It was 3.30 a.m. After two years of investigations, ‘The Gaul’ had finally spilled his secret. We quickly completed the remaining formalities, and Philippe D picked out Aline Pérès from a number of photos of women. The customary search yielded nothing of relevance and ‘The Gaul’ was released. With the agreement of the investigating magistrate, he promised not to leave Bourges, so that he would be able to respond if summonsed. I felt relieved, but I couldn’t help thinking how unwittingly selfish this man had been. If he had come forward on the day of the murder, other lives would certainly have been saved.
5
Confessions
It was the beginning of 1992. Francis Heaulme was under discreet surveillance by the Bischwiller gendarmerie. Their only orders were not to let him take to the road again. In the meantime, at Le Relecq-Kerhuon, ‘The Gaul’s’ statement had been meticulously checked. Everything he had said tallied. We were ready for another meeting with our man.
On 6 January at 8 a.m., Éric C, the Brest investigator who had accompanied me on my first trip to Alsace, joined me in Rennes. Before we left for Strasbourg, I called the chief at Avignon. He had made no headway with his investigation. Two and a half years on, and the case of the murdered former legionnaire in Courthézon was still unsolved. When we invited him to come to Bischwiller with us, he declined. He was not interested in meeting our suspect.
It was nearly midnight by the time we arrived at the hotel in Bischwiller. We’d nearly got stuck in the snow on the little country roads of Alsace. During this long journey, we had had plenty of time to think about the interview and discuss the case in minute detail. Anxious not to get caught up in Heaulme’s little games, I reminded Éric how lucid his ramblings were. We both agreed to play by his rules. We would let him take the initiative and lead us into his world.
The next morning, we visited Francis. We listened quietly outside the door of his studio apartment: somebody was home. I knocked. No reply. But we could hear a person moving around inside. I knocked again and Heaulme’s voice at last replied, ‘Who is it?’
I answered, ‘It’s Jean-François!’
He appeared in the doorway.
‘It’s you?’ he said, relieved. ‘Come in!’
As I stepped inside, I glimpsed him putting something down in a corner. I quickly examined the room. Nothing appeared to have changed since my last visit. Heaulme planted himself in front of us and challenged me.
‘You allowed me to enjoy Christmas?’
The game was on. I answered, ‘I told you I’d be back. Did you have a good Christmas, at least?’
Each eyed the other searchingly. We were both concealing our hand. Now it was a matter of waiting to see who would give his game away first.
‘While I was waiting for you, I went to see the sea. Yes, I went to see the sea,’ he repeated, his eyes boring into mine.
I didn’t understand what he meant. Those staring eyes. I didn’t reply, this wasn’t the time or the place to open the interview.
‘Francis, we’re going to leave now, pack your bag.’
As we were about to leave the apartment, I noticed a hatchet behind the door. Was that the object he’d been putting away – or hiding – when we arrived? I feigned surprise:
‘Francis, why have you got a hatchet in your apartment?’
‘I’m having problems with some Turks. There are lots of Turks here. They’re foreigners and I don’t like foreigners. And my girlfriend locked me up in the flat. With that, she wouldn’t dare do it again. Anyway, I climb out and go over the rooftops.’
His words were as disconcerting as ever. We left for Strasbourg. So as to preserve the strange rapport that had developed between us, I decided not to handcuff him. The two of us were sitting in the back of a little grey Peugeot 205, and Francis seemed happy. What could he have up his sleeve?’
He talked non-stop all through the thirty-minute journey, carefully weighing each word.
‘Before I was with my girlfriend, I had a few cock-ups. You know, François, I was ill, alcoholic, but now I’m OK.’
I listened without replying, or pointing out that he still kept getting my name wrong. If he preferred to call me François, what did it matter? It was a name that sounded like his own, and if that made it easier for him to talk …
10 a.m. We were back in our office at the Strasbourg gendarmerie. Although not completely relaxed, Francis was less tense than he had been during our previous confrontations. I opened the conversation.
‘Francis, here’s your notification that you are being held for questioning. You have already been interviewed twice in this investigation, now you only have to spend another twenty-eight hours with me. You know, that’s not much time to talk about your problems. If you want me to help you, you mustn’t keep making things up. Just tell me what you’ve been doing, exactly as things happened. That way, I’ll be able to explain that you’re a different man now from the one I met on the roads of Normandy. Talk to me about the people you’ve met too, people who’ve made a special impression, anything you like …’
I had no idea whether this invitation to talk about himself would have any impact on Heaulme. Maybe that was up to the psychiatrists. How far was he a dangerous manipulator? Right then, all I wanted was to get him to speak. This new interview was crucial. I had to play it tight. As usual, Francis had not taken his eyes off me. He began:
‘This time, I’m determined to explain things. This business is getting me down, and it’s been going round and round in my mind since May 1989. At that time, I was a sick alcoholic and very dangerous. I was also very excitable. Since 1987, I’d been living in Emmaüs communities. Actually, I fell ill after my mother’s death in 1984 … I’ve travelled all over France … Between September and November 1990, I even went to Spain.’
He soon got round to his stay in Brittany. He was under control, watching our movements. Éric and I remained impassive. He went on:
‘I liked going to Brest because I love warships. In fact, I’m fascinated by war. I’ve watched lots of war films … What I like about them are the close-combat scenes, hand-to-hand fighting. The weapon I like best is the knife.’
He paused, his gaze still riveted on me. I had already experienced this. Without looking away, I waited.
‘My third trip to Brittany was back in May 1989 … That time I stayed in the Emmaüs community just outside Brest by the Moulin Blanc beach. Something happened there.’
He stopped again, then resumed:
‘I caught a fellow in my room who said he was a stretcher-bearer. He was searching through my things. I got angry and … I took 100 francs from him. With that money, I got pissed. I went to the beach, as far as the white boat lying high and dry there. I lay down beside the boat and I thought about a murder scene with a knife on a woman. I imagined a man stabbing a woman on the beach. Once I was feeling a bit better, I went back up to the community, picked up my bag and left. I hitch-hiked to Quimper. I was picked up straight away by a young man who dropped me off on the edge of town. Then I asked someone if there was a hospital nearby … That person took me to the hospital. I complained of a heart problem. I was admitted to casualty and then transferred to cardiology. I was put in a room with an elderly man. I was put on a drip.’
He fell silent. Sensing a mounting tension, I went to get some coffees from the lounge. There, two colleagues from Strasbourg hailed me.
‘We saw your customer getting out of the car in the yard, he looks like an odd character. How’s it going?’
I replied with a faint smile, ‘He’s strange, yes. But for the time being, we’re making slow progress. He’s telling us about himself. We haven’t got down to the nitty gritty yet.’
I went out with my three coffees. These little breaks often helped ease the atmosphere. Once we’d drained our cups, we were ready to pursue the conversation.
‘Francis,’ I said, ‘shall we go on?’
His expression became detached again and he continued his tale where he’d left off, in t
he same monotone.
‘I spent the night in hospital, and the next morning I asked them to remove the drip. And they did. In my mind, I was still thinking about the murder scene I’d imagined the day before. I can’t remember if I had lunch in the hospital, but what I am sure of is that I left the hospital. I was wearing a white sports shirt and shorts. I was also wearing trainers. I didn’t tell anyone I was leaving the hospital. Anyway, nobody tried to stop me. I was still thinking about the murder I’d dreamed about and besides, I wanted to get my own back on the stretcher-bearer. So I planned to go to Brest. I was mad, I saw red. I had my knife with me. I put it in my shorts pocket. It’s a knife with a wooden handle, and the end of the blade is broken. I broke it while I was working at the Emmaüs. The blade folds into the handle. When I left the hospital, I made for the expressway into Brest. I hitchhiked. Again, I got a lift straight away. The driver, a young man, even dropped me off at Moulin Blanc beach. As soon as I arrived, I went to this sort of grocery-café that’s not far from the boat lying high and dry on the beach. There, I drank some of the bottle of beer I’d bought. I was still thinking about the murder I’d imagined, and I was very wound up. I drank half the bottle by the boat. I wasn’t drunk, but I was wound up. I walked down by the water, towards the bridge. I walked for nearly a kilometre. I was still thinking about the murder. I walked to the rocks going towards the bridge, after the car park. Actually, they’re stones placed up against the wall. When I got there, I saw a man with fair hair sitting on the top of the stones. I knew his face from the bar near the car park. I don’t know his name, but he had shoulder-length hair.’
Francis observed our reaction. I took advantage of this brief pause to show him the photo album of witnesses.
‘Is there a photo of this person in the album?’
Amused, he studied each face carefully, making the odd comment as he turned the pages.
‘That one I met in Châteauroux, and him in Bayonne.’
He didn’t stop at his own picture, but did however pause at the sight of another.
‘It’s him, it’s the man in photo number sixty-six.’
He was pointing at the portrait of ‘The Gaul’. It all seemed to fit together. We had to be careful not to make any blunders that would destroy the tenuous bond we had built up. We made no comment; I simply named Philippe D.
Heaulme went on, ‘As I said, “The Gaul” was sitting up on the rocks. He was looking at a woman, a beautiful woman who was sunbathing. She was wearing a bikini … She was lying on a towel … I didn’t like the way Philippe D was staring at this woman. I was still thinking about my murder dream. I stood at the foot of the sea wall.’
His lips were pinched and his face twisted into a grimace. He stiffened. Then I asked him whether he would find it easier to draw a rough sketch. Éric gave him a piece of paper and a pen. With astonishing application, Francis drew the beach and the surrounding roads. He located the grocer’s, the boat, the car park, the café and the rocks. Further away, he added the Emmaüs community and the road bridge leading towards Quimper.
I interrupted him, ‘Fine Francis, but where were you and the others?’
Then he added little crosses to the diagram, explaining, ‘I was there, by the boat, and there was a fisherman here. After the car park, near the rocks, there was the fair-haired fellow, the woman, and me.’
‘What time was this?’
Heaulme did not reply, but wrote ‘5–5.30 p.m.’ on his drawing.
‘Excellent Francis, now write your name and sign it, and the drawing will be filed with your interview. It’s easier that way, isn’t it?’
Francis nodded and seemed satisfied. Although he had just located the exact position of the victim on the beach, and that of the two men spotted by the boy at the time of the murder, Éric and I chose not to show any reaction. We were especially anxious not to let on what we were hoping to get out of him, so as not to reveal the holes in our case. Our suspect had to be kept in a state of uncertainty. Besides, I still had a hunch that the murder on that spring Sunday in 1989 was not Heaulme’s first. Perhaps he would talk about his other killings.
It was 1.30 p.m. I suggested that the three of us go out for lunch. This surprised Francis and amused Éric. A table was reserved in the gendarmerie canteen.
Ten minutes later we entered the restaurant, 300 metres from the office block. At that hour, the place was almost empty, and the few people left were finishing their dessert. Francis, in a purple tracksuit, caused a few smiles, to which he replied with a cheery ‘Hello’. We seated ourselves at a little table in a corner of the room, as secluded as possible. The manager did not know that the man with us was in custody. The dish of the day was sauerkraut. We were served immediately. We were about to eat when Francis asked out of the blue, ‘François, have you met “The Gaul”?’
I told him I had.
‘What did he tell you?’
‘What do you think he might have told me?’
‘That it was me. He told you it was me.’
Éric and I made no reply. Just then an officer came and sat at our table. There was a spare place. We then witnessed a surreal scene. Unfazed, Heaulme went on talking.
‘I grabbed my knife and slit her throat, then I stuck the blade into her ribs. She looked nice.’
The gendarme froze, and gave an awkward smile. Heaulme went on, ‘I was ill, I didn’t want to, but I stabbed her all the same.’
At these words, the gendarme rose from the table and retreated to the back of the room. Given the awkwardness this was causing, I suggested to Francis Heaulme that we continue the conversation back in our office. Too late, the manager was already there, followed by the gendarme.
‘Who is this gentleman?’ he asked.
‘He’s with us. For the time being, he’s being held for questioning. But we’ll be leaving very shortly, don’t worry.’
The gendarme insisted, ‘He’s mad, he can’t stay here.’
The manager glanced at Francis and urged us to leave.
‘Now!’
Not perturbed in the least, Francis Heaulme carried on tucking into his sauerkraut as if nothing were amiss. As for the gendarme, he abruptly left the canteen. It was too much for him.
2.30 p.m. Back in the office, Éric went and got some coffees and I was left alone with Francis. His attitude in the canteen had surprised me, for he had given himself away. Nevertheless, he always knew what line to take with any questioner. He adjusted quickly and was always in control of himself. He could have explained this business from the start, but had preferred to shelter behind his dreams … No doubt less incoherent than they sounded. What a devious character! And what lay beneath this lack of emotion which we were trying to mimic?
I listened to him.
‘I don’t know, François, I’ve had enough of this business. I can’t remember a thing any more.’
‘I’ll help you, Francis. When you arrived on the beach, you were thinking of something, so try and remember. Try and get it all straight. Talk to me, I’m listening to you, even if at the moment what I’m typing has nothing to do with the case, it’s just standard information, custody formalities. So take your time and talk to me as things go through your mind. You’ll see, it will all come back to you.’
Concentrating on the keyboard, I spoke without looking at him.
‘At the time, I was ill. I had fits. I would feel one coming on. I walked fast. Nobody could keep up with me. I can walk for whole days … My veins swell and I go rigid. I’m afraid of nobody, I can fight three men. I see red. I can taste blood in my mouth.’
He now seemed to be finding it hard to talk. I looked up. His voice had abruptly changed, and now he was speaking in the present tense. Sitting opposite me was no longer Francis, but a tormented man whose face was contorted into a terrifying grimace. His eyes were so bloodshot that the whites no longer showed. He kept opening and closing his fists, making his veins swell. He was tense, rigid. He was terrifying to look at. I had the impression that he w
as literally about to pounce. I leaped over the desk and caught him by the arm.
‘Francis! Relax … We’re going to go for a little walk,’ I said, pulling him up from his chair.
He was no longer breathing regularly, but was panting hard. In this state, we walked up and down the corridors. He took huge, mechanical strides, forcing me to trot to keep up with him. I didn’t loosen my grip. Éric was right behind me, just in case. After five minutes of this ‘walk’, which felt endless, his face finally relaxed. Francis Heaulme collected himself. We asked if he wanted to see a doctor. He refused – ‘I’m not asking for anything at all!’
I didn’t press the point. We would resume the interview later. To my great surprise, Francis became even more forthcoming.
‘At the foot of the rocks, I waved to Philippe D to come and join me. The woman wasn’t taking any notice of us. She was about ten metres away … I was very wound up. I told him what I’d seen in my murder dream. He told me I was nuts and to bugger off. Actually, “The Gaul” talked about the woman who was sunbathing. He said, “She’s all right, isn’t she! I bet you couldn’t go up and talk to her.” I thought about my dream and I opened my knife. It was in my pocket. I walked towards her with my hands behind my back, holding the knife. I knew that this woman was going to be attacked. When she saw me, she got up. She could see what was going to happen. She saw the knife. I said to her, “My name’s Francis Heaulme. I’ve got a problem, I want to talk to you. I dreamed you were going to be stabbed.” The woman answered, “You stink of alcohol. Go away!” she also said, “Leave! or I’ll scream.” The woman was scared and she screamed. Just then, Philippe D came over and I had my fit. I grabbed the woman by the neck and I stabbed her three or four times with my knife. I stabbed hard, I felt my knife touch the bone. I was out of control. I heard “The Gaul” shout … but I carried on stabbing the woman …’
Inside The Mind Of A Killer Page 7
