Inside The Mind Of A Killer

by Jean-Francois Abgrall

  Francis Heaulme rose slowly, thanked the magistrate and turned to the escort. The handcuffs went back on immediately. His counsel then told him that he would come and see him soon in prison. In the corridor, after a limp, evasive handshake, I spoke to Francis: ‘I’ll still be here tomorrow. I could come and see you if you like.’

  His face relaxed and he replied, visibly pleased, ‘Yes, come and see me. I’ll be waiting for you.’

  The next day, at 9 a.m., I was outside the gates of Brest prison – a modern building, less than ten years old. If it were not for the watchtowers and high grey concrete walls, it could almost be a student hall of residence with bars. Incarcerated here for about ten days so far, Francis Heaulme was not entitled to special treatment. He did however have a cell to himself. Contrary to the usual practice, he had not transited via the first floor of the prison, reserved for ‘newcomers’. The prison administration feared the reaction of the other detainees. The Moulin Blanc murder had shocked everyone, even the local thugs. The minute Francis Heaulme had arrived, rumours of revenge started to fly.

  After going through the double entrance doors, I crossed the little yard and waited outside the heavy door until a warder opened up and allowed me into the prison complex. A long beep, and the door swung open. I entered and soon found myself faced with another obstacle. This time, a metal gate. A second electronic buzzer and I was inside. A warder greeted me from behind his glass window. He then directed me using the remote surveillance system, like an air traffic controller. Another maze of corridors and doors, and I finally reached the investigators’ tiny visiting room. Three chairs and a small table filled the entire space. I had barely arrived when Francis Heaulme was in front of me.

  ‘Hello, Francis! How are you? I’m pleased to see you.’

  I meant it. This time, there was no question of talking about the Brest murder. This meeting was outside the framework of the original investigation, so conditions were ideal for a relaxed discussion. I expected a ‘lighter’ conversation than our previous talks. On the other hand, I knew that he was capable of going off at all sorts of tangents, in particular of the most sordid kind. Nevertheless, I still hoped that he would at last explain to me the reason for his killings.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he answered, calmly. ‘I’ve written to my sister. She’s going to come and see me soon.’

  He no longer wore his contorted facial mask. His attitude towards me had changed. I couldn’t help feeling surprised.

  ‘Francis, I’m not here because of what happened on the beach, it’s out of my hands. Now it’s between the magistrate and you. But I need you to talk to me about your life, but not the way you did to the judge. By the way, why did you carry on like that?’

  By asking that question, I hoped to get us back into the mood of the conversation we’d had in Strasbourg, when he described his crime with the utmost naturalness. I also wanted to show him that I hadn’t been taken in by his games.

  ‘I was afraid. I can’t say everything. This business isn’t my fault. When I was on the road, I was sick, you know that. Besides, wherever I go, there are killings.’

  His face hardened and his eyes bored into mine.

  ‘Francis, if you’re sick, the experts will be able to see that, and if the right place for you is a hospital, that’s where they’ll send you. But you must talk. If you remember what happened, just tell the truth. Where shall we begin?’

  I didn’t want there to be a lull, and it was my turn to stare intently at him. I hoped for an immediate answer. He went on, ‘Brest, was a cock-up, I told you. Besides, ’89 was my black year.’

  His tone was hard. What did he mean? The year he had committed the most murders? Was he trying to express remorse for the first time?

  ‘OK, so ’89 was a bad year for you, Francis, but why?’

  ‘Because I left a witness that time. “The Gaul”, it’s his fault, it’s his fault I’m here.’

  I was flabbergasted. It wasn’t remorse, but sheer exasperation for not having got rid of the witness to his crime! His black year was the year of anger. But I didn’t turn a hair. Heaulme went on:

  ‘You know François, before, I was sick, I used to think I was at war. It was because of the alcohol and the medicines. I was afraid. It’s not my fault!’

  He was going round in circles, but I was beginning to detect in his speech a way of protecting himself and preparing me for his version of events. It was never directly he who committed a murder. The protagonist with the strange dreams where death became reality was a sick alcoholic, dosed up with medication, abused by his father and mourning his mother. It was ‘somebody else’ who did these bad things. Not Francis.

  ‘It’s not my fault!’ That sounded like a cry for help. He was misunderstood, imprisoned in his solitude since childhood. He had a desperate need to talk and be listened to. I sometimes felt that I had become his confidant. Because he knew that I didn’t judge him and because he thought I really knew him.

  ‘Listen, Francis, I’m ready to help you, but don’t tell me any more fibs. Other police officers will be coming to interview you, do you know that? They might not think you’re any different from other criminals. You risk life imprisonment. So tell me about yourself and the other person you were. Then I can point out the difference and everyone will understand.’

  Francis Heaulme became serious again and his beady little eyes stared fixedly. He seemed to be racking his brains for some disconcerting reply.

  ‘I’ve had a lot of cock-ups, François, but that’s all in the past. I’ve changed. I don’t want to talk about it any more.’

  Now he was dodging the issue. I had to find another tactic, another way in.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Francis, take this sheet of paper, if you like, and write down the “cock-ups” you remember now.’

  He grabbed the sheet of paper, placed it in the centre of the table, picked up the pen and settled down to write. Then he looked up, a little nonplussed.

  ‘What do I write? I don’t know how.’

  ‘Francis, just write down the names of the towns where you had a “cock-up”. If you remember the date, put that down too. That’s all. In any case, only write down the things you remember clearly. I’m not going to chase around after your fantasies if you remember the whole business clearly, OK?’

  My reply made him smile.

  ‘I’m not certain of all the dates, François.’

  It was working. The blank page seemed to mesmerise him and force him to get the words out. Heaulme wrote like a primary school child, slowly and laboriously. He produced a list of dates and towns.

  ‘On 2 January ’86, I was at the Emmaüs community in Peltre. On 8 January in Haguenau. On 5 May in Metz, I worked with my father. I lived at my grandmother’s. On 7 ? ’86, Périgueux. 10 ? ’87 Boulogne-sur-Mer. On 10 ? ’87 Lille, cock-up. In ’88 Metz. In May ’89 Brest cock-up, ’89 Reims, ’89 Avignon, ’89 and 90 Christmas day Auch, ’89 Marseille and Courthézon cock-up, 10 ? ’90 Metz, ’91 Bischwiller.’

  He looked as if he were writing with a pen of lead so heavy that his hand could barely move. He put down the pen and handed me the sheet without a word.

  ‘You see, Francis, it’s easier to work like this. I’m going to go and see what happened in these towns, and when the investigators come and talk to you, they’ll already know a bit about you. I’ll talk to them about you. Did you write down everything, by the way?’

  ‘No, there are others, but I need to think. It’s all muddled up in my head, because of the medication.’

  So he never stopped playing games. I refrained from asking the slightest question, but I was worried by all those names written on that quarter page. Thirteen towns. And just as many ‘cock-ups’? I feared so.

  ‘Francis, apart from the “cock-ups”, can you tell me about the towns you liked?’

  His memory suddenly came back to him, but this time, I was the one writing. Without pausing for breath, he listed thirty-five places, from Nice on the Riviera to Sain
t-Omer in the north. For each one, he gave the year he had been there. He was no longer talking about fantasies or confused memories. The tension had gone, we were talking normally. What a mug’s game! I was convinced that he was still withholding something. What was he afraid of? Did he fear he would not be deemed insane if he remembered?

  A warder knocked at the door of the visitors’ room. It was lunchtime. Heaulme had to go back to his cell. He rose abruptly. ‘Come back and see me again, François, we’ll finish it next time. I’m going to think about it. Cheerio!’

  Without looking round, he walked over to the waiting warder. I watched him disappear down the corridor.

  As I got back into my car, I felt tired. I knew that I had taken another step forward, but this latest interview with Heaulme had exhausted me. Every second was full of tension. Not showing anything. Thinking about every word, every gesture. My eyes boring into his, so as not to break the tenuous contact. I felt as though I had raised a two-tonne weight from the seabed using a horsehair yarn.

  He enjoyed our conversations, but only disclosed a few fragments to give me a glimpse of the extent of his crimes, which made me in a way a helpless bystander. He was placing me in a labyrinth peopled with dreams, fantasies and riddles. Only by solving these would I find my way out.

  7

  Inside the mind

  of the killer

  For several days, messages piled up at the secretariat of the criminal investigation unit. With the agreement of the investigating magistrate, I passed on all the information about Francis Heaulme to the national gendarmerie. Each unit thus had the reconstituted itinerary of the murderer over three years. Requests for interviews came pouring in from all over the country. My superiors were thrilled.

  Scanning through them one by one, Colonel F could barely conceal his satisfaction. His department was now in the limelight.

  ‘There are now more than ten criminal investigation departments that want to interview him,’ he said to me, putting down the documents.

  His attitude towards me had changed. I had the feeling that he was aware he had gone a bit too far that day in July 1991 when, following the opinion of Major JR, he had refused to let me go and question ‘The Gaul’ in Bayonne.

  ‘Abgrall,’ he added, holding out the messages, ‘talk to the judge and get permission for all these investigators to interview Heaulme. I’d also like you to inform these departments of the dates when they can come to Brest prison, OK?’

  The content of these messages was impressive. All of the cases were serious, the murders particularly gruesome. But in some instances, it was hard to make the connection with Francis Heaulme. With the phone wedged between my ear and my left shoulder, a pen in the other hand, I called all the investigators concerned, one by one. This led to long conversations. Each one described his investigation. Our questions often overlapped, and I sensed the hope that this new lead was kindling in my colleagues.

  The presiding magistrate and I agreed that, initially, only the investigators who had established that Francis Heaulme was in the vicinity of their crime would be invited to question him. These measures were to avoid confusion. I eventually managed to draw up a reasonable schedule. There would not be more than two departments pursuing their cases at any one time.

  Two weeks later, the authorisations were ready. As instructed by the judge, Reims and Bordeaux would be the first two criminal investigation units to be permitted to come to Brest prison. The memory of my last visit was still fresh in my mind. The warder had interrupted us too soon. Francis Heaulme had taken advantage to slip away quickly. I had the hunch that he would have liked to continue the conversation. So I decided to see him one last time in private, before the arrival of my colleagues. Was he even aware of what lay at the root of the violence that possessed him? As for his itinerary, his memories were so clear that there was no room for lies. He recalled perfectly where he had been. But who had he really met? And to what extent were his murder fantasies real? I wanted this game to be over.

  Once again I stepped inside that oppressive world where one set of doors only opens after another has closed. I made my way to the visiting room.

  ‘Go in and sit down,’ said a warder, noting down the time of my arrival in his register. ‘I’ll call the prisoner’s floor. They’ll bring him down.’

  It was 1.30 p.m., and this time we had a bit of time before us. I decided to sit in the same room as before. The table was still as small, but how can I describe the walls, which were a dull, sad yellow, covered with grimy handprints. It made the place even less hospitable.

  A few minutes went by. Gradually, the sound of doors opening and closing grew louder. He was coming. Then he was in the room, standing in front of me.

  ‘Hello, François, you came back,’ he said, looking me straight in the eye.

  By now I was accustomed to his using my middle name. His curt speech was not aggressive. It was just his way of communicating, that was all. I rose and held out my hand. He responded, as embarrassed as ever, almost forcing himself.

  ‘How are you, Francis?’

  ‘All right,’ he said, very stiffly.

  Then, abruptly changing the subject, still standing in the middle of the room, he blurted out:

  ‘One day I saw a woman on a patch of waste ground. She was dead. I don’t know where. That was in 1989.’

  He stood still and watched me. He had just picked up the thread of the conversation at exactly the point where we’d stopped at our last meeting. It was barely believable, as though his thoughts had been frozen since. With all the calm I could muster, I invited Heaulme to sit down.

  ‘I’m listening, Francis.’

  His hard face betrayed no emotion. And yet I could sense that he wanted to talk. I took out the little piece of paper on which he had noted down the towns of his ‘cock-ups’. And we were back at exactly the point where we’d left off, two weeks earlier.

  ‘I saw a fellow grab a woman. He punched her and kicked her. It was dark. The “other” chap spoke German. He was wearing fatigues. I couldn’t do anything. Then a farmer arrived on his tractor, and the police came. I was hidden. After that, I left.’

  ‘Where was this, Francis?’

  ‘I can’t remember. It was after Brest.’

  So it was after May 1989. We stared fixedly at each other. The ‘other’ again, that protective double who made the unacceptable palatable. He knew I had understood. So why was he still talking in this way? I said nothing. He continued:

  ‘In 1990, I saw a murder on Route de Vallières. A gippo, Jean-Marie W, was stabbed twelve times in the back by an Arab. He threw his knife down by the body.’

  It was essential not to ask any questions. I knew nothing of these crimes. Were they real? A Gypsy, an Arab … What did he mean? Were they his victims? Accomplices? Perhaps, but I didn’t think he could have acted with an accomplice, that wasn’t his style.

  ‘Francis, were you stopped by the police or the gendarmes at any time after that?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but I gave my other names – Pascal Nagel, Francis Herman, François Picard, Francis Marchal.’

  I listened to him and stated calmly, ‘I know all that, Francis.’

  He was surprised at my reply, and seemed relieved. In actual fact, I couldn’t believe my ears. I needed a break. I felt that he was opening up. These affairs were murders, I was convinced. I hadn’t imagined that he would use aliases, but how far had he gone? Suddenly, he burst out:

  ‘A long time ago, on a Sunday, I was cycling down a street. It was in eastern France. There were some houses on the left. On the right there was an embankment and a railway line. Two kids threw stones at me when I rode past. At the end of the street there was a stop sign, a bridge and some dustbins. I left. When I came back later, I saw the kids’ dead bodies near some railway carriages. There were also police and some firemen.’

  Did he murder those children? I couldn’t bring myself to believe it. It was horrifying. 1989, his ‘black year’, when he
’d made the mistake of leaving ‘The Gaul’ alive … What year was he talking of now? He carried on telling his stories, without emotion. His painfully stilted speech made listening to his allegations even more excruciating.

  ‘In Marseille there’s a little square, you go down some steps and there’s a fountain. There I was mugged by a fellow with a knife. He wanted to take my bag. I fought back. He was a foreign backpacker. I ended up in hospital. Another time, in Auch, on Christmas night, behind the church, I had an argument with a beggar. He was on a seat. I hit him with his stick.’

  I had no idea what else he might have to tell me, but for the time being I wanted to leave things there. If these statements were true, they were too important to be recorded in this manner. I needed to think clearly and review all this information. I didn’t have the time to say anything, he persisted relentlessly.

  ‘In 1987, in Metz, I was walking around near the Porte des Allemands. I saw an Arab being stabbed in the back by skin-heads. They knifed him three times. He was walking his dog. And he had his slippers on.’

  I wondered whether he was aware of the significance of his words, or whether he was expecting a reaction from me.

  ‘In Bayonne, in 1990, I had a really good time. I was at the Emmaüs community. There were cliffs,’ he went on. ‘One afternoon, I went to see the sea. There was a girl with a bicycle on the cliff top. I went down to the water’s edge. When I got to the bottom of the cliff, she’d jumped. She was lying dead on the rocks.’

  How long could he carry on talking like this? What was all this really about? It was time to bring this interview to a close.

  ‘Francis, it’s good that you’re telling me about your travels, but you’re not telling me anything new. I think it would be best for you to tell all this to the investigators who are coming to question you. The whole of France wants to hear what you have to say. I’ll be back soon to introduce them to you.’