“That’s nasty,” she said, shining her light on the toilet. “But whomever he was, he was nice enough to leave behind some DNA.”
Chapter Seven
“What exactly are we looking for, Lincoln?”
“Voids, to put it simply. There used to be buildings here before they were torn down to put this parking lot in. If they paved over the basements without filling it all in, there might be enough space down there for…”
I didn’t want to say it. He knew what I meant. The radar we were using was capable of penetrating fifteen metres into the ground, based on the assumption we were dealing with concrete and relatively loose soil. If there were any structures still standing, any open rooms left behind, it would find them.
And if it didn’t, we still had a few more areas to check.
“What’s to say that one of the houses in the area doesn’t have a hidden room or basement? I mean, just because he said she was underground…”
“We’d never get warrants to search every house in a several kilometer radius. Trust me, I considered it.”
It didn’t take long to cover the entire area and confirm what I’d feared. There was nothing under the ground; nowhere that Kat could be hidden. We moved on to the next site and were met with the same disappointment. A few hours and three more locations later we were no closer to finding Kat.
“Fuck.”
“Anywhere else, Lincoln?”
“No. That’s it. You might as well head out, Lefevre. Thanks again.”
“The whole force is pretty much on call for you, Lincoln, you know that.”
I nodded. He wasn’t kidding. They’d entertained some crazy ideas of mine, even before this. Taking a dozen officers and scouring the sewer systems and any underground service tunnels was probably the worst, but they had all readily volunteered to assist. It was nice to see the camaraderie, the brotherhood in action for good - unlike what I had seen in the past.
“I’ll run the radars back to the Gendarmerie for you. Are you heading back to Poland now?”
“No, I’ll be staying at least overnight. Maybe something else will come to me.”
“Okay. Well, look, I’m off at six if you want to grab a pint or something. Maybe take the edge off a little. And you can bounce ideas off of me if you want.”
I didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t really my idea of a good time, but maybe having another person working on it would help. A sounding board was always good to have. Kara was out of ideas and I knew it was wearing on her, and Chen was never awake at the right times. Thanks to the odd hours I kept and the time difference, any time I called him was usually not a good time for him. He’d talk and help as he could, then I’d usually get a call or email several hours later once he’d really had a chance to process it.
Lefevre seemed like a bright young cop though; what was his first name again? Luc? I should have known it by then, but it was getting to the point where it was too embarrassing to ask. I’d have to ask someone else before I made a fool out of myself.
He was an easy person to work with; smart, intuitive and dedicated. And it helped that his English was solid since my French sure as hell wasn’t. He’d been on the job for about six years, he’d said, so I put him in his late twenties. I didn’t know him well, met him once or twice during the Crawford case, but he had always been one of the first to volunteer to help me out when it came time to look for Kat. He had spent the entirety of his career on the street but it was obvious he was meant for bigger and better. A position in homicide or on another detective squad couldn’t have been far off.
“So, what do you think? If I’m imposing, then just tell me.”
“Nah, you know what? Sounds like a plan. I’ve got a few ideas I wouldn’t mind someone else’s input on. Name a spot in the Ninth and I’ll meet you there, say eight?”
“I don’t know any in the Ninth. Will the Fifth work? Not far from here.”
“Yeah, close enough.”
“Alright, it’s called the Elephant and Castle. It’s on Quai de Bondy, right along the river.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “See you there. If you don’t mind taking those radars back, I’ve got a couple of places to go to.”
“Like I said, not a problem.”
“Thanks,” I said, as I turned and walked away. It wasn’t far from here to my apartment in the Ninth arrondissement – one of Lyon’s numbered neighbourhoods - and the weather wasn’t too bad. It was cold, but at least Lyon wasn’t getting the snow that the north was.
The walk was short and brisk in the cold air. It was late in the afternoon, the sun hung low in the sky and the wind bit into my uncovered face. Ten minutes later I walked into a different kind of cold – the barren, the emotionless, the empty.
I had found an apartment in Lyon at a price that couldn’t be beat. It gave me everything I needed for when I stayed in the city – proximity to the region I knew I would find Kat in, basic amenities, a place to sleep, and a place to think.
We had torn apart Crawford’s apartment, taken everything that stood out as evidence and sealed the place. But the investigation into his murders was over. We knew he had acted alone and he was long dead and buried, his reign over. Only one aspect of his deviant legacy lived on, and the answer to solving it had to be in his apartment somewhere.
Crawford had no family, at least none who were willing to come forward and claim his body or belongings. He was laid to rest in a small cemetery outside of Lyon, a simple stone, with name and dates was all that marked the site. When it came time to release his apartment I couldn’t do it. The paperwork was there to sign off on, a few simple forms to sign and the landlord could have the apartment back, sell everything we had left behind, and rent it to a new tenant.
Assuming he could find someone to rent the place. It was well-known in the city now and it would’ve taken a certain type of person to rent the place out – either someone with an unhealthy obsession with serial killers, or a person with a vested interest in what may have still laid within those walls.
I struck a deal with the landlord that day. The apartment was transferred into my name and all of Crawford’s belongings came with it. I had gotten rid of the majority of his furniture - after having checked it over and under, inside and out, for anything he may have stashed away. What I didn’t need or couldn’t use was sold to pay the rent. Everything else I dove into, reading through every book, digging through every box and drawer, closet and cupboard. We’d been through it all before, either myself or other detectives. But there was always the chance we had missed something.
And so I sat in the apartment at every chance I got, an old futon the only furniture I needed, going through everything I could find again and again and again in hopes something would leap out at me. So far, nothing had. I had been through everything so many times. I had pulled down the mirrors, taken out the lighting fixtures, pulled the fridge and stove from the wall, looked in the toilet tanks, examined plumbing and vents, pulled the carpet up then paid someone to put it back down.
I had taken care to repair everything I damaged, put back together everything I had taken apart, but I still was pretty certain the security deposit was out the window. The only thing left was the walls… and the urge to tear down every one was becoming too strong. I had scoured every square inch of every surface for any evidence of a repair job. Either Crawford hadn’t hidden anything behind the walls, or he was unbelievably talented at drywall repairs.
But maybe… maybe there was something there.
My plotting was interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Lincoln?”
The voice was familiar, the accent unmistakable. It was the landlord, Guillaume Tavernier, but I had no idea what he was there for. I’d paid the rent in advance for another three months. The guy was a little odd; he took his job very seriously and sp
ent most of his days watching the security feed from the building’s camera. That must have been how he knew I was at the apartment.
“Êtes-vous là?”
“Oui, un moment.”
I walked to the door and unlocked the deadbolt then unhooked the chain.
“Bonjour,” he said. “I need show something at you.”
His English was as bad as my French.
“Okay, qu’est que c’est?”
“Come.”
He motioned for me to follow him. I took my keys out of my pocket and locked the door behind me. He walked to the elevator and hit the down arrow.
“Te rappelles-tu la salle de stockage?”
I stopped for a second. “The storage room? Downstairs?” I pointed down at the floor.
“Oui.”
“I don’t need one. Je ne…”
“Non, non,” he said, shaking his head. “Monsieur Crawford.” I hated to hear Crawford’s name, and for some reason the accent made it sound worse.
“He didn’t have any storage.”
Guillaume just shook his head again. I knew he had more to say, but it was probably easier to just show me. The elevator doors opened and we stepped in for the ride to the basement. When the elevator doors opened again he led the way, taking me to the storage room at the one end of the building.
It wasn’t a large room, but there were about two dozen lockers neatly arranged against the walls. They were stacked two high, each with a door on the front that was about two feet by three feet. I wasn’t sure how deep they were, but by the looks of the size of the room, I guessed they went back at least six feet.
My first thought wasn’t a good one. We were underground, technically, and the locker looked to be large enough to hold a body. It had been months though, unless he had sealed it extremely well, we would have smelled the decay.
The thought made my stomach churn and for a moment I thought I was going to vomit. I steadied myself against the wall with my left hand.
“You said Crawford didn’t have one? Ne pas avoir…”
“Oui. Mais personne ne loue que.” He pointed at unit number seven.
“Nobody?” I didn’t know if I had understood him.
He shook his head.
Of course it was number seven. One of Crawford’s numbers present throughout the Book of Revelation.
“So where’s the key? La clé?”
He took out a key from his pocket, slipped it into the padlock and tried to turn it. Nothing happened.
“Shit, he must have changed it.”
I reached into my coat pocket and took out a small zippered leather pouch. Once it was open I selected a tension wrench and my favourite pick then set them on the ground beside the lockers. My hands were shaking. Even on a good day, picking locks was not my strength. Of course, it all depended on the type of lock and the circumstances.
And if anyone was watching, I had a tendency to get a little performance anxiety. You whip out a lock pick set and people assume it’s going to be like it is in the movies: insert picks, move picks, open lock. I was certain there were people who could do it that fast I just wasn’t one of them.
I’d had a fair bit of practice though in the last few months. Regardless of the legality of it, I had been spending the nights I was in Lyon breaking into and searching through abandoned buildings. I’d had a couple of close calls with night watchmen and security alarms, but hadn’t gotten myself into trouble. Although the word ‘yet’ always came to mind whenever I considered what I had been doing.
I slipped the tension wrench in, applied a little bit of torque and began raking at the pins within the padlock. I had a tendency to hold my breath while working on something small and tedious and it left me catching my breath every so often when my brain finally interrupted my work to tell me to breathe.
I have no idea how long it took me, my mind was focused only on the task at hand. When the final pin set into place the cylinder spun and the lock released and I was struck with fear. I had no idea what was behind that door, no idea if it even had been Crawford who changed the locks on it. My mind was full of possibilities and the shaking of my hands became worse.
There was only one way to find out. I took the padlock off of the door and opened the unit. A large metal container sat in front of me, the watertight kind you’d see on a boat. It was wrapped in plastic wrap and tape, sealed tightly.
I dropped to my knees and the vomiting feeling I had held back earlier returned with a vengeance I was powerless to resist. My heart felt heavy in my chest as I dialed the police.
Chapter Eight
Jacques fought against his restraints. The ropes were even tighter than before; they dug into his flesh whether he struggled or not. The ropes between his wrists and ankles were tied together, holding him in a bent-over seated position. His back was getting sore. Moving at all had been almost impossible since they’d come to this new place. He would roll onto his side to sleep and found that the new position relieved some of the pressure, but with it came a feeling of even greater helplessness. If the man returned while Jacques was lying down there would be no way to stop an attack.
Jacques bit down on the fabric that had been tightly tied between his teeth and wriggled some more; the ropes didn’t budge. Wherever they were now, the man was worried. Jacques could tell how uneasy he was. He had seen people under stress before, but there was something different. He was afraid; Jacques could see that - afraid that Claude’s escape would lead to him being caught. That was why they had moved. But there was something else he could see in the man, something he wasn’t sure could be real.
He seemed sad.
Jacques pushed the thought away. That couldn’t be it. He was probably just upset that he was going to be caught. The man hadn’t said it, but Jacques knew Claude had gotten away.
“I caught him,” he had said when he returned. “And I killed him for trying to get away.”
Jacques believed him at first and had broken down completely, but when the man grabbed him and took him from the house he thought maybe there was something else going on. Jacques had been dragged through the snow, his mouth gagged and a blindfold placed over his eyes, then he had been thrown into the trunk of a car a distance away. He wasn’t sure how far they had driven, but it seemed like it had taken forever. His one attempt at escape, kicking at the taillights, had been met with the car coming to a sharp stop and the man opening the trunk.
“Do that again and I will kill you.”
He slammed the trunk lid shut and Jacques stayed still for the remainder of the trip. When the man stopped again, he opened the trunk, lifted Jacques out and carried him a short distance. A few doors were opened and closed and some stairs climbed before Jacques was put down.
The sound of footsteps and a door closing and locking told Jacques he was alone. He rubbed his face against his shoulder until he was able to loosen the blindfold. The room was larger than the last one, and it looked more like the inside of an actual house. The floor was wooden, that ugly pattern Jacques couldn’t remember the name of. The room was completely devoid of furniture. He wasn’t sure if this was a temporary thing or where he was going to be staying, but at least it was warmer than the previous place.
Jacques finished looking around the room; there was no chance of escape. The only door was locked and the window behind him was barred. If he were going to escape he’d have to overpower the man, something he knew he couldn’t do without a weapon or some other advantage.
He hadn’t slept well that night. The pain in his wrists and ankles was too much for him to find any comfortable position. He believed his brother was dead and cried whenever he thought of him. As much as it pained him to consider it at all, he hoped that the man had made it quick. Jacques lay there that night, thinking of his brother, tears streaming down his bruised
face, wishing it had been him instead. All he wanted was for his brother to have had a chance. But there was a part of him he hated to acknowledge, a part of him that told him Claude was the lucky one. He didn’t have to suffer anymore. They were probably going to die - Jacques had believed that from the beginning - and if he was right, then Claude’s fate had come early and with it he had been saved from untold pain and suffering.
The man spent that night pacing in the halls, muttering to himself. Jacques had listened to him, straining to hear what he was saying as he walked up and down the hallway.
“You idiot,” he finally heard him say. “You let him get away.”
Jacques perked up immediately, his spirits lifted. He was elated; there was almost nothing that could bring him down at that point. Claude was alive, and he was free. That was why the man had moved him. He was worried about being caught now that Claude had gotten away. Claude would get help, he would tell the police everything. Jacques found himself believing, for the first time in what seemed like ages, that he stood a chance of survival. Someone would find him. Claude would make certain of that.
The sound of someone approaching brought Jacques back to the present. He looked at the door and waited. When it opened the man stood there, a plate of food and a glass of water in his hands. He looked at Jacques bindings, made sure they were still tight, then walked into the room and set the food in front of the boy. His hand went behind his back and when it came forward he was holding a large hunting knife.
“Scream and I’ll kill you. Eat quickly.”
He moved behind Jacques and untied the gag then bunched it up in his hand and stuffed it into his pocket. Jacques looked at the food. More white rice, but it looked amazing and tasted even better. Hunger could do amazing things to a person. They had never been given utensils – could become weapons, Jacques figured – so he dug into the food with his hands. It wasn’t easy in his new position and he was barely flexible enough to get the food from the bowl to his mouth without straining hard against the ropes.
The Longest Winter Page 4
