by John Brooke
Bruno Martel, squeezed into a sooty corner behind the ancient heating-oil tank, slumped on his large backside, soaked with piss, stinking largely — and quite dead. And yet his eyes were wide, seeming to stare up at whoever happened to find him. Like some child caught?
‘What in the world?’
Claude hadn’t a clue.
11
Adding Murky Innuendo to the Mix
Failed police action adds murk to healer’s death. By Serge Phaneuf, Le Cri Crime Desk.
Disturbingly unresolved rumors surround the sudden death by apparent heart failure of well-known new-age guru/healer Bruno Martel yesterday. Martel, 40, was found dead at the residence of Agnès Guntz, Martel’s current companion and Executive Director of the Martel Meditation Center and its subsidiary Spiritual Farm.
Légiste Raphaele Petrucci confirmed the cause of death as, ‘heart attack,’ before he accompanied Martel’s body to the police morgue where, it is assumed, it will be autopsied in context with four recent and similar deaths. Jerôme Duteil, Jean-Guy Gagnon, Pierre Angulaire and Georges Pugh have all died within two weeks, all of heart attack, all (with the debatable exception of Duteil) well before their natural time. While no criminal action has as yet been tied to this coincidental series of fatalities, PJ Commissaire Claude Néon was observed attempting to speak to Monsieur Martel minutes before his death. When Martel bolted the scene and took refuge at the Guntz residence, it was Néon who, upon entering the house, discovered the body in the fruit cellar, where Martel apparently sought to hide. From what, is the mystery, as is a more detailed description of the heart attack that felled him.
Monsieur Martel was known to be on several medications in aid of his considerable weight and attendant blood pressure issues.
Commissaire Néon offered no comment as to the coincidental aspect of Martel’s passing, nor regarding the presence of socialite Pearl Serein with him yesterday at the aborted ‘interview.’ Néon would only say that in light of his own presence, investigation of the ‘semi-suspicious’ circumstances would be handed over to Commissaire Duque and the city police.
It is commonly known that Madame Serein was romantically linked with Monsieur Martel, as she also was with Messieurs Duteil, Gagnon, Angulaire and Pugh. It is assumed that Commissaire Néon’s attempt to confront Monsieur Martel yesterday afternoon is connected. Madame Serein was not available for comment. All calls to PJ offices last evening were referred to City Police. Spokesperson Martine Wangen said there was no more information at this time. Referring to the fact that Monsieur Martel had just emerged from three months of ‘deep solitude’ at his retreat near Rhinau, a distraught Agnès Guntz expressed outrage at what she termed ‘an unconscionable breach of privacy during a highly sensitive time,’ and laid the blame for the death of ‘a beautiful, enlightened man’ unequivocally at the feet of ‘blundering police.’ ‘I will be talking to our legal advisors,’ said Madame Guntz. She would not comment as to the presence of Madame Serein.
It will be for City investigators to determine the parameters of a police action apparently gone askew, and whether the Divisional HQ of Police Judiciaire ought to become involved.
Inspector Nouvelle stood by as her Commissaire sorted through the ramifications.
A ‘police action’ in Serge’s murky headline, failed or otherwise, presumed a case. The rest was left to conjecture. Bad optics, to be sure, but not as bad as it might have been. The matter of possible professional misconduct had not yet leaked beyond the confines of the Court. If the Instructing Judge wanted to issue a statement censuring the Police Judiciaire, it wouldn’t help any, but Gérard Richand wouldn’t. Not with Procureur Souviron finessing it with Strasbourg. All things considered — and last night was a communications nightmare — Claude could not complain. In fact, he was damn lucky and he knew it. But if Divisionnaire Norbert Fauré became involved, that could change and seriously. Claude had to say the right things today.
Tommi Bonneau had heeded the proviso regarding pictures of cops. The photo accompanying that morning’s Le Vrai Tommi gave away nothing of yesterday’s shoddy spectacle. Rather, Tommi’s offering depicted Pearl and Bruno in a snowy mountain scene from an obviously happier time. But all other major celebrity gossip issues had been left to slide. Tommi Bonneau’s entire space was devoted to the Local Scene.
In light of the tragic death of Bruno Martel: Your scribe was at the scene yesterday, scant minutes before he left us. While it is for the police to decide whether this was another in a series of murders (indeed, it is for the authorities to tell us what exactly is going on!) we, you and I, gentle reader, should consider only the cold fact of death in the face of heroic love and take heed.
Bruno’s was a world of dreams and confession. It had lately been sealed off from the larger world by the mystery of one heart’s failed desire. The healer was scheduled to emerge from his well-known seclusion and — we hoped — share the secrets of a broken heart. I was standing there, I heard Bruno say, ‘Your heart was there with me, Pearl…I know all about your heart.’ These were Bruno’s last words to Pearl. Tantalizing! Profound? Before she could respond, the police came between them. Regrettably, all I can report is that Bruno Martel was trying in his way to share with Pearl. We have all watched and waited. Now we’ll never know what this pilgrim knew. Had Bruno discovered something in his muck room? It seemed so. I heard him speak of gratitude. I thought of Pearl Serein. But the dream and the reality are two very different forces. All lovers know this.
Yesterday the forces of Law and Order brought Pearl and Bruno together again — too suddenly, too carelessly, too drastically. Tragically. ‘Bruno was too fragile for such a moment. This was not right that they should intrude the way they did,’ lamented Agnès Guntz, the healer’s special assistant, in reference to Pearl’s unannounced arrival in the company of her policeman, PJ Commissaire Claude Néon.
What happened yesterday? Is it murder or something more sublime?
Let the authorities find the physical evidence to make their case. For Pearl, and for those of us who live in her image, it is a matter of the tender things that have no name except Love’s Enquiry. The tragic bottom line: Bruno Martel is gone and Tommi is bound by principle to go on record with the thought that Pearl-plus-a-cop brought sad destruction.
Watching Monique’s eyes tear up as she read it aloud over coffee was embarrassing. The more pressing concern was public perception tying Claude to Pearl Serein. Forget about suggestive murk from the Crime Desk. Tommi Bonneau’s was the far more dangerous insinuation.
‘The man’s so full of shit he’s choking,’ said Claude. ‘A world-class jerk-off.’
But he had to get going, to Strasbourg, to explain himself to the divisionnaire.
Aliette accompanied him down the stairs to the second-floor landing. ‘Just tell the truth. Don’t talk too much. Bon route, bon courage.’ (Have a good drive. Hang tough.) She would manage the shop. Then she went along the hall to Commissiare Duque’s office, to confer with the City team.
What was Bruno Martel doing in the basement? Claude had surmised, and Aliette agreed, that Bruno had run down, frantically looking to hide from someone. Or something? Hallucinations left over from an overdose of seclusion in his muck room? Despite the mess of thrown and broken objects — which pre-supposed a chase if not a struggle, there were no clear signs of anyone else at the place of Bruno’s dying. Blood pressure issues? Maybe this time they’d find a drug to blame it on. They’d have to wait for Raphaele Petrucci’s best advice on that.
Jean-Marc Pouliot of Identité Judiciaire was at the table. ‘Dusty down there. Néon was the only other presence, at least as far as shoe prints go. Néon knew enough to keep well away. We can prove that, if need be. As for Martel,’ Jean-Marc was flummoxed. ‘It’s like he saw a ghost and died.’ And he was vexed. ‘Why can’t any of them die with their eyes shut?’
‘If you don’t like ghosts, talk to Raphaele about his voodoo theory,’ the inspector suggested.
Cap
tain Mathieu Deubelbeiss was Duque’s second in command. He looked up from the provided files. ‘Ghosts or voodoo, fear of a sort seems to be a recurring problem here.’
‘Raphaele will tell you it occurs pretty regularly,’ she responded. ‘But fear can be slotted into a sub-category of stress — which is probably a more useful context. At least that’s what we’ve been hearing. Losing Pearl Serein was a very big deal for all these men. Martel was highly distressed when he ran from the club gate,’ she noted. ‘She set him off. Pearl Serein. Seeing her again was obviously upsetting, if not terrifying. And Bonneau was harassing him.’
Commissaire Duque said, ‘My sister used to mind that Tommi Bonneau. I mean years ago. She’d do babysitting when she was needing pocket money… Scrawniest little runt. Strange what people turn into. Can you imagine spending your days producing that claptrap?’
Deubelbeiss said, ‘Bonneau says he followed Martel to Guntz’s front gate, then waited.’
‘That’s where we found him,’ Aliette confirmed.
‘There’s nothing of Bonneau on the lawn or around the doors,’ said Jean-Marc Pouliot. ‘Others, not him. Something may have happened in the yard.’ Sliding a pile of photos to the middle of the table. Images of shoe prints on the grass. ‘Trainers. They line up with Martel’s.’
Aliette said that according to Pearl Serein, Bruno Martel only wore spiritual white — which apparently included high-top basketball trainers.
Pouliot continued, ‘Martel’s hands are all over the patio door. That could be from any time recently, I mean since he got back from the mountains, but…’ The prints on the grass. ‘I’d bet there was someone else there. Too many prints. Unless he was doing a dance.’
A passing jogger was also wearing trainers. A rude jogger, staring up at a bedroom window.
For that matter, so was Tommi Bonneau. Was he? The inspector struggled to adjust her inner camera. But all she could conjure were the man’s devastated eyes, those long fingers fiddling with lenses and exposures. ‘And the fence? Any of the same marks there?’
‘Nothing immediately apparent,’ said Jean-Marc.
Commissaire Duque was apologetic. ‘We could look more, but we’re still pretty much betwixt and between on directives here, I’m afraid.’ He meant a budget.
They were in all in holding pattern till they knew for certain they had a crime.
‘But, you know,’ said Jean-Marc, with the weary candor of a technician long used to never having enough time or resources, ‘there are trainer marks all over the stairs and bedroom, not all of them Martel’s. Or hers.’ Because Agnès Guntz also wore spiritual white. ‘Who else goes in that house? Does she have children? Other people connected to this spiritual farm business?’
The officers at the table all took notes.
‘In fact,’ Jean-Marc went on, venting, ‘I’m getting fed up with rubber soles. The film guy’s building, Pugh’s office, the first two places. It’s mainly the SAMU and your people coming and going — no one’s faulting them, don’t misunderstand me. I mean these are still just heart attacks. But I really wish people would be a little more professional about these things.’
Commissaire Duque, bemused, assured Jean-Marc Pouliot, ‘We’ll issue a directive to wear the moon suits and matching boots in the event of another heart attack.’
‘And to be very careful around all windows, no matter what level,’ added Aliette. ‘The window directly above the patio door was wide open.’
‘Her bedroom,’ noted Captain Deubelbeiss. ‘So?…nice spring day.’
‘Three of our sites are in rooms five and six floors up. A third floor would be easy.’
Pouliot shrugged. ‘No signs of a ladder. Garden fence would leave you less than halfway up.’ Those chateau-like homes often had upper rooms thirty, even forty feet above the ground.
Inspector Nouvelle requested that the uniforms canvass the north end for a jogger. ‘All in white.’ She described a handsome though less than pleasant man who seemed preoccupied with Agnès Guntz’s bedroom window when he’d gone running by. ‘And he didn’t stop to watch the show. Which is odd.’
Commissaire Duque said, polite but pointed, ‘I gather you won’t be dropping this completely.’
‘We will be at your disposal, Commissaire.’
Duque understood. The Police Judiciaire was not meant to be working on this file and that was how the City team would approach any problematic eventuality. He stood, signaling the end of the meeting.
‘For what it’s worth…’ Jean-Marc Pouliot had one last thing. Rudimentary dusting revealed that Bruno Martel and Agnès Guntz were both reading the new bestseller on evolutionary psychology. They’d also found a copy at Georges Pugh’s home. With Jean-Guy Gagnon’s copy, that made three out of five victims who’d apparently been reading to discover more about their own little place in life’s larger scheme. ‘I mean, in case it fits with ghosts at windows.’
Merci, Jean-Marc.
12
A Chat With Ray
Claude called from Strasbourg. He had survived his visit with the divisionnaire. Whatever else — meaning Claude’s less than brilliant tactic of bringing Pearl along — it seemed the big boss agreed it must be murder. They needed to get a handle on the why and how. If she was interested, Claude suggested low-key interviews with the last two remaining lovers. ‘Could you take care of that? The docklands. Both Belfort and Tuche are down that way.’
Tiring of paperwork, interested despite herself, Aliette said, ‘Fine.’
Claude reminded her that they were walking on legal egg shells — a quiet, low-key chat was the order of the day. ‘But Fauré is with us,’ Claude assured her. ‘He said good things about you.’
‘One of my very favorite people,’ Aliette replied.
It was a nice walk on a spring day, past City Hall, the courthouse, down through the business sector and on to the docks. There were barges lined along the wharf, loading, unloading. Aliette marched in the sunlight, enjoying the physicality of stevedores, the tang of decaying fish and industrial waters, the pinky haze of potash dust on the wind, the blunt largeness of everything.
The grungy working sector ended, the highly priced ‘reclaimed’ area began. Aliette entered the airy sandblasted space of a refurbished warehouse, knocked on a door at the end of a sky-lit hall. The petite exotic redhead who answered said Didi had gone to his club for his tennis lesson. As forewarned, this was Charlotte. When the inspector asked for her take on the situation, Charlotte’s opinion of Pearl Serein was coldly obscene. She said further that ‘my Didi’ was preparing to sue Le Cri du Matin and demanded to know what the inspector could do to expedite the process of putting Tommi Bonneau in jail. The inspector advised the best strategy was polite cooperation, and she left her card. ‘Please have Didi call us.’
How could Pearl spend time with a man who would spend time with someone like that?
She continued along the landscaped promenade to Le Clinic de Répos et Cure Curé, which was located in another remodeled warehouse. Put it under the rubric of ‘spa,’ or ‘sanatorium,’ the kind of facility designed to handle out-patient overflow. Operated privately for profit, but one could claim a partial rebate if one’s problem fit a proper category.
Raymond Tuche, the locally celebrated but famously unstable sculptor, had a room on the fourth floor overlooking the river. Aliette was accompanied up by a pleasant nurse. Tuche was sitting on his bed, clad only in pyjama bottoms. In greeting his visitor, Ray did not smile. Or cry. Ray was flat, medicated to a gray point the pleasant nurse described as both voluntary and comfortable. ‘We always aim for comfort, then build from there. Well, perhaps rebuild is more apt. Eh, Ray?’ Ray folded his arms across his skinny, hairless chest. ‘Ray’s always popping in for a rest and we admire him for that. He knows his soul. But he’s an artist, I guess he has to. Eh, Ray?’ She gave him a big smile. No response. Though widely acknowledged to be only marginally sane, Raymond Tuche purportedly possessed ‘a totally anthro-mythological sen
se of proportion.’ Or so some art critic had said. Probably in Le Soir.
The nurse smiled more discreetly for Aliette. ‘Saves us a lot of trouble. The system, I mean.’
And Aliette was discreet in asking if this latest rest was the result of damage wrought by Pearl.
‘Pearl was not a good idea for a delicate guy like Ray,’ the nurse opined. She explained that Ray suffered from borderline personality disorder, which was not illegal and did stop some people from daring to love, but could be dangerous. ‘But,’ she noted, ‘Ray’s problems go far deeper and further back than a broken heart.’ Upon presentation of the proper mandate, Ray’s file would show this in no uncertain terms. Aliette did not tell her they already had Ray’s file.
The woman smiled and left them.
She reopened the door almost immediately. ‘If you have one of those wireless phone things in your bag and he asks to use it, don’t let him.’ Same smile. Same exit.
Ray perked up. ‘I need to tell her something.’ He meant Pearl Serein.
Aliette knew Ray Tuche had a tendency to call in the middle of the night and stay on the line till dawn. She told him, ‘The lady said no, monsieur. You have to learn to live with it.’
The artist’s response to her advice was to cry. Just like that — tears flowing. But quietly.
How Pearl caused tears! Aliette was motherly, but stern. ‘Come on. Get a hold of yourself.’
Ray whined, ‘You don’t know what I gave that woman!’
No, she didn’t. When it comes to love, who knows what anyone gives to another? And who understands the impossibility of receiving someone’s most precious gift? A bright afternoon sun highlighted the pervasive dust surrounding Raymond Tuche, indeed, attaching to him. The cool tile floor and melamine desktop were spattered with dried droplets of modeling clay. As the nurse had explained, Ray could not stop creating. Shapes in a row along the windowsill attested to his urge, each a variation on the famous drumstick-shaped monument dominating the sculpture room at the Institute which Ray claimed was a metaphor for the erogenous parts of Pearl Serein. When Aliette pointed out that he and Pearl had not gotten together as a couple until three years after he had created this landmark piece, Ray said, ‘B’en, that only enhances our shared destiny.’ Defiant, he told her, ‘You don’t know what it’s like to be a sculptor.’