The First Fingerprint

by Xavier-Marie Bonnot

  After 1962, Saïd stayed in Algeria, but the Front de Libération Nationale confiscated all his property and caused him so many problems that he ended up coming to Marseille.

  “Is there building work at the moment in rue Thubaneau?”

  “They’re renovating the entire neighborhood. In other words, they’re bulldozing everything. Except for the façades to keep an old-time look. But all the interiors are going. They haven’t got to rue Thubaneau yet, but they will before long. They’ve demolished the Alcazar and everything that was behind it. Anyway, that’s the way it goes. What can we do about it?”

  “It’s a shame,” Moracchini said.

  “No it isn’t, my child. A city needs renovation! What does worry me though is that they’re throwing everyone out. What will become of all of these people?”

  “They’ll be moved to the north of the city.”

  “You think so?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “The problem is there’s too much criminality around here. Too much violence. But then there are also a lot of people like me. What can I say? It’s the end of a world. Immigrants have always lived in the center of Marseille, but now they want to put them on the outskirts. They want to empty out Le Panier as well. Marseille will never be the same again. Never.”

  In the main room of the association’s premises, a few pensioners were sucking on their shishas and conversing in low voices. Others were staring at the television, which showed the Algerian national station. It was time for the football league results.

  “Come into my office,” said Saïd.

  “Are you still the association’s president?”

  “I am. But I’m going to have to step down. I’ll be eighty-three next month.”

  “You’re still a young man!”

  “Don’t talk nonsense. Would you like some tea?”

  Saïd went out for a moment, then came back with a brass tray on which he had placed a large teapot, two glasses and a dish of cakes.

  “Ah! Zolabias, my favorite!”

  “I know, my child. I still have a good memory.”

  Moracchini gobbled down a cake and watched as Saïd poured the tea. She noticed with sadness that his old, brown hands trembled slightly.

  “First we drink the tea, then we talk.”

  He raised the glass to his lips, blew gently on the surface of his tea and took a sip.

  “Tell me, Saïd, have you ever heard of a market for prehistoric artifacts?”

  “You know I collect only Algerian antiquities, especially Roman ones, and two or three pieces from Carthage, nothing else. Prehistory is a little too distant for me …”

  “I’m working on a case concerning fences selling prehistoric art. Do you have any ideas?”

  “It’s very difficult to find prehistoric art. Practically impossible, in fact. There are very few pieces, and the experts know every one of them.”

  Saïd produced a packet of Gauloises from the pocket of his waistcoat. He lit a cigarette and left it dangling from his dry lips as his gaze evaporated in the blue smoke.

  “There were some thefts and fencing going on in the ’80s. It rather struck me at the time. I mean, how can people sell pieces like that? They’re part and parcel of mankind’s heritage … There was a Venus and some stone necklaces, but I can’t remember where they came from. What I can tell you is that prices are extremely high.”

  “But you haven’t heard about any deals going on in Marseille at the moment?”

  There was a knock at the door. Saïd got up and opened it. He exchanged a few words in Arabic with another man who had come to say that he was the last person to leave.

  Saïd sat down again and drew heavily on his cigarette.

  “I’ve heard there have been requests from an association of enthusiasts in America. They’ve got plenty of money. I seem to remember they’re in New York State and they never argue about the price. Americans are very interested in prehistory.”

  “Do you know the name of the association?”

  “No … there are so many lunatics in that country. An antiques dealer told me about it—an Egyptian art specialist. He has some amazing pieces.”

  “He didn’t mention any names?”

  “No, of course not. These people are very discreet. Antiques dealers are a bit like crooks,” Saïd laughed.

  “He didn’t say anything else?”

  “No, just what I told you.”

  “Have you ever heard of a Professor Autran?”

  “Of course I have, my child. You know I read every newspaper. I’d already worked out that she’s the reason you’ve been asking me all these questions.”

  Saïd stood up to his full height. In a flash, Moracchini saw once again the man who had lifted her up so often in his arms, after Sunday lunch, in the cozy salon of his house in Constantine.

  “Thank you, Saïd.”

  “It’s nothing, my child …”

  The old lawyer’s expression grew sad and he took out another cigarette.

  “You know, recently I have been thinking about your father a lot. I shall be going to join him soon.”

  “So have I. I often think about him.”

  “Go on, run along home. It’s late. And come and see me a little more often, not just to ask for information.”

  Moracchini placed a kiss on her old friend’s forehead and left.

  27.

  When de Palma got up after a short sleep, the hills of Saint-Loup were crowned with a heavy black beret, a sign that another series of thunderstorms was going to rip open the sky and bring the temperature down by a few degrees.

  He had slept badly. The growing tension in his relationships with his two team mates was starting to create difficulties. That night, he had woken up in a sweat. An old memory which had been haunting him for years had just resurfaced.

  September 27, 1982. For over a year, Sylvain Ferracci, or “The Dustman” as he was called by a leading journalist on Le Méridional, had been taunting a dozen inspectors and Commissaire Parodi, who had been given the job of putting him behind bars. His victims were always alike: secretaries in strict suits who were strangled and raped before being sliced into three parts: the head, the torso and the legs. The killer put each part of the body into a dustbin liner, which he then left in a particular place, like an infernal paper trail in which the police were forced to participate; at the end lay unadulterated horror and a feeling of powerlessness that set their nerves on edge.

  It was during the debate about the death penalty, and the case had taken on an unprecedented importance. The right wing was bellowing, the left complaining about political exploitation. Gaston Defferre made it a personal issue during the lead-up to the election. This sadist, now splashed across all the front pages, was still methodically slicing up secretaries in strict suits with a circular saw.

  De Palma had spent entire nights trying to understand the killer, entire nights exhausting his eyes over the huge pile of notes and documents which had built up on his desk and that of his team mate, Seitboun. Nothing doing. Then, on September 26, a witness formally identified Sylvain Ferracci from an identikit picture which had been widely published in the press. He had seen the murderer coolly walking up rue de Rome, in the town center, with his wife at his side. Ferracci had been pinpointed.

  September 27, 6:10 a.m. Things were moving quickly. The head of the murder squad arrived at his home address, accompanied by a dozen plain-clothes inspectors and an escort from the city brigade in crisp suits, with their MAC 50s and their kepis down over their eyes. But Ferracci had not come home that night. They had to raise the siege and wait, discreetly.

  De Palma, stationed at the top of rue Dragon, spotted him first and went after him alone. As he ran, Ferracci dropped his P.38, the preferred weapon of O.A.S. veterans. De Palma picked it up. Finally, at the end of a chase which had seemed interminable, the policeman had found himself alone and completely out of breath in the basement of a detached house on rue Breteuil, face to face with
the Dustman, who was frenetically rubbing his arms and erect penis and repeating in a high-pitched, scarcely audible voice: “Not that, not that …” as though he was quietly invoking the clemency of the gods of murder.

  De Palma slowly went over to the sadist, who was looking at him like a guilty dog. He put the bronze-colored steel barrel over his mouth, as if to say “Hush.” Oddly enough, the Dustman looked relieved; his face relaxed, wrinkle after wrinkle, until it was as smooth as marble. His eyes seemed to be saying a prayer. Then, suddenly, his sphincter and bladder let go. A smell of piss and shit filled the dusty air. De Palma could think of nothing but the monstrous images which had been haunting him for months: the flickering striplights in the autopsy theater; the bodies of dismembered women, sliced methodically; their puffy faces, violated vaginas, gaping bellies, pubis half eaten through. The image of his brother, a close-up of his soft, fine eyes, then replaced all the others.

  De Palma rammed the barrel into the Dustman’s mouth, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger once. The report of the P.38 filled the cellar with its dull thunder, blood exploded like a splash of ink into the middle of the room, propelled by the final contractions of the sadist’s ventricles.

  Life had gone.

  It was now just a thin, dark stream vanishing into the ground, absorbed by the earth floor.

  De Palma did not understand. Another person had killed, not him. Another person had committed the irreparable.

  He pulled himself together. He carefully took out his handkerchief to wipe the fingerprints off the gun, then placed it in the still-quavering hand of the corpse, closed its fingers around the grip and stuffed it into the Dustman’s mouth. He went back up to street level. In a haze. He had just opened the door on to the stinking corridors of his soul.

  The head of the brigade considered his state of mind worrying, and incompatible with the responsibilities of a police officer on the murder squad. He requested a physical and mental checkup.

  The conclusion of the specialist’s four-page report read:

  … Michel De Palma is in good general health. However, he is showing symptoms of depression, quite common among the police. This may be temporary. He switches between periods of anxiety and nervous attacks. In addition he has an occasionally violent personality. This violence can sometimes be of an obsessive nature, especially when heightened by feelings of guilt.

  However, Inspector de Palma has a great deal of control over his impulses. This officer is extremely sensitive, highly intuitive, and very intelligent. While his condition requires treatment, it is not incompatible with his responsibilities on the murder squad …

  After Ferracci’s death, instead of confessing, he had looked for absolution in his job as a policeman, in the combat against what he had been taught to look upon as evil. It was light versus darkness. He had sold himself a pack of lies about the justice of his mission, even though he knew deep down that all he wanted was to enjoy the fruits of darkness. His favorite plants in the shadowy jungle of the human psyche were carnivorous, devouring dreams and innocence.

  By screwing his conscience, he had managed to convince himself that he wanted to fight against those who destroyed innocence. And yet the truth lay at the opposite extreme, in the dubious adventures he courted at the margins of society, in his quest for heroism.

  But the police force does not produce heroes, and he knew it.

  He slipped on some jeans and a T-shirt, gulped down a coffee and joined the morning traffic; an invisible force seemed to be drawing him toward headquarters.

  When he emerged from the lift on the second floor, a dozen men from the serious crime squad were rushing around in the corridor. From their excitement, de Palma could see that an important page in Marseille’s history of organized crime was being written. Captain Zuccarelli came over to him, looking like an old wrestler. De Palma saw that he could barely contain his emotions.

  “There was an armored car in the north of the city. Just beside the old shipyards … Richard and Jean-Pierre were on the case … They tried to intervene, and …”

  De Palma said nothing. He met Zuccarelli’s gaze.

  “Richard is in a coma. The quacks won’t tell us anything. Jean-Pierre’s in hospital too, but he should pull through. It’s terrible, Michel.”

  “What about the fuckers who did it?”

  “They’ve been tracked down to a villa in La Viste. The special branch and the flying squad are on to them. We’re on our way. See you later, Michel.”

  “Take care of yourself.”

  He watched Big Zuccarelli vanish into the lift, then opened the door of his office and slumped into his chair. He did not even notice Moracchini and Vidal standing by the window. When he sensed their presence, he said:

  “I want him before the end of the summer …”

  “Do you want a sitrep now, or shall we wait?” Moracchini asked.

  “Why wait? We’ll have some coffee and start at once.”

  There was a strained atmosphere in the room. Vidal attempted to catch his boss’s eye, but de Palma was trying to conceal his anger and look calm by rifling through some files. Moracchini broke the silence.

  “We’re in shock, Michel. I don’t think we’re going to do much useful work today.”

  “Whether you’re in shock or not, we need to keep going,” remarked the Baron simply.

  “I can’t understand you sometimes, Michel. We might have lost a colleague, and another is fighting for his life, and you talk to us as if …”

  “AS IF WHAT?” he yelled, slamming his hand on his desk. “I knew Richard when you were still at school. He was a friend, and he isn’t dead yet as far as I know. I’ll cry about him this evening, but right now I’m doing what society wants me to do. There are only three of us looking for this guy, and there should be twenty. And what’s more, they’ve offloaded the Ferri couple on us! Duriez prefers gangland killings—the Maire must have told him that they need cleaning up; that it’s bad for the city’s image. After the next elections, our Maire may be a minister; he’s already hustling for the Intérieur. So Duriez, our big boss, is shitting himself. There are three of us, and three we’ll remain. So, get that into your heads, because we’re on our own until the end. O.K.?”

  “Loud and clear. Maistre has phoned several times,” Vidal said. “Maybe your mobile doesn’t work.”

  “I’ll call him later. Right now, I don’t want anyone to disturb us. So, I’m all ears, Maxime. What’s new?”

  “Nothing.”

  “And you, Anne?”

  “Yes, I do have one thing.”

  “Go on.”

  “Yesterday evening, I went to see someone who knows the art market well, and he told me that he’d heard about an association of American fanatics who were buying prehistoric art works. Apparently, they’re rolling in it. They’re based in New York State … it’s a kind of cult.”

  “Nice work, Anne. Really nice. I see you work like I do. Doing little investigations on the side … Personally, that doesn’t bother me.”

  De Palma waited for her reaction. It didn’t come.

  “Look both of you, we can’t keep scrapping like this. I treated you badly, and I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, that’s a bit too easy,” Moracchini said. “You treat us like dogs, then apologize!”

  “I mean it, sincerely.”

  “Apology accepted, team mate, you’re as stubborn as a mule, but I still like you.”

  Vidal went out to the coffee machine. De Palma strode after him.

  “I couldn’t care less about your apologies, Michel.”

  De Palma poked his index finger into Vidal’s shoulder.

  “Listen kiddo, just don’t forget one thing: I’m in charge of this case. You stab me in the back, and I’ll make your life hell.”

  “O.K., I’ve got the message,” said Vidal, drawing away.

  “You’re going to call up Ron Hoskins, the F.B.I. agent in Lyon. He covers the whole of France. Tell him that you’re calling on my behalf.
He’s an old friend. Ask him what they know about an association in New York State interested in prehistoric art. If he’s uncooperative, tell him it’s urgent and hint that I’m going to put him on to a market of ancient artifacts being exported to the U.S.A. Is that clear, Maxime?”

  “Crystal.”

  “Do it now.”

  De Palma returned to his office and went over toward Moracchini, who could not help recoiling slightly as he neared her.

  “If we leave aside Agnès Féraud, the murders start with Luccioni’s. The deaths of Autran, Weill and Chevallier followed on from that one.”

  “True,” Moracchini said, tapping her right cheek with a pencil. “There’s just one thing that surprises me …”

  “What?” asked the Baron, glancing at her.

  “Yesterday, when I was thinking back over the reports, I remembered that Autran was taller than her corpse. According to her identity papers at least. There’s a difference of three centimeters, to be exact. Forensics told me that the cold water must have made her shrink, that her scalp had been eaten away, and so on … But three centimeters is a lot.”

  “I see what you mean,” said de Palma bitterly. “But on identity papers, people’s height is often a bit approximate.”

  The phone rang. Moracchini answered it.

  “It’s for you, Michel.”

  It was Maistre. They exchanged a few words.

  “I’ll see you at 6:00 p.m., at your place,” the Baron said, before hanging up.

  He looked at his teammate for a long time.

  “You’ve just given me an idea. But before I tell you about it, I need to sort something out this afternoon.”

  “There you go again.”

  De Palma decided to come clean.

  “I’m going to see the Luccioni girl.”

  “And may I ask why?”

  He noticed a hint of anger in her voice.

  “Because I’ve got a vague idea which I need to check out. That’s all.”

  “And what is this vague idea?”

  “I think she might be able to tell me who Autran used to see.”

  “Is that all?”