The 7th Woman

by Frédérique Molay

  Their eyes met. Nico had built strong walls, and it was not easy to guess his weaknesses. But for the first time, Dominique Kreiss perceived a slight discomfort in the chief’s eyes.

  “Nothing seems to have been moved,” Nico said. “Everything is in order. It was not a burglary. I bet we will not find a single fingerprint. The work is meticulous and organized, and it is not some passing folly. There was no break-in, so the victim either knew the murderer or trusted him and let him in.”

  “How high on the risk scale was this for the criminal?” Dominique asked.

  “Pretty high. The Place de la Contrescarpe is very busy. Killing someone in her home without attracting attention, taking the time to clean up and leaving as if nothing happened require a lot of control. This bastard works like a professional.”

  “The bastard, you say. You’re right that it’s likely to be a lone man. Someone who is sure of himself enough to think that no one would notice him. He is methodical and calculating—the opposite of an impulse killer who would have left evidence everywhere.”

  Nico nodded.

  “Now, the victim,” he said.

  Dominique considered the mutilated, bloody body. Her heart rate quickened.

  “There’s a mix of sex and violence. This is all about fantasy. I’d say that sex is not the motive. There is certainly a desire to demonstrate his power, to dominate her to the point of taking her life.”

  “Be more specific,” Sirsky ordered.

  Marie-Hélène Jory was lying naked on her back, her arms raised and pulled back, her wrists attached to a heavy coffee table.

  “The bondage has pornographic overtones,” Dominique said. “The victim was stabbed in the belly, certainly after suffering those lacerations.”

  “Jesus,” Nico said. “OK, Dominique, let’s get down to the heart of the matter.”

  “Her breasts were amputated, and the criminal probably took them with him.”

  “What do you make of that?”

  “The person who did that has a problem with his mother. Maybe he was abused or abandoned as a child.”

  Nico stood up, followed by the psychologist.

  “You can start,” the chief told Kriven and Vidal. “Keep the knot whole when you cut the rope. We’ll test it.”

  Vidal took latex gloves out of his field bag and handed pairs around. Then he began a methodical examination of the scene. He took a number of pictures and recorded his comments on a tape recorder. He tried to uncover every possible piece of evidence, every possible fingerprint, some sort of signature, voluntary or involuntary. In the end, he made a drawing of the room and made sure that everything was noted: the position of the furniture, the objects and the body. In the meantime, Chief Sirsky encouraged David Kriven to search the apartment.

  Dominique Kreiss slipped out. For now, there was nothing more that she could do.

  2

  The Investigation Begins

  THEY DIDN’T FINISH UNTIL evening. The body was removed and taken to the medical examiner’s office at the Paris Institut Médico-Légal, the morgue on the Quai de la Rapée. The public prosecutor’s office would order an autopsy. Chief Sirsky decided to go back to headquarters to question Paul Terrade. Commander Kriven took off to help the fifth and sixth squad members, who were responsible for canvassing the neighbors. They had already started their rounds in the victim’s building and in the cafés on the square. Perhaps they would uncover some leads.

  Nico took the Boulevard Saint Michel to the Seine and then followed the river toward the Pont Neuf, which he crossed to reach the Île de la Cité. Dating from 1891, 36 Quai des Orfèvres stood with the Palais de Justice, which housed the courts, and was right next to the government administrative offices at the Préfecture de Police, the Hôtel Dieu Hospital and Notre Dame Cathedral. It had always served as headquarters for France’s elite police forces. Nico Sirsky was a member of the country’s top crime fighters, and he was proud of it. What more could he aspire to?

  THE deputy police commissioner, Directeur Adjoint Michel Cohen, was waiting for him. It was seven thirty in the evening, but the headquarters were bustling as though it were the middle of the day. Crimes and misdemeanors would never adjust to France’s thirty-five hour workweek. From the top of his five-feet-four frame, Cohen managed to assert his authority over all of his teams. Subtle and pernicious political games often got the worst of the building’s occupants, with controversial appointments followed by transfers. Every kind of partisan grudge and broken career was possible here. Cohen was a top-notch professional who kept his political leanings to himself. He had moved up the ranks at the Quai des Orfèvres, starting his exemplary career in vice. For the last five years, he had held the reins of Paris’ central criminal investigation division. Rumor had it that he had the nerve to refuse a national-level position because he wanted to stay out of politics, particularly since recent elections had multiplied changes in the administration.

  Cohen had left his third-floor office to join Nico Sirsky in his quarters on the fourth floor. He was small and lean, with bushy black hair, a prominent nose, thick eyebrows and keen eyes. His impatient hands were holding one of the large cigars he regularly smoked. The pungent white smoke immediately attacked Nico’s throat, but Cohen took no notice.

  “So, my boy,” he said with his usual enthusiasm. “Hard at it, as always?”

  They had an age difference of thirteen years, and Cohen had always treated him with manly affection. Nico was his protégé, almost like a son. Everyone knew it and sometimes joked about it. But Nico had forged a real reputation for his rigor, his hard work and his abilities as a detective and leader. He had jealous colleagues to spare. He was only thirty-eight and already chief of police. Obviously, tongues wagged.

  “I talked to our shrink, Kreiss,” the deputy commissioner went on. “I see two possibilities. Either the crime scene is a trap, orchestrated by someone close to the victim and designed to make us think it’s the work of a psychopath, or the murderer really is a nutcase who has nothing to do with the victim and won’t stop there. In any case, it’s not an incidental crime by a prowler. It was organized down to the tiniest details.”

  Nico agreed. Cohen liked to summarize the information brought to him and, above all, to show that he was one step ahead of everyone else. He was the boss, and no one could say otherwise.

  “Apparently it was not a pretty sight,” he concluded, as if he wanted to make sure his colleague had gotten over it.

  “The girl went through a rough time,” Nico responded. “I just hope she died quickly.”

  “This case is a priority. Professor Vilars is on it. We’ll have her report tonight.”

  Professor Armelle Vilars ran the medical examiner’s office. She was a seasoned professional who left nothing to chance. Nico was glad to know that she was handling the case personally, and Cohen certainly shared that feeling.

  “The boyfriend, Paul Terrade, is in the building,” Nico said. “I’m going to question him. Kriven’s team is out in the field piecing together the victim’s last day, starting from when she got out of bed this morning, what she did, where she went and whom she met. We have to start by answering those questions.”

  “Good,” said Cohen. “Follow that for the time being. This homicide is unusual, to say the least, so keep me in the loop. The public prosecutor wants you to call him tonight.”

  “Of course. Consider it done,” Nico answered in a voice that he hoped sounded calm.

  His boss was testing him. He could feel it. Would he be able to solve such an atypical crime quickly? It was quite a challenge for the person Cohen considered a worthy successor. Politics didn’t affect him much, but he didn’t have a simple relationship with the justice system. French magistrates, including the procureur, or public prosecutor, tried to wield authority over criminal investigators. Not so long ago, a police commissioner had been dismissed because he had kept his men out of an operation ordered by a magistrate who hadn’t explained his reasons. Power struggle
s sometimes countered efforts to be efficient.

  Cohen slapped Nico on the back—with a force he was used to—and returned to his office. Nico called the prosecutor and described the sordid details of the crime scene, and the latter ordered an investigation. In a few days, the state would designate a special magistrate who would lead the investigation, a juge d’instruction. In the meantime, the prosecutor wanted to be kept informed. The procedure was complex but designed to make sure that all the rules were followed, and the rights of the accused were protected.

  When Nico hung up, he asked his staff to bring Paul Terrade in. It was rare for him to question a witness himself. Usually the squad leader heading the investigation did it. But this was no ordinary case, and he had to be more involved. His troops wouldn’t expect any less of him.

  THE victim’s companion was five foot nine and nearing forty. His face was pale and his eyes red. He sat down in front of Chief Sirsky. Nico immediately saw that the man’s hands were shaking. Usually, one detective did the questioning, and if he couldn’t get the person to talk, he’d bring in another detective and leave the room. Sometimes two of them would be in the room, but never more, and they never used physical force, even with the worst criminals. He had heard of that rule being broken only once—when Guy Georges, the infamous Beast of the Bastille serial killer, was hit when he was arrested in 1998, after he had raped and killed at least seven women. No handcuffs were used at the headquarters either, a policy widely criticized after a suspect committed suicide. The suspect, Richard Durn, had carried out the Nanterre massacre in March 2002, opening fire at a city council meeting. Even though the no-handcuffs policy had been kept in place after the suicide, bars had been added to the windows.

  “What happened?” Paul Terrade was sobbing. “Why was she killed? Why did they hurt her?”

  His questions seemed really naive, Nico thought, but this naiveté was no guarantee of innocence.

  “I have every intention of finding out,” the chief responded. “You have just experienced a terrible trauma. I suggest that you see a doctor. If you want, we can give you something in the meantime. Perhaps there is some family to inform?”

  “Yes. Marie-Hélène’s parents are in Paris, and she has two brothers who live outside the city. She’s got her grandmother, too. And there’s my family.”

  “We will help you contact them after our talk, OK?”

  Paul Terrade, clearly distressed, nodded.

  “Do you have a place to sleep? You will not be able to go home immediately. Your apartment has been sealed off until further order. Do you understand?”

  “My sister lives close by. She’ll put me up.”

  “Perfect. I don’t want you to be alone,” Nico said. “Do you have any idea of how this could have happened?”

  Paul Terrade started sobbing, and tears ran down his sunken cheeks. He managed to get out a barely perceptible “no.”

  “Did your partner have any enemies? Or do you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Were you having an affair?”

  “No!” Paul Terrade responded sharply, evidently shocked.

  “And Ms. Jory?”

  “Absolutely not! We had been living together for four years. Everything was going well. We wanted to start a family. She is a good teacher. Very conscientious. She never missed a class, that’s why they called me.”

  Paul Terrade didn’t know whether to talk about her in present or past tense. That was nearly always the case. Relatives needed time to comprehend this kind of loss.

  “It was the first time the school ever contacted me. I was worried and went home to check on her. She was there. I saw her right away. She … she …”

  “I can imagine what a shock it was. She died an atrocious death. Only a monster could have committed such an act. Perhaps it was someone you know.”

  “Impossible. We’re just ordinary people.”

  “No money problems?”

  “None. We both earn a decent living.”

  “And the family? Any particular concerns?”

  “No. None. Really. I don’t know what I can tell you.”

  “Often things are very simple. It could be someone you know who maimed the victim to cover up the crime.”

  “I can’t believe that. Marie-Hélène was so nice. She was generous. She always thought about others. Everyone loved her.”

  His voice was choked. The man seemed sincere. Nico’s first instinct was to trust him, but he knew from experience that he needed to be suspicious and keep up his guard. A murderer who was so sadistic could be capable of fooling anyone.

  “You can help us,” Sirsky said.

  Terrade gave him a hopeful look.

  “By giving us a detailed list of all family members, friends and colleagues.”

  “Of course, I’ll do that.”

  “There is nothing else you can do for the time being. Give us the address where you will be staying and a phone number, and I’ll need to see you again. For now, my staff will contact your sister and ask her to come and get you. I am really very sorry about your companion.”

  Paul Terrade slouched under the weight of his pain. Then the two men stood up and said goodbye.

  MARIE-HÉLÈNE Jory didn’t have any classes in the morning and had taken her time getting dressed. Paul had left home around eight thirty and had gone directly to his office. Witnesses confirmed that he was at his desk at nine. He needed thirty minutes to get to work by car. Commander Kriven checked it personally, with a stopwatch in hand. Around ten, Miss Jory went out to buy a paper and some bread. She had made the usual small talk with the shop owners. One of her neighbors, an elderly lady, crossed paths with her a little later, as she was re-entering the building. It was impossible to find out anything about what happened from that moment on. Had she met someone in the stairwell? Had she opened the door for a visitor? There were still unanswered questions. In any case, nobody had forced the door. A team of investigators continued to question the neighbors. Perhaps someone had seen her through a window. Kriven shared his boss’s feeling that they wouldn’t get any serious information from canvassing the area. He decided to return to headquarters and write up the victim’s schedule, a document that was needed for the case file.

  THE brigade criminelle was organized like a pyramid. Twelve squads served under four section chiefs, who were either deputy chiefs or operational commanders. They took orders from the division chief and his deputy chief. These hundred or so civil servants, including about fifteen women, were the life force of the famous Crim’. The deputy commissioner supervised this division—as well as the gang, juvenile protection, vice, organized crime and narcotics divisions—and above him was the directeur, or commissioner. Two people were higher up: the police prefect and the interior minister, who was at the top of the pyramid.

  At nine p.m., Commander Kriven reported to Nico Sirsky’s office with his superior, Deputy Chief Jean-Marie Rost.

  “Were you able to put together Marie-Hélène Jory’s schedule?” Nico asked.

  “Yes, but there’s nothing in it,” Kriven said angrily as he handed over his report. He was always irritable when an investigation wasn’t making progress. “Nobody saw or heard anything. It’s useless. It’s swarming with people there in the afternoon—people who live there, visitors, the curious, tourists, but nobody gives a shit about anything! Anybody could do anything and not get any notice.”

  “That’s to be expected, David,” Jean-Marie Rost said. “Our men have started to question the victim’s family, friends and colleagues, and her boyfriend’s. Tomorrow, I’ll contact their bank and their doctors.”

  “What about forensics?” Nico asked. “What do our specialists have to say about the rope and the knot?”

  “Nothing yet,” Rost answered. “They are overwhelmed. Tomorrow is another day.”

  “Eight o’clock. My office. Shaved and ready to go back to work,” Nico said sharply. “I want to keep a close eye on this case.”

  When the two
men had left, the telephone in the chief’s large office rang out. The deputy public prosecutor was on the line.

  “You have an appointment tomorrow morning at eleven with the state prosecutor,” a female voice announced. “An investigating magistrate will be appointed later.”

  Perfect. That would give Rost the time to put together the investigation report specifying how the body was found, along with what the witnesses and neighbors had said, the specifics of where the crime occurred, the weapons found on the premises and any special evidence. They would have to add the full autopsy report and the photos of the victim that Professor Vilars would take.

  The phone rang again. Speak of the devil.

  “Nico? It’s Armelle. Apparently you want to be there for Marie-Hélène Jory’s autopsy. I just got the court order. I will be able to start in half an hour, just the time it will take you to get here. I should have been home hours ago to play model wife and mother. The bodies are piling up, and I’m not allowed to hire additional staff. Anyway, I didn’t call you to complain about my hours. Are you on your way or not?”

  Professor Armelle Vilars was a fiery redhead with a sharp wit. Nico appreciated her professionalism and attention to detail.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  The division dispatched an officer to attend every autopsy and report the medical examiner’s analysis. Professor Vilars then sent her conclusions to the state prosecutor.

  When Nico arrived at Quai de la Rapée, he was led to the room where the specialist was waiting. She stood there, ready to start, next to a coworker who was dressed as she was, in a white top, a mask and surgical gloves. Armelle Vilars winked at him and began working without any preamble.

  Nico was used to this kind of scene. Nothing disturbed him—not the medical examiner’s procedures, the exposed organs, the blood or the smell of the ravaged body. Was he insensitive? Certainly, by force of circumstance. But the images did haunt him. It was impossible to erase them. He had to live with them.