The Frozen Dead

by Bernard Minier

  Everyone turned to look at him.

  ‘Hirtmann never went up to the top of the cable car. Someone else did. Someone who is in contact with him at the Institute and who, voluntarily or not, had a hair belonging to Hirtmann on him.’

  Ziegler turned to Servaz with a questioning look. She understood that he hadn’t told his assistant everything.

  ‘Except that it wasn’t a hair they found in the cable-car cabin,’ she said, ‘it was saliva.’

  Espérandieu looked at her. Then he trained his gaze in turn at Servaz, who nodded his head apologetically.

  ‘I don’t see the logic in any of this,’ said Servaz. ‘Why would they kill the horse first and then the man? Why hang the animal up at the top of the cable car? And the man below a bridge? What is the point?’

  ‘Both of them were hanged, after a fashion,’ said Ziegler.

  Servaz looked at her.

  ‘That’s true.’

  He went over to the whiteboard, wiped out some of his notes and wrote:

  HORSE

  GRIMM

  hanging from cable car

  hanging from metal bridge

  isolated place

  isolated place

  cut up

  naked

  decapitated

  strangled, finger cut off, boots, cape

  killed at night?

  killed at night?

  Hirtmann’s DNA

  Hirtmann’s DNA?

  ‘Fair enough. Why take it out on an animal?’

  ‘To get at Éric Lombard,’ said Ziegler once again. ‘The power plant and the horse lead to him.’

  ‘OK. Let’s suppose Lombard was the target. What does the chemist have to do with anything? Moreover, the horse was decapitated and half flayed, whereas the chemist was naked except for a cape. What’s the connection between the two?’

  ‘Partly skinning an animal is a way of making it naked,’ ventured Espérandieu.

  ‘And the horse had two large pieces of skin hanging on either side,’ said Ziegler. ‘We thought they were meant to represent wings – but maybe they were the imitation of a cape…’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Servaz, not fully convinced. ‘But why chop off its head? And why the cape and the boots: what do they stand for?’

  No one had an answer.

  He went on: ‘And we always come up against the same puzzle: what could Hirtmann have to do with all this?’

  ‘He’s setting you a challenge!’ called a voice from the doorway.

  They turned round. A man was standing at the entrance to the room.

  Servaz’s first thought was that he must be a journalist, and was about to throw him out. The man was in his forties, with long light brown hair, a curly beard and little round glasses, which he removed in order to wipe off the mist that had formed when he came into the warmth from the cold, then put back on to gaze at everyone with his pale eyes. He was wearing a heavy jumper and thick corduroy trousers. He looked like a teacher of social sciences, or a union activist, or someone who was nostalgic for the 1960s.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Servaz curtly.

  ‘Are you the person in charge of the investigation?’

  The visitor came closer.

  ‘Simon Propp. I’m the psychologist. I was supposed to come tomorrow, but the gendarmerie called me and told me what happened. So here I am.’

  He went round the table and shook everyone’s hand. Then he stopped to look at the empty chairs. He chose one on Servaz’s left. Servaz was sure he chose it for a particular reason and felt vaguely irritated, as if he were trying to manipulate him.

  Simon Propp looked at the whiteboard.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’ Servaz’s tone was involuntarily sarcastic. ‘What sort of thoughts does it inspire in you?’

  ‘I’d rather you went on as if I wasn’t here, if you don’t mind,’ answered the shrink. ‘I’m sorry I interrupted. I’m not here to judge your work methods.’ Servaz watched him flap his hand. ‘And besides, it’s not something I could do. I’m only here to assist you when the time comes to discuss Julian Hirtmann’s personality, or when you need to draw up a clinical profile on the basis of the clues found at the crime scene.’

  ‘You said when you came in that he’s setting us a challenge?’ said Servaz.

  He saw the shrink narrow his little yellow eyes behind his glasses. Beneath his shining beard, which made him look like a clever leprechaun, he had round cheeks, ruddy with the cold. Servaz got the unpleasant sensation he was being mentally dissected. He nevertheless held the newcomer’s gaze.

  ‘Right,’ said Propp. ‘I did my homework yesterday. I studied Hirtmann’s file when I heard his DNA had been found in the cable car cabin. It’s obvious he’s a manipulator, a sociopath and a very smart man. But it goes further than that: Hirtmann is a special case even as far as organised killers go. Sooner or later the personality disorders they suffer from are bound to affect their intellectual faculties and their social life, one way or the other. And sooner or later the people around them will become aware of their monstrous nature. That is why they often need an accomplice, generally a wife who is as much of a monster as they are, to help them maintain their façade. But Hirtmann, when he was at liberty, managed perfectly to disconnect the part of himself that was prey to rage and madness from his social life. He was an expert at putting others off the scent. Other sociopaths have managed to do something similar before him, but none of them were in a profession as prominent as his.’

  Propp stood up and slowly began to circle the table. With increasing irritation, Servaz surmised that this must be one of the shrink’s conjuring tricks.

  ‘He is suspected of the murder of over forty young women in twenty-five years. Forty murders and not the slightest clue, not a single lead to connect them with the perpetrator! If it weren’t for the newspaper cuttings and files that were found at his home and in his safe deposit box, the crimes would never have been traced to him.’

  He stopped behind Servaz, who refused to turn his head, and merely looked at Irène Ziegler on the other side of the table.

  ‘And suddenly, he leaves a trace – an obvious, vulgar, ordinary trace.’

  ‘You’re forgetting one detail,’ said Ziegler.

  Propp sat back down.

  ‘At the time he committed most of his crimes, DNA analysis either did not yet exist or was far less conclusive than it is today.’

  ‘That’s true, but—’

  ‘So you’re thinking that what we have today doesn’t look anything like the Hirtmann we know, is that it?’ said Ziegler, staring right into the shrink’s eyes.

  Propp blinked and nodded his head.

  ‘So, in your opinion, despite his DNA, he did not kill the horse?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Don’t forget he’s been locked up for several years. His circumstances have changed. Hirtmann has been in prison for a long time and he’s dying of boredom. He’s slowly wasting away – and this is a man who used to be incredibly active. He wants to play. Think about it: until he got caught for that stupid crime of passion, he had an intense, stimulating, demanding social life. He was held in high professional regard. He had a beautiful wife, and the orgies he hosted were attended by the cream of Geneva high society. At the same time he was kidnapping, torturing, raping and killing young women in the utmost secrecy. In other words, for a monster like him, a dream life. He certainly did not want it to end. Which is why he was so careful to ensure his victims disappeared.’

  Propp joined his fingers beneath his chin.

  ‘Nowadays he has no reason to hide. On the contrary: he wants people to know it’s him; he wants to be talked about, attract attention.’

  ‘But he could have escaped outright and started up again in complete liberty,’ objected Servaz. ‘Why would he go back to his cell? It doesn’t make sense.’

  Propp scratched his beard.

&nb
sp; ‘I confess that is the question that has been nagging me, too, since yesterday. Why would he go back to the Institute? With the obvious chance that he couldn’t get out again if security was tightened. Why run such a risk? What would be the point? You’re right: it doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Unless we suppose that to him the game is more exciting than his freedom,’ said Ziegler. ‘Or that he is certain of being able to get out again.’

  ‘How could that be?’ said Espérandieu, astonished.

  ‘I thought it was impossible for Hirtmann to have committed the second murder,’ insisted Servaz. ‘Given the extent of the police security. That’s what we just agreed, isn’t it?’

  The shrink looked at them one after the other, still thoughtfully stroking his beard. Behind his glasses his yellow eyes looked like two overripe grapes.

  ‘I think you are grossly underestimating this man,’ he said. ‘I think you absolutely do not realise what you are dealing with.’

  ‘The watchmen,’ said Cathy d’Humières suddenly. ‘What’s the latest on them?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Servaz. ‘I don’t think they’re guilty. In spite of the fact they ran away. It’s too subtle for them. Up to now they’ve never shown themselves to be capable of anything but the kind of violence that’s too ordinary for words. A painter and decorator doesn’t turn into Michelangelo overnight. The swabs we took will tell us whether they were present at the crime scene or not, but I don’t think so. But they are hiding something, that’s obvious.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Propp. ‘I had a look at the interview transcripts. They just don’t have the profile. But I’ll check all the same to see whether they have any psychiatric history. Petty delinquents have been known to turn overnight into monsters of unbelievable cruelty. The human spirit can conceal a great many mysteries. Let’s not rule anything out.’

  Servaz shook his head with a frown.

  ‘Then there’s the poker game last night. Let’s try and determine whether there was a quarrel. Maybe Grimm had debts…’

  ‘There is another issue we have to settle quickly,’ said the prosecutor. ‘Before, all we had was a dead horse, which meant we could take our time. Now we’ve got a human victim. And it won’t take long for the media to make the connection with the Institute. If, perish the thought, the news gets out about finding Hirtmann’s DNA, they’ll be all over us. Have you seen the number of journalists outside? The two essential questions are these: were the security measures at the Wargnier Institute at fault in any way? Are our roadblocks and cordons enough? The sooner we have answers, the better. I suggest we go and visit the Institute right now.’

  ‘But if we do that,’ objected Ziegler, ‘those journalists camped outside could easily tail us. There’s surely no point in luring them over there.’

  The prosecutor paused for a moment to think.

  ‘True, we’ll have to put off the visit until tomorrow. In the meantime I’ll organise a press conference to distract the journalists’ attention. Martin, what is your take on things?’

  ‘Captain Ziegler, Dr Propp and I will go to the Institute first thing tomorrow while you give your press conference, and Lieutenant Espérandieu will attend the autopsy. Today we can interview the chemist’s widow.’

  ‘Fine, let’s do that. But let’s not lose sight of our two priorities: a) to find out whether Hirtmann could have got out of the Institute, and b) find the connection between the two crimes.’

  * * *

  ‘There’s one angle of attack we didn’t consider,’ declared Simon Propp once they had left the meeting.

  ‘And what is that?’ asked Servaz.

  They were in the little car park at the rear of the building, out of sight of the media. Servaz aimed his remote-control key at the car, which a mechanic had dropped off after replacing the tyres. A few snowflakes were fluttering in the cold air, and the sky above was a relentless grey: it would start snowing again soon.

  ‘Pride,’ answered the shrink. ‘Someone in this valley is playing God. He thinks he’s above mankind, above the law, and he’s manipulating us poor mortals. That takes boundless pride. And one way or another an ego like that will show on the person who has it – unless he hides it beneath extreme false modesty.’

  Servaz stopped short and looked at Propp.

  ‘That’s a description that fits Hirtmann,’ he said. ‘Apart from the false modesty.’

  ‘And plenty of other people as well,’ Propp corrected him. ‘Pride is not hard to come by, believe me, Commandant.’

  * * *

  The chemist’s house was the last one on the street. A street which, in fact, was more like a track barely wide enough for vehicles. When he saw the house, Servaz was reminded of Sweden or Finland, a Scandinavian sort of place: it was covered in faded blue shingles, with a large wooden terrace that took up part of the first floor beneath the roof. Birch and beech trees grew all around.

  Servaz and Ziegler got out of the car. On the other side of the track, warmly wrapped children were making a snowman. Servaz pulled up his collar and watched them scraping the last layer of snow from the grass. In a sign of the times, they had armed their creation with a plastic gun. For a brief moment Servaz was glad to see, in spite of the warlike pose they’d given their snowman, that children could still enjoy simple pleasures, instead of staying cloistered in their bedrooms, glued to their computers and game consoles.

  Then his blood froze. A little boy had just gone over to one of the large dustbins along the street. Servaz saw him stand on tiptoes to open it. Before the eyes of the astounded policeman, the boy plunged his arm inside and pulled out a dead cat. He took hold of the little corpse by the scruff of its neck, crossed the snowy ground and dropped his trophy two metres from the snowman.

  The scene was amazingly true to life: it looked exactly as if the snowman had just shot the cat.

  ‘Dear Lord,’ said Servaz, petrified.

  ‘According to child psychiatrists,’ said Irène Ziegler next to him, ‘it has nothing to do with the influence of television and the media. They know what’s real and what isn’t.’

  ‘Well, sure,’ said Servaz. ‘I used to play Tarzan when I was a kid, but I never believed for a moment I could really confront a gorilla or swing from tree to tree.’

  ‘And yet they’re bombarded with violent games and images and ideas from early childhood.’

  ‘All we can hope is that the psychiatrists are right,’ he said with a sad irony in his tone.

  ‘Why do I suspect that they aren’t?’

  ‘Because you’re a cop.’

  A woman was waiting for them in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. Narrowing her eyes behind the ribbon of smoke, she watched them walk towards her. Although the gendarmerie had informed her only three hours earlier of her husband’s murder, she did not seem terribly upset.

  ‘Hello, Nadine,’ said Chaperon. Captain Ziegler had asked him to come along. Now he said, ‘Please accept my sincere condolences. You know how fond I was of Gilles … This is terrible … what has happened…’

  The mayor’s words were halting; he was still having trouble talking about it. The woman gave him a half-hearted kiss, but when he went to put his arms around her, she held him firmly at a distance, directing her attention to the newcomers. She was in her fifties, tall and lean, with a long horsy face and grey hair. Servaz also offered his condolences. The handshake he received in return was surprisingly strong. He immediately felt the hostility in the air. What had Chaperon told them? That she worked in charity.

  ‘The police would like to ask you a few questions,’ continued the mayor. ‘They promised me they’d ask you only the most urgent ones and keep the others for later. May we come in?’

  Without a word, the woman turned on her heels and led them inside. Servaz saw that the house was entirely made of wood. There was a tiny hall, with a shaded lamp on a shelf on the right, next to a stuffed fox with a crow in its mouth. It made Servaz think of a hunting lodge. There was also a coat rack, but N
adine Grimm did not offer to take their coats. She disappeared up a steep staircase that led to the first-floor terrace. Still not making the slightest sound, she pointed to a wicker sofa full of worn cushions that faced out onto the fields and forests. She herself collapsed into a rocking chair near the railing and pulled a blanket over her lap.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Servaz. ‘My first question,’ he added after a moment of hesitation, ‘is, do you have any idea who could have killed your husband?’

  Nadine Grimm breathed out smoke and looked deep into Servaz’s eyes. Her nostrils quivered as if she had just smelled something unpleasant.

  ‘No. My husband was a chemist, not a gangster.’

  ‘Had he ever received any strange or threatening phone calls?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Visits from drug addicts at the pharmacy? Was he ever burgled?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he distribute methadone?’

  The look she gave them was one of impatience mixed with exasperation.

  ‘Do you have many more questions like this? My husband had nothing to do with drug addicts, he had no enemies, and he wasn’t mixed up in any shady business. He was just an imbecile and a drunk.’

  Chaperon went pale. Ziegler and Servaz exchanged a glance.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She looked at them, her disgust even more apparent.

  ‘Nothing, just what I said. What has happened is revolting. I don’t know who could have done such a thing. Even less, why. I can only see one explanation: one of those crazies locked away up there managed to escape. You’d do better doing something about that, rather than wasting your time here,’ she added bitterly. ‘But if you were expecting to find a weeping widow, you could have spared yourself the trouble. My husband did not like me very much, and I didn’t like him either. I had nothing but scorn for him. For a long time, our marriage has been nothing than a sort of … modus vivendi. But I didn’t kill him for all that.’