by mark mctighe
The road was narrow and tight, the slopes above had cast rock falls through the night. As the last few hairpins were rounded I drove through the vineyards of Chalais. The grapes still small, but ripening fast. From Chalais it was five minutes on the auto route and I was in Sion. An hour and a half before the meeting was due to start.
Sion is the capital of the Valais region. It’s a beautiful city sitting in the Rhone Valley, surrounded by miles upon miles of vineyards. Every available piece of land, regardless of the severity of the slope is covered with the structure and order of the vines. Two hills rise out of Sion, a castle ruin on one, a fortified church on the other, very old. I bought a copy of The Nouvellist, checked my directions to the police offices, and sat down for a coffee and pain au chocolat.
The Nouvellist was certainly being fed information from somewhere; they had put together quite a convincing story. There was an aerial picture of Chalet Rothorn, ‘so that’s what the helicopter was doing’ I thought; the caption underneath read; ‘the butcher’s graveyard’.
‘Pascal is going to be delighted’ I thought. ‘No one is going to talk to him now’.
The coffee was good, the pain au chocolat sublime. I signalled for the waitress to come over.
“The same again, please” the waitress at Picasso’s came to mind. She’d have been pleased with me, good café etiquette.
I arrived at the offices 15 minutes early, parked, and called Pascal on his mobile, as he’d asked.
“I’ll be down with you in five; thought we’d start the meeting with Jurgen.”
Pascal produced his yellow bear’s paw, shook hands, and patted me on the back a couple of times. I think he was enjoying the case.
“We keep Jurgen round the back, here, in the labs,” he waved his paw towards a steel and glass single story building.
“These’d be porta cabins in the UK” I said. He handed me a pass.
“Scan it like this, and you’re through” he said passing through the turnstile and moving into the main building.
I followed, and was ushered into a meeting room with fresh coffee and biscuits.
“If we start with the first body; we now have a formal identification as Lucian Dix, your father.” Jurgen began.
The report was short. There was little that could be discovered from a body that had been buried for 47 years and was now missing its head. The Swiss team had been able to confirm our suspicions. Namely; the damage to the eye sockets had been caused by a knife or similar. The break to the Jaw was old. The hands had more than likely been removed with an axe, not sawn off as I’d suspected, and finally; the dental records matched those of my father, Lucian Dix.
“Leo, thank you for providing the photographs, it would have made our job impossible otherwise” Jurgen said with some force. “I know this is old news to us all, but the second body has given us a great deal of new information.”
“Go on” I said.
“The first mistake they have made is burying it at over 1900m, in a shaded area. In addition both winters we have had, since the body was buried, have been particularly long and cold. And as luck would have it we have now had two consecutive summers where temperatures have been significantly down on the average. In consequence the decomposition has been severely reduced.” Jurgen could have gone on all day, but Pascal had had enough of the long term weather report.
“Cut to the chase Jurgen” he said.
“Ok,” he looked a little disappointed. “We have a pretty good idea that the body was buried just before the winter of 2008. The ground would start to get too hard in November, so our best estimate is September October 2008. The body is of a man, Caucasian, age 24 give or take 4 years. Height 1.90m, weight 85-90 kilograms, good muscular development, especially upper body. We have a good set of dentals, but the computer couldn’t get a match with missing persons. I’ll let you read the full report, but want to go through the disfigurements first.” He paused for breath. “Eyes have been removed, again with a blade, or similar. The jaw was broken to allow access to the base of the tongue. The tongue was removed. Both ears were removed with a knife or similar.”
I inhaled Jurgen’s words, the enormity of the brutality. I wanted to ask; ‘Were they alive?’ But I needed to let him finish.
“The nose cut off with a knife or similar. The left hand was removed at the wrist joint with an axe or similar, a blow of force, definitely not a sawing action. The right hand and lower section of the right forearm was removed in a similar way. There is unfortunately too much decomposition for me to be able to tell if these actions took place before, during, or after death.”
“Thanks Jurgen, I know you’ve been working flat out on this one.” Pascal rested his hand on Jurgen’s shoulder.
“I’ve never had anything like it before” he said.
We withdrew from Jurgen’s domain, and headed up to Pascal’s office.
“I’ll give you half an hour with your father’s file, then perhaps we can discuss what we think is going on” he looked fairly nonplussed.
“Thanks” I said.
The file was a brown manila, yellowing on the corners, and thin. There were maybe two dozen sheet of paper and two photographs. I positioned the papers to my left and placed the photographs directly in front of me. The first had a typed sticky label in the left hand corner, ‘Lucian Dix. July 1961’. I had never seen the shot. My father lent against a gate, tall, athletic, smiling. A small rucksack tucked under his arm. The back ground familiar, the Momings and Zinal Rothorn. It had clearly been taken just above Grimentz. The second photograph offered me a great deal more; a wedding photograph. The first thing that was odd was that the event hadn’t taken place in Grimentz. Perhaps Pascal would be able to recognise the church. ‘Wedding of Lucian Dix to Emily Von Arx. 4th June 1962’ the label stated. I sifted through the papers; sure enough there was a wedding certificate. It confirmed the date, and the location as the church of St Catherine in Salgesh, Sierre.
I ordered my thoughts, what had the photographs told me? ‘Emily married at the beginning of June, away from Grimentz. Sometime between June and August Lucian disappeared. The disappearance was emphatic enough for Emily to know that he would not be returning. So in September Emily emigrated to England, and had her baby at the beginning of December.’ I looked at the photograph again. ‘She’s pregnant here’ I thought.
I hadn’t even looked at the paperwork and a credible murder story was emerging.
A covering sheet listed the contents of the file. The statements that followed were not as revealing as the photographs had been. Statements from mother’s two brothers Marc and Mattieau, from her father, Remy, and his brother and sister, Luke and Janine, told me nothing other than; they had got their story straight. The questioning officer, Bernard Von Arx, had probably been family. They had not been pushed. The positive was that with the exception of Remy, they were all still alive.
My mother’s statement was more revealing. Like the head, it was missing.
Notes from Bernard Von Arx, the investigator, gave me some specifics. ‘Arrived Grimentz May 1961; married Emily Von Arx June 1962; last seen 30th August 1962’.
My half hour had flown by and Pascal was back at my side.
“What do you think then?” He waited.
“I take it my mother’s statement was missing when you first got the file?” I asked.
“Yes. there’s a chance that it’s been copied onto microfiche, I’m looking into that.” He replied.
You didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes or Captain Francis Xavier Furillo to deduce that the family seemed unhappy with the marriage; that the family seemed unhappy with the pregnancy; that the daughter had bolted and completely isolated herself from that family. “Now we’ve got a body you need to question the family again” I said. “Out of their comfort zone, bring them down here, one at a time.”
“A couple of them are too old, Luke and Janine I’ll question at their homes, but the others can come here” he said.
“I
’ll do my best to dig around and see what I can come up with. Don’t worry I know I have no jurisdiction, but I can be persuasive.” As we shook hands he passed me a folder.
“I’m not supposed to do this, but Jack said you’re good, and I could do with all the help I can get” he winked.
I drove the car around the corner, pulled over, and opened the file. My father’s case notes and colour copies of the photos were there. I’d have to remember to get proper copies of the originals; I didn’t have many photographs of my father. The summary reports from Jurgen, and autopsy 1 and 2. I wasn’t expecting anything else, but the wink Pascal had given me, that was what had made me pull over and check. There was one further manila folder. It looked as old as my father’s file. The first entry had been made in 1963. I flipped to the back, the last entry, printed off the computer, was only two years old. I scanned the unnamed file; there were perhaps a hundred pages. ‘I’ve got to find someone who’ll talk to me’ I thought, as the car chugged back up the mountain road, more tractor than car. I continued to ponder, ‘that’s exactly why Pascal had given me the file; he needed me to try and get inside the community, talk to everyone as a member of the family. Hopefully they wouldn’t see me as police and I could catch someone off their guard.’
TEN
Rufus was waiting for me when I finally got back, his hand wrapped around his steaming Union Jack.
“Good day?” I enquired.
“Wicked bike ride; from here to Hotel Weisshorn and back, and now I feel like I’ve had the shit kicked out of me. Pascoe came; phenomenal power to weight ratio; he was born on a bike man.”
“His mother wouldn’t have liked that” I muttered to myself.
“How’s the investigation progressing?
“Like a closed door; gut instinct tells me it’s not from outside; community perhaps; family perhaps; too early to say but if I had to bet on it ...... then it’s family for dad’s death; the second body; we’ll just have to give it some time.” I knew I could tell Rufus anything; unwritten rule; he never discussed it with anyone else.
“They’ve passed me a couple of files to look at. It seems that part of the Grimentz community has been under investigation for some time. Pascal knows that I can operate outside normal police protocol; he wants to use me to poke around, stir things up a bit. It might help to break this thing open”.
“Thing” Rufus looked puzzled, “you’re talking in riddles man.”
“I don’t know yet, but bodies butchered in a similar way, decades apart, it’s enough to tell us that something strange has been going on for at least the last generation.”
I settled down at the table. The wood burner ticked over, just keeping the chill of altitude at bay. I pulled out a note book and started to summarize the documents in front of me. It took 3 hours to complete the task.
Sitting back on my chair I closed the file.
“Anything revealing?” Rufus asked.
“The body of the young man is almost certainly Austrian, but I’m sure Pascal’s checked that thoroughly.”
“You’ve hardly written any notes.” He quizzed.
“There’s too much supposition and guesswork, I’ve just written down the facts as I see them.”
I began; “the file is untitled, but states that it is appended to the Lucian Dix file; which is strange because the Lucian Dix file made no reference to it. I think this means that someone in the police thought it necessary to hide the report. We’re right on the cultural border here. Sierre is where French speaking Switzerland and German speaking Switzerland meet. Go five miles East of Sierre and everyone speaks German; Catholics to the West, protestants to the East. My guess is that this report has been compiled by those with a German or protestant persuasion. They didn’t want any of this information bleeding its way back into the Grimentz community.”
“Go on” he said, pulling his chair closer to the table.
“There’s probably more in these pages, but at first pass I’ve come up with the following: One; August 1962; suspicious disappearance of Lucian Dix. Two; July 1963; informal discussion with Grimentz priest, Fr. Boniface Zuffrey, indicated that the catholic community felt that Lucian Dix had not disappeared, but that a murder enquiry should be opened. Three; February 1965; Robert Epiney, Grimentz, agreed to monitor the splinter catholic group.............This is the first specific reference to a division in the Catholics of Grimentz” I said.
“What are we talking about here dad?”
“A parallel church of some kind; catholic in name, potentially militant, we just don’t know yet. Four; 1965 to 1970; a number of entries confirming that they remain active, but essentially impenetrable. ..................But, we get a list of about 50 names, participants, which include my uncles, Marc and Mattieau, grandfather Remy and his siblings. Five; December 1970; Robert Epiney suggests that Remy Von Arx is interviewed, that’s grandmother’s father. He states ‘Remy is looking unhappy with life, perhaps depressed. There may be information he wants to give.’............ And this ties in nicely with the cards he was sending mum, you know..... Asking for forgiveness. Six; January 1971; death of Remy Von Arx................. He died of a heart attack but Robert Epiney was less convinced, he’d written ‘it looks suspicious to me; it’s all too convenient. I saw Remy the day before his heart attack, and his physical health was good’.”
“Had the Police had an opportunity to interview him?” Rufus asked.
“No, they just hadn’t got around to it” I said. “Great shame, but yes, his death should be considered suspicious. Seven; 1971 to 1981; annual vigil at Chalet Rothorn.”
“Do you think they were dancing around the forest here; Ku Klux Klan style?” Rufus chuckled and I chose to ignore him. “Eight; May 1982; Robert Epiney moves to St Luc and the file is closed. Nine; and over twenty five years later - November 2008; there’s a note from Robert which says ‘please don’t think I’m crazy but the Austrian climber, Klaus; based in Grimentz all summer has left the valley unexpectedly; I’m anxious, he’s a good lad and this is out of character. I think you should investigate’.
“So there’s a good chance that Klaus is the second body” Rufus queried.
“The dates are right and the pathologist said it was the body of a climber; I’d say it was a sure thing”.
The next day brought a Mediterranean heat. Rufus chased me out of the chalet for a training run. I grabbed my rucksack, phone and notes; “I’ll see you in a couple of hours; if you’re looking for something to do you could chop some more wood.”
I thought I’d run for an hour or so and call Pascal to see if he had any information on Klaus.
I descended the footpath and turned left onto the main route. The track ran nonstop to Vercourin, 13km of undulating pleasure. Occasional cars used the unsurfaced road to access their summer hideaways and it was listed as a mountain biking route, but rarely used. After an hour I stopped and pulled out the mobile. The signal strength was fluctuating, I ran another 100 metres and another bar of strength appeared.
The phone was answered immediately “Pascal?”
“Leo” he sounded pleased to hear from me. I ran through the notes I’d made from the previous night then enquired;
“I’d like to visit Robert Epiney. Do you have any objections to that?”
“The trouble is Leo; he’s always dealt with us. He might see it as a betrayal, if he knows you’ve seen the file. Let me see him first.”
I didn’t want to push Pascal too hard; I could do that later, when all the facts of the case were in the open. “Ok, have you had any joy tracking down Klaus?” I enquired.
“We don’t even have a surname or photograph of the man and you can imagine how many climbers there are called Klaus in Austria. He may be a travelling type, climbing here and there and his family don’t even know that he’s missing. If you can track down a photo or full name, possibly from the climbing fraternity we can do some publicity and try to find out exactly who he is. We’ve had no joy to date, and that’s n
ot for want of trying; 200 man hours plus I’d say.”
“I’m going to talk to my relatives this week; make some personal enquiries about my father; see what reactions I get. I’ll call if anything of interest surfaces.”
I pushed the phone into the rucksack; my thoughts on how best to engineer the meetings.
Brakes locked and tyres skidded on the loose surface of the track. As I turned to rise the rear wheel of the bike struck me on my chest, my arm breaking the impact. The cyclist came up and over the handlebars, landing with a dull thump on the edge of the track. Another foot and they would have been grasping at the undergrowth on a rocky mountain slope for the best part of a kilometre.
“What the fuck were you doing squatting in the middle of the road? Ahh, Jesus my shoulder; it’s knackered.” She put her arm up to check the collar bone and grimaced.
“I’m sorry; I was just putting something in the pack. Are you ok?” She gave me a disapproving look. “I’ve got first aid training; can I have a look at your shoulder?” She nodded approval. The collar bone wasn’t broken; shoulder joint fine, upper, and lower arms moved freely.
“There’s going to be some nasty bruising, it’s already starting to swell on the shoulder, but otherwise I think you’ll be fine” I said.
She felt her shoulder, “no swelling there I’m afraid it’s all me.” This time she actually smiled at me. The shock of the crash had gone.
