The Blameless Dead

by Gary Haynes

  He’d known that the chances of the girl in the DVD being Sangmu were 10,000 to one. But a part of him hadn’t been able to dismiss the possibility. The possibility too that it might lead to something else if in fact the victim was not his niece. In that moment, he’d set his mind to what he would do next: represent the alleged murderer named Johnny Hockey.

  *

  As Gabriel walked back into the staffroom, the aged professor was struggling to keep his eyes open. He sat back down in the armchair, his head slumped, mirroring the old man. Purposely in his mind, he picked up his three-year-old niece and spun her around, as if he was taking her on a personal carousel ride. She giggled, and her eyes sparkled like black gemstones. He spoke to her softly, naming various mundane objects: a gas oven, a colour TV, a light switch. Things that had been alien to her, and which he’d wanted to become familiar. She had left her previous life behind. She was safe. She was loved. She was a special child.

  He had to know what had happened to her. To find her, if she was still alive. Nothing else mattered anymore.

  29

  Brussels, Belgium, the same day.

  In 1989, Marc Dutroux, the ‘Belgian Beast’, was convicted of the rape of five girls. He was sentenced to thirteen years in prison, but only served three. Four years later, in August 1996, he was arrested again, and the police found two girls in a dungeon he’d built in the cellar of one of his houses. They’d been sexually abused, which had been filmed. Two other girls were found buried in the garden of another of his houses. Two further victims were found buried under concrete in a shed close to a third house owned by Dutroux.

  Officials were accused of ignoring tip-offs — including letters from Dutroux’s mother, who said he was imprisoning girls at his houses — and crucial information from a police informant. A popular investigative judge was dismissed from the case. Dutroux said that he’d been protected by well-connected accomplices, something that was never proved. Others made similar allegations, claiming that Dutroux was part of an organized paedophile network with powerful members.

  On the twentieth of October 1996, the White March took place in Brussels. Three hundred thousand Belgians, outraged by what they believed to be at best incompetence, wore or carried something white as a symbol of hope, demanding reform in the police and judicial systems.

  Hope was something that Robert Dubois believed in, although sometimes when he walked home late at night, he sensed the old buildings whisper to him, as if they wanted to reveal the horrors that had taken place inside. Sometimes on rainy mornings, after he’d just gotten out of bed, he pulled back the curtains and heard the faint screams of the victims rising from cracks in the pavement. Even if he imagined such things, he knew for sure that wood and stone had some form of memory.

  He was forty-two years old, a federal detective chief inspector in Belgium’s central directorate of the fight against serious and organized crime. He specialized in combating human trafficking, a crime that had burgeoned into a trade in flesh equalling that in heroin, in terms of both the profits it generated and the misery it caused. Almost twenty years ago, he’d helped arrest the Belgian Beast, and he’d never quite got over the experience.

  Tonight, he walked through the Pentagon, the city centre, his six foot three, naturally athletic build and mass of black curly hair giving him a peculiarly animal intensity in movement. It was raining hard and nearing 9.00 pm, and Dubois was heading for an Ibis hotel just off the Grand Place, with its fifteenth century town hall and magnificent market square, illuminated by hundreds of lightbulbs. He had to meet a man who had flown in from Berlin. The man, Finkel, was a member of Grenzschutzgruppe 9 der Bundespolizei, or GSG 9, the special operations unit of the German federal police. They’d talked on the phone, met on occasion, and Dubois liked him.

  He eased under the awning of a bar and lit a cigarette with a match. He smoked furiously for ten seconds or so before jerking the cigarette from his lips and throwing it into the rivulet in the gutter. He’d been trying to quit smoking for months and chastised himself each time he succumbed. Moving again, he passed by the shop fronts in the alleyway that led to the plaza and the hotel, thinking that he missed Carla Romero on nights such as these. Every night, if he was honest.

  *

  The receptionist was standing behind a padded counter of fake leather, a skinny young man with acne, the sleeves of his black suit jacket reaching almost down to his knuckles. The lobby was compact, with an empty bar off to the left. Finkel was sitting alone at a circular wooden table, the half-filled restaurant area behind him. He was in his early thirties, about five eight, bulky, with thinning blond hair, and was wearing jeans and a blue shirt that was damp around the collar. Robert Dubois knew him to be a family man, one with a quirky sense of humour after a few beers. He was familiar with what had gone on in Brussels and had said that it had sickened him. Finkel had two girls of his own.

  They shook hands and, after Dubois took off his dripping jacket, he settled himself into a rattan wicker chair opposite Finkel.

  ‘How are you, Robert?’

  ‘Not bad. And Trudi and the kids?’

  ‘They are well, thank you.”

  Finkel said he had some important information. He grabbed a handful of salted nuts from the ceramic dish on the table.

  ‘It’s about the DVD you mentioned,’ he said.

  Dubois nodded, his ebony eyes fixed.

  Finkel rubbed his forehead, took out a photograph from his pocket and placed it on the table, face up.

  ‘The Chechen,’ he said.

  The Chechen was known to them both, a pornographer of the worst kind. But he’d disappeared, and it was thought that he’d returned to Chechnya, or somewhere equally remote in the Russian Federation. Dubois hadn’t seen an up-to-date photo of him for close to ten years. Now he had one in front of him.

  Dubois picked up the photograph, looked at it before placing it back down and sliding it over to Finkel. A middle-aged man’s face could change a lot in a decade and the Chechen seemed to have aged twenty years. He looked about sixty, with an unkempt beard and straggly, shoulder-length hair. He was wearing a short leather jacket and had a cigarette in his mouth, such that it revealed his little teeth.

  They ordered coffee from a waitress who appeared from the bar area, the fat of her neck spilling over her white blouse. She left, and Finkel put his index finger in his mouth, appearing to excavate there for a piece of leftover peanut.

  ‘The Chechen boasted to one of our deep cover officers about supplying a wealthy American with a DVD showing the murder of a young woman, said that he’d been paid well for it,’ Finkel said.

  ‘Did he say who?’

  Finkel shook his head.

  They discussed the meeting the undercover officer had with the Chechen, where it became apparent that his addiction to crack cocaine was a contributing factor in his unintended confession. Plus, the fact that the cop had been masquerading as a purveyor of snuff movies and the Chechen was looking to become a worldwide broker of that appalling merchandize.

  The waitress returned, placed the white cups and saucers on the table, smiled and moved away. Finkel picked up a sachet of brown sugar, tapped it against the table, opened it and poured the contents into his cup before stirring it with a metal spoon.

  ‘Anything else?’ Dubois said.

  In truth, he wasn’t that impressed with the intel. He eased back in his chair, felt his body loosen, as it always did when he thought he’d get a lead but instead got nothing much at all.

  Finkel took a slurp of coffee and looked at Dubois straight in the eyes. ‘The Chechen said the source of the DVD was an old man who lived in Berlin. He said he was a serial killer but has never been convicted of a crime. Not even a speeding ticket.’

  ‘Did he say anything else about the DVD?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where is the Chechen now?’ Dubois said.

  ‘He’s gone to the US. We’re leaving it there. At least I’m passing the intel onto you, R
obert.’

  Dubois stood up. ‘Let’s get a real drink.’

  Finkel remained seated.

  ‘The Chechen also said that the old man is known only by a nickname. One that might interest you, given the photos you sent me.’ He slid the photo of the Chechen back across the table top to Dubois. ‘You’ll want this for your FBI friend.’

  *

  It was 3.07 am and Robert Dubois was stretched out on a taupe-coloured couch in his ample apartment in Place Sainctelette, close to the incongruous sandpits of Brussels Beach at the Quai des Péniches. During the summer months, the beach played host to ethnic food stalls and Stetson-wearing line dancers, to volleyball tournaments and folk singing. But instead of an ocean there were only the murky waters of the Willebroek Canal. The sand at Brussels Beach hid concrete, just as Dubois’ federal police badge hid a near vigilante mindset where sex criminals were concerned. But he bent domestic rules rather than broke them, although he dispensed entirely with international protocol when it came to sharing intel, his meeting with Finkel being but one example. Carla was his equal in this, he knew.

  He had become infatuated with Carla within days of meeting her. The infatuation lingered still and often perplexed him.

  He’d never married. His home was characterized by minimalism and fine lines. The few pieces of furniture were pinewood. He didn’t possess a microwave or TV. When he wasn’t working, he liked to cook with fresh ingredients and listen to English rock music.

  Dubois had spent twenty minutes going over all the good times he and Carla had enjoyed in their short relationship, before he’d wondered if the relationship she now had with the lawyer named Gabriel Hall was platonic. He’d approved of her reasons when she’d rung to inform him of this development.

  Realizing that this was getting him nowhere, other than a maudlin state of mind, he decided to go to bed. He would ring her about the Chechen tomorrow.

  30

  Little Italy, the next day.

  Frank’s Place was on Mulberry Street, between Baxter and Mott, flanked by an Italian cheese shop and a pasta restaurant. The pavement outside was dotted with little round tables and dining chairs, outsized framed menus and elaborate advertising signs. In the shade afforded by the awning of a cigar shop, an old man was sitting on a stool, smoking and drinking coffee. Next to him was a wooden statue of a native American, looking more reminiscent of an Aztec, despite the fake Winchester rifle in its hand. Like the dated streetlights, it was painted in muted red, green and white, the ubiquitous colours of the Italian flag.

  The TV above the optics in Frank’s Place was an old-fashioned type, as opposed to a flat screen. It was fixed, somewhat precariously it appeared, onto the lime-green wall. A grainy episode of Friends was on, the actors as silent as stones. The bar proper had many of its original features, including a brass-plated foot rest and burnished wood-grain panels, with heavy carved feet. There was a laminated marble top, and a stone slab for carving lemons and other citrus fruits.

  Gabriel and Carla were sitting in a booth by the window, the midday sun creating shimmering pools on the street and exposing a crimson mote in Carla’s left eye. She sipped at a mineral water. Gabriel fiddled with a glass of orange juice, making the ice cubes clink against the thick glass tumbler. After a somewhat awkward introduction, she told him a little about her work and he listened attentively.

  Now she said, ‘I know you’re assisting with Hockey’s defence, but I’d like to discuss certain aspects of the case with you. If you’re willing.’

  He looked at her. Her head was ever so slightly to one side. She wore a dark-grey trouser suit, a russet blouse, minimal make-up and three white gold rings, none of which indicated that she was married.

  ‘I’d like to know your general opinion, before I answer that,’ he said.

  He leaned back in his chair, brushed off his trousers, dislodging some undefined spots in the process.

  She nodded. ‘The female victim was likely kidnapped. The DVD is likely one of several. I don’t believe Hockey knew what was on it. I don’t know if he killed the Watsons. I investigate kidnappings. Female kidnappings. I don’t believe that Hockey is a kidnapper, either. But he stole that DVD, I’m pretty sure of that now.’

  He looked at her again and found himself momentarily lost in her dark eyes, the remarkable blend of compassion and lack of forgiveness that resided there. She was beguiling. But he knew they were both close to professional misconduct, if they hadn’t committed it already.

  ‘Thank you for being candid,’ he said. ‘Why did you want to meet today? I mean, the real reason.’

  She looked down briefly before engaging with him. ‘Your niece went missing eighteen months ago, didn’t she?’

  He clenched his jaw but kept his emotions in check. How did she know that? His name hadn’t been mentioned in the few minor press articles. But now he guessed that she’d checked the FBI records.

  ‘Your point is?’ he said.

  She puckered her lips. ‘You’re representing Hockey because of your niece. I figure this is all about her.’

  ‘I’d say you are way off the mark.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Mr Hall. I think you’re trying to get him to say something that will assist you in your search for her.’

  ‘Are you accusing me of acting unprofessionally? Illegally?’

  She used her fingers to brush her hair behind her right ear, revealing an opal earring. ‘I have a daughter. I understand how you must feel. If someone took her, I’d do anything I could do to find her.’

  Sweat had formed beneath his mouth and he wiped his skin dry with the back of his hand.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said, standing up.

  ‘Sit down, Mr Hall.’

  She said it both with an authority and with a promise of something if he complied. He sat down.

  ‘I can help you. I can help you find your niece. Now — level with me.’

  31

  After her meeting with Gabriel, Carla eased her SUV into the far left-hand corner of a large McDonald’s parking lot, next to a line of yellow buckeye trees and sweetspire bushes. She cut the engine, took out her smartphone and called Valentina, the kindly Mexican woman that looked after Monize when she was working late or away from DC. She said that Monize was well-behaved and Carla was not to worry.

  Monize’s father had left them when she was two years old. But he was a low-level political lobbyist with ambition, and he hadn’t moved away from the capital. Monize slept over at his apartment in Columbia Heights once every two weeks, which Carla had consented to, without the need for a court order, and approved of.

  She took the standard-issue Glock Model .22, which was loaded with .40 Smith & Wesson cartridges, from the hard-plastic holster on her hip and placed it into the glove compartment. She hadn’t used it, apart from on the firing range. The SWAT teams did the killing when necessary. Her Catholic upbringing had left her with a sense that that was always a momentous event, and one she had no desire to experience. She kept it in the glove compartment as often as possible, something to remind her that she was an investigator first and foremost. She didn’t want to get too used to a gun being attached to her like a vital thing.

  She rang Section Chief Hester on her encrypted FBI smartphone.

  ‘I met with Gabriel Hall this afternoon, sir. His association with Hockey is a front.’

  Instead of going into the expected rant, he said, ‘Go on.’

  ‘I found out that his missing niece was adopted. She’s a Kalmyk.’

  ‘Like the girl in the DVD,’ Hester said.

  Feeling not a little relieved at his reaction, she said, ‘Precisely, sir. Hall said he didn’t believe Hockey’s story that the DVD was left at his place by someone he knew. Like me, he thinks Hockey stole it to order. That’s the reason for the murders, sir. This has nothing to do with anti-Semitism.’

  ‘I see. But this puts Hall in an impossible position. He’ll be disbarred.’

  ‘He asked me to get him a copy of
the DVD,’ she said, turning on the air conditioning and adjusting it to blue.

  ‘Does he think it’s his niece?’

  Carla rubbed her forehead, ‘He wants to know, for sure. But he wants to study it too.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘I told him the killer wears a mask. Like a skull. And dresses in a robe. A Tibetan monk’s robe,’ she said, screwing up her face.

  She’d studied the DVD, which had made her dry retch again. But it hadn’t yielded any clue as to the man’s identity in terms she was familiar with, nor any motive, beyond sadism. She had a notion, though, that sadism was far too simple an explanation.

  ‘You told him that?’ Hester said.

  ‘I had to.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘He said he really needs to see it. He thinks there could be a link with the people who took his niece, assuming it isn’t her.’

  Hester sighed, ‘If his niece was kidnapped. We don’t know that.’

  ‘But there must be some connection.’

  ‘Is that you or him speaking now, Agent Romero?’

  Ignoring him, Carla told Hester about the message that Hockey had asked Gabriel to give to one of his associates, a man named Jim Saunders, at the bar in Far Rockaway.

  ‘He passed on the message?’ Hester said.

  ‘He did.’

  Hester coughed, and his breathing became audible.

  ‘Hockey wasn’t acting alone and he wants to talk to someone other than his dead father. Hockey would’ve gotten it out anyway.’ She made a face, waiting for his reaction.

  ‘Tell Hall he can’t represent Hockey, even in a pro bono capacity with the public defender at the helm. That’s a definite.’ Hester coughed again, something that quickly descended into a phlegmy wheeze. ‘And don’t contact him again until I get clearance for this. Is that clear?’