Looking to the Woods

by Frédérique Molay

  “To answer your question, yes, Dimitri’s in love.”

  “So he did talk to you about it.”

  “He asked me for advice.”

  “Isn’t that something dads usually handle?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not taking over your job. He’s just smart enough to know that if he wants to understand women, it’s best to ask a woman. He’s like you. He tries to understand.”

  Nico never worried about Caroline’s interactions with Dimitri. She loved the boy as though he were her own. In fact, if Dimitri could have chosen a mother, he might have picked Caroline, because his own mother tended to stress him out.

  “If anyone can answer his questions, it’s you,” Nico said. “As long as this romance doesn’t interfere with his schoolwork. He’s got to do well on his exams.”

  “His exams! He’s finishing up middle school, Nico, not entering Sciences Po. And Dimitri’s a good boy. He’s not going to do anything stupid. He respects girls. At some point in the near future you should have that father-son talk with him. But now’s not the time.”

  “I just hope he doesn’t hook up with a girl who tries to push him into anything he’s not ready for. I want him to take his time and wind up with his own Caroline.”

  “Don’t worry. Your son’s smart, and he thinks enough of himself to date the kind of girl he deserves.”

  “Okay, okay. As always, I trust you. But please keep me posted, and let me know when you think it’s time for that talk.”

  “I think he’ll approach you himself. Teenagers can be secretive, but you two are very close. You’ve got that going for you.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  Nico walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her neck and inhaled her perfume. He wanted her. Then he closed his eyes, and instead of surrendering, he shuddered at the vision of the two dead children. He held her tighter.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “We’ve got two cases involving kids.”

  “I heard about them on the news.”

  “I can’t tell you how grateful I am that Dimitri’s older now. If someone tried to abduct him, he could put up a good fight. Still, I can’t help worrying, Caroline. I’ll always worry.”

  Caroline was silent for a long moment. “You’re right, Nico,” she finally said. “No matter how capable and smart your kid is, you can’t make the world a safe place to live.”

  5

  Tuesday, May 7

  Nico was examining the photos of Juliette Bisot and Kevin Longin. Sometimes, with a little distance, the significance of a previously missed detail suddenly became clear.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  He hadn’t heard the knock. He looked up and saw Dominique Kreiss waiting for permission to come in.

  “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to a chair. He wanted the opinion of the force’s sole criminal psychologist, especially because she specialized in sex crimes.

  “I heard on the news about the girl who was kidnapped and held for four months,” she said.

  “Juliette Bisot’s body was frozen until Saturday night, and we’ll never know when she died, whether it was right after her kidnapping or much later, unless we get some kind of confession.”

  Kreiss didn’t betray any emotion in her emerald-green eyes. Her work demanded that she understand the criminal mind, and in order to do that, it was better not to feel sorry for the victim. It was a trap that could make a professional vulnerable and less discerning as a result.

  “Here are the files for the Bisot case and the second homicide, the Kevin Longin case,” Nico said. “They’re top priority.”

  “Was there sexual aggression in either case?”

  “Kevin Longin was raped with a blunt instrument, but there was no trace of seminal fluid at the scene or on the body. As for Juliette Bisot, it’s impossible to tell.”

  “Killers in cases such as these tend to be calculating, in control of themselves, and intelligent. They’re excited by the idea that the police can’t identify them. It intensifies their desire to relive the experience.”

  “Are you saying that these murderers might strike again?”

  “It’s very likely.”

  “Could either homicide be an act of vengeance connected to a family or work-related issue?”

  “In those situations, you strangle, drown, shoot in the heart, or poison, but this is about the rape, torture, and amputation of children. It isn’t what you usually see with an act of vengeance.”

  “Maybe one or both murderers are trying to confuse us and send us on a wild goose chase.”

  “That’s possible. But to become a butcher, you need a very serious motive. Sounds unlikely.”

  Nico didn’t respond.

  “In any case, I understand the police in Normandy didn’t find any revenge connection,” Kreiss said.

  She knew more about this than she was letting on. Michel Cohen had undoubtedly already spoken to her, aware that they’d need her insight. Nico had nothing to add.

  She stood up and headed to the door.

  “I’ll let you know if something jumps out at me,” she concluded, waving the file folders.

  It was hot, very hot. Like the man she was questioning, Charlotte Maurin was uncomfortable in this tiny room on the top floor of police headquarters. But the heat served her purposes. The more José Vargas sweated, the better. She could feel his claustrophobia. Maybe she wouldn’t have to wait long before he tripped himself up.

  “Mr. Vargas, I’ll ask you one more time. What was the nature of your relationship with Kevin Longin?”

  Her tone was dry, her eyes cold. She knew he didn’t like what she was implying—that he was into kids.

  “People saw the boy hanging around your office,” she said.

  “So what? That doesn’t mean anything!”

  “The school administrators have reprimanded you before, Mr. Vargas. You have a drinking problem. That’s not very compatible with your job.”

  “I learned my lesson!”

  “Mr. Vargas, let me remind you that you’re talking to a police officer. Were you spending time with Kevin?”

  “The kid wouldn’t leave me alone. He was like glue.”

  “What in the world did he see in you?”

  “I don’t know. He was bored with the other kids.”

  “So you’re a fascinating guy, huh? What was your secret? Did you give him alcohol?”

  José Vargas balled his hands into fists. The uniformed officer in the back stepped up to remind the man where he was. His breathing accelerated, and he groaned. Vargas was sweating all over now—from fear and panic. The handyman was about to break.

  Captain Ayoub Noumen loved his job. He was proud to be a member of the Criminal Investigation Division, cleaning the scum off the streets of Paris. He liked working for Chief Sirsky and his squad leader. In a word, he was happy. He had no complaints—except at this moment, as he stood in front of Mrs. Longin. How could he hang onto his faith, knowing the evil that had been visited upon her son? Noumen shook his head. He’d never understand. It was in Allah’s hands.

  The woman’s eyes were red and swollen. She was hugging her younger son. Noumen wondered if she’d ever let him go.

  “Captain, come in,” she finally said, opening the door wider.

  The apartment was saturated with the smell of bacon. Noumen could sense it seeping into his clothes. He felt his stomach heave but managed to control it.

  “We found a pink-and-red cotton fiber in Kevin’s pocket. Would you have any idea where it came from? Could it be from a handkerchief or a piece of clothing?”

  Mrs. Longin furrowed her brow. It was hard to read anything but grief in her eyes.

  Tuesday was wrapping up when Nico’s friend, Judge Alexandre Becker, joined him in his office.

  “The prosecutor’s put me in charge of Kevin Longin’s murder investigation,” Becker said. In France, the court—specifically, an examining judge—was always involved in t
he investigation of a serious crime. Things were moving quickly, proof of the urgency of this case.

  The two men weren’t surprised to be assigned to the same case. They had worked as a team on many investigations, and the higher-ups liked the results they got. If they couldn’t guarantee a conviction in every case, at least they could be sure of a thorough investigation.

  “I read the preliminary report,” Becker said. “Is the cotton fiber that was found in Kevin Longin’s pocket a lead?”

  “At this point, we don’t know.”

  “The report suggests that Kevin stole a set of keys to the school and had copies made, which would have allowed him to come and go as he pleased.”

  “That’s correct. The handyman admitted to getting drunk with the boy a couple of times. One morning about a month ago, he couldn’t find his keys. He was worried that he’d lose his job, of course. Luckily, when he left home that morning, he found the keys on the ground just outside his door. At the time, he thought they’d just slipped off his belt, and he didn’t mention it to anyone.”

  “I suppose this happened right after he’d been with Kevin.”

  “Yep. I sent officers to the key shops in the area around his home and the school, but they didn’t come up with anything.”

  “What about the boy’s father?”

  “We found him. He lives in Marseilles with a woman and their three-year-old daughter. He hasn’t left the city in months and hasn’t seen his two sons since he walked out on them.”

  Becker nodded. He knew the type. He had never known his own father, and his mother had raised him on her own, working as a waitress and a prostitute to make ends meet.

  “Mrs. Longin told Noumen that he’d stopped hanging out with his friends and was spending time with a new acquaintance,” Nico said. “But we have no idea who that person was. We canvassed the entire area and didn’t learn a thing.”

  “Crazy, isn’t it.”

  “We’re dealing with a methodical and careful murderer here. Do you know if the Paris prosecutor’s trying to get the Bisot case transferred here? Would you be assigned to that investigation as well?”

  “It’s not in our jurisdiction, Nico. The High Court in Evreux will run that show.”

  The examining judge from Normandy had already contacted Nico and asked for everything related to the case. The local police had also sent a delegation to the capital. Nico had seen the resignation—even defeat—in their faces. He wasn’t surprised. They had spent four months chasing a ghost.

  “You met with the parents?” Becker asked.

  Nico shivered at the memory. Juliette’s parents had gone to the morgue, where Armelle Vilars had spent an hour answering their questions. Then Nico and David Kriven had arrived. If only Mr. Bisot had expressed some anger, or his wife had become hysterical. But that didn’t happen. The couple held their heads high, their features frozen in pain. They spoke calmly, almost whispering. But their eyes were what affected Nico the most. They were empty.

  “It must have been awful,” Becker said.

  “It was.”

  The scene of those broken parents identifying Juliette’s remains would be seared in Nico’s mind forever, joining the cohort of bloody images that he always carried around. Like Pandora’s box, that area of his brain had to be kept sealed off, because when it was opened, all the evils of humanity were set loose in his head.

  “Nico?” Becker said. “Where have you gone off to?”

  “Back to Greek mythology. Never mind.”

  The scene replayed in Nico’s mind. Armelle Vilars had pulled back the white sheet just enough for the parents to view the girl’s face. Her team had done their best to make the child presentable, but no one could remove the vestiges of the devil. Juliette’s parents had clenched their teeth and withheld their tears. After a few minutes, the medical examiner had broken the silence: Did they recognize the child?

  “They positively identified her,” Nico said, trying to shake off the parents’ pain. They had been so stoic, dressed as though they were going to a business meeting—Mr. Bisot in a suit and tie and Dr. Bisot in a navy dress with a V-neckline. When she leaned over the body, a necklace with a round medallion swung back and forth like a pendulum, mesmerizing Nico. Had it been another kind of day, he would have asked about it, if only to make pleasant conversation.

  Alexandre Becker furrowed his brow. Nico knew what he was thinking. The girl had already been identified via her DNA. Marks such as scars and known medical history, as well as size, race, age, sex, specificities of the skeleton and teeth, fingerprints, and facial reconstruction, could all confirm a person’s identity with absolute certitude. A family’s visual identification was just a formality. So why inflict it on Juliette Bisot’s parents?

  “They wanted to see her,” Nico said.

  “They need to begin mourning.”

  “Loss requires mourning, and if it is not mourned in full or at all, psychological disorders ensue. Freud, Mourning and Melancholia, 1917.”

  “And seeing their daughter in that state wouldn’t lead to a psychological disorder?”

  “They insisted. Armelle thought it best to respect their wishes, but she stayed with them, which was the right thing to do. And she didn’t show them Juliette’s entire body. She knew what she was doing.”

  They sat in silence for a moment before Nico leaned forward, his expression somber.

  “My job is to get into the criminal’s mind and try to anticipate where his murderous instincts will lead him next. If I dwell on the child, the image of Dimitri cut up in pieces could settle in my brain, and there’s the risk of the father in me taking over. That would be bad for our business, Monsieur le Juge.”

  6

  Thursday, May 9

  It was decided. The four men in the family—Nico and Dimitri, along with Nico’s brother-in-law, Alexis, and his nephew, Bogdan—would take care of everything. It was Ascension Day, a public holiday, and their goal was to install Anya’s computer, connect it to the Internet, and create an e-mail address for her. The matriarch of the family was finally taking the plunge. She wanted to communicate with her grandkids, surf the web, and make online purchases. Nico thought she might even join Facebook and open a Twitter account. Ever since the surgeon had implanted a pacemaker under her clavicle, she’d been bubbling with energy.

  Anya had recently quoted the Russian prince Alexander Vasiltchikov: “‘I shall never forget the calm, almost cheerful expression which flitted across the poet’s face as he faced the pistol muzzle already pointed at him.’” He was referring to Mikhail Lermontov, a Russian Romantic poet and dragoon—a military man who traveled by horse but fought on foot and alternated acts of bravery with impertinence before dying in a duel. Anya had felt a figurative bullet skim her own heart, and now a serenity and lightheartedness inhabited her.

  Alexis was undergoing his own recovery—an emotional one. He was Anya’s physician, and though she had been ill for some time, doctor-patient privilege meant he hadn’t been able to tell anyone. To make matters worse, Anya hadn’t been following his advice. Nico was furious when Anya suffered her heart attack, but eventually he understood what an awkward position Anya had put his brother-in-law in. Everyone was relieved when she made it through the operation, and the shock of seeing her in intensive care was slowly receding.

  Nico was enjoying the sight of his mother bustling about the apartment when he heard his twelve-year-old nephew start arguing with his father about the computer.

  “No!” Bogdan grabbed a wire from his father. “That goes here.”

  Anya put her hands on her hips and scowled at her grandson. “Young man, you shouldn’t speak to your father that way.”

  “Yeah, Bogdan,” Alexis said, giving his son a playful jab in the ribs. “Don’t talk to me that way.”

  “I’m just teasing, Dad. But I’m still right.”

  Alexis put his hands up in surrender. “Okay, I can see when I’m in the company of an expert.”

  Bogdan did
know what he was doing. He loved all technology and had a passion for aeronautics and meteorology. Installing computers was a piece of cake for him.

  “So what’s next, sir?” Alexis said, tousling his son’s hair.

  “You mean what’s next, Captain. That’s how you address Boggy,” Dimitri said.

  “They’re all just jealous, aren’t they, tonton,” Bogdan said, turning to his Uncle Nico for support.

  “I have to agree that our future pilot over here seems to know what he’s doing,” Nico said. “So maybe we should hand the controls over to him.”

  “Mayday! Mayday!” Dimitri cried out. “We’ve lost an engine. We need to make an emergency landing!”

  “Aaah . . . Help!” Alexis said.

  “Trays up, and fasten your seat belts!” Nico yelled.

  “You boys are a bunch of clowns,” Anya said, laughing with them. “Now get my computer hooked up.”

  The sound of Freddie Mercury’s voice interrupted the family reunion, and silence fell like a guillotine. They all recognized Nico’s ringtone for police headquarters: “Another One Bites the Dust.”

  Nico pulled out his phone, keeping his expression relaxed. Although it was a holiday, he had only planned to take a couple of hours off. Two hours too many.

  “Chief Sirsky? Commissioner Monthalet would like to speak to you.”

  The police commissioner’s secretary hadn’t offered any of her usual pleasantries and didn’t wait for a response. Nicole Monthalet picked up immediately.

  “A letter addressed to me arrived an hour ago. The security people opened it, because it clearly wasn’t from any official source. They informed me of the contents right after they read it. I’ve already called in Commander Théron’s squad to find out who delivered the letter.”

  That was the commissioner: no emotion and all business.

  Nico knew she wouldn’t say anything more over the phone. “I’m on my way,” he said.

  From his mother’s home at 112 Boulevard de Courcelles, it would take him about ten minutes to reach police headquarters. He didn’t factor in the time he would need to get to his car and climb the stairs to the commissioner’s office on the third floor. His siren would make up for the difference.