Looking to the Woods

by Frédérique Molay

  Nico turned to Becker. “Alexandre?”

  “Yes?”

  “I think it’s time to visit Etienne Delamare’s home and do a little search of his place. Do you agree?”

  “I’d say it’s a good idea.”

  “Kriven, I’d like you to handle that. Remember, we’re looking for a man, age twenty to thirty, right-handed, who wears a size 44 shoe. He’s missing his upper canine teeth, lives in Paris, and is familiar with Louviers. We don’t know if Etienne Delamare, the law student Eva Keller dated, and the man who picked up Noë Valles are similar in any way, but we need to find out. I want more information on them. Get everything you can, and keep in mind that he may be using disguises. Rost, I want you to supervise all this.”

  “Got it.”

  Nico was in high gear again.

  “Ms. Kreiss, do you have anything to add?”

  “Chikatilo, Thomas Quick, the Red Spider, Fritz Haarmann, and now the Acid Bath Murderer . . . The media played up all these killers, based on their signatures. As for our copycat, he’s not only imitating his famous predecessors and revisiting European criminal history, but also leaving clues that allow us to link the murders. He doesn’t want us giving credit for these slayings to anyone else. He wants all the glory. That’s his signature. He’s hungry for recognition and power. In addition, he’s methodical, smart, and meticulous. And he wants us to know it.”

  “Then why hasn’t he given the media a heads-up?” Kriven asked.

  “Because he’s only interested in the opinions of those in authority. That doesn’t mean he won’t promote his crimes to a wider audience when the time comes. Who knows. He may even create a fan club.”

  “Conclusion: pride is eating him up inside,” Kriven said. Nico noted that he hadn’t taken his eyes off the psychologist. Kreiss nodded, the hint of a smile on her lips.

  “To your stations,” Nico cut in. “David, I’m riding along.”

  Nico had set aside his worries about Caroline and was moving again. He was pumped.

  “I’m in, too,” Becker said.

  Louis checked his backpack. He had an Enfield .38 revolver, a white envelope with four bullets symbolizing the lemon-yellow airplanes, rubber gloves, a gas mask, and an apron. Perfect. He also had three packets of concentrated sulfuric acid that he’d purchased online. He shivered at the thought of subjecting his prey to the details of his plan. There would be no resistance and very little apprehension. Perhaps even some excitement. There was no refusing a little tryst, and Louis had all the attributes necessary for seduction. The minx would get her due, on her knees, her eyes closed. He would be the master.

  “John George Haigh was an English serial killer and a dandy. He murdered three men and three women between 1944 and 1949. He murdered for profit, using forgery to seize his victims’ property after they were gone.”

  Captain Noumen had done his homework.

  “He was arrested in March 1949 and hanged in August. Madame Tussaud’s waxworks made a death mask of him. He left his clothes to the museum and stipulated that he should be kept spotless, with his pants neatly creased, his shirt cuffs exposed, and his hair neatly parted. He wanted to be remembered for his elegance, even if it was in the Chamber of Horrors.”

  “Listen to this,” Maurin said. “‘I got a mug and took some blood, from his neck . . . and drank it.’ He was a vampire.”

  “Gross.”

  “After consuming his victim’s blood, he’d put the body in a metal drum and fill it with sulfuric acid. He’d drink tea while he waited for the acid to do its thing. After his arrest there was speculation that he was simulating mental illness to avoid the death penalty, but it didn’t work. He was hanged in Wandsworth Prison. Ironically, he didn’t have to simulate mental illness. He was downright psychotic—entirely egocentric and totally devoid of any feelings of guilt.”

  “It must be no different with our copycat,” Maurin said.

  “He did make mistakes, though,” Noumen noted. “He thought the acid would destroy everything, but it didn’t. In the case of one of the victims, police discovered gallstones, part of a left foot, pelvic and spinal bones, the acrylic resin used for dentures, the handle of a handbag, and a tube of lipstick in Haigh’s rented workshop. They also found fatty traces inside the metal drums.”

  Maurin gagged.

  “If Haigh’s our copycat’s teacher,” Noumen said, “the student may have surpassed the teacher.”

  Commander Théron and his team walked through the gates of La Fémis. According to its brochure, the school was one of the world’s most prestigious film academies. It was well situated in Montmartre. The neighborhood could have been a movie set.

  The detectives crossed the narrow courtyard and stopped in front of the main office. This was where Marcel Carné shot Les enfants du paradis and Jean Cocteau made Les parents terribles. Théron walked up the steps. The school had certainly taught some future greats.

  Théron showed his badge and asked to speak to the head administrator of the school. Flashing his badge always yielded the desired result. Two minutes later, a man with graying hair was shaking their hands. Théron ordered his team to canvass the school and followed the administrator into his office.

  “Nobody told me you were coming,” the administrator said, gesturing to a chair.

  “We’re conducting a criminal investigation. My team needs to talk to Eva Keller’s classmates, show them a picture of a suspect, and try to come up with a portrait of a law student she met at a conference. I’d like to discuss this conference with you. There’s no reason for alarm, I assure you.”

  “Eva’s death has shocked all of us.”

  Just outside the man’s door Théron could see students laughing in the hallway. “I’m sure,” he said.

  “What conference would you like to discuss?”

  “A conference called ‘The Abuse of Truth.’ It took place sometime before Christmas and looked at serial killers as an inspiration for apprentice directors.”

  “What are you imagining? That one of them turned into a murderer after the conference? That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”

  “Sometimes reality is stranger than fiction.”

  “I’ll call in the person who organized the event,” the chief administrator said, picking up his phone.

  “She’s already on her way.”

  The administrator’s face was drawn. He clearly didn’t want the school involved any more than it already was. Even after spending his whole life behind a camera, he had never envisioned this scenario.

  Rue des Jeûneurs had been all over the news a few weeks earlier, when the cops had cleared out a problematic squat in the area. Today, they were there for an entirely different reason. They entered a building next to a closed massage parlor. Two officers took up position in front of the door, while the others, with Nico, Kriven, and Becker in the lead, climbed the stairs to the top floor. They heard music playing inside the apartment. Kriven knocked on Etienne Delamare’s door. The music stopped, and the door opened.

  “Etienne Delamare?” Commander Kriven asked.

  “Yes, what can I do for you?”

  “Criminal Investigation Division. We’d like to talk to you.”

  “About what?” the young man said. He was a good meter eighty-five in height and had eyes the gray-green color of a pond.

  “About your cousin Juliette,” Nico said.

  “I already told the police everything I know.”

  Becker stepped forward. “My name is Alexandre Becker. I’m the magistrate in charge of this case. Let us in. We have new information that we need to discuss with you.”

  Etienne looked disconcerted. He stepped aside. “Does my family know?”

  Nico ignored the question. “I’m Chief Sirsky, and these are the other members of my team.”

  Captain Vidal distributed latex gloves, and the men spread out in silence.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re exploring new leads in the invest
igation of Juliette’s homicide,” Nico answered, examining the spines of the books on the shelves.

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “You are part of the family, and you split your time between Louviers and Paris. We have reason to believe that your cousin’s murderer has committed crimes in the capital.”

  Nico had thrown a stone into the murky water, and now he’d watch the ripples.

  “What? Are you saying that Juliette wasn’t his only victim?”

  “That’s what we think.”

  “I still don’t see what that has to do with me.”

  “A bedroom and a living room with a kitchen, plus a bathroom,” Kriven said. “He lives alone. No sign of a roommate.”

  Nico took his eyes off the suspect and scanned the room, taking in a giclée print of a still life with interesting light and shadows.

  “We must check out all possible leads,” Becker said.

  “Did you know Eva Keller, a student at La Fémis?” Nico asked, giving Etienne his full attention.

  “The director’s daughter? The one everyone’s talking about? The girl who was murdered?”

  “Yes,” Becker said. His tone was sharp.

  “No, I never met her.”

  “Did you attend a conference called ‘The Abuse of Truth’?”

  “Um . . . No.”

  “We’ll have the list of participants soon, and we’ll be able to check.”

  “You’re treating me like I did something wrong. I loved Juliette like a sister.”

  “Do the names Kevin Longin or Noë Valles mean anything to you?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Were you invited to an event at the Paris Bar Association?”

  Etienne seemed genuinely surprised by the question.

  “I wish, but I don’t have those kinds of connections.”

  “Your aunt said that you changed your major to criminal law after Juliette was kidnapped.”

  “I told you. She was like a sister to me. So yes, I’d rather put killers behind bars than defend them—like you.”

  “Do you ever hang out near Montparnasse?” Becker asked.

  “Trains to Normandy leave from the Saint Lazare station.”

  “Have you ever invited any of your friends from Paris to go with you?” Nico asked.

  “Yes, but that was a long time ago.”

  “How long ago?”

  “More than a year ago, after midterms.”

  “A friend who could have taken an interest in Juliette?”

  “No! I don’t think we even saw her.”

  “What was that friend’s name?”

  “It’s someone I’m not even in touch with anymore.”

  Nico handed the young man a notebook. “Write down his name. Did you notice anything unusual when you last visited your family?” He noted that Etienne was right-handed.

  “If you mean something that would explain what happened to Juliette, the answer is no—nothing.”

  “And otherwise?” Nico insisted.

  Etienne bit his lip. What is he thinking? Nico wondered.

  The Paris Bar Association served as a voice for some twenty thousand lawyers, defined ethics in the legal profession, and resolved conflicts. Chaired by a bâtonnier, it was run like a business, with a hundred and seventy employees and twenty-nine departments.

  The ground floor of the Maison du Barreau, situated on a corner of Place Dauphine at the western end of Île de la Cité, had several elegant arches, while the upper floors featured a seventeenth-century-style brick exterior with multipane windows. The interior, however, was modern and functional. A receptionist ushered Commander Maurin and Captain Noumen upstairs to meet the bâtonnier’s assistant.

  “So, you want some details about the event we’ve planned for June?”

  “I believe you’ve already sent out invitations,” Maurin said.

  “Not yet.”

  “But we found this.”

  The woman looked at the invitation discovered at the hotel.

  “Who gave you that? It’s not the right invitation, in any case.” She sounded surprised.

  “Do you know this man?” Noumen held out a photo of Etienne Delamare.

  “No, I can’t help you. However, some people who’ve been in the news lately did pay us a visit.”

  “Is that right,” Maurin said, leaning forward in her chair. “And who would that be?”

  The chief administrator of La Fémis pulled up the information on the conference. “About twenty of our students attended,” he said.

  “Can you print up the list, please?” Commander Théron asked.

  “The conference was organized by students in the master’s program at the Paris Criminology Institute. I won’t be able to give you a complete list, as we only have the students from our school who attended.”

  The master’s degree in criminology led to careers in the police and gendarmerie, as well as in prisons, customs, and the magistrature. Prospective lawyers also studied at the institute. Every year, some five hundred students applied for admittance, but only twenty-five were chosen. Around three hundred students attended each year.

  Théron sighed. It was an elite place. Had a crack serial killer wormed his way in?

  Ukraine, Sweden, Poland, Germany . . . Would the murderer emulate the British serial killer next? At first glance, it seemed to make sense. But did it? Nico was trying to crawl into the brain of the copycat, but so much still didn’t make sense.

  He heard a knock at the door, and Deputy Chief Rost walked in.

  “Eva Keller stopped by the Paris Bar Association two days before her murder to interview the bâtonnier for her documentary. Guess how she got the appointment? Through an old friend of the bâtonnier, Marianne Delvaux.”

  “The actress?”

  “That’s right, Chief. The woman who claimed she wasn’t close to her lover’s daughter was actually helping her with her homework. And she wanted us to believe that Eva knew nothing about the affair. She certainly deserves her César Award. By the way, the invitation to the Bar Association event is a fake. The association hasn’t even sent them out yet. Did you get Maurin’s memo?”

  “About John Haigh? Yes.”

  “Enough to put the fear of God in us, right? So who do you think encouraged Eva Keller to change the subject of her documentary? Marianne Delvaux or the student she met at the conference?”

  Nico was fit to be tied. The actress had tried to pull one over on them. “Bring Delvaux in. No more kid gloves for her. And I want to know who this Wilde is. He might be a criminology student. Do we have the complete list of those who attended the conference?”

  “We’re working on it, but it’s long. And we’re looking for Etienne Delamare’s friend, the one who went to Normandy with him last year.”

  “The search of his apartment showed that he wears a size 44 shoe.”

  “And that he’s right-handed. Kriven told me.”

  “Like 90 percent of the world’s population. The search didn’t turn up a freezer or any suspicious suitcases. We’ll have to check his teeth.”

  “Kriven also said that Etienne walked in on the Bisots having a fight.”

  Nico nodded. “Apparently Mr. Bisot has a temper. He’s told his wife to go to hell on more than one occasion. And Etienne is certain that his uncle’s trips to Paris aren’t just for work. He claims he has a mistress here. Etienne says the man isn’t who he pretends to be, and Dr. Bisot is a basket case, not only because of her loss, but also because of the way he treats her.”

  “That doesn’t make him a killer capable of murdering his own daughter,” Rost said.

  “True. But we need to keep in mind that the man we’re after is a psychopath who wants everyone to think he’s normal. Family gives a psychopath an aura of normalcy and respectability, something he would want to maintain—unless he’s at the end of his rope and breaking down.”

  Nico folded his arms across his chest. “Did Kriven give you the other piece of news?�
� He didn’t wait for an answer. “It seems Juliette wasn’t Bisot’s biological daughter. Her father died when she was one, and Mr. Bisot adopted her later. He has a son with Dr. Bisot. He could have considered Juliette an outsider in the family.”

  Nico watched Rost’s face redden. “Damn it! Why are we only learning about this now? Why didn’t that make it into the case file from the local police?”

  “You know how it is when everyone knows everyone else. Lucky for us, Etienne leaked it at the end of our search. In any case, our copycat has committed a series of murders demonstrating real mastery and a genuine pleasure in killing. That’s not a man at the end of his rope, a man lashing out at his loved ones, but we can’t neglect any lead. Put a team on it.”

  Rost nodded and left the office. Nico watched him close the door and picked up his phone. He fiddled with it for a minute before making the call.

  His mother picked up. “Nico?”

  “Yes, it’s me, Mom. How are you?”

  He waited for Anya’s answer.

  “Is everything okay, son?” she finally said. He heard both worry and determination in her voice, and Nico knew that she wouldn’t give up until she got answers. She could be worse than a detective.

  “No, I’m not,” he said, a knot in his throat.

  “You can put on your ‘everything’s okay’ act for everyone else, but I brought you into this world, remember? Of course you don’t, but I do. My son, four kilos, two hundred grams. And you’re still my baby. That’s what being a mother is about.”

  Nico smiled. He hated to use the cliché, but she was the original drama queen.

  “Now tell me what’s wrong.”

  Anya never changed, thank God. She’d always have her way of cutting to the chase.

  “The Keller case . . . and Caroline,” Nico finally said, holding back his tears.

  21

  It was a perfect day for a stroll in the gardens of the Château de Versailles. She pulled on her gloves and checked the details of her costume, custom made at great expense by a seamstress who had supplied gowns for a historical-drama series on television. She loved these outings with this group of amateur actors who shared a passion for historical reenactments and a fascination for role-playing parties. Today she was playing Françoise-Athénaïs de Rochechouart, Marquise de Montespan.