Looking to the Woods

by Frédérique Molay

  His steps rang out as he made his way to stairwell A, which led to the Criminal Investigation Division’s offices. Nico climbed the worn black linoleum stairs to the fourth floor and headed to the Coquibus room. The space was just big enough for the six members of Kriven’s squad but was far too narrow to be comfortable. Only two of the division’s twelve squads even had the luxury of working together in one room. The other squads were divided up in adjacent offices. The teams rarely complained, but this was one of the reasons they were moving.

  Everyone stood up when Nico entered. He handed Kriven the autopsy report.

  “We’ve heard back from Professor Queneau,” Kriven said.

  Charles Queneau ran the forensics lab. He would retire in September, and this was one of his last cases. Nico felt sorry for him. A scrupulous and compassionate widower, Queneau didn’t deserve such a troubling last case.

  “The suitcase was large, with a wheel spread of thirty-four centimeters,” Kriven said. “The lab managed to isolate one footprint. It was from a European dress shoe, size 44, with an antislip sole. You can buy this kind of shoe online for twenty euros.”

  “Our killer is methodical,” Nico said. “We can’t say conclusively at this point, but I’m betting he’s a psychopath rather than a sociopath, as the latter are more inclined to opportunistic criminal behavior.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” Kriven said. “It could be sexually motivated.”

  “There’s another possibility,” Plassard interjected. “Maybe he wants to throw us off and make us think this was done by a sick sex offender when, in fact, it wasn’t.”

  “Anything’s possible,” Nico said. “Focus on what the Square du Temple residents have to say. We know the killer was right-handed and probably wears a men’s size 44 shoe. That’s a start.”

  “Yep, that gives us a very detailed picture,” Vidal said, shaking his head.

  “Have you checked missing persons?”

  France’s centralized missing persons office was established in 2002, shortly after a study found that nearly thirty-three thousand missing minors had been reported as runaways. The police realized the urgent need to make a distinction among runaways, kidnappings, and suspicious disappearances and establish procedures to locate the children as quickly as possible. But despite their best efforts, the numbers had actually risen. Of the fifty thousand people reported missing every year, some forty-five thousand were minors.

  “They know,” Plassard answered.

  “We’ll send the victim’s DNA as soon as the lab gets it done,” Vidal said. “Professor Queneau has pushed it to the front of the line.”

  Not far from headquarters, at the forensics lab, Captain Stéphane Rodon was watching forensic experts inspect Kevin Longin’s clothing. This was much more bearable than traipsing through the bloodbath at the school. Professor Queneau had just removed a fiber from one of the boy’s pockets with a set of tweezers and was heading over to the polarizing light microscope.

  “The fibers are shaped like thin, twisted ribbons,” Queneau said, looking through the microscope. “Primarily cellulose, they lack distinctive extinctions and birefringence.”

  “And in everyday language, that means . . .”

  “It’s cotton,” Queneau replied. “The most common fiber in the world. In fact, white cotton is so common, the fibers are systematically removed from most investigations. But not in this case, because the sample came from the pocket of a kid who was savagely murdered.”

  “Savagely” was putting it mildly, as far as Rodon was concerned.

  “And it’s not white,” Queneau added.

  Captain Ayoub Noumen flopped into a chair, exhibiting none of his usual gallantry. In fact, he was ignoring his partner, Charlotte Maurin, who didn’t seem surprised, even though she often chided him for being overprotective.

  Nico watched the pair in silence. He knew what had happened. Maurin had made Noumen go to Kevin Longin’s autopsy. She’d probably said it would be therapeutic. Ever since being assigned a hit-and-run case and viewing a crushed child’s body on one of the morgue’s stainless-steel tables, Noumen had used any excuse he could think of to avoid the place. But Maurin had been tough on him today and insisted that he go. Now he was slumped in his chair, his jaw tight, clearly seething with anger. Nico suspected that he was mad at himself—not Maurin—for not doing a better job of managing his emotions.

  “Who first?” Nico asked.

  Noumen cleared his throat.

  “The . . . Kevin . . . Kevin Longin was beaten to death and cut into pieces with a butcher’s cleaver by a right-handed man. He was raped post-mortem with a blunt object, something like the handle of a hammer. The estimated time of death is ten o’clock last night. He was murdered in the classroom.”

  “Kevin’s friends said he’d been keeping to himself lately,” Maurin said.

  “His mother told us he seemed angry, but he wouldn’t tell her why he was upset,” Noumen said.

  “There are no signs of breaking and entering at the school. We think the killer had a key,” Maurin said.

  “An employee?” Nico asked.

  “None of the employees have records. Some of the people we talked to say they saw Kevin with the school handyman several times. According to them, the man has a bit of a drinking problem. He would have keys and access to the classrooms. We’re bringing him in.”

  “The team is visiting cafés and other places in the neighborhood where Kevin might have hung out,” Maurin said. “We’re also trying to find his father. He took off five years ago. Maybe he had an urge to see his son again.”

  “To kill him?” Nico asked.

  “I know,” Maurin said. “It’s a long shot.”

  “He abandoned his kids, which already makes him an asshole,” said Noumen, the doting father of three.

  “Even if it’s highly unlikely, we’ll need to question him,” Nico said.

  Nico’s phone rang, and his secretary put Professor Queneau through.

  “To what do I owe the honor, Professor?”

  “I’m sending the DNA results for the unidentified girl. I hope it helps you find out who she is.”

  Missing persons had sent over all the names of girls who had disappeared recently. The list was disconcertingly long.

  “Let’s hope it does.”

  “Chief Sirsky, I assume Captain Rodon gave you our report on the boy, Kevin Longin. We didn’t get much, but I thought that pink-and-red fiber was unusual.”

  Queneau was suggesting a possible lead. They could ask Kevin’s mother if he had some piece of cotton clothing that was pink and red. Maybe the boy had a girlfriend. In all likelihood, it wasn’t a serious lead, but criminal investigations never seemed subject to any laws, least of all those of probability.

  At the missing persons office in the suburb of Nanterre a few miles outside Paris, the officer was adding the DNA results to the unidentified child’s file.

  “How long before that thingamajig spits out an answer?” Captain Vidal asked.

  The analyst raised an eyebrow. The Criminal Investigation Division was known for its elite, highly educated hires with degrees from the best schools. They were generally more adept at speaking the French language.

  “His vocabulary shrinks when he’s annoyed,” Commander Kriven said.

  “I just want to know if someone’s pedaling in there or if you’ve crammed a turbo engine up its ass.”

  “The problem is, he’s easily annoyed,” Kriven continued. “He’s a good cop, which makes up for a lot. So, is your system a bike or a Bugatti?”

  An alert flashed on the screen.

  “An SSC Tuatara,” the analyst said. “A 1,350-horsepower, 6.9-litre engine that can achieve 276 miles an hour. The fastest car in the world. Sorry about your Bugatti.”

  The girl’s name popped up on the screen.

  “Bingo!” Vidal shouted before shaking the analyst’s hand. “That machine of yours is a beaut.”

  Nico sprinted down to the third
floor, which was separated from the stairwell by a glass wall. The officer behind the surveillance screens recognized the chief and opened the door, behind which lay the offices belonging to the top brass. Nico turned right, pushed open a dark-red door, and entered a waiting room with polished wood floors and black leather armchairs. The building’s skylight illuminated the space.

  The deputy police commissioner’s office was just off the waiting room. Nico knocked; he got only a growl in return. For some reason, Rod Stewart’s raspy cover of “Sunny Side of the Street” came to mind. This was odd, since Nico could never leave his worries at his boss’s doorstep—and in his line of work, he was almost always on the shady side of the street. Today was no exception. As he opened the door, the song vanished and an image of little Juliette, the girl from the Square du Temple, flashed across his brain.

  Michel Cohen was smoking a cigar at an open window that offered one of the most stunning views in Paris. How many times had Nico admired sunsets over the Seine, the Louvre, and the Pont Neuf from this vantage point, enveloped in a smelly cloud of white cigar smoke?

  Cohen turned his attention to two screens that gave him access to the hundreds of cameras throughout the capital that made up the city’s video surveillance system. He could pick and choose what he wanted to watch and had a joystick that enabled him to change the angles. Private areas, like apartment windows, were blurred, but the rest of the surveillance system was impressive—and useful for monitoring traffic and demonstrations and for guarding public buildings. Big Brother, Nico thought. As useful as the cameras were, he sometimes regretted how society was evolving.

  “Damn it!” Cohen grumbled without looking up. “Have a seat.”

  Nico did as he was instructed.

  “So, what do you have?”

  “Her name was Juliette Bisot. She was ten years old. Kidnapped four months ago in Louviers, in Normandy. She was walking to dance class, but she never got there. Local detectives quickly concluded that it was a kidnapping. Witnesses saw the girl get into a metallic-gray car, an Audi A3. They even got the license plate, but it turned out to be a fake. Nobody got a clear view of the driver. He simply vanished, taking Juliette with him. Investigators made no progress, even after questioning half the town and tracking down every Audi in the vicinity. And now we know the end of the story. Our only leads are these: the killer used a kitchen knife, is most likely right-handed, wears a size 44 shoe, and has access to a freezer. We think he transported the body in something with wheels, because we found tracks at the Square du Temple.”

  “The Enfants Rouges neighborhood,” Cohen said. “It used to have an orphanage whose children could be identified by their red clothing.”

  “Red children. What a metaphor.”

  “Was he caught on camera?”

  “The only camera in the area is at the other end of the park and directed toward the third arrondissement’s city hall on Rue Eugène Spuller.”

  “You’ve got to give me more, Nico. What do the Normandy cops have to say?” Cohen had gotten out of his chair and was pacing.

  Nico suppressed a smile. He knew what Cohen was thinking: it was best for all involved to solve the case quickly. The deputy commissioner had taken Nico under his wing years ago, and he had plans for him. He wanted Nico to succeed him one day.

  “I contacted the detective in charge of the case,” Nico said. “They’d lost all hope of ever finding Juliette. They’ll inform the family. The girl’s mother is a general practitioner, and her father owns a local business. Juliette was the eldest of two children. I get the sense that the detective was relieved that she wasn’t found in their jurisdiction. He’ll go see the body at the morgue tomorrow, and I’m sure the girl’s parents will make the trip, too. The case file is thick, but has virtually nothing of interest in it.”

  “So we’re starting from zero?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “The killer’s undoubtedly a sexual deviant,” Cohen said. “I’m not buying the theory that it was someone who was settling a score and just wanted us to think he was crazy. Seems far-fetched.”

  “According to the local police, there’s no reason to believe that someone was using the girl to get at the parents.”

  “But sometimes we don’t see what’s right under our noses. We both know that, don’t we?”

  “I’ll have the full report shortly, and I’ll dive into it right away.”

  “Whatever his motivation, the bastard planned it down to the last detail. He got fake license plates and found a place to torture the victim and keep her for four months.”

  The image of Juliette Bisot on the autopsy table flashed again in Nico’s mind. An innocent child, beloved by her parents, a good student who was passionate about dancing. She would have become a young woman with her own dreams and disillusions. But Juliette would never know what the future might have held, the joys and tears that would have shaped her life. A man decided otherwise for her.

  Cohen shook his head. “If I’d been able to get away with it, I would have had my girls in full-time protective custody.”

  Both of Cohen’s daughters were in their twenties now.

  “If only . . .” Nico paused. “But we can’t keep our kids locked up till they’re adults, can we?”

  “No, we can’t. And just when I thought my worries were over, now I have grandkids to fret over. So what do we have on the boy’s case?”

  “We’re trying to locate the father, figure out how the killer got into the school, and determine where a fiber found in the boy’s pocket came from,” Nico said.

  Cohen put his cigar out.

  “This is going to be a fucking mess.”

  It was odd how Cohen seemed to be returning to the language of his days on the beat, before he held any positions of responsibility. Was he getting closer to hanging it all up?

  “I want you to focus exclusively on these two cases. Now get the hell out of here. We’ve got two scumbags on the loose. I’m counting on you to nail their hides to the wall, and be quick about it.”

  Cohen picked up his phone. He had already moved on to something else. Nico heard his boss as he closed the door behind him.

  “Call the minister back.”

  The man was abrupt. But his heart was in the right place.

  Caroline wasn’t home yet, but Dimitri was. As soon as Nico opened the door, he heard Sting’s “Every Breath You Take” blaring from upstairs. The boy’s taste in music was spot-on.

  But then he stopped in his tracks. Was Dimitri in love? Could that be the reason he was crooning along with Sting? Unless it was a matter of heartbreak, the way Sting felt when he wrote the song. Just yesterday the boy had been dashing around on his tricycle. And now he was into girls. Nico didn’t know if he was ready for this.

  Nico climbed the stairs. The door to Dimitri’s room was open, and his teenaged son was swaying, a fake mike held to his mouth. Nico started singing along.

  “Dad!” Dimitri said, lowering the volume. “I didn’t know you were home.”

  “I saw Sting in concert once. Of course, it was after he left the Police.”

  “I know,” Dimitri said, grinning. “You’ve told me like eight thousand times.”

  Damn, he was getting old—he was already repeating himself. “Who are you singing for?”

  Dimitri blushed. “So, are the cops prying into the private lives of innocent citizens these days? I’m not talking. Even under torture!”

  “But I thought you wanted to join the force,” Nico said, pretending to be supportive. So far he had managed to avoid telling Dimitri what he really thought. He was hoping to subtly persuade his son to go into a duller, quieter line of work.

  “Oh, I still want to go into police work. Just don’t try buddying up to me like I’m one of your suspects at HQ. I’m not telling you anything. Sorry.”

  With that, Dimitri turned up the volume, put the fake mike to his lips, and grinned. “I’ll be watching you.”

  Sulking, Nico walked back dow
nstairs. Still thinking about his son, he rummaged through the refrigerator. They had always been close, to the great displeasure of his ex-wife, Sylvie. Dimitri was the spitting image of his father, though he still had some height to gain, and his muscles weren’t fully developed yet. They had similar personalities, too. They shared aspirations and even thought the same way. Why, then, this sudden about-face?

  He heard the key in the lock, and Caroline walked in. He checked out her curves and lithe legs in her summery dress. But then he noticed the tired and worried look on her face.

  “One salade niçoise for the lady,” he called out.

  Her face softened, and her anxiety seemed to dissipate. But why that look on her face? A tough patient? A hopeless case? She was so sexy and so smart. Nico knew he was a lucky man.

  She walked over to him and planted a long kiss on his lips.

  “How about we go right to bed?” he said.

  “You’re obsessed!”

  “Only with you.”

  “I hope so!”

  She pulled away. There was something off in her tone. “I’ll set the table,” she said.

  Maybe he was wrong, and she was fine.

  “Do you know about Dimitri?” he asked.

  “Know what?”

  “That he’s got a girlfriend.”

  “He told you?”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  Caroline smiled. “You’re pulling an interrogation technique on me. Well, it’s not going to work, Inspector! So what did he tell you?”

  “Nothing. I guessed. He was crooning ‘Every Breath You Take’ when I came home, and he blushed when I asked him if he was into a girl.”