The First Fingerprint

by Xavier-Marie Bonnot

  The first surprise awaiting the two officers was that they were transferred, without a word of discussion, to the drug squad with the unwritten agreement that they would return to the murder squad within two years.

  At the time, Marseille was still a grim town, rusted over by the economic crisis. It was a time of disillusion, the end of the glory days. Forget the flesh trade on the routes from Indochina, or the speakeasies in the back rooms of dives around the Opera, just then it was all about drugs. In discreet villas, the chemists of Marseille cooked up the world’s finest heroin, and business was damn good: mobsters in gold-stitched suits were blowing one another away on every street corner.

  The French Connection. A planetary fuck-up.

  Both France and the U.S.A. had their eyes fixed on the dozen officers in the Marseille drug squad. And the opposition were no amateurs either, far from it: Jo Cesari, the king of 98% pure juice; Gaëtan Zampa, a.k.a. “Le Grand Tany,” and Francis Vanverberghe, “Le Belge,” his enemy, along with their squadrons of soldiers. They were the crème de la crème of the scene, at the top of this can of worms, along with quite a few policemen from headquarters who were well in with the gang. So you had to be good. Very good. And de Palma and Maistre were very good.

  They were the best.

  Their friendship was bonded in life and in death when they raided their first lab: a villa, trying to pass itself off as a snug cottage, tucked up on the heights of Gémenos.

  April 30, 1980. Judge André has set up one hell of an operation, Alouette III, with kepis everywhere waiting for the signal: the Baron is playing at being a wounded hunter, his eyes glazed over, slung like a lump of meat over Maistre’s solid shoulders. They ring the doorbell, with its lucky charm cicada over the button and a jingle: “Do Mi Si La Do Re.” Once inside, they stick the barrel of a Browning 12-gauge automatic full of buckshot—big hunt, big game—up the noses of their “saviors.” HUSH! De Palma and Maistre then tiptoe upstairs to the first floor and noiselessly open the door. The chemist is there, bent over his boilers. “This is the police, Monsieur,” de Palma says, courteously. The horse trainer stands up quickly, short of breath, eyes red, a look of terror on his acid-ravaged face.

  That day, Maistre had been so impressed by his colleague’s cold, calm intelligence that he had nicknamed him “The Baron.” He thought it went well with the ‘de’ in his surname, his aquiline profile, his look of a long-distance runner, his height of one meter eighty-five and his tragic nobleman manner.

  The American ambassador had expressed his satisfaction, the Ministre de l’Intérieur had applauded, and the Maire, Gaston Defferre, had too. Maistre and de Palma went on with the hunt, spending long, sleepless nights in beaten-up cars, having farting competitions and pissing into plastic bottles. Without winning a single medal. Just celebrity. After twenty months on the drug squad, they went back to murders.

  October 21, 1981. 12:45. Boulevard Michelet. Judge André is whacked. Francis “Le Blond,” the archangel of smack, a mafia beast, gets off his motorbike, tense, in slow motion, holding an 11.43. Three bullets. One year before, Defferre had said: “You don’t kill judges in Marseille!”

  After ten years in the squad, a marriage and two children, Jean-Louis Maistre sensed the approach of divorce and decay. He had opted for simple pleasures rather than big-game hunting and asked to be transferred to the public safety department. A different police force, uniformed, with more regular hours and less work. But he missed the squad terribly.

  “So, are you coming along or what?”

  “No, not at 4:00 in the morning.”

  “O.K., right away, then …”

  “Now you’re talking, you gobshite. I could see you coming. I hope you’ve got a plan at least.”

  “For the past ten days, I’ve been going backward and forward outside La Castellane. I just can’t get it out of my mind …”

  De Palma stared at the floor, as though concentrating his thoughts.

  “This isn’t a sadist. That simply isn’t possible. If it was, then the kids would have turned him in at once. Or else killed him. No, it isn’t a sadist, it’s the fucker who’s lording it over La Castellane. Or else someone else who’s powerful enough to make everyone keep their mouths shut. But it’s a local boy. See what I mean, Le Gros?”

  “You’re probably right, Baron. But what can we do about it? As soon as we show up, the birds will fly. It’s like a village in the back end of the country. Everyone knows you’re there before you’ve arrived.”

  “I’ve been watching the kids in front of the building where they found Samir. One of them is always there, all day, sometimes until late at night. He’s a lookout. And a more regular one than the others. Driving by just now, I recognized him. I’ve already questioned him. He lives in the same block as Samir. They were mates. He’s standing there right now, in the doorway of the tower-block. I want him, Jean-Louis.”

  “And how do you intend to go about it?”

  “When someone shows up for a fix, he’s the kid who goes to fetch the stuff. From under the wing of an old Mercedes parked on avenue Yves Giroud. For that moment, he’s out of sight of the others. We’ll stake him out there, at the corner, wait for him to have something on him and then collar him quietly. From what I’ve seen, he goes there roughly every fifteen minutes.”

  “Baron, they run faster than bats out of hell. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you’re no spring chicken.”

  “Don’t worry, Le Gros. When you see the place, you’ll understand. All I ask is that you have a squad of plain-clothes boys on hand. But tell them not to drive up and down outside the estate. Have them patrol around it. Because they’ll have to be with us in twenty seconds flat. Go and change. You look like a policeman from four hundred meters.”

  They drove through the deserted northern districts: a complex web of dual carriageways and dead-end streets as broad as boulevards, lit by the yellow sentinels of the municipality; a maze of asphalt which now looked more like a shopping center, then an estate, with the occasional tiny cluster of swanky pads in winding alleys.

  As ever in this kind of situation, the Baron did not say a word. His friend glanced across at him, as usual unable to resist admiring his tenacity and insight. He knew that the Baron would get what he was after because he knew that he had prepared everything down to the last detail. Leaving nothing to chance.

  As they drove back up avenue Henri Barnier, they saw the group of youngsters at the top of the slope, at the foot of the immense tower-block. The kid was there, in a blue and white tracksuit, the collar of his fleece jumper turned up, his woolly hat down over his ears. He was stamping the ground in his brand new Nikes to warm himself up.

  Without slowing down, the two officers drove past the estate and took the first right into chemin de la Barre, then turned right again toward the Grand Littoral shopping center.

  The place was deserted. A burned-out Ford Fiesta had been dumped on the pavement. Red blotches of light from the streetlamps reflected in the windows of Collège Elsa Triolet. After taking the two grass roundabouts at the bottom of the shopping center, Maistre and de Palma turned back into avenue Henri Barnier. They drove up its two hundred meters, then, just before the estate, turned into avenue Yves Giroud. De Palma spoke at last.

  “Le Gros, see that doorway there, just by the Mercedes? I’m going to wait there. You stay in the car. As soon as the kid bends down and slips his hand under the wing, I’ll be on top of him. If he manages to make a run for it, too bad. But really I shouldn’t miss him.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “We sing him a Johnny Hallyday song.”

  De Palma got out of the car and walked to the end of the street. Maistre saw him peer round up the avenue then withdraw quickly. He walked back toward the Mercedes, felt under the wing and removed a small packet—a bar of shit—which he slipped into his pocket before vanishing into the doorway.

  A good half-hour went by. Jean-Louis, who was no longer used to stake-outs, began to
find the wait a little tedious. He had to keep rubbing his eyes to stop himself from falling asleep. His mind was starting to wander among some vague memories when he saw the figure of a young boy appear at the end of the street.

  The kid bent down without even looking around. Casually, he felt under the wing of the Mercedes. When he found nothing, he bent down even further and ended up on his knees to look under the belly of the car. It was then that the Baron jumped him like a big cat. He picked him up off the ground, put one hand over his mouth and carried him, struggling like a captured beast, as far as the car.

  “Listen to me, son. I’ve got just one question for you. If you tell me who killed Samir, then I’ll let you go at once. And no-one will be any the wiser. Otherwise, we’re taking you with us and putting your name around. O.K.?”

  The kid did not cry. He stared into the Baron’s eyes and saw in them a tiny glimmer of cruelty. He looked for a little comfort from Maistre, who just stared at the end of the street. The boy’s entire body started to shake and he tried to stammer something, but the words stuck in his throat. De Palma gave him a terrific, violent slap.

  “Karim,” he said. “Look at me. Do you remember me?”

  The kid did not dare look into the Baron’s eyes. He nodded his head vigorously. He was no longer trembling.

  “Who was it?”

  “It was Givre, monsieur.”

  “Who?”

  “Nordine … or ‘Givre’ … We call him that because he’s completely crazy.”

  “Le Gros, call the boys. Tell them to drive straight to where we are, with sirens flashing and the whole works.”

  “No, for fuck’s sake, not them!”

  “Don’t worry, son. It’s for your protection. Your dickhead friends will just think you’re being chased, that’s all. Oh, and I’ll give you your stuff back. I’ll just keep a little bit for later on. But first you’ve got to tell me something. This bastard, ‘Givre’ as you call him … where does he live?”

  “Block C, third floor, door on the left.”

  The squad’s sirens were rising up in the night. When de Palma heard the tires of the Safrane screech at the roundabout at the bottom of avenue Henri Barnier, in front of the swimming pool, he took Karim by the arm and pulled him out of the car.

  “Listen up, kid. Run like hell, as fast as you can to warn your pals. I’ll run after you. Don’t worry, I won’t catch you. Go on, kid, beat it.”

  De Palma waited until Karim had turned at the end of the street before setting off after him. The Safrane boomed into the street, flashing ultramarine on to the walls of the rabbit hutches. When it stopped beside the Baron and Maistre, who was laboring in his wake, Karim had already vanished into his universe.

  Untraceable.

  Two days later, at 6:00 a.m., Givre was sleeping like a cretin. His little old mum heard a knock at the door. Through the spyhole, she saw the friendly face of her neighbor, old Madame Oumziane. She opened it. Trustingly.

  De Palma surged in, stuck his hand over her mouth and forced her outside. She made no protest, tired of protecting her shit of a son.

  The Baron walked down the corridor, its wallpaper covered with huge round flowers dotted with red and golden medallions. A pleasant aroma of harissa, mild honey and halva came from the dining room. It smelled of a sweet, simple life. He walked on, gun outstretched, as far as the bedroom at the end, then gently pushed open the door and saw Samir’s murderer curled up under his duvet in the fetal position. On the wall was a poster of Zinedine Zidane, the infant king of La Castellane. A crumpled Olympique de Marseille shirt trailed out of the rickety wardrobe. De Palma tugged on it and uncovered the dark form of a Scorpio, the preferred weapon of the Palestinians.

  Nordine was still asleep, his fine profile resting on his pillow like an icon of piety. He looked fragile, barely out of adolescence. Sleep had returned the innocence which society’s buffetings had stolen from him.

  De Palma raised his Bodyguard and aimed it carefully, straight at the center of the left temple.

  A heavy hand appeared on the revolver’s short barrel.

  “Don’t kill him,” Maistre whispered.

  The Baron’s bottom lip trembled. He lowered his gun.

  He looked round at the bedroom’s dirty walls once more. He spotted some brownish stains and traces of fingernails on the discolored wallpaper. It was a color he seemed to have known for a very long time.

  Dried blood.

  His instinct told him that it was Samir’s blood.

  The forensics department proved him right.

  3.

  He strolled up cours Mirabeau passing the fashionable cafés, savoring the rare mildness of this late December day. He went slowly, as though inspecting the rows of wicker chairs with their flowery cushions, and the low tables placed like cornucopias between the leafless plane trees.

  The afternoon brightness lingered. The unseasonable temperature had undressed the women: miniskirts, black, tan or sheer stockings—his favorite.

  In a few days it would be Christmas. The shortest days of the year.

  It had been months since the last time.

  Freakish weather like this put him in strange moods. For the past couple of days he had not been able to make up his mind how to dress, and this really annoyed him. The pullover he was wearing was too hot, and he felt drops of sweat collecting in the small of his back after their slow descent down his spinal cord.

  He took a seat on the terrace of Les Deux Garçons, a respectable, somewhat snobbish bar at the top of cours Mirabeau, a few paces away from the burbling fountain with its haughty statue of King René.

  It was 3:00 p.m. All he had to do was wait. He ordered a beer and stared at the passers-by.

  As he often did.

  It would soon be the agreed time. If all went to plan, she would quite simply sit down at a table and show him his next prey.

  At 3:30, the goddess appeared. She walked in front of him without even a glance in his direction and sat down at the next table. Five minutes later, a woman of about forty arrived. They kissed each other in the most ordinary way possible.

  Once again, he appreciated how the goddess could quite naturally seduce all kinds of different people.

  He listened.

  The new arrival was apparently one of those idle, upper-middle-class women who spend their time in the chic boutiques of Aix’s old quartier. She was blond, of average height, with a sporty physique, jutting breasts and perfectly tapered legs. Most of all he noticed her protruding chin, which hardened her long face despite her small brown eyes and soft, almost naïve smile. She spoke like all Aix women of her type, without an accent, looking skywards every time she uttered a sonorous superlative about some meaningless piece of nonsense.

  He learned that they had met the previous evening, at an “utterly stunning” show in a “super bijou” gallery in the town center. He failed to understand why his goddess was interested in all these bourgeois clichés. But there was no disputing her desires.

  She got the other woman talking, to the point that they exchanged addresses and telephone numbers.

  That is how he found out her name: Hélène Weill. He registered it mentally, like a snapshot.

  Beside the picture of her name, he placed her phone number and then, a little further on, her address. Methodically.

  He then learned that Hélène Weill had for the past few years been consulting an “utterly brilliant” psychiatrist, an “extra-ordinary” man on place d’Aix called François Caillol, whose “absolutely dazzling” mansion was on route de Puyricard.

  He swallowed the rest of his beer and went for a stroll through the streets of Aix. The sun was beginning to set, cold shadows flittered into the narrow streets of the historic center. He looked at his watch: 4:00 p.m. He decided to go back to Marseille. He had to make plans while he waited for the moon.

  He followed Hélène Weill for two days.

  She would leave her home in the center of Aix at about 11:00 a.m. to do a littl
e food shopping, then go back home around 3:00 p.m. Then she reemerged to spend the rest of the afternoon going in and out of boutiques.

  In those two days, all she bought was a few feminine items: fine silk lingerie, some costume jewelry, two pairs of shoes, a few fashion accessories … And none of it was ever gift-wrapped.

  He phoned the number of Dr. Caillol’s practice. He was told that the psychiatrist was taking no new appointments until January 3, and that he was fully booked until December 24, but could still be contacted in an emergency. He surmised that Caillot would be staying in Aix over the festive period.

  He made a decision. It was now or never. On December 23, he went to Puyricard, parked his motorbike in the village and walked to the doctor’s house.

  It consisted of a farmhouse, a mansion with a swimming pool and tennis court, as well as a few outhouses. The mansion stood about fifty meters from the farm; the buildings were surrounded by a dozen hectares of vines, which must have produced an unpretentious little Côteaux d’Aix-en-Provence.

  After a few days’ surveillance, he knew that the doctor never came home before 9:00 p.m.; that his tenant farmer invariably went to the vineyard at about 4:00 p.m. and stayed there until at least 7:00 p.m.; and that the farmer’s wife, who ran the Puyricard playschool, never came home before 6:00 p.m.

  Which meant that between 4:00 and 6:00 p.m., he had plenty of time.

  He decided that this would be the best time to break into François Caillol’s house. If he could, he would take the Mercedes, which was always parked in the garage, and bring it back before 9:00. If the worst came to the worst, the farmer would just see his landlord’s car drive by.

  On December 23, at exactly 4:30 p.m., he observed the premises from the clump of pines and brambles beside the tennis court, and waited for the farmer to vanish, followed by his mongrel, into the vines. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves, leaped up the twelve steps, opened the heavy door without any difficulty and closed it quickly behind him.