The Empire Of The Wolves

by Jean-Christophe Grangé

  Paul forced himself to stay calm, but he was sure that he now had his serial killer. He rushed to see Thierry Bomarzo, the investigating magistrate, and was put in charge of the case. Unfortunately the leads were already cold. The local cops had made a mess of the scene of the crime, and forensics had found nothing.

  Deep down, Paul sensed that he should track the killer on his own turf, by infiltrating the Turkish community. He got himself transferred to the local police station on Rue de Nancy and demoted to the rank of plain sergeant in the Service d’Accueil de Recherche d'Investigation Judiciaire (the SARIJ). He rediscovered the routine of a lowly cop, dealing with robbed widows, shoplifting in grocery stores and neighbors from hell.

  The month of February passed by. Paul was champing at the bit. He was both fearing and hoping for another corpse. His life alternated between moments of excitement and days of utter gloom. When things could not get any worse, he visited the anonymous tombs of the two victims in the paupers' cemetery in Thiais, Val-de-Marne.

  While staring at the stone slabs with just a number on them, he swore that he would avenge the victims and find the madman who had massacred them. Then, in the back of his mind, he also made a promise to Céline. Yes, he would catch the killer. For her. For himself. So that everyone would see what a great cop he was.

  On the dawn of March 16, 2002 another body was found.

  The boys on night duty called him up at five in the morning. The garbage collectors had phoned in: they had come across a corpse in a ditch by Saint-Lazare Hospital, a disused brick building off Boulevard Magenta. Paul ordered that no one should go there for another hour. He grabbed his coat and headed for the scene of the crime. He discovered a deserted zone, without a single officer or flashing light to disturb his concentration.

  It was a miracle.

  He was going to be able to sniff out the trace of the killer, to enter into contact with his scent, his presence, his craziness… Once again, he was disappointed. He had been hoping for some material clues, a particular disposition that would reveal a modus operandi. But all he had was a corpse in a concrete trench. A livid, mutilated body topped by a disfigured face beneath a ginger mane.

  Paul realized that he was caught between the silence of the dead and the silence of the quarter.

  He went back home in desperation, even before the police van arrived. He wandered down Rue Saint-Denis and watched Little Turkey wake up. The shopkeepers opening their stores, the workers running to their sweatshops, the thousand and one Turks going about their business… He felt sure that this immigrant neighborhood was the forest in which the killer was concealed, a dense jungle where he had fled to seek refuge and security.

  There was no way Paul could unmask him alone.

  He needed a guide to light the way.

  10

  Jean-Louis Schiffer looked better in civvies.

  He was wearing an olive green Barbour hunting jacket and lighter green corduroy trousers that tumbled down over his Church-style shoes, which glistened like chestnuts.

  These clothes conferred a certain elegance on him, but without diminishing the brutality of his figure. His broad back and chest, along with his arched legs, gave him an aura of power, solidity and violence-someone who could certainly take the recoil from the official Manhurin.38 without budging an inch. His posture even suggested that he had already taken its recoil and incorporated it into his gait.

  As though reading Paul's mind, the Cipher lifted his arms: "Search me if you want, kid. I'm not carrying."

  "I hope not," Paul replied. "Just remember, there's only one serving officer around here. And I'm not a kid."

  Schiffer clicked his heels together to mimic standing at attention. Paul did not even grin. He opened the car door, got in and pulled off at once. Trying to swallow his apprehensions.

  The Cipher said nothing during the journey. He was absorbed in the photocopy of the file. Paul knew it by heart. He could recite everything that was known about the bodies, which he had now baptized his "Corpuses."

  When they had reached the outskirts of Paris, Schiffer asked, "Searching the scenes of the crimes didn't turn up anything?"

  "No."

  "Forensics didn't find a single dab, a single trace?"

  "Not one."

  "Not on the bodies either?"

  "Especially not on the bodies. Forensics thinks the killer cleans them with industrial detergent. He disinfects the wounds, washes their hair and cleans under their nails."

  "And what about your neighborhood inquiries?"

  "I've already told you. I've questioned workers, shopkeepers, whores and the garbage collectors near the scene. I've even spoken to tramps. No one's seen anything."

  "What do you reckon?"

  "I think the killer goes around in a car and dumps the bodies as soon as he can, at dawn. A lightning raid."

  Schiffer flicked through the pages. He stopped at the photos of the corpses. "What do you reckon about the faces?"

  Paul took a deep breath. He had thought about those mutilations for nights on end. "There are several possibilities. Firstly, the killer might just be trying to throw us off the track. The women knew him, and if we identify them, then we could get to him."

  "Why not mess up their teeth and fingers, then?"

  "Because they're illegal immigrants and not on any records."

  The Cipher accepted this point with a nod of his head. "And secondly?"

  "A more… psychological motive. I've read a few books on the subject. According to the specialists, when a murderer destroys the means of identification, it's because he knows his victims and can't stand the way they look at him. So he takes away their status as a human being. He keeps them at a distance by reducing them to mere objects."

  Schiffer leafed through the papers again. "I'm not much of a one for the trick-cyclists. And next?"

  "The murderer has a thing about faces in general. Something in the faces of these redheads scares him, brings back a trauma. He has to kill them but also disfigure them. I reckon these women looked alike. It's their faces that spark off the attack."

  "That sounds even more iffy"

  "You haven't seen the bodies," Paul replied, raising his voice slightly. "This is a real sicko. A pure psycho. So we've got to think as crazy as he does."

  "And what's this here?"

  He had just opened a final envelope, which contained photographs of antique sculptures. Heads, masks and busts. Paul had cut them out of museum catalogues, tourist guides and magazines such as Archaeologia and the Bulletin du Louvre.

  "It's an idea I had." he replied. "I noticed that the cuts look like cracks, notches, marks in stone. Then there's the fact that the noses and lips have been sliced off and the bones filed down, as though worn by time. I wondered if the killer might be inspired by old statues."

  "Come off it."

  Paul felt himself blush. His idea was a little far-fetched, and despite all his research he had never managed to find a single detail that was in any way reminiscent of the wounds of the Corpuses. Nevertheless, he blurted out: "For the killer, these women are maybe goddesses, to be hated but also respected. I'm sure he's Turkish and up to his eyes in Mediterranean mythology."

  "You've got too much imagination."

  "Haven't you ever followed your intuition?"

  "I've never followed anything else. Just take my word for it. All this psycho stuff is off the point. What we have to do is concentrate on the technical problems he has."

  Paul was not sure if he understood correctly.

  Schiffer went on: "We have to think through his modus operandi. If you're right, and these women really are illegal immigrants, then they're Muslims. And not Muslims from Istanbul in high heels. They're peas ants, timid souls who keep themselves to themselves and can't speak a word of French. To catch them, you need to know them. And speak Turkish. Our man maybe runs a sweatshop. Or else is a shopkeeper. Then there's the question of timing. These working girls live underground, in cellars and hidden works
hops. The killer must grab them when they resurface. When? How? Why do they agree to go with him? It's by answering questions like those that we'll identify him."

  Paul agreed. But such questions merely revealed the depth of their ignorance. Quite literally, anything was possible.

  Schiffer took a different tack: "I suppose you've checked out any other similar homicides."

  "I've looked at the new Chardon archives. And also Anacrime, the gendarmerie's records. I've quizzed everyone in the squad. There's never been anything this weird before in France. I also checked out the Turkish community in Germany. Nothing doing there, either."

  "And in Turkey itself?"

  "Zero there, too."

  Schiffer changed subjects. He wanted a full situation report. "Have patrols been increased in the area?"

  "We made an agreement with Monestier, the commissioner at Louis-Blanc. There's an increased police presence, but a discreet one. We don't want to panic everyone."

  Schiffer burst out laughing. "Don't be daft. All the Turks know what's happening."

  Paul paid no attention.

  "In any case, up till now, we've avoided any media attention. That's the only guarantee I have if I want to go it solo. If word leaks out, then Bomarzo will put other people on the case. Right now, it's just a business with Turks, so no one gives a damn. I've got a free hand."

  "Why isn't the Brigade Criminelle on a case like this?"

  "That's where I used to be. And I still have contacts there. Bomarzo trusts me."

  And you haven't asked for more men?"

  "No."

  "You haven't set up a team?"

  "No."

  The Cipher could not help smirking. "You want him just for yourself, don't you?"

  Paul did not reply.

  Schiffer brushed some fluff from his trousers. "Never mind what you want. Never mind what I want either. We'll nail him. I promise you that."

  11

  On the bypass. Paul drove west, toward Porte & Auteuil.

  "Aren't we going to La Rapée?" Schiffer asked, surprised.

  "The body's in Garches. At Raymond-Poincaré Hospital. There's a forensics unit there that does autopsies for the courts in Versailles."

  “I know. Why there?"

  "For reasons of discretion. To avoid the hacks and amateur profilers that are always prowling round the Paris morgue."

  Apparently Schiffer was no longer listening. He was observing the traffic in fascination. Occasionally, he would half close his eyes. As though getting used to the light. He looked like a con on conditional release.

  Half an hour later, Paul crossed the Suresnes bridge and drove up Boulevard Sellier, then Boulevard de la République. He then went through the town of Saint-Cloud before reaching the outskirts of Garches.

  The hospital finally appeared at the top of the hill. Fifteen acres of buildings, surgical theaters and white rooms. It was like a town, inhabited by doctors, nurses and thousands of patients, most of them victims of car accidents.

  Paul drove toward the Vésale Unit. The sun was high and sparkled off the fronts of the brick buildings. Each wall offered a fresh tone of red, pink or cream, as though it had been carefully baked in an oven.

  As they went on, they passed groups of visitors carrying flowers or cakes. Everyone walked with stiff, almost mechanical seriousness, as though contaminated by the surrounding rigor mortis.

  They had now reached the inner courtyard of the unit. The gray-and pink building, with its porch supported by thin columns, looked like a sanatorium, or a spa concealing mysterious curative powers.

  They walked into the morgue, following a corridor of white tiles. When they got to the waiting room, Schiffer asked: "Where are we now?"

  It was not much, but Paul was pleased he could pull a little surprise on him.

  A few years before, the Garches forensic unit had been renovated in rather an original way. The first room was painted entirely turquoise. The color covered the floor, walls and ceiling indifferently, thus wiping out any sense of scale or reference points. It was like plunging into a crystal sea, giving off a tonic limpidity. "The quacks in Garches called in a contemporary artist," Paul explained. "We're not in a hospital anymore, we're in a work of art."

  A male nurse appeared and pointed to a door on their right. "Dr. Scarbon will join you in the departure hall."

  They followed where he led, through further rooms that were also blue and empty, sometimes topped by a rim of white light, projected a few inches away from the ceiling. In the corridor, marble vases had been placed high on the walls, providing an array of pastel shades: pink, peach, yellow, ecru, white… Everywhere, there seemed to be a strange desire for purity at work.

  The last room made Schiffer whistle in admiration.

  It was a single rectangle of about a hundred square yards, absolutely empty and covered entirely in blue. To the left of the entrance, three high bay windows brought in light from outside. Facing these luminous forms, three arches had been cut into the opposite wall, like vaults in a Greek church. Within, a line of marble blocks, like huge ingots, which had also been painted blue, seemed to rise directly out of the floor.

  On one of them, the shape of a body could be seen beneath a sheet. Schiffer went over to a white marble basin that stood in the middle of the room. Heavy and polished, it was full of water and resembled a plain holy-water basin of classical design. Moved by a pump, the sparkling water spun around, giving off a scent of eucalyptus, intended to lessen the stink of death and the smell of formaldehyde.

  The officer dipped his fingers into it. "All this doesn't make me feel any younger."

  At that instant, Dr. Scarbon could be heard approaching. Schiffer turned around. The two men looked each other up and down. Paul at once saw that they knew each other. When he had phoned the doctor from the retirement home, he had not mentioned his new partner.

  "Thank you for coming, Doctor," Paul said, saluting him.

  Scarbon nodded curtly, without taking his eyes off the Cipher. He was wearing a dark woolen coat and was still holding his kidskin gloves in his hand. He was old and emaciated. His eyes were constantly blinking, as if the glasses he wore on the tip of his nose were of no use to him. His bushy mustache filtered the Gallic tones in his drawling voice, as though he were a character in a pre- World War II movie.

  Paul gestured toward his protégé. "Let me introduce you to-"

  Schiffer butted in. "We know each other. Hi, Doctor."

  Without answering, Scarbon took off his coat and put on one of the white coats that were hanging beneath a vault, then slipped on some latex gloves whose pale green color went well with the surrounding blue. Only then did he fold back the sheet. The smell of decaying flesh spread through the room, driving everything else out of their minds.

  Despite himself, Paul looked away. When he had worked up the courage to look, he stared at the heavy white body, half hidden by the folded sheet.

  Schiffer had stepped under the arch. He was now slipping on his surgical gloves. Not a trace of disgust could be seen on his face. Behind him, a wooden cross and two black iron chandeliers stood out against the wall. He murmured in hollow voice: "Okay, Doctor, you can begin."

  12

  "The victim is a Caucasian female. Her muscular tonicity indicates that she was between ages twenty and thirty. Rather plump. One hundred and fifty-four pounds and five foot three inches tall. If we add that she has the white pigmentation characteristic of redheads, and the hair to go with it, then it can be asserted that physically she matches the profiles of the first two victims. That's the way our boy likes them: thirtyish, plump, redheaded." Scarbon's voice was monotonous. It sounded as if he were mentally reading out the pages of his report, lines written during a sleepless night.

  Schiffer asked, "No distinguishing sign?"

  "Like what?"

  "Tattoos. Pierced ears. Traces of a wedding ring. Things the killer couldn't get rid of."

  "No."

  The Cipher grabbed the corpse
's left hand and turned it over, palm up. Paul shivered. Never would he have dared do such a thing.

  "No traces of henna?"

  "No."

  "Nerteaux tells me that her fingers show that she was a seamstress. What's your opinion?"

  Scarbon nodded. "These women had all clearly been doing manual work for some time."

  "Do you agree that it was sewing?"

  "It's hard to be really precise. There are marks of pinpricks in the lines of the fingers. There are also calluses between the thumb and the index. Maybe from using a sewing machine, or an iron." He looked up across the slabs. "They were found in the Sentier area, weren't they?"

  "So?"

  "They're Turkish workers."

  Schiffer paid no attention to the certitude in Scarbon's tone. He was staring at the corpse. Paul managed to force himself to approach. He saw the dark lacerations covering the flanks, the breasts, shoulders and thighs. Several of them were so deep that they revealed the whiteness of the bones.

  "Tell us about all this," the Cipher ordered.

  The doctor quickly flicked through a set of stapled pages. "In this case, I counted twenty-seven wounds. Some are superficial; others are deep. It looks as if the killer intensified the torture as time went by. There were about the same number on the other two." He lowered his report to look at his questioners. "In general, everything I am now going to say applies to the previous victims, too. The three women were mutilated in the same way"

  "With what sort of weapon?"

  "A chrome-plated combat knife, with a jagged edge. The marks of the teeth can be seen on several of the wounds. For the first two bodies, I ordered some research to be done into the size and positioning of the teeth, but we didn't come up with anything of interest. It was standard military equipment, matching dozens of different models."