“Specifically in a range between zero-point-six-three and zero-point-six-seven,” added Caillaud.
“And,” continued Caillot, “the profile will become more and more detailed as the crimes evolve.”
“By way of example,” added Caillaud, “the killer will almost certainly have shown signs of the Macdonald triad. As we progress, that will help in identifying him.”
“He is a fanatic of le triple-decker hamburger?” Capucine asked. She was now enjoying herself hugely.
“No, no, Commissaire,” Caillaud said with a show of great patience. “It has been noticed that this type of serial killer almost invariably has a childhood history of enuresis, animal cruelty, and pyromania. That is what is known as the Macdonald triad.”
“Enuresis?”
“Yes,” Caillot said. “Bed-wetting past the age of early childhood.”
“The other important feature, Commissaire, ” said Caillaud, “is that this type of killer is also almost invariably peripatetic. That is what makes him so hard to catch.”
“Precisely,” said Caillot. “They are intelligent, they have means, and they operate over a very broad territory.”
“There you have it, Commissaire,” said Martinière. “Our path is clear. There will be further killings, most likely in other cities in France. The police throughout the nation need to be alerted and the profile circulated and recirculated as it evolves. We will also liaise with Interpol to determine if the murderer is active abroad. We will need to appeal to the press. Perhaps even run advertisements if they are not sufficiently responsive. Suspects need to be brought in. Eventually, we will close in on the killer. That is why I have convoked Contrôleur Général Tallon. His role will be to coordinate the national effort. Under my direction, of course.”
As if on cue, the door opened violently and Tallon strode in, his back ramrod straight, his shoulders squared. When Capucine had worked directly for him, his bulk, his reputation, his rank were invariably enough to silence any group and suck up all the attention in the room. This time he was ignored—utterly and completely. Caillot and Caillaud continued on with their statistics and Martinière barely glanced up at him, lifting an index finger for silence. When the two profilers had finished Martinière looked at Tallon and then at his watch.
“Monsieur le contrôleur général, you were convoked for eleven thirty. It is now after twelve. You have missed a very important exposé by our two profilers and my definition of the expanded role I expect the police to play in this investigation. We’re now going to have to backpedal to bring you up to speed. That is unacceptable.
“Commissaire,” Martinière continued, addressing Capucine, “could you run down the hall and see if you can find a chair for Contrôleur Général Tallon?”
Tallon lifted a hand, ordering Capucine to remain seated. As he advanced into the room he seemed to inflate. His anger was palpably that of a man who had spent a life awash in violence. Martinière recoiled in his chair, his physical fear of Tallon at war with his vanity and ambition. Physical fear won the first round.
“Enough of this nonsense, Martinière. There’s going to be no expanded anything. These are crimes that clearly exceed your competence. I will allow Commissaire Le Tellier to keep you informed of the progress on the case, but you are not to interfere with her work in any way.”
Affronted at the abuse of his surname, some of Martinière’s arrogance returned. “But Monsieur le contrôleur général,” he began in a rush, “Professors Caillot and Caillaud, who have been appointed by me to the case, have explained that they expect the killer to expand his geography and that it will be necessary to mobilize the police throughout the country and most likely alert the population through the media.”
“Martinière, be very careful here. There will be no mobilization of the national police and most certainly not the media. If that happens, we will be deluged with false confessions and possibly even copycat crimes. If you involve yourself actively in any way and there are any crimes of imitation, rest assured that I will have criminal charges brought against you and I’ll damn well make sure that they stick. I would advise you to sit in your office and amuse yourself with your two plaisantins and leave the police work to the police.”
The disdain of the threat was too much. Martinière was red in the face. “Monsieur, we will see what we will see!”
“That we will. Allez, Commissaire. We have work to do.”
Capucine followed Tallon as he marched down the hall, radiating animal energy. When he reached out to push the elevator button, his finger trembled. Noticing the tremor, he burst out laughing.
“Problem solved!”
Capucine hoped he was right.
In the street Tallon continued to pace on imperiously, sucking Capucine into the slipstream of his wake. He made for the nearest café.
“Calva. Deux,” he said to the man behind the zinc bar.
When the Calvadoses came, he tapped his miniature snifter against Capucine’s and said, “Tchin-tchin. I haven’t had this much fun since I got my fucking promotion.” He downed his drink in one go and looked up at the barman.
“Encore deux.”
“Did those two cretins have anything useful to say? I wouldn’t have thought they would.”
“So you don’t believe in profiling?” Capucine asked.
“Of course I do,” Tallon said. “I’m a very modern flic. I’ll even give you my own profile of this perp. It’s someone who likes good food.”
CHAPTER 21
“And he actually made the juge cringe?” David asked incredulously.
As Capucine, her feet on her desk, procrastinated by regaling her three brigadiers with the tale of the previous day’s meeting with Martinière, she beseeched her guardian angel to bestow her with just one good idea that would break the case out of its apparently ironclad box.
Despite her almost boundless confidence in Tallon, Capucine doubted the respite from Martinière would be anything but short-lived. In a burst of élan she had ordered Isabelle and David to collect Honorine Lecanu and interview her at the brigade that afternoon, while she herself planned to interview Gaël Tanguy in his apartment. But despite those efforts Capucine was still deeply frustrated.
The meeting was proving painfully typical. David admired her shoes—a pair of Jimmy Choo platform sling-backs—Isabelle her legs, and Momo ruminated, glowering.
The door opened stealthily. Capucine assumed it was one of the uniformed officers with a message. But instead Jacques slipped in, dapper in a featherweight wool suit, pink silk shirt, and navy blue rough silk tie.
“How did you get in here?” Capucine asked.
“Oh, you know me. I have my little ways,” Jacques said, smiling knowingly at the three brigadiers.
“Children, I’ve come to take your mama out to a very chic lunch to cheer her up. If you play nicely together, she may bring you back a doggie bag.”
“Jacques, we’re in a meeting.”
“I think the one with the curls has admired your shoes as much as he needs to, and if the one with the muscles stares at your legs anymore, she’s going to start to drool, and the big one is going to take a very long time to figure out what he really wants. So let’s get going.”
On the way out the door Capucine said, “This is my cousin.” And then, sotto voce, “The one in the DGSE.” She thought she heard, but really couldn’t have, the three of them respond in a whispered chorus, “We figured.”
The Twingo’s close confines invited confidence. As they headed toward the center of Paris, Jacques removed his seat belt, leaned over, put his hand on Capucine’s neck, and drew her ear close to his mouth. He began to whisper very quietly. At first she thought it was one of his eternal passes, but no, he was being genuinely conspiratorial.
“I’m going out on a long, shaky limb here,” he susurrated. “But as they say in the ads, ‘you’re worth it.’ We’re going to see a man who is what we call in tradespeak a ‘hidden deeply asset.’ Only a small handf
ul of people know he even exists. You must not talk about him to anyone, most particularly not to anyone in the Police Judiciaire. Do you understand?”
Capucine nodded. “Who is he?”
“A philosopher. A psychiatrist. A former operative. How’s that for a combination?” Jacques gave an attenuated version of his cackle. “He was instrumental in a critical project a few years ago that, ah, didn’t turn out as well as it might have. For him or for us. We’ve kept him on the roster of hidden assets ever since.”
“What kind of psychiatrist?”
“He’s a follower of Lacan. Remember him from school?”
“Vaguely. Wasn’t he the shrink who was the big pal of the surrealists?”
“The very one. But Lacan was more than a shrink. He was a philosopher and literary theorist who was one of the people who put surrealism on the rails.”
“So you’re taking me to see a surrealist psychologist who is going to solve my case for me. And you really think my time will be better spent doing this than actually working on it with my team?”
“You’ll see.”
“So where exactly are we going?”
“Don’t ask so many questions. Keep driving. Turn left here. Merde, cousine, left, left!”
Capucine followed Jacque’s lefts and rights until she reached the Pont Marie, which led to the Ile Saint-Louis, that marvelous bark of an island that eternally navigates the waters of the Seine untouchable by the passage of time.
“Stop! Pull over,” ordered Jacques.
“We’re in the middle of a bridge. I can’t stop.”
“Of course you can. We’re here. You’re not going to get a ticket. You’re a flic.”
They walked under tall poplars a few feet down the peaceful quai lined with elegant seventeenth-century hô-tels particuliers, until they reached a cut in the ancient stone parapet. The sun shone; the river murmured; birds chirped. It was a picture postcard of a Paris that had never really existed.
“Down,” instructed Jacques.
They descended the vertiginously steep stone steps and emerged on the stone walkway at the river’s edge, a few feet away from the arches of the bridge. Jacques labored under the weight of a heavy-looking olive drab metal box painted with a long number in large black characters.
Uncharacteristically, Jacques hesitated.
“Better let me go first. You wait here. I’ll be right back.”
He disappeared under a stone arch, then appeared immediately with a broad smile, waving Capucine forward.
Under the low protective dome of the arch, four metal police barricades, obviously purloined, had been used to define three cubicles. Each was meticulously neat, housing immaculately made-up cots, small pieces of furniture, a few books, a picture or two. One of the cots had a cute stuffed kangaroo next to the pillow.
How perfectly surrealist, how perfectly appropriate, Capucine thought to herself.
In the farthest cubicle, a tall, gaunt, aquiline man in a well-cut tweet jacket, far too thick for the season, stood awkwardly, his deep-set, hunted eyes squinting at her in concerned suspicion. As Capucine advanced a step, he retreated deeper into his cubicle like a cornered rodent.
“You’re taking me to see a hobo!” Capucine hissed in Jacques’s ear. “You think a homeless surrealist is going to solve my case for me! Have you taken complete leave of your senses?”
“Don’t be such a stuffy old prude,” Jacques hissed back. “This man is going to change your life.”
As they approached, the man retreated even farther, nervously looking left and right, as if for a means of escape, backing into the rigid galvanized-steel police barricade. He reminded Capucine of a young deer at bay, surrounded by hounds.
In a faux hearty cocktail party voice Jacques said, “Docteur Vavasseur, may I present my little cousin, Madame Le Tellier. She’s the police officer I told you about. Do you remember? I’m afraid she is deeply troubled and very much in need of your help.”
He stepped forward and deposited the metal box on the cobblestones at the foot of the bed. At Jacques’s approach the man retreated even farther, bending his back over the barricade.
“Well,” Jacques said breezily, “now that the introductions are made, why don’t I just leave you two to get on with your lunch?” He sprang jauntily up the steep stairway.
Vavasseur stared anxiously at Capucine. Like a cinematographic Western gunfight, the moment was lengthened by the tense silence. Gradually, his breathing slowed and his shoulders dropped in relaxation.
“We might as well see what they brought us today. Sometimes it’s actually quite palatable,” Vavasseur said, his eyes on the container.
Capucine retreated a few paces. Vavasseur walked timorously up to the metal box and snapped open the lid. Taking a deep sniff, he smiled in contentment and read a menu card that had been placed on top of the contents.
“Ah, risotto. Wonderful. It cooks for over twenty minutes. I’m particularly partial to thoroughly cooked food. In fact, I believe they’ve exceeded themselves. It’s a lobster risotto. One drinks champagne with that.” He beamed. “And I have just the one to go with it.” His joy in the meal was childlike and eclipsed the threat Capucine seemed to represent.
Vavasseur busied himself removing the objects from his pedestaled night table, putting them carefully on the large, irregular paving stones on the ground. He moved the table opposite the midpoint of the bed and set his single chair opposite.
“Now, you just sit comfortably on the bed, and I’ll go get the wine from my cellar.” Little by little he was morphing into the perfect host. Capucine sat on the edge of the bed, which smelled pleasantly of laundry soap. Vavasseur walked to the edge of the walkway, where a steep stone embankment sloped off into the river. Four or five lengths of thin rope had been tied to an ancient iron ring. Vavasseur selected one and drew it in with great care.
“Perfect.” He smiled broadly. “Got it on the first try.” He held up a squat dark bottle of champagne with an undersized dark gold label.
“A Krug Clos du Mesnil nineteen ninety-five. Not quite their Clos d’Ambonnay, of course, but almost.”
He pulled a wooden box from under the bed, produced two champagne flutes, opened the bottle with a pop discreet enough to have met with Alexandre’s approval, and lovingly filled both glasses half full.
“One of the many nice things about living here is that I have a perfect cellar. Dark, constant temperature, no vibration. A votre santé, madame,” he said, touching Capucine’s glass with his.
“And the symbolic purity of the water must appeal to a psychiatrist,” Capucine ventured.
“Symbolic purity. I never thought of that. The river is a means of escape. That’s why it’s so satisfying. But enough philosophizing. Let’s see what we think of the ministry of defense’s lobster risotto.” He was like a child impatient to get at his Christmas presents.
Vavasseur dove under the bed again, coming up with plates and cutlery. He then extracted a plastic storage container from the canister, opened it, and sniffed approvingly.
“This should be quite edible once we heat it up.” He emptied the contents into a small skillet, placed it on a butane gas ring, lit it with a plastic cigarette lighter, and stirred the contents gently as they began to heat.
“My cousin was absolutely right,” Capucine said. “You have the best view of the Seine in Paris.”
“Possibly. Of course, I share it with a good number of friends.”
“Where are your flatmates?” Capucine asked.
“They’re not as fortunate as I am and have to spend most of the day foraging for food and, I’m embarrassed to say, occasionally even actually begging. I have the luxury of being able to remain here all day with my books and my thoughts. And a good thing, too. The consequences of leaving a prime location like this unattended can be dire.”
Warmed, the risotto fully lived up to its expectations. Capucine and Vavasseur ate and sipped contentedly, as at ease as if they were at a luncheon in an
elegant Fourth Arrondissement apartment. At one point a dapper man with a perfectly conformed black Labrador appeared on the walkway on the opposite bank and waved cheerfully. Vavasseur waved back, but his mood seemed to have soured slightly.
“Nice fellow. Very attached to his dog. He lives in a cardboard refrigerator carton under the arch on the other side of the bridge. It’s roomy enough, I suppose. But the thought of being confined like that ...” Vavasseur shuddered. “Nothing beats being tucked in under a warm blanket with the cold air on one’s face. Even in the middle of the winter. Pure bliss.”
The meal went on and on: salad, cheeses, very elegant pastry for dessert, a thermos of strong espresso, even a small vial of excellent Armagnac. When it was finally over, Vavasseur piled the dishes in a plastic bin he produced from under the bed.
“I’ll get to those later. Now let’s focus on you. Your cousin, Monsieur de la Fournière, told me you needed some counseling in unraveling a problem that troubles you a great deal. Is that correct?”
“Yes. He said that you had unparalleled expertise.”
“He’s too kind, but there are many analysts who are easily as skilled as I am.”
Vavasseur’s metamorphosis was complete. He had tucked in his chin and arched the back of his neck, eminently credible as a practicing psychiatrist.
“I think it would be best if you were to lie on the bed so you can relax completely. That was one of the many things Freud was so right about. The act of lying down, completely at ease, makes it so much easier to explore one’s feelings.”
With hesitation—she was still young enough to be able to feel utterly embarrassed—Capucine steeled herself, took off her shoes, and stretched out on the bed, her head on the snowy white pillow. Vavasseur moved the little table and his chair out of her range of vision. She half expected Jacques to pop up, screeching his cackle at the success of a hugely funny practical joke, but decided that since she had come this far, she might as well see the farce out to the end.
Killer Critique Page 14
