that a man had almost been killed within these walls less than an hour before. The stones were gray and impassive.
    Meranger’s jail cell was on the outer wall, with a narrow window that looked out onto the neighboring fields. The space was large enough for the iron cot and steel toilet with barely enough room left over to stand. Fournier stood impatiently in the hallway, reviewing the papers on his clipboard, and Letreau stood outside the cell door watching Pelleter survey the room.
    Meranger’s few possessions had been dumped into a box on the bed from when Fournier had made his own investigation. There were three books—a bible and two mystery novels—a travel chess set, odd-shaped stones most likely found in the yard below, a dried flower, and a small bundle of letters tied with a string.
    The letters were all in the same feminine hand, although it had grown more assured over the years. There were four letters in total. The most recent letter was from only two months prior:
Father,
    It’s unfair of you to be so demanding. You don’t know what it costs me to