“Good for you.”
A cold, toneless reply. Levallois shook his head and concentrated on the road, the investigation. The case was sucking him in more and more each day, and each day he got home a bit later. He caught himself feeling a growing excitement the deeper he sank into the shadows. Would he, too, end up like Sharko? Sticking with the cut-and-dried, he aired aloud his thoughts about the case:
“Terney wrote his book in 2006. He already had Carnot’s genetic code, and also the killer’s from Chapelle-la-Reine, when they weren’t even in the database. Our genetic fingerprints aren’t readily accessible, so he has to have met those two at some point and taken samples of their blood, hair, or saliva. And he had to have access to the kind of machines they’ve got at CSI, in order to extract their DNA profiles.”
Sharko nodded.
“There are seven genetic profiles in the book. Two of them are already in FNAEG, and we know they’re violent killers. That means there are potentially six psychos somewhere out there. The bodies in Fontainebleau show that one of them is now active. As for the others, they’re ticking time bombs, and at this rate it won’t be long before they go off, too.”
“Maybe they already have . . . Maybe the other anonymous cases have already killed but didn’t leave their DNA at the crime scene. Or maybe it was in another country? What do we really know about it?”
A reflective silence followed these words. Who were these shadow warriors? What unleashed this violence in them and pushed them to commit such heinous crimes? Sharko rested his forehead on the passenger-side window and stifled a yawn. Even in circumstances like these, sleep returned like an acid and gnawed at him from inside.
While Sharko dozed, jerking awake every time his head lolled forward, the car exited the highway, arriving at La Chapelle-la-Reine barely ten minutes later. Population three thousand, fields on all sides, the forest edge barely a mile away. The police station looked like any other administrative building: monotonous and depressing. A concrete block sporting the tricolored flag and the word “Gendarmerie.” On the parking lot sat two shabby blue police cars.
Levallois parked at an angle, wrenching Sharko from his torpor.
“Honestly, I don’t get it,” the younger man said. “What the hell are we doing out here? Major Case is in charge of the investigation and they’ve got all the files. Why don’t we just go straight there and save time?”
“The guy we’re here to meet, Claude Lignac, must be pretty bitter about having this one taken away. I’ll bet you he’s better informed than anybody else around here. And besides, he won’t ask too many questions. I like it when people don’t ask too many questions.”
“The boss wanted us to go see Major Case. We’re circumventing correct procedure here, and I’m not really comfortable with that.”
“Major Case would have given us a few scraps of information at most. Despite what you think, rivalry between state and local police isn’t just an urban myth. You have to know how to let go of procedure and trust your instincts.”
They got out of the car and walked into the building. A young man, wearing the regulation navy blue sweater with epaulettes indicating the rank of sergeant, saluted and ushered them into the office of Captain Claude Lignac. The captain, about thirty-five years old, had small round glasses, a fine, elegant mustache, and particularly jovial features: he looked like the stereotypical English inspector. After introductions and some routine questions about why Homicide was interested, he picked up his car keys and a file.
“You’d like to see the crime scene right away, I presume?”
“If you could take us there, we’d appreciate it. We’ll talk at the scene. Have you been keeping up with Major Case’s findings?”
The local policeman shrugged.
“Of course. Those guys from Versailles might have kicked us off the case, but this is my turf, and what goes on here is my business.”
He walked ahead of them to the door. Sharko winked at his colleague. Claude Lignac got into his car and headed off, with Levallois following behind. In barely five minutes, the forest swallowed them up. Leaving the local highway, the gendarme took a crazily twisting shortcut, drove for another five minutes, and finally parked at the edge of a hiking path. Slamming of doors, soles crunching the earth. Sharko pulled his jacket closed; the temperature had dropped noticeably, as if in testament to the magnitude of the tragedy the trees had witnessed. Around them, a few bird cheeps and crackings of old wood were lost in the vast space.
Claude Lignac motioned for them to follow. In single file, they walked over the slightly damp earth, amid the undergrowth, the beeches, and the chestnut trees. The captain veered off into a slightly denser area and pointed to a carpet of vegetation, made of lichen and rotten leaves.
“This is where a rider found them. Carole Bonnier and Eric Morel, two kids who lived in Malesherbes, about twelve miles from here. According to their parents, they’d come to spend a few days in the woods, camping and rock climbing.”
Sharko squatted down. Traces of dried blood still stained the leaves and the base of a tree. Thick, strong spatters that attested to the frenzied nature of the crime. Lignac took some photos from his pocket and handed them to Levallois.
“I got these from Major Case. Look what the bastard did to them.”
The sudden bitterness of those words surprised Sharko. Levallois’s face darkened while Lignac continued filling them in:
“They’re pretty sure he first hit them in the face and stomach, almost hard enough to knock them out. The autopsy revealed subcutaneous hematomas and a number of broken blood vessels, which shows how violent the blows were.”
“Did he use a weapon of some kind, maybe a stick?”
“No, he went at it barehanded at first. Only afterward did he use one of the rock axes he’d taken from their backpack, to finish the job, so to speak. We’d never seen anything like it around here.”
Lips pressed tight, Levallois handed the photos to the inspector. Sharko looked at them carefully, one after the other. Wide views of the crime scene, close-ups of the victims’ wounds, faces, and mutilated limbs. A slaughter.
“They got the full treatment,” said the policeman in disgust. “The ME up in Paris counted forty-seven axe wounds for him, and . . . and fifty-four for her. He hit them wherever he could, with remarkable strength and determination. Apparently the impact of the metal on their bones was hard enough to cause fractures.”
Sharko handed back the photos and stared for a while at the stained earth. Two different monsters, Carnot and this one, had acted one year apart, but with almost exactly the same, extremely violent m.o. Two savages that Terney had already listed in his book in 2006.
Two out of seven . . . Seven profiles that, in all likelihood, would belong to the same race of killers. Hence Sharko’s odd question:
“Do you know if the killer was left-handed?”
A question that, as Sharko expected, took the other man by surprise.
“Left-handed? Uh . . . You’d have to ask Major Case, but as I recall they didn’t say in the autopsy report. The weapon used in the crime had symmetrical double edges, so there’s no way of knowing from the wounds. Why do you ask?”
“Because your killer probably is left-handed. He’ll also be tall and stocky, age between twenty and thirty. Are those footprints in the ground his?”
“Yes, he wears a size eleven. But how did you . . . ?”
“Powerful build, no doubt taller than six feet. Were you able to reconstruct the exact circumstances of the crime?”
Sharko carefully scanned the surrounding area, especially the tree trunks. He was looking for carvings in the wood. Could it be that, like Carnot and the Cro-Magnon, the killer had made an upside-down drawing? But despite his sharp eye, he didn’t spot anything of note.
“More or less,” said the gendarme. “Time of death is estimated at about eight a
.m., six days ago. We arrived fifteen minutes after the rider called, around nine-thirty. There was a pot on the lit gas burner, all the water had evaporated. We think the victims were making breakfast. They were in sports clothes, shorts and T-shirts. The tent was still up and the quilts folded down. There were a couple of ATVs chained to a tree.”
The captain stepped forward and brushed a few leaves aside with his toe.
“The victims were lying right here, near the tent. They hadn’t had time to run, or hadn’t tried to. The killer almost certainly came up by the path we’ve just taken—it’s fairly popular with hikers, cyclists, and riders. Then he left the path, cut through the ferns, and approached the campsite. Major Case isn’t sure whether he tried to chat them up first or just attacked head-on.”
Sharko thought to himself that this cop had the right instincts: he was keeping close tabs on the investigation. A way for him to show he still ruled his little roost, and especially to get a break from the daily routine.
“Any witnesses?”
“None. It was a bit too early for hikers, and anyway they would have kept to the path. The circumstances of the murder were reported in all the local papers, I made sure of that—I’ve got a few connections. We put out a call for eyewitnesses.”
“Good. Did you get any results?”
“No, no one came forward. The killer was lucky.”
“They often are. Until they get caught.”
Sharko stepped over some branches and returned to the path. He called back:
“You couldn’t see the tent from this path, is that right?”
The gendarme adjusted his small round glasses.
“Correct. Those kids must have known they weren’t supposed to camp in the woods, so they chose a hidden spot. How did the killer find them if he was just passing by? Probably from the sound of their voices. And if the water was boiling, he might have spotted the steam in the cool morning air. At that point, it would have been easy to track them.”
The man was detail-oriented. Sharko rubbed his chin, again squinting at the surroundings. The vegetation was dense, and you couldn’t see more than ten yards. Levallois rubbed his hands together as if he were cold.
“Any ideas about the killer’s profile?” he asked.
Lignac nodded, eager to relay the details and show off his skills.
“Physically, we know the bastard wears a size eleven and that he had hiking boots. The presence of a Y chromosome in the DNA confirms he’s male—and a hefty one, at that, given how deep the shoeprints go. Like you said, easily six feet. He didn’t steal or disturb anything. The victims weren’t sexually assaulted, the bodies weren’t moved postmortem. Everything was left as is, with no attempt to conceal the crime. As if it were all in a murderous frenzy . . .”
The same as with Carnot, thought Sharko.
“Major Case has got molds of the shoeprints, fingerprints, DNA up the wazoo, on the bodies, the weapon, and in the backpack where he got the ax. The whole thing happened like lightning, nobody saw a thing. According to the ME, some of the stab wounds were sloppy, careless. He came along, killed them haphazardly, driven by what looks like a mad rage. The couple was just unlucky enough to be in his path.”
Sharko and Levallois exchanged a glance. As with Carnot, this tended to disprove the hypothesis of a killer stalking his victims, studying their habits and movements. The two kids had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“You figure he’s a local?”
The policeman pushed a bit deeper into the ferns and stopped near a tree.
“We’re all pretty sure of it. There’s something important and rather peculiar I haven’t told you yet. Come over here . . .”
The cops approached. Lignac pointed to the ground.
“Here, at the base of this tree, we discovered about a dozen burned matches, with a matchbox advertising a drink popular with kids, ‘Vitamin X.’ Major Case thinks the killer just sat here after the crime striking matches, one by one, staring at the bodies. Most of the matches were broken, which suggests he was under severe mental strain, like a pressure cooker. Clearly he needed to sit a while, calm his nerves; maybe he didn’t feel well enough to go straight home. Maybe he was suffering a breakdown. In any case, as I said, he wasn’t the careful type. He didn’t make any effort to cover his tracks.”
He headed toward the crime scene with a sigh: never again would he walk in these woods without thinking of the massacre.
“This box of matches is a real gift from heaven—it was almost certainly his, since the kids had a lighter. It gave Major Case a precious bit of information, because the only way you could get it was as part of a promo about a month ago, when they handed them out at a club in Fontainebleau, the Blue River. I’m certain the killer is hiding in the city and that he went to that club.”
“Why Fontainebleau itself and not some other town in the area?”
Lignac shook his head.
“It was a special event—you had to be a resident to get in.”
Sharko and Levallois shot each other a glance. Information like this was more than they’d hoped for.
“And . . . does Major Case have anything in particular on this club? Any potential suspects?”
“For now, their investigation hasn’t led anywhere. The promo drew a lot of people, practically every kid in town. Head count more than five thousand—the place was packed. The only reliable information they’ve got is the killer’s DNA. They might try testing all the young adults who were there that night and wear size eleven shoes, but it would take a long time and cost a bundle.”
“Especially if the killer only went to the club that once . . .”
Sharko began pacing back and forth, hand on his chin. The police were tracking a ghost, a monster who had no apparent motive, who might now be holed up at home and wouldn’t come out again until driven by another murderous impulse.
As he gazed once more at the scene, an idea suddenly flashed through his mind. It was totally improbable and would likely take him all afternoon, but it was worth a try. Eva Louts, with her thesis and her research, just might be handing him his killer on a platter.
He tried to conceal his excitement:
“All right, then. I think we’ve seen all there is to see.”
Back at the parking lot, he thanked Claude Lignac and let him walk away. Then he held out his empty hand to Levallois.
“The keys. I’m driving this time.”
He took the wheel. Levallois didn’t hide his skepticism.
“DNA everywhere, that bit about the matchbox—don’t you find it all a bit much? It’s as if the killer wanted to get caught.”
“That might be the case. He might want to lead us to him because he himself doesn’t understand his actions. He knows he’s dangerous and could do it again.”
“So then why doesn’t he just turn himself in?”
“Nobody wants to rot in jail. The killer’s leaving himself a chance, and also absolving himself of guilt: this way, he can tell himself that if he kills again, it’ll be our fault because we couldn’t stop him in time.”
Sharko turned onto the local highway, heading toward Fontainebleau. The young lieutenant frowned.
“Can I know what you’re up to? Are we going to that club to redo what Major Case already did? We’ve got other fish to fry.”
“Not even close. The two of us are going on a treasure hunt. We’ve got a huge advantage over Major Case: we know that Grégory Carnot and our anonymous killer have Terney’s book in common. Both of them blew a fuse, both are young, strong, and I’d bet my eyeteeth they’re both left-handers.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s the same muck we’ve been been paddling around in since day one. Louts went to interview killers in prison, until she hit upon Carnot. She was killed because of her research on lefties. You need any more reason
s? We’ll divide the labor. Your job is to rent a car for the afternoon and go see all the doctors in Fontainebleau.”
The young lieutenant’s eyes widened.
“What’s that, a joke?”
“Do I look like I’m joking? You’re looking for a patient who’s male, young, solidly built, who has balance problems, and who sometimes sees the world upside down. Maybe he wouldn’t have put it quite that way, maybe he just complained about vision problems, or violent headaches. In short, something that could be related to hallucinations or mental disturbance.”
“But this is crazy! Why?”
“Grégory Carnot, the last name on the list of violent offenders, had all those symptoms. He sometimes saw the world upside down. It never lasted very long, but it was intense enough for him to lose his balance. And it was also linked to his outbursts of violence.”
Levallois knit his brow.
“Why didn’t you say anything about this at the briefings?”
“Because it wasn’t important.”
“Not important? Are you nuts?”
“Don’t take it the wrong way.”
Levallois kept silent for a moment, frustrated.
“Fine, whatever. And what are you going to do in Fontainebleau while I go chasing after every quack in town? Have a beer?”
“How uncharitable you are! I’m going back into the killer’s childhood, hoping he lives and has always lived in Fontainebleau. I’m looking for left-handers, like Eva Louts, except I’ll be making the rounds of nursery schools.”
28
Lucie felt a pang as she pulled into the parking lot of Colombe Hospital, in the Reims medical center. Maternity hospitals all look the same. Despite the apparent austerity of those long concrete vessels with their rows of identical windows, they breathed life; people went in as husband and wife and came out as dad and mom, prouder, happier, more responsible. A fruit of nature was created from the blend of their chromosomes, and the incredible alchemy of birth transformed them forever.
Bred to Kill Page 22
