“Certainly. That’ll give me two months to muscle up. I don’t know if it’ll be enough.”
He got up, put away his mat, downed his bottle of mineral water, and left the room. Sophie was waiting for him at the exit.
“So, not bad, eh?” she asked.
“Cut it out—this is nuts! And I stay pretty active!”
“Yes, but if you want to keep your pretty little ass for another few years, you have to keep working on it.”
Julien looked at her and whispered in her ear. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
She burst out laughing. “Does the offer for pizza still stand?”
“Of course, but I definitely need a shower first.”
“Me too, we’ll meet outside the locker rooms.”
The weather was divinely pleasant. A light breeze chased away the day’s sultriness, and a slight coolness rose up from the Isère flowing at their feet. Remarkably, the riverfront in the Saint-Laurent neighborhood, on the Isère’s right bank, was closed to motor vehicles. The restaurant owners had taken the opportunity to set up tables on the little street, still quite busy in spite of the late hour. Their conversation had been very lively. They’d avoided the topic of the baptistery murder, which had dominated their thoughts.
Julien enjoyed being with Sophie. He had appreciated her as a companion for outings at first, but then realized that he’d been thinking about her a little more every day. Last night’s dinner at the restaurant had been revealing—he loved being with her. She was energetic, beautiful, and knew how to be seductive when she decided someone was worth the trouble. But it frightened him, too. He wasn’t stupid and knew he was starting to fall in love. And that he did not want. It had hurt too much when Sylvie left.
“What are you thinking about, my handsome athlete?”
“You!” He realized that he’d answered without paying attention and blushed, hoping she wouldn’t notice.
“An admirable subject for daydreaming. I almost want to leave you be.”
“What if instead we took a walk on the slopes of the Bastille fort? Aimée destroyed my abs and glutes, but I still have energy in my legs. If you still have time, of course.”
“I have time tonight. And that seems to me an excellent way to use it. You can tell me scary stories on the way.”
“You’ve chosen well. That’s my specialty.”
They left the table and headed at a leisurely pace toward the Chartreuse foothills.
Chapter 12: Magali
The man’s eyes were fixed on the calendar. In one week, it would be June 21: the thirtieth anniversary. He lay down on his bed, and the images streamed through his brain once more, the years replaying with incredible sharpness.
Magali was there before him. Magali, the light of his life, his Holy Grail, the apple of his eye. She was the heart of his passion, his mission. He wanted to protect her against the dangers of the world he knew so well, keep her free of all external impurity. A wave of tenderness washed over him as he thought about the woman facing him. She was gentle and beautiful; he took care of her. But today, Magali had a suitcase beside her. A small suitcase, a pathetic sign of her obstinacy. Why? Why was Magali so stubborn lately? Hadn’t he explained to her every day about the dangers of the world outside? Did she no longer understand that without him, the depravity of others would seize and soil her? Where was this sudden ingratitude coming from? The last time, she even accused him of having been violent with her.
The accusation had doubly grieved him. First, hearing reproach from the mouth of his wife when he was so devoted to her that he’d built his life around her! Then, wasn’t force a means of returning people to their senses when they’d lost their minds? To put her back on the right path and quell passions he dared not imagine in her, he’d given her the treatment he’d prepared, to defuse any chance of rebellion.
Magali, the woman he loved and revered, had become docile once more. When he’d sensed that her foolish ambitions for autonomy had disappeared, he had lowered the dosage of the remedy he imposed on her. All had become calm again, restful, reassuring—just how he liked it.
And today, there she was again, before him. Her face was impassive, but that little suitcase was a sign of rebellion he could not accept. She had just endured a terrible blow to her stomach, leaving her doubled over in pain. Would she never understand? He would explain it all to her again, using everything in his power to make her understand, for her own good, of course!
The man jerked his head violently and sat down. He looked around him. The room was in shadow. He was on a large bed, set against a wall papered in faded pastel. A large table sat opposite him; a wardrobe, practically empty, stood on one side of the wall. He couldn’t bear this time of year anymore. The light, the heat, the world’s rising sap—everything was an assault.
After the twenty-first had passed, it would all be better. But he had to hold on until then. The previous year, he’d nearly gone mad, but this year, he’d found the solution. He already felt calmer just thinking about it. He stood up and left the room. He went down a long hallway, then descended a staircase. He reached the ground floor, felt the cool tiles under his feet, and crossed the foyer. He entered a large kitchen and headed for the refrigerator, which emitted a quiet purr. That was the only sound in a house he had dedicated to silence, a house that had become his ultimate peace, his refuge.
The man opened the door and reached for the lifesaving jar. He was shocked when he saw it. He realized that almost nothing remained of the heart that gave him back his energy and prevented him from being sucked into the past. He had abused it without noticing. He had consumed it much more rapidly than he’d planned. No matter, he would go out again in search of this indispensable redemptive substance.
Chapter 13: Monica
The tension had risen a notch since the last meeting. Commissioner Mazure looked at his staff. He knew they were working tirelessly, but Paris was demanding results. Rumors were beginning to circulate on the Internet about the removal of the victim’s heart. Television news had picked up on that immediately, and the baptistery victim was increasingly of interest to the public—and the authorities. They had even asked him to invent clues if he had to, to show that the investigation was moving forward. Actually, they hadn’t asked him straight-out like that, but he knew how to read between the lines.
He headed for the espresso machine as the last to arrive settled in. He had just purchased it at his own expense so that the team could finally enjoy a decent cup of coffee. At first he’d purchased the coffee capsules without telling them and witnessed firsthand just how addicted to caffeine his team was. In the absence of the pay increase they’d been hoping for, he could at least provide them with a way to enjoy a few minutes of gustatory pleasure.
Étienne Fortin came in almost at a run, his hair sticking up wildly, dressed in a pair of his famous sweatpants and brandishing a large paper bag. Out of breath, he said, “Sorry, I had a mishap this morning. My car let me down. A Peugeot 205 that just celebrated its twentieth birthday. Since I didn’t have time to eat, I bought two dozen croissants.”
A murmur of thanks rippled around the room. Fortin distributed the pastries and sat down at his table. “Now that everyone is here and properly fed,” Mazure said, “we’re going to let Captain Barka give us an update on the search. Nadia, all yours.”
Nadia Barka jumped right in. “We’ve made little progress in three days. It’s as if this murder never took place. I met with Doctor Blavet again along with Isabelle Tavernier. We’re now just about convinced that the killer worked or works in the medical field. It took a steady hand and excellent knowledge of human anatomy to do what he did. We’ve initiated investigation in this direction. We’ve also been back to see the curator of the Old Diocese Museum. He gave us nothing new. He was horrified when we told him that his alarm system had been tampered with.”
“Do
you think the murderer could be one of the museum employees?” asked Captain Rivera.
Captain Barka looked at him. There was no trace of his usual scorn in the tone of his question. She remembered that Mazure had called him into his office after the last meeting. That seemed to have calmed him down.
“Rationally, no. The risk of discovery would be immense. But we’re continuing to investigate the staff. Furthermore, we have an appointment this afternoon with Father Bernard de Valjoney, one of the people in charge of the Diocese of Grenoble. I want to find out whether it’s possible to hang this murder on some religious ritual. We’ve sent him certain parts of the file, and he’s stated, with the consent of his superiors, that he’s willing to help us. That will perhaps allow us to gather a few clues.”
Captain Barka’s phone rang. Commissioner Mazure frowned. He didn’t like his meetings to be interrupted, but his associate’s look of concentration stifled the comments he was about to make.
“. . . Okay! Send me the details immediately via e-mail. Good-bye.” Then, addressing the group, she said, “They’ve identified the victim.” Nadia read aloud directly from the e-mail she’d just received. “The victim’s name is Monica Revasti. She’s originally from Turin, and her parents saw the picture of their daughter early this morning on an Italian television station. One of our people will go question them as soon as we’re done with this meeting.”
She looked in the direction of Rivera. His family had left Calabria to come to France when he was twelve years old. He spoke fluent Italian.
“Stéphane, I think you are the most qualified to conduct this interrogation.”
“All right. We’re only two and a half hours from Turin.”
“We’ll have a briefing before your departure to prepare you for the meeting.” She went back to reading. “Monica Revasti was twenty-nine years old and worked as the manager of a travel agency in Turin. She had gone to Grenoble for a very specific medical examination that MUMC, Michallon University Medical Center, has advanced techniques and specialists for. Her examination took place over two days. She came on Wednesday and had another appointment the next day. She never showed up.”
“We finally have something solid,” announced Fortin with satisfaction.
“We’ll go to the hospital right after the meeting. Now Étienne and Jérôme are going to report on their research.”
Jérôme Garancher looked at his colleague, who let him know with his eyes that Garancher would do the talking. The archivist liked to talk, and he didn’t often have the opportunity to speak in front of such an attentive audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve worked hard with Étienne and Charles to look into other crimes that could be linked to the one we’re investigating. We conducted our work over a period of twenty years, starting with the Rhône-Alpes region, expanding to all of France and, since this morning, Europe. Étienne did a quick Internet search for the United States, but there are so many sickos over there that you have to wonder why the country isn’t completely depopulated.”
Pleased with his touch of humor, he looked at his audience. Two or three of his colleagues forced themselves to conjure up a smile so as not to disappoint him. Even if Jérôme Garancher was pompous, he was still appreciated by those who worked alongside him.
“Unfortunately the results did not reflect the energy we put in. You cannot imagine the number of murders that have taken place in Grenoble and the surrounding area: knives, acid, poison, even piano wire. We’ve set aside homicides by firearm. We also took another look at the massacre of the members of the Order of the Solar Temple in the Vercors Mountains. But at the moment we’ve found nothing that resembles the crime we’re currently confronting. We kept up with two or three leads, but nothing very substantial so far. We’ve also contacted our colleagues in Paris. The media coverage of the case is so interesting that we didn’t have to insist that they consider our request.”
“And so?” Nadia asked.
“So nothing,” replied Garancher, somewhat crestfallen. “Twisted bastards in spades, but none who cut their victims up surgically and sew them up after. We’ll keep looking, but we’re really going to need further evidence.”
“It’s your job to act before further evidence is provided by a second corpse!” said Mazure impatiently. Then he began again. “Have you pursued doctors? Maybe they can guide us?”
“We’ve started work on that lead,” Fortin went on. “Doctor Blavet is a valuable help, because it’s difficult to find a more closed environment. We’ve brought in two investigators who used to work in the hospital field to speed up the progress. But we have days of work ahead of us.”
“Take the necessary time. In any case, we have very few leads to sink our teeth into at the moment.”
Chapter 14: Father de Valjoney
Accompanied by Rodolphe Drancey, Nadia Barka walked through streets overwhelmed with sunlight. The previous high temperature records had been smashed.
They had decided to go on foot to the Diocesan Residence, where Father de Valjoney would be meeting with them. They passed by the art museum, which Nadia gazed at longingly. She loved wandering through the galleries, sitting in front of a painting and admiring it. She could spend hours in front of a single work of art and still discover details that astonished her. She went there as often as the opportunity presented itself—it also allowed her to forget, for the space of a visit, her daily cares and the horrors she regularly confronted.
Drancey glanced toward the museum as well and noticed her pensive air. “I’d like to be able to go there, too.”
She looked at him in amazement. Drancey was unbeatable in his knowledge of cars, soccer, and firearms, but art?
“Well, yeah, they have AC throughout the building!” And he broke into a hearty laugh.
She shrugged and smiled. “As appalling as ever, you poor bastard! Your wife still has some work to do.”
“More than you know. Hélène dragged me here last Sunday, and that’s how I know it’s air-conditioned. But spending an hour looking at the works of Gaston Chaissac gave me a headache. They looked like my grandnephew’s drawings from before he started kindergarten.”
“She certainly didn’t pick the easiest starting place for tackling art. But keep at it, Rodolphe, and ask her for seventeenth-century Spaniards instead. There’s a magnificent Zurbarán triptych.”
“Listen, Nadia, I think you’re great, but after Chaissac, the next Spaniards I’ll go see are the ones from Real Madrid.”
Nadia thought it best not to insist. They crossed the Place Lavalette, went down a few steps, and found themselves in front of the imposing Diocesan Residence of Grenoble.
They pushed open the wooden door and stepped into a pleasantly cool atrium. They climbed the stairs and headed for a desk behind which a young woman waited. Her severe attire contrasted with her cheerful face, which was framed by a cascade of red hair.
“Well, the Church is getting younger! I feel my childhood faith stirring,” murmured Lieutenant Drancey.
Nadia elbowed him discreetly to shut him up. “Hello, we have an appointment with Bernard de Valjoney.”
“Hello. He told me you would be coming. Give me two minutes. I’ll go get him, and he’ll welcome you himself.” She set off down a long hallway, under Rodolphe’s intense gaze.
“What would Hélène say?” whispered Nadia.
“Nothing, we’re among priests.”
“Fine,” said Nadia. “You let me do the talking during the interview. I don’t feel like having you antagonize our contact. We don’t know who we’re dealing with yet.”
The young woman was already returning, accompanied by a tall man of ecclesiastical stoutness, though he was far from equaling the monks in the images d’Épinal or in the ads for monastic cheeses. The clergyman came toward them and offered a vigorous handshake.
“Welcome to the Diocese. I’m Fathe
r Bernard de Valjoney, at your service.”
The policeman shook the father’s hand, more impressed than he wanted to show. He’d expected, for no reason at all, a short, weedy man with a sly look. He realized in a split second that from now on he should beware of his prejudices. Lost in thought, he noticed that his colleague and the priest had started to move off down the corridor, chatting like two old friends. He accompanied them into a vast room, lit by the sun streaming in through a large window looking out onto a patio. In spite of the size of the room, the ambiance was cozy. The clergyman didn’t sit down at his table, but invited them instead to settle on a sofa in one corner of the room. He pulled up an armchair and sat facing them. He let them speak.
“We thank you for the time you’re devoting to us. We’re at an impasse on this murder, and we’re looking for any clue that could help us move forward. Did you have time to examine the file we sent to you this morning?”
“Yes, I studied it, and I reflected on it. Needless to say, the murder and the place where the corpse was discovered have badly shaken the Christian community. I’ll let you ask your questions.”
“Thank you. First of all, do you have any knowledge of similar murders in the Diocese of Grenoble in the last few decades?”
“No, this is the first time a body has been found murdered in such a building during the last forty years of the Diocese of Grenoble-Vienne. The last case goes back to 1970. A man slit his wife’s throat on the altar of a church near Saint-Marcellin. The man had escaped from a psychiatric ward and was convinced that his wife had fornicated with the devil. So he’d sacrificed her. The poor woman had had a number of lovers in her life, but the devil surely wasn’t one of them! The killer has been dead for more than ten years. He’d acted on an insane impulse and not as coldly as the criminal we seek.”
“Do you think the crime could be linked to a satanic ritual?”
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