Bred to Kill

by Franck Thilliez

  “It might have handled it postmortem. In any case, the size of the bite mark doesn’t correspond to what the chimp could have left. The traces are very clear. The diastema, the gap between the upper incisors, is different. Same for the spread of the jaws. Besides, the chimp’s molars don’t show any traces of blood. And the blood on her limbs and fur is no doubt from touching the victim after death. The killer tried to commit a perfect murder and he was very sly but not enough to fool us.”

  Chénaix turned toward the anesthetized chimpanzee.

  “Shery, my chérie, I’m happy to report you’ll be eating bananas for some time to come.”

  His comment lightened the atmosphere for a few seconds, before they got back to business.

  “So in that case, who or what caused the bite?”

  “Something a bit bigger than this critter. The shape of the jaws is distinctly simian, probably of the family of great apes, according to the vet. He ruled out gorillas and orangutans. He’s leaning more toward another chimpanzee, just larger. In any case, an animal that the situation made very aggressive.”

  The ME nodded toward some stopped-up glass tubes near the sink.

  “The blood samples from the wounds are going to the lab. I asked for a saliva analysis. That way we should be able to get the DNA of the attacking animal, and its exact species.”

  “Can you do that—tell an animal species from its DNA?”

  “With genome sequencing, sure. It’s all the rage these days. We unspool the DNA molecules of plants, bacteria, dogs, toss them into huge machines, and we get a genetic cartography specific to each species. To put it another way, it’s the complete, detailed listing of all of its genes.”

  Levallois had moved toward the tiled floor. He lifted a flask that looked almost empty.

  “You can’t stand in the way of progress. What’s in here?”

  “Looks like a minuscule piece of enamel. I found it inside the facial wound. There’s also DNA there that could be analyzed, in case the saliva is too diluted by the blood. At this point, it’s up to the biologists.”

  “Anything else?” said Sharko.

  The ME flashed him a little smile.

  “Give you an inch . . .”

  “You know me.”

  “I’ve already told you quite a bit, don’t you think? Now comes the internal exam.”

  Sharko held out his hand to the ME, who shook it out of reflex.

  “What, you’re not staying to watch?” said the doctor.

  Behind him, Levallois’s eyes flashed. Sharko didn’t leave him time to react and headed for the exit.

  “Not in the mood for innards today. My colleague can get along fine without me. He’s crazy about autopsies.”

  “And what about our little lunch? You’ve owed me for years.”

  “Soon, I promise. In the meantime, have a beer for me.”

  He pushed through the swinging doors and disappeared without looking back.

  Outside, he sucked in a huge gulp of air.

  By telephone, he let Clémentine Jaspar know that she would get her animal back safely and asked her to try, in the coming days, to make Shery talk more. Jaspar promised to call back if she got any results and thanked the inspector warmly. Sharko knew the woman would do everything possible to help him.

  Sluggishly, he went to sit on a small metal bench on the banks of the river. Not many people in the area. The proximity of the forensic building and the number of police cars discouraged casual strollers. Nearby was Paris-Arsenal port, with its shuttle boats and massive barges. A light breeze, the early September sun: it was all so pleasant. He mused that Eva Louts would never again enjoy such a view.

  Sharko rubbed his temples and, after putting on his sunglasses, one stem of which had been glued back on, he bent his neck and turned his face to the sky. Warm rays gently caressed his cheeks. He closed his eyes, pictured the killer entering the animal housing facility with an aggressive primate. One struck the victim, the other bit her in the face, following its wild instincts. Perhaps the “monster” Shery had witnessed, one of her fellow simians . . .

  He started violently when a hand dropped onto his shoulder and it took him a few seconds to remember where he was. He rubbed his neck and sat up with a grimace. Levallois was standing in front of him.

  “Nice of you to leave me in the autopsy room. We’ve just started working together and already you’re putting me through the grinder.”

  Sharko looked at his watch. More than an hour had passed. He stifled a yawn.

  “Forgive me—things are a bit difficult at the moment.”

  “Things have been difficult for a lot of moments, from what I hear. Sounds like you and Manien were at each other’s throats until he finally sent you packing.”

  “Let evil tongues wag. You’ll hear a lot of things in the corridors of number thirty-six. Unflattering rumors, most of which are unfounded. So, what about the autopsy?”

  “You didn’t miss anything. Staying to watch that, honestly . . . it’s just nauseating, end of story. If there’s anything I hate about this job, it’s that.”

  “Was the victim raped?”

  “No.”

  “Not a sex crime, then.”

  “Guess not.”

  Nervously, Jacques Levallois stuck a stick of mint chewing gum on his tongue, putting on his own sunglasses. The guy had a handsome face, a bit like Brad Pitt in the film Se7en.

  “Shit . . . This isn’t the kind of case I want to tell my wife about.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “Easy for you to say. Tell me, there’s something your colleagues and I can’t figure out . . . You must have been making twice the salary in Nanterre, with half the grief. In less than ten years, you’d have been eligible for a pension. What made you come back to muck around at Homicide? Why did you ask to be demoted to lieutenant? No one’s ever done that—it doesn’t make any sense. What’s the matter, you don’t like money?”

  Sharko breathed in, forearms between his thighs like some derelict who feeds crumbs to birds. His colleagues knew almost nothing about his last case at the Bureau of Violent Crimes, which he’d conducted from the offices in Nanterre. Given the political, scientific, and military repercussions, the Syndrome E case had been kept under wraps.

  “Money’s fine. As for my reasons, they’re private.”

  Levallois chewed his gum while gazing at the river, hands in his pockets.

  “You’re kind of a bitter sort, aren’t you? I hope we’re not all destined to become like you.”

  “None of it’s up to you. You’ll become what fate intends you to become.”

  “Wickedly fatalistic.”

  “More like realistic.”

  Sharko watched a barge for a few seconds, then stood up and headed to their car.

  “Come on, let’s go. We can grab a bite to eat, then have a look around Eva Louts’s place.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, let’s skip the bite and go straight to Louts’s. This shit has spoiled my appetite.”

  7

  It was the typical apartment of a single grad student. An extensive book collection, volumes piled up by the dozens, crammed shelves, a corner desk that ate up half the living room, cutting-edge computer equipment: huge CPU, printer, scanner, disc burner, turret of CDs. Eva Louts’s one-bedroom was located a few steps from the Bastille, on Rue de la Roquette: a narrow paved street that looked as if it were shoved into the back end of some medieval village.

  Armed with a warrant, the cops had had a locksmith let them in. For the past few hours, cell phones had been ringing, information had been pinging back and forth among the investigators. Now that it was ruled a homicide, the four men from Bellanger’s team and a number of colleagues sent as temporary backup had latched on to the case. While Sharko and Levallois combed through the apartment, others were questionin
g Louts’s thesis adviser, parents, and friends, or going over her bank records. The dragnet was under way; the “number 36 steamroller” was churning forward.

  With gloved hands, Jacques Levallois had immediately sat down at the victim’s computer, while Sharko looked through the various rooms. He meticulously studied the types of decoration. Over the course of his investigations, he had learned that objects always whispered the reason for their presence to whoever knew how to listen.

  In the bedroom, numerous framed photos showed Louts in elastic harness at the edge of a bridge, or parachute jumping, or in fencing gear at various ages. A lean, agile body that seemed to leap off the mat. About five foot seven, the physique of a panther: forest-green eyes; long, arched eyebrows; a lithe, well-proportioned silhouette. Silently, and also with gloved hands, the inspector carefully examined the rest of the room. In a corner were a rowing machine, an exercise bike, and several barbells. Facing the bed, a large colored fresco depicted the family tree of the hominids, from Australopithecus africanus to Cro-Magnon. It was as if Louts studied the mysteries of life even in her sleep.

  Sharko kept rummaging. He riffled through closets and drawers. He was about to leave the room when something clicked in his head. He went back to the framed picture of two dueling fencers. He knitted his brow, placed his finger on Louts’s foils and those of her adversary.

  “Now that’s very curious.”

  Intrigued by his discovery, he removed the picture from the wall, tucked it under his arm, and continued his inspection. Bathroom, hall, kitchen, all nicely furnished. Mom and Dad, both white-collar professionals according to the initial reports, must have been helping out financially. The cupboards and refrigerator contained various dietetic products, powdered protein, energy drinks, fruit. An iron will when it came to food. The young woman seemed to have everything going for her, mind and body.

  Sharko returned to the living room, near the desk, and cast an eye over the surroundings. No television, as Jaspar had said. He checked the books in her library and the ones stacked on the floor, which presumably were the ones she’d consulted last. Biology, essays on evolution, genetics, paleoanthropology: a primitive world about which he knew almost nothing. There were also dozens of science periodicals, to which Louts probably had subscriptions. A calendar of training courses and conferences was tacked to the wall, printed on recycled paper. Full days, unenticing topics: paleogenetics, microbiology, taxonomy, biophysics.

  For his part, Lieutenant Levallois was ignoring the universe of paper around him. Absorbed in his task, he was navigating through the computer’s programs. Sharko watched him while snapping the latex of his gloves.

  “So?”

  “She’s got a left-handed keyboard. It’s a pain, but I was still able to do a full-disc search of her computer by date. The most recent document goes back a year.”

  “Anything having to do with hand dominance?”

  “Nothing. Not a blessed thing. Someone’s apparently been here and erased it all. Including her thesis.”

  “Can we recover the data?”

  “Depends on how thoroughly they wiped it. We might only be able to get fragments, or nothing at all.”

  Sharko glanced toward the entrance.

  “We didn’t find any house keys on the victim or among her effects at the office, but the entry door was locked. After getting rid of Louts, the killer came here, calmly, to clean up, then locked up after himself. Clearly not the panicky type.”

  Levallois pointed to the frame under his partner’s arm.

  “How come you’re walking around with that? You like fencing?”

  Sharko went up to him.

  “Here, look at this. You see anything odd?”

  “Apart from two masked girls who look like giant mosquitoes? No, not really.”

  “And yet it’s clear as day. Both opponents are left-handed. When you consider the odds—one lefty out of ten—you can admit it’s curious, to say the least.”

  Jacques Levallois took the frame with aroused interest.

  “You’re right. And that’s exactly what her thesis was about.”

  “Her thesis which has disappeared.”

  Sharko left him to mull it over and opened the drawers. Inside were office supplies, reams of paper, and more science magazines. One of the cover headlines caught his eye: “Violence.” It was on the American magazine Science, an issue from 2009. Sharko glanced through the table of contents. The articles were about Nazis, high school shootings, the aggressive behaviors of certain animals, serial murderers. The editorial was very short: Where should we look for the causes of violence? In society? Historical context? Education? Or in our genes?

  Sharko shut the magazine and sighed. He might have been able to furnish an answer, after all the horrors he’d uncovered during his investigation the previous year. He finished looking around and nodded toward the computer.

  “What about in her Internet bookmarks? Did you check?”

  Levallois put down the framed photo and shook his head.

  “No bookmarks, no history, no cookies. I didn’t find anything of note in her e-mail, either. We’ll have to check with her service provider.”

  Sharko noticed traces of glue scattered over the large blotter that depicted a map of the world. No doubt Post-it notes that had been torn off. The killer might have taken them.

  His gaze stopped at the tower of CDs, which he pointed to.

  “I’d be very surprised if Louts didn’t make backup copies of her hard drive.”

  “I’ve already had a quick look around. If she burned any discs, they aren’t here now.”

  “Let’s bring in a full team for a complete search and take the computer with us.”

  A phone rang and Levallois answered his cell. Two minutes of conversation, after which he returned to Sharko.

  “Two bits of news. The first has nothing to do with us, it’s about the body in the Vincennes woods, Hurault. The boss asked me to give you this message: your former chief wants to see you in his office, pronto.”

  “See me? Fine . . . and the other news?”

  “Robillard started by checking through the police files. Apparently, less than a month ago, Louts requested her police record—which is clean, by the way—to obtain authorization to visit penitentiaries.”

  “Penitentiaries?”

  “At least a dozen of them. It’s as if our victim was out to meet the great jailbirds of France. So I can’t help wondering: what was a student who spends her time watching monkeys hoping to find in those hellholes?”

  8

  Once the door of the Homicide office had closed behind him, the inspector found himself opposite two men, Bertrand Manien and his right arm, Marc Leblond. One was seated, stiff as a rod, the other casually leaning against the rear window that looked out on the Seine. The atmosphere was tense, the furniture from another era.

  “Have a seat, Franck.”

  Sharko took a seat. Rudimentary wooden chair: his ass hurt and his bones ached. Too thin, way too thin. Normally that room, arranged as an open space, held an average of five or six officers working at their computers. Now, either the men were in the field or they’d been told to vacate the premises long enough for the “interview.” Marc Leblond walked toward Manien and sat down in turn. Tall guy, also thin, about forty, never seen without his cowboy boots or pack of generic cigarettes. Face like a reptile, narrow eyes that shone with malice. Before Homicide, he’d pulled five years in Vice, cuffing prostitutes and sometimes helping himself to the fringe benefits. Sharko had never liked him, and the feeling was mutual.

  The blond reptile fired first. Hoarse voice that brooked no argument: the guy was enjoying the situation.

  “Tell us about Frédéric Hurault.”

  Frédéric Hurault. The murder victim found in his car in Vincennes. Facing the two cops, Sharko adopted a falsely relaxed pos
ture. Arms folded, slouching a bit in his chair: he was in his former office, no more, no less.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “How you nabbed him, and when.”

  The inspector knit his brow. He tried to stand up, but Bertrand Manien leaned over the desk and pressed down on his shoulder.

  “Sit a while, Chief Inspector, what’s your hurry? For two days we’ve been drawing blanks on this case. No witnesses, no apparent motive. Hurault wasn’t big on whores—he couldn’t even get it up anymore with all the meds they’d shot into him at the psych hospital. So what was it, a date? A sudden impulse? But why there, in such a secluded spot? So you see, we’ve hit a dead end for the moment.”

  “You fired me from your team, and now you want my help?”

  “I did you a favor by letting you go, didn’t I? It was . . . how shall I put it, one good turn for another. Listen, this killer isn’t exactly your average moron. We’re only asking questions that will help us make headway. You’re the one who hunted down Hurault, back when. You’re the one who put him away. You know the guy—who he is, who he hangs out with.”

  “There are files full of that stuff.”

  “Files are heavy and dusty. Nothing beats a good face-to-face. We’d appreciate it if you gave us the pertinent info. Soon all my men might be on that monkey thing, and I have to show results on this case no one gives a shit about, you understand?”

  Sharko regained his calm.

  “Not much to say that you don’t already know. It was the early 2000s. Hurault had recently divorced after about a dozen years of marriage, at his wife’s instigation. The divorce was messy—Hurault didn’t appreciate being left. He was about thirty, a worker at Firestone. Lived in a small apartment in Bourg-la-Reine. The day of the incident, he had custody of his daughters for the weekend.”

  The cop swallowed, took a breath, tried to keep his voice neutral, emotionless. Still, he had never forgotten the horrors he’d seen that day, on the fourth floor of that nondescript apartment building.