The 7th Woman

by Molay, Frédérique

  “Dr. Caroline Dalry, Commander David Kriven,” Nico said. “You can talk, David.”

  “Gamby just called. It’s completely crazy. A new medical file was just sent to Perrin’s computer! It’s clearly being hacked. Gamby is sending you everything by email. It should be arriving now.”

  “What is it?”

  “We are going to find out.”

  “Where is Alexis?”

  “At home.”

  “He’s not in front of his own computer, is he?”

  “No. It’s not him, Nico. I checked. An officer is with him at his apartment and hasn’t left him alone for a second. Perrin couldn’t sleep, and they didn’t stop talking. The officer guarantees that your brother-in-law has not touched the computer. In any case, we are checking the files. If they come from him, we’ll know it, there will be some trace.”

  A signal indicated a message was waiting. He moved the mouse and opened the file. Kriven was standing behind him.

  “Are the men ready?” Nico asked.

  “They are all here. Nobody went home tonight.”

  Nico felt a lump forming in his throat. He had not received any calls reporting a new murder. The victim had probably not been discovered yet. Horror of horrors. He was going to learn the victim’s name from the killer.

  “Rue Molière, in the second arrondissement,” Nico said, his voice full of dread. “Isabelle Saulière.”

  “Isabelle Saulière?” Caroline let out, stunned. “That can’t be.”

  FRIDAY

  13

  Isabelle

  THE LOUVRE APPEARED WITH its statues, high reliefs and stone garlands. They passed the Palais Royal, abandoned centuries ago by Richelieu’s guards. The Comédie Française and the ghost of Molière saw them speeding by. Avenue de L’Opéra, Rue Sainte Anne, Rue Thérèse, and finally they arrived at Rue Molière. They stopped their cars in the middle of the street, blocking traffic. Nico looked up at the building’s third floor. No lights were on; they were the first to get there. They were afraid, although they didn’t show it.

  In the office, Caroline had been frozen with anxiety. She knew Isabelle Saulière. That he had understood immediately. He had seen the blood drain from her face. More than ever, he wanted to get this bastard.

  “Isabelle Saulière?” Caroline had let out, stunned. “That can’t be.”

  He remembered her reaction, astonished and worried but contained. She was not the type to lose control in front of other people. He loved her even more for that.

  “You know her?” he had asked her calmly.

  “Yes. Yes, I think so. She’s a nurse at the hospital. She works in my department. Unless it’s someone with the same name.”

  Nico felt like the ground was opening under him, as though he were falling and falling. How could that be? Why? Was Caroline in danger? These questions were bouncing around in his mind. He had to go to the scene, but he could not leave Caroline alone.

  “You will stay here,” he said. “I’m going to call an officer to keep you company until I get back.”

  She looked at him, dumbfounded.

  “Please. Do that for me. I don’t understand exactly what is going on. I can’t figure out the connection. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “Do you think that it could?”

  “The killer I’m looking for seems to want to play with my nerves and with those close to me. Why a nurse from your department? A strange coincidence. Just this morning I didn’t even dare to think I had a chance with you.”

  He managed to get a smile out of her.

  “Not that I didn’t want to,” he continued, “but I didn’t know how you would react. Our man is a mind reader, or maybe it’s just a coincidence. As long as I don’t know, I’m putting you under police protection. David?”

  “Yes?” the police officer answered, having heard every bit of the conversation. He looked at Caroline with respect.

  “Wake up Cohen and Kreiss, and give them Isabelle Saulière’s address. Call Magistrate Becker; something tells me he is still in his office. And warn Professor Vilars, so she can be at work within the hour.”

  They were there. Nico forced the door open and entered, followed by Kriven and Captain Vidal. Their first goal was to find the body. They walked slowly to the living room. She was there, attached to a huge coffee table. Once again, it was a macabre sight.

  SHE had been home for only an hour when the telephone rang. It was an urgent call from police headquarters. The killer had found a fourth victim, and Chief Sirsky wanted her at the scene. She pushed aside the sheets, which were damp from their sweat. Rémi grumbled.

  “Jesus, you just got home. Did you tell them at La Crim’ that you have a life too?”

  “It’s my job. I’ve got to go. There’s a reason they’re calling me.”

  “First we finish what we started, then you’ll go.”

  All he could think about was getting laid. She wasn’t getting out of bed just to annoy him. She was starting to get fed up. Rémi, a veterinarian with dark good looks, was clearly needy and had chosen her to satisfy himself. She had barely walked in the door when he jumped on her. But she wanted something else. You couldn’t build a solid relationship entirely on sex. He forced her to assume all kinds of positions she had never even imagined possible. Enough was enough, but she was afraid to tell him. She had seen glimpses of a shady, angry side of his personality. She closed the bathroom door behind her and heard him spit out some insults. That was another reason to clear out. She got ready as quickly as possible and arrived at Rue Molière in no time. She didn’t live very far and had driven fast. The teams at the scene sent her to the third floor. She read “Mr. et Mme Victor Saulière” on the door.

  “Ms. Kreiss?” she heard behind her.

  She turned. Michel Cohen joined her at the door.

  “This can’t go on,” he said. “We need to put an end to the slaughter. We already have four victims on our hands, and we are all going to get burned. Let’s go in. Sirsky is waiting for us.”

  They found the police officers in the living room. The room was silent. The three kept a respectable distance between themselves and the body to avoid interfering with the evidence collection.

  “A message?” Cohen asked immediately.

  “Behind you,” Nico answered.

  The deputy commissioner turned around. Bloody letters were spread across an ornate mirror: “For her and the others, and for you, Nico, I’m preparing wickedness, I conceive mischief, and I bring forth falsehood.” Dominique Kreiss couldn’t hold back an anxiety-filled murmur.

  “I bet it’s another psalm,” she said, breaking the icy silence that had settled in again. “The way the sentence is phrased …”

  Magistrate Becker came in. He calmly inspected the room and frowned when he read the message.

  “Clearly this man does not like you, Mr. Sirsky, no more than he likes women,” he said dryly.

  Now everyone was staring at the body. The killer had left a new clue that no one had dared to touch yet. It was best to let Magistrate Becker give the go-ahead.

  “OK, who’s going to do it?” he asked.

  “Go ahead, Nico,” Cohen said.

  With a gloved hand, Nico lifted up the envelope that had been placed on the victim’s stomach. He opened it with care, trying to limit the damage. Inside was a yellowed press clipping. He removed it. It felt like time had stopped, and everyone held their breath.

  “The court rules that the seven-year-old boy who killed his mother acted in legitimate self-defense,” Nico read. The article was exactly thirty years old this week. “ ‘I’m too little to die,’ the child said to police.”

  “What the hell is that?” Cohen asked.

  “Clearly an old news story,” Nico answered.

  “‘A seven-year-old boy described to the police the circumstances that led him to kill his mother by stabbing her several times. The woman was suffering from what psychiatrists call a major depressive disorder, and she had al
ready tried to smother her child. The court ruled that the child’s actions were self-defense.’ The mother woke her son up, then picked up a pillow and held it against his face. She apparently said, ‘I’m going to send you to join your uncle in heaven.’ The boy managed to escape, a chase around the apartment followed, and they ended up in the kitchen. He killed her. It was either her or him.”

  “There’s your motive,” Dominique Kreiss said. “He’s handing it to us.”

  “Could it be that simple?” Kriven reacted. “He then just decides to lead us directly to him?”

  “It can’t be,” Becker whispered, as if to himself.

  “Why not?” the psychologist continued. “This kind of criminal has a deeply rooted desire to be caught. He wants to challenge the detectives at the same time that he wants them to stop him from forging ahead.”

  “There are no names in the article,” Nico said. “Kriven, run with this. I want to know who that kid was and what he’s become.”

  PROFESSOR Armelle Vilars was ready for the latest victim. She had just left work, and now she had to go back. Better to just move into the Institut Medico-Légal and demand the immediate construction of an on-site apartment, she thought as she returned to her job. It would be easier. There was so much to do. She was thinking about all those families waiting for autopsy reports of loved ones so they could arrange the funerals and begin their mourning process. There were so many children, young adults and old people she had to examine to unravel the mystery of their deaths. She carried with her visions of the bodies she had cut open with her scalpel and the organs she had dissected. She remembered every word shared with disoriented parents. Although she was a professional through and through, ghostly visions slipped into her dreams from time to time, disturbing her sleep. She let out a loud sigh. It was hard to chase these glum, nearly morbid thoughts from her mind.

  “A heart that sighs has not what it desires,” said someone behind her.

  She started and spun around. Eric Fiori.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, a little angrily.

  “My job. I’m staying late to catch up.”

  “That’s up to me to decide.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t ask for overtime. Consider it volunteer work.”

  “That’s not how things are done here, Eric. I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but I’d like you to start following the rules. I won’t tolerate any more misconduct from you.”

  The blow struck home, and the man’s face went pale. He tightened his lips and shot her an angry look.

  “I’m sorry,” he managed to get out. “Since I’m here, is there anything I can do to help?”

  “I already have things organized. I don’t need you.”

  “Listen, Armelle, it’s true I’ve been a little on edge. You can blame some personal problems I’ve had. I promise to fall back in line. Let me work with you tonight.”

  She looked at him. His mood had changed. He looked pitiful, as though he sincerely wanted to make up for his attitude. She wasn’t going to lay it on and push things all the way to humiliation. She preferred peace to underlying tension.

  “OK, stay. The fourth victim should arrive any minute now and is going to take some time.”

  “Thank you.”

  NICO’S cell phone rang out in the car that was taking them to the medical examiner’s office.

  “Chief Sirsky?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m Professor Charles Queneau.”

  It was the director of the police forensics lab in person.

  “I have interesting results. I know that time is of the essence, so I wanted to give them to you right away.”

  “I’m listening, Professor.”

  “The DNA lifted from the two contact lenses didn’t come from just the victim, Valérie Trajan. On the lens taken from Madame Trajan’s left eye there were two distinct DNAs: hers and that of another person. On the second lens we found only the DNA of that other person. I then compared it to the brown hair. The conclusion is astonishing. The person the hair came from and the other person whose DNA was on the lens are clearly related.”

  “Related?”

  “Exactly. We are looking at two people—it’s impossible to tell if they are male or female—from the same family. Meanwhile, the blond hair we tested at your request belongs to Dr. Perrin. And finally, the blood used to write the message came from the victim. I hope this helps.”

  “I’m sure it will, professor. Thank you. I’ll keep you posted.”

  They hung up. Cohen and Becker gave him questioning looks. He relayed the conversation.

  “Imagine the mother and the son,” Nico said, referring to the news clipping they had found earlier.

  “She’s dead,” Becker said.

  “He could have kept a lock of her hair,” Nico said.

  “When he was seven?” Cohen asked.

  “And why not?” the chief insisted. “We’ve seen worse. The boy, now an adult, is seeking revenge against the mother who betrayed him. He is killing her over and over again. I’m sure that all the victims look like her, a rather beautiful brunette. At least that is the image he holds onto.”

  “So,” Cohen said, “What do you have to do with this story?”

  “I don’t know,” Nico said, discouraged.

  “Maybe he’s targeting your position,” Cohen continued.

  “Could be,” Nico said. “But I find the contact to be very personal.”

  “Last stop, all passengers please exit,” Cohen interrupted.

  The Institut Medico-Légal rose in front of them, with its red brick walls standing out against the sky. Most Parisians knew where they would end up but couldn’t imagine what went on in this building. And that was just as well.

  IN her tiny office, Dominique Kreiss was logged onto the Internet, looking for a full list of the psalms.

  “That’s it,” she said to herself.

  Psalm 7, verse 14 appeared on her screen: “Behold, he travails with wickedness, and he conceives mischief and brings forth falsehood.” Incredible. The killer had put himself into the text. Dominique thought about the news clipping and the story of the little boy. Using the term “brings forth” was not an accident. Perhaps the killer was referring to his mother, who brought forth evil by giving birth to him. And he, in turn, begot evil, an unbroken chain. He was clearly experiencing a deep-seated feeling of guilt, that of having been forced to kill his own mother in order to survive. Who could withstand that kind of trauma? Life sometimes holds strange trials.

  KRIVEN and his men were moving heaven and earth. They had contacted the police station in charge of the investigation thirty years earlier, when the boy murdered his mother, and now they were at work searching through their archives. As soon as they found the file, they faxed it to headquarters.

  “The boy’s name was Arnaud Briard, seven years of age,” Kriven read. “His mother, Marie Briard, died at the age of twenty-six. She worked in a bar before turning to prostitution to raise her son. Her parents had cut off all communication with her when they discovered that she had gotten pregnant by a stranger. There you have it, an ordinary story. It’s up to us now to find out what became of the young Arnaud. He would have been placed in a foster home in the Paris area. We don’t have any information after that. The commissariat will send us pictures.

  The men were dismayed and disconcerted. The criminal—if it was, in fact, the boy all grown up—could suddenly have a face and a background that was too much to bear. Their eyes held a mixture of pity and rage.

  “Let’s go,” Kriven said. “Squads five and six, I want to know everything there is to know about Marie Briard, from where she was born to where she is buried. Let’s see if we can find some witnesses. The other squads will take Arnaud. What has he become? Where is he today? If he’s still alive, bring him to me. If he’s the killer, I want to know. Now get to work.”

  MARC Walberg stared at the message written in blood. He was entirely focused
. The killer was completely crazy, and he was getting worse; he was losing his grip on reality and the social conventions he had observed with so much skill until now. Walberg drew these conclusions from the changes in his handwriting. The killer was now trying, consciously or not, to disguise his writing. The letters were more curved, and the dots on the i’s were rounder instead of small and restrained, giving them a feminine appearance. And yet, it was the same person, he was sure of that. For that matter, he had a theory about what was happening: The killer was imitating someone very dear to him, in this case, a woman. He took a number of pictures, from a distance and close up to capture every letter. Now he had to write up his report and give it to Sirsky.

  NICO could not stop staring at the rigid body covered with wounds and bathed in its own blood. A few years earlier, Nico had met a woman who was initially intrigued by his work. She wanted to know everything about his day-to-day experiences. Nico had recounted it all—the victims, the aggressors, the blood, the horror. In the end, she had left him, repulsed by the smell of death she perceived when she was close to him. Things were different with Caroline. He felt he could talk to her without fearing that she would be driven away, and he did need to talk to her. That was what it would take to build a solid relationship. She was a doctor, so he hoped she would understand better, would know how to keep things in their place. His cell phone rang in the middle of the autopsy. Cohen and Becker started, while Professor Vilars remained impassive, probably used to the incongruity of the situation. He moved away to answer.

  “Professor Charles Queneau here. Is this a bad time?”

  “No, go ahead. Do you have something new?”

  “Yes. We have just finished comparing the DNA found on the contact lenses with the brown hair. I told you they were related.”

  “So?”

  “We proved the relationship, thanks to mitochondrial DNA, which is only transmitted from mother to child.”

  “Good work!”

  “I’ll get all that down on paper for you and send you the report within the hour.”