The 7th Woman

by Molay, Frédérique

  “What do you mean, David?”

  “Your record, Nico! The one from Saint Antoine Hospital.”

  15

  The 5th Victim

  A CHILL RAN THROUGH him. His adrenaline shot up, accelerating his heartbeat.

  “What?” he managed to ask.

  “Your visit to the hospital, the name of the doctor, your endoscopy, the results. It’s all there,” Kriven answered.

  “That’s impossible!”

  “For Gamby, it’s child’s play to get into the hospital’s network. Except that our man would have needed to know that you had an appointment.”

  “What’s it mean? Other than he’s thumbing his nose at me and demonstrating that he knows exactly what I’m doing?”

  “I don’t know. But it has to mean something.”

  “Was Gamby able to track it to the source?”

  “No, believe it or not. He’s going crazy. He can’t trace it. There’s no way.”

  “So this guy is really skilled.”

  “That’s for sure. He knows quite a bit about computers. He installed all the necessary obstacles and covered any tracks that could lead to him. Gamby is working away at it furiously. He’s taking this personally. It’s a blow to his ego.”

  “And as far as Isabelle Saulière is concerned?”

  “Nothing promising yet.”

  “Briard?”

  “We’re going to find him soon, believe me.”

  “Thirty minutes, that’s what you’ve got. After, I want everyone in my office. Spread the word.”

  SITTING in her office, Captain Amélie Ader, the second in Kriven’s group, stared in disbelief. She had found it—his record, with his picture and his name. It had to be a mistake. It couldn’t be possible. Unless … unless the man she was looking at was, in fact, the criminal they had been tracking for more than four days. Weren’t sociopaths very skilled at deceiving the people around them and at hiding their depraved game? If this was their man, who could you trust? It would be a real blow if the killer really was an eminent member of their own ranks.

  She mentally reviewed her investigation of the young Arnaud Briard. She had been trying to find out what had happened to him. He had gone from one facility to another, one school to another until he was eighteen. And then he had disappeared. What had become of him? Then it had occurred to her that he might have built another identity. It would have been easy enough. As soon as he turned eighteen, all he had to do was apply for a name change because of the hardship his real name presented. An application would have been sent to the Garde des Sceaux, and a legal announcement would have appeared in the Journal Officiel. In the end, the Procureur de la République would have rectified the official records. Goodbye Arnaud Briard. A new identity, a new life.

  Having finally obtained that grown-up name, Amélie Ader read and reread it. She still couldn’t digest this information. It was time to get her superiors in the loop. She couldn’t wait to see their faces.

  KRIVEN was looking at the pictures of Marie Briard and her son. The serial killer’s victims didn’t really resemble the mother. And Arnaud looked like a good-natured kid, with blond hair and blue eyes just like his mother’s. It was hard to imagine that this boy was committing such crimes thirty years later. When he examined the boy’s features, he had a strange impression that they looked familiar. So where was this Arnaud Briard hiding today? What was he doing while Kriven’s team tried to get their hands on him? And why Nico’s medical file? What did he want with that? He was more worried about it than his boss was.

  Kriven was lost in his thoughts and started when he heard, “Commander?”

  He looked at the woman who was working just a few yards away at a neighboring desk.

  “Yes. What have you got?”

  Amélie nodded with a serious look. David Kriven understood immediately that she had found something.

  “You’ll never guess in a million years. It’s no wonder we never found Arnaud Briard. He changed his name.”

  “Changed his name?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So? Come on, Amélie, spit it out!”

  “You’d better sit down, believe me …”

  THE sun had risen, casting a pale glow over the city. He had allowed Caroline to go home, but in an unmarked police car with two officers. She wanted to take a shower and change. He wished he could have gone with her. He was feeling lonely now that she was gone. It was a strange sensation. A group of officers burst into his office without knocking, surprising him. Deputy Chief Rost led the way, followed by Commander Kriven and his second in command, Amélie Ader, a small, pretty brown-haired woman. Commander Théron and Dominique Kreiss brought up the rear. They all had dark circles under their eyes and looked drawn and pale.

  “You wanted something new, well you are going to get it!” Rost said.

  “Did you find Arnaud Briard?” Nico asked.

  “We sure did!” Kriven said. “Amélie found the needle in the haystack. She’s got quite a sixth sense.”

  “Right, that sixth sense,” Nico said. “That’s what you’re paid for, isn’t it? So? Where is he?”

  “Not far,” Rost said.

  The deputy chief handed his superior a white piece of paper folded in half.

  “It’s like the Oscars,” he said. “It’s written inside. A small detail: Briard changed his name, which is why we had a hard time finding him. Hold on tight.”

  Nico unfolded the paper and stared at the letters written in blue ink. He swallowed hard.

  “Incredible. Are you sure?”

  “There’s no mistake,” Captain Ader said.

  “The A for Arnaud and the B for Briard. It’s logical,” Nico said.

  “What are you going to do?” Kriven asked.

  “I’m going to go see him immediately. Find out everything you can about him—his schedule since Monday, his medical history, DNA, family. I want everything right now. Amélie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Good job. Why don’t you go home and rest. You deserve it.”

  “There’s still a lot to do, Chief. I would prefer to stay.”

  “It’s an order, Captain. We’re going to need fresh troops, so obey. Come back when you’ve had some sleep. You’re not looking so good.”

  “I don’t want any special treatment. If it’s because I’m a woman …”

  “Damn it!” Nico cut in. “Don’t argue. Get out of here.”

  The young woman disappeared, resigned but looking forward to a few hours of rest.

  “What else?” Nico asked.

  “Gamby is working like a mad man,” Kriven said.

  “We have DNA of the presumed killer and his mother, that’s key,” Rost continued. “We’ll be able to compare it with our suspect. The thirty lashes could correspond to the anniversary of Marie Briard’s death.”

  “It looks like the murderer’s profile is clear now,” Dominique Kreiss said. “We need to be careful about the change in his behavior. The man is no longer in control, and he is losing contact with reality, as we saw in Marc Walberg’s handwriting analysis. The last message showed characteristics of a woman’s writing. His declining mental state makes him even more dangerous, but at the same time, he could make a mistake. He is more vulnerable. I have to call the psychologist at the last institution where Arnaud Briard was. He is still working.”

  “There is nothing as far as Isabelle Saulière is concerned,” Théron said. “I don’t see anything in her private or professional life worthy of further attention.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Nico said. “The only commonality among the four victims, other than their appearance and their social status, was that they were pregnant. How, for God’s sake, did the killer have access to that information? I want to know.”

  “Perhaps he will tell you,” Kriven said.

  “Perhaps, indeed. Let’s get back to work. We still have a lot on our plates.”

  “Do you want someone to go with you?” Rost asked.

&n
bsp; “I don’t think so. If he put so much energy into hiding his past, he won’t confide to a whole assembly. It’s better that I deal with him man to man, before word gets out. I’ll let Cohen know what I’m doing, and I’ll fill you in as soon as possible.

  NICO left 36 Quai des Orfèvres. It had turned cold, and it hit him brutally. He had left his jacket in his office, and his suit didn’t do much to protect him from the rain that was beginning to fall. He looked up at the stormy sky. He didn’t mind this kind of weather. He came from northern France, and his childhood stories were filled with rain, snow and icy winds. He headed toward the Palais de Justice entrance on Rue de Harlay, just a few steps from headquarters. The short walk perked him up. Before he knew it, he was in the hallways, walking past doors protected by overworked secretaries. His badge gave him authority, hastening him through the security checks.

  HE answered the phone mechanically.

  “Sir, Chief Sirsky is here. He’d like to see you. Should I let him in?” his secretary announced.

  “Yes. And bring some coffee, please,” he said in a shaky voice.

  It was all happening just as it had in his dream.

  NICO came in. The man had changed. He was slumped in his chair, his face hollowed and his eyes looking into the distance. He had lost his arrogance and the authority that went with his rank. There was infinite sadness in his face, probably due to remorse. Nico swallowed hard, feeling afraid. And what if it were true? Magistrate Alexandre Becker’s hair was brown, unlike the boy’s hair in the picture Nico had in his pocket. And his eyes were brown, not blue. But there was a resemblance. The features were similar, aged by thirty years.

  “I was expecting you sooner or later,” the magistrate said in a voice full of emotion that he was having trouble containing.

  “How should I take that?” Nico asked.

  The magistrate pinched his lips into a tight smile.

  “It was just a matter of time,” he said in a final attempt to affirm his authority.

  His shoulders slumped a little more. Nico saw tears form in the corners of his eyes, but the man held them back.

  “I don’t really understand. Help me out here,” the chief said.

  “That article. When you read it out loud, I thought I was going to have an attack. I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t believe it. It took so much effort to detach myself from the past, to attempt to erase it from my mind completely, as if it were not really my story. What a mistake. How can you forget where you come from? Everything came flying back at me. I had suffered, but I had managed to come through. Now my life is destroyed.”

  “So you are Arnaud Briard?”

  “Why deny it?”

  “Your mother tried to kill you,” Nico said, thrown off by his willing admission.

  “Yes. I still see her chasing me, her face crazy. The drinking, the drugs. I understood about the prostitution later. She had hit rock bottom, and I couldn’t do anything to get her out of there.”

  “You were just a child.”

  “And do you think that excuse is enough for me? I loved my mother. And we loved each other until she broke down. I had become a burden for her, all the more so because her family had rejected her.”

  “I’m so sorry. That must have been very hard.”

  “It was. I grew up alone. But I wouldn’t have become what I am today. It gave me the strength I needed to hang on.”

  “And today?”

  “Today, I have two children. Did you know that?”

  “Not until now.”

  “I’m living with someone. I have built a family that I love. I give my loved ones the affection that I didn’t get. It is what I’ve done best, Chief Sirsky. I doubted for so long that I could lead a balanced life and build normal relationships. I fought for that. Oh, sometimes the nightmares take me back thirty years. I see the knife plunging into my mother’s body, that look of disbelief on her face before she collapsed on the floor, and I cry. But I have managed to overcome it.”

  “Really?”

  “If you are asking if I killed those women, then the answer is no. How could I have done that?”

  “You already did it once.”

  “That was low. I am not a murderer. You cannot make assumptions about me based on my past.”

  “There was that newspaper clipping about you and your mother on the body of the last victim.”

  “It’s a trap. The killer wants to throw us off. He’s mocking us. Didn’t I trust you about your brother-in-law?”

  “We will have to compare your DNA. An investigation is under way. I’m going to have to ask you some questions.”

  “Can we keep things quiet?”

  “You have enough experience to know that some kinds of information are hard to hide.”

  Alexandre Becker nodded.

  “This may not be easy for you, but where is your mother’s body?”

  “It was cremated. Her family did not want to bury her. There isn’t even any place I can go visit her.”

  “Did you keep anything belonging to her?”

  “I know where you are going with this: the brown hair. My mother was blond. It is simply impossible. And no, I don’t have anything of hers, except a few pictures. Keepsakes that might be important when you’re thirty aren’t necessarily important when you’re seven. And nobody suggested that I take any with me, either.”

  “We’ll need your schedule for the week.”

  “Particularly at the time of the murders, I suppose. I might as well tell you everything. I received an anonymous phone call on Monday telling me that my family had just had a serious car accident. I ran to the hospital, but no one was there. My wife was at work, and my kids were at school. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true.”

  “And Tuesday?”

  “The school called me. My son had just fallen, and the principal thought he might have a concussion. He asked me to come and get him.”

  “Was it another false alarm?”

  “Exactly. It’s similar to your brother-in-law, with his fake appointments.”

  “The same thing happened on Wednesday and Thursday, I suppose?” Nico asked.

  “Yes,” Becker muttered, looking worried.

  “OK, we will check all that. Has your hair changed color since you were a kid?”

  “I’ve been dyeing it since I was a teenager. And I also wear colored contact lenses.”

  Becker removed them from his eyes.

  “I’m going to take them,” Nico said.

  The natural deep blue of Becker’s eyes surprised Nico.

  “I was determined to erase that child murderer forever, I guess. But that doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Blue suits me better. I’ll have to get used to it again.”

  “I’ll have to ask you to follow me to headquarters until we clear things up,” Nico concluded, his hand unconsciously going to his stomach, a useless gesture, because only the treatment prescribed by Caroline would make it feel any better.

  “You’re not feeling well, are you?” Becker asked. “Didn’t your doctor give you anything?”

  “How do you know?”

  “What? That you have an ulcer? Everyone knows. You yourself said that some information is hard to hide.”

  SHE lived just yards away from Saint Germain des Prés, a neighborhood whose charm dated back a century, when it was a haunt for writers and artists. Place de Fürstenberg was her own little paradise. Her apartment was on the sixth and seventh floors of one of the buildings and had a charming little terrace that overlooked the dense foliage of the square’s trees, allowing her to enjoy the sun any time of year. She wouldn’t have given it up for anything in the world.

  She got undressed and stepped into the shower. The hot water massaged her skin and calmed her. She felt so tired. Everything had happened so quickly over the last few days, and her stores of physical and mental energy were drained. She turned off the water with regret and wrapped herself in a soft terry towel. She rubbed her dripping hair. She left the bath
room and dropped onto the bed. She was hungry but didn’t have any energy left to make something to eat. She had to sleep. She would take care of the rest later. As soon as she made that decision, her eyes closed, and her breathing slowed. She lost consciousness and fell into a deep slumber.

  HE had followed her. He had chosen her. She would be the next one. She looked so tired, and it would be easy. He was sure that she was already asleep. He admired the shop windows on the square. He had all the time he needed. Maybe he would even visit the Delacroix Museum; he had never had the opportunity to do so before. Then he would ring her doorbell. She would open it, annoyed at having been pulled out of her sleep. She wouldn’t suspect anything, although she was central to the case. He would walk through the door into her apartment. How could she think that he was bringing the evil right into her home? She would suffer the same punishment as the others. Nobody would be there to rescue her, and most of all, not Chief Sirsky.

  MAGISTRATE Becker had followed Nico into his office. Michel Cohen had joined them, and the two police officers started the official questioning. Kriven’s team was already reviewing his schedule for that week and had contacted his wife. They were getting a search warrant for his home. Professor Queneau would personally analyze Alexandre Becker’s DNA, as well as the colored contact lenses. The police machine was rolling. Dominique Kreiss was interviewing the educators and psychologists who had been responsible for Arnaud Briard until he was eighteen. Could a boy who killed his mother in self-defense become a serial killer? If so, was he attacking his mother every time he killed a woman? Was this father of two children, this loving husband really the culprit?

  Nico thought about his son, what he held dearest in the world. He was going to have to take him away from his mother for some time. This situation upset him more than he let show. Perhaps he should see a child psychiatrist to make sure Dimitri would come through unscathed. He would ask Caroline for her professional opinion. She would know. Caroline—he wondered what she was doing at this moment. She had said that she wanted to take a shower and rest a little. She would join him later. He would not let her go again. Tonight, she would sleep at his place to be safe. He wanted her so much.