The 7th Woman

by Frédérique Molay

  “Hmm.”

  “There’s something else,” Dominique continued. “I find the murderer’s message to have a strong biblical connotation.”

  “Biblical?” Kriven asked. “That’s all we need!”

  “Genesis, Chapter 1,” Dominique responded. “God took six days to create the world and rested on the seventh. I have the feeling there is cynicism in the message. As if our man were defying God, and through him, all of us, by killing a seventh woman on the seventh day. I think he is Parisian, living and working in the capital. He is between twenty-five and forty and most certainly white. Curiously, serial killers are almost exclusively Caucasian, and they tend to commit crimes only in their own ethnic group. Our killer has a close connection to the profile of his victims, which would confirm the rule. That is all I can say for the moment.”

  “Very good. Now the two of you should go to bed,” Nico said. “I want to see you first thing in the morning.”

  Kreiss and Kriven looked at their watches at the same time. It was past three in the morning.

  “Go on,” Nico ordered. “Catch some shut-eye, take a shower and come back ready to go. I won’t have any pity on you starting at eight a.m. If the murderer holds to his word, we could find a third victim during the day. This may be your last time to sleep before the weekend.”

  “What about you?” Kriven asked.

  “I give the orders around here, and I am not obliged to follow them. I’m waiting for Professor Vilars to call. And Théron is at forensics, and he’s supposed to send me some information. Get out of here, now!”

  NICO didn’t have to wait long. Armelle Vilars had not slacked off, loyal to her reputation. She called him on his direct line.

  “Still at work?” she began. “And to think that the public accuses us of having it easy.”

  Nico couldn’t help but smile. She was always energetic and witty.

  “I worked double time, and I don’t have much to tell you,” Armelle said. “The bastard is very up to date on our methods. I sent the hair to Dr. Tom Robin at the police forensics lab. I pulled him out of his bed especially for you. He is the best molecular biologist I know.”

  Nico took the information as a direct jab at his relations with the university hospital in Nantes. Armelle also considered the chief’s obsession to be ridiculous and wanted to get the message across with some tact.

  “Give him twenty-four hours, and we’ll know everything it can tell us,” the medical examiner said. “But I kept the best for the last. Chloé Bartes was pregnant.”

  “Pregnant?”

  “That’s right. One month along, just like Marie-Hélène Jory.”

  “Do you think there could be some connection?”

  “I’m not Miss Marple. You’re the cop. But it is surprising, isn’t it? It could mean that our man has access to confidential medical information concerning the victims. That limits the scope of the investigation, so to speak.”

  “So maybe our man hates pretty young brunettes who have achieved something in life and are pregnant. How many women meet that description in all of Paris? Can you imagine?”

  “Come on, Nico, a little optimism. You are the best detective out there. If anyone can catch this scumbag, it’s you.”

  She hung up.

  A quarter to four. Deputy Chief Rost arrived after working all night with Kriven’s and Théron’s squads. Rost had a real sense of duty, like all others in the division.

  “I just went over things with Théron and Dr. Tom Robin from forensics,” he said. “I’ll start with the knots. According to Robin’s team, they are called fisherman’s knots.

  “Fisherman’s knots? What’s that?”

  “The two ends of a rope are joined in an overhand knot, which allows one end to slip freely through the knot. You tuck that end of the rope through the knot until you have enough length to tie another overhand knot next to the first. Then you pull the two knots together so that they hold.”

  “It’s often used by sailors. The murderer has mastered the technique, one that not everyone is familiar with. Dr. Robin called the knot romantic.”

  “He has a funny idea of romanticism.”

  “That’s what I think, too. Also, the person who tied the knots is left-handed, which was deduced from studying the direction the knots were made in. The same rope was used in both murders. Now we have proof that it is the same murderer. The samples have the same chemistry, size and color. Tests are being done on the message written in blood on the bathroom mirror. The blood type and rhesus factor are those of the victim. Dr. Robin tried to isolate fingerprints in the blood, using the Amido Black method. That’s a water-based formula. You dip the specimen in, let it sit for five minutes, rinse, and you have your prints. Except here, there were no prints.”

  “That’s too bad. Good try, though.”

  “As you say. Robin is doing the DNA analysis. We’ll have the initial results in twenty-four hours. But let’s not kid ourselves. It’s the victim’s blood. Furthermore, they examined the clothing in detail but came up with nothing. Finally, Professor Vilars sent the lock of hair found on the knife to Robin. DNA analysis is pending. We will also have those results in twenty-four hours.”

  “Is that all?”

  “What do you mean is that all? Go ahead and say that to Tom Robin, doctor of biology, biochemistry, molecular biology, genetics and forensic sciences.”

  “Yes, forensics, too.”

  “Isn’t it mind-boggling what you can learn from collecting, preserving and evaluating evidence?”

  “Yes. We know our man is left-handed, an expert in nautical knots, perfectly integrated in society, has a poor mother image and chooses young brunettes.”

  “My wife is blond. I’ll be able to sleep tonight,” Rost said.

  He had wanted to make a joke, but underneath those words, Nico heard a grim reality, and he didn’t know if he should be surprised by it or not.

  “She’s expecting our first child,” Rost added in an almost apologetic tone.

  8

  Fantasies

  IT WAS JEAN-BAPTISTE COLBERT, a minister under King Louis XIV, who first proposed an ambitious crime-prevention program and created the position of police lieutenant. The police established offices on the Quai des Orfèvres in 1792, during the Paris Commune. Number 36 came about later, in 1891, when the Brigade de Sûreté occupied the third floor. From the time of Eugène François Vidocq, named the first crime-detection chief in 1811, to the Brigades du Tigre a century later, history was peppered with famous criminal cases, extraordinary investigations and emblematic figures—both criminal and cop. The address symbolized the epic story of the hard-working and smart people who gave their lives to solving crimes. Nico was keenly aware of his professional heritage. He felt a profound sense of responsibility to his predecessors. Whenever he left 36 Quai des Orfèvres, he saluted the bronze bust of Alphonse Bertillon, the father of anthropometry and mug shots, who served as head of the Criminal Identity Division at the end of the nineteenth century.

  It was five in the morning when he pushed open the door of his apartment, and it was too late to go to bed. He preferred to slip into a sweat suit and go for a run. His running shoes pounded the Paris pavement for an hour and a half. He needed that, to feel his muscles heat up, to build up the pace until the movement became perfectly automatic, with long and fast strides, his heartbeat regular. He chased the investigation from his mind and concentrated on the physical exertion. Little by little, an image arose: Dr. Dalry’s smile. He liked that women, and he was definitely interested in her. He crossed the André Citroën Park to the Champ de Mars and ran to the École Militaire, then decided to speed up. He arrived home, winded but relieved of the tension of the past few days, mentally ready for his appointment at Saint Antoine Hospital. After he took a shower, he got dressed, paying more attention than usual to his clothing. He smiled at himself in the mirror. There was no way Caroline Dalry could resist him. He holstered his gun, certainly with the idea of impressing
her, and left home, nearly forgetting that he was on his way to get a not-very-pleasant medical exam, but happy to see Dr. Dalry again.

  SYLVIE Sirsky was sitting in front of her breakfast, letting dark thoughts chase away the tiny bit of good mood that she had left. She played with her pills for a while before taking them, as she did every morning. Her diagnosis of depression was not new. She did have a naturally morose personality, but she had crossed a worrisome threshold. She went to see a doctor when she started having suicidal thoughts. The costly but necessary therapy sessions were not enough to help her overcome the darkness. Whose fault was it? Her own? That was what her doctor wanted her to admit. He wanted her to take control of her life and find meaning in it. But she knew what the problem was, because it had a name: Nico. They had met when they were seventeen. She immediately fell in love with the handsome young man who seemed ignorant of his seductive power. His tenderness had driven her crazy. He was so different from the other boys she had known. He had only one preoccupation: her well-being. When she announced that she was pregnant, he shouldered his responsibilities. But one question kept hounding her. Would he have married her if Dimitri hadn’t arrived? The door to her son’s room opened, and he appeared. He looked so much like his father, it overwhelmed her every time she looked at him. Tears glistened in her eyes. She had to pull through, at all cost.

  THE silence in her office was oppressive this morning. It was an attic room, and to get there, she had to climb staircases and pass through hallways, all in a sorry state. She was sitting in front of her modest workspace, looking toward a narrow window that had three safety bars across it. She had the creepy feeling of being in prison. She chose to turn in the other direction and look at the poster of Men in Black II, those heroes who fought monsters from elsewhere.

  Terrifying characters had filled her career. Psychology students often specialized in studying victims, out of compassion or a desire to fight violence. From the start, she had chosen to focus on those who committed sexual crimes, and she did so with gusto, even asking to meet imprisoned murderers to get a deeper understanding of their psychology. She had been perfectly trained for the job, which involved participating in murder investigations and tracking psychopaths of all kinds. She remembered her first corpse. She couldn’t eat meat for three days. She had gotten past that stage. She was hardened and had learned to create space between her private life and her job, to the point of never talking about her police work with her loved ones. Her partner was not supposed to ask questions. That was their rule, even if sometimes he had a hard time sticking to it.

  They had met eight months earlier, over dinner at the home of mutual friends. His brooding good looks had had an immediate effect on her, even though she was not easily influenced by first impressions. He had come on to her throughout the evening, before ending up in her bed that very night. She still had not tired of him, because their sex was never routine. She blushed at the memory of the short night they had just spent together. Rémi was waiting up for her when she returned home in the wee hours of the morning, after working for Chief Sirsky. He jumped all over her as soon as she came in. They didn’t make it all the way to the bed. Dominique Kreiss had not slept at all.

  IT was eight in the morning. A nurse met Nico in the examination room, which had an examining table, a screen, cabinets and a sink. She told him to remove his jacket and tie. He also removed his gun. She asked him to lie down on his left side in a near-fetal position. Then, she adjusted the table until he found himself at an odd angle.

  “Perfect. Dr. Dalry will be here in about ten minutes,” the woman said with an authority that left no room for arguing. “I’m going now. You’re a big enough boy to wait for her alone, I suppose?”

  She disappeared before he had an opportunity to respond. The minutes ticked by. Then he heard steps in the hallway. Caroline Dalry came in and was more beautiful than he had remembered. He almost wished it weren’t so. But there she was, calm and charming, with a gentle look in her eyes. She had a presence as she moved about the room, even if it was just to go to the sink and wash her hands. Then she sat down on a high stool next to him on the table. The screen was in front of her. Again, he felt a wave of heat spread through his body.

  “Hello, Mr. Sirsky. This test will take only ten minutes or so if you do not move and if you breathe properly. I am going to insert a fiberscope in your mouth and slide it down your esophagus all the way to the duodenum. It is a flexible sheath that protects the optic fibers, and it is about twenty-four inches long. With it, I will be able to explore your digestive tract and take some samples to see if the irritation is bacterial. You need to swallow hard to help the instrument get past your tonsils. It is important that you relax and breathe deeply, or else the test will be uncomfortable for both of us.”

  She smiled. He felt a twinge of anxiety.

  “It is not very pleasant, and you could feel like you are suffocating. Don’t worry, it’s only a sensation. Do you have any questions before we begin?”

  “No. I trust you fully.”

  “Very good. I need you to face me. Hold your head still, and look at me. Open your mouth, wide. First, the nurse will spray some anesthesia in your throat. It will feel similar to what you experience when you see the dentist. Your palate and the back of the throat will feel thick. Then she’ll put a mouth guard in to protect your teeth.”

  The nurse accomplished her mission, and Dr. Dalry gently inserted the probe in his mouth. It was very unpleasant, but he strived to show flawless self-control. He looked at her without blinking, trying to make the most of every second in her presence, even in a situation that was hardly to his liking. The doctor’s voice reassured him at regular intervals, as she told him how she was progressing and how well he was doing. Clearly, she was the best remedy for the stress of this procedure. Barely ten minutes later, as planned, the procedure was over. Nico was almost sorry about it.

  “Your stomach is fine,” the doctor announced. “As I suspected, there is a small infection in the duodenal mucous membrane. It is nothing we can’t cure, but it was best to make sure.”

  “And what kind of merrymaking will the cure entail?” Nico asked, suddenly more relaxed.

  “I’ll give you a prescription. You’ll take an antacid for three months. And you’ll need to try some lifestyle changes, including more rest, relaxation and a balanced diet.”

  “It is not really the time for that.”

  “Oh. Is there a rise in crime?”

  “You could say that.”

  “You can put on your jacket now and holster your gun again.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “What do you mean, that’s all?”

  “We’re already finished? When do I see you again?”

  “Make an appointment in two months.”

  “Two months!”

  Dr. Dalry couldn’t keep herself from laughing.

  “Most of the time, my patients are happy when I give them that news,” she said. “It means that everything is fine, Mr. Sirsky. You should consider yourself lucky. As soon as I have the results of the biopsy, I’ll let you know if we need to change anything in your treatment, but I doubt that will be the case.”

  “Ah. Good. Um. Thanks.”

  Nico didn’t know how to stretch the appointment out any longer. What could he say? That he found her exceedingly attractive and that he would like to see her in another context? She held out a hand, which he shook despite himself, reluctant to put an end to this time spent together. He left the examination room and felt a huge emptiness. As soon as he left, he turned around and went back. He crossed paths with the nurse who was there earlier.

  “Excuse me. Would you happen to know when Dr. Dalry finishes work today?”

  She scrutinized him, looking surprised.

  “I can’t give out that kind of information, sir.”

  Her tone did not encourage him to continue the conversation. But Nico decided to insist. He took out his badge.

  “Let me
ask that question again,” he said, sounding annoyed.

  “Do you really think a doctor has any control over her hours? You’ve got some nerve. Dr. Dalry puts in long hours—that’s when she’s not on duty all night long.”

  Nico raised his hands, giving up, and left without saying another word.

  CAROLINE Dalry attended patient after patient. Her life was in this hospital. She was talented, but she still had to prove that she could hold down her position as professor of medicine at a mere thirty-six years of age. She worked tirelessly, earning the respect of many jealous greenhorns. She had graduated from high school at fifteen and had gotten used to playing in the big leagues early on.

  “Doctor? Caroline?” a voice called out in the hallway.

  She turned around. The on-duty nurse ran toward her.

  “Your patient. You know, that police chief. He wanted to know what time you finished work tonight. He even showed me his badge to drag the information out of me! Of course, I explained that we don’t have regular hours here. He left empty-handed. You were a hit, doctor,” the nurse said with a wink. She turned and walked away.

  Chief Sirsky. He is a bit of a looker, Caroline thought.

  ALL night. Professor Armelle Vilars had not gone home. What good would it do? While she was sewing the second victim back up, she made the wise decision to catch up on her paperwork. Files to read and sign were piling up on her desk. She got down to it until she heard the first employee footsteps in the coroner’s office. She looked up and rubbed her eyes. A colleague came into her office with a steaming cup of coffee.

  “This is for you, Madame la Directrice,” he said, setting the coffee in front of her.

  “That’s nice. Thank you, Eric. I really need it.”