The City of Blood

by Frédérique Molay

  “I don’t understand. Are we talking about an attacker who’s homophobic or an attacker who’s gay?” Kriven asked.

  “It’s not so clear-cut,” Dominique Kreiss replied.

  “Then explain it to us, please,” said Nico.

  “The number of homophobic attacks against young people has been high these past few years. We like to believe that society is more tolerant today, that mores have changed. But unfortunately, homophobia is ingrained and difficult to root out. Some people justify it on religious grounds. Some people are more clinical, if you will, about it and call homosexuality ‘deviant.’ Even people who claim they are tolerant and don’t have a problem with homosexuality often still say they don’t want to see it flaunted. Homophobia, therefore, is easy for many people to rationalize. They really see GLBT choices as something that’s wrong and feel superior to gays and lesbians. It’s interesting to note that studies have shown that homophobia correlates inversely with education and is more commonly a rural phenomenon than an urban one. It seems to be more pervasive among old people, especially older men. But the majority of homophobes who commit violent crimes against homosexuals appear to be young, violent, and socially adrift.”

  “So is it your opinion that the killer—or killers—is a homophobe who’s out to get gays, or should we be looking for someone else, perhaps a gay guy who’s just into killing other gays for whatever reason?” Kriven asked.

  “I’m thinking that a garden-variety homophobe who’s violent wouldn’t be prone to biting,” Kreiss said. “At the same time, a homophobic murderer who’s repressing his own gay sexual orientation could very well bite during the commission of his crime. And let’s remember, crimes of passion take place between gay lovers, just as they do between heterosexual couples. Biting could be involved in these instances, too. Biting signifies a release of tension. I’m sorry, Commander Kriven, at this point, I can’t really answer your question.”

  “At any rate, we’ll have to put out feelers in the gay community,” Jean-Marie Rost said. “We may find some leads in ACT UP, SOS Homophobia, or other groups.”

  “Two murders in two nights,” Claire Le Marec said. “Mathieu Leroy and Florian Bonnet.”

  “He’s in high gear,” Kreiss said.

  “It’s highly likely that our killer could attack again tonight,” Rost said.

  “We need to find out why these men were murdered,” Nico said. “And do their homicides have anything to do with Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s death? He had at least one gay encounter, and his fiancée discovered a bite on his shoulder, his left shoulder. I’ve confirmed it. The banquet was excavated, and his skeleton was found. Now young men of a similar age with similar physical characteristics are being attacked in the same area, most likely bitten on the left shoulder before being killed.”

  “You’ve got your work cut out for you. You could wind up falling on your ass,” Michel Cohen had told him right before the meeting. “Or you’ll pull it off, and I’ll award you one of my Havanas.” Fat chance it’ll ever get smoked, Nico said to himself.

  16

  Once again, Nico and Caroline stopped at the nurses’ station, where Anya’s caregiver for the evening was stationed behind a computer monitor.

  “Good evening, Chief Sirsky and Dr. Dalry,” she said. “How are you?”

  “We’re fine, but more important, how is Mrs. Sirsky?”

  “Her heart rate is still high, and her blood pressure is low. Same as last night. Her Glasgow reading is thirteen over fifteen, which is good.”

  Nico and Caroline thanked the nurse and went in to see Anya. Any semblance of calm started to crumble as soon as Nico laid eyes on her. She had the panicked look of a hunted-down animal. Nico wanted to yell and break the machines that sequestered his mother. But he smiled and rubbed her hand gently. Anya gripped it with all the strength she had left.

  Caroline and Dr. Fursac had reminded Nico that his mother’s reactions proved that her brain function hadn’t been damaged. The Glasgow reading underscored that opinion. And Dr. Fursac had told him that they might soon be able to extubate her and transfer her to a step-down unit. That was good news.

  “Try not to worry, Maman,” he said. “You’ve been sick, but you’re getting better. I have faith in you.”

  Anya seemed to cling to his words as though they were a lifeline.

  “You know what they’re telling me? That you’ve got an angel on your shoulder. Keep fighting, and soon we can free you of all this stuff. You deserve to have a room upstairs with a view.”

  His mother’s eyes shone with hope.

  “Stay strong, Maman. Okay?”

  She nodded imperceptibly. But Nico could still read fear in her eyes. She had a tube in her trachea that had to make her feel like she was suffocating. And she had been strapped down, because the nurses thought she might pull out her tube and IV line.

  Nico kissed her on her forehead. She closed her eyes, clearly exhausted and despondent.

  Caroline put her head on his shoulder. He breathed in her scent.

  “Let’s go back home,” she said.

  She led him outside, away from the world of suffering and anguish, away from the hospital. Nico needed to be back at his place, curled up with Caroline. To make love to her, to feel relieved of his cares, if only for a few moments.

  17

  Laurence Clavel, the general director of the Parc de la Villette, let Nico and Jacques Langier, the former minister of culture, meet in her office.

  “It’s a very sad thing,” the former minister said as he settled into the couch. “I consider Samuel Cassian a friend.”

  “You backed the project, right?” Nico asked.

  “Project is the word for it. Samuel presented his idea to the president and me, and we were both absolutely taken by it. The Nouveau Realisme movement was brilliant—Yves Klein, Arman, Daniel Spoerri, Jean Tinguely, César Baldaccini, Niki de Saint Phalle. None of them were lacking in humor or a willingness to provoke. When Samuel suggested the Parc de la Villette, we were all the more intrigued.”

  “Was there any opposition back then?”

  “Oh sure, there was a fuss. Planning the first archaeological excavations of modern art—people thought it was so avant-garde. But the idea fascinated us. It forced us to think about what would remain of our society, what people would remember, and what would have meaning to those who did the excavation thirty years after the burial.”

  “I’m guessing that not all of the cultural and scientific elite shared your enthusiasm.”

  “The conservatives were scathing, but they were very much a minority. Samuel was struggling with the issue of longevity. He wanted to know if his work would be recognized long after his celebrity had faded. Honestly, we all wonder if what we do will be remembered. We’re all looking for some kind of immortality, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I agree. Do you think any of the project’s critics went too far?”

  “Not really.”

  “Did anyone seem to be overly jealous?”

  “There’s always someone, but nobody comes to mind.”

  “Did you know Cassian’s son, Jean-Baptiste?”

  “Of course. He was a nice boy with plenty of talent. He disappeared, as you know. Samuel never really got over it.”

  “You weren’t there at the start of the dig, I’m told.”

  “No, I had a prior obligation that I couldn’t cancel. I promised Samuel that I would visit the site at a future date. Considering everything that’s happened there, I guess I won’t be doing that.”

  “I fear not. You should know that we’ve completed our preliminary investigation and have confirmed that the bones found in the pit belonged to a young man killed by a blow to the head thirty years ago.”

  Jacques Langier leaned forward.

  “Jean-Baptiste?”

  “It’s him. We’ve confirmed it.”

  “Oh no! Poor Samuel.”

  “You didn’t notice anything unusual during the banquet, did you? Any
thing about the father or the son?”

  “I congratulated Jean-Baptiste on his success in New York. I still remember the odd smile he gave me. He didn’t seem as happy as he usually was. He said that living was sometimes much messier than putting together an art show.”

  “Was he in some kind of trouble?”

  “I couldn’t tell you. To most people, he seemed like an easygoing young man with a promising future.”

  “Could his success have sparked some resentment from another artist?”

  “He was twenty-two. He hadn’t been on the scene all that long, certainly not long enough to make someone jealous enough to murder the boy!”

  “He was seated at his father’s right at the banquet, so he was, in essence, his father’s second-in-command.”

  “Samuel Cassian was symbolically burying his entire oeuvre. It seems perfectly understandable that he’d want his son by his side.”

  “But maybe not everybody felt that way.”

  “I didn’t hear anybody raise any objections at the lunch.”

  “Several pictures were taken to immortalize the event. Do you know who the photographer was? Was he perhaps a photographer from a newspaper or magazine?”

  “I did see a photographer, but I have no idea who he was. He was seated near Samuel Cassian during the meal. And then he was busy taking the photos.”

  Nico had gotten as much from the man as he was going to get, at least for the moment. He stood up and thanked the minister of culture.

  Langier also stood up. “Is it true that you’ve asked that the banquet be excavated in its entirety?” he asked.

  “There’s no way around it in a criminal investigation of this sort,” Nico said.

  “Well then, I’m sure you’ll be able to count on Samuel’s help. He’ll do everything in his power to see to it that his son’s grave is disinterred as respectfully as possible. He’d even be willing to sacrifice his work. Samuel is passionate about his artistic legacy, but his son’s memory is far more important.”

  Samuel Cassian’s heart and soul were now in that pit, where his son’s body had been discarded years before. Nico wondered if that kind of abyss, where a parent’s heart and soul sank after the loss of a child, could have a bottom. He was a father, and he never wanted to know the answer.

  Before leaving the Pavillon Janvier, Nico went to see the archivist. Her office smelled of fresh paint. The finish on the floor looked just-done.

  “Could you tell me who photographed Samuel Cassian’s banquet thirty years ago?”

  “I should have that information somewhere.”

  The archivist opened a drawer in her bookcase, took several folders out, selected one, and set it on a table.

  “Damien Forest, a photographer for Reuters news service,” she said.

  “Thank you. How long have you been working here?”

  “For quite some time now. I was hired to maintain the files during the park’s construction. My job was supposed to end when the park opened, but I wound up with a long-term contract. The reactions when I tell people that I work at La Villette haven’t changed since the day I was hired. They always say, ‘Oh, the abattoirs’ and then, ‘Oh right, the Cité des Sciences.’ I hope this incident won’t damage the park’s reputation. We’ve been trying to change the preconceptions for so long now.”

  Clearly, she was in love with the park she’d devoted so many years to.

  “If you want to understand the place, I recommend Georges Franju’s Blood of the Beasts. It’s a documentary he made in 1948. It’s weird, but honest and actually moving.”

  Nico made a mental note of it.

  It was one o’clock. He went through the revolving door of Au Boeuf Couronné, a temple to meat and a last reminder of La Villette’s famed artisans. It was a unique restaurant on the Avenue Jean-Jaurès, filled with the buzz typical of Parisian brasseries. Prim waiters made their way around the tables, their arms loaded with heavy plates, which they set down on white tablecloths.

  Kriven raised his arm. Nico headed toward the table set for four. Rost and Plassard had just sat down. It wasn’t often that they had the opportunity to eat together.

  “Have you ordered yet?”

  “We were waiting for you. You’re the boss!”

  The menu was a meat lover’s dream.

  “Should we get our own dishes or share?” Franck Plassard asked.

  According to the menu, the chateaubriand des bidochards and the grilled rib of beef were enough for two people.

  Clearly delighted, Kriven and Plassard looked through the selections and leaned together to discuss the various options.

  “Look at the two of you—nothing but food on your minds,” Nico said.

  “The pavé des mandataires cut from the fillet looks like my thing,” Kriven said.

  “Good choice,” Plassard chimed in.

  “Just a gentle kiss on the grill is enough,” Kriven said.

  “We’re in no position to be squeamish about blood,” Rost said. “Let’s order and be done with it.”

  “Yes, good idea,” Nico said.

  They settled on four Fort des Halles sirloin steaks, along with fluffy potatoes that the assistant headwaiter called absolutely extraordinary. And water, of course.

  “How have the interviews been going?” Nico asked, buttering a slice of bread.

  “No luck yet,” Rost said.

  “Jacques Langier told me that Jean-Baptiste Cassian didn’t seem to be himself on the day of the banquet,” Nico said, scooping up a forkful of potatoes. “Something was bothering him.”

  “None of the witnesses I spoke with said anything about that,” Plassard replied.

  “Let’s look into it. But that’s not what I’m most concerned about.”

  “Cassian cheating on his girlfriend?” Jean-Marie Rost asked. “Maybe Lara Krall wanted to get revenge.”

  “She would have needed help burying the body.”

  “Maybe Gregory Weissman was an accomplice?” the section chief suggested.

  “They met each other much later. We’ll need to verify that, of course. But I can’t imagine her killing him with a hammer. And she seemed devastated by the news.”

  “Another thing: a photographer from Reuters was at the banquet. Somebody named Damien Forest. Bring him in.”

  “No problem,” said Rost.

  “Did you find anything from the names Samuel Cassian and Lara Krall gave us?”

  Kriven cleared his throat. “They match, first of all. We found the couple’s friends. Michel Géko is on Stiff Alley: a fatal car accident five years after Jean-Baptiste’s disappearance. Jérôme Dufour has an art gallery in Lyon. Laurent Mercier is a landscape painter in Vincennes.”

  The waiter brought them their orders.

  “Nathan Sellière works in antiques, and Daniel Vion is a draftsman.”

  Kriven cut into his steak and wolfed down a hunk with relish.

  “Camille Frot is now Mrs. Mercier, all settled down. Sophie Bayle is a jewelry designer. She’s done well for herself; her brand’s pretty famous.”

  “Sophie Bayle’s divorced. Dufour and the Merciers are married with children. Only Nathan Sellière and Daniel Vion are single, and we don’t know their sexual orientation.”

  “Let’s not be hasty,” Nico said. “Marital status doesn’t necessarily correlate with sexual orientation. We all know that. Further, we haven’t determined that it’s even a key factor. We need to remember what Dominique Kreiss told us.”

  “Should we call them in?” Kriven asked.

  “Yes, give them the third degree, and see what happens. Jean-Baptiste was murdered, and I’m fairly certain he knew his murderer. His burial in the Parc de la Villette hardly seems like a coincidence.”

  “If it’s Géko, we’re too late,” Plassard said.

  “But in that case, Mathieu Leroy and Florian Bonnet wouldn’t have been murdered,” Nico pointed out.

  “Maybe the murders aren’t connected,” Rost ventured.

 
; Nico wondered if he was grasping at straws. Was he putting too much faith in his instincts? “We shouldn’t rule out any possibilities, even if they’re not concrete. But for now, let’s put together as much information as we can on this group of friends. That’s something to go on. And I want to find out who took those pictures of him.”

  They had finished their steaks and were scraping their plates.

  “Cheese or dessert, gentlemen?” the waiter asked.

  “Just a round of espresso for everyone,” Nico said.

  Nico walked back to his car at the Pavillon Janvier. He started driving, thinking about all the things that had happened in the past five days. He felt queasy. He had already lost his father. He wanted more time with Anya.

  Then he looked around, astonished. He’d driven into the nineteenth arrondissement and was on the Rue de Crimée, by the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont.

  His childhood. Saint Serge Russian Orthodox Church, 93 Rue de Crimée. He had attended weekly services with Tanya and their mother. Nico parked in front of a hair and nail salon and a restaurant called La Maison d’Arganier. The Franprix grocery store was still where it had always been. Its window display looked unchanged.

  A rusty gate at number 93 didn’t inspire much confidence. Was the church still open? His heart beating, Nico slipped into an uninviting alley. He couldn’t stop thinking of his younger self trotting ahead as his mother held Tanya’s hand and scolded him to stay with them.

  At the end of the alley, where the trash cans stood, a pinkish house was surrounded by taller buildings. A boat adrift in a harbor filled with ocean liners. As he got closer, Nico felt a long-forgotten sensation—of entering a different time and place, of being transported to a peaceful haven thousands of miles from Paris and everyday life.

  To the left of the house, a stone path zigzagged up a hill. Nico walked past a garage turned into a bookstore and a crumbling mansion. Higher up was a sort of bunker: the Saint Serge Institute of Theology, founded in 1925, the only Russian Orthodox school of higher education in the city. Through the open windows, he could hear someone reciting a litany in a low voice. Nico shivered as he walked slowly, afraid of being discovered. Then he looked at the top of the hill.