The 7th Woman

by Frédérique Molay

  “I suppose you spent the night here. Did you find anything interesting?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on. Everyone knows that the serial killer’s second victim was brought in last night. So?”

  “I’ve nicknamed him the Paris Flogger. He gives thirty lashes, not one more, not one less. Then he stabs them. Cute, isn’t it? He knows the techniques we use very well and, as a result, is incredibly careful.”

  “But the brilliant Professor Vilars and valiant Chief Sirsky will unmask him, won’t they?”

  “Don’t be sarcastic with me, Dr. Fiori.”

  He winked at her and left. He was by nature cheeky, and on occasion she had to put him in his place. Some colleagues found that insolence in him attractive, but he didn’t have the appeal of Chief Sirsky. Nico was of an entirely different caliber, but he wasn’t available for any of them. He was looking for the ideal woman, the one he would fall madly in love with at first sight. In reality, he was a romantic, even if he wasn’t entirely aware of it. She hoped that he would find his perfect match before it was too late. Because “too late” always happened sometime, as the corpses that piled up reminded her every day.

  NINE thirty a.m. Cohen was facing him, a large cigar between his lips. Deputy Chief Rost, Commanders Kriven and Théron and the psychologist Dominique Kreiss had taken spots around the table.

  “Let’s get straight to the point,” said Cohen. “He’s going to go at it again this afternoon. We are looking for a serial killer. Nobody goes home until we catch him. I hope you have some serious leads to follow.”

  “The rope and the sailor’s knot,” Nico said. “There’s something there. The two victims were pregnant, which isn’t a coincidence, either. We need to work on these two leads. We’ll know tomorrow if there’s anything we can learn from the lock of hair.”

  “And what about prevention?” Cohen continued. “Anyone have any ideas?”

  Nico let out a loud sigh. “A press conference?”

  “What would we say?” his superior officer asked. “That no well-off brunettes around the age of thirty and pregnant should open the door to anyone?”

  “And why not?” Dominique said.

  “We need to get that message out,” Rost said. “So why not go to the media? In any case, there will be leaks in the next few hours. We won’t be able to keep the reporters at bay for long. We might as well take the initiative and try to avoid the worst.”

  “The worst will happen, press conference or no press conference,” Cohen shot back. “Don’t delude yourselves. But I agree. Nico?”

  “Yes?”

  “The commissioner wants to see us at the end of the morning. The prefect and the state prosecutor will be there. We’ll decide then whether to organize a press conference. In the meantime, outdo yourselves. I want hopeful news in the coming hours. Show me you are worthy of the brigade criminelle.”

  THERE was no doubt about it. He was suffering withdrawal. He needed to kill; the pleasure was so brief, he had to start over again, to attack another woman to fill the emptiness. Beating her until the blood rose, taking in her tears. It was only when he returned home, after winning by default, that he allowed himself pleasure. He was no idiot, and there was no way he would spread his DNA on the scene. He held back.

  The next victim appeared a few yards in front of him. She was beautiful, with long brown hair, thin the way he liked them, the face of someone who was fulfilled, a smile on her lips and determination in her step. He would bring her down as low as you could go. She would feel so much pain she would go insane. And she would have no answer to the question they all had to ask: “Why me?”

  TONIGHT, her husband would be home late. An exhausting two-day business trip would certainly have left him drained. She decided to prepare a little surprise to relax him. She knew what to do and planned a light dinner, a good wine and some fancy lingerie. The works. And she had some great news to announce. It would make him deliriously happy. He’d been dreaming about it since they met.

  9

  Realities

  THE POLICE COMMISSIONER WAS a woman. Nicole Monthalet was fifty-five years old, five feet six inches tall and had short blond hair and dark eyes. She wore a tailored light gray suit. Two discreet pearl earrings highlighted her femininity. Only a wedding ring adorned her hand. Her movements had a natural authority, as did her voice. One had to admit that she was imposing. Rising through the ranks of the police was not easy, and being a woman certainly made that exercise more difficult. She certainly deserved her position and knew the workings and the pitfalls well—the violence in the field, the detective work, the command and the administrative responsibility—having made her way through them successfully. Nico had little direct contact with her, but every time they met, he left feeling confident and enthusiastic.

  He smiled to himself at the thought. During the few years he had lived with Sylvie, she had often talked about the feminine side of his personality. She said she didn’t know of any other man as attuned to women as he was. He was sensitive to the aspirations and challenges women faced in a macho world. Sylvie even swore that he had a sixth sense for understanding women. That made her excessively jealous.

  How could you not appreciate Nicole Monthalet? Nico had clearly seen the resentment some of his colleagues had for the “commissioneress”—the envious expression they sometimes used, as if no woman had the ability to hold down this position. He presumed that she had fought hard to succeed and avoid the traps set by those idiots. That made him respect her even more, and he was proud to work under her.

  The prefect and the state prosecutor joined Nico and Rost in Nicole Monthalet’s office. They were well dressed and had the self-assurance of people who had done well in their careers. A third man was with them. Nico recognized Alexandre Becker, the magistrate who had just been appointed to investigate the case. From now on, they would have to consult with him. Nico had worked with Becker before but didn’t have an opinion of the man.

  Nicole Monthalet took the lead with the men, all of whom were used to giving orders themselves. She opened the file that Michel Cohen had given her a few minutes earlier. Pictures of the two victims were spread across the first page, right up front, and Nico took note of that real lack of tact. Not that Madame Monthalet reacted, but Nico was certain that this was one of those tests she faced on a regular basis, a message so that she would understand that nobody would wear kid gloves with her just because she was a woman. Nico held it against Cohen for letting that slip through, but then again, he might have been the one behind it.

  “Messieurs, we are here to review a criminal case of an exceptional nature and to make sure that the investigation is going in the right direction. Clearly, there is a serial killer wreaking terror in Paris, and his targets have the same profile.”

  With an abrupt gesture that was almost angry, she put the pictures in the middle of the table so that everyone could study them.

  “The murderer acts in the beginning of the afternoon,” she said. “He is between twenty-five and forty years old, Caucasian, left-handed, knows about sailing knots and can sew a perfect skin suture. He is sociopathic, methodical and organized. The number thirty has a special meaning for him, and that is how many times he whips each of his victims. He has a problem with his mother, so he amputates his victims’ breasts. In addition, he stabs them in the abdomen. He’s thumbing his nose at us, as evidenced by the message he left for us at Chloé Bartes’ home. We think that he will commit a crime each day until Sunday. If I am to believe our detectives, a young women will die this very afternoon, tortured and stabbed.”

  “How many men are on the case?” asked the prefect, Mrs. Monthalet’s direct superior.

  “Two squads from the brigade criminelle, which makes twelve officers led by their section head, Deputy Chief Rost, and by Chief Sirsky, who are with us here,” she answered. “Our psychologist is providing her insight. That is enough. Our other teams are busy elsewhere.”

  “And th
e criminal is totally unknown to the police?” the state prosecutor asked.

  Nicole Monthalet shot him a smile full of disdain.

  “We have fingerprint and DNA databases, but we would need to have the criminal’s in order to run them. And it’s about time that all the information about homicides in our country be in the same database. It would be a great help to our police officers.”

  “We know how interested you are in advancing the SALVAC project,” the prefect said. “The interior minister was attentive to your input and has committed to moving forward with it. He is even talking about creating a special police unit.”

  Nicole Monthalet nodded in both agreement and impatience.

  “But that is not why we are here right now,” she said. “Mr. Sirsky, give us an overview of your investigation.”

  “Since this morning, we have been visiting all the shops in Paris that specialize in nautical equipment. We are also trying to find out more about how these victims, both of whom were pregnant, are related. We are waiting for the DNA analysis of the lock of hair the murderer left for us and the blood he wrote with. These leads are far from insignificant, and we are doing everything we can to follow them up.”

  “In the end, we don’t have any other solution than to wait for a new murder to be committed,” Judge Becker said.

  “We are informing all the precincts in the capital so that our officers in the field can step up their vigilance,” Nico said.

  “Mr. Cohen suggested that we hold a press conference,” Nicole Monthalet said. “Reporters are going to run with the murders in the next few hours. It is perhaps in our best interest to take the first step and issue a warning.”

  “Who will do it?” the prefect asked.

  The question implied that they were all in agreement, but he would not be the one to take the initiative. The case was getting bigger, and it would serve to have a fall guy if any complications arose.

  “Cohen will handle it,” the commissioner decided.

  “Good,” said the prefect. “Judge Becker will work with your office, Madame. I’ll go alert the interior minister immediately.”

  THE phone rang right after Nico returned to his office. He saw that it was his sister, Tanya. He hesitated to answer, because he had more urgent things to do, but in the end, he picked up the phone.

  “So, your endoscopy?” she asked.

  “I have a three-month treatment for a little inflammation. It’s benign and nothing to worry about.”

  “Perfect. I’m glad to hear that. But be careful anyway. So, tell me, I’m also calling about that dinner invitation.”

  “I really don’t have the time this week,” he cut in. “I have a tough investigation on my hands, and I have to work night and day.”

  “Even if Dr. Caroline Dalry is with us?”

  Nico went speechless. How could that be?

  “Well, don’t you have anything to say? It’s tonight at our place, between eight-thirty and nine. And Alexis wants to see you. It’s important, but he didn’t want to tell me what it was about.”

  A dinner with Caroline Dalry was tempting, even in the current situation.

  “OK. I’ll do my best,” he said.

  “I knew it! You’ve taken a fancy to the beautiful Caroline.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Could you finally be in love?”

  “Don’t fast forward things, Tanya. And don’t let it slip out.”

  “He admits it! I also heard a little tremor in her voice when I mentioned that you would be the fourth guest. Great! See you tonight, big brother.”

  Nico gave a loud sigh. His sister read him like an open book, and that wasn’t always very comfortable. But he didn’t have any time to think about it; there was an email from the Nantes University Hospital waiting on his computer. Paul Terrade was the father of Marie-Hélène Jory’s child, according to the paternity test. Human cells have forty-six chromosomes arranged in pairs, each pair containing chains of DNA. A child gets twenty-three chromosomes from each parent, which makes it possible to prove if two people are related. All you have to do is compare their respective genetic material. But this result was not surprising. The mystery would not be solved in the victims’ inner circle. It was far more complex and perverse.

  FLORENCE was feeling mischievous. She carried a dark package with a bright blue ribbon around it. It contained a pale green silk chemise that matched the color of her eyes. She even dared to buy herself a matching thong. She was sure they would have an effect on her husband. He liked fancy lingerie. That would be enough to get him to forget the fatigue of the last few days of work. He would let go of his tension in her arms, because she knew what he needed. She had bought his favorite wine, a Sainte-Croix-du-Mont, which they would sip with foie gras canapés in the candlelight. The atmosphere would be romantic.

  She approached their home on the Place des Petits Pères. There was a plaque on the freestone façade. She knew the contents by heart: “From 1941 to 1944, this building held the Office for Jewish Affairs, an instrument of the Vichy government’s anti-Semitic policies. This plaque is dedicated to the memory of the French Jewish victims of this policy.” She was Jewish, and living in this very spot felt like a triumph in a way she couldn’t exactly explain. She typed the code to enter the building. Their apartment was on the fifth floor and had a nice terrace. She never tired of admiring the Notre Dame des Victoires Church from it. She set down her shopping bags and put the white wine in the refrigerator to chill. She had plenty of time to pamper herself with a hot bath. She would do her legs, her makeup and her nails. She would be perfect.

  THE doorbell pulled her out of her daydreaming. The man who rang liked this little square in the second arrondissement, particularly the façade of the basilica devoted to the Virgin Mary and its six-foot-high stone cross taking pride of place above it. This was the center of Paris, no more than a few yards from the Place des Victoires and the statue of King Louis XIV on his horse. He was going to find himself face-to-face with his victim, despite the activity in the neighborhood. He could take his time, and nobody would be worried. A shiver of pleasure ran up his spine at the thought of what was to come. Then unsparing hatred came back. It came from deep inside his soul. A glacial feeling overcame him, as it did every time. He imagined the expression of terror, the suffering and mutilation and then death that would come as deliverance. In the end, there would be the staging of the scene in the strange silence that followed the torment and the feeling of satisfaction from accomplishing a job with self-control and precision. She was going to answer the doorbell. There was a shadow behind the spyhole. The sound of the lock. A pretty brunette greeted him with a wide smile. Her last.

  NICO worked nonstop, getting minute-to-minute progress reports from his troops. Twelve men in the field, led by Deputy Chief Rost, were visiting every shop that sold boating equipment and rummaging into the lives of the Jory and Bartes women. They both were pregnant, and that was probably part of the pattern. The criminal therefore had access to this information. But the two women had different gynecologists and had not gone to the same lab for the compulsory beginning-of-pregnancy blood tests. Clearly, their respective lives did not cross anywhere. However, the two were compatible with the murderer’s fantasies. Nico had to step into the killer’s shoes. What senseless need was he trying to fulfill? The man did not become an assassin in a day. His personality developed over time from childhood. He certainly had experienced psychological or physical torture. This appetite for killing, this desire for cruelty, this constant dissatisfaction would end only on the day he was arrested and locked up. To find a motive, Nico needed to understand how that mind worked.

  Nico had to abandon his painstaking work for the press conference. Michel Cohen wanted him there. Reporters from the papers and radio and television stations were gathered. The news would spread to all of France quickly. Cohen briefly presented the facts, without too much detail, choosing his words carefully to avoid causing panic. He delivered a sp
ecific message for women in their thirties who resembled the two victims in any way. When he finished, the questions shot out. Nico answered them, and a few interviews were organized on the side, mostly for radio reporters needing sound bites away from the general hubbub. Nico and Cohen complied, remaining calm and professional. They wanted the press on their side; it would be key to what followed.

  HE was experiencing intense pleasure, akin to orgasm. He admired the scene for another minute, standing a few yards from the lifeless body. He would leave the building and return home. He would have sex with his wife. He needed to relieve the tension. His desire would drive her crazy with pleasure, as it did every time. She would think it was love. But he didn’t care about her love. She was nothing but an object he used to relieve his urges, and that was the only reason she survived. And while he was caressing her, he would think about his last victim, about every minute spent in her presence, about the cruelty he inflicted. One day, perhaps, he would also get rid of his spouse.

  NONE of the precincts had called. There was no third murder. Their watches showed eight p.m., and the men looked tired. They had all prepared for the discovery of another body and the hard work that would follow. But nothing. Dead calm. The investigation advanced slowly, and the lack of evidence made it difficult. Could the murderer have folded his hand? Nobody believed that; it showed on their faces. So what was happening? Had the criminal experienced a setback that day? Nico tried to imagine the situation: an unplanned meeting added to the murderer’s schedule, his feverishness in not being able to let out his sadistic urges. In the meantime, Nico decided that he could spend some time at his sister’s place. In any case, he needed a change of pace. What he wanted most of all was to be near Caroline Dalry.

  It was nearly nine when he got there. He immediately noticed that his usually calm brother-in-law looked distraught. He had barely stepped through the door when Alexis told him that he needed to talk to him about something urgent. Nico nodded, but the only thing he cared about was seeing Caroline, the rest could wait. Tanya hurried to him, with the amused look of an accomplice. She was beautiful. Her looks resembled Nico’s. She never failed to grab men’s attention with her long blond hair and magnificent blue eyes. When they were younger, he had often intervened when certain boys gave her too much attention. He had learned a lot from this masculine attitude toward women, an attitude he forbade himself, despite his unquestionable power of seduction. Tanya kissed him affectionately on both cheeks and prodded him on with a smile.