Syndrome E

by Franck Thilliez

  The sound of an engine rose from the street. Out of reflex, Sharko snatched up his gun and rushed to the window. After shutting off the light, he slightly raised the shade, his throat tight. A truck, topped with an orange revolving light, slowly advanced along the sidewalk. It was just the street sweepers emptying the trash cans, as they did every week, in the early morning torpor. The cop sat back down, half reassured. His temples were beating hard; hypervigilance and paranoia, amplified by his illness, kept him both awake and exhausted.

  “Is something wrong, Inspector?”

  “No, everything’s fine. Tell me, did you notice anything suspicious at your place in Lille?”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as hidden microphones. I found four of them here.”

  Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, Lucie felt her blood go cold.

  “The knob to my outside door grated a bit a few days ago. They must have broken into my apartment too—I’m sure of it.”

  Lucie felt the blow. The feeling of violation. They had penetrated into her space, her cocoon. They might have gone into her room, into her girls’ room.

  “Who did it?”

  “I don’t know. What’s certain is that the colonel in charge of the Foreign Legion is involved.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just do. Don’t tell anyone about the mics, okay? We’ll take care of it when you get back.”

  “How come?”

  “Quit asking questions! Keep me posted. Talk to you soon.”

  “Inspector! Wait!”

  The air-conditioning rumbled hypnotically. And it felt so good to hear Sharko’s voice.

  “What, Henebelle?”

  “There’s something I need to ask you…”

  “What’s that?”

  “Have you saved a lot of lives in your career?”

  “Some, yes. But unfortunately not always the ones I would have liked.”

  “In our profession, we comfort the families by finding the people who killed their loved ones. We probably give a handful of people a reason to go on living, because we give them an answer. But, Inspector, haven’t you ever felt like just quitting the whole thing? Don’t you ever tell yourself the world would be no better or worse off without you?”

  Sharko spun his weapon on the table, flicking the grip with his finger. He thought of Atef Abd el-Aal. Of those eight marks on the tree trunk. Of all those he’d been able to take care of, with the certainty that they’d never do it again.

  “I felt like quitting every time I saw a smile on the faces of the bastards I put in jail. Because that smile was something that no bars and no prison could contain. And later, you start seeing that smile in shopping malls, playgrounds, schools, wherever you go. That smile makes me retch.”

  He slammed his palm down on his gun, stopping its movement. His fingers closed over the barrel.

  “I wish only one thing for you, Henebelle: that you never come across that miserable smile. Because once it gets into you, it never comes out.”

  Lucie clenched her jaws. She stared at the ceiling with a sigh. The shadows were coming back fast and furious.

  “Thank you, Inspector. I’ll keep you posted on what happens. Good night.”

  “Good night, Henebelle. Take good care of yourself.”

  Lucie hung up, sadness pressing down on her.

  At that moment, she understood that to go back, to return to the life of a woman and a mother, would not be easy. Because that smile he was talking about, she had already come across, way too early in her young career.

  It had been gnawing at her insides for a long time.

  44

  Lucie spent an agitated night filled with bad dreams. Images had seized on the quiet hours to harass her: the little girl on the swing, the bull, the rabbits, Judith Sagnol with her pupil slit, her belly mutilated with a large, black eye.

  Twisting and turning in bed, watching the digital clock on the television dilute the time minute by minute, Lucie was waiting for only one thing: the sun to finally rise.

  And rise it did. At nine o’clock, she was walking in the streets of the Canadian city, taking advantage of the morning freshness to clear away the fatigue in her muscles.

  The central archives of Montreal were located about a hundred yards from the Old Port, in the heart of a thickly tree-lined neighborhood. They were housed in a Beaux Arts–style government building, with large blocks of white stone and massive colonnades, that had once been the university’s business school.

  When Lucie entered, her backpack stuffed with fruit from the hotel, a bottle of water, her memo book, and a pen, she felt like a ridiculous ant lost in a desert of paper. According to the first archivist she talked to, these walls, beneath the high, sculpted ceilings and magnificent chandeliers, contained more than twelve miles of data, split between private, governmental, and civic records. One could delve into the lives of the great families of Montreal and Quebec, the Papineaus, Lacostes, and Merciers, as well as find information about immigration, education, energy, tourism, and legal affairs, not to mention some nine million photos and two hundred thousand drawings, maps, and plans. A citadel of paper within a city of steel and concrete.

  To give herself the best chance, Lucie had prepared a brief summary of what she hoped to find. The archivist who had greeted her referred her to someone else, who should know more about Quebec’s history in the 1950s. The badge on the second archivist’s white blouse read PATRICIA RICHAUD.

  “I’m looking for a little girl who almost certainly was in a convent or orphanage in the fifties,” Lucie explained. “To be more precise, around 1954 or ’55. The institution was probably located in or around Montreal. I also have the name of a nun she would have known: Sister Marie du Calvaire.”

  The archivist looked at the picture of the girl on the swing, then beckoned Lucie to follow her.

  “Do you know how many Sister Marie du Calvaires there were at the time? Unfortunately that bit of information won’t help you much.”

  Patricia Richaud was about fifty, with blond hair fastened in a ponytail and small round glasses. The two women walked down endless corridors, which didn’t at all match the fusty image one might have of such a place. Clean, pure lines, futuristic design. There were even guided tours—people were already moving around in groups in the vast library. Lucie was sure they had walked a good five minutes, going up and down various stairways, before they reached a small, circular, windowless room with fluorescent lights. The files were lined up in hundreds of cabinets that rose many feet in the air and could be reached with rolling ladders. Among other things, the cop could read JUVENILE DELINQUENCY CASES (1912–1958), SOCIAL WELFARE CASES (1950–1974), and so on. The archivist halted in the middle of the room.

  “Here you are. If you ask me, this is where you have the best chance of finding what you’re looking for. Most of these files concern orphans under the age of sixteen. The juvenile delinquency cases, for instance, concern children abandoned by their parents in circumstances that made it likely they’d turn to crime.”

  Taking advantage of a break in the conversation, Lucie pointed to another part of the alcove, which particularly caught her attention: RELIGIOUS COMMUNITIES (1925–1961).

  “And what about those?”

  Richaud instinctively touched the pendant she was wearing, which hung from a gold chain.

  “You’re in luck—we received those files only a few weeks ago. Normally they would have been restricted because they belonged to religious institutions. But now Quebec is turning away from its religion. We are now a world besotted with modernism, and one by one those institutions are being forced to close due to a cruel lack of funding. And so their records have come to us, because they have nowhere else to store them.”

  She sighed.

  “As you can see, there are quite a number of these files, since they also include orphanages from neighboring towns and regions. These religious communities were quite active at the time, especially in ta
king in illegitimate orphans.”

  “Illegitimate? Can you be more specific?”

  As if she hadn’t heard, the specialist headed toward a group of metal file cabinets. She opened one, containing a seemingly infinite number of index cards.

  “Here are the indexes. If you had the child’s name, you could locate the relevant file in just a few minutes. But since you don’t have much information, you should consult the card for the year she was placed or that of the institution, in those other drawers over there. They contain the lists of children admitted. It’s likely you’ll find the same names in several institutions at different times, as back then it was common practice to transfer the children, and orphans never stayed in the same place for more than a few years at a time. Once you have the card of a particular individual, you should refer to her file to compare it with your photos. I’ll leave you to it. Don’t hesitate to call me on that telephone over there if you have any questions.”

  “Can you also make outside calls on that phone? My cell doesn’t seem to be working.”

  “Yes, but we’ll have to charge you. And be sure to call the reception desk when you wish to leave, or you’ll never find your way.”

  Lucie summoned her back just before she could leave the room.

  “You never answered my question. What illegitimate children?”

  Patricia Richaud removed her small round glasses and rubbed them fastidiously with a chamois.

  “As the name suggests, they are children born out of wedlock. You said you’re with the police? What is it you’re looking for, exactly?”

  “I have to admit I’m not quite sure myself.”

  “If you’re delving into Quebec’s past, I would ask you not to treat it lightly. The period was dark enough as it is, and everyone here would rather forget it.”

  “Dark? What are you talking about?”

  The woman left quickly, shutting the door sharply behind her. Lucie put down her backpack on a round table. What had she meant by that? A dark period…Did it have anything to do with her investigation?

  She looked around her.

  “Okay…not out of the woods yet.”

  She bucked herself up and, not knowing the family name, delved into the file cards that grouped the children by year. She thought it out: the film had been developed in 1955; the girl was about eight years old. Not likely she would have been admitted that same year, as she seemed to be familiar with the surroundings and personnel. And the lip-reading specialist had noticed a slight evolution in her growth. So Lucie started with 1954.

  “Good God in heaven…”

  For the year 1954 alone, they registered 3,712 admissions in the area’s various religious institutions. A veritable exodus of children.

  Lucie set to work. She had first and foremost a precious first name. A few syllables deciphered on the lips of a child filmed on an old black-and-white short. She opened her memo book and reviewed what she’d written the other day during the meeting: “What happened to Lydia?”

  Lydia…

  Lucie took out the thirty-odd lists from the year 1954 and began reading through the names, arranged in alphabetical order. Girls and boys were mixed. All that was written, by hand, was their last name, first name, and age, as well as the number of the corresponding file.

  The first time Lucie came across the name Lydia—Lydia Marchand, seven years old—she was sure she’d found the right one. Armed with her file number, she rushed to the wall of papers and dug out the correct file. The ID photo did not correspond to the ones of the other little girls that she’d printed off the film. But perhaps Lydia hadn’t been present for the rabbit massacre?

  Lucie didn’t give up. The important thing here was the institution where Lydia was living: Convent of the Sisters of the Good Shepherd, Quebec. The cop went back to the file drawers, found the card corresponding to that establishment, and took out the cards relating to the boarders, of whom there were 347.

  Three hundred forty-seven boarders. And those were only the girls.

  To find the girl on the swing, the one who’d been Lydia’s friend, she had no choice but to go through the 347 files one by one and compare the ID photos of each with her own photos.

  She spent the entire morning at it, without result. So that wasn’t the right Lydia…First discouragement. Realizing the scope of her undertaking, Lucie took an apple from her bag and cracked her neck. Her eyes were already getting red. The harsh fluorescent lights and those names, written in such a small hand one after the other, were hardly ideal. Was she even in the right city?

  She reassured herself she was. Everything led here, to Montreal.

  At 1:15, she attacked the year 1953. At around 5:00, after two bananas and a visit to the bathroom, she dove into 1952. This time as well, there was an nth Lydia who led her to another religious institution, La Charité Hospital in Montreal.

  Mechanically, Lucie pulled out the tall stack of files relating to that establishment and began her last search of the day. The archives closed at 7:00, and in any case her head was about to explode. Names, names, and more names.

  When she opened a folder located about three-quarters of the way down the stack and saw the photo attached to it, her throat tightened.

  It was the girl, the one on the swing.

  Alice Tonquin.

  Three years separated the file photo from the one Lucie had printed off the film, but there could be no doubt. The deep-set eyes, direct gaze, oval face…

  Her heart pounding, the young cop read through the scant information in the file. Alice Tonquin, born at the Convent of the Sisters of Mercy in Montreal in 1948…Lived there until the age of three…Then transferred two years in a row to live with the Franciscans of Mary in Baie-Saint-Paul…Then to La Charité Hospital in Montreal in 1952…End of her journey—or, rather, the rest must have been hidden in another file, since the one she was holding corresponded only to the girl’s admission to La Charité.

  The few details were purely administrative, but no matter: Lucie finally had the identity she’d been searching for. She took notes, circled “La Charité Hospital, Montreal,” and picked up the phone in the room.

  She made a call to her captain, Kashmareck, who since the beginning of the investigation had been in touch with the Sûreté in Quebec. She asked him to call them again and request an identity search for Alice Tonquin and Lydia Hocquart.

  While waiting for him to call back, she called Patricia Richaud to tell her that she could come get her in a half hour, which would leave her time to put away the files.

  In the quiet of the alcove, Lucie let herself fall into her chair and threw her head back. Then she drank the water in her bottle to the last drop.

  She had done it. A photo, one simple photo, had brought her back through time and closer to her goal. She thought of Alice, that once nameless girl who now had a name. The little orphan with no father or mother, tossed about from hospital to convent, without bonds, points of reference, anything. Raised in the coldness of a religious institution: prayer at mealtimes, household chores, nights in the dormitory, an austere existence geared toward order and obedience to God. What future could she have had after such disastrous beginnings? How had she grown up? What had happened in that room with the rabbits? From the bottom of her heart, Lucie hoped she would soon have the answers to these questions. All those thoughts, all those faces that tormented her day and night, had to stop. Alice had to reveal her secrets.

  The telephone in the room rang twenty-five minutes later, as she was putting away the last files. It was Kashmareck. Lucie picked up and didn’t give him time to speak:

  “Tell me you’ve got something!”

  From the way he cleared his throat, she immediately understood that it had led to another dead end.

  “Yeah, I’ve got something, but it isn’t great. First of all, there’s not a trace of an Alice Tonquin. Neither in Canada nor in France. Oh, the cops at Sûreté have her birth certificate all right, from the hospital in Trois-Rivières whe
re she was born, but not much more than that. They told me it wasn’t uncommon to lose sight of someone back then. With all the moving about between institutions, it was hard to keep track, and files got lost. After 1955, she was probably adopted by a family under another name, like a lot of those kids at the time. If she’s still alive, it’s under an unknown identity.”

  “Good lord, everyone seems to know about these mass adoptions except us. And what about her friend, Lydia Hocquart?”

  “She died in 1985 in a mental hospital, from a heart attack. She suffered from severe behavioral disorders and her heart just couldn’t take the meds she’d been swallowing all those years.”

  “Ask them to send you all the info, and e-mail it to me. What was the name of Lydia’s hospital?”

  “Hold on…here it is. Saint Julien Hospital in Saint-Ferdinand d’Halifax.”

  “And how long was she there?”

  “That, I have no idea. It’s all confidential medical information. You do realize that I’m normally the one who asks the questions?”

  Behind Lucie, the door opened. Patricia Richaud silently inspected the environs, making sure everything was in its proper place.

  “I’ll call you back,” said Lucie.

  She hung up, jaws clenched. Severe behavioral disorders…mental hospital…

  The archivist’s throaty voice pulled her from her thoughts.

  “Did you find everything you wanted?”

  Lucie jumped.

  “Uh…yes, yes. I did. I found the name I was looking for, and her last known home, La Charité Hospital in Montreal.”

  “The order of the Gray Sisters…”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I was just saying that that establishment houses a Roman Catholic religious congregation, whom they still call the Gray Sisters. Their hospital was bought by the University of Montreal—the papers have been full of it these past weeks. By 2011, the sisters will be relocated to Saint Bernard Island, but for now most of them are still living in Ward B of the hospital, refusing to leave the premises. Their archives have already been transported here, which is why you were able to find what you were looking for.”