The 7th Woman

by Frédérique Molay

  “Yes,” Nico responded.

  They walked past the kitchen and pretended to ignore the scene playing out inside. Chloé Bartes’ friend was lying on a stretcher, with two doctors on either side of her, busy with an oxygen mask and medical equipment. A police officer was supporting the husband, who could barely stand up. He was in a state of shock. They entered the living room. The room was over a thousand square feet and magnificent. Oak parquet and immaculate white walls highlighted a vast living space that displayed a pronounced taste for contemporary art. Italian sofas, varnished furniture, elegant rugs and modern paintings all reeked of the occupants’ affluence. An oval frosted-glass table could seat at least twelve guests. The couple liked to entertain.

  The victim was lying there, nude, stretched out on her back, in a position identical to Marie-Hélène Jory’s. It was now clear that the case was taking on another dimension. Her arms were raised above her, and her wrists were tied to the table. Nico and Dominique Kreiss knelt at the same time, as if by habit, to get a better understanding of the crime scene. The others stayed at a distance. Nobody said anything. They were numbed by the horror spread out in front of them.

  “We have ourselves a serial killer,” Nico finally said. “The ritual is comparable.”

  “The woman’s clothes are folded up there,” Dominique Kreiss said. “And did you see the shoes? They have been placed carefully under the chair. The murderer is a perfectionist. Everything has to be in order. That is part of the staging. I am sure that the guy is well groomed and always at his best. Everything must be impeccably arranged at his place.”

  “The victim was whipped and stabbed, just like Jory,” Nico said. “The breasts were excised and then returned to her body.”

  Pierre Vidal, the third detective in Kriven’s squad, had turned on his tape recorder and was recording the chief’s comments.

  “Death is not enough for the serial killer,” Ms. Kreiss said. “This kind of person is looking for some original way to cause suffering and does so with an imagination that would never occur to anyone else. He objectifies his prey. He doesn’t feel any pity but does experience an imperious need to mutilate the victim. The breast amputation is a way of further dehumanizing her. That choice is a serious clue that again brings us to the mother image. The man certainly experienced a childhood trauma that is motivating his actions.”

  “Something’s not right with the breasts,” Nico said. “It’s hard to tell, but the skin color is not the same. I don’t know, they don’t fit.”

  “Marie-Hélène Jory’s breasts?” Cohen suggested.

  “Possibly,” Nico said. “The medical examiner can confirm. What does it mean?”

  “The two women are similar, Chief, so he’s after a certain type of woman,” the psychologist said. “The memory of his mother at the same age? Some sort of humiliation she caused him that he’s getting others to pay for? That’s what this scene makes me think.”

  “In that case, the choice of victim is not linked to the attacker’s family or social or professional surroundings,” Nico said. “He is looking for a prey whose appearance reminds him of his mother, which makes this investigation particularly complex. The rope is similar to the rope used in the previous case.”

  The psychologist nodded before getting up, shaking out her legs.

  “Michel?” Nico asked.

  “I don’t see anything else,” the deputy commissioner said.

  “Vidal, you’re on,” Nico ordered. “Rost and Kriven, you question the witnesses and let them go. What do you say, Michel, should we search the apartment?”

  Pierre Vidal handed them some gloves, and everyone took to their tasks.

  THE atmosphere in the kitchen was truly unbearable.

  “We gave the victim’s friend an IV of Valium,” one of the paramedics explained. “She’s not really in any state to answer questions. The husband is not any better. He didn’t want to take anything, but he is very weak. That’s hardly surprising, considering. What do you want us to do?”

  “Leave us alone with them for a few minutes, then you can take them,” Jean-Marie Rost answered. “They should probably spend the night in observation. Has somebody informed the friend’s family? What is her name?”

  “Anne Recordon,” said a uniformed officer, “No, not yet.”

  “I saw a wedding ring on her finger. Call her husband,” Rost ordered.

  The paramedics and the police officer left the kitchen. Rost and Kriven found themselves alone with the husband and friend. Rost leaned toward the woman. Kriven offered the husband a chair.

  “Mr. Grégory Bartes?” Kriven began, placing a hand on the husband’s arm. “I am a commander with the Paris Criminal Investigation Division. What happened is—there are no words for it. My job is to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Do you understand? I need your help. Anything you could tell me could be key to the investigation. Mr. Bartes?”

  The man finally looked at the policeman. His features were totally distorted, and his eyes were expressionless. Kriven shivered.

  “Mr. Bartes?” he tried again in a barely audible voice.

  “I’m here, commander,” came the response in a voice so monotone, it could have been from a zombie. “Ask your questions, since that is your role. But I can already tell you that your chances of success are slim. I have nothing to tell you. Absolutely nothing. We led a perfectly normal life until today. I don’t know what could have happened. I’m afraid I can’t be much help to your investigation. Let’s hope it’s quick.”

  Kriven didn’t like Grégory Bartes’ condescending way of talking to him. But he had to get over that.

  “Even something small, Mr. Bartes. Try to remember any detail that didn’t seem worth noticing but could be meaningful today. Did your wife mention anything unusual happening recently?”

  “No. I told you already. I have nothing to tell you.”

  “I was sure,” Anne Recordon cried out.

  “What do you mean?” Rost asked, kneeling near the woman.

  “I felt it. She didn’t come to our meeting place, and I knew she was dead. I can’t explain why.”

  “Did you have any particular reason to think that something so serious had happened to her?” Jean-Marie Rost asked.

  Tears were rolling down the woman’s cheeks. She was whispering, and he had to lean in close to hear what she was saying. Her eyes were closed, her face swollen with grief, and she was having trouble breathing.

  “No, just an instinct.”

  NICO Sirsky and Michel Cohen left the bedroom and entered the office, examining all the papers they found, including bills, professional notes and bank papers. Nico pushed open the bathroom door. He looked for the switch with his gloved hand. A Jacuzzi occupied a large part of the space. There were two long bathrobes, two sinks and a large mirror.

  “Look, Michel!” Nico called out in disbelief.

  There were words written in purple on the mirror.

  “Lipstick?” Cohen asked.

  Nico approached the mirror, being careful not to touch it. Blood or some other biological fluid could be infected, presenting a risk of AIDS or hepatitis. He had to be careful, even with protective gloves.

  “Hmm. I think it’s blood.”

  The two men stepped back to read the message left for them.

  “Seven days, seven women,” Nico finally said out loud.

  They stared at the words, aghast.

  WEDNESDAY

  7

  Sleepless Night

  IT WAS PAST MIDNIGHT, according to his watch. The pale light on his desk lit up the entire room, creating a strange atmosphere that gave him the feeling of being somewhere between dreams and reality. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass window, and his eyes followed the Seine, an age-old witness to human history. But the images of the two murders occupied his mind, and the victims had transformed into ghosts that would relentlessly pursue him until the truth came out.

  So much had happened since they had discovere
d Chloé Bartes’ body just a few hours earlier. The message for the investigators proved that the murderer wanted to communicate with the police and manipulate them. This suggested that he had an overdeveloped sense of self and a strong desire for recognition. That was not a good sign, and this person had no intention of stopping. They had to catch him to put an end to the savagery.

  The murderer had announced a seven-day agenda. What leads did they have? Was there any connection between the victims? They needed to do a handwriting analysis. Only the killer could have written those bloody letters on the mirror. Nico immediately ordered a forensics specialist to examine the message. Marc Walberg was the best they had. He began by taking several pictures from various angles. He studied the scene for a long time, occasionally taking notes in a tiny notebook. A periodic frown caused his glasses to ride up his aquiline nose. Nico did not interrupt him, because you never interrupt an expert as highly regarded as Marc Walberg. It was not that he was pretentious. He just expected others to let him do his work. Finally, he turned to Nico.

  “First, the person who wrote this message knows precisely what he is doing,” he said, “and he is left-handed.”

  He dropped this piece of information as if it were obvious. Nico cleared his throat. Marc liked to be urged on.

  “Explain yourself.”

  “The killer formed the words in a single stroke, which means that he did not have to stop and think. The use of lower-case letters is a convincing argument that he did not consciously try to disguise his writing. There’s no trembling, no lifting, no signs of stress.”

  “What can you tell from lifting?”

  “The number of times the writer lifts his writing instrument reveals his level of sincerity and self-assurance or how much anxiety he has.”

  “And this person is left-handed?”

  “Left-handed people don’t have to exaggerate the curve of their wrists and readjust their writing angle. One final point: It is difficult to determine if it is a man or a woman.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Women write rounder letters with less pressure, while men tend to have more angular writing. Here, we can’t really differentiate.”

  “Oh. But it could still be a man?”

  “Of course. It could also be the unconscious imitation of a close relative’s writing style, which in that case would be a woman. You do understand that this particular writing surface does not help me go much further. A study of writing on something that can be picked up and examined from different angles is more useful.”

  “Thank you, Marc.”

  “You’re welcome. Just doing my job. As usual, keep me in the loop.”

  NICO had asked that the mirror be removed and taken to the police forensics lab. He had then met with Professor Vilars in the autopsy room around nine p.m. Neither was in the mood for the small talk that usually served to lighten the seriousness of an autopsy. They got to work immediately, showing determination tainted with a deep feeling of discomfort. In view of the victim’s physical state, they both had the sense that they were dealing with something very evil.

  “Your intuition was correct. The breasts belonged to the first victim,” Armelle said. “It will be easy to confirm, but you can already take it for a fact. The suturing is well done, and the material used is professional. She was sutured by someone who knew what he was doing.”

  “So he removed Marie-Hélène Jory’s breasts to transplant them on Chloé Bartes,” Nico said.

  “And he kept Mrs. Bartes’ breasts,” the chief medical examiner continued. “If we follow your line of reasoning, it is in order to transplant them on his next victim.”

  “He is completely over the edge!”

  “He staged the crime in the same way, with the young woman bound, gagged, whipped, mutilated and stabbed. The vital organs were punctured, and this led to massive bleeding, followed by death. As in the first case, the murderer inflicted exactly thirty lashes with the whip.”

  “So, it is not by chance.”

  “That seems difficult to me.”

  “It is a clue. But what could it mean?”

  “That, my friend, is your job. And I don’t envy you. Now let’s look at the knife. I am extracting it carefully from the victim’s abdomen.”

  Professor Vilars held the murder weapon in her gloved hand and carefully examined it. The blade was covered in blood. Her eyes stopped on a detail.

  “Look at that. I think he left us a little gift,” she finally said in a gloomy voice.

  Nico approached.

  “Do you see that? On the blade. There is a lock of hair, carefully knotted, held on with a piece of tape.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Nothing. I’m going to examine it. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Can you do it quickly?”

  “Shit, Nico. Do you really think I’m going to go home for a long bath and bed? My night is ruined. I’m staying and will get to it right away. I suppose that you’ll be up all night too.”

  “I’ll have to be. You can reach me at the office if you want. I wonder if she was pregnant.”

  “I’ll check.”

  Nico left feeling confident. Armelle had a reputation for being the best. He met Commander Joël Théron at 36 Quai des Orfèvres around eleven p.m. The two men climbed the four flights of stairs. There, Nico unlocked a box and took out a key to open a small door that looked like it led to an attic. They ascended an extremely narrow stairwell with a ceiling so low, Nico had to hunch over. They entered the evidence room. It was a tiny room with white tiles and fluorescent lights. It was air conditioned to preserve the evidence. There were some gruesome things in that room, including a charred suitcase that had carried the cut-off limbs of a young criminal’s father. There were also bloody clothes, weapons and glass containers in various sizes containing not-especially-engaging contents, certainly blood, saliva and sperm. Nico took the rope used in the second murder, removed a sample and gave it to Théron.

  “Make sure to compare the two knots, and we need to know if the ropes came from the same supplier.”

  Nico slipped out the window that led to the rooftop. He walked a few yards, breathing deeply. He stood over Paris. In the daytime, the view was exceptional. At this hour, the capital was wearing its stage costume of shining lights. It was magical. Théron had followed him, and the two policemen smiled at each other. Here, they stood at the summit of their turf. Neither Parisians nor tourists had access to this panorama.

  They returned the way they came and walked down to Nico’s office.

  “So, as I was saying, interviews with Marie-Hélène Jory’s colleagues and students didn’t provide anything new,” Théron said. “We’re not finished yet, but I’m not very optimistic. Other than a few unpaid parking tickets, there is nothing to reproach any of them.”

  “And the rope?”

  “In Paris, there are seventy-two retailers specializing in nautical material and fifteen distribution networks. I stopped at La Flotte Française on Boulevard de Charonne in the eleventh arrondissement. You were right. It’s a square-line eight-strand braided rope used for mooring. It is very flexible, not very voluminous and absorbs shocks well. It’s a 4.9 mm diameter, ACD 700 high-strength mooring line. The team got a list of Parisian customers. We are contacting them now. But anyone can go in and buy some rope and pay cash.”

  “Would our man have had the idea of buying this kind of rope without knowing anything about boating?” Chief Sirsky was thinking out loud. “Could any of Jory’s colleagues be on that customer list?”

  “Do you take us for amateurs? Of course we checked that out. The answer is no, nor were any of her students or people close to her.”

  “That would have been too simple. Keep at it, and check the second sample. We did learn something though: We have something from a boat that you can’t just pick up anywhere. It’s a start, Joël.”

  DOMINIQUE Kreiss arrived at Nico’s office. He offered her a seat and handed her a large cup of bl
ack coffee. Her emerald-green eyes, highlighted by her fatigue, shone in the half-light. The thought that he preferred Dr. Dalry’s dark, deep look crossed his mind. At the mere thought of her, a warm sensation spread through his body.

  “Studying the victims’ profiles is just as interesting as drawing up a portrait of the killer,” the young woman began. “They’re a key aspect and give an idea of the killer’s fantasies. Marie-Hélène Jory and Chloé Bartes were actually very similar. They were both about thirty, successful and established. They were not the type to go off with someone they didn’t know, although that could happen to anyone. Both were also pretty brunettes, average in height and thin. Nothing was left to chance.”

  Footsteps resonated in the narrow hallway that led to Nico’s office. Kriven entered.

  “The murder was committed in the middle of the day, and there are no witnesses!” he spat out.

  “The time the crimes took place tells us a lot about the murderer,” Dominique Kreiss said. “He can act in the afternoon without raising any suspicions. His work hours allow for that.”

  “If he has a job,” Nico said.

  “We are dealing with an intelligent, smart person who organizes his deeds perfectly. He has the profile of a sociopath. Generally speaking, this kind of individual has a successful career. He is socially integrated and can simulate emotions that, in reality, he is incapable of feeling. As I already said, he manipulates and has a high opinion of himself. He never feels any remorse.”

  “I’m intrigued by his message ‘seven days, seven women,’ ” Nico said. “It suggests that there is a beginning and an end to his acts. Yet serial killers don’t put a time limit on their crimes. They generally can’t stop the impulse. Sociopaths constantly seek pleasure through their crimes. They can’t remove themselves from their world.”

  “That’s not necessarily true,” the psychologist responded. “A sociopath can take on a particular mission within a determined time span and continue with other crimes elsewhere or in another way. Furthermore, you know as well as I that the serial killer at least unconsciously wants to be caught and voluntarily leaves clues to help the investigation. And he has an overwhelming desire for recognition. He wants to be famous; that is an important part of his psychology. These seven days are perhaps just the beginning.”