The Unknown Masterpiece

by John Brooke

  Aliette started in on the notes.

  The boys admitted to skipping school. They had gone to get high by the river straight from breakfast, intending on passing the day. They had come upon the body — it was not clear at what time. Village-Neuf police had received a call at ten-twenty, a clumsy anonymous tip. From René, the nervous one. In less than the time it takes to drink a coffee and eat a brioche, a beat cop alerted to the source of the call found the two giggling boys making a mess at a table in the plaza McDo’s. The beat cop detained them and confiscated their remaining pot. René admitted making the anonymous call. Threatened with severe punishment for playing dangerous games and carrying an illicit substance, they had insisted the information passed along in their call was the truth. They had taken the officer to their gruesome find by the river. Their parents had been informed. The local police might be prepared to leave it at that. The focus had naturally shifted from the boys’ small crimes to this much larger one.

  ‘Your call, of course,’ added the gendarme as Aliette returned his papers.

  The boys were called Hubert Hunspach and René Laprade. Hubert grooved. René was wary.

  Inspector Nouvelle put a guiding hand on René’s shoulder and walked him in a slow circle around the music-shielded Hubert. ‘So, is this a good spot to come, René?’

  René shrugged.

  ‘Hubert’s choice then?’

  A nod, a quick sidelong glance at his friend. Yes, Hubert’s pot. Hubert’s spot.

  The glittery eyes of the boy in question narrowed. A thumb casually moved to his belt and adjusted his sound level. He began turning slowly with a sullen sway, one ear tuned to his friend.

  The inspector encouraged René. ‘And you just walked down and found the man?’

  ‘Pretty much, yeah…I mean, first we sat on a rock and, you know…’

  ‘Lit up. OK. And then you found the body.’

  ‘Just floating there.’

  ‘Were you afraid?’

  A shrug.

  ‘Did you run when you saw it? The body?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have information saying your shoes and socks were still soaking wet when they found you at McDo. Why would that be, René?’

  A shrug. ‘Maybe we went into the water to make sure. You know?’

  ‘Well, that makes sense. But why did you wait so long before calling the police?’

  ‘It’s like, um…we lost track of time.’

  Nice to lose track of time, she thought. Even with a dead body on your hands. Maybe she could learn something from these boys. She asked, ‘Who’s the boss here, René?’

  René did not understand the question. Or maybe he did. In any case, Aliette knew the answer. She told him, ‘René, you’re a good boy for calling the police, even if Hubert said you shouldn’t. But you must also tell the truth despite what Hubert told you to say. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And so?’

  René considered. Hubert removed his earphones and faced her with his outsized adolescent arms folded across his chest, as if challenging her to a fight. ‘He was dead!’

  The inspector smiled, inviting him to tell her more.

  ‘You could see it. Dead. Why would we be afraid?’

  Good question. ‘How close did you get to him?’

  ‘Close enough to know for sure.’

  ‘You see lots of dead bodies?’

  A shrug. All teens have this basic move. Translates as: stupid question. ‘Tons of ’em on TV.’

  ‘I mean real ones, Hubert.’

  ‘But it was just like on a show. The guy was floating there, just like on a show.’

  ‘It’s why we didn’t run away,’ René said.

  ‘Did you touch him, René?’

  A shake of the head, eyes diverted. ‘No.’ Horrible liar.

  Hubert, very much the brains and the boss behind this operation, said, ‘Just a sort of a poke. To make sure, you know? I mean, like, we didn’t want him to be floating there and still be alive or anything. If he was alive, we would have helped him.’

  ‘But he was dead and you were high and so you stood there and looked at him.’

  That smirk. That shrug. ‘There was nothing we could do.’

  ‘So?…how long?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was very freaky. We just looked at him and wondered what happened.’

  ‘And what we should do,’ René added. ‘Like, uh, we were in a bit of a bind, you know?’

  ‘And he really was dead,’ Hubert repeated.

  ‘And you had a long day ahead of you,’ noted the inspector.

  Hubert did not like her tone. He put his music back on and turned to watch the ongoing IJ operation. His day was still in progress.

  But René was properly contrite. ‘Sorry.’

  Aliette said, ‘Well, someone was bound to find him.’

  René asked, ‘Can we go?’

  Aliette asked, ‘Do you care that the man was killed?’

  René stared out at the river. That was a tricky question. ‘I guess so.’

  Aliette told him, ‘We may have to talk to you again. Promise me you won’t leave town.’

  ‘Where would I go?’

  She smiled and returned to the gendarme. ‘What are we going to do with all these hard-hearted children who are so happy to look and touch but never feel?’

  ‘I could think of a few things.’

  ‘We don’t need them for the time being. You can give them back to their mamas.’

  ‘Fine.’ He made a note.

  ‘Is this a place you come to often?’

  ‘Occasionally,’ the officer replied. ‘If the partying gets out of hand. Never for anything like this. Pretty quiet around here for the most part. At least during the day. Any trouble, it’s those kind with their pot and beer, and it’s usually after dark…Or the pédés.’ Homosexuals.

  ‘This is a gathering spot?’

  ‘Sometimes. When the bars close over in Saint-Louis, they’ll move the party over here. At least in summer.’ This was punctuated with a cop shrug (which is a world apart from a stoned adolescent shrug). Translates as: What are you gonna do?

  ‘Was there a party this past weekend?’

  ‘It rained this weekend.’

  ‘Friday?’ Friday had been lovely.

  ‘Not the kind where they needed us.’

  ‘Merci.’ She left the gendarme to release René and Hubert.

  ***

  Jean-Marc Pouliot ushered her into the tent-like blind they had thrown up.

  In fact there were two men found in the Rhine that day. The first, the man René and Hubert had poked and studied, was fortyish, tall and lean, fine features, good looking — absent the death-dulled stare, the matted, ratty hair. There was also the fact of a clean bullet hole in the centre of his forehead. And the side of his head had been severely broken open, battered with a sharpish object during the course of a struggle. Or perhaps falling on a rock.

  A spiffy dresser — at least on top: stylish cream-toned lightweight suit coat, a navy tie with tiny ruby hearts in a running pattern, a two-toned shirt (with two more bullet holes). South of his trim waistline, one elegant but blood-stained grey silk knee-length sock remained on his right foot. A string-like brief (le slip) more or less preserved his modesty. Shoes, other sock, and trousers were not part of his ensemble. It certainly fit with the notion of a trysting spot.

  Jean-Marc Pouliot let the plastic sheet fall back. ‘We have his pants and one shoe.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Don’t know. Wallet’s gone.’

  ‘Get a time?’

  ‘Not really…’ handing over the initial paperwork. The local medical examiner had done his job and left. ‘At least forty-eight hours. Have to wait for a more exact time-frame.’ Until Médecin légiste Rafaele Petrucci took over and performed a more extensive pathology investigation.

  Their victim had spent a rainy weekend in the river. ‘But he didn’t float in.’


  ‘No,’ Pouliot agreed. ‘I’d say the first two shots knocked him into the water. He may have floated from one shallows to the next, to where they found him, he was definitely in the river and it rolled him around some. But it happened here, that’s sure.’ The pants and shoe would add strong circumstantial confirmation. ‘And we’re gathering up some other things.’

  The inspector was pleased to see they had recovered a pistol. It was laid out on plastic, on display in the sun. ‘SIG 220,’ Pouliot said. ‘Standard police and army issue. Up to the task.’

  ‘In the water or the bushes?’

  ‘Water, but a pretty weak throw.’ Adding, ‘Five shots gone from an eight-round mag.’

  Interesting. Three in the victim. ‘Find the other two?’

  ‘Casings, yes. Slugs from the misses, not yet. All these rocks, the river…’ They would do their best. In Jean-Marc’s opinion, the non-pattern of the casings suggested a rundown. ‘Two shots to the stomach area — two casings over by the willow there…’ Directing her view; ‘where we found his pants and shoe. We found two more casings along a more or less straight path from there to those rocks. I’d say he tripped and fell there. Last casing from a coup de grâce to the head was in the sand directly below. Not where we found him, no. Like I say, he probably rolled with the currents a bit over the weekend.’

  She could see it — a chase along these jagged rocks and bushy fringes. Then an execution. Both the victim’s shins were a mess of cuts and scratches, some deep… his fingers and palms had also taken a beating. ‘Hard to run along those rocks,’ she observed.

  Jean-Marc confirmed. ‘Examiner says he fell more than once.’

  She suggested, ‘Maybe the chaser had some of the same difficulties, left something for us.’

  ‘We’re looking.’ Then, in his usual low-key manner, Jean-Marc hit right on it. ‘I’d say the gun’s your best indicator. Such a weak throw. Too easy to find. I’d say someone panicked. Which probably means: not a pro.’

  Merci, Jean-Marc. ‘Think there was more than one?’ Chasing the victim.

  ‘Not clear…’ Jean-Marc Pouliot scratched at an ugly red spot on his inner arm. The breeze was minimal, the horseflies owned the shoreline. ‘Those kids didn’t help us any. Made a mess.’

  ‘No ID beyond a missing wallet?’

  ‘No. His things might help locate him. His suit especially. We’ll find his tailor.’

  ‘Or we may get lucky with the gun.’ She noted the serial number in her book. Snazzy clothes like that — maybe with a gang. Payback. Punishment. But her colleague was right: no pro would leave the weapon so easily found. Maybe some desperate soul fighting back against the gangs?

  ‘And we have this guy,’ Pouliot said, now kneeling to unfold a rectangular package carefully wrapped in plastic. It was a painting of an old man.

  He’s taking a break for tea, pouring the brew carefully into a cup, a cup without a handle held lovingly in the palm of his hand. Not a tea cup. More like a cereal bowl. Un bol. His tools, pliers and a punch are most evident, and several pots make a workaday shambles of his table. A dim light hangs above him. His rimless glasses are low on his nose, accentuating taciturn eyes as he concentrates on pouring his refreshment. A shoemaker’s eyes. A boot rests in the middle of his table, a battered old thing, central to the table but almost lost in shadow, you’d have to think willfully forgotten for the moment by a man whose fate it was to fix too many. The pot of tea gets all the light. Refreshment. Diversion. A break in the day’s quiet routine. It was a golden-seeming teapot, in a long-ago moment a painter had felt compelled to study…

  It had been found soiled and ripped in the rocks along the shallows: a shoemaker at his work table with a pot of tea. Oil. In a dark and ponderous naturalistic style. Not at all modern. ‘Late Romantic,’ Jean-Marc surmised. ‘Flemish or Dutch. Not French.’ It was strictly a guess.

  ‘Famous?’ Meaning valuable.

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  The gilt frame had been shattered, the shadowy plane in the top right corner ripped. The shoemaker, teapot and the resting boot were severely stained with mud and water. Maybe irreparably. She hoped not. ‘Can they clean that?’ Aliette Nouvelle wondered.

  Jean-Marc Pouliot didn’t know.

  Thus two crimes committed at the unofficial park at Village-Neuf. Most would deem murder more serious than the destruction of a painting. But not all. It depends on your sense of inherent worth. A certain calibre of thief would not think twice about a murder in pursuit of what he wanted. A certain cop might find a ruined painting more interesting than a ruined man.

  Climbing back up the bank, Aliette was thinking she would take the lead on this case.

  The crowd had grown, the gendarmes were moving them back, more media had arrived, some were perched on the tops of trucks and cars, cameras aimed at the operation. Most of the attention was on the regional television news team. The reporter known as Cakeface (at least to the police) was conducting an interview with Hubert and René. Hubert’s mother monitored the exercise with a grim wariness. You can always tell a mother: Easy. Hubert had her sallow face. Can a mother always tell what her child has been up to? Harder to know. Both boys giggled sporadically as Cake posed her questions and they gave their version of events.

  Maybe they were just excited to be on TV.

  Crime reporter Serge Phaneuf appeared in front of her again. ‘Got a name for me yet?’

  ‘Not yet, monsieur.’ She headed back to her barf-green requisitioned car.

  3

  Crime of Passion?

  French side

  Returning to rue des Bons Enfants, Inspector Nouvelle gave Commissaire Néon the rudimentary details of the situation by the river and said she would take the lead. She hoped there were no links across the border, but she sensed there likely would be — Basel was a busy art centre. And hadn’t she just read something about an art-related killing there? Where? She could not put her finger on it…

  The body and the crime-scene findings were just now being delivered to the basement. She would have to oversee a quick exam and push for ID on the victim, then get the usual report and forms written up for the Prosecutor’s office so she could move ahead, mandate in hand, without undue delay. It was shaping up to be a long day.

  She told Claude not to expect her for supper. Claude was irked at the prospect of a Tuesday evening alone and made noises to this effect. Aliette was irked by that.

  Apart from the fact it meant he’d have to cook for himself, Claude was…What?

  Claude Néon was proving to be far more domestic than she ever would have guessed.

  Odd word to hang it on, a tricky problem to confront. At first she’d put it down to peer pressure. The better the neighbourhood, the more evident the syndrome? The garden. His club. At first this aspect of the man she’d thought (felt sure!) was her true life’s partner was a niggling mystery, a slight imbalance she believed would be righted with time. But it hadn’t been. Now he was always far too disappointed when she couldn’t make it home. Though they were two cops sharing a home, it was two different worlds and the gap was getting wider.

  It was supposed to be a love built on a shared direction, a passion for the job. This domestic thing was an interloper, an unwanted guest installed in a room never properly prepared.

  Claude knew the lot of the inspector. He’d been one too, before his sudden jump to police management. Remember, Claude? Can you so easily forget the place you come from?

  It grated. Maddening when the heart says you just don’t want the things you thought you did. It’s not fear — you got past that. It’s knowing you were wrong. And so disheartening, how the bitterness of self-deception is slowly, implacably revealed.

  Today, facing Claude, everything grated a little sharper. Because her cat had died?

  Oh, Piaf… A conflicted Aliette returned to her desk and began an initial report.

  She did a search on the gun. It was not in the system. She made a call to Basel, seeking the same
information and wasted the better part of an hour being politely shunted here, then there, then waiting yet again before being told they couldn’t help her. She knew it was by design, ridiculous politics spearheaded by strange little xenophobic minds at all levels of the system, but mainly at the highest. It was past six, too late to contact a Swiss ally — she would sort out the gun tomorrow. There were colleagues downstairs also wanting to get home.

  Despite all their work at the site, Identité Judiciaire had nothing much.

  ‘All the skin and blood belongs to him…’ Jean-Marc Pouliot reported, with a look through the door toward the morgue across the hall. ‘And the gun. His hands are all over it. Plus some DNA from his skin where he kept it in the back of his waistband. Maybe traces of other hands on the gun. Maybe. Not enough DNA to read after a weekend in the river.’

  ‘One person, both hands?’

  ‘Working on it, Inspector… With my luck lately, it’ll break down to three.’

  ‘And perhaps a bit of fabric,’ Charles Léger muttered. ‘Synthetic. Like training shorts.’

  She moved to his bench, looked through the scope at the tiniest morsel. Lighter than darker. Bluish, not white. ‘Or a bathing suit?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Or underwear,’ Jean-Marc suggested. ‘Again, very indistinct. An outer layer. Minimal contact with skin… Thing is, a lot of different people rolling around on the ground out there, or so I gather.’

  Indeed. ‘Thanks, messieurs. Please don’t stay late on my account.’ Though she knew they would. Adding, ‘Tomorrow I’ll have the gun.’ Then she went across to the morgue.

  Pathologist Raphaele Petrucci uncovered the cleaned-up corpse. ‘The bullet killed him, no doubt there. I mean the one in his head. But the two in his gut could have done, if required. But dead before his little swim, that’s sure. And smacked about the face and head with something hard.’

  ‘Not the rocks while he drifted?’

  ‘No…well, a bit. But the worst part of it is pre-swim.’

  ‘Med Examiner says two days, maybe three.’

  ‘I’ll narrow it to Friday night. Saturday, early.’