Did you enter the Langlois family’s house with the firm intention of killing them?
It was a critical question. The entire trial was riding on determining whether, yes or no, you had gone to the Langlois home with the firm intention of killing them. Was it a fleeting moment of madness or a premeditated act? Your lawyers were sticking to the first version, doing everything to provide evidence for it. They deemed it essential to rule out premeditation, which was considered an aggravating factor. If the jurors decided your actions had been premeditated, you risked life in prison.
To the question Did you have the intention of killing the Langlois family? you responded no. Your lawyer added that you hadn’t brought a weapon into the house, which was clear proof of what you were claiming.
The prosecutor said that you had nonetheless returned to your garage to get your rifle after murdering the children and that you had waited for the parents to come home from work, crouching for more than half an hour behind the door of their chalet with the sole goal of taking them out.
If that’s not premeditation, then what is?!
You responded that if you had wanted to kill them, you would have gotten the weapon right away.
I just wanted to talk to Mr. Langlois. I was in a rage. He refused to give me back my money, I hadn’t slept in three whole days. I wanted to talk to him, that’s all. It’s true, I swear. I just wanted him to give me back my money.
You were asked: Why did you own a rifle? Do you hunt?
No, it’s my father’s rifle. My mother asked me to keep it at my house because she felt that my father was too old to be hunting. . . . She was scared there’d be an accident.
You were asked what had gone through your mind to compel you to murder five people. The question threw you off. You said, I don’t really know how to explain it. . . .
The judge encouraged you to express yourself.
Mr. Guillot, it’s important for you that you help us understand what happened.
You nodded yes, twice. The judge smiled, then began.
What time was it when you decided to go over to the Langlois home?
Going on six p.m.
Be specific, please.
Between five forty-five and six, something like that. I’m sorry. I don’t remember.
Did your wife see you leave?
No, she was grocery shopping with the kids.
Where?
The supermarket at the shopping center. Right off the highway.
How far is it from your home?
About twenty miles.
Did she know you intended to pay a visit to Mr. Langlois to ask him for your money back?
Yes. I had been going there every night for a week.
What did she think of that?
She was sick of it.
But that night, you were more agitated than usual?
I had been yelling at the girls all day long. I wasn’t sleeping anymore. It was starting to make me crazy.
And it didn’t worry your wife when you told her that you were planning to go to the Langloises’?
She didn’t say anything.
Did she know that you were keeping your father’s rifle in the garage?
She knew.
What time did she leave to go grocery shopping?
She left at five o’clock.
Five o’clock exactly?
Yes.
You can give me the precise time for your wife but not for you?
She’s obsessed with schedules. It’s like that for everything: meals, the kids’ bath time, errands. Grocery shopping is always Monday at five o’clock.
And what time does she get back from the supermarket?
Seven thirty.
And that’s always exactly the same, too?
Yes.
And always with the children?
After the groceries, she takes them on the merry-go-round. There’s one on the second floor of the shopping center.
That gives you some time.
What do you mean?
The time to do what you wanted without being disturbed.
I didn’t plan to kill them.
Leave it to us to decide.
I’m not a liar.
Mr. Guillot, please limit yourself to answering the questions.
Okay, understood.
Good. Did you know that the Langlois children were alone?
No. Usually the parents were there at that hour. Occasionally they’d get home later, but not often.
And yet the car wasn’t parked in front.
Sometimes they put the car in the garage, sometimes they left it outside. It always changed. I judged by the time of day.
So you went to see them.
Yes, I rang the doorbell. It was the boy who answered.
He let you in, told you that his parents weren’t back yet, and suggested you wait for them. Is that right?
Yes, that’s right. He was sitting at the table in the living room. He was having a snack.
Good, go on.
I stayed standing in the hallway.
Why didn’t you go into the living room? You knew the house well.
I don’t know. . . . I didn’t feel welcome anymore with all the money issues between us.
What happened next?
The oldest one called down from the second floor to ask her brother who it was. “It’s the neighbor,” he said. “He wants to talk to Mom and Dad.” She went, “Again! I’m gonna call Mom and tell her.” She didn’t speak to me, say hello, nothing.
That bothered you?
Well, yeah.
Did you know her well?
She used to come over to play with my daughters a lot. She would call me by my first name. The two younger ones always called me Mr. Guillot, but not the oldest. The oldest one would say Constant.
Go on.
I heard her call her mother on the phone, tell her I was there and that I was waiting for them. Her mother answered that it would be better for me to come back the next day, that there was heavy traffic on the way back, that they would definitely be late. Then they talked about dinner. Her mother asked her to take a lasagna out of the freezer and warm it up. The girl hung up and told me what her mother had told her.
All that from upstairs.
Yes, she was leaning over the railing. All I could see was her long hair dangling.
What happened next?
I told her that I’d rather wait.
How did she react?
She sighed and then she said, “Mom doesn’t want you to stay.”
“I don’t care,” I said.
She answered, “I’m gonna call Mom back.” She did. She hung up. She yelled, “Mom said go ahead and wait if you want, but she won’t have time to talk to you tonight!” I said that I didn’t care, and I stayed in the hallway. It was starting to get dark. From where I was, I could see the boy sitting at the living room table. The light from the lamps was dim. He was drinking through a straw, sucking on it hard, and then sometimes he would blow into the milk to make bubbles.
Why are you lingering over those details?
I don’t know. . . .
Continue, Mr. Guillot.
The oldest one’s telephone rang. It was her mother again. The girl answered with yes or no. And then I heard her say, “No, that man’s still here.” Right after, before hanging up, she said, “I love you, too, Mom.”
What were you thinking at that moment?
She said “that man.” That’s . . . that’s hard to hear, you know. . . . I thought to myself that they didn’t respect me, that they were surely used to talking about me like that.
That’s what you were thinking?
Yes. . . . I was standing in a corner of the hallway, like I’d come begging, when I’d actually come
to get back the money they stole from me! I crossed my hands behind my back and I stared at my feet in the dark. That’s when a huge wave of fatigue hit me.
How so?
I felt as though all my energy was draining away. Like I was being crushed.
Like you were tired of everything?
Yes, that’s it, and disgusted, too.
With what?
With myself.
And after?
The oldest one’s phone rang again. She picked up. Her mother. I heard her say that she had finished her homework, that her brother was having his snack in the living room, and that her sister was playing quietly in her room. There was silence—she was listening to her mother on the phone. Then she said, “No, he’s still here, Mom, but we didn’t let him in. He’s waiting by the door.” She hung up, then she yelled, still from upstairs, “Mom and Dad will be here in twenty minutes!” And that’s when something happened that kind of . . . let’s say, it made me lose it.
What happened? Try to be specific, please, it’s important.
I’ll try. . . . She put her phone in the back pocket of her jeans. Then she gathered her hair behind her neck with one hand calmly, like this. She glared at me, then she stretched out her lower jaw as far as she could. All the muscles in her face were tensed. It looked like she was going to go for my throat and bite me.
She was provoking you. . . .
That’s not how I took it.
How did you take it?
It was like she wanted to show me who was boss, put me in my place.
A twelve-year-old child?
Twelve is old enough to understand those things.
Go on.
In that moment, I thought to myself that I didn’t impress anyone, not even a twelve-year-old girl. I was nothing to them. They were for sure going to send me home, and I would never see my money again. I’d lost from the start.
Did that anger you?
I felt hatred, overwhelming hatred, rising and rising. I couldn’t control it anymore. I closed my eyes and . . .
And . . . ?
And then the idea to do it popped into my head. I thought to myself that twenty minutes was more than enough for what I had to do.
Do what, Mr. Guillot? Be specific, please, even though I understand exactly what you meant.
Kill. I had to do it, it was the only solution.
The only solution to what?
I don’t know, the solution to the whole mess. I wanted it to be over.
You weren’t able to calm yourself down?
It was too late. It was like every part of me was leaking out.
Earlier, you said that you hadn’t slept in three days. Do you think that could have played a role in your loss of control?
Maybe, yes. I was exhausted. All I could think about was the money that had been stolen from me.
Why the children?
If I killed them, it would kill their parents.
Your paternal instinct didn’t reason with you?
I couldn’t think, much less reason.
You wanted revenge.
I wanted to hurt them.
Because of eight thousand euros?
They weren’t taking me seriously. They were humiliating me.
And that didn’t seem absurd to you? Excessive?
I was in a rage.
A rage?
Yes.
What does that mean to you, Mr. Guillot, “a rage”?
You stop thinking, you’re choking, you need air.
You wanted to get justice for yourself?
Maybe.
At that moment, you weren’t planning on killing the parents?
No, only the children.
Go on, please.
Without thinking I went into the living room. The kid looked at me, surprised but not scared. I took the bat from where it was next to the fireplace.
You went there directly?
Yes, I know the house by heart. He always puts his bat in that same spot.
You mean to say Mr. Langlois?
Yes.
And then?
I picked up the bat and held it like this, with both hands. I went closer to the boy and I hit him hard at the back of the neck.
Did he see you grab the bat?
Yes, but then he looked back into his bowl. He was playing with his straw, blowing bubbles with it. He wasn’t worried at all.
What did you feel after you killed him?
Nothing.
Nothing?
In the moment, nothing. It was like I was a spectator.
Watching yourself?
Yes, exactly.
Did you realize he was dead immediately?
Yes.
How?
I recognized death, is all.
You’d already seen someone dead?
That was the first time.
Then how could you be so sure?
Instinct. I just knew.
Do you think, Mr. Guillot, that the instinct that allowed you to recognize death was the same one that drove you to kill?
I don’t understand the question.
When people talk about instinct, it’s generally in reference to animals.
I’m less than an animal. An animal never kills unnecessarily.
That’s not what I said, Mr. Guillot. Did you feel unburdened somehow, when you acted? Disembodied?
Disembodied?
Yes, an out-of-body experience, if you prefer.
I dunno.
Did you feel powerful?
A little . . .
Like God?
I dunno, I’m not religious.
You could finally act on what had happened?
Yes.
Did killing the members of the Langlois family bring you a feeling of justice?
In the moment, a little, I think.
And after?
It’s torture.
Meaning?
They’re always with me. The children especially. I see them at night, covered in blood, in their clothes. During the day, I hear them breathing.
That must be terrifying.
I’m in hell.
Do you regret your actions?
I lost control. . . . I lost my mind. I . . .
Mr. Guillot, I asked you a question: Do you regret your actions?
It seems obvious, doesn’t it?
Perhaps not to everyone.
A silence descended upon the courtroom. You opened your mouth to answer the judge’s question, but your body slipped to the side, your eyes rolled backward, and you fell abruptly to the foot of your chair. A heavy thud. You had lost consciousness.
When the trial resumed, you explained how you had killed the two other children, then the parents. Your lawyers looked tense. The account of the parents’ murder inevitably supported the premeditation argument.
At the end, the prosecutor said, If I heard what Mr. Guillot said correctly, before he passed out, he killed five members of the same family because of a twelve-year-old girl who didn’t deign to say hello to him and who, he believes, almost bit him! At least that’s how he interpreted it. A killing spree triggered by nothing more than a child making a face! Mr. Guillot therefore murdered because of an error in judgment. A misunderstanding. Mr. Guillot spilled blood because of a mirage.
A few people in the room laughed. The prosecutor went on to underline your immaturity, your intolerance for frustration, and your unhealthy inability to put things into perspective. You just blinked. You stared at your hands on your knees, like you were talking to them. You were no longer listening. I think that, like me, you were thinking about that word: mirage.
When the holidays approached, Bakary invited us to celebrate what he called Friend Christmas—a fam
ily tradition established by his parents that he had maintained, year after year. A few days before they went to visit Sylvia’s family for Christmas Eve, Bakary would invite over their closest friends. Everyone brought one or more small gifts (though never anything expensive) that they placed beneath the Christmas tree, and Bakary would hand them out randomly after dinner. More than anything else, it was a celebration of friendship, a chance to gather once a year and enjoy one another’s company—the holiday without all its commercial trappings.
But that year Bakary had put off getting in touch with his friends. The move that had occupied his time and thoughts had also disrupted his routines and shifted his priorities. When he finally made up his mind to call them, it was too late. No one was available. Aware that distance doesn’t facilitate spontaneous initiatives, Bakary resigned himself to them not coming. Everyone, without exception, had promised to come the following Christmas.
Bakary then decided to gather his new friends for a meal. There was no denying we were his second choice, so when he invited us, I almost declined. But the fact that he was so eager to be nice to us made me change my mind. He was as enthusiastic about the upcoming celebration as if we had been longtime friends. He also invited Lucie and Simon, whose kindness and spontaneous wedding invitation he hadn’t forgotten. Plus François, who he had gotten to know at the Tennessee, where he would grab coffee every morning before starting the workday.
The party was set for Saturday, December 19. Bakary asked us to dress up—that was part of the tradition, too, and to be completely honest, we weren’t too excited about it. We gave in, anyway. You put on the only suit you owned, and I the only evening attire in my closet: a long strappy dress. Our two daughters wanted to wear makeup. I said yes to glittery eye shadow, no to lipstick.
When the door to the chalet opened that night, the delicious smell of braised meat, rosemary, melted chocolate, and orange peels immediately whetted our appetites. The warmth inside contrasted so dramatically with the winter cold that the mere act of switching from one to the other felt like crossing the border into a foreign country.
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