Crossing the Line

by Frédérique Molay

  “Did you do what I asked?” Nico asked.

  “Yes, I got samples from the home of Christophe Parize’s ex-wife. She had kept some of his things. If that is not enough, we could still get saliva from the children. I’ll give Robin the samples. He’ll be able to compare.”

  “Then at least we’ll know,” Magistrate Becker said.

  “I’ll get the stuff and go,” Vidal said. He’d have to hurry if they expected to have the results by the following day.

  The police chief and the investigating magistrate walked to their cars, which were parked next to each other.

  “What do you think?” Becker asked.

  “The poor fellow in the car was shot, and his murder was made to look like an accident. After that, he was buried in the Parize family vault. Then, by pure coincidence, Guedj ran into his old friend in a bookstore. Do you know what Albert Einstein said about coincidence? It’s God’s way of remaining anonymous. I like that. If you ask me, I wouldn’t bet a kopeck that the good Dr. Parize is dead.”

  “Parize or not, we have another murder on our hands. And at least we have something to go on. Let’s step on it.”

  “I suggest a visit to Parize’s ex-wife. She might know what he was doing at the bookstore on September 15.”

  “If he’s not the one in the morgue, of course. Anything else?”

  “Saint Louis Hospital. We need to question the staff in the hematology-oncology department. And we’ll have to bring in those close to Parize for questioning.”

  “I’ll get your orders signed and on your desk within the hour.”

  The magistrate was giving up his Saturday and expected Nico to do the same.

  “Perfect. I’ll get everything going.” A ringtone interrupted. Nicole Monthalet’s number appeared on the screen. “Sirsky here.”

  “I’ve got the paper in front of me,” she said. “Let me read the headline. ‘A dead man’s tooth lives to tell the tale.’ The article is juicy: ‘It all began with a terse message hidden under a bad filling, discovered at the Paris Medical School on the Rue des Saints-Pères, known for its ghoulish student pranks. What happened to the dead pharmacist who gave his body to science? Should the message “I was murdered” be taken seriously? The Paris Criminal Investigation Division will have to decide. Was this the only way the victim, knowing he was in danger, could trap his predators?’”

  Nicole Monthalet was silent for a moment. “You can read the rest yourself. The Guedj family will find out soon, as will the killers.”

  “I’ll call Mrs. Guedj immediately.”

  “Reporters will be harassing headquarters. They’ll want to talk to you. They know you’re heading the investigation. I’ll do what I can to buy us some time. But they’ll get to you. The interior minister will be doing you-know-what in his pants, if you get my meaning, and when that happens, it’s never a good sign for the prefect or for us.”

  “I’m aware of that, Commissioner.”

  “We could suggest that it was a bad joke played by a seriously depressed man. I don’t see how else we can keep the vultures away and make the culprits think we’re not pursuing the case. We’ll have to convince his wife and kids that this is the best strategy. And we can’t count on sticking with this story indefinitely, or we’ll risk losing our credibility. Fix this quick, Chief.”

  She ended the call. What else could she say? Reporters and politics were part and parcel of the job.

  “Is there a problem?” Becker asked.

  “We’ve made the front page again. Our molar mystery.”

  “Oops. The prosecutor must be getting ready to call me.”

  “What about the independence of the justice system?”

  “I’m trying. I’m trying,” Becker said as he slid behind the wheel of his car. “Call me when you’ve got something.”

  “Will do. I know how much you love to hear the sound of my voice.”

  Nico got into his own car, and they both headed off toward the Île de la Cité.

  Later in the afternoon, Nico rang the bell at Mrs. Parize’s home in the fifteenth arrondissement, a well-rested Franck Plassard by his side.

  Christophe Parize’s ex-wife opened the door and scowled when they showed their badges. “He keeps on giving me grief, even from the grave.”

  They followed her into the kitchen, where she offered them chairs. No living room for them, certainly a sign that the woman had bitter memories of her children’s father.

  “Was it a tough divorce?” Plassard asked.

  She shot him a look. “Tough? You’ve got to be kidding. He ruined my life. A real bastard.”

  Nico tried to steer the conversation in another direction. “How old are your children?”

  “They’re nineteen. Twins.” Her face had brightened a bit at the mention of her children, and Nico thought they might get somewhere if they talked about the kids.

  “Marine is a brilliant student. She’s getting ready to enter an elite business school. Olivier is studying law.”

  “You must be proud of them.”

  “Very. It’s a good thing I have them. I haven’t told them anything—about the exhumation, I mean. But this morning, some police captain showed up to get DNA from some things of his that I still have. Do I get an explanation? What’s this all about?”

  She was playing with a box of matches. The room was decorated with wreaths, garland, candles, and an Advent calendar, all in Christmas colors. A basket of wrapped packages was on the floor, next to the table. But this conversation felt better suited for Halloween.

  “We have some questions concerning your ex-husband’s death.”

  “What do you mean? Like hit and run? Someone killed him?”

  If only she knew, Nico thought.

  “Something like that.”

  “You’re being a little mysterious, Inspector. I have a right to know.”

  The woman was a paralegal, and her professional reflexes were kicking in. It was best to be frank.

  “The man found in your ex-husband’s car did not die in the accident and the subsequent fire.”

  “What did he die of?”

  “He was shot.”

  Silence fell.

  “Why do you say ‘the man’? You’re not sure that it was Christophe?”

  “The DNA tests will confirm whether it was or wasn’t your ex-husband,” Plassard said.

  “You need confirmation—now, all this time after his funeral?” She stood up, reached for a glass from a cupboard, and filled it with water from the tap.

  “It’s so… so outrageous. Do you think he ran across the wrong person on the road?”

  “It could be any number of things,” Nico said.

  “What exactly do you want to know?”

  “Do you remember anything special happening on September 15?”

  She stared at Nico. “What day?” she managed to get out. She was shaking, and Nico read fear on her face. What was she afraid of?

  Nico asked as gently as he could. “What happened on that day, ma’am?”

  “My daughter, Marine…. There was a reception for her at the Lycée Louis-le-Grand on the Rue Saint-Jacques to honor her for getting first place in the national math examination.”

  The Rue Saint-Jacques was just a few minutes from the Vigot-Maloine bookstore.

  “That’s a great honor,” Nico said, feigning enthusiasm in the hope that she would continue talking. “What kind of relationship did your ex-husband have with your children?”

  “His death hit both Marine and Olivier hard, of course. But they blamed him for what happened between us.”

  “Is he the one who decided to leave?”

  She sighed. “I kicked him out. He was insufferable, and we hadn’t really been a couple for a long time.”

  “Who was he closer to? Your daughter?”

  “You’re scaring me. Yes, probably Marine. Olivier couldn’t put up with his father’s silent and disagreeable attitude and his lack of respect for me. They fought a lot.”


  Plassard interrupted. “Didn’t it bother Marine too?”

  “Of course it did!” Mrs. Parize protested. “It affected her even more, because she admired her father, Dr. Parize, the celebrated hematologist. She was always trying to impress him, to get his attention with her good grades.”

  “Did it work?”

  “He bragged about his daughter all the time, except his last few months, when he was totally focused on his job and the hospital. The attention he gave Marine must have hurt Olivier, but he never said anything. He loves his sister too much to complain.”

  “Would Christophe have wanted to be there on September 15?” Nico asked.

  “My God! What are you suggesting? That he’s alive? That he might have tried to see Marine on that day? That he’s lurking? You’re really scaring me now.”

  “Calm down, ma’am,” Plassard said.

  “Calm down! How would you react in my shoes?”

  “The same, I’m sure,” Nico said. “That is why we want to clarify the situation.”

  “I don’t have anything else to say. I thought Christophe was dead and buried, and now you come along and resuscitate him.”

  “Nobody is being resuscitated, Mrs. Parize.”

  “Yet someone must have seen him near the school on the day of the reception, or why would you be asking all these questions?”

  Nico and Plassard stood up.

  “Are we done here? Are you leaving?”

  “We will keep you informed,” Nico said. “In the meantime, please don’t worry.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.”

  “I’m aware of that, ma’am. One thing is for sure. If your ex-husband is alive, he wouldn’t want to hurt Marine, or Olivier, or you.”

  “You’re right,” she conceded, accompanying Nico and Plassard to the door.

  Nico was truly troubled. If Christophe Parize had not died in Burgundy, if some other man had been murdered and placed in his car, then this was premeditated first-degree murder. Could Dr. Parize have come up with this scheme? Did he have it in him? And why? To disappear and start his life over somewhere else? If so, why was he still keeping track of his daughter? Why would he risk being found out by trying to catch a glimpse of her on a very important day? And would he have been capable of orchestrating Guedj’s suicide? Who was the man who went to the pharmacy to intimidate Guedj? Did he have an accomplice in the job? But what job?

  What damned job?

  19

  Things were falling apart. If only he had been more clearheaded, more farsighted, he would have guessed that this would happen. But he had so wanted to conquer his adversary, to win the wild gamble he had made. He was used to success. It was only natural to assume that he would succeed this time. Now he was on the edge of a cliff. But what did it matter in the end? He was no longer afraid of emptiness. He wanted to die when the time came. Soon. Very soon. Wasn’t it just a question of days now? He clenched his fists in anger, and the blood rushed to his cheeks. The rage of the vanquished.

  He had not been up to the challenge this time. And yet, it was one of the most important battles he would have to fight. The others—the struggles that had helped him build an empire, to become filthy rich, to dominate the world—were nothing in comparison with the fight he was about to lose. His life was going up in smoke, and all his work would be in vain. His bitter laughter bounced off the walls. And tears rose to his eyes.

  He turned to his employee, his chief security officer. The man was loyal, ready to do anything to pay back the debt he thought he owed. Hadn’t he given this man a chance when everyone else had dropped him? He had always taken full advantage of his leverage, and they both knew it.

  “Who ordered the exhumation?” he asked. He needed to put a name on his torturer.

  “Magistrate Alexandre Becker. Chief Nico Sirsky of the Criminal Investigation Division is running the investigation.”

  “Chief Sirsky. His name was in the paper. ‘Dead man’s tooth lives to tell the tale.’ That was the headline. Guedj would have liked it. That sneaky pharmacist really got me. Hat’s off to him.”

  “If Parize hadn’t taken so many liberties, we wouldn’t be where we are now.”

  “Don’t be so stupid. Sooner or later, word would have gotten out. I was so smug.”

  “No, sir,” the man dressed in black said. “It was just despair.”

  He sighed. “I wanted to defy God himself.”

  “You were not the only one responsible.”

  His eyes widened. His employee was right. All the blood on his hands—wasn’t that the cost of what he had needed to do? It was time to settle up. Did he have a choice?

  “What are your orders, sir?”

  “We need to take care of it. There’s no going back.” His voice was barely a whisper.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sirsky’s going to make things tough.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t let go. He likes to impress people.”

  “Yes, I believe so. But we’re not there yet, and maybe we won’t ever be.”

  “With a little luck. But I ran out of luck a long time ago.”

  “Not necessarily, sir.”

  “Go. Keep me posted.”

  The man in black disappeared. Someone with a vaguely familiar face entered the room. The face was gaunt, closed, older. It was astonishing how pain built walls between people, high impassable walls topped with watchtowers.

  20

  On Monday, twelve days after the message hidden in Bruno Guedj’s tooth had been found, some force led him to the Rue des Saint-Pères. He probably needed to go back to the beginning.

  Nico knew the area well, so well, he was feeling like a dinosaur, like Debauve and Gallais, which had been making “chocolats fins et hygiéniques” since the turn of the nineteenth century at 30 Rue des Saint-Pères. It was a bustling neighborhood that had been built around the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés and influenced by the Deux-Magots, Café de Flore, and Brasserie Lipp, the haunts of intellectuals and artists after the Second World War. Nico had spent a lot of time in these places. He had often walked past the Paris Descartes University Medical School. The students he saw crowded around 45 Rue des Saint-Pères on this day didn’t seem much different from the students he had gone to school with.

  Nico approached the monumental bronze doors known as the Porte de la Science. They were nearly twenty-six feet tall and half as wide. Bas-reliefs depicted the appearance of life, animals both fighting and mating, and Adam and Eve chased from paradise. Asclepius, the god of medicine, dominated the tympan above the doors. At his feet, people begged the god for healing.

  Nico entered the building and made his way into the crowded hallway, filled not only with students, but also with display panels and a huge Christmas tree. Young people were studying on benches and around tables under the staircases. A stranger in this place, Nico climbed the stairs without raising any curiosity. Security would be a near impossibility here, he thought, and paradoxically, this reassured him. As much of a cop as he was, he hated the idea of living in a society where everyone was under constant surveillance. He looked through an open door to an enormous room. On the board, he saw “Cournot-Nash Equilibrium” and scrawling that looked like gibberish to him. Farther down the hall, a herd was forming at the Claude Bernard lecture hall.

  He finally reached the sixth floor and walked past the body donation office. At the end of the hallway, the large red off-limits door pulled him like a magnet. Marcel’s lair. He went past the Farabeuf and Poirier labs and then beyond the “staff only” Stairwell H. He knocked. The tech, looking focused and grumpy, opened the door.

  “Ah, what brings you, Inspector?”

  To tell the truth, Nico didn’t really know.

  Marcel tried again. “Did you see Mrs. Bordieu?”

  “No, I didn’t want to bother her.”

  “Oh,” Marcel said, frowning. Then he smiled. “Do you want to come in?”

&
nbsp; “May I?”

  “In theory, no, not without my boss’s okay, but you aren’t just anybody. So I think I can let you in. We don’t have to go and tell everyone about it, right?” Marcel winked.

  “Fine by me,” Nico said, stepping into what seemed like another dimension.

  The first thing that struck Nico were the man’s hands—thick, powerful hands—and his immaculate white coat.

  “I like everything spick-and-span,” Marcel said, inviting Nico into his lab, which was a small, fully equipped kitchen.

  “How did you end up here?”

  “You looking for a job? The university is going to have to replace me soon.”

  Nico grinned. The man was a joker.

  “I started out as a butcher at the Villette slaughterhouses. Yep, believe it or not. At least I got some real training. And then, one day, well, opportunity makes the thief. So much was possible at the time. Today, they’d never hire a butcher.”

  This was almost unbelievable. A butcher right here, in the medical school. The last beef to come out of the Villette slaughterhouses was butchered in 1974. Marcel had left the huge Grande Halle and its 333 acres of constantly bustling and noisy grounds for this silent space containing three walk-in cold rooms filled with human remains. His knowledge of dismemberment and his love for a job well done had arrived with him.

  “I’ve got to take a leg to the seventh floor. Would you like to come with me?”

  “I’m right behind you.”

  Marcel walked into one of the cold rooms. Nico stood at the door and peered at what was inside. He began to hyperventilate and feel lightheaded. The butcher turned around.

  “You’ve seen worse, haven’t you?”

  “I’m not sure about that,” Nico said. His legs were weak.

  Marcel raised his voice. “Step back.”

  The order hit Nico like a slap in the face. He moved back down the hallway and leaned his forehead against a cool window. But the vision of horror was stuck in his brain: massive gray metal shelves, nude bodies piled up, decapitated heads, an old lady, all skin and bone, in a fetal position. The only thing missing were the butcher’s hooks.