The 7th Woman

by Frédérique Molay

  “I’ll bring the file over myself, say around one this afternoon. Does that work?”

  “Perfect. I’ll be waiting for you at 36 Quai des Orfèvres.”

  He hung up and called the Sorbonne. He asked to speak to the dean, a woman named Françoise Pasquier.

  “I thought you might contact me this morning,” she said. She had an authoritative voice and didn’t bother with unnecessary introductions.

  “So you know why I am calling?”

  “What do you think? When a professor misses all of her classes I want to know why. I found out last night. We have her companion’s cell phone number. I am so sorry for Marie-Hélène and her family. She was an excellent teacher. She knew her job inside out and was very attentive to her students.”

  That’s what Nico liked in women, their ability to be attentive to those around them, both in their families and on the job. That and the fact that they killed a lot less frequently then men: Women accounted for only ten to thirteen percent of all criminals worldwide. No testosterone, less uncontrolled sex drive and rape. No doubt about it, he preferred women.

  “Did she have any conflicts with her colleagues? Any problems with the administration?”

  “None at all. I’ll guarantee that,” Françoise Pasquier answered. “But I understand that you want to check for yourself. I suppose you will be coming to see us?”

  The dean was clearly a very capable and intelligent woman.

  “This afternoon, around three.”

  “I’ll be in my office.”

  They were ending their conversation with the polite formalities when he was told that Terrade and his sister had arrived. He invited them to sit down in the deep brown leather armchairs in his office, with nothing but his desk between them and him.

  “Have you found anything?” Paul Terrade asked, clearly anxious.

  “In effect. Your companion was pregnant.”

  The two visitors turned pale at the news. Nico let the heavy silence last, even though he knew it was a questionable tactic, considering the circumstances. Terrade’s sister placed a hand on her brother’s shoulder, and Nico noted that her fingers were white from the pressure she was applying. He could hear Terrade’s breathing, which was full of emotion. Was he acting? That was hard to believe.

  “Pregnant?” Terrade said with some difficulty.

  “About a month along. Didn’t you know?”

  “No. Marie-Hélène stopped taking the pill three months ago.”

  “Ms. Jory found out on Friday. Four days ago.”

  In a stupor, he asked, “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “You had a busy weekend,” his sister said. “A woman likes to choose the right moment, that special time, to announce something so important. I’m sure she was preparing to tell you, Paul.”

  Terrade collapsed. He sobbed and groaned, “My baby.” The loss added to his pain.

  “I’m sorry, but I am required to take your DNA, Mr. Terrade. I have to make sure that you are the father.”

  The man shot him a look. Nico knew he was being cruel.

  “It’s a routine test,” Nico added apologetically. “I will ask a nurse to come by. In the meantime, would you like a coffee?”

  Nico called a colleague to escort Terrade and his sister to another office to handle the rest. All they needed was a hair, a few skin cells or a drop of blood, sperm or saliva. The sample would be sealed and taken to the next high-speed train to Nantes. Nico disagreed with his superiors about DNA testing and trusted the Nantes University Hospital more than the Paris police forensics lab. He would have the results in less than twenty-four hours.

  He didn’t stay alone for long. A section chief entered without any ceremony.

  “Want to know the latest?” the strapping man said. “The Élysée just called. The president’s chief of staff wants an update on the investigation of Madame de Vallois’ murder.”

  The de Vallois family was well known in France. Delphine de Vallois, once a friend of the president, had been murdered two years earlier in her seedy eighth-arrondissement apartment. She had squandered her fortune and no longer kept respectable company. They had never caught the murderer, even if La Crim’ did have some clues as to who it was. They presumed it was a spurned lover. The number of bruises on the victim’s body suggested an intense struggle. But they never had enough evidence to make an arrest.

  “You know what I think of that case?” Nico said. “Send them the same report we did last time. They keep hounding us about this. We don’t take orders from the Élysée.”

  The case was not that interesting, and the brigade would end up catching the culprit. It was one of the division’s great advantages: They had time to work their cases. Some investigations took months, even years. Marie-Hélène Jory’s case was different. They had to act quickly if they wanted to solve it.

  “You said it, boss. They are starting to get on my nerves,” the subordinate said. “So, it looks like there’s no meeting this morning?”

  Every morning around nine thirty, the section heads got together in Nico’s office for a quick review of ongoing cases. Although they allowed themselves a cup of coffee, they never sat down for this meeting.

  “No, not today. The Jory case has priority.”

  “Lucky you. I wish I were in on it.”

  Nico smiled. His teams loved their work. They all volunteered whenever an investigation showed signs of being particularly difficult. They wanted to participate and show what they were made of. It took a special kind of person, a meticulous intellectual, to be part of La Crim’. They were all experienced officers he had chosen personally for their respective skills.

  The head of counter-terrorism arrived, and a morning meeting wound up taking place anyway. The international situation required him to work closely with all those involved.

  “Here is the file on Chechen movements in France that you wanted,” the deputy chief said. “Religion is not the only factor. Tribal relations play an important role in their organization. We’re keeping a constant watch on their leader. I can even tell you when he takes a piss.”

  “Good. We need to tighten the net. We can’t let down our guard. It could be dangerous.”

  “Maximum pressure. The men are on it.”

  “Perfect. That’s exactly what the interior minister will want to know. And what about Iraq?” Nico asked routinely.

  Well before the media broadcast the threat, and the world’s leaders took a stand for or firmly against the war, his team had been placing daily bets, not on its probability but on the date that it would break out. The ultra-confidential information he had in hand left little doubt. There were already skirmishes affecting the coalition, and the risk of terrorism had increased in France.

  “Bombing victims continue to pile up over there,” said the head of counter-terrorism. “We have to stay alert.”

  Nico nodded. What was the Marie-Hélène Jory case in the midst of all that? What a strange perspective that gave.

  5

  Anne or Chloé

  ANNE RECORDON AND CHLOÉ Bartes had known each other since primary school. Now in their thirties, they were best friends. In fact, they were as close as sisters.

  That morning, they walked together to the gym. They wanted to stay in shape and did what was necessary, exercising, eating right and avoiding alcohol and cigarettes. These were the rules of their everyday life. They had attentive husbands and were successful. They were certainly happy, and their conversations often ended in laughter. Nothing and nobody could shake the ground they stood on and make them doubt the world around them. Absolutely nobody.

  Except him. He had been spying on them tirelessly. He was capable of anything, even the worst. He had been following them since they had left home, as he had done for several days. He was determined and knew the tiniest details of their schedules, the routes they took and the transportation they chose. Their routines were as predictable as a page of memorized sheet music. Even when they went for a walk, they stayed in
the same neighborhood and shopped at the same stores. Sometimes a man let out an admiring whistle, which caused them to break out in laughter, like two shy little girls. But they had not noticed him. He observed them with a detached eye that registered each one of their habits. He remained invisible to them. He, who was nobody in their lives, had the power to determine their death. What control he had!

  NICO leaned over his keyboard and opened his email. Professor Armelle Vilars had just sent him the autopsy report. He looked over it quickly. The tox screen and blood tests were normal. There was a detailed description of the knife. The criminal had used a whip first and then a scalpel to cut off her breasts. What could be going on in the mind of a man who could do this kind of thing? There was perversity in how he tortured the woman, and the violence supplanted the meticulous organization. Nico knew that the nature of the murder and the way it had been laid out were clues to comprehending the culprit’s personality.

  Did he know Marie-Hélène Jory? How did he choose the victim? There were so many questions to answer. The woman’s pregnancy was confirmed. The embryo was described as attached to the uterine wall, the tissues just barely differentiated; the heart was forming, and it measured 0.4 millimeters long.

  Nico called his secretary and asked her to contact Dominique Kreiss. He wanted her to join the meeting that would take place any minute. He wanted to compare his analysis of the evidence with the psychologist’s.

  It was ten a.m., and the entire team came through his office door. Deputy Chief Jean-Marie Rost handed him his preliminary report. Nico acknowledged it with a look. He knew Rost had worked hard to produce it so quickly.

  “The couple’s bank accounts are clean,” Rost said. “There’s nothing to note. The doctors didn’t mention any health issues. One of our men is at the bank where Terrade works. He called about twenty minutes ago to say that he didn’t think he was going to come up with anything significant. Terrade is a model manager. Ordinary. We’ll know more at the end of the morning.”

  Nico nodded. This confirmed his initial feeling that they weren’t going to make any major discoveries. Unfortunately, the answers to their questions were not going to come from the victim’s side of things. Had she been chosen by chance? There was nothing to confirm that hypothesis either.

  “What about the neighbors?” Nico asked.

  “The guys were back there bright and early,” Kriven said. “For now, there’s nothing more than what we had last night. Jack shit. The hours fly by, and we’re getting nothing new.”

  A lack of witnesses was nothing new these days, Nico thought. People didn’t pay much attention to what was going on around them anymore. They were too preoccupied with their work, their families and their television shows. Things had certainly changed in the past twenty years. Was the twenty-first century going to be the century of indifference, giving criminals more space to maneuver? He turned to Dominique Kreiss, who hadn’t missed any of the conversation.

  “Why her? That is a key question,” she began. “The choice of victim is never innocent. The apartment was clean, orderly and tastefully decorated. That shows a structured personality. Either she knew the killer, or he inspired such trust that she invited him into her home, in which case we are dealing with a manipulator. I see him as a sadistic psychopath who prepares his crime methodically. He chose his victim for her specific profile and left nothing to chance. He undoubtedly feels no remorse. He is intelligent and has a comfortable life. He is a man who gives the impression of being perfectly normal. I have not yet used the term serial killer, but there is evidence he leans in that direction. It’s indicated by his use of a whip, which could characterize a fetish, and the mutilation of the victim’s breasts. Both are elements that could be linked to the subject’s relationship with his mother, just like the stab wound in the abdomen. These could be explained by some hard-felt childhood humiliation.”

  “Things always get more complicated with you,” Nico noted, impressed with her analysis. “And what do you think about the murder scene?”

  “A calculating murderer often ties up and tortures his victim. It is an expression of a desire for power and domination and an act of revenge for something in the past.”

  “But we are not there yet,” Nico said.

  There was not, in fact, any proof for what the shrink was saying. However, it was disquieting. And the more the investigation advanced, the more Marie-Hélène Jory’s friends and family seemed cleared.

  “I’m going to see the public prosecutor,” Nico said. “Then I’ve got an appointment with Jory’s gynecologist, and I have to go off to the Sorbonne. That’s my schedule. You can reach me through Acropol at any time. I say we meet here at six p.m. Find me something we can run with.”

  Acropol was an encrypted and highly secure radio communications system. The device was bulkier and heavier than a cell phone, but it was confidential and quick. And Nico was sure to find one of his team members at the other end. He picked up the box that was sitting at the corner of his desk and left the division offices. On the way, a travel agency caught his attention. Its name, written in white letters, stood out on a background the color of the South Seas, giving him a sudden desire to get away. To fly to the other side of the world, to forget his duties, to lie on white sand beaches and swim in warm, clear waters, to take the time to live—what a fine dream to share with a woman. Dr. Dalry came to mind. Clearly, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Perhaps he was just affection-deprived. He headed toward the government administrative building, just a few yards away from La Crim’. He took in Notre Dame’s gothic architecture just a little farther along the way. The spirit of Quasimodo and the monstrous gargoyles of the Galerie des Chimères—remnants of nineteenth-century romanticism—brought him back to his childhood dreams, peopled with legendary landscapes and fantastic adventures. But he didn’t have the time or the heart to let his mind wander. The prefect was waiting for him.

  THE Marais was part of the city’s magic, with it narrow streets lined with private townhouses and the Temple and the Archives neighborhoods. It formed a triangle, with the Hôtel de Ville, the Place de la Bastille and the Place de la République at its points. It was the preserved heart of the capital. It had a long history, and its well-preserved heritage let the mind imagine the unbelievable treasures it once held and the scenes with kings and courtesans that those stones had witnessed. He liked this enigmatic atmosphere. It was, after all, in the tower of the Temple Fortress that King Louis XVI had been imprisoned before being taken to the guillotine. It was also where the young King Louis XVII was killed under lesser-known circumstances. This was a neighborhood predestined for his crime. He was bloodthirsty; the right moment was approaching. He watched them. They were admiring the windows of the curio and fashion shops that had multiplied in the neighborhood. They had been dealt a good hand: They were beautiful, classy and successful. But he hated their arrogance. They left a shop on the Rue Vieille du Temple and walked along the Hôtel Amelot de Bisseuil, with its magnificent sculpted gate representing the Roman wolf nursing Remus and Romulus. They were not far from home. He felt excitement invade him, but it was nothing he couldn’t control. Finally, they separated, one going to cook for her husband, who came home for lunch every day, and the other returning to her place on the Rue de Turenne.

  She was the one he would follow. She tapped a code and pushed the door to enter the building. He knew the code by heart. He waited a moment and then passed the threshold in turn. Easy. He climbed three flights of heavily carpeted stairs, a sign of the apartment complex’s prestige. When he arrived at his destination, he stopped in front of a solid door with imposing security locks. He was focused, savoring the present, the moment right before the appointment he had arranged for his victim. Then he raised a determined hand and rang the bell.

  “Who is it?” a woman’s voice called out from the other side of the door.

  “The mailman, Madame. I have a package for you. I need a signature.”

  She opened the d
oor without hesitating. He presented the package, along with a more than charming smile.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot my pen,” he said.

  “Don’t move. I’ll go get one.”

  She walked away. He quietly entered the apartment. It was all going as planned. She was not far, in the hallway, leaning over a drawer in an antique commode dresser. She rummaged through it, looking for something to write with. He closed the door behind him, which made her jump. He was wearing the same reassuring smile as he moved toward her. Her pupils dilated slightly, a simple cerebral motor reflex. He smelled her sophisticated perfume. Her perfect body left him cold. In fact, he felt nothing but disgust for this woman. Then his smile suddenly came undone, and his features stiffened. She stepped back.

  With a vengeful hand, he slapped her. She fell backward, letting out a scream. He pulled an ether-soaked cloth out of his jacket pocket and held it against the woman’s mouth. She couldn’t resist. He lay on top of her and held her down with his powerful muscles. Her eyes were filled with terror. She tried kicking. She wanted to scream, but it was too late. Her eyes closed under the effect of the drug, and she stopped moving. Now his prey was asleep. Calmly, he removed the equipment he needed from his backpack. He exchanged his leather gloves for latex. He locked the entrance door and took an instant to explore the apartment. The living room was perfect. He dragged the inanimate body there. He took off all of her clothes and bound her wrists to the heavy table in the adjoining dining room. She was nude, lying on her back with her arms raised. He took duct tape from his bag and gagged her. The effect of the anesthesia would wear off soon, but she wouldn’t be able to scream. Then he sat down cross-legged next to his prey, waiting for her to wake up. He stared at her with a relentless, empty look. He would do nothing to her until she regained consciousness. He wanted to see the terror deep in her eyes; he wanted to hear the moans of pain. He would act slowly, getting the most from every second. He would whip her skin into strips. Most important, he would cut off those round breasts she was so proud of. And he had a little surprise for her.