Crossing the Line

by Frédérique Molay

  “Christophe?” Kriven said. “Are you sure? That’s the name of the dude Guedj saw in the bookstore.”

  “Positive. And Guedj didn’t stop with the Parize family. He contacted friends they had in common back in their school days. And then he called colleagues of Christophe he didn’t even know. Clearly, Guedj was investigating the man.”

  “Yes, it sounds like he wasn’t just looking to hook up with an old college buddy.”

  “That’s obvious, but there’s something else,” Plassard said. “There was a detail Bruno wasn’t aware of. A big detail. Florence Parize, the mother, still hasn’t gotten over her conversation with Guedj.”

  “Spit it out, Plassard!” Kriven shouted.

  “Christophe Parize died last year, in early August. A car accident. He’s dead and buried.”

  The room fell silent. Guedj had literally run into a ghost.

  “But it doesn’t seem that he took Florence Parize’s word for it, because he kept on calling people,” Plassard said.

  “Tell me, at least, that he got the same answer every time,” Kriven said.

  “About that, yes. Everyone told him that Christophe Parize was six feet under. Guedj asked the mother, who knew him from his college days, to repeat it several times. When I mentioned that we were doing a routine inquiry into Guedj’s suicide, I swear she nearly fainted on the phone. Before she hung up, she told me that she wasn’t surprised. He had seemed upset.”

  “As far as our victim was concerned, Christophe Parize couldn’t be dead,” Nico said.

  “That’s what it looks like,” Plassard said. “How could a man who died in a car accident more than a year ago be spotted in a store in the middle of Paris? Sure, nothing is impossible, but this has to be.”

  “Call Florence Parize again and ask her for a picture of her son,” Kriven said. “I’ll go back to the bookstore and show it around.”

  Plassard nodded.

  “Kriven’s on the right track,” Nico said. “Start with the photo, and dig up everything you can about this Christophe Parize. Who is he, for God’s sake?”

  Near the second-floor stairwell, a door led directly to the central courthouse complex. Nico decided to use this access instead of the outside entrance, which required going through the snow. He found himself in a seemingly endless hallway with a high ceiling, bare white walls, closed doors, and uncomfortable, even hostile, benches. He passed several members of the Republican Guard, which, along with gendarmes from the provinces, was responsible for building security. Some fifteen thousand people came through the complex every day.

  Nico finally reached Magistrate Becker’s door and knocked. The magistrate’s face relaxed at the sight of his friend. “So, what have you learned?”

  “We’re getting warmer,” Nico said, recounting the latest developments.

  “I see only one option,” Becker said, shaking his head.

  “I know what you’re going to say.”

  “Do you have any other ideas?”

  “No.”

  They fell silent for a few seconds. Then Becker let out a sigh.

  “If the witnesses at the bookstore confirm that Bruno Guedj was talking to Christophe Parize, then I’ll order an exhumation.”

  “I’ll keep you posted,” Nico said, turning to leave. He thought about Christophe Parize’s family. The detectives would have to tell the family that the exhumation was part of a criminal investigation. It would be hard for them to take. And the prospect of dealing with yet another fragile family made him think of Sylvie. He couldn’t continue to avoid her.

  Nico took out his phone as he walked back to his office and called the Saujon resort and announced his rank. The receptionist transferred the call to the director.

  “Sylvie Sirsky? There’s no one here by that name,” the director answered.

  “Perhaps she’s going by Sylvie Canova. That’s her maiden name.”

  “Yes, Sylvie Canova is staying in a studio at our residence.”

  “When did she get there?”

  “About a month ago.”

  “And how is she doing?”

  “She had a rough start. Now I think she is doing rather well, all things considered.”

  “How long will she be there?”

  “Several more weeks.”

  “Her parents and son are very worried about her. Is it possible to give her a message?”

  “A few days ago, I would have said no, but she seems ready to resume some contact with her family. Her loved ones shouldn’t expect any miracles. It will take time for her to return to everyday life.”

  “I’ll let them know.”

  “You have my okay to call her directly.”

  Nico called Sylvie’s parents immediately. The ball was in their court.

  “How could André’s sister have kept this from us?” Jacqueline said.

  “Don’t hold it against her. Sylvie must have demanded it.”

  “You’re right. That sounds like our daughter. I can never thank you enough, Nico.”

  “I did it for Dimitri, too.”

  “You’re a good father and a good man. It’s too bad Sylvie didn’t know how to keep you.”

  Nico called Dimitri next. His son was less enthusiastic about the news, having grown to distrust his mother.

  Franck Plassard appeared at the door. “It’s him. The bookseller recognized Parize in the picture. He’s absolutely sure.”

  They were getting much warmer.

  17

  Despite the winter storm alerts for half of France, David Kriven and Franck Plassard left the capital at one in the afternoon on Friday. Chalon-sur-Saône in southern Burgundy was a little more than 130 miles from Paris. They could have taken the bullet train, but the weather was playing havoc with the schedule. So they drove—slowly. The roads were slippery, and they passed several cars in ditches along the way. A revised weather alert came over the radio as they pulled up to the curb and parked at the Place de Beaune. They had made it. Kriven turned off the engine. They left the warmth of the sedan. Everything was coated with snow, and the pedestrians looked more like trekkers than office workers on their way home.

  “Shit.” Plassard had just stepped in a puddle, soaking the bottom of his pants.

  Kriven was wearing boots. “Always prepared,” he said, pointing at them.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “That café over there, Le Neptune, looks good,” Kriven said.

  Warm colors, plants, a large window overlooking the street, and comfortable seats welcomed them. French music from the nineteen eighties was playing in the background. Back then, the two officers were still in diapers. They ordered coffee and one of the wood-fired pizzas recommended by the owner, although it was still too early for dinner. As they waited to be served, Plassard studied the travel posters on the wall, which beckoned him with their faraway vistas and tanned vacationers. Even if he couldn’t be in one of those places, this café was certainly more agreeable than the cemetery where they had an appointment.

  They finished their meal. When it came time to pay up, Kriven asked how to get to the Western Cemetery on the Avenue Boucicaut. At seven thirty, Christophe Parize was to be exhumed by court order. This kind of operation in the nearly eight-acre cemetery was always done after closing hours and in the presence of a municipal police officer, who was responsible for making sure that all regulations were followed. Christophe Parize’s body would then be transferred to the Paris medical examiner’s facility. Alexandre Becker had ordered a genetic analysis to confirm the body’s identity. In some criminal cases, proof could literally rise from the grave.

  Outside, a kind of stillness reigned over the city, and the snow sparkled under the streetlamps. The two detectives walked past the courthouse and turned onto what had to be the most heavily trafficked street in the area, the Boulevard de la République. They walked under a bridge and turned onto the Avenue Boucicaut. They arrived at the entrance at 77 Avenue Boucicaut and presented the official documents. Kriven and Plass
ard were led to the Parize family tomb. By this time, Plassard was freezing.

  Two stocky gravediggers with deeply lined faces were waiting for them. Getting the go-ahead to start, they used pickaxes and nail pullers to open the vault, saying nothing as they labored. Their faces quickly turned red from the cold and the effort, and clouds of condensation appeared with each breath they took.

  “It’s frozen,” one said, his voice hoarse. He started coughing.

  His colleague picked up a jackhammer. The din was nearly ear-splitting, and the pounding sent the snow flying. To Kriven, it looked like a swarm of insects shocked into action. Finally, the slab moved, and the gravediggers heaved up the coffin. The vault was made of concrete, which protected its contents from humidity and the gravediggers from biological hazards. That said, the arctic weather was their best ally, allowing them to work without safety boots, rubber gloves, and throwaway suits.

  The two men set the coffin down with a final grimace. Was it from the exertion or the discomfort of desecrating a tomb? The detectives looked at each other, anxious to finish their task. The oak box was in good shape, and the gravediggers seemed relieved that they wouldn’t have to transfer a rotting corpse to another container.

  Two porters arrived to help put the coffin in the hearse. A strange funerary procession formed and weaved its way through the snow-covered forest of tombstones. One of the porters would take the body to the Paris coroner’s office. Kriven imagined himself making the drive, focused on the rearview mirror the whole way, and he was glad that he wouldn’t be the person behind the wheel of that hearse. He had visions of Parize sitting up, transformed into a bloodthirsty vampire or a zombie—sealed coffin notwithstanding.

  They all said good-bye quickly, as if they wanted to forget this nighttime encounter in a deserted cemetery. Kriven and Plassard walked to their car and drove back to the entrance, where they joined the hearse. They would follow it to Paris and accompany the body into the red-brick building on the Quai de la Rapée.

  Nico hung up. Kriven and Plassard had just gotten onto the highway and were headed toward Paris. Considering the weather, they would arrive at the medical examiner’s office just a few hours before the autopsy, which was planned for the morning. Professor Armelle Vilars’s work always spilled into the weekends, and she spent more time with the deceased than the living, especially her family. Had Nico been her husband, he would have set up a bedroom in one of the autopsy suites. Corpses could be trusted with lovers’ secrets.

  “So who is this Christophe Parize?” Police Commissioner Nicole Monthalet asked. She was sitting in his office, which she rarely visited. She looked tired.

  “It’s Dr. Parize. He was a hematologist who worked at Saint Louis Hospital. He was a practicing physician and full-time professor. He died in a car accident at the end of August last year at the age of forty-four. It happened while he was on vacation. He had been spending time with his parents at their home in Burgundy. He left two children and an ex-wife, whom he divorced not long before his death.”

  “I thought he went to school with Bruno Guedj. So he’s not a pharmacist?”

  “He has a degree from the Cochin-Port-Royal Medical School on the Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Jacques, next to the pharmacy school that Guedj attended. They did know each other at the time.”

  “Logically, the man couldn’t be in two places at once, both dead and buried in a cemetery in Burgundy and alive in a bookstore in Paris. Professor Vilars will resolve that issue tomorrow. If the body is Christophe Parize, you’ll be back at square one. And you may have to close the case if you don’t have any other serious leads. Magistrate Becker will have to decide. But we’re not there yet. I trust your instinct and judgment. It’s true that the pieces fit perfectly—Guedj meets Parize, and the ball starts rolling. Those who fear that Bruno Guedj is onto something begin to panic. We’re missing something, but we’ll find it, won’t we? Are you sure that Parize had no contact with his family after the accident? You never know.”

  “His parents are still grieving. His ex-wife seemed convinced that he is dead, and the children have not heard from him. Nothing from his colleagues, either. We’ll have to dig deeper.”

  “Depending on Professor Vilars’s conclusions.”

  Nico nodded.

  “There was nothing to note before the accident?”

  “A clearly difficult divorce is all that we’ve found.”

  “Fine. I recommend that you get some sleep, Chief. I hope you don’t plan to get mile-by-mile updates from your men on the highway. That would be your style, but they are big boys and can take care of themselves. Go spend some time with your family. It’s Dr. Dalry, right? Department head at Saint Antoine Hospital, right?”

  The news had spread throughout the building. Nico’s superior officer stood up with a smile.

  “I wish you much happiness, Chief.”

  “Thank you, Commissioner.”

  “I won’t be here much longer either. Mr. Monthalet is waiting for me, and it’s Friday night,” she said with a hint of softness in her voice.

  Once she was gone, Nico followed suit, gathering his things and exchanging his dress shoes for boots.

  Outside, Nico looked at his watch. Caroline would be finishing her shift soon. Why not take her out to dinner? He imagined himself talking with her, listening to her laugh, watching her lips move, drowning in her eyes. He wanted her, a feeling that was magnified by the simple fact that he couldn’t have her there and then.

  18

  “Sirs, we are finished here,” Armelle Vilars said.

  Kriven breathed a sigh of relief. Nico could see that the night spent exhuming the body and then following the hearse more than a hundred miles to Paris had exhausted the man. Attending the subsequent autopsy had clearly done him in.

  Nico looked away from the body, which was no more than a pile of bones and bits of burned tissue, and put a hand on Kriven’s shoulder. “That’s enough, David. Go home and get some rest.”

  The detective did not resist. He turned and left. Autopsies were always acts of violence.

  “My report will be on your desk first thing Monday morning, Magistrate Becker,” Vilars said, removing her latex gloves.

  “It looks like you won’t be getting any break during the month of December,” Alexandre Becker said.

  “Tell me about it,” Vilars said. “I can confirm that business here in the morgue is as brisk as ever. And La Crim’ is finding even more for me to do, with this murder accusation hidden in a molar.”

  Nico winked at his friend.

  “I’ll go change,” she said.

  Nico was also eager to get to the locker room. The smell of death and disinfectant was clinging to his skin. He needed a good shower with half a bottle of soap.

  “A finely executed autopsy, as usual,” Alexandre said.

  “Yes,” Nico responded.

  Christophe Parize had died in a car accident, and his scorched body had not been recognizable. The fire had consumed his arms first, making it impossible to check the fingerprints. The blaze had been so hot, even his teeth were destroyed. Dental records, therefore, couldn’t be used to identify him. The fire had also emptied the eye sockets and burned the victim’s hair. Intestines were tougher, Armelle said with a touch of dark humor. They could burst. There were some less-damaged areas, primarily the genitals, because the victim was sitting at the time of the accident. It was clear, though, that the victim was Caucasian. The license plate on the car, along with Christopher Parize’s personal effects, notably his floral boxer shorts, had been used to identify him.

  Decomposition had played its role. The body had mummified, leaking water, fat, and blood. Bacteria had proliferated, and necrophagous insects had made their way into the coffin, eating the organs and soft tissue. In the end, only some of the burned bones remained in decent shape. Strangely, however, the smell was bearable. As Armelle said, put a dead fish on the balcony, and it would stink for the first three months. After that, it wouldn’t smell so
bad.

  Armelle had set out the skeleton on the autopsy table and numbered the bones. The lack of artificial implants, prostheses, and damage caused by illness or injury had hindered identification. She had been able to determine approximate age, sex, and ethnicity, all of which corresponded with those of Dr. Parize, but nothing could definitively determine the identity. DNA analysis was the only way, and the professor had removed a piece of the femur, a deep bone wrapped in thick muscle. DNA was a sturdy molecule, so resistant that archeologists had dated some from more than a 130 million years earlier. Unwound, the double helix would be about six feet long. Folded, it could fit into the miniscule nucleus of a cell.

  For a long time, Nico had relied on Nantes University for this kind of analysis. Fifteen or so years earlier, the lab there had mastered the technique and had been recognized the world over for its reliable results. The police forensics lab in Paris had lacked the means to do such thorough analysis. But things had changed. The university lab was working less and less with police organizations, while the National Police Forensics Institute was investing heavily in research and development. The facilities had been modernized, and evidence processing had been streamlined. Charles Queneau had hired Dr. Tom Robin, one of Europe’s best molecular biologists. Robin would work over the weekend to get the DNA results to Nico.

  The autopsy had been highly methodical. It had, however, taken an unexpected turn when Vilars had found a .22-caliber long-rifle bullet in the victim’s skull.

  Kriven had then called it: a barbecue. That was when a murder victim was tossed into a car, and the car was set ablaze to thwart identification and destroy evidence. It was simple and effective. No X-rays had been taken at the time, and with the extent of the burns, nobody had noticed the bullet in the man’s head. But Vilars was a pro. She left nothing uncovered.

  Becker and Nico exited the building and inhaled the crisp winter air. Nico started when he heard the voice of Captain Vidal.

  “I’m here, Chief.”

  Vidal had come to pick up the bullet and take it to forensics, which would check it for the same markings found on the bullet from Guedj’s skull. That would help to determine if it had been fired by the Unique DES 69 retrieved from the pharmacist’s home.