Bred to Kill

by Franck Thilliez

  The inspector thought of the framed picture they’d found in the student’s room. Two armed panthers, challenging each other with thrusts of the foil. Both left-handed . . . Jaspar had begun walking again, toward the Arctic exhibits. Animals with white fur that allowed them to move about unnoticed and be protected from the cold; mammals endowed with a thick layer of blubber . . . more examples of environmental adaptation.

  “Eva Louts drew up some very precise statistics. References, sources of information, and the dates when portions were written were all inscribed in her thesis: in highly interactive sports, in which close contact is an intrinsic part of the combat, the frequency of left-handers reaches nearly fifty percent. No matter if it’s boxing, fencing, or judo. The farther apart the adversaries stand from each other, the more this ratio diminishes. It remains high in Ping-Pong, for instance, but falls back into the normal range for tennis and group sports in which there’s less one-on-one contact.”

  Jaspar opened the thesis. She turned a few pages, to photos of handprints painted on a cave wall.

  “With these data, Eva attempted to trace hand dominance throughout the ages. She discovered that most cave paintings dating from the Paleolithic or Neolithic Era had been done by left-handers. The handprints, made from pigments blown from the mouth, are of left hands in 179 cases, against 201 cases of right hands, or around forty percent. Which suggests that, long ago, in the time of the first humans, there were many more left-handers than today, and that over the course of the centuries, evolution tended to weed them out, just as it did with the dark moths.”

  She continued to leaf through the thesis. More photos appeared.

  “After that, Eva went into museums and archives, copying down ancient documents concerning the reigns of the Goths, Vikings, and Mongols. In other words, peoples that have gone down in history as particularly violent . . . Look at these photos of their tools from back then, their weapons. Louts concentrated on their configuration, the rotational direction of drill bits in the materials, the signs of wear from teeth on wooden spoons, which are different depending on whether you bring the spoon to your mouth with your left or right hand.”

  She pointed to the characteristic traces.

  “By studying these collections, she was able to gauge the proportion of left-handers in these violent populations, and realized that it was much higher than in other populations during the same period. The student accomplished a major piece of work. No one else had noticed such a thing or delved into it like that. I can understand why she broke off relations with her thesis adviser. She was on to something huge, a major discovery for evolutionary biology.”

  Sharko held out his hand, and Jaspar gave him several photocopies. He looked through the graphs, figures, and photos. As he turned the pages, Jaspar commented:

  “Here’s another long section, just as interesting, which takes Eva’s research all the way up to contemporary society. This time, she based her conclusions on murder rates over the past fifty years in a city that’s considered one of the most violent in the world, Juárez, Mexico. I’m not sure how she obtained this information, but it seems to have come straight from the files of the Mexican police.”

  Sharko ran his hand over his mouth. A piece of the mystery was becoming clear; no doubt this was the reason for her trip to Mexico.

  “She went there barely a week before coming to your center, in mid-July,” he confided. “We found her plane reservations.”

  Jaspar paused in surprise for a few seconds.

  “To go so far just to get that information. She truly was remarkable.”

  “What was she looking for in those records? More left-handers?”

  “Exactly. She wanted to know the proportion of left-handers among extremely violent criminals living in very violent surroundings. Were there as many as in the time of the barbarians? Would you get statistics that showed, globally, in contemporary civilization, one left-hander for every ten right-handers?”

  Sharko looked through pages and pages of documents with a questioning eye, and spoke before she could continue.

  “So tell me—how does violence figure into all this?”

  “Eva discovered that in violent societies, where combat is the dominant factor, being left-handed offers a huge advantage for survival.”

  Jaspar paused to let Sharko digest that information, then went on.

  “According to what she wrote, if left-handers exist, it’s because they’re better fighters. They enjoy a strategic advantage in combat, which is the effect of surprise. When two individuals confront each other, the left-hander has the advantage because he’s used to fighting right-handers, whereas the right-hander is disoriented by someone who favors using his left hand or foot. He doesn’t see the blows coming. And therefore, it’s because they are less numerous, less common, that left-handers have an advantage.”

  “In DNA, you mean?”

  “Yes. That might seem simplistic, but it’s really the way nature works: everything favorable to the propagation of genes is selected and transmitted, while the rest is eliminated. Obviously, this doesn’t take place over just a few years, it often takes centuries for this information to be inscribed in our DNA.”

  Sharko tried to summarize.

  “So, from what you’re saying, the more violent the community, the higher the proportion of left-handers?”

  “That was the evolutionary phenomenon Eva highlighted. The ‘left-handed’ trait is spread via DNA in violent societies, while in other societies it gradually fades out, leaving more room for right-handers.”

  “I know a number of lefties. They’re not particularly athletic or violent. So if nature tends to eliminate anything that isn’t useful, why aren’t they right-handers like everyone else?”

  “Because of genetic memory. Our modern culture will end up eliminating it, as it will end up eliminating white moths.”

  She nodded toward the thesis.

  “That’s why, among the violent criminals in that Mexican city, Eva didn’t find a higher proportion of left-handers than anywhere else. She must have been extremely disappointed by those findings, but all things considered, it’s logical: no question that, in a world where you only need press a button or pull a trigger in order to kill, being left-handed doesn’t do you any good, because we no longer have to engage in hand-to-hand combat. Consequently, the gene pool of left-handers will eventually die out. One day there will no longer be any more left-handers in any society, whatever its level of violence.”

  Sharko took time to assimilate this information. It all struck him as implacably logical and extremely interesting. Culture modified the environment, which in turn affected the selection of the fittest . . . He returned to his questions.

  “A week after Mexico, Louts traveled to Manaus, in Brazil. Did she make any mention of that in her thesis?”

  Jaspar’s eyes widened.

  “Brazil? No, no . . . nothing to explain a trip down there. No statistics, no data. Is Manaus also a violent city?”

  “No more than any other, apparently. In any case, after her quasi-failure in Mexico, Eva seemed to be conducting very focused research. And does the thesis talk about her studies of French prison inmates? A certain Grégory Carnot, for instance?”

  “No, nothing like that either.”

  Sharko placed the sheet of paper on the others, skeptical. Nothing about her trip to Brazil, nothing about Carnot or her prison visits. After Manaus, Louts had moved squarely outside the parameters of her thesis. The inspector probed further:

  “She visited prisons during the day, when she was supposed to be at your center. That’s why she wanted to start at five o’clock—she didn’t want anyone knowing about her visits to penitentiaries. She interviewed inmates and collected their photos. From what you’ve read, and from what you know, why would Eva have gone to visit prisoners who were all young, left-handed, and had committed violen
t murders?”

  She thought for a moment.

  “Hmmm . . . Her approach this time seems rather different from in Mexico. She was not looking for a left-hander behind the crime, but for a crime behind the left-hander. She might have been trying to determine if hand dominance and violence could be related in isolated cases of individuals who lived in civilized environments . . . Did these men have any points in common? Was there something that made them stand out? I’m sorry, that’s the only line of inquiry I can think of.”

  Which didn’t explain much of anything, Sharko thought to himself. Lower down, he saw Levallois climbing the steps two by two. He asked the primatologist one last question:

  “Is there anything else about the thesis I should know?”

  “I don’t believe so, but you can read it for yourself. Apart from the graphs and some mathematical data, most of it should be fairly accessible. Eva had written an incredibly thorough and careful study, one that would certainly have caused a stir in scientific circles. And still will if her work gets published.”

  The young lieutenant was catching his breath on the top step. He spotted Sharko and waved, then gazed at a large poster that explained how viruses work. The police inspector warmly thanked the primatologist.

  “Naturally, I have to ask you to keep all this confidential until we’re finished with our investigation.”

  “Of course. I’m going to wander around the galleries a bit more. Please keep me posted on the case. You can call whenever you like, even at night. I don’t sleep much. I’d really like to understand this and help you out as much as I can.”

  “I will.”

  She gave him a shy smile, shook his hand, and walked off. Sharko gazed after her a few seconds, then headed toward his partner.

  “So, what about the fossil?”

  “It’s not from here, for the simple reason that they don’t have any chimpanzee fossils that old in their collection.”

  “So, wild goose chase.”

  “Not at all, we’ve got a huge lead. The director told me that for the past week there’s been an exhibit on mineralogy and fossils at the Drouot auction house, which ends tomorrow. A sale of mammal skeletons several thousand years old was held last Thursday. No doubt there were monkeys in the batch. I’ve got the name of the auctioneer who handled it. He’ll be at Avenue Montaigne tonight at nine for another sale.”

  “Can we reach him right now?”

  “I called Drouot, but no luck. He doesn’t show up until about a half hour beforehand.”

  Sharko headed for the stairs.

  “In that case, I know where we’ll be spending our evening.”

  “Mmmm . . . I had other plans.”

  “You already went to the movies once this week. Mustn’t overdo it, you know.”

  Levallois greeted the quip with a smile, then grew serious again.

  “And what about you, anything new?”

  “You might say that. I’ll fill you in at thirty-six.”

  When they stepped outside, the temperature rose sharply. Sharko slapped the thesis into his partner’s hands.

  “Can you put this on my desk? I want to give it a read-through.”

  He veered off to the left, toward the main gardens.

  “The scooter’s this way, Franck.”

  Sharko turned around.

  “I know, but I’m going to walk home and stop in at the barber’s. Besides, if I’ve got this evolution business right, we were given legs to walk on. If we keep taking cars and public transportation, we’ll just end up losing them.”

  17

  Lucie had hit the road after lunch. The nice manager of the Ten Marmots had whipped her up a splendid risotto that would surely hold her until evening. She wasn’t sorry to be sitting behind the wheel for a few hours: the descent from the glacier had been difficult, including a painful cramp in her calf that had kept her stuck on the ice for an extra five minutes. But the round trip to the summit had been worth it. Lucie was on the trail of something, a prehistoric oddity that lit up a fury of little flashing lights inside her.

  As she drove, the mountain reliefs overlapped, the gorges widened until they pushed the Alps into the background. Then came small valleys, steeply inclined fields, and nervous streams. Finally, Lyon, in late afternoon, looked like a black boulder on a lake of hot coals. People were returning home from work, clogging the approach roads to a standstill. A life regulated to the quarter of an inch, in which everyone, once back home, would spend a few hours on spouse, children, or Internet, before going to bed, head swarming with tomorrow’s stock of woes. Lucie tried to keep patient and took advantage of the traffic jam to call her mother. She knew Juliette was out: the little girl had been taking music lessons for the past two years. She asked Marie to give her a kiss and tell her how much Mommy loved her. Was she looking after Klark? She passed on a bit of news, explained merely that she was resolving an old issue, then quickly hung up. It took her another half hour to get out of that traffic sludge and enter the city’s seventh arrondissement.

  As Lucie neared her destination, she noticed another message on the screen of her phone. Sharko again, asking for news for at least the fourth time. Vaguely annoyed, she sent back a quick text that all was fine, she was making progress, no further details.

  She found a small spot on Rue Curien, near the École Normale. To her left, she could see the Saône, which flowed into the Rhône to form the Presqu’île. The area was bustling with students and filled with modern-design buildings: architecture with receding angles, tinted windows, and pure lines. Unlike Lille, whose brick constructions seemed flat and ruddy, Lyon offered an impression of mastered chaos, in both its relief and its vibrant colors.

  During the drive, Lucie had managed to reach the secretary of the Functional Genomics Institute and, still with her cop’s hat on, to score an appointment with Arnaud Fécamp, a member of the research unit that had taken in the bodies from the glacier. The scientist worked on the PALGENE platform, which was one of a kind in Europe and specialized in the analysis of fossil DNA. On the phone, he confirmed what Lucie already suspected: Eva Louts had indeed visited their lab ten days before.

  She quickly found René Descartes Square and entered the building, an impressive block of glass and concrete four stories high, hosting various activities related to the life sciences: biology, molecular phylogeny, postnatal development . . . At the far right of the foyer, two fat blue and red intertwined cables rose several yards into the air—the symbol representing the double helix of DNA. Lucie vaguely recalled her biology courses in high school, particularly the four “bases” of that giant helicoidal ladder, formed by the letters G, A, T, C: guanine, adenine, thymine, and cytosine. Four nitrogenous bases, common to all living creatures, whose complex combinations, which among other things formed genes and chromosomes, could give someone blue eyes, female gender, or a congenital illness. Lucie made out an inscription at the base of that curious construction: DNA HAS BEEN HIDDEN IN OUR CELLS FOR MILLIONS OF YEARS. WE ARE UNRAVELING IT.

  Everything was clean, immaculate, flawless. Lucie felt as if she were wandering through a science fiction setting, in which the staff would all be robots. Arnaud Fécamp, luckily, didn’t look like he was held together with nuts and bolts—in fact, he was rather well padded. Squeezed into his lab coat, he was shorter than Lucie and wore his flaming red hair extremely short. Round, smooth face, despite pronounced wrinkles on his forehead. Chubby freckled hands. Hard to guess his age, but Lucie figured a good forty.

  “Amélie Courtois?”

  “That’s me.”

  He shook her hand.

  “My boss is in a meeting, so I’ll see to you, if that’s all right. If I’ve understood correctly, you’re looking into the student who came to visit us about a week ago?”

  While they went up in a hyperefficient elevator—with a female voice to call out the floors—Lucie
explained the reason for her visit: Eva Louts’s murder, her trip to the glacier, her passage through Lyon a few days before . . . Fécamp absorbed the news. His red jowls trembled from the elevator’s vibrations.

  “I sincerely hope you find the killer. I didn’t know that student very well, but no one has the right to do such a thing.”

  “We hope so too.”

  “I often watch old detective movies on TV, Maigret and the like. If thirty-six Quai des Orfèvres is on the case, it must be serious.”

  “It is.”

  Lucie remained purposely evasive, by the book. She didn’t want to say too much about the investigation, and in any case she had very little information to impart.

  “Tell me about Eva Louts.”

  “Like a lot of researchers or students working on evolution, she had come here to see the famous ice men.”

  “Do you know in what context?”

  “Research into the Neanderthal, I believe. The usual stuff. I don’t think you’ll learn much here, unfortunately.”

  Once again, Louts had used the pretext of research into Neanderthal man, perhaps hoping to conceal the real reason for her visit. A cautious girl, thought Lucie, who knew not to draw attention to herself. The door opened onto a long corridor with bluish linoleum. A vague odor of disinfectant floated over everything.

  “We can use my boss’s office, if you like. It’ll be more comfortable to talk there.”

  “It would be a shame for me to come all the way here and not have a peek at the ice men. I’d really like to see what our supposed ancestors looked like.”

  Fécamp paused a few seconds, then gave her a brief smile. His teeth were especially long and white.

  “Well, I suppose you’re right—might as well take the opportunity. It’s not every day that you come face-to-face with a thirty-thousand-year-old.”

  They turned off into a cloakroom where dozens of shrink-wrapped coveralls were piled up. The scientist handed a pack to Lucie.