Crossing the Line

by Frédérique Molay

  “Follow me,” the head of the lab said, leading them into the room used to examine documents. A few people in white coats looked up from their work in a near-military-style greeting. Marc Walberg was the only one not to react, although Nico noted an involuntary twitch in his left eye. Walberg was pathologically shy.

  “Please sit down,” Professor Queneau said, waving to the chairs in front of two computer screens. He typed, and the message found inside the victim’s tooth appeared on one screen. The official body donation letter appeared on the other screen. “Marc?”

  Walberg took a deep breath. “To begin, let me remind you that forensic document analysis allows us to authenticate documents and determine whether they were written by the same person. We study four aspects of the writing. We start with the form of the letters, which includes their slant, their size, how close together they are, and any specific markers, such as whether the writer used ‘and’ or an ampersand, and how he or she dotted his or her i’s. After that, we look at the content. Then we identify any tics in punctuation, grammar, spelling, vocabulary, and formulation. The quality of the lines and how it’s all arranged are the other criteria.”

  Professor Queneau interrupted. “Despite easy access to printers, we have found that most criminals write their notes by hand. It’s a sin of pride.”

  “In this particular case, the comparison is difficult,” Walberg said. “The message is succinct and written in pen on a very small plastic surface. Furthermore, neither document was written spontaneously. The wording was thought out, and the writing was done slowly and methodically, which makes it hard for a graphologist. Because of this, I focused on the author’s brushstroke. For example, whether it was consistent or disguised. People follow strict patterns from childhood when they write. These patterns influence how they hold the pen, form the letters, and space out words and lines. The brain is programmed for repetitive tasks and habits. From them, it is possible to sketch someone’s personality.”

  “So?” Nico said, always patient with Walberg.

  “He had quite handsome handwriting. That shows a good, most likely traditional education, one that was strict and required legible penmanship. From the form of the letters, one can deduce a desire to please.”

  “Were you able to confirm if the writer was a man or woman?” Vidal asked.

  “Times have changed so much, Captain. We need to avoid sexist stereotypes. Women have no problems demonstrating their leadership qualities, just as men no longer hide their sensitivity. That said, women do tend to put less pressure on the tip of the writing instrument and have more rounded letters. It would seem to me that a man wrote this letter, but I say that with a margin of error of about twenty-five percent.”

  Nico and Professor Queneau glanced at each other. They knew the man. Walberg was careful by nature, and they could reduce that margin of error by at least fifteen points.

  “This is where it becomes interesting,” Queneau said.

  Walberg nodded and pointed to the screen. “You see these smudges? They tell us that the writer was left-handed.”

  “How do the smudges indicate that?” Nico said.

  “Marc is saying that the man who wrote these twisted his wrist clockwise to write from above. The man was left-handed. There’s no question. When you dropped off the bullet, didn’t you mention that the shooter was probably right-handed?”

  “In the suicide theory, yes.”

  “Then that theory is incompatible with our findings, sirs.”

  Nico’s suspicions that the suicide was staged were being confirmed. And the person who carried out the hoax had made a mistake. A serious mistake.

  “There is this other letter, which the victim is thought to have written to his family before committing suicide,” Vidal said.

  Professor Queneau removed the sheet of paper from the evidence bag, handling it with care. He examined it for a long moment under a microscope and used several lights to uncover any other trace evidence or prints.

  “It’s iridescent ivory-colored paper made by Clairefontaine. You can buy it anywhere, including online.” The growth of online shopping meant that cops no longer went from store to store to follow leads as often as they had in the past. Criminals had unlimited buying options at stores that weren’t brick and mortar.

  The professor continued. “The ink is standard quality. The pen tip produced a line of average thickness. With this electrostatic detection device, we’ll look for impressions. If something were under the paper while he was writing, we might be able to pick it up.”

  He clicked, and a pharmacy cross, the familiar emblem of French drugstores, appeared at the bottom of the page, along with part of an address.

  “‘Pharmacy, Rue Thiron.’ It’s from letterhead,” Nico said.

  “There are several sets of prints on the document. I will at least be able to determine if any of them belong to our victim.”

  “Go ahead,” Vidal said. “There will be those belonging to the police officers, the doctor who was called in, and the victim’s wife.”

  “I will see to it,” the professor said. He stepped aside so that Marc Walberg could examine the paper. The handwriting specialist furrowed his brow and pushed his glasses up his thin nose. Nico knew that this particular expression meant “do not disturb.” Walberg imposed ritual silence whenever he worked, and it applied to everyone except Charles Queneau.

  “The letters have the same shape, and the writing is similar. Left-handed, again. As with the previous samples, I’d say that it’s not spontaneous. It shows signs of tension and stress, more so than in the body donation letter.”

  Nico and the others considered what Walberg had told them. “Good work,” Nico finally said.

  “You’ll get the specifics in our report,” Professor Queneau said. “The fluids found on the piece of plastic are being compared with samples taken from the victim. I suspect the news of the day is Bruno Guedj’s lateralization.”

  “Yes, it is news that he’s left-handed,” Nico said.

  Nicole Monthalet punched the speakerphone button to include all three people in the conversation. It was better that the police prefect hear about Bruno Guedj’s strange death from her, rather than through the grapevine. Nico was in her office to provide any details the boss asked for. All three agreed that the next day’s raid to nail the jewel thieves would occupy the media, distracting them just enough to keep the molar mystery out of the news if there were any leaks.

  After talking with the prefect, Monthalet called the public prosecutor to inform him of the developments in the case.

  Nico was well aware that Monthalet was always juggling these two authorities: her superiors in the police force—the police prefect and the minister of the interior—and the judiciary power represented by the public prosecutor, who answered to the minister of justice, and the independent investigating magistrates named to the cases. Nico rarely dealt with the prefect directly; that was reserved for Nicole Monthalet and Michel Cohen. But he worked closely with the justice system, following the criminal procedure code. Basically, judges monitored police activities to ensure that the law was respected. The police had a field advantage. The justice system worked from case files, which made it hard for them to verify what was actually going on. At any rate, how well the entire system worked depended in large part on the relationships between the people in place and their faith in the various branches of government. And one did not become chief of the Paris Criminal Investigation Division without following the letter of the law. Nico was careful to do so.

  In the end, the prosecutor encouraged Nico to continue his preliminary investigation. His detectives would need to show some criminal wrongdoing before they could open a full-on investigation and name an investigating magistrate. Otherwise, they would have to close the case.

  When Nico returned to his office, Captain Franck Plassard was waiting for him. Like a referee flashing a red penalty card, he whipped out a USB key. “Here’s Mrs. Guedj’s emergency call. I think
you’ll want to hear this.”

  Nico plugged the flash drive into his computer to listen to the recording. This kind of call was considered public record and couldn’t be destroyed. Sometimes it was used as evidence in medical malpractice lawsuits.

  “Emergency Response Center. How can I help you?”

  “My husband,” a woman screamed. “It’s my husband. It’s bad.”

  “Calm down, ma’am. What arrondissement are you in?”

  “In the third. The Marais.”

  “Okay, what’s your address?”

  “Ten Rue Roger Verlomme.” The woman was sobbing. “Dear God, please come quickly.”

  “Calm down, ma’am. Do you live in an apartment?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “What floor?”

  Nico visualized the operator inputting the information on her computer as she went along.

  “It’s the top floor, the fifth floor.”

  “Okay. Is there an access code?”

  “One-one-four-A.”

  “What’s the apartment number?”

  “Fifty-one.”

  “Is your husband conscious?”

  “No! He won’t answer,” the hysterical woman cried out.

  “Is he breathing?”

  “He’s not moving at all. I don’t think so.”

  “What is your husband’s name, ma’am?”

  “Bruno Guedj.”

  “Okay, how old is he?”

  “Forty-seven. He’s in his chair, and he’s not moving!”

  “Calm down. Someone will be there to help. I’m going to connect you with the doctor right away. Stay on the line, ma’am.”

  Part of the operator’s job was screening calls to separate medical emergencies from other critical situations. Most medical calls were handed over to a competent specialist, either a hospital practitioner or an on-call doctor. In cases involving the ingestion of a toxic substance, the caller was connected to the poison-control center.

  After a few moments of silence, the operator could be heard again.

  “Ma’am, I have the emergency-response doctor on the line. He’ll take over from here.

  Nico heard a new voice.

  “Ma’am, what exactly is happening?”

  “He’s not moving. Something happened to him!”

  “Is he your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can he talk to you, ma’am?”

  “No. He’s not responding.”

  “Is he breathing normally?”

  “I don’t think so. Oh, my God!”

  “Calm down, ma’am. We’re here to help now. Are his eyes open?”

  “No.”

  “If you ask him to open his eyes, does he try?”

  “Bruno! Bruno! Open your eyes. Please, my love, please. Answer me!”

  “Is he reacting at all?” the doctor asked.

  “No!”

  “Has he had any health problems recently?”

  “No, not really.”

  “What exactly do you mean, ma’am?”

  “He’s been tired and stressed for some time now. But that’s all.”

  “Where is he right now?”

  “Sitting at his desk.”

  “Is he bleeding anywhere?”

  “From his nose. Oh God!” Mrs. Guedj let out a scream. “There’s a gun on the floor!”

  “Ma’am, don’t touch anything. A medical team is on the way, okay? They will take care of your husband. Did you hear me, ma’am?”

  Nico had heard enough. He looked at Plassard.

  “The doctor sent out a team immediately—an ambulance with an anesthesiologist and an emergency physician, Dr. Philippe Owen,” Plassard said. “You know the rest.”

  “You can never be sure from a recording, but she seems genuinely upset,” Nico said.

  “That’s my feeling, as well.”

  “She mentioned that her husband had been depressed recently, but she didn’t seem to think he would commit suicide.”

  “As many times as I’ve listened to tapes like these, it always feels strange,” Plassard said. “It’s like you’re right there when everything is unfolding. That poor woman.”

  “We have quite a few questions to answer,” Nico said. “And the key one concerns that message in the tooth.”

  Someone opened his office door. “Sorry to interrupt,” Michel Cohen said. The apology was a formality. Nico knew Cohen had something pressing on his mind that couldn’t wait. “Nico, I’d like to see you before the six-thirty meeting.”

  Plassard cleared out. It was six twenty.

  “Next week, Commander Hureau will be promoted to deputy chief and move over to vice,” said Cohen, who had worked in the unit earlier in his career and was thoroughly familiar with its operations.

  He moved on to the more urgent matter on his mind.

  “There’d better not be any slipups tomorrow night,” Cohen said.

  “We’ve gone over everything,” Nico said. “And don’t pressure Hureau. He knows what he’s got to do. He’s a good cop, and tomorrow night won’t change that. He’s got the bit between his teeth. He deserves this promotion.”

  “I know, but we’re all on edge.”

  By “all,” he meant the commissioner, the prefect, the investigating magistrates, and the interior minister.

  “Speaking of teeth, Nicole told me that you’ve sunk yours into a good one. She gave me the rundown on the case. What’s your take on it?”

  “It’s strange.”

  “No kidding. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard of a message being buried in a dead man’s molar, and I’ve been around the block a few times. What’s your gut feeling on this, really?”

  “There’s something shady about the whole thing.”

  “So you don’t think it’s a suicide?”

  “I’m having a hard time with that. Bruno Guedj seems to have been left-handed, which we will be verifying very soon. But the gun was fired by someone who was right-handed.”

  “They found gunshot residue on his right hand, is that correct?”

  Cohen had clearly read the case file.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Could someone have helped him—or forced him—to hold the weapon?”

  “Why not? Perhaps the culprit didn’t know that Guedj was left-handed.”

  “That’s quite an oversight,” Cohen said. “You know what I like about this work? Cops are smarter than all those shits! That’s how justice prevails. Okay, let’s go.”

  Nico got up and left the office with Cohen, closing the door behind them. He thought about Commander Charlotte Maurin, who would most likely be transferred from the Juvenile Division to take Hureau’s place as squad leader. A good choice.

  8

  Nico never tired of Paris neighborhoods, which were like small villages, each filled with charm and legend. Walking the city, he often recalled something novelist George Sand had written: “I know of no city where ambulatory musing is more pleasant than here.” The Marais was one of those exceptional places where time seemed to stand still. One could get lost wandering its main thoroughfares and narrow streets lined with mansions or slipping into the royal splendor of the Place des Vosges. The Marais had deteriorated over the centuries, until the nineteen sixties, when most of the buildings were restored, thanks in large part to André Malraux, who made it one of the first designated historical sites in the capital. Nico loved window-shopping, hand in hand with Caroline, along the Rue des Francs-Bourgeois. But more than anything else, he enjoyed hanging out in the art galleries with pink and white façades under the arcades on the Place des Vosges. He was drawn to the contemporary works of Fifax, Bouteiller, and Fazzino.

  Now when he wandered through the Marais, would a vision of Bruno Guedj slumped in his armchair come to mind? Would he recall the decapitated head with a message hidden in its tooth? He knew that he would, although he—and the city—had seen many other crimes.

  Nico and Claire Le Marec parked in front of 10 Rue Roger V
erlomme. They rarely had the opportunity to work together, as they usually divided their tasks, but these moments built stronger bonds and helped them present a unified leadership.

  Nico studied the blue double doors, which were now open. The Rue Roger Verlomme was parallel with the Rue Francs Bourgeois and crossed the Rue de Béarn and the Rue des Tournelles. From where he stood, the road widened. A nursery school, a church mission, and a bistro called Chez Janou were nearby.

  Nico and Le Marec entered the building. It was Friday, December 4, exactly two weeks after Bruno Guedj had left the building for the last time, feet first.

  The Rue Thiron was wide but short, lined with trees and perpendicular to the Rue de Rivoli and the Rue François Miron. The former was known the world over, but who knew that the latter was where King Louis XIV, the Sun King, had lost his innocence to a lady-in-waiting nicknamed One-Eyed Kate? Kriven and Plassard did. They had found out thirty minutes earlier, thanks to Nico Sirsky. In France, the casual study of history often yielded such little gems of information.

  The green pharmacy cross stood alongside signs for a tobacco store and a newspaper and magazine shop. A bank, luxury stores, and a pastry shop were across the street. Kriven’s stomach was grumbling.

  “It’s not lunchtime yet,” Plassard teased. “It’s not good to eat between meals.”

  “I’m not the one who hides cookies in his desk.”

  “A crime scene is like a boat on the high seas. It’s better to go out on an empty stomach so you don’t get sick,” Plassard said, pushing open the door to the drugstore, which was filled with tasteful displays.

  Claire Le Marec and Nico found themselves in a covered cobblestone passageway. A gate stood between it and the courtyard. Forty or so mailboxes filled one wall. Under a pane of glass was a list of apartment numbers and residents, along with an old advertisement for SOS Chimneysweep. A metal touchpad on a stainless-steel plaque was embedded in the façade. Nico tapped in the code Mrs. Guedj had given him.

  “Open sesame,” he said.