Heart Collector

by Jacques Vandroux

  “You’re saving me from an advanced state of dehydration, my dear lady.”

  “Let’s say the title of captain is enough in the context of this room.”

  Nadia went over the facts while the man across from her drank his beverage. “Sartenas escaped from an operation we conducted yesterday. We found his home, over by Saint-Martin d’Uriage. We don’t know if he was out when the police forces went in or if he was warned. Whichever it was, today he’s at large, and we found a half-eaten human heart at his house.”

  Antoine Dupas nearly choked and spat out a mouthful of Perrier. He wiped his face with the back of his hand.

  “I’m confused, Captain. That’s terrible!”

  “Terrible indeed! We now know what he’s doing with these hearts. We haven’t been able to locate him, despite our efforts and the wanted bulletin sent out to all the television stations. His photo is plastered around the region, all the train stations and all the airports for two hundred miles around have been warned. We’ve dug into his past and managed to find one of his close friends from his youth. We think he could have been helping him. Really, it’s a hypothesis we’ve latched on to. And that’s where we’re counting on your assistance.”

  Antoine Dupas put down his small bottle, waiting for a new revelation.

  “The man’s name is Arsène Boisregard.”

  The historian looked at her with wide eyes. If there was a name he wasn’t expecting, it was his colleague’s.

  “Arsène Boisregard? The Arsène Boisregard who works as the curator of the Old Diocese Museum? But that’s not possible!”

  “You must assume we’ve done our work correctly, Monsieur Dupas. I’ve met Boisregard, and I understand your surprise. But I can assure you fifteen years in the business have taught me to accept many hypotheses that seem incongruous at first. Tell me everything you know about him, even what might seem anecdotal to you. If it doesn’t bother you, we’ll record the conversation. That will give us the opportunity to listen to it again, to be certain no important detail slips by us.”

  “Of course, Captain. Could I ask you for another small bottle of Perrier?”

  A policeman entered the office with a recording device and set it on the table. He came back a few seconds later with the historian’s drink and sat down behind a laptop computer.

  “I’ll let you do the talking, Professor.”

  Antoine Dupas had utilized these moments of getting settled to organize his thoughts.

  “I’ve known Arsène Boisregard for seven years, since he came to Grenoble. I know he worked in Paris and Bordeaux before, but he’s never really opened up about his private life. Professor Boisregard is rather quiet. He listens more than he talks, which makes him an appreciated person. You know the propensity people have for telling about their lives, their little experiences, wanting to show off! So, when people meet an attentive listener, that person naturally becomes good company. Arsène has only one subject about which he is loquacious—history, of course.”

  “What information, even partial, can you give me on his pre-Grenoble life?”

  “What appears in his CV. He studied at the Sorbonne, did a teaching degree in Babylonian civilization. I don’t remember anymore the exact name of the subject, but you’ll be able to find it easily. He then worked for about fifteen years in Paris, and five years in Bordeaux, where he taught. But I know hardly anything else.”

  “What kind of man is he, professionally? How is he judged by his peers?”

  “A great man. I recently had the opportunity to participate in a meeting with the folks at city hall, at the Old Diocese Museum. He’s very respected by his staff, particularly by his secretary, it seems to me. But here I’m getting into gossip and off topic.”

  “No, quite the contrary, go back there.”

  “I’ve known his secretary, Géraldine Borteau, for nearly twenty years. A beautiful woman, authoritarian and competent, who wreaked havoc around her.”

  “Be specific.”

  “She took more than one of her colleagues to her bed. And she kicked them out again as soon as it no longer amused her.”

  “So the historians’ world isn’t that austere!”

  “No more so than any other. When Boisregard took the curator’s job five years ago, we all wondered how things were going to turn out. Arsène was, and still is, unmarried. With his charm and boyish side, we were convinced he was going to get himself eaten alive. And what a surprise to see Géraldine follow him around like a lapdog a few months later! The roles had been totally reversed. The huntress had become willing prey.”

  “Do they live together?”

  “Certainly not. Arsène wouldn’t have stood for it. I think their relationship is purely . . . sexual. But I’ve never had any tangible proof.”

  “And it didn’t surprise you that a woman like Géraldine Borteau, whom you describe as free and independent, would agree to play such a role for five years?”

  “Me? No. But I remember talking about it with Madeleine, my wife. She’d met Géraldine several times, and she had the same reaction as you. That situation surprised her all the more because everything in Boisregard’s personality gives the appearance of a retiring person. I must tell you Madeleine doesn’t like Boisregard.”

  “Does she know him well?”

  “She encountered him on occasion at little official and unofficial get-togethers.”

  “Let’s go back to Boisregard. What do you know of his activities outside of work? Is he always such a placid character?”

  “I don’t know much about his private life, as I’ve told you. And yet, I think I’m someone who has the most contact with him. As for his character . . .”

  Antoine Dupas stopped speaking. He made a visible effort at concentration, searching the depths of his memories for clues that could interest his questioner. The police officer gave him time to think.

  “Look, I might have something that will interest you—well, you’ll see! About three years ago, I went into a room while he was in the middle of a phone call. I know I should have made myself scarce, but I must acknowledge I’m rather curious. Arsène was arranging to meet someone at a manor, whose name I’ve forgotten. What surprised me, though, was his way of talking: imperious, directive. Nothing like his usual composed, retiring tone. I got the impression I was discovering a new personality.”

  Nadia’s attention was immediately piqued. The historian continued with an embarrassed smile. “I stayed still, surprised by this aspect of Boisregard and eager to know the subject of the discussion. He promised the person a unique experience. There was a totally unusual excitement in his voice.”

  “What type of experience?”

  “I don’t know. Boisregard turned around then, and he saw me. I tried to appear as natural as possible, but I could see that for a second or two he was furious. He then regained his calm and came to greet me as if nothing had happened. Maybe that transformation was the most frightening.”

  Three years. Laure Déramaux had been found dead three years ago. The clues that linked Boisregard to that case were tenuous, and any rational investigator would have laughed in her face. But she’d worked on that case for weeks, and her feminine intuition cried out to her to follow the lead. Of course, feminine intuition wasn’t part of the courses at the police academy, but the resolution of a number of cases had often been made possible by something outside the books.

  A woman entered the room. “I have a phone call for you, Captain. A certain Julien Lombard. He says he has to speak to you urgently.”

  “Give him to me right away!” She grabbed her cell phone out of her bag. Why hadn’t he called her directly since she’d given him her number? Turned off! She’d forgotten to turn it back on after leaving the restaurant. The phone on her desk rang. She picked up.

  “Captain Barka, I’m listening.” She concentrated on his speech. “That is indeed
most worrisome. Wait five minutes, I have her father in my office. Maybe he has some information?”

  She put down the receiver, addressing Antoine Dupas, who’d just blanched. “Monsieur Dupas, do you know what your daughter Sophie had planned to do this afternoon?”

  “What’s going on?” asked the historian, suddenly stricken.

  “Answer me, Monsieur Dupas.”

  “We had lunch together at the Ikea cafeteria. Then we parted ways around two o’clock. Then, she went back to the parking lot to get her car. I saw she had left with it, because her Polo wasn’t there anymore when I left the university to meet with you, but I don’t know anything more.”

  “Thank you. Do you know the license number on her vehicle?”

  She noted it down on a Post-it and picked the receiver back up.

  “Her father doesn’t know what she’d planned to do this afternoon. Come meet us as soon as possible at the station!”

  She hung up. Antoine Dupas grabbed her forearm and squeezed it.

  “Tell me, what’s happened to Sophie?”

  “Nothing is certain for the moment. But according to Julien Lombard, she’s been abducted by Sartenas.”

  The man abruptly sat up straight. “But that makes no sense. How can he say such a terrible thing?” Then, struck by the obvious, he sank back into his seat. “Julien Lombard told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s my daughter’s boyfriend?”

  “I don’t know their relationship, but I’ve met them together.”

  “Then what Sophie told me is true? This Julien has actually received signs of the abductions of the previous victims? He’s not a pathological liar?”

  “Unfortunately, even if the cause is inexplicable, everything points to the validity of his stories.”

  “Then this is a catastrophe. Sophie . . .”

  The man was prostrated, felled by the terrible news. Nadia got up and shook him.

  “Antoine, even if your daughter was just abducted, she’s still alive! We have more information than we did during the previous cases, and her life now depends on us all. So you have to fight, not let go!”

  Antoine Dupas looked at her and stood up brusquely. “You’re absolutely right, Captain. We’re going to find her. Just let me call Madeleine. Her presence won’t be uncalled for.”

  Chapter 62: Search

  3:40 p.m. Étienne Fortin relocked his phone and slipped it nervously into his pocket.

  “We’re not leaving. Backup is coming in less than five minutes with a battering ram and the appropriate papers. They’ll be accompanied by two colleagues from the criminal records office.”

  “What happened to make you break down his door, Lieutenant?” asked Anne Pastourelle, a massive woman with lively eyes.

  “The reasonable assumption of a new kidnapping!”

  “So it did happen. Do they know the victim’s name?”

  “I met her recently. She’s involved with the investigation. Her name is Sophie Dupas.”

  “Shit . . . we have to catch this fucker at any cost.”

  Fortin had finally gotten used to Anne’s language, since her effectiveness went hand in hand with her colorful expressions.

  “Anyway, before they get here—did you have time to finish going through all the floors?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” interjected André Marchal, an experienced policeman well accustomed to interviewing neighbors. “I can confirm the last person to have encountered the suspect is a certain Jocelyne Guillaudin. She says she came across him last night around six o’clock, after taking her dog for a walk. He was collecting his mail, and he greeted her quite civilly. No one saw him leave. Furthermore, I called headquarters to find out what type of vehicle he drives. I went to the garage to see if it was there. I didn’t find it.”

  “He could have parked on the street.”

  “When you have a BMW X6 and a garage, you don’t risk leaving your car outside, Lieutenant.”

  “That makes sense. So he could potentially have left Grenoble. Call Captain Rivera immediately to explain the situation to him and ask him to put out a bulletin on Boisregard’s vehicle. It’ll dovetail nicely with the search for Sartenas.”

  The strident wail of a siren stopped their conversation. Four men, dressed in dark coveralls, came out of a small van. Fortin waved them over.

  “All right, everything’s in place,” he announced to his team.

  “Lieutenant Jacques Gallois, GIPN. Are you Lieutenant Fortin?”

  “That’s me. You were very quick—all the better. I imagine you have all you need?”

  “Obviously, we’re equipped. They told me the suspect wasn’t at home, is that correct?”

  “I can only tell you we haven’t heard a single sound from his place since we showed up. So I can’t confirm his presence or absence.”

  “Understood.” He turned to his men. “Possibility of encountering resistance, boys. Take the emergency response equipment.” Then he spoke to Fortin again.

  “We’ll also need two outside witnesses for the procedure to be valid. I don’t have that in my vehicle. Can you find them for me quickly?”

  “We’ll find ’em,” replied Fortin. “Marchal, your witness, Jocelyne I-don’t-remember-what, is she still at home?”

  “Jocelyne Guillaudin. Without a doubt, Lieutenant, she hasn’t left the building.”

  “Perfect, go get her for me. And then find me a second one among those you interrogated. We’ll all meet on the fourth floor.”

  One minute later, the GIPN men were in position in front of the door to Arsène Boisregard’s apartment. Fortin and his team had let them get settled. The two witnesses had been removed to the floor above, protected from the occupant’s improbable resistance. The two residents, who had lived in the building for over twenty years, were living an adventure that would enable them to become important people in the neighborhood over the coming weeks.

  Gallois rapped violently on the door while shouting the usual warnings. Only silence answered him.

  “All right, boys, we’re going in.”

  In less than a few seconds, the door was broken down with the help of a battering ram and four men had taken up position in the apartment, weapons poised. Thirty seconds later, they came back out to report.

  “The apartment is empty, Lieutenant. You can search in complete safety.”

  They entered the vast sitting room, whose glass door opened onto a large balcony offering a view of the Vercors Mountains. A bedroom, an office, an ostentatiously luxurious bathroom, and a large kitchen rounded out the apartment. The eyes of the two witnesses darted everywhere. Who would have guessed austere Professor Boisregard had a bathroom with a huge Jacuzzi tub, mirrors on the ceiling, and extravagant Carrara marble that looked like it belonged in a spa?

  Two new arrivals came into the room. “Emmanuel Drouksi, criminal records office,” announced one of them, introducing himself to Fortin. “What are we looking for exactly?”

  “Exactly, I couldn’t tell you. But we want to see if there’s evidence Sartenas was here, and any indication of a destination Boisregard could have headed for.”

  Gallois broke in. “We’re leaving, Fortin. Our mission is complete.”

  “Thanks. Good-bye.”

  The GIPN men left the room, leaving the space to the investigators.

  Five minutes later, Anne Pastourelle called them into the bedroom. “Come see. There’s something strange here.”

  Fortin and Drouksi joined her.

  “A closed trash bag, stuffed in the back of a closet,” she said. “This isn’t really the place to store it, is it?”

  “Indeed,” noted Drouksi. He called in one of his colleagues who had a camera. He took the bag with him and put it in the middle of the sitting room. He found a plastic tarp in his crime scene kit and unfolded it on the floor next t
o the bag. He kneeled down and with great dexterity, following protocol, removed the string keeping the bag shut. He opened it carefully. The policemen stopped their own search to see the result of Anne Pastourelle’s find. The witnesses had also approached, giddy with excitement. With a little luck, the policeman was going to expose parts of a corpse or something like that . . .

  Drouksi took out the contents of the bag one by one: a pair of beige linen pants, a shirt still stained with copious sweat marks, and an object somewhere between yellow and red.

  “Can you show me that thing more closely?”

  Emmanuel Drouksi picked it up and unfolded it. “Strange, it’s a wig.”

  Fortin reacted immediately, as if struck by lightning. “Fuck, that’s Sartenas’s wig!”

  To the astonished stares of his colleagues, he specified. “It’s the wig Sartenas was wearing on the South Hospital parking lot surveillance tape, the day he abducted Camille Saint-Forge. Instead of one, we now have two psychopaths on the loose.”

  The news stunned the policemen.

  “Keep looking. Find me any clue that will help us locate them. Take apart all the furniture if you have to. And quickly, if we want the chance of seeing Sophie Dupas alive again.”

  Chapter 63: Géraldine Borteau

  4:15 p.m. Géraldine Borteau had taken a seat in Nadia Barka’s office. The secretary had arrived five minutes earlier in the company of Rodolphe Drancey. She had urgent testimony to give, but she preferred to speak to a woman. Knowing Nadia was at the police station, Lieutenant Drancey had agreed. Nadia offered the woman a drink, but she refused and dove right in.

  “I never would have imagined coming here of my own volition. But what your colleague has told me, the discoveries we made in his office, and what the search of his apartment just taught me made me change my mind.”

  “Lieutenant Drancey informed you about the results of the search?”