Looking to the Woods

by Frédérique Molay

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “The victim was cut into pieces,” she said, almost whispering the words.

  “Let’s go,” Nico said.

  Flipping on her strobe and siren, Commander Maurin maneuvered her way into the traffic crawling along the right bank of the Seine. She weaved around the cars as though she were playing a video game full of obstacles. A war game now. They passed the Île de la Cité and Notre Dame Cathedral, then took a left toward the Place de la Bastille.

  Sitting beside her, Nico recalled something his direct superior, Michel Cohen, had said more than once: “Humanity is on a slippery slope to hell.” Today, he had to agree with him.

  Nico focused on the city streets outside the window. They had reached the Quai de Jemappes, which followed the Canal Saint-Martin with its renowned pedestrian bridges and locks. The plane- and chestnut-tree-lined waterway cut through the sea of asphalt and concrete.

  Maurin broke the silence. “I can’t imagine what the family is going through.”

  “Don’t even try.”

  “He was just a kid, for God’s sake! Like Dimitri. What if something like that happened to your own child? Doesn’t the thought haunt you?”

  “Oh, I do have my dark moments. And sometimes I prefer insomnia to nightmares. But we have to get over our fears, or else the monsters win. Don’t let them stop you and Élodie from having your own children.”

  Maurin had told Nico that she and her partner were thinking about becoming parents, by either adoption or artificial insemination.

  Maurin slowed down as they approached La Grange aux Belles Middle School. A crowd of spectators had gathered in front of the school’s bright-blue gates. Uniformed officers were trying—in vain—to keep the cell phones at bay. In a few minutes, images would be circulating on the Internet. These were the times they lived in.

  He should never have come back, but the temptation proved too strong to resist. He wanted to understand this stunning violence he had found deep inside himself. It was like an evil genie that had finally escaped from its bottle. He stood in the distance, across from the school, on the promenade that followed the canal. He held a ping-pong paddle and leaned against the public table, looking like he was waiting for his partner to arrive. He had improvised much worse roles before.

  He watched the police car turn in to the school courtyard. Seeing how the principal rushed to meet it, he figured this was the top brass. Classy. A tall man in an impeccable suit stepped out on the passenger side. A woman got out on the driver’s side. The man was clearly her boss. He had natural authority, a commanding presence. And he was blond. Hot. In other circumstances he would have tried picking him up. Why not? But that was a dream. He was too shy—and too afraid of being judged.

  Nothing like the kid had been. There was no condemnation in the gullible little thug’s eyes, just candor. Killing the boy was child’s play. Intoxicating child’s play. Now he would have to wait until the storm had passed—and the magnetic blond man with it—before starting again and feeling the silent calm that followed the flow of blood and the final moan from his innocent prey. It was an elixir running through his veins, keeping his blood young and vital. Forever.

  “Chief Sirsky?” In the courtyard, a man held out a limp hand. His features were heavy with stress.

  “That’s correct. This is Commander Charlotte Maurin.”

  “Régis Danon, principal. We’re beside ourselves over what’s happened. The news spread like wildfire, but our teachers have managed to keep our students in their classrooms. Mrs. Hadji is the one who found Kevin. She was unbelievable. She wouldn’t let anyone in the room, not even me! She said she didn’t want any of the evidence destroyed. I also think she wanted to spare us the horror. She broke down as soon as your colleagues arrived and had to rush to the restroom to throw up.”

  Régis Danon couldn’t stop talking. It was a normal reaction, a need to verbalize the shock and anger. Maurin gestured to Nico that she was heading inside.

  “You’re trained for this kind of thing,” he continued. “We aren’t.”

  Nico nodded. But in reality, nobody could ever have enough training to face a dead child’s battered and broken body. And this was the second one in two days. His team stood strong and they didn’t shirk their duty—they had no choice.

  “You did the right thing,” Nico said. “And so did Mrs. Hadji. No one else should have been in that room.”

  The principal gave him an apologetic smile.

  “Have Kevin Longin’s parents been informed?” Nico asked.

  “Kevin lives with his mother and younger brother. The father abandoned them long ago, which isn’t all that unusual for our student body. The majority of our six hundred students come from homes that are disadvantaged in some way or other. It’s a challenge for our teachers. But we’re in a Priority Education Zone and get supplemental support and training from the Ministry of Education. Kevin is a smart child who could go on to college. His teachers push him to succeed.”

  The principal paused, realizing, Nico understood, that he was babbling in the present tense. He cleared his throat. “To answer your question, no, we haven’t talked with his mother. Your officers said they would tell her.” He paused again. “I don’t know if it’s important, but his grades had fallen in recent weeks. We were getting worried.”

  “Do you have any idea why?”

  “Not yet. I was planning to make an appointment with his mother. Now—”

  “Can you show me to the room?” Nico broke in.

  They entered the building and climbed the stairs to the second floor, their footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. Nico didn’t actually need the principal to find the room since Captain Stéphane Rodon, the crime scene investigator in Maurin’s squad, had sealed it off. Nico recognized the local precinct chief, who was standing with two officers in the hallway, just outside the door. They were, in all likelihood, the first officers on the scene. It looked like Rodon was questioning them. Maurin was listening.

  Nico turned to the principal. “Mr. Danon, I think your own team needs you.”

  “Yes, of course,” the man said, backing away slowly before turning around and trudging down the hall.

  Nico walked over to Maurin, and they stepped away from Rodon and the others to speak privately.

  “We’re questioning the students and teachers,” she said. “The school administration is contacting the parents to come get their kids, and the teachers are organizing a study session for those who can’t go home right away.”

  “And Kevin’s mother?”

  “Noumen’s breaking the news.” Captain Ayoub Noumen was the second-in-command in Maurin’s squad.

  Nico nodded and returned to Rodon, the officers, and the local precinct chief. He noted the man’s dilated pupils and dry lips, clear signs of anxiety.

  “Thank you for calling us so quickly,” Nico said. And he really was grateful. Sometimes precinct cops tried to be heroes.

  “Frankly, we don’t have what it takes to work a case like this. I hope you catch the bastard.”

  Nico took a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, turned the knob, and opened the door.

  “I’m done with the door, Chief. Don’t worry.”

  Nico looked over at Rodon. Wisps of his signature red hair were poking out from under the wool hat he often wore. The hat made him less identifiable when he was working undercover.

  As Nico entered the room, followed by Maurin and Rodon, the first thing that hit him was the smell of blood. Would he ever get used to it? He looked around and spotted the digital camera on the teacher’s desk. Rodon had finished taking pictures, too. It was standard procedure to photograph the entire scene, then take medium-angle shots to establish the relationships between objects, and finally do close-ups of all the evidence. Nico noted the forensic light source, the powerful lamp that filtered light into color bands. It enhanced evidence, picking up details the naked eye couldn’t detect, including fingerprints and traces
of blood, fibers, and body fluids.

  “I haven’t come up with much yet,” Rodon said. “Just some vague footprints. I’m guessing the murderer put on overshoes. I’m also thinking he wore new gloves.”

  Sometimes they could get glove prints, like shoe prints, but the gloves had to have some distinguishing marks that came from use.

  “Of course, it’s a homicide,” Rodon continued.

  “Slaughter is more like it,” Maurin said.

  “Yes, it’s been a bad couple of days for kids,” Rodon said. “Seems like the vampires are after them.”

  Nico squatted slowly to get a close look at the carnage. Kevin Longin’s puffy face was proof enough of the savagery. But his body had also been dismembered, the parts strewn across the room. Nico held back a torrent of curses.

  “It looks like he’s missing a hand,” he finally said after scanning the room.

  “Affirmative, Chief. We haven’t found his right hand,” Rodon said.

  “Charlotte, ask the precinct cops to search the school and surrounding area.”

  “Are you thinking he got rid of it in the neighborhood?” Maurin asked.

  “I’m thinking he took it as a trophy, but we don’t want to leave anything to chance.”

  Nico continued to survey the scene. He imagined the killer beating Kevin relentlessly, the teen’s suffering giving him unspeakable pleasure, making him feel stronger with every blow. But the boy’s death hadn’t been enough to satisfy him, so he had proceeded to dismember him.

  “There was premeditation,” Rodon said. “The guy showed up with a panoply of instruments and left with them. There isn’t a single weapon on the scene.”

  “Sexual abuse?” Maurin asked.

  “Probably. The autopsy will confirm that,” Rodon answered. He was taking the boy’s body temperature to estimate the time of death. “I’d say he died at about ten last night.”

  “Sunday. Are there any signs of breaking and entering?” Nico asked.

  “Apparently not,” Maurin said. “We’ll double-check, but if not, the killer must have had a key. And he had to be familiar enough with the school to know that nobody else would be here.”

  Nico nodded. Captain Rodon continued examining the body for clues.

  “I’ll let you know as soon as I find any hairs,” he said. Humans generally lost anywhere from fifty to eighty hairs a day—more than two an hour. And the killer was human—if Nico could call him that.

  “The classroom was cleaned Friday night, which works in our favor,” Rodon said. “We’ll get the cleaning staff’s prints, along with those of Mrs. Hadji and the precinct officers, and compare them against any other prints we might pick up.”

  “Good,” Nico said. “Let’s figure out how the killer got into the school. When he was finished, he had to get rid of his bloodstained clothes and gloves. Who knows? Maybe he made a mistake, and we’ll find something.”

  “Consider it done,” Maurin said.

  Nico’s phone rang. It was Professor Vilars.

  “I finished the autopsy report for the Square du Temple girl and sent it to the public prosecutor. I assume you want me to e-mail you a copy.”

  Nico thought for a full minute before the medical examiner’s breathing brought him back to the present.

  “I’ll stop by and pick up the report. It’s on my way.”

  “Okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He ended the call and looked at Maurin and Rodon.

  “I’m swinging by the morgue. Give this your undivided attention. Maurin, let’s touch base this afternoon, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “If you need help, just say the word. Théron and his squad have been taking it easy lately. I’m sure Rost would love to call them in.”

  Commander Joël Théron was the leader of another of the division’s squads, and Deputy Chief Jean-Marie Rost was one of four section chiefs.

  Maurin’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. Nico had managed to ease some of her stress.

  “When you’re finished, make sure the crime scene cleaners get here as quickly as possible.”

  He looked Maurin and Rodon in the eye and nodded.

  “Hang in there,” he said before closing the door behind him.

  “Armelle, you look exhausted,” Nico said, taking a seat in the medical examiner’s office. “Have you gotten any sleep?”

  “I finished the report last night. I knew you needed it right away. Then, since I was already here, I took care of some long-overdue paperwork.”

  Her hands were shaking as she held out a file folder. The energetic and sharp-tongued medical examiner seemed to be only a shadow of her usual self, which made Nico apprehensive.

  He took the report. He quickly scanned the first page, which listed her titles and degrees and specified that the autopsy had been done by order of the public prosecutor with the High Court of Paris. He turned his attention to the specifics: “Name: unknown. Age: approximately 10. Height: 1.49 meters. Weight: 39 kg.”

  He knew what would come next: a detailed description of the body, the wounds, the organs, the toxicological screening, and the coroner’s conclusions. There were several pages of technical details. He looked up.

  “Freezing is an excellent way to preserve a body,” Vilars said. “It slows biochemical reactions. Therefore, I can’t tell you when this child died. I can only confirm that she died from her injuries and not from the cold.”

  “So she was stabbed to death and then frozen.”

  “That’s right. During the autopsy at eight thirty yesterday morning, her core body temperature was negative seven degrees Celsius. Three hours prior to that, when her body was still in the Square du Temple, Captain Vidal measured negative ten degrees Celsius. Thawing time depends on weight. If the killer used a home freezer set at negative twenty-six degrees, we can establish that she was removed from the source of the cold twelve to thirty-six hours before the first time her temperature was taken. So we can place her murder somewhere between five thirty Friday afternoon and late Saturday afternoon. Since then, decay has followed its normal course, and the bacteria have proliferated with the completion of thawing.”

  Nico cleared his throat. He didn’t need to know all the details. The key piece of information was that the killer’s freezer was twelve to thirty-six hours distant from the Square du Temple. Although Nico’s investigators could turn that into kilometers, there was no telling whether the killer arrived on foot with his suitcase or waited patiently in his car to dispose of the body at precisely the right moment. Which meant the killer could live right next to the park or several hundred kilometers from the capital—or anywhere in between.

  “As you know, the killer removed the victim’s eyes,” Vilars said. “The two eyeballs found at the Square du Temple belonged to the girl. He also cleaned out her pelvis; certain anatomical parts were neatly excised, while others were ripped out. It’s impossible to determine if she was raped. Her vagina was nothing more than a bloody mass of flesh.”

  Nico didn’t know how much more he could take. He stared out the medical examiner’s window at the gray waters of the Seine while she continued.

  “The knife injuries indicate a standard twenty-centimeter single-bladed knife.”

  Nico looked back at her. “A kitchen knife, then. The kind you find anywhere.”

  “Yes. Furthermore, I counted 114 blows to the skull, thorax, and abdomen. Some penetrated the lungs. The liver and spleen were ruptured, and a blow to the stomach caused a hemorrhage in the abdominal cavity.”

  Vilars stopped talking. Nico waited.

  “I can tell you this much, Nico. Based on the angle of knife penetration, I’d say the murderer was right-handed and that the victim tried to defend herself. She had blade marks on her arms and hands, especially on the left side, which would confirm the attacker’s laterality.”

  “Did you find prints or anything else that could be connected to the killer?”

  “Absolutely nothing. The killer knew what he
was doing and was very careful.”

  “And truly twisted. He could have covered up the murder. There are so many ways to dispose of a body, but he wanted us to find it. He’s looking for a reaction.”

  Vilars stood up, and Nico took the cue. She had given him all she had.

  “Commander Maurin called to say that a middle-school boy is on his way in,” Vilars said as she accompanied Nico to the door. “Another homicide.”

  “Yes, his fate was no better than the girl’s.”

  “How’s your team handling it?”

  “They’re on edge but okay. Call me when you’re ready to do the autopsy. The boy’s name is Kevin Longin.”

  “It’ll be early afternoon.”

  Nico said good-bye and returned to his car, where he checked the several messages waiting on his phone. He found a text from his son.

  Hi, Dad. Home in an hour. Romain wants to have lunch. I’ll call Caroline to see if it’s okay. Will take 10 euros from stash.

  Nico felt his stomach clench. Dimitri could check in every hour on the hour, and he’d still be worried on a day like this. He stared at the phone before taking a deep breath and turning the key in the ignition.

  4

  The guard booth in front of police headquarters had been removed. And there were no longer any uniformed officers in front of the large gate that was now double-locked. Nico entered the building like everyone else, through a small door to the left of the gate, which led to a tiny room where two agents did security checks in minimalist conditions. The two agents stood at attention when they saw the head of the Criminal Investigation Division. Nico pulled his smart ID from his pocket and swiped the turnstile scanner. Outsiders were subjected to a walk-through metal detector that was sensitive enough to sound an alarm over the tiniest razor blade, microprocessor, or pair of earrings.

  Higher-ups had promised them the latest in both technology and facilities once headquarters moved to the new building in the Batignolles neighborhood. The spanking new seven-story building, with at least two underground floors, would house some fifteen hundred police officers. And 36 Quai des Orfèvres would probably be turned into a museum. Nico felt like a dinosaur—and a little nostalgic. Why? Was he afraid that Commissaire Maigret would no longer whisper in his ear? The celebrated character may have been fictional—invented by Belgian writer Georges Simenon—but he incarnated the spirit of this storied building and served as inspiration for many very real police inspectors.