Looking to the Woods

by Frédérique Molay

  “He’s got nerve, leaving an invitation for an event at the Paris Bar Association,” Judge Becker said. His features were drawn, and his eyes were heavy with fatigue. “Are you absolutely sure it’s a message from the killer?”

  “The invitation was hidden in a cupboard in his hotel suite,” Nico said.

  “And you’re telling me that Eva Keller was working on a documentary with a law student she met at a conference, and Juliette Bisot had a cousin studying law in Paris.”

  “We showed Etienne Delamare’s photo to the two students at her school, but they didn’t recognize him.”

  “That would have made it too easy, I suppose.”

  “He’s got to have his fun.” Nico looked at his desk and fell quiet. He was beyond frustrated and on the brink of depression. Caroline was on his mind as much as the slayings. He had grown obsessed with the idea that she might leave him at a moment’s notice, or that she had some bad news that threatened their future together. Tanya hadn’t eased his mind, and he still hadn’t talked with Caroline.

  “Still nothing on Kevin Longin’s mystery friend?”

  “Nada.”

  “It’s as if he never existed. What about our Wilde?”

  “I’ve sent officers back to Eva Keller’s apartment to look for the memory card with the documentary on it.”

  “And Noë Valles?”

  “Plassard was able to come up with a man he followed from the Montparnasse station. He doesn’t look at all like Etienne Delamare, but I’ve sent some detectives back with Etienne’s picture. In either case—the law student and Valles’s trick—both were young men between twenty and thirty years old.”

  “Etienne Delamare fits the age bracket.”

  “Yes, he’s well-built and could easily appear older than twenty.”

  Nico sighed.

  “You’re still upset about Caroline.”

  “Yes, Alexandre. I don’t know what’s bothering her.”

  “Why don’t you ask her? That would be the easiest thing to do. I’ve never seen you like this, Nico, even when your mother was sick. You’re falling apart.”

  Nico crossed his arms and looked out his window at the Seine and the Pont Neuf. He had spent so much of his life right here, in this office, with his son the only reason to go home at night. He couldn’t imagine going back to that life—without the woman he loved.

  “Look at you! Your cop shrink would have a field day with you.”

  That managed to nudge Nico out of his funk. He grinned as he recalled how Dominique Kreiss’s presence on the team had annoyed the judge at first. Becker had initially been full of disdain for her theories, and he undervalued criminal profiling in general. But Kreiss had prevailed, and now Becker was a fan. Imagine that.

  “At least I got a smile out of you,” Becker said. “You’ve been so glum. Please, please resolve whatever it is that’s going on with Caroline.”

  “I promise.”

  “You don’t need to be afraid. Good God, she adores you.”

  “But she doesn’t even want me touching her anymore.”

  “And you have to be touching her every minute of the day and night? Everyone needs a break once in a while.”

  Nico laughed. “You could be onto something.”

  “Just go talk to her. You’ll clear the air, and everything will get back to normal.”

  “If only . . .”

  “Nico! Now it’s the examining magistrate talking. Take care of this, and do it quickly. I don’t want your personal life interfering with our investigation. Understood?”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “And keep me in the loop. Let’s focus on the investigation. We don’t want the killer’s list getting any longer. Every minute counts. Speaking of which, tell your team that they’ll be putting in more overtime than usual.”

  “Already done. They’re at the service of the republic until we catch the copycat.”

  Just as Nico was getting ready to go home, Professor Vilars called. He hesitated, fearing the conversation would strip him of the strength he’d been gathering to talk to Caroline. But he finally answered.

  “What can I do for you, Armelle?”

  “Where do I even start?”

  “That bad? If this is about the Bois de Vincennes, tell me about the second right hand.”

  “It belongs to Kevin Longin. DNA confirmed it.”

  Nico was doodling as she spoke. Maybe that was the killer’s signature—always finding a way to link the murders.

  “Do the other body parts belong to a single man?”

  “I was able to put the body back together from the pieces found in the woods and at the hotel. However, I’m still waiting for DNA confirmation.”

  “What kind of weapon do you think he used?”

  “A handsaw. Captain Vidal hit it on the nose.”

  “Have you done an insect analysis?”

  “Ah, yes, those loyal lieutenants. Did you know that carrion insects have been linked to death from time immemorial?”

  Nico set his pen down and leaned back in his chair.

  “Are you referring to Beelzebub, the Devil himself?” The original name, Ba’al Zebub, was often interpreted as “lord of the flies,” suggesting that the link between decomposition and necrophagous insects had been recognized for a long time.

  “We also have the Mesopotamian clay tablets that mention green and blue flies. The ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead explains how to keep them away in the preservation of mummies.”

  “Well, flies aren’t that hard to observe when a body decays.”

  “True, but humor me while I share another factoid: in thirteenth-century China, a murderer was nailed because of the flies attracted to the blood on his knife.”

  “Professor, how many hours have you been at work?”

  “Too many, obviously.”

  “What did our modern-day flies tell you?”

  “Protophormia terraenovae, of the Calliphoridae family, more commonly known as blowflies. These shiny blue-green flies are among the first squatters. They start colonizing the body just a few hours after death, laying white or yellow eggs that look like grains of rice—a female can lay as many as two hundred eggs at a time. Those are the white splotches Captains Vidal and Rodon found on the body parts. At an average ambient temperature of twenty-five degrees centigrade, the eggs take twelve to twenty-four hours to hatch. So I’d say the death occurred no more than twenty-four hours ago.”

  Nico was looking at the maps. The day before, Noë Valles had followed a client from the Montparnasse station to a hotel suite, where the killer had cut him to pieces and spread his remains in the Bois de Vincennes.

  “The victim was about a meter seventy-five tall, judging from the size of his femur.”

  That would correspond with Noë Valles.

  “He had a tattoo on his inner left ankle: a crocodile, done with an electric tattoo machine.”

  “That corresponds with Noë Valles’s description. What about the bite on the neck?”

  “A bite leaves a bruise when it occurs before death. In this case, there’s deep tissue alteration with bleeding, bruising, and coagulation, an irrefutable sign that it occurred antemortem. But the biter didn’t stop there. He ripped off tissue, leaving a deep wound.”

  “A sadistic bite.”

  “Violent and sexual in nature. I took pictures and casts of the wound and sent them to the forensics lab. Professor Queneau will have a digital analysis done for comparison in the event of an arrest.”

  “No DNA?” Nico asked.

  “We weren’t able to collect enough saliva for a quality DNA identification.”

  “So no luck?”

  “That’s right. But the biter appears to have hypodontia.”

  “Which means?”

  “Some of his permanent teeth never grew in. He’s missing his upper canines. The most commonly missing teeth in Europeans are the third molar, followed by the mandibular second premolar, the maxillary lateral incisor, and the pre
molar. One in eighteen Europeans have this condition, but the absence of canines is rare.”

  “What can explain the condition?”

  “Hypodontia can be caused by environmental factors, such as an infection or trauma, but usually it’s genetic.”

  “Thanks. This could help.”

  “Let me know if you need anything else. I’m on call.”

  She didn’t have to tell him what she was thinking. He knew. He could hear in her voice that she was worried about a fifth victim. Nico ended the call and held back an angry urge to knock everything off his desk. He felt powerless. Despite all their best efforts, the copycat was slipping through their fingers. Just as Caroline was slipping from his arms. What could she be so afraid of?

  Nico opened his son’s door.

  “I saw your light on. You’re not asleep yet? You have school tomorrow.”

  “Papa,” Dimitri said, setting down his tablet. “I wanted to wait up for you.”

  Nico saw his son’s gaze drop to the SIG Sauer in his holster. He had been so distracted, he had forgotten to remove the gun and put it in the safe. A mistake. Dimitri already had it in his head that his father might not come home one night. Was that why he was waiting up for him tonight?

  “You know that as chief, I have an invisible shield that protects me, paid for by the department—”

  “Dad, I’m fourteen years old. And you’ve already been shot once.”

  “But look at me now, all hale and hearty. They gave me that shield when I went back to work.”

  “Yeah, and I still believe in Spider-Man. You look tired. Go get some sleep.”

  “Good night, son.”

  “Good night . . . Hey, Dad, is something wrong with Caroline?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. She’s been giving me kind of strange looks. And she seems sad. It’s nothing serious, is it?”

  Nico heard the anxiety in his voice.

  “There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll investigate and solve the mystery.”

  Dimitri smiled and turned out his bedside lamp. He didn’t believe in Spider-Man or Santa Claus anymore, and he was getting hair on his chest, but he was still a child.

  Nico went into his room and locked up his service weapon. He heard the water running in the bathroom. Caroline was in the shower. He took off his clothes and stepped in with her. Soapy water ran between her breasts and down her belly. She was beautiful. Desirable.

  “Holster your weapon, Inspector,” she murmured.

  He couldn’t tell if she was being playful or not. He pulled her close, kissing her warm neck, stroking her slick hair, and letting go of everything but her. He ran his hands down her back and buttocks. She tensed up, but he wanted her so much. Now she was trembling. Nico pushed her up against the cold tiles, lifting her.

  “No . . . Please. No . . .”

  The words assaulted him like icy pellets. He set her down and just looked at her. Caroline started crying and crumpled in his arms.

  He didn’t know what to do. He felt like a confused teenager. Before he could figure it out, his phone rang. He pulled away and went to answer it. The prospect of the copycat spilling more blood was nowhere near as terrifying as the anguish Caroline was feeling.

  “It’s Théron, Chief.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Fifty or so numbered memory cards buried under a fake plant. Who would have thought to look there?”

  “You did. Good work, as usual.”

  “Eva’s bookshelves were full of Arsène Lupin and Sherlock Holmes. She apparently loved a good mystery.”

  “Maybe that’s why she wanted to do a documentary on serial killers.”

  “We’re staying to watch the recordings, Chief. We’ll keep you posted.”

  Nico clicked off. Caroline had crawled under the covers and curled into a fetal position, her back to him. Nico sat down next to her and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “What is it, darling? Please, talk to me.”

  “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  “Something has been bothering you, and I want to know what it is.”

  “You’ve got that investigation you’re working on. I’m fine, really.”

  “Yes, I’ve got that investigation, but I’m worried about you.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Is it your work at the hospital?”

  “No, Nico. Everything’s fine at the hospital.”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, I’m telling you! It’s not you.”

  “Dimitri, then?”

  “No. It’s nobody else. It’s me.”

  Caroline’s shoulder was shaking. She was silently weeping. Nico wanted to take her in his arms and make the sadness disappear, but he knew she’d just push him away again. Nico studied her still-damp hair and her thin arm clutching the pillow, and he felt a nausea so intense, he almost had to run to the bathroom. How much more of this could he bear? Everything was spinning out of control, and there was nothing he could do about any of it.

  20

  Wednesday, May 15

  Théron showed up in Nico’s office brandishing a memory card.

  “That woman was crazy about making films. She was Keller’s daughter, that’s for sure.”

  Nico called his secretary. “Round up Rost, Kriven, and Maurin, would you? And Kreiss, too. We’ve got a movie to watch.”

  He plugged the projector cable into his computer and inserted the memory card. He was just calling Deputy Commissioner Cohen when Judge Becker walked in, looking the worse for wear.

  “I had a nightmare about Dorian Gray,” Becker said, rubbing his face. “He was our copycat, and we were doing everything we could to nail him, but it was impossible to see his features.”

  Kriven had walked in. “So, our favorite judge is a psychic now,” he said, grinning.

  Deputy Chief Rost followed on his heels, with Commander Maurin and Dominique Kreiss not far behind. Cohen was the last to arrive. He smelled like cigar smoke, and Nico suppressed a smile. Old habits died hard. He doubted that the man would ever quit.

  Nico hit “Play,” and Mick Jagger’s voice filled the office. Serial Killers On-Screen scrolled up, with blood dripping from the letters, like the opening of a bad horror movie.

  Jagger was singing “God Gave Me Everything.” Nico thought she would have chosen “Sympathy for the Devil,” but then he heard the closing words: “I can’t stop. I can’t stop. I can’t stop. I can’t stop.”

  “Her boyfriend’s idea?” Cohen had gotten out of his chair and was now pacing.

  A young woman’s voice replaced Jagger’s, and then Eva appeared on the screen.

  “Movies about serial killers have been around for more than seventy years. The first was Alfred Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt, and hundreds of serial-killer movies—both feature films and documentaries—have been made since then. They all reflect a cultural infatuation with these killers, who murder time and again for reasons only they know. The serial killer most depicted in film is, without a doubt, Jack the Ripper—perhaps because of the sheer violence and notoriety of his murders. But, as we’ve said, many other serial killers have inspired filmmakers. Here, we will look more closely at some of those movies. It’s hard to think of a more compelling—or should we say gripping?—subject.”

  “Who’s filming?” Théron asked. “One of the two kids we interviewed?”

  Eva continued, “The first film is Evilenko, a 2004 English-language thriller. It flopped at the box office, but Malcolm McDowell turned in a masterful interpretation of Andrej Romanovich Evilenko’s pedophilia and murderous urges, and David Grieco’s production was very sophisticated. The story was loosely based on the Soviet serial killer Andrei Chikatilo.”

  “Well shit, there we have it!” Cohen shouted.

  “‘There is no happiness without tears, no life without death. Beware, I’m going to make you cry.’ Those are the words of Lucian Staniak, a Polish seria
l killer who did his dirty work in the 1960s. This warning raises questions. Who’s better poised to lead us through the intricacies of suffering and despair than a serial killer?”

  The screen filled with black-and-white stills of crime scenes.

  “Let’s fast-forward and see if Eva’s list corresponds with the copycat’s,” Nico said.

  He double-timed through the film’s dark content, slowing down as Eva covered Thomas Quick and Fritz Haarmann. When there were just a few minutes left, he stopped.

  “But the makers of feature films and documentaries aren’t the only ones who’ve been inspired by serial killers. The creators of the Clock Tower horror games were as well. Clock Tower 3 references crimes committed by John George Haigh, the Acid Bath Murderer, who dissolved his victims in sulfuric acid.”

  The documentary stopped abruptly.

  “I’d say the copycat wanted us to find this,” Théron said.

  “He’s taunting us—making it clear that he’s the gamemaster,” Nico said. “We need to get out ahead of this.”

  “For now, he’s still one step ahead,” Becker said.

  “I’ll fill in Commissioner Monthalet,” Cohen said. “I don’t want anything about this documentary getting out. Nothing, do you understand? The reporters still think they’re covering unrelated murders. If they get wind of a serial killer, the whole thing will go viral. It’s complicated enough already. Now get to work. The killer has a leg up on us. Our job is to trip him up—before we find the fifth victim in an acid bath.”

  The deputy commissioner locked eyes with Nico, sending him a clear message. He needed to solve this case now. Cohen then turned on his heels and left.

  “Maurin, get us everything you can on this John Haigh,” Nico ordered. “Send someone to the Paris Bar Association with Etienne Delamare’s picture. Théron, find out more about that conference Eva attended.”