Once again, Serge L assisted me in my research. For hours on end, we cross-referenced every possible record. Philippe D, alias ‘The Gaul’, had not come to official attention for years. I didn’t learn much from the study of old court proceedings. Impossible to find a recent address. He had been on the road for twenty years. He was a loner, with no family, and no apparent friends. No useful leads … This was not the way to track down this key witness. His name was circulated on the wanted for questioning list, but I hoped to avoid having to wait until by some lucky coincidence he was stopped by police. If ‘The Gaul’ was settled at the moment, months, even years, could go by before he was stopped by a patrol.
There might be another solution. A computer search of the national database of individuals wanted by the police yielded some valuable information. The computer stores the dates of identity checks on a person for two years. Although it came up with nothing for ‘The Gaul’, the printer sprang into action for Francis Heaulme, producing a listing of several pages detailing more than sixty dates, with a note of the exact time and the police unit that had carried out the check. An amazing itinerary emerged. Francis Heaulme was constantly on the move. It was almost beyond belief: between the months of April and May alone of that year, 1990, he had passed through Cambrai, Lunéville, Metz, Pont-à-Mousson, Verdun, Lens, Berck-sur-Saens, Trou-ville- sur-Mer, Mortain, Lanmeur, Lorient, Tarnos and Bayonne. Fourteen towns in eleven different départements stretching from north to south and east to west of the country. With what I believed I knew about the man, this odyssey was a cause for concern. How many other victims had he left in his wake?
But that August 1990, the whereabouts of ‘The Gaul’ were still unknown, and for the time being he was the only witness able to influence the course of events. In Rennes, the situation was hardly any better. Our boss had been replaced. The new commander of the criminal investigation unit, Colonel F, had taken up his post and reorganised the section. Major JR was appointed second in command. He was now my immediate superior. Changes soon followed. My superiors asked me to ‘consider concluding my investigation’. Meanwhile I was given other cases, in particular a murder in the Nantes region which was going to take up nearly all of my time. Now, I had no choice but to grin and bear it. I would just have to wait until ‘The Gaul’ was miraculously stopped. But I had no intention of closing the case so abruptly, and neither did the investigating magistrate. Whatever the outcome, Francis Heaulme had to be questioned. Another year was to go by.
It was not until 1991 that hope revived. One morning, Serge L called me from Rosny-sous-Bois.
‘Your “Gaul” was in Bayonne last week, are you interested?’
Was I interested! … I rushed in to see Colonel F.
‘Colonel, I think we’ve found the crucial witness we’ve been looking for in the Moulin Blanc case. He’s known as “The Gaul”. Heaulme mentioned him during an interview. He’s been located in Bayonne and I’d like to pay him a visit.’
Major JR cut me short.
‘You’re not going to tell me that you suspect Heaulme in this investigation! I was with you when we had him in custody. It’s not him, and you know it. Why don’t you come clean and tell me you just fancy a trip to Bayonne?’
Before I could open my mouth, the Colonel went on, ‘Abgrall, you’ll stay put and wind up this case as soon as possible.’
Flabbergasted, I just stood there speechless. Once again I was up against general scepticism and military discipline. Had Francis Heaulme pulled the wool over JR’s eyes so cleverly that he had absolutely no doubts? Once again, my hopes were dashed. I didn’t see how I was going to be able to nail the suspect. Meanwhile, Heaulme continued his travels.
December arrived. Serge L had left Rosny-sous-Bois several months earlier. His replacement was equally helpful. He informed me that Francis Heaulme was in Bischwiller, in Alsace. He was working in a rehabilitation association. As I had to hand in my report before long, I decided to do one last thing. On the morning of the 17th I found myself standing in front of a small, three-storey apartment block in Bischwiller, along with the gendarme Éric C from Brest.
‘Big Francis’ was sharing the apartment of a partially disabled young woman. This building stood at the end of a little cul de sac, in a quiet, isolated spot. I was amazed. Had Heaulme changed so much that he had settled down?
It was 10 a.m. when I knocked on his door. Francis Heaulme opened it a fraction. He was surprised, but seemed pleased to see me and he invited me in. The one-room flat was microscopic. It was very neat. A big bed took up half of the room. This bed was arranged in a strange manner: the sheets were rumpled on either side whereas the centre was perfectly smooth, without a crease … If Francis and his lady friend were sleeping together, it was far apart, avoiding contact.
‘Francis,’ I said, ‘we’re going to have to have another talk about your movements … but before we do, we’re going to search through your belongings again.’
The search yielded nothing. No weapon. No bloodstained clothing. No correspondence referring to the murder, no give-away press cuttings which killers often collect … We discreetly left his home in the little apartment building. No point alerting the neighbours. The interview with our witness was going to take place at the Strasbourg gendarmerie.
We installed ourselves in a soulless office that was as neutral as possible. Everything in it was of a professional nature. Here, nothing would disturb us. The confrontation had only just begun when the pressure set in. This man had an incredible faculty for creating a climate of violence. He knew what we were going to be talking about and his face was transformed – his features stiff, his lips clamped together and his stare often too piercing to meet. His body also changed. Every one of his muscles seemed to contract. At times like that, he really did remind me of a wild animal about to pounce. Perhaps his expression and attitude were linked to his concentration, I don’t know. In any case, they did not perturb me any more.
The chief who was with me watched him, then signalled his unease. I indicated that everything was fine and I whispered that this behaviour was usual in Francis Heaulme. The interview began.
‘Francis, I’ve checked out what you told me in Normandy. There are some things that don’t add up at all … Do you remember what you told me?’
Once again, his eyes bored into mine. Again, he spoke in a mechanical, stilted manner. He launched into a series of wild explanations.
‘I told you a load of rubbish. I lied. About the army, none of that was true. I was declared unfit for service because of my eyesight. And what I told you about attacking that woman on the beach, I made that up too, and there’s no such person as Henri L … I lied to you because I was afraid, I wanted to protect myself. I do sometimes think about the Moulin Blanc murder. I’ve even thought, in my dreams, that it was me. But I was in hospital in Quimper on Sunday 14 May 1989. I didn’t leave the hospital, even if I have the feeling I went to the beach that day. I only found out what had happened in the papers, the next day, the Monday, when I was at Quimper station. It upset me because the day before, on Saturday 13, I had gone for a walk in that exact spot.’
His words came out in a single burst, the rhythm and the tone completely flat. He didn’t move a muscle, kept his fists clenched all the time, and never took his eyes off mine. He clearly had not changed. I didn’t know what to do. I had no evidence to confront him with, yet above all I couldn’t let on how weak the case was. I tried another tactic.
‘Francis, have you been in hospital anywhere else, apart from Quimper?’
‘Yes, I’ve had several stays in psychiatric hospitals. I’ve even had several treatments for alcoholism. I thought I was cured … That’s all I have to say.’
It was 5 p.m. I knew what those words meant. There was no point pressing him. There was nothing more to be done. Driving him back to home to Bischwiller, I asked him to talk about his ‘little cock-ups’. Francis was on his guard, I knew, but I think he liked talking to me.
‘I cocke
d up a few times it’s true, but I’m cured. Now I’ve got a fiancée and everything’s fine.’
‘How did you meet her?’
‘I was working as a labourer and my girlfriend happened to come past. It was love at first sight. We saw each other again and she asked me to come and live in her flat. She said that God had placed me on her path. She’s very religious, we go and sing in the church choir.’
‘How long have you been together?’
‘Since May 1991.’
In my mind I saw that double bed where each stayed on their own side. Francis Heaulme’s lack of sexuality worried me. Couldn’t that be at the root of his problems, of his terrible violence? Could it not simply be the motive for the murders I suspected him of? I felt sure that I was sitting with the killer.
When we got back, Francis’s girlfriend was at home. She was a small, dark-haired woman in her thirties, barely one metre sixty but very stout. Due to her disability, she could not manage on her own, and received a certain amount of support. She was smiling, and wore a woollen hat pulled down over her ears. This woman was particularly sweet-natured, and I couldn’t help thinking what an odd couple they made. I tried to talk to her to find out whether Francis had confided in her. Visibly, she knew nothing. I hoped she was not in danger.
Before taking my leave, I caught Francis by the arm and marched him into the corridor. He was taken aback. I acted like him, showing no feelings. Speaking in a calm voice, without aggression and looking deep into his eyes, I said, ‘Francis, I know what you’ve done. I’ll be back, and next time you’ll be leaving with me. You will go either to prison, or to a psychiatric hospital if that’s what you need. Meanwhile, go and seek medical help and stop all this.’
He didn’t bat an eyelid, then replied, ‘François, you’d make a good psychiatrist!’
It wasn’t the first time he’d compared me to a psychiatrist … Coming from a man like him, what should I make of this? Was it sincere or cynical? We parted on a handshake, as evasive as ever.
Before setting off home, I recorded my conversations with Francis Heaulme. For the last time I informed my Strasbourg colleagues of the suspicions hanging over this man and warned them about his strange behaviour. I didn’t think I would ever be coming back here. I was tiring of this investigation, almost defeated. Francis would never talk and I would never have the proof I needed to nail him.
In Rennes, my lack of success prompted Major JR to demand I close the case. I was devastated. It was Christmas, and I went on holiday. On 26 December, at lunchtime, the phone rang in my house on the Breton coast, overlooking the Atlantic.
‘This is François, from the Brest criminal investigation unit. I want to let you know that “The Gaul” has just been arrested in Bourges. They’re expecting you there. Off you go.’
This was perhaps my last chance. I could fit in a lightning holiday … I left for Bourges, accompanied by a colleague.
The local gendarmes were not used to criminal cases, and they were pleased to see us. On our arrival, we learned that ‘The Gaul’ was panic-stricken when he heard that Breton investigators were coming to interview him. He kept repeating, ‘I’m going to take the rap for someone else, I’m going to take the rap for someone else. I’ve never been to Brittany … I’m fucked, I’m going to take the rap for someone else!’
It was 9.30 p.m. when the interview began. Two colleagues from Bourges were present. Before my arrival, they had talked to ‘The Gaul’ at length. They were going to be useful to me. Philippe D, the key witness, was at last sitting opposite me. He was a short, slim man of forty-five; he looked just like Asterix with his blond whiskers, except for his blue anorak.
His fear was almost tangible, verging on panic, which is unusual in this type of character. Life on the road tends to harden men, and as someone who had been raised in care institutions, he must have experienced far more distressing situations.
As usual, I began with his life story, a soft tactic which is tried and tested and reveals the little bargains with reality, the periods over which the interviewee prefers to draw a veil.
‘Tell me about your itinerary over these last few years.’
‘For three years, I’ve been staying in Emmaüs communities. I haven’t moved around much, I stay put for several months. The place I stayed longest was Poitiers. I spent a year there. I’ve stayed in the communities in Limoges, Poitiers and Bourges, that’s all. I’m sure, yes, sure … I stopped drinking eleven years ago. Actually, I haven’t drunk since I was convicted for the old woman business. All I remember about that is that a mate broke down a door and ran off. And I got sent down for it.’
I sensed that it was going to be hard to gain his confidence, and harder still to obtain any useful information.
After each sentence, almost with each word he spoke to me, ‘The Gaul’ looked imploringly at my two colleagues who kept repeating, ‘Don’t be afraid. It’s simple, if you haven’t done anything, nothing will happen to you.’
This little game was leading nowhere. I stopped beating about the bush.
‘Are you quite certain you haven’t stayed in any other Emmaüs communities than the ones you mentioned?’
‘No, no, I’m sure.’
‘Didn’t you go to Brittany?’
‘Oh no, I didn’t go there!’
‘Do you know where Brittany is?’
‘It’s the sea,’ he replied edgily. ‘I’ve stayed here all the time, I haven’t moved. I don’t move from my patch.’
‘Will you still say you’ve never been to Brittany if we talk to you about Brest or Le Relecq-Kerhuon?’
‘I’ve never been there, I tell you. I swear it!’
‘The Gaul’ was ashen, his eyes evasive. I stopped talking at that point and looked at one of the two gendarmes, who went on, ‘Philippe, look how fat his dossier is, he’s checked everything. If he’s asking you the question, there’s a reason for it, so be careful.’
I could feel that ‘The Gaul’ was at the end of his tether. After a few moments’ silence, he finally decided to talk.
‘It’s true, I was there,’ he admitted in a whisper. ‘It’s an Emmaüs community near the beach, outside Brest. I stayed there for two months. I did carpentry there. I didn’t have any friends, I minded my own business …’
‘Why didn’t you want to talk about Brest?’
‘Because I don’t like the place. There was a bad atmosphere in the community. That was because some of them drank.’
Philippe D was beginning to open up a little. ‘The Gaul’ had been mulling over this business for months. Apart from the pressure of the interview, he had a real need to unburden himself.
‘On the Sunday, first of all I went for a half at the café by the beach. Then I bought a bottle of beer at the grocery near the old boat in the port. On the way back to the community, I stopped near the beach to drink my beer.’
‘Can you describe the place where you drank your beer?’
‘You had to go through some bushes. And then, go down over some big rocks on the pebble beach. It’s a quiet place and I drank my beer there.’
‘After leaving the Emmaüs community at Le Relecq-Kerhuon, where did you go?’
‘I slept rough, in the bushes, near the place where I drank my beers. I stayed there for several days …’
‘Did anybody from the community come and visit you in your bushes and share a drink with you?’
‘Yes, mates came to see me. I can’t remember their names.’
It was 11.30 p.m., we broke off for a sandwich and to put our heads together. We all agreed that ‘The Gaul’ was still keeping something from us. If he seemed more relaxed, it was only on the surface. Certain questions completely fazed him. This man had been on the beach at the time of the murder. He was in the habit of drinking his beer in the spot where, shortly before the murder, a witness saw a man in a blue anorak sitting. The same garment that ‘The Gaul’ was still wearing. He had some important things to tell us, that was certain.
At half past midnight, the interview resumed. We spoke for another half an hour or so, then I decided to show him the photograph album. He recognised Heaulme, then Didier M.
‘The first one’s an alcoholic. I saw him in the community and he came to see me in the bushes. He drank a lot and turned very nasty afterwards. Didier, the other guy, was a mate.’
‘Did Heaulme talk about women, and if he did, in what way?’
‘He talked about them a lot, he wanted to screw them all. He looked at women in a weird way, but in any case, with his looks, his glasses … He was a really strange character, he talked to himself. He’s a sadist.’
‘And what happened the last time you were with him?’
A leaden silence. ‘The Gaul’ suddenly stopped in mid-flow, but my colleague encouraged him to reply. He was persuasive, and our witness continued.
‘All right. This time I’ll tell you the whole story. I was in the bushes, just above the beach, as I told you. Heaulme arrived wearing jeans and a white sports shirt … He’d drunk half a litre of red wine … He was very worked up. I don’t know why. Then we climbed down over the rocks near the bushes onto the beach … There was a woman sunbathing there, she was wearing a bikini … He started heading towards her. I followed him for about ten metres. Heaulme had gone sort of crazy. I thought he was going to rape her so I followed to stop him. When the woman saw him coming, she sat up on her towel. She was scared. Still sitting there, she asked what he wanted. He said, “I’m going to screw you.” The woman got up and grabbed Heaulme by the shoulders, and he seized her throat. He squeezed her throat with one hand. I didn’t intervene, because Heaulme said to me nastily, “Why are you following me?’’ The woman began to scream and I ran away … I went to the station and got on the first train to Paris. I was scared. That’s all I saw … I went to Tours … I saw on the news that a woman had been stabbed to death in Brest. I saw pictures of the murder scene and I recognised the place where Heaulme had attacked the woman. I knew it was him, but I thought he’d been caught. I was scared of being accused of the killing but I had nothing to do with it. That’s why I was afraid to talk to you. One last thing, I was wearing a blue anorak that day. Now I’ve told you everything.’
Inside The Mind Of A Killer Page 6
