The First Fingerprint

by Xavier-Marie Bonnot

  “Which is only normal in this kind of house.”

  “And this was found next to the body.”

  Vidal handed the Baron a plastic bag containing a sheet of white paper: it was an image of a negative hand, just like the one found beside the body of Hélène Weill. The little and ring fingers had been cut almost in half. Professor Palestro had spoken of a hunting code. “A sign language,” de Palma said to himself. “But why these two fingers? There must be a reason! From the depths of his madness, he’s trying to tell us something.”

  De Palma considered that if one of the victim’s hands were missing a finger or two, then that would have provided a rationale for all of this. He was disappointed to see that this was not the case.

  “And you’ve been all over the room, Agnès? Including the armrests of the chairs?”

  “Why?”

  She sensed immediately that her question had not gone down too well. The Baron’s expression became hard and cruel. He raised his voice:

  “Because the killer knew his victim. Either he hated her, or he lusted after her, thinking her inaccessible. You see, Agnès—and this applies to you as well, Vidal—he came here and sat down, without his gloves of course, because at that moment he was a friend. He might even have had a drink. So you’re going to collect all the fingerprints from every smooth surface in this entire sodding room. Is that clear? And, Agnès, check out the dishwasher.”

  “No problem, Michel.”

  “You know, Vidal, the worst thing is that even if we do find a print, it won’t be on our records. But still, during questioning a print is invaluable; it means you don’t have to stay up all night being nice to the fucker so as to make him talk.”

  De Palma went out into the garden. It was practically a park, measuring two thousand square meters and surrounded by walls barely higher than he was. It hadn’t been looked after, and tall weeds were beginning to swamp the rose bushes. On the paths, a few flowerpots had been blown over by the mistral. De Palma saw a fifty-year-old woman on the patio and approached her. Her eyes were still red, and her expression still reflected the image left behind by this barbaric murder.

  “Who are you, Madame?”

  “Inès Santamaria, I’m the cleaning lady. I found the body this morning.”

  “At what time?”

  “A little after 10:00. I’m always here at 10:00 sharp. I’m never late. My God, how horrible! How …”

  She started to cry. “Did you notice anything strange?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Was the street door locked?”

  “All the doors were locked. As usual. She always locks up before going to bed. Imagine, living all alone in a huge house like that!”

  “I see … And what’s that shed over there?”

  “It’s a kind of workshop, full of tools. It goes back to the days when her father was still alive.”

  The grass in front of the shed was trodden down. Inside, some of the gardening tools had been disturbed. De Palma spotted a door at the back. He opened it and noticed that its lock had been forced. It led out on to a path that ran alongside an irrigation canal, just like many others dating from the time when this part of town had been full of market gardens. He went through the door, stared into the canal and tried to put his thoughts into some kind of order.

  Vidal interrupted him.

  “You were right, Michel, we’ve found something on the left armrest of one of the chairs: a fingerprint which has been half rubbed out, but it might be usable. The ones on the right have been wiped off. It’s obvious. You can still see the trace of a cloth. There are several glasses in the dishwasher. We’re taking them with us. Have you looked at her book shelves? They’re groaning with books about prehistory!”

  “We might well be on to something, my friend! Sooner or later, we’ll get him … Compare the fingerprints with those found in Autran’s flat. Have you asked the neighbors if they heard a car, or anything else in the street?”

  “I’ve asked the nearest ones. Nothing. Even the next-door neighbor there, I can’t remember his name, he’s a professor of medicine, anyway he told me that he was up all night working on a project and he didn’t hear a thing.”

  “Jesus, our customer’s no fool, far from it! He came here on foot, nice and quiet. He came along the canal, then through that door. Then he disappeared the same way. Leaving nothing behind him. Except a fingerprint on a chair, and maybe on a glass, if we’re lucky.”

  “He must have made at least one mistake!”

  “They all do. They all forget something. It’s not always easy to see, but there’s always something. Their weak point is their arrogance.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because they think they’re smarter than us. I’ll bet he’s had a higher education—you can sense that from the victims he chooses—and it might well have been a degree in prehistory. To gain access and suss out the place, he has to get all matey with his target, chat her up, impress her. Seeing how cultivated the victim was, he would have had to be on a level above her. Bourgeois English teachers don’t invite just anybody into their house. You really have to be someone!”

  De Palma began to walk toward the house, then stopped, his eyes fixed on the ground.

  “Maxime, can you find out where she went to university? I’ll bet it was Aix.”

  He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and arched his shoulders.

  “You see, kid? We’ve already got a profile. You might not think so, but we have. He’s a man in good health, a loner, but quite capable of being attractive and seductive. He’s even-natured, incredibly cool-headed, he never panics. He’s a top-level intellectual with some terrible event in his past, something unbelievable.”

  “A rape?”

  “No, I know what you’re thinking … a rape which is then repeated in later life. It’s quite often true. That’s what comes to mind. It’s like at the police academy when they tell you all murders have a sexual motive. But this time, my boy, it’s something different, even though I haven’t got the faintest idea what it is. Perhaps frustration, which makes him be murderously covetous and jealous. We do know that he uses rudimentary weapons, like prehistoric man.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “The paperwork, as usual. But first of all, could you do me a favor?”

  “What?”

  “Try to see where this canal leads to. I’m going to take another look indoors.”

  The sun was beginning to set. A golden light was glittering on the pine needles. Vidal felt a slight breeze work its way beneath his jacket. He gathered his thoughts, went through the shed door and followed the canal.

  He did not observe anything unusual, except that some of the tall grasses had been trodden down. He found no footprints or traces of blood. After a while, the canal disappeared into a tunnel, which was far too low for an adult man to enter, whatever his build. Vidal looked around and soon spotted the path taken by the killer. The grass had been flattened leading up to a wall which was about one meter fifty high. He followed the tracks, gripped the top of the wall with both hands, and with one leap was on top of it.

  To his astonishment, he saw that he was overlooking the little cemetery that surrounded the church of Saint-Julien.

  “So, what are your conclusions, de Palma?”

  His lower lip damp and pendulous, Commissaire Paulin had adopted his dark and terrible look. His expressionless, beady eyes were staring at his paperweight, a kind of upward-pointing doornail which his wife, who owed a gallery in Le Panier, had found in a Paris junk shop. This genuine piece of abstract art, cast in bronze, was the only hint of the unusual in the otherwise frigid room. Ever since he had first come into his superior’s office to discuss ongoing cases, de Palma had been trying to decide what this strange object might represent. In vain.

  The Baron glanced at Vidal, who was trying to look confident as he sat in his chair.

  “I don’t have much to tell you, apart from the fact that it w
as a particularly violent murder. Skull crushed, intestines removed, amputation of one of the lower limbs with a knife or similar implement. For the moment, we don’t have the slightest clue, except for the painted hand we found near the body.”

  “You’re not telling me that you don’t even have an inkling.”

  “This time I am. Nothing at all. Except for a piece of flint, half a fingerprint on the armrest of a chair, and the hand … which means that he either knew the victim or had conducted detailed observations of the scene. Anyway, we’ll have to wait for the lab report.”

  Paulin turned toward Vidal. “What about you? Nothing?”

  “The same as de Palma,” Vidal answered. “It’s obviously the work of a sadist. Apart from that …”

  “You’re going to have to find him for me, and fast. I won’t conceal the fact that the press is already sniffing around, asking for explanations. You will accept that the results of the murder squad have not been that good of late. It’s not your fault de Palma, nor yours Vidal, but since little Samir’s death, we haven’t solved a single crime. Not to mention the gangland killings. What about the Autran case?”

  “We’re making progress, Commissaire, we’re making progress. Things will no doubt be clearer in a few days.”

  “I hope these cases aren’t connected. That really would be the icing on the cake.”

  Paulin picked up his paperweight and twisted it around.

  “They aren’t, Commissaire, rest assured about that.”

  “And why do you say that?”

  “Not the same modus operandi.”

  “My instinct is to trust you, de Palma. You’re going to work with Vidal on both cases. And I’d like you to take Anne Moracchini along with you. She’s the only person on the squad with any time to spare. The others are all up to their eyes in gangland vendettas. In Paris they want results, so down here we’re having to put all our men on investigations into hoods blowing each other away. So, let’s be clear about this. Try to get something for me in the next ten days.”

  “Whatever happens, Commissaire, you shouldn’t tell the press anything for the moment. This kind of killer is always out for publicity. It gives them wings.”

  “You think he’ll strike again?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the way he mutilates and guts his victims … and the hand, of course. We’ve had cases like this in the past. He’s a killer who has a system. When I first joined the murder squad, we had the Ruggero affair, which was pretty similar. Do you remember?”

  “I was still in Paris at the time. But you’re right. We’re faced with someone who’s sick.”

  “And I hope he’ll get going again as soon as possible. Ruggero waited years before starting once more. It all depends on their relative mental stability.”

  “You obviously think it’s linked to the Cadenet murder?”

  “Of course I do,” de Palma replied. “But I don’t know much about the Cadenet murder. And the gendarmerie are running that investigation. In other words, the whole situation’s a mess!”

  “You’re not going to resurrect the war between the forces again. The gendarmes do very good work, especially their Institut de Recherches Criminelles … Let’s try to proceed amicably. Have you contacted the gendarmerie?”

  “Yes, or rather, I was contacted by them.”

  “So you know, then.”

  “Know what?”

  “It’s the main reason I called you in. Because, of course, the two cases are linked. Never mind. I just wanted to tell you that the gendarmerie are making progress, despite everything … They’ve found a witness: a man aged about fifty who was passing that night and saw a woman getting into a gray Mercedes. Unfortunately, he didn’t see the driver’s face. So, I hear you ask, how did he recognize the woman? Well, he also lives in rue Boulegon, like her, and he’d had his eye on her for some time, if you see what I mean.”

  “Extremely interesting!” said de Palma, pretending to find the news a real scoop.

  “Most interesting of all is that she was being treated by a psychiatrist, who owns, no prizes for guessing …”

  “A gray Mercedes,” Vidal answered, for the sake of saying something.

  Paulin slumped back in his chair looking pleased with himself.

  “A 500 SL,” de Palma added, after a few moments’ silence.

  Paulin went extremely red, put down his upturned doornail and stared at him furiously.

  “How do you know that, de Palma?”

  “A good friend of mine’s a gendarme in Cadenet. I called him just now on the way over here. He filled me in. You know, Commissaire, police infighting isn’t my cup of tea.”

  Paulin was lost for words. Vidal laughed silently, keeping his head down so as not to show any disrespect to his superior.

  “So, pleased with your little routine, de Palma?”

  “Not at all, boss. It’s just professional curiosity. I wanted to compare your version with the one I’d been given. And they’re the same. I’m wary about the gendarmerie. They haven’t always been straight with us, as you know only too well.”

  The Baron was furious. The gendarmes had just won the first set. Now he had just annoyed his Commissaire for no reason and he was going to have to make good with a large piece of soft soap.

  “And I think you’re absolutely right. We should work in collaboration. But with the gendarmes, that’s not going to be so easy.”

  Paulin picked up his doornail again.

  “I called Barbieri earlier. He wants us to work together, in tandem with the gendarmes. He too thinks that the cases are connected. I asked him to get the investigation transferred, but he refused, saying that they had already made more progress than we have, and should be arresting someone soon. He doesn’t want to screw it all up.”

  “Arrest who? A psychiatrist who picks up his victims in his car in the middle of the street? Don’t make me laugh! I can smell a red herring from a mile off, or else my name’s not de Palma!”

  “You never know, de Palma. You never know. Sometimes things aren’t as complicated as we like to believe. Murderers make mistakes too …”

  “Not murderers like this one. Or at least, not that sort of mistake.”

  Vidal nodded vigorously and looked out of the window. Paulin’s office had a view of the quays. The Danièle-Casanova was just setting off for Corsica, her bridge and fo’c’sle glimmering with a thousand black and turquoise reflections. It was like a fairy-tale vision moving across a sheet of glittering water. In the distance, the lighthouse on the Sainte-Marie strait was emitting its bright red flashes.

  “I didn’t hear you, Vidal. What do you think about all this?”

  “I think Michel’s right. Things are never easy with the gendarmerie.”

  “What else would you suggest?”

  “That we should get on with our work independently until the two investigations link up. Let’s wait and see what comes of their arrest. Not much, I should think.”

  “I think that’s the wisest course of action.”

  De Palma lowered his head and said nothing. It was becoming more and more complicated to be a good policeman.

  It was 7:00 p.m. when he pushed open the door of Le Zanzi, followed by Vidal. The bar was almost empty.

  “Hi Dédé, a bit dead tonight?”

  “As a doornail.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “There’s a match on.”

  Dédé waved his bulky hand over the counter, his palm turned toward the ceiling.

  “And what’s up with you two?” he went on. “You look terrible.”

  “It’s nothing. Work.”

  Two Ricards immediately arrived on the zinc. De Palma swilled his down in one, without any water.

  “You haven’t seen Maistre by any chance …”

  “No, he hasn’t been in today. Maybe he’ll be along in a minute. This is the time he usually comes.”

  “Come off it, he’s got
a wife and kids.”

  “But the kids are big now!”

  “True.”

  The Baron’s mobile rang. It was Sylvie Maurel.

  “I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day. Can I see you this evening?”

  “Of course, where are you?”

  “In Marseille, by Fort Saint-Jean, at the marine archaeology laboratory. I’d like to show it to you. What do you think?”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. O.K.?”

  “I’ll be waiting for you outside the main door, at the foot of the tower. Do you know where I mean?”

  “Absolutely. See you there.”

  De Palma had completely forgotten about Sylvie Maurel. He had another Ricard, knocked it back in one and turned toward Vidal, who was still staring at the yellow contents of his glass. Dédé had vanished into his kitchen.

  “You never told me where that canal leads to.”

  “It ends in a tunnel, but you can’t get down it.”

  “So?”

  “So, I followed his tracks and realized that he must have climbed over a wall … and guess where I ended up?”

  “Tell me.”

  “In Saint-Julien cemetery.”

  “So what do you conclude?”

  “I’m too knackered to conclude anything at all. Sorry, Michel.”

  “There’s one thing we can be sure of.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He knows the area intimately.”

  “You reckon?”

  “Obviously! How else would he know that there’s a canal behind the cemetery which leads to Julia’s house? He must be a local, or something! I tell you, we’re starting to move in on him.”

  Vidal grimaced. Dédé returned from his kitchen.

  “O.K., kid,” de Palma said, “I’m off now. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Try to get some sleep. I know it isn’t easy, but do your best.”

  “Don’t worry, Michel. I’m starting to get used to it.”

  “That’s what they all say. See you around, Dédé.”