Looking to the Woods

by Frédérique Molay

  “Any thoughts?” Becker asked.

  “Sometimes there’s logic behind a killer’s movements,” Dominique Kreiss said.

  “Who else will he copy?” Becker asked. “Who’ll be his next victim?”

  “The FBI came up with nothing,” Vasnier said. “Apparently he hasn’t done anything over there.”

  “It looks like he’s touring Europe—a serial killer’s Europe,” Nico said. “If that’s the case, we can probably assume that he’s not hearing voices that tell him to kill. He’s too rational. Most likely, he’s a psychopath who fits in, for all intents and purposes, which makes him all the more dangerous.”

  “Even a rational killer surrenders to his weaknesses,” Becker said. “Consider Kemper’s necrophilia.”

  “You’re right. But does his pleasure come from committing the murders or from perfectly imitating his predecessors?”

  “Ms. Kreiss, what do you think? If I understand correctly, profilers don’t readily accept the idea of a copycat,” Becker said.

  “That’s correct. In fact, we don’t have many studies on the subject. Most psychiatrists and profilers believe that every serial killer has a signature. Each one has a ritual that corresponds with a particular fantasy, even when the killer’s imitating someone else. In any case, our killer needed a trigger. Serial killers are very sensitive to failure, which they experience as the worst kind of humiliation, and they tend to have big egos. Of course, they have no empathy for their victims and no capacity for imagining the suffering they inflict.”

  “So why haven’t we figured out our guy’s signature?” Becker asked.

  The room fell silent. Finally, Kriven spoke up. “We have the ribbon in Eva Keller’s hair. It’s allowed us to link the murders.”

  “And there’s the content of the letters,” Théron said. “It’s not the same as what the Red Spider wrote. The killer sent us a personal message.”

  Becker nodded. “The counting song. What about the victims?”

  “Our victims seem to resemble past victims and their circumstances,” Maurin replied. “Juliette Bisot, for example, was kidnapped on her way to dance class. Chikatilo abducted a girl who was taking the bus to her piano lesson. Eva Keller was a film student and was knocked unconscious before being murdered. Lucian Staniak’s last victim was attending film school in Krakow and was knocked out with a bottle of vodka. As for Kevin Longin, he was similar to the young boys Thomas Quick was accused of murdering.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Frustration was written all over Becker’s face.

  “Nowhere,” Nico admitted. “We’ve got prints from the wheels of a suitcase and a size 44 shoe from Square du Temple. Witnesses spotted a five-door Audi A3 where the girl disappeared in Normandy. In the Longin case, we’re still looking for the person the boy was hanging out with. Similarly, we’re trying to identify the Wilde with whom Eva Keller had a date on the evening she was murdered. And finally, we know the killer was right-handed. Dominique, I understand you have a theory regarding Wilde. Is that correct?”

  “Oscar Wilde, the well-known nineteenth-century Irish writer, was an elegant speaker with a fine mind. He had a reputation for provocation and paradox. His comedies were a hit during the Victorian era. But he had a liaison with the wrong woman’s son—homosexuality wasn’t socially acceptable at the time—and was subsequently tried and convicted on charges of indecency. He was sentenced to hard labor in prison. After his release, Wilde was impoverished, but he continued writing and even experienced a spiritual awakening. I’m thinking that Eva Keller’s enigmatic date didn’t choose the name by chance, and that he’s the murderer. He reproduces crimes like great forgers replicate the works of the masters. And in doing so, our killer’s trying to shake our sense of morality.”

  “On that score, we haven’t had any luck,” Rost said. “Eva and the killer talked several times on the phone, but he was using a burner.”

  “And nobody at her film school knows who this Wilde guy is?” Becker asked.

  “It seems not.”

  “What about her contacts?”

  “I’ve had people on it for hours,” Théron said. “We haven’t found a thing.”

  “And in the SALVAC?”

  “No trace of our copycat,” Nico said.

  “Rosie said the same thing,” Rost said.

  “Rosie?” Kriven asked, and everyone’s face relaxed a bit.

  “Roselinde Angermann, from Europol.”

  Nico pressed on. “Send out notices to the local precincts. I want them to inform us of any homicides with no clear suspects.”

  “So, is it going to take a fourth victim for us to get anywhere in this investigation?” Becker was shifting in his chair, and Nico could see that he was getting agitated.

  “The killer is looking for prey similar to his idols’ victims, which means he will likely carefully select his next victim. Louviers is more than a hundred kilometers from Paris. We need to research how and why the killer was in Normandy. We need to keep looking for leads.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re chasing one of the worst killers the capital has ever known,” Becker said, getting up from his chair. “Jack the Ripper lacked creativity by comparison.”

  13

  He stayed close to the buildings, brushing past the residents of Paris rushing from one obligation to the next and the tourists who were just as focused—bent on seeing the city they had dreamed of visiting before they died. For his part, he was cool and calm. He had reached a higher state of being. He was exactly where he wanted to be and knew that it was only a matter of time before his genius was recognized.

  He approached the commercial hub of the Left Bank, a hive of activity. According to the guidebooks, the cafés, restaurants, and cinemas in this neighborhood bore witness to the area’s creative and bohemian past. What a rip-off! What remained from the time when Modigliani, Picasso, Matisse, and Chagall roamed the Boulevard du Montparnasse? When Apollinaire, Sartre, and Cocteau rubbed shoulders with Hemingway, Faulkner, and Fitzgerald on the Rue de la Gaîté? The towering Tour Montparnasse built in the early 1970s had swept away any remnants of that golden age. But he had returned to honor the memory of those greats; he was their heir.

  Heir to Fritz, with his round face and solid body. A debonair-looking man. But what did he like most about Fritz? His white hands with their long, graceful fingers perfectly adapted to sewing and making pastries. Fritz would have preferred to have been born a woman, wearing pretty dresses and making dolls, but that wasn’t in the cards. So he had rented a shop with living quarters in the old city of Hanover during the Weimar Republic, after the bloody defeat of the German Empire had thrown the country into upheaval and caused rampant inflation. The chaos was a godsend for Fritz, and the flourishing black market was a perfect venue for his small-time trafficking.

  The Paris Montparnasse train station rose before him, just as the central railway station, with its statue of Ernest Augustus, King of Hanover, had once risen before Fritz. In Paris, more than a hundred and seventy-five thousand people used this station every day. And like other train stations around the world, it attracted the marginalized of society: bums, good-for-nothings, street vendors, pickpockets, and prostitutes, many of whom were often drunk or high. All of their stories were sad and lacking in originality. Having been beaten and/or raped, they had fled their homes and fallen prey to drug use and soliciting. He had no compassion for these human larvae.

  For several weeks now, he had been hanging out here, watching the nighttime fauna of this underworld. He had found him sitting on a bench—a little too pale, a little too skinny, with bags under his eyes. He was around twenty. He would do. He would let himself be picked up by a lecher, taking a few bills for a blow job in the bathroom. The boy would have pleased Fritz.

  How would Fritz have approached him? He envisioned him in a suit and tie, looking serious, asking to see the vagrant’s papers. He was an informant for the Hanover police and often passed himself off as a cop. Clev
er. He saw Fritz approaching the boy and watching the little color in his cheeks drain away, dreading that he’d be arrested and thrown into a cell stinking with piss.

  “Ain’t got no papers,” the kid would have said. “But I’m a good boy . . .”

  “A good boy. If you say so . . .”

  “I swear it, sir.”

  The boy would have looked at Fritz with puppy-dog eyes.

  “Listen, I don’t like seeing you begging like this. Come with me. I’ll give you something to eat. Maybe I can find you a job.”

  “A job?” The boy’s eyes would have shone.

  “That’s right, son.”

  “I’m ready to work hard, sir!”

  “You’ll have to be nice . . . very nice.”

  Hearing these words, the boy would have hesitated—just a bit. But a second later, he would have looked up and nodded. If he didn’t grab this opportunity, somebody else would. This kind of luck never came twice. He needed a protector. Why not this guy?

  “I’ll do whatever you say,” he would have said.

  Fritz would have smiled and taken the boy far from the station.

  Now it was time to apply Fritz’s methodology. The homeless boy followed without putting up any resistance. If he had to be nice in order to eat, sleep under a roof, and have a job, it was worth it. But this fallen boy didn’t know how much more would be asked of him. He was about to take a one-way trip into hell.

  They walked a long way, from one boulevard to another, until they reached the Seine, near the Eiffel Tower. For Fritz, it would have been the Leine River, lined with half-timber houses and red-brick buildings.

  He had rented a furnished three-room apartment in a residential hotel. It offered a superb view of Paris. The kitchen had a stove, a refrigerator, a microwave, a dishwasher, and a coffee machine—everything he needed for 240 euros a night. It also had a fitness room and an indoor pool, but he had no interest in those amenities.

  In the elevator, the homeless boy watched the floors rush by and nearly leaped with pleasure, like a kid in an amusement park. Despite his hard life, he was surprisingly naïve. Once in the suite, he stood at the window, his mouth hanging open. The Seine snaked at his feet. The boy had clearly spent far more time underground than in high-rises.

  He lit a candle and lowered the lights. Then he pulled out some canapés and chocolates and poured two glasses of Champagne. The boy watched, stupefied.

  “To a new life!” he said, raising his glass.

  The boy’s hand trembled as he followed suit, gulping the Moët & Chandon. It could have been cheap bubbly. His palate wouldn’t have known the difference.

  The boy’s stomach rumbled.

  “Go on,” his host said, pushing the plate of canapés toward him. “Eat.”

  The boy’s eyes held a mix of incredulity, gratitude, and joy. He had long ago lost his final remnants of dignity. Solitude, poverty, and drugs had stripped him of his humanity. He was ready to become a slave in exchange for food and lodging.

  “The bathroom is over there. Take a shower. Use plenty of shampoo and soap. You stink.”

  The boy rushed to do as he was told. The man listened to the water run, got undressed, and lay down on the bed, his head propped on a pillow and his organ erect, much to his surprise.

  While the boy was showering, the man thought about Fritz. He had used his own modest home, but the neighbors had sometimes complained about the strange sounds. They probably wondered about the boys who came home with Fritz but never left. They quickly forgot when he provided them with baskets full of food. He always had plenty of black-market pork. Quiet stomachs calmed rumors, and nobody ever asked where he got the meat.

  The boy returned, smelling clean. Finally, it was time to get down to business.

  14

  Tuesday, May 14

  It was ten in the morning when Kriven entered Nico’s office. He was frowning.

  “We’ve got something on Eva Keller. She was working on a documentary with two classmates. They said it was supposed to be a simple project, but Eva had turned it into a real piece of investigative journalism. Guess what it was about.”

  “I give up. What?”

  “Serial killers in the movies.”

  Nico put down his pen and studied Kriven closely.

  The commander was a ball of tension. He had something other than the investigation on his mind. Nico waited for him to spill it.

  “I need to tell you something, before you hear it from anyone else,” Kriven finally said. “Clara and I have decided to separate.”

  Nico cringed. He had been hoping that Kriven and his wife would make it. He couldn’t help seeing his own life in their failure. First a divorce from Sylvie, and now Caroline was becoming more distant with each sunrise. Before going to work today, he had tried to take her in his arms, but she had stiffened and pushed him away. And the look in her eyes. Was it sadness? He had faced challenges head-on his whole life. But this morning he had just walked out.

  “I’m sorry,” he told Kriven.

  Kriven gave him a weak smile. At a loss for words, Nico was grateful when Maurin stuck her head through the door. “We’ve got a report from the twelfth arrondissement. Something odd in the Bois de Vincennes.”

  The Bois de Vincennes on the eastern edge of Paris was the largest public park in the city.

  “What kind of odd something?” Nico asked, his eyes still on Kriven. Although he’d appeared dour just a minute earlier, Kriven had clearly shifted into high gear.

  “A leg.”

  The Bois de Vincennes, spread over nearly ten square kilometers, had wooded areas, gardens, a zoo, a farm, several theaters, a castle, a Buddhist temple, and a velodrome. Larger than Manhattan’s Central Park, it was a paradise for local families and athletes. It was also a refuge for the homeless, who set up tents wherever they could, and a place where prostitutes worked from vans parked along the roads. The park had seen more than a few grisly murders over the years.

  Local precinct officers in black jackets had taped off the scene. Members of the canine unit, meanwhile, were holding back their impatient and noisy dogs. Nico greeted the officers and introduced his teams. Both Kriven and Maurin had brought their full squads.

  “Okay. What do we have?”

  “A fisherman discovered a severed leg half immersed in the water here,” the lead officer said. “He didn’t touch it. He was too afraid. We’d seen your memo about reporting any crazy-ass crimes.”

  “Crazy-ass” wasn’t in the memo, but the officer’s interpretation was spot-on.

  “So we called you.”

  “Perfect. My teams will take over from here.”

  With that, the detectives assigned to the crime scene grabbed their kits and went to work, relying on their powers of observation and their skills at discerning between evidence of a crime and ordinary traces of regular activity.

  “Kriven, as soon as Vidal has finished with the leg, let the dogs sniff it so they can get to work,” Nico said.

  Vidal and Rodon divided up the tasks, the first of which was to retrieve the limb and the second to examine the area with a fine-tooth comb.

  “What about the fisherman?” Maurin asked.

  “He’s in a squad car on the Route de l’Asile National.”

  The street took its name from the Imperial Asylum of Vincennes, a charitable institution founded by Empress Eugénie for disabled workers. The park grounds had once belonged to the crown, and many kings had hunted there. The land was decreed a national treasure during the French Revolution. Later, the grounds were used for military training, and in 1900, they were the site of the summer Olympic Games. In 1945 the government returned them to recreational use.

  “We’ll take the fisherman,” Maurin said.

  Nico nodded and watched Maurin walk off with Captain Noumen. He turned to the crime scene, lifted the tape, and entered the zone, on the lookout for any evidence. Vidal had delicately removed the leg from the water and placed it on the bank and was now in
specting it closely. It was relatively intact.

  “The skin is ripped, but the bone has a clean cut. I’d say a saw. In fact, I’d bet my miserable paycheck that it was a handsaw—a steel handsaw with fine triangular teeth used to cut wood. The more teeth, the smoother the cut.”

  A handsaw used to sever a limb. That fit seamlessly with the park’s darker side. Not long ago a beautician and her partner had been accused of murdering and dismembering the parents of a baby and burying the body parts in the park. And in the nineteenth century, Louis-Auguste Papavoine was convicted of murdering two children in the Bois de Vincennes. Victor Hugo had written about him.

  “How long has the leg been here?”

  “The submerged part looks like it has goose bumps. The skin is wrinkled and has blisters that come off when they’re touched, which means it was in the water for several hours. But it wasn’t long enough for the limb to undergo substantive changes. The part that was above the water is still fresh. And look . . . here . . .”

  Kriven pointed to a white mass. “Fly eggs, two to three millimeters in diameter. Just laid. So it’s been here less than twenty-four hours.”

  “What’s the angel’s sex?” Nico asked.

  “It’s nearly impossible to tell. There’s leg hair, but that doesn’t prove anything. The autopsy will help us assess the victim’s size, from the length of the femur, which, by the way, is not whole.”

  “Let’s give the dogs a whiff,” Nico said.

  He took one last look at the leg, grateful that the local cops had had the sense to alert him. But he was getting tired of this—crazy-ass was becoming routine.

  The fisherman was as pale as a ghost, and a puddle of green vomit was stinking up the space around the vehicle.