Heart Collector

by Jacques Vandroux

  “Go on.”

  “The image has been burned into my memory for forty years. I regularly see it again in dreams. I’ve never managed to make it go away . . . Two students were looking at me scornfully.”

  “Two?” interrupted Blavet. “But there was only one in the story Professor Delépine told us, even if Hélène Guyancourt spoke of a second man.”

  “There were two of them, have no doubt on that count. They’d put on blue surgical gowns, and each one had a scalpel in hand. My eyes immediately dropped to the table. A cadaver had been cut up into pieces, but . . . how shall I put this . . . like on a butcher’s block. The pieces were neatly cut and carefully placed one next to the other. Unimaginable! When I looked at them, they burst out laughing. I didn’t know what to do anymore. There were these two boys, because they couldn’t have been more than twenty, apparently having crazy fun, and next to them this body presented as spare parts. Only the head and torso were still connected.”

  “Did they run away?”

  “They didn’t even try, and that was just about the most disturbing part. They knew they’d be expelled. I locked them in so that I could ask the front desk to send me a security team. The men arrived within a few minutes. When we went into the room, those two sickos had gone back to their gruesome work. Now the head was resting next to the limbs. They’d given it a terrifying smile with a stroke of the scalpel.”

  Boucanier was frighteningly pale. Immersed in his nightmare, he continued in a hypnotic tone.

  “When the security guards approached them, they said only one sentence: ‘It would have been a shame not to finish such lovely work.’ They let themselves be taken without resistance. Later I learned that one of the two had been reinstated at the university. I didn’t believe my ears. Sometimes, there’s no justice in this world. How could they allow such an unstable man to have patients’ lives in his hands? But in the end, I was just a member of the custodial staff.”

  “One of the two was Dominique Cabrade?”

  “Indeed, the famous Cabrade who was taken back and became the hospital’s star.”

  “But do you remember the other student’s name? The one who was expelled. No one has been able to tell me.”

  “Of course, Doctor, you unfortunately never forget such names. The second student was Cabrade’s equal in destructive madness. His name was Boisregard.”

  “Boisregard?”

  “Yes, and I even remember his first name: Arsène.”

  “Arsène Boisregard . . . Do you know what became of him?”

  “Absolutely not, and make no mistake, I don’t want to hear about him.”

  Henri Blavet put his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands and muttered to himself.

  “Arsène Boisregard . . . I feel like I’ve heard that name recently.” Then he addressed his old friend. “Jean-Paul, I think your contribution will be highly valuable. I’m going to report your story immediately. I’m certain the name Boisregard can be useful to us.”

  Boucanier stood up and shook the doctor’s hand warmly.

  “I hope you’ll arrest those bastards as quickly as possible. But be careful, Doctor. Boys like that are unpredictable!”

  Chapter 57: Boisregard

  “Boisregard! Henri, are you absolutely sure of the name?” cried Nadia into the phone.

  “Absolutely, Nadia, that’s the name Boucanier gave me: Arsène Boisregard. And I can assure you there wasn’t a shadow of a doubt in his statements. Apparently that name tells you something.”

  “The curator at the Old Diocese Museum—it’s insane! That guy is anything but a killer. He’d be afraid of his own shadow,” she added to herself. “What else did the guy tell you?”

  “He confirmed that the bastard, and I’m quoting, ‘was as deranged as Dominique Cabrade.’ There you have it, I’ve told you everything.”

  “Thank you, Henri. I’ve crossed paths with psychopaths and freaks in my career, and more often than you’d think. But if the historian is a dissector, then the perversity of the human species is beyond my comprehension. I’ll leave you to your work . . . thanks again!”

  She hung up. She was sitting on a desk, eyes contemplating the peeling paint on the wall. She didn’t understand what was happening. When she noticed how quiet the room had become, she snapped back to reality and returned to action mode. Fortin, Drancey, and a young policewoman were looking at her questioningly.

  “Meeting in the briefing room. Notify everyone on site. We’ll start in one minute.”

  The noises of footsteps and chairs immediately followed her order. Sixty seconds later, a dozen police officers were settled in chairs facing the podium where Captain Barka was waiting. The urgency of the meeting sent a shiver of excitement through the room. They were all hoping for a new lead; no significant evidence had been collected for several hours, despite the photo of Sartenas now decorating the streets of Grenoble and surrounding areas.

  “I’ve just had a call from Doctor Blavet. He found the name of one of the murderer’s old partners in madness. This person’s name is Arsène Boisregard—if this isn’t a coincidence or a homonym, then it’s the curator of the museum where Monica Revasti’s corpse was found.”

  A murmur of surprise swept through the room.

  She continued. “If we’re dealing with the same man, we must act quickly. He may be the one hiding Cabrade since his disappearance. Here’s the plan of action.”

  As she uttered those words, Nadia noticed Captain Rivera had just entered the room and was staring at her pointedly. Oh, shit! thought the young woman. It’s his investigation, I’m on sick leave, and I’m in the middle of giving orders to his team. You’ve got it all wrong, girl. She said nothing for a few moments, waiting for Rivera to intervene. He looked at the assembly, went to take his place beside her, and said, “You can continue, Nadia, you have our attention.”

  Nadia immediately went on. “I want four people to go to the museum. Rodolphe, you head up that team. Pick him up for me. There’ll always be time to apologize later. Meanwhile, four others go to his private residence. Jérôme, find me his address, and Lieutenant Lemaistre will take charge of the operations. I also want a team digging into his past and present for me. I want to know if he has second homes where he could hide out, or hide Cabrade. And I want to know everything about his studies. At the same time we’re also going to verify it’s the same individual, even if I have little doubt. Jérôme, take as many people as necessary, and reconstruct Boisregard’s schedule over the past forty-eight hours. You can also call Sophie Dupas: her father is a colleague of Boisregard’s; they’ll be able to help you. Although . . . no—let me deal with Dupas. Good, it’s exactly 2:30 p.m. At 5:00 p.m. on the dot, I want you to have found me everything I’ve asked for. Now go, get on it!”

  Thirty seconds later, the room was empty. Only Rivera had stayed, awaiting the departure of their colleagues so that he could be alone with the young woman. She decided to take the initiative.

  “Sorry, Rivera, I overstepped my bounds. I imagine that annoyed you, and I confess I was surprised by your reaction.”

  Rivera smiled, and for the first time, Nadia didn’t see the look of a hyena. “I don’t know what’s going on, Nadia. I feel like I was touched by grace yesterday. The Joan of Arc of the Grenoble police—surprising, don’t you think?”

  Nadia looked at him with genuine astonishment. She’d never known Rivera to be self-deprecating.

  “On a more serious note, it was the search of Sartenas’s villa that must have generated this change. I’m the one who’s sorry for hounding you about the Déramaux case. When I found that girl’s heart, I understood what you must have felt. I’ll admit, it’s a little late. You must be asking yourself, ‘What’s going on here, the terrible Captain Rivera fainting in front of a piece of meat in a jar?’ Joking aside, I’m convinced you have the intuition to hunt down that son of a bi
tch.”

  Nadia Barka now recognized her colleague. But she’d appreciated his confession. The Italian regained his composure.

  “On the other hand, don’t forget I’m still leading the hunt for Sartenas.”

  “Don’t worry, Rivera, I won’t forget it. I’m just asking you to leave me Boisregard. We may have a common history.”

  Stéphane Rivera looked at her and continued, “Laure Déramaux?”

  “A killer above all suspicion, an artist with the scalpel, a specialist in the Aztecs. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself, but I feel it.”

  “Feminine intuition?”

  “Call it what you like, but we have to move quickly. If Sartenas needs a new heart for a reason we don’t yet know, and if he’s driven by his old friend, we’re in a race against the clock.”

  Stéphane Rivera laid a hand on her arm. “We’re going to win it this time, on my word as a Calabrian.”

  Chapter 58: Excitement at the Museum

  3:00 p.m. Drancey strode under the portico in front of the Old Diocese Museum. He pulled on his armband bearing the word “Police.” The four men accompanying him pulled on theirs a second later. He paused before entering the museum.

  “The guy we’ve come to collar is the worst kind. As soon as we see him, we neutralize him. According to Captain Barka, he’ll react like an old woman, but he’s a maniac with a scalpel.”

  The policemen looked at each other. Those who had participated in the briefing didn’t really recognize the words used by their superior, but they understood the message: Warning, viper in sight.

  “We don’t have time to finesse this anymore. We have to get our hands on him as quickly as possible.”

  Action and fisticuffs being more Lieutenant Drancey’s specialties than finesse, the roles were perfectly assigned.

  The policeman pushed open the building’s glass door and turned right to face the welcome desk. The middle-aged woman who gave out tickets jumped when she saw the five determined men come in. She shot a worried glance at one of her colleagues, who was replenishing pamphlets at a display on the history of the Dauphiné. Two students were examining a book on the history of the Church of Saint-André.

  The policemen had the room covered in the blink of an eye. No sign of Boisregard. Garancher had printed a photo of the curator before leaving on the mission. Lieutenant Drancey took his badge out of his pocket and presented it brusquely about twenty inches from the cashier’s face.

  “Police. We want to see Arsène Boisregard!”

  “Professor Boisregard?” the woman managed to respond, gulping. “But why?”

  “I’m the one asking questions here. Do you know where he is?”

  “I haven’t seen him today, Officer.”

  “I didn’t ask you if you’ve seen him, I only want to know where that bastard is hiding, and right now!”

  The museum employee felt terror wash over her. The man arranging the historical books came up to Drancey and commented, “And who are you, monsieur, to talk like that about Professor Boisregard? You should know we all appreciate that exquisite man and . . .”

  The lieutenant gripped him by the shirt and pulled him close. “Shut up. You can open your mouth only to answer my question.”

  Jean Renoir tapped discreetly on his mission chief’s shoulder. Drancey got the message and released the man, who was starting to turn white. The cashier had come to her senses.

  “His secretary should be able to answer you.”

  “Excellent, where is she?”

  “In the administrative offices. If you want, I can show you the way.”

  “Well, then, now we’re getting somewhere—madame . . . ?” he added with restored civility.

  “Monique Renucci.”

  They followed their guide while her coworker went to find a flask of Chartreux liqueur hidden in a cupboard, and the two visitors left with the book under a jacket.

  At the end of the hall they could see the outline of a door. The ancient floor creaked to the rhythm of their steps. The cashier stopped in front of the door.

  “This is Madame Borteau’s office, Monsieur Boisregard’s secretary.”

  “Where is Boisregard’s office?” asked Drancey.

  “You have to pass by Madame Borteau to get to the curator.”

  Drancey made no comment. He realized he’d acted flippantly, but they’d rushed to the scene in under five minutes, and only the result counted.

  His phone rang. He picked up and motioned to the museum employee to await his orders. The call lasted less than thirty seconds. He hung up, returned the phone to his interior jacket pocket, and addressed his men in a forceful but hushed voice.

  “They worked quickly. They can confirm it is indeed the same Boisregard who studied medicine and is now curator at this museum. We’ll have to be careful, boys.”

  Then he spoke to Monique Renucci. She’d caught snippets of the conversation, and her face revealed both confusion and agitation.

  “Well, knock, please,” Drancey directed.

  Their guide knocked on the door.

  “Come in!” replied an energetic voice.

  “It’s okay, you can go back to selling your tickets,” Drancey said to Renucci. “And thank you for your assistance,” he added, to Renoir’s amusement.

  Drancey went into the office. The arrival of the five men in this lofty room with exposed beams was incongruous. But the policeman didn’t stop to notice those details. He did, however, decide to try a softer approach than he’d used when entering the museum. Perhaps subconsciously his strategy was dictated by the secretary’s poise and trustworthy demeanor.

  “Lieutenant Drancey, National Police. I want to speak with Arsène Boisregard as soon as possible.”

  The secretary stared in surprise at the group who had just barged into her office. Never in more than five years of working in this job had she experienced such . . . disorder, except following the discovery of that poor young girl’s body.

  “Monsieur Boisregard is out at the moment.”

  “Do you know when he’ll come back?”

  “He didn’t come in today. Last night he left a message on my machine. He took a rare day off.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “That’s none of my business, Lieutenant!” huffed Géraldine Borteau. “The professor does what he wishes with his days.”

  “Indeed,” commented the policeman. “He does what he wishes. Did he tell you when he would come back, and did you notice anything special about his message?”

  “But why are you asking me all these questions, monsieur? Professor Boisregard is a very good person in every respect.”

  The cop looked at the woman across from him. She was in her late forties and had a certain charm. He appreciated her curves and wondered if Boisregard had made her his mistress, and if she was willing to protect him. Then he chased away the thoughts that had just gone through his head, silently begged forgiveness from his wife, and looked Borteau straight in the eye.

  “We have a pressing need to hear the good Monsieur Boisregard’s testimony.”

  “Yes, I imagine it has to do with the young Italian woman’s murder case. But he already made a deposition, and I don’t understand the urgency of your request.”

  Drancey decided to become an educator.

  “My dear lady. You’ve doubtless known Boisregard for several years?”

  “Five years exactly.”

  “And what do you know of him?”

  “He’s a scholar, a gentleman who is always discreet and ready to be of service.”

  “Very good. He’s also a man who, thirty years ago, was expelled from the School of Medicine for savagely dissecting a cadaver, and was an intimate friend, at the time, of Dominique Cabrade, now known under the name Sartenas. The name Sartenas must remind you of something?”

&nbs
p; The woman blanched and sat down on a chair.

  “You . . . you’re joking?”

  “Look at me. Do I seem like it?”

  “But it can’t be the same man, it’s impossible. Impossible and absurd!”

  “Just like it’s impossible and absurd to cut up cadavers or to extract their hearts. But enough philosophizing! Are my questions justified enough?”

  Borteau was slumped over. The words had yet to completely sink in, but she knew her little world had just collapsed.

  “And if it should happen we’ve made a mistake on Arsène Boisregard’s account, he’d of course be able to prove it to us. But if I’m right . . .”

  The secretary surrendered. “He seemed a bit excited on the phone. Modifying his schedule like that doesn’t happen often. He’s generally a man who honors his engagements and likes the routine of work.”

  “Have you found him changed since the discovery of Monica Revasti’s body?”

  “He was devastated. Such misfortune, in a museum he was responsible for, and what’s more . . .”

  “Did he say when he’d come back?”

  “No, his message was brief. He just explained to me a personal reason was preventing him from coming to the museum today.”

  “Nothing that could have seemed unusual in light of what I just told you?”

  “No,” she said after thinking for a few minutes.

  “Good. We’d like to examine his office.”

  Borteau hesitated for half a second. No one ever went into Professor Boisregard’s office when he wasn’t there, aside from a cleaning woman, once a week, and only under her surveillance. It was one of the historian’s quirks. He couldn’t stand the idea of someone violating the privacy of his lair when he was absent. She wasn’t even allowed to go in alone. But she decided to open the desk drawer. She took out a little key, got up, and went over to a small wall cabinet. She opened it and exclaimed in surprise, “The office key isn’t there anymore!”