The First Fingerprint

by Xavier-Marie Bonnot

“Not that long ago. But when? With all this business, my memory isn’t what it was.”

  “Was it before or after Christmas?”

  “Before. I’m sure about that.”

  “At the beginning of December?”

  “Let me think.”

  “Take your time.”

  Silence descended on the room. Through the wall, they could still hear “Boom, boom … Boom, boom …” and the same voice: “Hey boss, come over here … boss, I’ve got something to tell you …”

  “At the beginning of December. Maybe the first or second of the month. I can be sure because I’d just got back from a conference in the U.S.A. In fact, I got back on the second. I must have seen them on the third or the fourth.”

  De Palma felt Caillol’s words run straight through him. Autran had still been alive in early December. He thought about Palestro, who said that he had followed her on November 30, which was possible. It also fitted with what Le Guen had told him. But it did not fit at all with Yvonne Barbier’s statement. She must have been alive, but she had not gone home. His entire theory, put together over the past month, had just gone up in flames. He felt exasperated, but at the same time relieved.

  “Judge Barbieri will be here soon. This is an opportunity for you.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve managed to make him have doubts about your guilt.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because I know you’re innocent.”

  “You’re the only one!”

  “Why are you interested in the funeral rituals of the first men?”

  “Because I’m convinced that the first men were not that different from us. Let’s take the example of cannibalism, which I’ve been accused of … did you know that it’s still being practiced? And not just in New Guinea or elsewhere, but right here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Churchgoers eat the body of Christ. It’s symbolic, of course. Not so long ago, people ate mummies for their therapeutic effect … It’s what Freud called an instinctive desire; the desire which is constantly being forbidden, by education and so on … There are three instinctive desires: incest, murder and cannibalism. Three things which are absolutely forbidden, of which cannibalism is of course the most monstrous. The taboo placed on these three desires marks the boundary between civilization—I mean between our civilization—and the primitive state of barbarism … what we call barbarism or savagery.”

  “What about the picture of the hand we found on the scene?”

  “It’s strange.”

  “Everything about this case is strange!”

  “I know. But it’s not logical behavior. All murderers have a logic to the way they operate. But I suppose I’m not telling you anything new.”

  The Baron shook his head.

  “The particular point about prehistoric hands is that they are found only in decorated caves. In Gargas, there are 231 of them. Just imagine! But the point is, they are found only in caves.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they are not moveable objects. In museums, you can find Venuses, pendants, sculpted reindeer, necklaces, but never hands!”

  “So?”

  “So they must be connected with what went on in the caves. People went to caves to enter into contact with the spirit world, according to a male or female principle. For a long time, people talked a lot of nonsense about these hands, about disease, or ritual amputations … Now people tend to talk about shamanism … Are you following me?”

  “Perfectly, so tell me about these shamans.”

  “It would seem that Paleolithic man practiced shamanism. Shamans enter into contact with the supernatural so as to solve the problems of everyday life … everyone’s routine difficulties … For them, going into the spirit world also means acting directly on the real world around us.”

  Barbieri burst into the room.

  “Do excuse me, Commandant. I see you’ve decided to make the most of the situation.”

  The judge looked at Caillol. “Good afternoon, Doctor.”

  “I showed some photos to Dr. Caillol,” de Palma said. “When I told him about the man with the spectacles, he remembered having seen him with Autran outside a café in Aix. He knew Christine Autran.”

  “I see,” said Barbieri.

  He was silent for a few moments.

  “I suppose Commandant de Palma has explained the reason for this interview.”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s here to ask you about Christine Autran, who was also murdered.”

  “I haven’t killed anyone.”

  “How did you know her?”

  “I’ve explained that to your colleague.”

  “He isn’t a colleague. He’s a police officer. And I’m a magistrate.”

  “I used to work with her. That’s all.”

  “Very well. I’ll read Commandant de Palma’s report. Now, tell me about this person you apparently know. The man with the spectacles, as we call him.”

  “I knew Christine well. Seeing her with a man attracted my attention.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I didn’t want to disturb her.”

  “That’s a feeble excuse.”

  The psychiatrist repeated word for word the statement he had made to the Baron. Barbieri listened to him calmly, and took a few notes.

  “Did you have, so to speak …?”

  “Sexual relations with Christine? Is that what interests you?” Caillol asked in a cool voice. “The answer’s no. I’ve been together with the same woman for the past five years. The woman I was at the restaurant with on the night of the murder.”

  “Franca…”

  “Bernet.”

  “Except that there’s a problem. You went away for a while during the meal.”

  “I went out to make a phone call.”

  “O.K., but for quite a long time. Three quarters of an hour, according to your friends, which is, according to the gendarmes, enough time to have killed Hélène Weill.”

  “I get lots of phone calls. Some of them are extremely long.”

  “We checked. There was even one from Hélène Weill. Do you remember?”

  “Yes, she said she wanted to see me.”

  “What’s more, we know that you weren’t on the phone for three quarters of an hour. Can you confirm that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have stated that you bought cigarettes from a tobacconist’s on cours Mirabeau, but the tobacconist doesn’t remember you, can you confirm that too?”

  “Yes, what more do you want me to tell you?”

  “Never mind about Hélène Weill’s fingerprints in your car … As for Saint-Julien … Listen, Doctor, I’m not keeping you here for my personal pleasure. As far as I’m concerned, you’re still guilty. But if you’re innocent, you should help us. This police officer is the best in the region. He needs you. So think about it. Tell him everything that might be used in your defense. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. We’ll leave you now.”

  Barbieri stood up brusquely. Caillol looked sad. De Palma held out his hand to him, and he shook it hard.

  The door opened. At the end of the corridor, there was the same old refrain: “Boom, boom … boom, boom … Hey boss, listen to me …”

  Barbieri looked at de Palma.

  “I arrived late so that you could do your business. Anything new?”

  “Yes, maybe. I’ll explain.”

  “Just give me the main point!”

  “I need to analyze all this, but I can tell you right now that our psychiatrist hasn’t given us everything. He’s definitely innocent, but he’s holding something back. It would be no coincidence if he’s been framed. He knows far more than he’s letting on and he thinks that keeping quiet is his best defense. His lawyer has given him some bad advice. I’ll make him talk, but another time, when I have more to go on. We’ll leave him t
o stew for now.”

  Without another word, they strode down the corridor between D and B wings. When they reached the gate, de Palma turned to Barbieri.

  “Did you see ‘Faust’?”

  “No, did you?”

  “Not yet. But I have heard that young William Norton brings the house down. It appears the public haven’t heard anything like it since Georges Thill. A divine voice.”

  “That must be quite something!”

  *

  “Paulin’s offloaded the Ferri couple on me!”

  “Romeo and Juliet with an 11.43 … What a lovely present!” said Maistre, raising his glass. “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to put the kid on the case …”

  “Poor thing.”

  “He’s in the police force, isn’t he?”

  Le Zanzi was quiet. Dédé joined their conversation by placing his two large, hairy paws on the bar.

  “By the way, have you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “They’re talking about releasing Francis Bérard.”

  “‘Le Blond’? Jesus, what a mess!” said Maistre.

  “Jean-Louis, do you remember when we collared him?”

  “Of course I do! When I took him to the toilet, I went with two armed officers … he’s a real madman, Dédé. I swear to you, he scared me.”

  Maistre stood back from the bar and grimaced, baring his teeth.

  “Like a wild beast … a nasty piece of work.”

  “Was he the one who killed Judge André?” asked Dédé, creasing his eyebrows, which were as thick as brushes.

  “Yup, that was him. Or rather, there were two of them.”

  “The fuckers …”

  “That’s the way it goes … And Judge André respected nothing at all.”

  “Don’t say that, Baron! André was quite a man. What’s more, he really liked you, you know that!”

  “O.K., but sometimes he went over the top, remember? To make someone talk, Dédé, he had their whole family put away. He was a real crusader. All the same, he was a good man.”

  “Those were the days, weren’t they, Baron?”

  “Oh yes, the cases were magnificent.”

  “Zampa, Hoareau, Le Belge … you remember?”

  “We copped them all, there was no stopping us.”

  “Things aren’t the same any more,” said Dédé, pouring out another two pastis.

  “Too right,” the Baron replied, throwing away his cigarette butt. “Things aren’t the same because they don’t want us to catch them any longer. Anyway, organized crime doesn’t exist in France … So there are no problems. They control the nightclubs, the slot machines, the drugs … but without any organization … the Ferri couple died for no real reason. They’re going to tell us again that it’s all down to gambling syndicates.”

  “The commissaires aren’t what they used to be,” said Maistre. “Nor are the magistrates. Nowadays, if you go to a nightclub to suss out what’s going down, and you talk to an informer, you get accused of corruption. So what do you do? You get yourself transferred to public safety. Then everything becomes clear!”

  “He’s right, Jean-Louis. There’s nothing else to be done. And the kids couldn’t give a damn. They turn up at 9:00 in the morning, they type out their reports and then they go home at 6:00.”

  “No, it’s all over,” said Maistre, glancing toward rue de l’Evêché. “Look, the hacks are all on their way out. With this Ferri affair, Paulin and Duriez must have put on quite a show about gangland killings. The TV news should be a laugh this evening.”

  “Watch out, Michel,” said Dédé. “Two of them are coming this way. I reckon they’re after you.”

  “I’m off, then. They can always talk to Jean-Louis.”

  When he got home, de Palma wandered around the flat.

  All four rooms were empty. As empty as the secret drawers of his life. He could not help thinking about Marie, about her departure, and her weariness at spending nights in a bed that was too big for one. To get Marie back, he would have to give up something, an essential part of himself. He would have to abandon the dark alleyways of his character. His bastion. But he couldn’t do it.

  For a week he had read and reread the letter Marie had left behind: a single page covered with round handwriting which was a little childish, but also rather voluptuous. She had not really said goodbye. Not quite.

  My darling,

  I’m going to spend the Christmas holidays with my parents, in the Alps. I think we need some time to think. Life with you has become impossible—your fits of anger, your staying out all night, I won’t go on …

  I think you’re becoming more and more mad. More and more solitary. You really should see a doctor. Something is wrong and you won’t talk to me about it, even though I’m your wife. Think about it while I’m gone. I’ll be back. When? I don’t know. But I will be back, because you’re the only man I love.

  Tender kisses. Take care. I love you.

  Marie

  His knees trembled. It felt as if his legs could no longer support him. He had lost his brother, now he was losing his wife. In matrimonial terms, his destiny was starting to look like that of most of his colleagues. Quite banal. Nothing to talk about, really. He put on some music: “La Bohème,” act one, Rodolpho—Marie’s favorite aria. He went out on to the balcony.

  “Che gelida manina!

  Se la lasci riscaldar.

  Cercar che giova? Al buio non si trova.”

  He looked out over his neighborhood, La Capelette, a scattering of cheap houses arranged according to shady property deals made in the Defferre era, and bordered by Menpenti medical college, avenue Toulon, Le Jarret municipal dump, Saint-Pierre cemetery and the Pont de Vivaux race course. De Palma had grown up in the joyless streets of La Capelette, among factories with jagged roofs and dusty pavements which stank of dried dog turds, where dilapidated lodgings alternated with hastily constructed buildings from the ’70s. This industrial quarter had followed the ebb and flow of the port and finally, bit by bit, it had passed away like a little old lady in a nursing home.

  “Ma per fortuna è une notte di luna,

  e qui la luna l’abbiamo vicina.”

  When de Palma was a boy, La Capelette had produced sulfur, soap, dates, pith helmets and playing cards. These small industries gave the neighborhood exotic fragrances, and on hot days in June, in the school on rue Laugier, the teacher would open the windows wide, letting the external odors invade the classroom: sulfur, soda, oil, North African fruits, the sea, fragrances from the entire world mingled with the sweat and acidic breath of children bent over their exercise books.

  “Aspetti, signorina,

  Le dirò con due parole

  Chi son …”

  Until the end of the ’60s, there was still a ghetto where the east motorway presently ran. It was reserved for Arabs.

  The streets now bore the names of the neighborhood’s little glories: rue Antoine Del Bello, impasse Palazzo, rue des Luchesi …

  “Chi son? Sono un poeta.

  Che faccio? Scrivo.

  E come vivo? Vivo.”

  24.

  When Vidal pushed open the door of the Cadenet gendarmerie, it was as though he had gone back to his native village, south of Aveyron. It smelled clean and neat, authority in uniform. He glanced at the three men waiting on the bench and he could read on their gray faces the uneasiness of the common citizen when confronted with the boys in navy blue.

  Capitaine Brauquier received Vidal with military reserve—it was just as well Barbieri had smoothed the way!

  “If you want some coffee, help yourself in the break room.” Brauquier pointed to an enormous, electric, stainless-steel coffee urn.

  “Thanks, but I’ve already had one.”

  The gendarme and the police officer sized each other up.

  “If we start with the Weill case, there’s nothing I can tell you which you don’t already know. You’d have to go to the magistrat
e.”

  “I read the forensic reports, but I wanted to know if any books about prehistory had been found in her bookcase.”

  “Look, I know where this is leading … But as far as we’re concerned, the case has been solved. The gendarmerie have extremely impressive capacities when it comes to leading this sort of investigation. We don’t need to check what she reads. In fact, Caillol practically fell into our lap. We get lucky too, sometimes.”

  “I just wanted to know if you’d seen any books on prehistory.”

  “They were loads of books, and some of them were about prehistory. Is that good enough for you?”

  “Specialist books?”

  “Look, we had better things to do than go through her bookcase.”

  “Commandant de Palma …”

  “I couldn’t care less what Michel thinks. He’s a very good policeman, and he’s a friend of mine, but here I think he’s going completely off the rails. Your Saint-Julien case is connected to ours … In fact, I should say your ex-case. Because it was Caillol. There’s no doubt about it.”

  “And yet …”

  “I’ve prepared a summary. I’ve included everything you should find useful.”

  “Look, Capitaine, I haven’t come all this way to be brushed off. I may be young, but I’m a police officer empowered by the deputy public prosecutor, just like you. So either you cooperate, or I’ll go and have a word with Barbieri … We’re not interested in Weill, or Chevallier. We just want to have some details about the victims because we think there’s a connection with the Autran case.”

  Brauquier gave Vidal a venomous smile.

  “And what is this connection, Lieutenant?”

  “Caillol knew Autran, Weill and Chevallier.”

  The gendarme coughed.

  “There’s nothing about this in your reports,” Vidal went on. “Have you come across the names Autran or Luccioni?”

  “No, never.”

  “In her correspondence, her phone calls …”

  Brauquier slapped his palm on the file, which was a good twenty centimeters thick.

  “There’s enough in here to charge him twenty times over, and these are only the highlights … As far as Weill and Chevallier are concerned, don’t look any further, you’d be wasting your time. And Autran is none of our business.”