Looking to the Woods

by Frédérique Molay

  “Every detail is important,” Noumen said.

  “You’re going to arrest the person who killed Kevin, aren’t you? You promised me . . .”

  Captain Noumen answered with a nod and a smile, and he and Maurin said good-bye. Back on the landing, they waited a few minutes before ringing the Van Berghs’ doorbell. It was a silly strategy, however. Noumen knew that Mrs. Longin was watching through the peephole.

  Nico heard her behind him.

  “Knock, knock.”

  He swung around. Caroline was in the doorway of his office, looking pale. Since disclosing her pregnancy, Caroline had told him that the morning sickness was getting to her. But she was smiling, and for that, Nico was grateful.

  “Darling, I’m so happy you’re here.”

  “Where are you in the investigation?”

  “The suspects are falling like flies. We’re near the end. But I’ll have a hard time getting away tonight. I know I promised you dinner . . .”

  “Don’t worry, I’m going home.”

  “I’d love for you to stay a bit. Dimitri can do without your company for a little while.”

  “I don’t want to bother you.”

  “You never bother me, Caroline. Are you hungry? I could send somebody out for a croque monsieur from a little place nearby that a few of the guys found. They tell me it’s pretty good.”

  “No, please don’t!” Caroline raised her hand, indicating for him to stop. “Just the thought of it makes me sick.”

  Nico took her hand and kissed it. “I can’t wait any longer to tell you what I need to say.” He reached into his pocket and took out a box.

  “What’s that?”

  “Open it, and you’ll see.”

  Caroline took the box and slowly opened it.

  “Nico! It’s magnificent . . .”

  “It’s a family ring, from Odessa.”

  It was a gold band with a superb diamond mount. Laurel engravings flanked the jewel.

  “I can’t accept this.”

  “When I got divorced, my mother gave me this ring. She told me that life holds many surprises, and she knew I would meet the woman who was meant for me. She wanted me to keep it until I met that woman.”

  Caroline was trembling.

  “You are the woman of my life, Caroline. I’ve finally found you, and I want you to wear this ring.”

  “I don’t want you influenced by—”

  “By the baby? Caroline, that sweet child will influence me my whole life. But that’s not why I want you to have this. Don’t you see how much I love you?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “I refuse to lose you, Caroline. And there’s one thing that you must absolutely know . . .”

  “Chief!” It was Rost calling him from out in the hallway. He burst into the office, stopping short when he saw Caroline.

  “Oh, sorry . . . Good evening, doctor. I can come back.”

  “Is it important?”

  “Drillan and Pons recognized our photo of Oscar Van Bergh. He’s the one who picked up Eva at the conference.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Studying at the Criminology Institute. Théron’s squad is ready to go in and get him. They’re awaiting your orders.”

  Nico hesitated, but reason won out.

  “I won’t be long,” he told Caroline. “Can you wait? Please?”

  “Of course. I won’t go anywhere.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Don’t be an idiot. Go on!” She blew him a kiss, and Nico disappeared.

  The Criminology Institute was on Place du Panthéon. According to the director, Oscar Van Bergh was in the library, which was open late because exams were coming up. The director’s assistant, a serious-looking young woman, met Nico, Théron, and Rost at stairwell K, and they climbed the wide carpeted steps to the top floor. The library was a narrow room with a wooden floor and a beamed ceiling. Low shelves filled with books lined the walls. The library was a rich resource in penal procedure and criminology. The copycat—or copycats—had surely been smart about using it. The students looked up from their books when Nico, Théron, and Rost walked into the room.

  “Oscar Van Bergh?” Théron called out.

  A few students turned their heads toward a young man sitting alone at one of the tables.

  “We’re arresting you for murder,” Nico said, studying Van Bergh’s face. He wondered if it was over now, or if the hands of the clock were bringing them inexorably closer to another victim. A victim who could die by the hand of another student in this room—a student wearing the cloak of José Vega.

  28

  Nico stood outside the aquariums, the holding cells near his office. They’d been dubbed the aquariums since each cell had one glass wall, so the suspects could be observed, but they couldn’t interact. Delvaux was sitting on a bench with an arrogant look on his face. Maybe he thought his mother’s connections would save him. Oscar Van Bergh was leaning against a graffiti-filled wall, his arms crossed. He was wearing the calm expression of someone who expected the police to apologize for their mistake. Lucas Barel was the most agitated of the three. He was chewing his fingernails and circling his cell like a fish in a bowl. Who did he kill Noë Valles for? Not for Delvaux, whose target was Keller, nor for Van Bergh, who wanted to get back at Kevin Longin for his bike. Looking at them, could anyone imagine, even for a moment, the atrocity of the crimes they had committed? How was it possible? They had angelic faces and demonic souls.

  Nico walked away, leaving a uniformed officer to watch over the students. The squad room was tense. All the teams had been brought together.

  “We’re at a crucial point,” Nico announced. “There’s no margin for error. The weak link is clearly Lucas Barel, because we have irrefutable proof that he bit Noë Valles. And he looks like a pressure cooker ready to burst. We need him to give us the name of the person he killed Noë for.”

  Nico looked around the room, making sure everyone understood.

  “We’ll take another approach with Michael Delvaux: the overshoes match the prints found at Juliette Bisot’s crime scene. But a good attorney can get that evidence thrown out. So we need a confession.”

  Kriven cracked his knuckles.

  “As for Oscar Van Bergh—Eva Keller’s Oscar Wilde—we know that he had a beef with Kevin Longin, although we don’t know yet who killed the boy,” Nico said.

  Commander Maurin crossed her arms.

  “And then there are the anonymous messages—all in the same handwriting and red ink—found near the bodies of Eva Keller, Noë Valles, and Virginie Ravault. The writing and the ink are identical to the writing and ink in the threats the attorney received. We need to use this lead.”

  “And then they’ll fall like dominos,” Kriven said.

  “That’s right. We’re finally getting somewhere. We believe we have the right people in three of the homicides. But we have five victims, and we don’t know who’s behind the other two. Furthermore, we don’t know who all the killers were doing it for.”

  “Do we have the gamemaster or not?” Théron asked.

  “That’s what we need to find out,” Becker answered.

  “I need to remind you that the nursery rhyme isn’t finished,” Nico said. “We haven’t seen the ‘five yummy candies’ served up à la Vega. That means a sixth victim and another killer. We have to get our suspects to talk—and fast. If we must, we’ll keep at it all night.”

  “You can count on us, Chief,” Rost said.

  “I want each of the three squad leaders to take one suspect. Let’s get at least one of them to crack.”

  “If you sense an opening and need a joker, you can call Nico or me in,” Becker said.

  “Don’t hesitate to attack their virility to destabilize them,” Dominique Kreiss said.

  “Okay, we know what we need to do,” Nico said, concluding the meeting. “Let’s push them to the breaking point!”

  Caroline was leafing through a police magazine, a cup of tea by he
r side.

  “Your secretary,” she said, looking up.

  Nico leaned over and kissed her. She was wearing Anya’s ring.

  “You had something important to tell me,” she said.

  He sat down across from her and took her hands in his. “Here it is. I already love this baby. Having a child with you is beyond my wildest dreams. It’s the most precious gift you could ever give me. You will be the best mother, just like you already are to Dimitri.”

  “Have you thought about him?”

  “Dimitri? He’ll be crazy about the baby. That’s a lock.”

  Nico kissed both her hands.

  “Caroline, I know I’ve suggested in the past that one child was enough for me, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. A life with you, Dimitri, and our baby is exactly what I want. When you told me you were pregnant, I was just too overwhelmed to get the right words out. I’m so sorry.”

  “You’re sure about this?” Her eyes were brimming with tears.

  “I couldn’t be more sure of anything. And I don’t want you to worry for even a minute about how we’ll work this out. You can count on me, Caroline. And you—are you positive you want this?”

  “Me?” Caroline said, surprised.

  “Are you sure you want this baby?” Nico said, feeling suddenly anxious.

  “I would have kept the baby no matter what, with or without you.”

  He pulled her close and kissed her cheek. He couldn’t wait to tell his mother and his sister.

  Michael Delvaux watched the uniformed bootlicker who stood motionless in the room. What was he doing? Trying to compete with the guards at Buckingham Palace? Did the cops intend to let him marinate until he told them something? Who did they think he was? Ever since he was a kid, he had watched his mother put on a show. Acting was a gift she used to collect and discard lovers, a gift she used to fool his spineless father—and a gift she used to pretend she was sorry for neglecting him from the day he was born. But he had always seen through her. She had gotten serious about the director—more serious than she had ever been about her own son. Well, she wasn’t the only person who could act. He knew how to follow her lead. In fact, he’d been turning in the performance of a lifetime.

  The door opened, and a woman walked in and sat down across from him. A woman. Where did they get this bitch?

  “I’m Commander Maurin,” she said. “I have some questions for you about Eva Keller, who Oscar Van Bergh killed on your behalf. Meanwhile, you set your sights on Juliette Bisot and murdered her for Lucas Barel.”

  He wanted to laugh. He “set his sights on” the girl? This cop hadn’t even read the police report! He’d shoved a knife into her chest, sliced up her face, and ripped out her eyes. He’d cut her into little pieces. One less broodmare for the world!

  “That’s a funny little arrangement you have with your friends,” Maurin said.

  This chick knew shit about vindication.

  “Juliette was ten years old. I bet you can’t get it up with a woman.”

  Michael balled his hands into fists. Too bad she couldn’t see how hard he could get. Given the opportunity, he’d rock her world.

  “We know who stole your bike, and it wasn’t Kevin Longin. You really fucked up.”

  That was a pretty crude trap. Oscar was disappointed. Was that all these guys could come up with?

  “I’m not following you, Commander . . . Péron?”

  “It’s Théron. But it doesn’t matter what you call me. What’s more interesting is that we found your name in Eva Keller’s phone. How would you explain that?”

  That whore had saved his number? He’d double-checked. She’d always referred to him as Wilde. There was no way they could connect her to him. This was a bullshit strategy.

  “Some of Eva’s friends saw you talking with her at a conference.”

  Okay. One point for the cops. But what else did they know that they weren’t telling him? Had they found a shard from that damned bottle of Dom Pérignon—the bottle he used to knock her unconscious? A shard with his fingerprints? Impossible. He’d been meticulous about cleaning it up and getting rid of everything. But what if . . . His mind started to race. What would the gamemaster say?

  “Yeah? So what if I was talking with her at the conference? Is that a crime? Hasn’t that ever happened to you, Commander? You come on to a girl, and then you drop her. No explanation needed. After all, there are lots of girls out there.”

  “Actually, I’m the type who sees things through. Unlike you, clearly. The Keller girl wasn’t just any girl. In your shoes, I would have jumped at the opportunity. No, I don’t think you’re capable of that. I mean, when you’re with a girl for a while you have to prove yourself. Know what I’m talking about? Maybe you don’t have the juice where it counts.”

  Eva Keller . . . She’d been sexy enough. She’d worn that dress. You could practically see through it. That dress could have given a dead man a hard-on. The cop would have to work harder to make him look like a wuss.

  “Don’t spend any time worrying about my cock,” Oscar said, doing his best to sound nonchalant. “It’s working just fine.”

  But this Théron was getting on his nerves.

  “So, you prefer men?” the detective threw out.

  Lucas Barel felt his muscles tense. He needed a fix . . . a fix of men, of rape, of murder and blood.

  “Is this some kind of witch hunt?” he asked. “Are you a bunch of homophobes?”

  The cop knit his brow and tightened his jaw. Lucas had struck a chord. These police gods didn’t like being called intolerant. It was bad for their image.

  “We have proof of your involvement in the murder of Noë Valles.”

  Okay, he bit him. That was the least of it, of course. The stinking little rat had fallen right into his trap. It had been almost too easy. He’d taken such pleasure in watching the kid bleed out and then eating his flesh. The gamemaster had wanted him to imitate Fritz Haarmann. What did he care, as long as he got his fix. There’d been one slipup, though. He’d forgotten to tell Louis that he was missing his two canine teeth, a distinguishing mark. The gamemaster would be pissed off when he found out.

  “We also know that you’re linked to the murder of Mrs. Ravault.”

  “Excuse me?” Lucas sat up straight.

  “That should be ‘Excuse me, Commander Kriven.’ Now, tell me: Does Still Life with Lemons mean anything to you?”

  He’d given it to Etienne in memory of their weekend in Louviers. Etienne had let him touch him. Etienne was smart, and he smelled good. He was no prey. He could have been a partner. But Etienne had made it clear . . .

  “We found those words above Mrs. Ravault’s body. And the message ‘three round coins’ written in the same ink next to Noë Valles. What do you have to say for yourself? You’re in a tight spot here, Barel.”

  Why make Van Gogh’s painting part of the Acid Bath Killer’s crime scene, other than to echo the “four planes a pretty lemon yellow” in the nursery rhyme? Was it a trap—a way of getting rid of him? Of throwing him to the wolves?

  “Still Life with Lemons: you either used it yourself or told your friend who killed Mrs. Ravault about it.”

  The cop didn’t get it at all. Lucas had to remain calm. He had to stay strong.

  “Just so you know, Michael Delvaux is ratting you out right now. He admitted to killing Juliette Bisot, and he said you had him do it.”

  Why use the Van Gogh? He’d get life for Noë Valles in any case—but for the others, too?

  The cop leaned across the table. He was handsome . . . the dark and swarthy type. His gaze pierced him like an arrow.

  “Do you want to be the only one to pay for Noë Valles’s murder? We know you killed him for someone else. And it wasn’t for Delvaux or Van Bergh. So who was it for? Who asked you to kill Noë Valles?”

  “It was to honor Fritz Haarmann!” Lucas spit out.

  “Who told you that Valles was ideal prey? The kind that Haarmann would have chosen? You had
suggested Juliette Bisot, to be killed à la Chikatilo, and Michael Delvaux did the dirty work. Who gave you Noë Valles’s name? Who?”

  Lucas could feel the blood pulsing in his brain. The walls were closing in. Now he was the rat. But these cops had it all wrong. None of them had the imagination or the intellect to carry out a scheme like theirs. Only a superior species could achieve what they had done. These guys were just ordinary flatfoots—except this one.

  “Who gave you the name?” the cop shouted, just inches from his face.

  Too close. Lucas cried out in rage as he planted his lips on the cop’s. The reaction was immediate: the uniformed officer jumped him and pulled him away, and the detective punched him in the gut. He doubled over, hardly able to breathe. That damn whore Valles! He had been willing to do anything for food and a place to sleep. And Juliette? He didn’t give a shit about her. This cop was a thousand miles from the truth. But that bitch Ravault . . . She had humiliated him. She had treated him like half a man because he was a homosexual. Louis had avenged him. Louis had loved him!

  “Louis!” he barked victoriously.

  The room fell silent. The uniformed officer picked him up by the collar and handcuffed him.

  “Louis?” the detective asked. “Louis had something against Noë Valles?”

  So this cop was a dumbass, too.

  “Alban Lancia,” he said, exhausted.

  29

  “Alban Lancia, twenty-two years old, another student at the Criminology Institute,” Captain Plassard said. He looked tired. “Alban’s mother married Noë Valles’s father when he was ten. It was all downhill from there. Noë’s chronic instability, which ran the gamut from self-mutilation to attempted suicide, sucked all the air out of the family and left Alban with nothing. Noë was hospitalized on a number of occasions, which did give Alban a few moments of peace. But then Noë would come back and deplete the family again. The drugs and the prostitution came afterward.”

  “So that was the score Alban wanted to settle,” said Becker, who was slumped in an armchair. “We need to arrest him. Did Barel say who Lancia’s victim was? Was it Longin or Ravault?”