The City of Blood

by Frédérique Molay

  So he was arrogant.

  “Do you remember who these people were?” Kriven asked.

  Kriven would do all the talking. Nico would watch. Vion had been quick to act surprised by the photos. He knew he was being sized up, and his annoyance and anxiety would intensify. It was also very warm in this room, under the zinc shingles, and the bars on the windows accentuated the jail-like feeling of the space.

  “There’s Sophie.”

  “Sophie who?”

  “Bayle, I think. And here’s Camille Frot. She married Laurent, who’s over here in this photo. These people are Mr. and Mrs. Mercier. Hmm. Oh, Nathan! That’s him. Nathan Sellière. They hung out with him. They used to go to his place all the time.”

  It looked like an act to Nico. He was sure the man knew he wasn’t at some children’s show.

  “Lara Krall, the happiest one,” Vion said. “She was engaged to Jean-Baptiste Cassian. And there’s Jérôme Dufour. If I remember correctly, he’s living in Lyon now. He owns a gallery. Michel, though, died in a car accident. Such a shame. Michel Géko, right there. Géko.”

  Kriven slowly set the portraits of Jean-Baptiste Cassian on the table, one after another.

  “Good memories,” Kriven said in a perfect imitation. “Are these yours?”

  Daniel Vion frowned and shook his head.

  “I do group photos and trips. That’s what I’m good at. I don’t do portraits. The person who took these photos is more talented than I am.”

  “Damien Forest, does that name mean anything to you?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s a photographer,” Kriven said.

  “Did he take these pictures?” Vion asked.

  “If it wasn’t you…”

  “You should ask Lara. She’d know better than I would.”

  “You went to the École des Beaux-Arts with her and Jean-Baptiste, didn’t you? Were you good friends?”

  “We spent a few wonderful years there.”

  “Then you went your separate ways.”

  “Jean-Baptiste’s disappearance split us up. Lara had a hard time with it and became pretty isolated. And we each had our own paths to follow. You know how that is. Life.”

  “But you’ve stayed in touch. Otherwise you wouldn’t have known about Géko’s death, or the Merciers’ marriage, or Jérôme Dufour’s work in Lyon.”

  “That’s true. I went to Camille and Laurent’s wedding. We call each other once or twice a year, around Christmastime.”

  “Do all of you in this group still talk to each other?”

  “Oh sure. We were passionate about our art, and just about all of us are still involved in it in one way or another. Sophie makes jewelry. Jérôme has his gallery. Nathan is an antiquarian. The Merciers have built their place for landscape painters, and I’m a draftsman.”

  “What about Lara?”

  “She gave all that up.”

  “Because her fiancé left her?”

  “That would be understandable.”

  “At the time of his disappearance, did you think that he had simply left of his own accord?”

  Daniel Vion sighed.

  “Nobody knew for sure,” he said. “Jean-Baptiste’s mother claimed that he had gone to live in the United States.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  As he talked, Vion had been glancing at Nico and fidgeting. The chief knew his silence was making the man uncomfortable.

  “No, Jérôme Dufour told me that.”

  “Are you happy with your work as a drafter?” Kriven asked. He had switched the subject to make Vion even more uncomfortable. In addition, he had deliberately called Vion a drafter, instead of a draftsman, to suggest that he didn’t have much regard for the profession.

  “It’s the profession I wanted to be in. After graduating from the École des Beaux-Arts, I went to the Paris Design Institute. I work in a design firm that has well-known corporate clients. Do the names Alcatel and Salomon mean anything to you?”

  “Do you do everything on the computer?” Kriven asked with the same determination to belittle the master draftsman.

  “It’s how things are done today. That’s all. But the work has lost none of its creativity. In fact, digital design has allowed us to be even more imaginative than we could be with drawing pens and paper.”

  “Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Vion?” Nico finally asked.

  The man jumped. He didn’t return Nico’s gaze and tried to fixate on Kriven, who was as immobile as stone.

  “Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Vion?” Nico repeated, his voice raised.

  “They told me you were reopening the investigation into Jean-Baptiste’s disappearance.”

  “You haven’t heard anything about the excavation of Samuel Cassian’s tableau-piège? Or the skeleton that was found in the pit? Do you not read the papers, Mr. Vion?”

  “I do. But what does any of that have to do with me?”

  He was trembling now and had lost all traces of his arrogance.

  “Did you know that Jean-Baptiste was unfaithful to Lara Krall while they were engaged?” Nico said.

  Astonishment was plain on Daniel Vion’s face.

  “And that he had cheated on her with a man?”

  “I… No! I had no idea.”

  “You’re a bachelor yourself. Is that a lifestyle choice, Mr. Vion?”

  Nico hated going down this path, but his hand had been forced.

  “I had a companion for several years.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m single, and I’m happy.”

  “Would you call yourself a ladies’ man, Mr. Vion?”

  “I don’t see why that concerns you,” he shot back.

  He was sweating bullets and stammering.

  “Do you share Jean-Baptiste’s preferences?”

  Vion turned pale. He was hyperventilating.

  “If you must know, I have had relationships with women and men.”

  Fundamentally, this didn’t bother Nico. In ancient Greece and Rome, bisexuality was socially acceptable. It was common among Chinese emperors and the shoguns of Japan. Nearly half of the men Alfred Kinsey studied had engaged in sexual relations with both men and women. Even Sigmund Freud claimed that humans were basically bisexual—although Nico thought that was going a little too far. He didn’t really care to snoop in anyone else’s bedroom. But it was possible that Daniel Vion’s sexual orientation had a bearing on this case.

  “Were you attracted to Jean-Baptiste?”

  “He was a friend! And he was engaged to Lara.”

  “But he was cheating on her. Did you have a lovers’ quarrel?”

  “No, no, and no! I didn’t know anything about this and certainly not that he was cheating on Lara!”

  “Where do you find your men, Daniel? Do you go to bars to meet your lovers?”

  “I don’t need to!”

  “What’s your type? Younger guys?”

  “What exactly are you accusing me of? Pedophilia?”

  “I’m thinking of men around Jean-Baptiste’s age. You must miss him terribly. Enough that you’re looking for him in your prey.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “Which you could say about Jean-Baptiste, who was struck in the head with a hammer thirty years ago before being thrown in his father’s banquet-performance pit. The bones there are his.”

  The room was quiet again. Nico scrutinized his suspect’s eye movements.

  Kriven broke the silence. “Where were you on Wednesday night, Mr. Vion? That was the night Florian Bonnet was killed. He’s the second victim of the Butcher of Paris.”

  “I was home!” Vion spluttered. “What are you suggesting?”

  “And the night before? Tuesday night?”

  He stared at them wide-eyed, silent.

  “We’ll need to see your planner, Mr. Vion.”

  “Why?”

  “Because these murders were committed in the vicinity of the banquet-performance, and they
may have a connection to Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s disappearance,” Nico said.

  “I didn’t have anything to do with those murders,” Vion said weakly. He looked like an animal trapped in La Villette’s dark abattoirs.

  They were all seated around the table in Nico’s office: Becker, Rost, Kriven, and Maurin.

  “We’ve made a composite of Damien Forest’s face, according to what the guests at the banquet remember,” Rost said.

  “The nonexistent Damien Forest,” Becker pointed out.

  “That’s true,” Kriven said. “But there was a photographer of some kind.”

  “I’ve contacted Samuel Cassian,” Nico said. “I asked him how he picked the photographer. Oddly enough, he said his son chose the photographer. And Jean-Baptiste told him he was someone named Damien Forest, who worked for Reuters.”

  “And Lara Krall?” Alexandre Becker asked.

  “I’ll go see her with the composite sketch,” Nico replied.

  “It would be hard to positively ID someone from this drawing,” Becker said. “Honestly, this guy looks like everybody and nobody. Not to mention he’s thirty years older now.”

  “And it’s worth noting that the sketch doesn’t look like any of the victim’s friends,” Rost said.

  “You’ll have to show the banquet guests the old pictures that Daniel Vion took,” Nico said. “Maybe one of them will recognize Damien Forest more easily than we can. David, see if you can get your hands on an old photo of Vion—I know he didn’t like to have his picture taken, but there must be one somewhere—and mix it in with the others. I’ll show the whole set to Jacques Langier, and you can do the same with Samuel Cassian.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Becker said. “We need to solve this mystery of who Damien Forest was.”

  “Let’s not forget that Jean-Baptiste Cassian was the one who brought him in,” Nico said.

  “What did you learn when you interviewed his friends?” Becker asked.

  “We had to push them a bit, especially the men,” Kriven said. “If there’s a wolf among the sheep, we have to use scare tactics and make him think he’s a suspect. When a wolf senses that hunters are tracking him down, he’ll do anything to save his skin.”

  “Anything concrete?”

  “Two of them match our Butcher’s profile,” Nico said.

  Everyone looked at him.

  “Michel Géko is dead, so he doesn’t count. Nathan Sellière is a bachelor, but according to David, he’s not particularly interested in sex of any kind. Jérôme Dufour is a gallery owner in Lyon. He’s married and has a teenager. A bit soft and posh. Physically, he’d fit, but he’s definitely heterosexual, and he beds other women whenever he can.”

  “And if Dufour was in Lyon on the nights of the attacks, he’s out of the running,” Kriven said.

  “So that leaves Laurent Mercier and Daniel Vion,” Magistrate Becker said.

  “Laurent Mercer married Camille, and they have three children. He built a landscape painters’ place out in Vincennes. His wife works there part time. Daniel Vion is a draftsman at a design office in Paris. He’s a confirmed bachelor and bisexual.”

  “I put together their profiles for Dominique Kreiss.”

  “Because we’re combining the homicides, we’ll have to verify their alibis for both Tuesday and Wednesday night,” Becker said.

  “Charlotte, you’re in charge of that,” Nico said. “I’d like the two of them to be brought in again. And let’s ask forensics identification to help.”

  “According to the reports from the medical examiner’s office and the forensics lab, the murderer was organized and smart,” Becker said. “He didn’t leave any evidence. Pretty interesting, considering the violence of his acts. You wouldn’t think someone that crazed would have so much discipline.”

  “He allowed himself one bite on the shoulder, just as Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s lover took only one bite,” Nico said.

  “You really are convinced that all of these murders are connected,” Becker said.

  Nico knew his men were behind him, and they wouldn’t question him. But his theory still didn’t have any real proof. And even though Becker and he were friends, he still needed to win him over.

  “I suspect that the tableau-piège excavation and the skeleton’s discovery shook up our man. The rage that drove him to kill Jean-Baptiste thirty years ago has resurfaced. He feels the need to attack Jean-Baptiste again through the young men who resemble him. The two gay victims almost certainly were bitten on the shoulder, the same way Cassian was bitten. And the locations of the murders speak for themselves. It’s too many coincidences. And it’s possible that Damien Forest was Jean-Baptiste’s boyfriend.”

  “That will have to be determined as quickly as possible,” Becker said.

  Jacques Langier happened to still be in Paris that Saturday because of a parliamentary committee meeting. He wouldn’t be returning to his constituency until late in the evening. He’d been able to squeeze in a meeting with Nico at the National Assembly, which was mostly empty on the weekends.

  Nico walked into the large building, a centerpiece of French history. During the workweek, it was like an anthill, with members of Parliament, assistants, employees, soldiers, police officers, and visitors streaming through. The austere colonnade hid nothing. Beyond the daily sessions, there were conferences to plan the week’s schedule, as well as committee meetings, research meetings, and political meetings. The building also had its own post office, which handled millions of letters every year, a photocopying room, and a monumental library where anybody could get newspapers, Internet access, or one of 750,000 books. The National Assembly was itself a city within the city, boasting restaurants, a barbershop, and an infirmary. The president’s entry to a parliamentary session, amid the Republican Guard’s drumbeats, was well worth watching. Nico had seen it with Dimitri in the Galerie des Fêtes, followed by a session full of stormy debates.

  At the entrance, near the three-sided courtyard, Nico held up his badge. Here, the security agents smiled, as long as you didn’t give them trouble. Nico had locked up his automatic pistol at headquarters to avoid any difficulties. Although he was the Criminal Investigation Division’s chief, people would have broken into a cold sweat if he’d been allowed in with a gun. It was a strange world, where anything was possible. So it wasn’t acceptable for even high-ranking visitors to come in wearing a weapon.

  The security officers gave Nico a visitor’s badge and escorted him through the hallways to Jacques Langier’s office.

  “Come in, Chief,” Langier said, smiling. “How’s the investigation coming along?”

  “It’s starting to fall into place.”

  Langier waved to a chair where Nico could sit down.

  “What did you bring? Pictures?”

  Nico handed them to Langier.

  “Take a look at these faces. I’d like to know if you recognize Damien Forest, who was the photographer at the banquet.”

  For the third time in four days, Commander Kriven knocked on Samuel Cassian’s door. The artist seemed to be doing better. Kriven felt strangely relieved; his wife had only her husband to rely on, and Kriven liked Mrs. Cassian. Maybe she had severe emotional problems, but she was a loving and wounded mother. Like Clara. Lately, he had been telling himself to have more patience with Clara. He could take inspiration from Samuel Cassian, who seemed to be dedicated to his wife. There was love to spare in this apartment.

  The artist welcomed him warmly, and his wife brought out yet another plate of aperitifs. Samuel Cassian gave the commander a sly wink.

  “A glass of white, young man?”

  “With pleasure, sir.”

  His host served him.

  “This is a 2005 grand cru Bâtard-Montrachet. We’ve moved from Côte Chalonnaise to Beaune. I’m a fan of Burgundy, as you’ve probably guessed. I hope you are too.”

  “I’m coming to enjoy it.”

  Samuel Cassian gave him a wry look.

  “Well, that’
s one good thing to come out of this ordeal,” Cassian said. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, young man?”

  Mrs. Cassian was watching, her eyes sparkling. Kriven hoped she wasn’t waiting to hear that her son had been found in the United States. His hands started shaking.

  “I have to show you a picture. I’d like to see if you recognize Damien Forest.”

  “Damien Forest?” Mrs. Cassian asked, surprised.

  “I’ll explain, my dear. Just you wait.”

  David held out the three-decades-old photo of Daniel Vion. The aging painter put on his glasses and furrowed his brow.

  21

  That Sunday, before going to the hospital, Nico decided to take Caroline and Dimitri out to lunch at the Paris-Moscou restaurant on the Rue Mauconseil in the first arrondissement. His mother loved this spot, which was a few steps from Les Halles and the Saint Eustache Cathedral. The food was a savory feast. Along the walls, all the Russian saints could be seen, as well as tableaus, trinkets, and Orthodox crosses. Dozens of matryoshkas in vivid colors were arrayed on a shelf. Here, the French music coming over the loudspeakers seemed quite out of place.

  They ate eggplant caviar on toast as they waited for the traditional dishes of stuffed cabbage and turkey Kiev—an escalope rolled up with prunes and cheese. For dessert, they had vatrushka, a Danish pastry with farmer’s cheese and raisins. Dimitri washed it down with soda, while the adults had Ukrainian beers. They raised their glasses to Anya’s health. Dimitri was impatient to hug her, as he hadn’t seen her since she’d fallen ill.

  The hospital atmosphere was a stark contrast to that of the Paris-Moscou. Instead of the hearty Russian brews and vivid matryoshkas, the hospital offered gray tile, foreign smells, and the hushed talk of nurses and doctors. It annoyed Nico that a person had to be a doctor or a nurse to understand the lingo. Still, he found it reassuring that his mother was in a hospital with cutting-edge equipment and an extraordinarily qualified staff. Dimitri, on the other hand, was clearly intimidated by all the technical paraphernalia and was looking withdrawn.

  Dr. Xavier Jondeau, the doctor on duty, came to meet them.

  “Her blood pressure has risen, and her heart rate is high,” he said. “But her oxygen saturation is normal. And the cerebral issues have been completely resolved. That’s good news. We’ve seen ventricular extrasystoles with patients who’ve had ventricular tachycardia.”