Looking to the Woods

by Frédérique Molay

  Several customers gave the award-winning actress a once-over when she made her appearance. Did the real-life person live up to their impression of her? Nico surmised that the ones who ignored her were tourists who hadn’t seen any of her films.

  The two men stood up to greet Marianne Delvaux. She sat down at their table and removed her dark glasses. William Keller had good taste. An impeccably dressed waiter took their order for hot drinks, fruit juice, and a basket of minicroissants. They wasted no time bringing up the matter of her relationship with the director and his daughter, Eva.

  “I can’t imagine the horror of losing a child,” she said.

  Nico picked up a tremor in her voice. Was this the mother talking or the actress? In any case, her presentation was spot on.

  “I agree,” Nico said. “Did you know Eva?”

  “Of course. I saw her several times. She was very talented.”

  “Did she know about your relationship with her father?” Rost asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Eva had a sixth sense, that’s for sure. And she had an uncanny ability to pick up on little details. I don’t know if it was because she was always behind a camera, or if her eye for detail is what drew her to filmmaking. No matter. I can’t be certain that she didn’t understand what was going on between William and me.”

  “Did she ever seem annoyed or angry with you?”

  “Absolutely not. She was always polite, and she idolized her father. She’d never embarrass him.”

  “So she wouldn’t care that he was betraying her mother?” Rost pressed.

  “William and his wife weren’t on the best terms. And to tell you the truth, I wasn’t William’s first affair. He has always loved women. He’s a collector.”

  “That doesn’t seem to bother you,” Nico said.

  Marianne Delvaux laughed. “Don’t be such a prude!”

  She bit into a little pain au chocolat, showing off her sparkly white teeth. She was certainly sure of herself.

  “What about the argument between William Keller and your husband?” Nico asked.

  “Oh, that . . .”

  “Your husband must have been terribly angry with William Keller to seek him out like that.”

  “He was posturing. He wanted William to back off. To tell the truth, I had no intention of breaking up my marriage. William is pleasant enough and good company, but I had no desire to start a whole new life with him. His charm was wearing off.”

  The actress’s words struck a chord. Was Caroline growing tired of him? He was always getting called away. His life was full of violent crime. And it seemed that he was leaning on her more heavily than ever to look after Dimitri. What had she said? “I’m not his mother”? He’d been so selfish! After all, she had a career of her own—a career that was just as important as his. He’d make it up to Caroline—do whatever he needed to do to fix things. Nico made a mental note to call Tanya. She always had good advice.

  “Does your husband ever get violent?” Nico asked.

  “If you’re imagining that he could have done something to Eva, you’re mistaken. He’s working in Los Angeles.”

  Nico knew that. The team had already checked. Her husband had a solid alibi, but pushing her could possibly bring to light some lead.

  “You have a son, is that correct?”

  “That’s right. He’s a student. I keep him out of the limelight, and he’s doing well. Don’t involve him in this, please.”

  “Have you heard of anyone called Wilde?” Nico asked.

  “Oscar Wilde?”

  “A boy Eva was seeing.”

  “No, that doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “Did she have a boyfriend?” Rost asked.

  “You, sirs, are trying to pull one over on me,” the actress said, smiling coyly. “You just suggested that she had a boyfriend named Wilde.”

  The woman was clever.

  “Let me put it another way,” Rost said. “Did you ever see Eva with a boyfriend?”

  “And let me be clear. William and I didn’t involve our children in our relationship or discuss them. If I saw Eva, it was by chance, or it had something to do with my work. William and I were having a casual affair—nothing more. Sometimes you need a breather from a long-term relationship. Sharing your day-to-day problems can kill any sense of passion.”

  Nico felt a knot in his stomach. He put his croissant down.

  “In any case, I don’t know anyone who had anything against Eva. Nothing that could lead to murder, to commit such a barbaric act.”

  They were wasting their time. Nico paid the bill, and he and Rost returned to headquarters.

  Commissioner Monthalet gave Nico an odd look, as if by the power of her mind alone she could rip the key to the enigma from his brain. But he didn’t have it yet. He was just putting the pieces together.

  “Professor Queneau is sure: the DNA on the ribbon belongs to Juliette Bisot.”

  “Three murders. A serial killer,” the commissioner said.

  Robert Ressler, a former FBI agent and author, had coined the term “serial killer.” In the 1970s, Ressler had conducted interviews with nearly forty serial killers in an effort to profile violent offenders and find parallels between their motives and backgrounds. Nico was familiar with his work.

  “Juliette Bisot and Kevin Longin are the ‘two teddy bears,’” Monthalet said. “He executed his victims in cold blood. But I’m wondering if there was some trigger, something destructive enough to transform him from a merely troubled person to a murderer.”

  “For Lucian Staniak, it was the car accident that robbed him of his loved ones,” Nico said. “But for the person we’re chasing, it could be anything: a breakup, job loss, humiliation, frustration, or a number of other events that would cause internal conflict. The killer might be responding to a lack of recognition or an act of aggression, and killing is his way of assuming control again. When he murders, he’s no longer under the thumb of a person or fate itself.”

  “What’s your next step, Chief?”

  “Kriven and his team will take the lead. I want to get our top computer researchers on this, too, and see what they can dig up.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Radically different MOs, no single signature that applies to all three homicides. I’m thinking he’s mimicking more than one serial killer.”

  The commissioner leaned back and smoothed her impeccably designed jacket. “Prove it.”

  She had thrown down the gauntlet.

  “I’m on it, Commissioner.”

  “In the meantime, I’ll deal with the top prosecutor. We’ve got a hundred and twenty magistrates, and I want to make sure all these investigations are under one person.”

  That person would undoubtedly be Judge Becker.

  “Keep Deputy Commissioner Cohen and me in the loop. We’re available whenever you need us.”

  Nico wanted to go home to see Caroline and his son, but he couldn’t leave just yet. Still, he needed a break.

  He grabbed a special key and unlocked a door that opened to a narrow staircase with a low ceiling. The stairs didn’t lead to some hidden wonderland, but instead to the air-conditioned evidence room. Nico walked across the tiny space, his footsteps loud on the cold tile floor. He went up the five wooden steps at the back of the room and opened the French windows. And there it was—the rooftop. He climbed out and perched on the zinc and slate tiles. The view was breathtaking. This was where he always came when the going got tough.

  Many of his fellow citizens seemed to believe whatever they read on the Internet—no questions asked. They thought that serial killers were an American thing. But one of the earliest serial killers was a marshal in the French army, Gilles de Rais, who fought alongside Joan of Arc. He raped and murdered at least a hundred and forty children in the Vendée region. He was tried as a witch, and after being sentenced to death, he was hanged from a gibbet above a raging pyre. France had o
thers: Joseph Vacher, the Jack the Ripper of the Southeast; Henri-Désiré Landru; and the French doctor Marcel Petiot.

  The rest of Europe had its fair share of infamous murderers as well. One of the most notorious was Elizabeth Báthory, nicknamed the Blood Countess and Countess Dracula. The countess was accused of killing hundreds of young women in Hungary. She beat, burned, and mutilated her victims, sometimes biting the flesh off their faces before freezing and starving them to death. It is said that she bathed in their blood afterward, convinced that it would preserve her youth. The idea that serial killings were rooted in some sort of moral decline or American imperialism was just hogwash.

  Enough, Nico thought. The three homicides were beginning to consume him. The walls he had built between his personal life and his work were tumbling down, and he felt vulnerable. He pulled out his cell phone. His hand shook as he entered his sister’s name.

  “Nico?”

  He shivered.

  “Nico, what’s going on?” Tanya asked gently.

  “It’s Caroline,” he said in a near whisper.

  12

  Monday, May 13

  Nico was at his desk and ready to get underway before dawn. He intended to turn his office into combat headquarters.

  “We’re looking for a serial killer whose crimes are modeled on famous predecessors, a man who’s trying to prove that he’s as good as or better than the masters,” he told his colleagues as soon as they were gathered together, coffee cups in hand. “His letter challenges us to stop him.”

  “We need to find out which killers he copied in the Juliette Bisot and Kevin Longin homicides,” Alexandre Becker said.

  “Rost, I’m going to put you in touch with Roselinde Angermann at Europol,” Nico said. “Send her the case files, and see if any of our European colleagues respond. Helen, can you get in touch with the FBI? Meanwhile, Bastien, comb the Internet and your various networks.”

  Helen Vasnier and Bastien Gamby were the division’s go-to Internet researchers.

  “Maurin and Kriven, I want your teams looking everywhere else. Théron, you and your team can continue to investigate Eva Keller’s homicide. Put a face on Wilde. Let’s go!”

  On Sunday evening, both France 24 and CNN had aired pieces on William Keller and the death of his brilliant daughter, who had been following in his footsteps. The media spotlight was on Nico’s Criminal Investigation Division, and the glare was bound to get harsher. As soon as the reporters found out that the killer had two other notches on his belt, the crimes would go viral. Meanwhile, the killer was savoring his notoriety. Of this, Nico was sure.

  The night before, as Nico had turned off the television, Dimitri had looked at him, his eyes shining with pride. “Caroline told me you were working on the Keller case.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Any suspects yet?”

  “The case is more complex than it appears.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get the guy, Dad.”

  Nico had smiled.

  “I’d help you out, but I don’t have my badge yet.”

  “Ah . . . Get yourself through high school first, kid.”

  “Details, details.”

  The bantering had continued until Nico realized that Caroline wasn’t joining in. She was fussing around the kitchen, indifferent to the world around her, walled up in her thoughts. She had come home late from the hospital, blaming a problematic case. But Nico’s gut was telling him something else. His ulcer was aching again. Was she seeing someone? Could he survive if he lost her?

  The regional police archives’ nine kilometers of shelving were overflowing with dusty files of violent, bloody tales. Charlotte Maurin, David Kriven, and two of their team members were meeting with a couple of administrative officers. The pair was an odd mix of computer geek and library rat, a rare, dual-personality species.

  Kriven handed over the list of cases, and the administrative officers started pulling out books, dissertations, notes, and reports.

  “The whole notion of a copycat killer is a media creation,” one of them said.

  “What do you mean?” Kriven asked.

  “Nobody kills for the sole pleasure of imitating a famous serial killer,” the second one explained. “Maybe a killer gets his inspiration from a serial killer, but the drive to murder—if it’s not an act of passion—is rooted in the killer’s personality. Often it’s the result of childhood trauma, either physical or emotional.”

  Kriven gave this some credence. According to one US study, almost 40 percent of convicted serial killers had been physically abused as children, half had suffered psychological abuse, and almost a third had been sexually abused. Of course, the great majority of people who had suffered terrible abuse as children never committed any serious crimes as adults.

  The first administrative officer set down a pile of books. “Killers express their fantasies through unique signature rituals. In any case, dismemberment often reveals a fragmented mind and the nature of the violence the killer experienced as a child. You’ll find that in the textbooks.”

  “If there’s any chance at all that a list of our killer’s idols will shed a ray of light on his personality and provide us with a lead, we must seize it,” Maurin said. “There have to be scores of serial killers who’ve left their own mark. We need to review them all.”

  Kriven was pacing. He loved his job, but some parts of it he could do without. “As if we didn’t have anything else to do with our time! We’d better get some coffee.”

  Helen Vasnier was at her computer, chatting away cheerfully with an FBI agent in perfect English.

  “Good-bye, John, and thanks for your help.”

  Deputy Chief Rost, who had just ended his call with Roselinde Angermann, looked over at his colleague. Either the FBI agent was a man willing to go above and beyond—it was painfully early in Washington—or Vasnier had her ways.

  “So it’s ‘John’ now, eh?” Rost asked.

  “He’s such a gentleman,” Vasnier said, giving him an enigmatic Miss Marple smile. “He’s running our cases through their database.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing yet. What about you?”

  “I like that Angermann woman. I think she takes sadistic pleasure in disturbing her colleagues’ peace and quiet. And she’s like a pit bull. Once she’s got her teeth into something, she won’t let go.”

  “Well, I hope so. We might not get much from the FBI this time.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Call it intuition. How much are you willing to bet?”

  Rost declined. He never bet against Helen Vasnier.

  The Internet was overflowing with serial-killer fans and serial-killer fan clubs. When it came to books, movies, and television series, the members could go on and on. They talked about their favorite killers, argued over memorabilia going up for auction, and expressed their fascination with the various victims. Bastien Gamby thought they were all crazy. But they knew what they were talking about.

  Gamby challenged them to guess who the serial killer was based on a description of the crime scene. A while later, he spotted the message: “IK.”

  “How do you like that?” he mumbled. “‘I know.’”

  A name came up, followed by the details.

  “Well, shit,” Gamby said loud enough for everyone else to hear.

  Rost’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket.

  “Europol has something,” Roselinde Angermann said when he answered.

  Before he could respond, his land line rang. “Can you hold on?” he asked. “I have another call.”

  It was Commander Kriven. “We’ve got something.”

  “Andrei Romanovich Chikatilo, the Butcher of Rostov,” Gamby said, back from his online foray and once again among the living.

  “I know who he was—one of the worst serial killers the Soviet Union has ever known,” Kriven said. “It would be safe to say one of the worst criminals ever.” He nodded in Nico’s direction. “He was Ukrainian, like you.
It hasn’t exactly been wine and roses over there.”

  “Okay, David. I know all about Ukraine—and Russia,” Nico said. “Gamby, tell me about this guy.”

  “Andrei Chikatilo was a teacher and a father of two. It’s believed that he committed more than fifty murders—boys, girls, and women—between 1978 and 1990, primarily in Rostov-on-Don. He mutilated his victims with a knife, cutting them up and ripping out their organs. He also gouged out their eyes—that was his signature. He probably couldn’t stand his victims looking at him. He was finally arrested and sentenced to death, then executed in 1994 at the age of fifty-seven.”

  Maurin added, “One of his victims, Olga, was a ten-year-old girl. He lured her from the bus with him and took her to a cornfield. Once there, he stabbed her more than fifty times and removed her bowels and uterus. Her body was found four months later in the snowy field. The cold had preserved it.”

  Just like Juliette Bisot, Nico thought.

  Kriven cleared his throat. “For Kevin Longin, the criminal inspiration was Thomas Quick, whose birth name was Sture Ragnar Bergwall. After a robbery conviction he was confined to an institution for the insane, and while he was undergoing recovered-memory therapy, he confessed to thirty-three homicides between 1964 and 1993. On the basis of his confession he was found guilty of eight murders. Later, however, he retracted his statements. He’d been given a high dosage of benzodiazepines during therapy, and while heavily drugged he’d simply invented the confessions. The convictions were thrown out for lack of hard evidence. Ultimately, he was released from the hospital, and the whole episode became a legal scandal in Sweden.”

  “Kriven, I’m waiting,” Nico said. “Get to the point.”

  “According to his stories he played sexual games with the bodies of the boys he killed. He dismembered them and took parts of their bodies as trophies.”

  Nico stuck a pin in a map he had hung on the wall. Judge Becker walked over to look at it. Red pins denoted where the original serial killers had carried out their crimes: Ukraine, Sweden, and Poland. Green corresponded with the places where the bodies were found in Paris: Square du Temple in the third arrondissement for Juliette Bisot; La Grange aux Belles Middle School in the tenth arrondissement for Kevin Longin; and Place Jean-Baptiste Clément in Montmartre for Eva Keller.