An inner voice rose up from the depths of his being.
“She must be eliminated.”
He looked up and stared at the street full of everyday people.
“She must be eliminated. But first, use her to eliminate the policeman,” the goddess told him.
He would use his method, as ever. He would take his time. The time he needed to find his righteous anger. To lay a fatal trap as only a great hunter can.
29.
To: Commandant Michel de Palma. Murder squad. From: Ron Hoskins, F.B.I., Lyon.
Michel,
Here’s some of the information you wanted:
There are many amateur prehistory societies in the U.S.A. Most of them have websites. There are many in Arizona and Utah and they are interested in the first settlements of Pueblos. I don’t think that they concern you. There are others in Texas who focus on the Clovis (the first inhabitants of the American continent) … But I won’t make a list of all of them.
Regarding the lead you asked me to follow up, i.e. a “sect-like” society based in New York State, I haven’t found anything. There is a prehistory club called “The American Prehistory Society,” several of whose members have been charged with the (alleged) homicide of another member. Its headquarters is in Albany, N.Y.
These events occurred in the summer of 1996, and the case has never been solved.
The victim was Anna McCabe, aged 40, born in Oakland, California. She was a researcher in the ethnology department of the University of San Diego. She was found dead on July 21, 1996 in Lake Otapah, Colorado. Her death occurred before July 8, 1996, from a heart attack caused by an overdose of unidentified hallucinogens (presumably from plants from the mescal family). The body, which was partly decomposed, bore several quite deep wounds made by an unidentified sharp object—these wounds were not the cause of death. (I can find out more, if you want, but I’ll need time.)
With a little effort, I unearthed the names of the people who were questioned by our units. They include both men and women. All but five are U.S. citizens. They are:
—Paco Rivaldo, an Argentinian, aged 40 at the time. Professor honoris causa at the University of Buenos Aires, Argentina. A specialist in the prehistoric inhabitants of Patagonia. He was not charged.
—François Caillol, a French citizen, aged 40 at the time. A psychiatrist from Aix-en-Provence, France. Member of the A.P.S. He had come to deliver a series of lectures on shamanism and prehistory. The F.B.I. file states that he was not charged. He was in fact no longer in the U.S.A. at the time of the murder, so he was considered innocent.
—Julia Chevallier, a French citizen, aged 38 at the time. A teacher in Marseille, France.
—Hélène Weill, a French citizen, aged 39 at the time. Profession unknown (?).
—Christine Autran, a French citizen, aged 39 at the time. A lecturer in Aix at the University of Provence. A specialist in prehistory. She had come to deliver a series of lectures on shamanism and prehistory. Member of the A.P.S.
When I read these names, I saw the connection with the case you’re investigating. I think that this Caillol and the three women will be of interest to you.
The addresses of the A.P.S. are 26, Monroe Drive, Albany, New York State and 1236, Falcon Boulevard, Denver, Colorado. There are other addresses which I’ll send you if you want.
The American Prehistory Society couldn’t really be described as a sect. They are enthusiasts interested in a particular subject. Like the “Indianists,” they organize weekends where they adopt the lifestyle of early humanity. They shut themselves up in caves, hunt big game with rudimentary weapons and practice survival techniques. Most of its members are wealthy, some extremely so.
Their ideology is rather vague, except that they defend nature and perform shamanistic rituals, a little like the medicine men in the American Native Church. They also organize and finance serious expeditions to investigate primitive peoples. So it’s not really a sect, but more of a society, like many others in the U.S.A., which helps to promote research, even if some of their activities are not very conventional.
That’s all I can tell you for now. I’d like to carry out more detailed research, but under American legislation I am not allowed to. That’s the way it is. Let’s talk soon about your market of stolen artifacts.
See you soon, your friend,
Ron.
The Baron put down the piece of paper without saying a word. Moracchini and Vidal were silent too, waiting for their teammate’s reaction. First he picked up the phone and called Barbieri.
“Good morning, Christophe, I want to ask permission to see Caillol again …”
“I suppose you’ve got something new?”
“Yes, something quite incredible. A real bit of luck. I’ve just been told that he was questioned by the F.B.I. about a homicide carried out by a bunch of prehistory loonies in the U.S.A. I have to see him. It’s really urgent.”
“O.K., how about this afternoon?”
“Perfect! About 2:00?”
“O.K. But this time we’ll go together. Pick me up at court at 1:00 p.m.”
De Palma headed for the coffee machine, followed by Moracchini.
“Richard came out of his coma an hour ago,” she said as she slipped a coin into the slot.
“I knew it!” de Palma almost shouted, waving his arms. “Can we visit him?”
“No, not yet. The doctors aren’t even letting his family see him. They want to avoid any emotional shocks.”
“And so?”
“He should be alright, but they don’t know if there will be any after-effects. If there are, they shouldn’t be very serious.”
“And where are they all at?” the Baron asked, pointing at the closed doors of the serious crime and murder squads.
“They’re seeing the prefect. They’re lodging a demand to organize a demonstration. We wanted to go along too, but we waited for you. And now it’s too late. Plus Maistre’s been looking for you.”
“I know, my mobile battery is flat. Jesus, that’s good news about Richard! So what’s the demo all about?”
“We’ve had enough of being shot at!” snapped Vidal, scathingly. “Three dead and two seriously wounded in less than a month. Enough is enough.”
“So you think a demo will change anything?” de Palma replied coldly, dropping his coin into the slot. “It’s our entire society which needs changing …”
“Cut the crap, Michel!” Vidal interrupted. “They should provide us with what we need.”
“That’s right, more money and Kevlar body armor, and like that we’ll be rich and well protected! But definitely DO NOT slap mobsters around.”
“You really do lose it sometimes, Michel,” said Moracchini.
“Tell me why young kids shoot at us like they’re plugging farm pheasants! Tell me why in this damned city there’s a crazy guy obsessed with eating people! Tell me why there are only three of us on this case!”
“Well …”
“Then what do you want to do with all your dosh and Kevlar jackets? Create good little children, good little killers, healthy in body and mind?”
“So, what do you suggest?”
“I don’t have anything to suggest. I’m just a poor dickhead of a policeman who’s seen the prisons fill up over his twenty-five-year career. It’s not my fault if society is falling apart. Half the restaurants in this city feed the mob’s bank accounts. All the nightclubs belong to those guys and imagine what you’d find if you looked into the politicians’ finances. Not to mention our bent colleagues … So don’t ask me what I suggest! I can remember a time when crooks didn’t shoot police officers.”
“So, can we count on you for the demo?”
“As long as those fascist trade unions aren’t there! Do I not look like someone who’d go to a peace and love rally?”
“O.K., don’t get so wound up.”
“I’m not getting wound up. I just don’t know where I stand any more. The whole world is turning into a nightmare. We
used to arrest a maniac every five years. Now it’s every week. When will we get the next one? Tomorrow? Maybe today?”
De Palma swallowed a mouthful of coffee which burned his lips. He grimaced.
“And we’re not even up against a classic maniac … this guy refuses to accept our civilization or morals. He thinks he’s a Cro-Magnon man. Just imagine it! The Middle Ages and antiquity are already too civilized for him. Let’s go back to animal skins and a good old lump of flint! Talk about a profile—he’s a sociopath who soothes his impulses by imitating prehistoric hunters. Or, at least, the image he has of them. But I reckon those hunters weren’t as savage as some people think.”
Another mouthful. Another grimace.
“In any case, they’re no more savage than hoods who blow each other away for no reason—they don’t think any more, they just shoot. Just look at the Ferri couple!”
“You’re right, Michel,” Moracchini answered. “I also get the impression that everything’s speeding up.”
“So, shall we have a sitrep?”
“O.K., let’s go.”
Commissaire Paulin burst into the office.
“You didn’t go with the others?”
“No,” said Vidal. “Except in spirit.”
“Very good … De Palma, where are you at with the Ferris?”
“They’ve been buried.”
“You mean they’re no longer in the morgue?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because a Ferri bloats.”
Paulin stared at him, then burst out laughing, showing his horse’s teeth stained with nicotine.
“I prefer it when you talk about opera, de Palma.” Vidal felt ill at ease.
“What is it, Maxime? Anything wrong?” the Baron asked sarcastically.
“I don’t agree with you, Michel. If we don’t do something, who will? That’s all I want to say.”
“Apart from that, are you still pleased to know me?”
“I can see that today is getting off to a good start,” Moracchini mumbled.
“Commandant de Palma and I wanted to see you again in order to obtain further information. I should say that I’ve not yet made a decision about your possible transfer out of solitary confinement. But I shall during the course of this week … Everything depends on your cooperation.”
François Caillol looked uncomfortable in his chair. He had laid his fingers on the Formica table and was now tapping out the Andante movement of an imaginary concerto. Barbieri and de Palma sat in front of him and stared. Caillol arrogantly met their gaze. The prison world was already at work.
“I think I’ve told you everything I know.”
Barbieri turned toward the Baron. With a nod, he invited him to step in.
“Dr. Caillol,” he said, standing up, “I’ve had enough of being taken for a fool. From now on, we’re going to put all our cards on the table. All of them, you hear me? Does July 1996, Albany, New York State—and Denver, Colorado—ring any bells?”
Caillol looked like he’d been punched in the stomach.
“Yes,” he said, swallowing his saliva.
“I want proper answers, not just yeses and nos. I want to know what you were doing in Denver with Hélène Weill and Julia Chevallier, just a few days before the murder of Anna McCabe.”
The doctor squirmed in his chair and leaned forward to avoid their eyes.
“I was taking part in a series of lectures about … about shamans in prehistory. I left the U.S.A. on July 1, that’s all. I explained all of this to the American police.”
“So you knew Julia and Hélène?”
“Yes.”
He spoke in a loud voice to conceal his panic.
“Dr. Caillol,” said Barbieri, on the verge of losing his temper, “I can’t help wondering why you didn’t tell me about all this before.”
“Why should I? Since my arrest, no-one’s believed a single word I’ve said!”
“Fine … But there’s still something that intrigues me about your trip: you are no scientific authority. Experts such as Christine Autran, or Professor Palestro were better placed than you to lecture on the subject. So why were you chosen? Why you, and not someone else?”
“Because I was a member of the American Prehistory Society.”
“And you are no longer?”
“No, I left the A.P.S. in 1996, after the death of Anna McCabe.”
“Can you explain your reasons in more detail?”
Caillol concentrated, as though trying to dispel his confusion.
“I left the American Prehistory Society when I realized that, beneath its scientific veneer, it was in fact some kind of cult with dubious practices. That became clear to me when I heard about Anna’s death.”
De Palma noticed that he had just referred to the victim by her forename. He decided to try his luck.
“Did you first meet Anna in Denver?”
“No, in Aix. During a symposium under the direction of Professor Palestro.”
De Palma and Barbieri were flabbergasted.
“Dr. Caillol,” said the magistrate. “The time has come for you to tell us everything. The police officer sitting in front of you will work out the truth sooner or later. Talking to us will alleviate your suffering. I know that solitary confinement is not easy. So, I beg of you, please give me a reason to transfer you to another wing.”
The psychiatrist laid his hands on his knees. He lowered his head, thought for a few seconds, then spoke to the Baron directly.
“The first time you came to see me, I didn’t tell you everything because I wanted to get out of here. That was my lawyer’s advice … Just don’t forget that I never lied to you.”
“I didn’t say that,” murmered de Palma.
“Christine Autran proposed me when I joined the A.P.S. She’d been a member since 1990. The first time I visited the U.S.A., in the summer of 1991, I went with her. We met various members of the society, and Christine delivered a series of lectures about prehistory. That’s all.”
“And did you take part in any of their weekends?”
“Twice. We went into the mountains and lived like prehistoric men. Christine was extremely knowledgeable. She knew all the plants and fishing techniques. It was really fascinating. I suppose that must sound strange to you! But you have to realize that some of the most serious prehistorians take part in this kind of reconstruction. For example, my friend John Davoli from the University of Austin, cuts flints. He’s a real expert. I can even …”
“What about the second time you went to Denver?”
“It was in 1993. Once again, Christine gave a few lectures. But this time on a different subject.”
“What was it?”
“The seminar was about the first inhabitants of the continent of America. Christine’s contribution was to show that the first men in America didn’t come from Asia, as is generally thought, but from Europe. She based this idea on the fact that flints have been found over there which were cut in the same way as those discovered here during the Solutrean period. She interpreted these similar industries as a sign that migration came from the east, not the west. In other words, she didn’t believe that the Mongol-like Indian was America’s first man …”
“Is that all?”
Caillol’s face suddenly began to twitch.
“No. During one weekend, Christine and one of the organizers conducted some shamanistic rituals.”
“What do you mean?”
“They arranged to meet in a Paleolithic hunter’s shelter, not far from Denver, where they invoked the spirits. Rather like Indian medicine men.”
Despite his anxiety, Caillol was controlled, still able to negotiate with himself and keep his emotions in hand.
“Were you there too?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Christine went into a sort of trance. She really shocked me that day. Afterward, I decided to keep my distance from her.”
“Tell me how a
psychiatrist of your standing can be shocked by someone in a trance.”
Caillol remained silent for some time, his chest rising a little higher each time he breathed.
“Christine wasn’t one of my patients … When she started foaming at the mouth, with her eyes popping out of her face, and then convulsing, I panicked. How can I explain? I was the one who’d encouraged her to conduct the experiment. I … I had no idea of the sort of state she’d get into.”
“Did she become violent?”
“Yes, extremely violent … It took several of us to control her.”
As he finished, his voice broke slightly, and he suppressed a sob.
Barbieri placed his hands over his mouth. He let the doctor pause for a moment. Under the table, one of his legs was jiggling up and down.
“Let’s sum things up, Doctor,” he said. “You became a member of the A.P.S. in 1991, and made your first visit in the summer of that year. So far, so good. Then you go for a second time, to Denver in 1993, and you realize that something is wrong, that Christine is not completely normal. And you decide to keep your distance from her.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“So why did you go back in 1996 to give a series of lectures?” Caillol all of a sudden looked pained.
“They asked me to … I … I had no reason to refuse. I suppose it was pride really. As you said, I am not a scientific authority, so I can’t lecture here. The A.P.S. gave me an opportunity and I accepted it.”
“Was Christine there?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And did she perform magic rituals again?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t invited to the weekends. It was as if they didn’t trust me any more. I was excluded from their activities outside the seminar itself.”
“Had you seen Christine between these two trips to Denver?”
“Yes.”
“In what circumstances?”
“We weren’t lovers, if that’s what you mean. I told you that the last time we spoke. She was just a friend. And we worked together on various projects.”
The psychiatrist had regained control of his emotions. They were going to have to trap him, but not too hastily. De Palma once again took the lead in the questioning.
The First Fingerprint Page 29
