The Mentor

by Monticelli, Rita Carla Francesca

  So that’s why he was so frustrated. He was afraid that this girl, whom he clearly liked very much, might think he wasn’t that smart.

  The thought that this girl might be making his son feel this way on purpose just to get the upper hand crossed Eric’s mind for a moment, but he decided to ignore it as best he could. But the idea did lead him to think of something that was supposed to be absolutely off-limits for the evening, an evening he had decided to dedicate entirely to his son by taking the boy out for dinner the way he’d been promising to do for some time now.

  “Wait just a second,” Eric said, another idea clicking into place. “Did you ask Miriam to help you with your French so that you could make a good impression on this girl?”

  “No . . . Did she tell you? I made her promise she wouldn’t tell you about that!”

  They both laughed.

  “How are the private lessons going?”

  “I don’t know.” Brian picked his fork back up and grabbed a mouthful of french fries. Now that his secret was out, his appetite had come back with a vengeance. “Tomorrow I have another lesson,” he said between bites. “Hopefully I’ll do better than I did last time.”

  “I’m sure you’ll surprise her.”

  Brian nodded. “I’m giving it all I’ve got!”

  Pride swelled in Eric’s chest. This boy, with a mouth full of fries and a daydream of a pretty girl glinting in his eyes, was the most important thing in Eric’s life.

  “So,” said Eric, drawing everyone’s attention and putting an end to the hubbub in the meeting room. “Let’s try and sum everything up for a moment and focus on the facts. Then we’ll worry about speculation.”

  He was standing beside a large screen that showed the details of the two investigations, preparing to organize the team so they could deal with what the media had already baptized the “Black Death Killings.” Not exactly the world’s most original name, but it stuck. Journalists were advancing a variety of different theories, including that of a serial killer, which was always a magnet for public attention, even though in this case the victims weren’t exactly attracting widespread compassion.

  “We have two murders, apparently different from one another.” He pointed to the two photographs displayed at the top of the screen. Each showed the victim’s body as it was found on the murder scene, flanked by a portrait of the victim from when he was still alive. “Nicholas Thompson, killed at home almost two weeks ago. Two shots from a nine-millimeter equipped with a silencer. One bullet to the groin, another to the neck. Both very precise shots. The bullets hit here and here, one stopping in his pelvis, the other at a vertebra. Both tore open major arteries. He died from loss of blood. The victim was a previous offender but appeared to have lived an honest life for the past fifteen years. When he was younger he was charged with a number of robberies, but none of them were particularly violent.”

  A few of the people in the room nodded here and there during Shaw’s speech.

  “Here, on the other hand, we have Gerald McKinsey. He was killed in City less than forty-eight hours ago, just before dawn, with a single shot to the back. Again, the weapon used was a nine-millimeter. The bullet entered here, perforated his lung, and entered his heart. The victim was dead just a few seconds after he hit the ground. McKinsey was a previous offender as well. He’d been in and out of prison ever since he was seventeen years old. He was last released twenty-one months ago. He too was charged with a number of robberies, including some at gunpoint.” Eric paused to look around the room and let it all sink in.

  “The same pistol was used for both killings,” he continued. “In both cases, the victims were forced to assume a very precise position before they were killed. The first was forced to lie down, supine.” He used a little laser pointer to indicate this on the screen. “The second to turn around but remain standing.” The red laser dot moved to the other image. “The first body was moved, presumably because the victim was thrashing around before he died. This suggests that our assassin wanted the body to be in a certain position when it was found.”

  Eric stood a little to one side in order to make sure everyone could see clearly.

  “Thompson let his killer in, apparently of his own free will, since he made the killer a cup of tea before he was shot. McKinsey, however, was followed. He passed through that neighborhood every day after he was done with work, though not on that street. He may have changed his route because he was attempting to escape his killer.”

  The laser dot moved to a black silhouette located at the middle of the screen.

  “In both cases, our assassin was picked up by surveillance cameras. In the first case, while he was going into the building, and then again when he came out roughly twenty minutes later. In the second case, while he was killing his victim. He was wearing a black tunic and veil, like the kind Muslim women wear—the kind that cover the nose and mouth. However, we can’t be sure both crimes were committed by the same person. Stern . . .” He turned to Martin. “What can you tell us about the two videos?”

  “Ahem. Well . . .” Martin seemed surprised he’d been called on so early in the meeting. He stood up and went over to the computer connected to the big screen, opening a new image in an empty corner of the monitor. “In the first video, shot in full daylight, I analyzed the suspect’s gait and body. The color of the tunic flattens the form a little, but the computer can help show us what the eye can’t see. First of all, the killer is walking clumsily and seems to have a hard time with high heels. An analysis of the shadows in the image shows us that his pelvis is narrower than his shoulders. I believe we’re dealing with a man. Now, in the second video”—Martin took a deep breath while he called up the next video, where the black figure could be seen coming into view in the lower left-hand corner—“the shot is really dark, and the camera angle doesn’t help us much. All I can really say is that this time the assassin moves more comfortably. But as you can see here”—he froze the footage—“he’s wearing sneakers. As far as the height is concerned, even taking into account the shoes, there’s not much difference. We calculated everything based on the footage, and we couldn’t find more than a one- or two-inch difference at most, well within the error margin for the measuring software.”

  “That said, how tall is our killer?” asked Eric.

  “Between five foot eight and five foot nine. Taking into account some additional error due to the soles of his shoes or the way the veil is placed on his head, there might be another one-inch or one-and-a-half-inch margin. Not particularly tall for a man, but quite tall for a woman.”

  Jane and Miriam, both that tall, glanced at each other with a smile.

  Stern seemed to have caught their expressions, because he cleared his voice and quickly added, “Well, of course there are lots of women that tall, even some taller . . .”

  At that very moment, Adele walked into the meeting room and waded through her colleagues, finally sitting down toward the back.

  “What a pleasure,” said Eric out loud, “to have Miss Pennington grace us with her presence today.”

  The generally playful atmosphere that had developed around Stern’s presentation turned cold in a heartbeat. Everyone’s eyes turned to Adele.

  “Sorry I’m late,” murmured Adele, avoiding Shaw’s severe frown. She shrunk a little in her seat, willing their eyes away.

  “Stern,” continued Eric, “what do you think? Could it be the same person?”

  He nodded. “It might be, but of course we can’t say for certain.”

  “Thank you, Stern.”

  The man went straight back to his seat, without hesitating a moment.

  “Any relationship between the two victims?” Eric turned to Detective Leroux, who was leaning back against a wall to one side of the room. “Aside from the fact that they were both thieves?”

  “Not directly.” Her voice was firm. “They were never arrested tog
ether, and we don’t have any proof that the two knew one another. However . . .” She paused, taking her smartphone out of her pocket. “Both were arrested at different times with a man named Christopher Garnish.” She showed Eric an image of a fortysomething man.

  “Garnish is a bit younger than they were,” Shaw noted. The victims were both in their sixties.

  Miriam nodded. “Back when he was busted with the victims he was around twenty, just getting started.”

  “Old news,” interjected Jane. She was sitting in the front row, holding her tablet in her lap, her legs crossed. Eric’s gaze was involuntarily drawn to her right ankle sticking out from the cuff of her long white slacks. She was wearing an anklet that jingled when it hit the side of her sandals as she bounced her leg up and down slightly.

  “Yes, except he got a lot better,” continued Detective Leroux. “So much so that he’s a suspect in a number of high-profile robberies: museums, art galleries, villas . . . These have always been rumors, of course, and we’ve never been able to prove anything. Some people say he’s just lucky. But I think most of them are made up . . . Nobody has had a confirmed sighting of him in years. He likes to stick to the shadows.”

  “Do we have any idea where he is right now?” asked Eric.

  “We don’t have any home address,” said Miriam, frowning. “But I don’t think he’s really out-and-out hiding. After avoiding the law for this long, he must feel a little untouchable. I think we can scare him out of whatever hole he’s crawled into.”

  “Good,” Eric said, pleased. “Track him down and get him in here. It’s time we had a nice little chat with Mr. Garnish. So far he’s the only element that might help us shed a little more light on the motives behind these crimes.”

  Miriam nodded.

  “Any progress with the physical evidence?” asked Eric, looking out at everyone in the room.

  “Nothing noteworthy, unfortunately,” said Jane. “Thompson’s house was even dirtier than the street where McKinsey was killed, if you can believe that. We found a little bit of everything, but so far nothing that we can connect with the assassin. No fingerprints on the table or the door. The killer took the teacup, plate, and spoon with him when he left, so no DNA there . . . We have a partial print on the victim’s shoe, but we couldn’t find any fibers or anything else distinguishable from the rest of the garbage lying around that place on the clothing. As far as the other crime scene is concerned”—she ran her finger around the tablet—“we have the data the City Police provided.” She nodded to Agent Lennox, who had spent the entire time sitting apart from the others, silently watching the meeting unfold. “Two bullets. One in the wall and another in the pavement, both from the same weapon. No shoe prints distinguishable from the thousands of others present there in the alley.”

  “So basically, we’ve got nothing,” Eric concluded.

  Jane shrugged. “That’s what I’ve said.”

  “There’s nothing left except to concentrate on motive and the deliberate scene the assassin took pains to create,” Eric said, then went back to looking at the photographs of the victims as the rest of the team talked with one another. At first he’d thought the motive might be linked with some sex crime from the past, but the second murder had muddied the water. Yet there was something here, some sort of scheme, something familiar . . . He just couldn’t quite make it out.

  “Um,” came Miriam’s voice, rising up over the others and silencing them little by little. “The presumed rape victim from when Thompson was back in high school—well, she has a son, but he lives in Glasgow.”

  “Is there any chance he was in London at the same time the crimes were committed?” This trail was lukewarm at best now, and he could already imagine her answer.

  “For the first date he doesn’t really have a solid alibi. He says he was home alone, in Scotland, but on the second night he was on a plane, flying over the Atlantic toward New York. British Airways has confirmed he was on board. There’s no way he could have been in City at the time of the murder.”

  “Okay, well it was worth running down just to be sure.” He took a deep breath. “Aside from the mask thing, dressing all in black, which I think the killer needed in order to hide his identity, I’m guessing we’re dealing with an assassin who has very precise motives. We need to figure out what those are.”

  “Could it be a nut job who copycats other crimes? If that’s the case, we might be dealing with a serial killer.” This was the second time Miriam had suggested this, and once again there was a strange light in her eyes.

  “Two homicides are not enough to start talking about serial killers,” protested Eric.

  “It might be nice to keep him from committing a third,” Miriam added, not yet ready to let it go.

  “If there is a third,” said Jane.

  “I’m betting there will be.” Miriam seemed quite sure of herself, convinced of what she was saying. There was a challenging tone in her voice as she addressed the entire room.

  “At this point we can’t rule anything out,” said Eric. He was working to calm down everyone in the room, since people were starting to get a little too worked up. “See if you can find some similarities with any other cases.”

  “Good,” said Miriam.

  “We have to consider two possibilities: either the victims’ identities are the keys to figuring out the motive, or the motive can only be identified in the killer’s modus operandi,” Jane said.

  “What if both are important?” Adele’s voice rang out from the back of the room, making everyone turn around.

  “What’s on your mind?” Eric said, not even trying to hide a smile.

  “Vendetta!” said Adele, all but shouting the word. The colleagues closest to her started a little.

  Eric said nothing for a moment, focusing on her. What was going through her mind?

  “That might be the motive. Vendetta. These crimes are reconstructions, appropriate punishment for something the victims have done, not just the emulation of some psychopath.”

  Every single person in the room was silent, hanging on her words.

  “Let’s think about the murders separately for a moment and try to figure out what the assassin is trying to communicate. The pistol might simply be a symbol. We should examine unresolved cases and look for a murder where the victim was struck from behind, maybe with a knife or hand ax.” She turned her head and looked outside as if searching for inspiration. “Or a victim that was castrated or, if it’s a woman . . .” She lowered her head a bit. “Raped.” She accompanied that word with a nod. “And then”—here Adele drew one finger across her throat—“sliced open.”

  Everyone in the room began talking among themselves, increasing the noise level a little.

  “The same weapon,” said Adele, raising her voice to be heard above the hubbub. “This whole staging and the black costume all work to make us think that we’re dealing with the same assassin and therefore that the victims are somehow connected. But let’s just suppose for a moment that that’s not the case.” She stood up. Her look and the amused curve of her lips seemed to conceal some secret that only she was privy to. “Let’s imagine for a moment that two different people both killed their victims in a certain, specific manner in order to vindicate another crime. Two different people—but they know each other; they dress the same way and use the same weapon in order to make us believe that they’re one and the same.”

  At this point it seemed like every single person in the room felt an irresistible urge to share his or her opinion, all at the same time.

  “A picturesque theory,” said Eric, trying to bring the room back to order, “but interesting.” As often happened during those months, Pennington had managed to look at the case from a completely different point of view. She had an entirely creative approach to shuffling evidence around, which mirrored her behavior. She always sat separate from the others during these meeti
ngs, observing everything, absorbing data like a sponge before adding her two cents. Shaw expected her to chip in from one moment to the next, and when he heard her speak up, he was certain she would contribute some unusual and unexpected point of view.

  “Or . . .” Adele’s face darkened, as if she’d been struck by a disturbing revelation. “If our victims really are connected to one another, then the assassin might just be a single person. But in that case . . .” She stared straight at Eric, as if to send him a private message, which he picked up on just a moment before she spoke. “The murders the killer is vindicating must have taken place together.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The key turned in the lock and the door opened.

  “Eric?” said Miriam, putting one foot into the dark apartment. “You here?”

  No response.

  She went inside. A powerful gush of air blew past her, mussing up her hair. The door slammed shut behind her, making her jump. “Putain!” she swore to herself.

  She walked into the living room, where the ambient light from the city softly came through the curtains. The French doors in to the balcony were still open. She walked over and pulled the curtains aside.

  “There you are,” she said, stepping out onto the balcony.

  Eric turned around quickly, startled.

  “Sorry. You weren’t answering, so I used the keys.”

  “Hey,” he said. He seemed distracted, preoccupied. Then he turned around and went back to staring out over the city.

  She went over to him, leaning back against the railing so that she could look him in the eyes. “You okay?”

  Eric closed his eyes for a moment and smiled a little. Then he turned to her. “Yeah, I’m all right. I’m just really tired.”

  Miriam took one of his arms in both her hands and shook him ever so slightly. Then she pulled in close, laying her head on his shoulder in a gesture of affection that she’d started using ever since they’d become close enough for it to be okay. “Lately you’ve been working too much. You should take a little time off for yourself.”