A Killer's Game

by Luca Tahtieazym

I follow him as he zigzags down the road. We find a bar – a brothel really, going by the red neon lights – located in an alley far away from the general crowd. The facade smells of dog piss. Under normal circumstances I would never dream of entering such a sordid place.

  An enormous bouncer ignores us, and we walk through a small room where some young women are dancing. They’re naked. We make our way to the bar.

  ‘It’s on me this time,’ Lambert says. ‘Champagne?’

  I acquiesce. I’m a little surprised that Lambert can afford champagne at five hundred francs a bottle on his wages, but I let him order it anyway.

  We watch as the dancers twist and wriggle into poses that are meant to be suggestive. I’m amazed to see that such vulgarity can excite the fringes of society so. It certainly has no effect on me.

  A young woman walks over and starts sniffing around. Lambert offers her a glass of champagne. I have to intervene before he abandons me. I can already picture him announcing that he’s off upstairs with this slut.

  When he gets up to go to the toilet, I grab the woman by the elbow and give her a two-hundred-franc bill to leave us alone for half an hour. I suggest she passes on the message to her little friends.

  Lambert is coming back. He bumps into a stool and knocks it over, but then simply leaves it on the floor and weaves his way back over to me.

  ‘I bet your job takes it out of you. I bet your social life suffers for it.’

  ‘It’s the same for all of us, but I have more bottle than most.’

  ‘Do you think about work all the time?’

  ‘I have to. All my cases are critical. I think about them last thing at night when I go to bed and first thing in the morning when I get up, and right now this Artist case is really keeping us on our toes.’

  ‘D’you think you’re close to getting him?’

  ‘We’ll get him. We’ll get him. When we first started, we were looking at the art world. For someone to be that good, they must have been in the business at some point, but nothing. Nada. We didn’t find a fucking thing . . . At first, we thought it was someone on the inside.’

  ‘Inside?’

  ‘Yeah. Why couldn’t we find a trace of him? This man is good! No witnesses, no noise when he kills them. We thought maybe he understood how criminal investigations work, but nothing. We didn’t find a thing.’

  ‘And then what? Did you think of anything else? Any other leads?’

  ‘Yes. You know, in cases like this, there are dozens of them. We’ve had reports from people – lots of stuff. Nothing ever comes of any of it. You know, this fella killed in Bayonne in 1981, Les Sables-d’Olonne in 1983, Lyon in 1984, Lille at the beginning of last year and Montpellier in November. It’s incredible that he did not leave a single trace . . . He’s a madman. They always are. For all we know, he’s killed others. Women.’

  ‘What makes you think that? That he’s killed others?’

  ‘I just think maybe he has. The problem, my good man, is that murders happen every week. It was complete chance that we made the link between the 1981 killing, the first one, and the one in 1983. Some random officer from the Basque country was on holiday in the Vendée when the second murder took place – he was the one to make the connection. If it wasn’t for him, we’d have no idea there’s a killer this bad on the loose. It was pure coincidence, so we reckon he could have killed before but we don’t have the time or manpower to go through all the cases.’

  ‘Dead girls with drawings on their bellies – it’s hardly run-of-the-mill, is it?’

  ‘But, Robert, it’s not that simple . . . The officer called out to the murder scene in Bayonne didn’t even notice at the time that the lacerations on the victim’s abdomen represented a picture. It had bled a little, and he just thought she’d been stabbed. I think we need another stroke of luck – you know, something major.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know, I really don’t. We need someone to come in and start telling tales.’

  ‘Jacques? You know when someone comes in and confesses – how would you know if it’s him or not?’

  ‘Easy. The press know what landmarks he’s drawn. In Montpellier, for example, he did the Fontaine des Trois Grâces, but the photos of the drawings are never communicated to anyone. If someone comes in and says he did it, he’d be asked to describe precisely what he drew. And there are other things that haven’t come out in the press, like his shoe size . . .’

  I feel elated by this point. I wear a size 10 and over the whole ten years I’ve been working, I’ve been squeezing into my famous pair of size 9 shoes in order to mislead the police. I didn’t think it would work as well as this.

  ‘But we’re not really sure,’ continues Lambert.

  I hope the surprise doesn’t show on my face. I’m amazed. ‘Not sure of what?’

  ‘The killer could be putting on another shoe size – it might be his way of taking the piss out of us, but then, as far as Montpellier’s concerned, none of that matters anyway.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘The prints he left on the floor are not only the same size, but the pattern of the soles is the same as the prints we found at the other crime scenes. They’re very distinctive.’

  Right. I must look livid right now, but no mirror would dare approach me to reflect my discomfort, and those mirrors are right. I’m really not in the mood to accept their services at present. I need a little break. I need to come to my senses.

  ‘So, Jacques . . . tell me . . . What’s next for you?’

  ‘Next?’

  ‘Well . . . yeah . . . You don’t have a suspect, but you have to try something, don’t you? I dunno. I suppose you’re going to have to look into things even if you know nothing will come of them.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right, but I do as I’m told. I’m just a detective. We’re trying to come up with different ideas, but it’s not easy. The Artist kills young, pretty women. There were two years between the first two murders, one year and seven months between the second and third, one year and four months between the third and fourth, and only eight months between the fourth and the killing in Montpellier. Our analysts have been looking into it all, and we’re convinced he’ll kill again soon. We think the next one will be due in around four or five months’ time – May or June. What can we do? We can’t put a police officer on every woman in France who fits the profile of his typical targets, can we? That’s our problem. There are too many girls out there who are just what he’s looking for.’

  So the murder in Montpellier is leading them down the garden path. They certainly have some interesting theories though. My thirst for art is increasing between each set of murders, and the length of time keeps shortening. I haven’t ever looked at it like that. But it wasn’t me who took Caroline Berthier’s life, and my first canvasses, the ones I used in 1974 in Cannes and in 1979 in Béziers, have completely escaped their thinking because they’ve never attributed them to me. By my own reckoning, it was five and a half years between my first murder and the second, and a year and a half between my second and third, the third being the one that officially triggered the existence of The Artist. Meaning that the speculations Lambert has just revealed are meaningless – good for me.

  We change the subject and I feel all the better for it. I’m going to have to digest the news: the killer’s shoe prints in Caroline Berthier’s apartment are identical to the prints found at the other crime scenes.

  12.

  Tuesday, 27 January 1987

  I know by heart the traces left by my shoes at the scene of my murders. In the backpack buried in the small forest near Grasse, I’ve hidden Patroclus, my leather gloves and my shoes – the ones I wear exclusively for my work. They’re a trademark of sorts. I’ve always wanted recognition. Using the same knife and leaving the same clues behind means the police will have to stay on the case. I never wanted anyone else to be accused of my crimes. Not at all. I’m proud of them.

  And I think I’m also a little jea
lous now that someone’s clearly copying me. But who is it, and why would they do it?

  I can’t leave Paris right away. Skipping town just as soon as this discussion with Lambert is over might tip him off. After we finish our drinks, I take him home. I see him twice the following week and then tell him that my business in the capital is all done and dusted, and I have to go home. It’s duly noted. We promise to meet again soon, but Robert Morane, the unexceptional provincial salesman, is now dead and gone.

  I’ve learned everything I needed, and more.

  The murder in Montpellier really did happen. It wasn’t an ambush to get me out in the open, but I already knew that, but I’ve also learned that whoever is copying my style and trying to cause me harm has been wearing the same shoes as me.

  It can’t just be a coincidence. Someone knows me and they’re copying what I do with an accuracy that’s beyond my understanding.

  And I don’t like questions hanging over me. You, my reader, may have noticed that I do my best to avoid such unbalanced and unruly punctuation as question marks and exclamation marks. I like neither.

  But I certainly have one or two questions on my mind as things stand. My neurons are colliding just that little bit too hard.

  Who is it? Who is it? Who is it? I have to repeat it three times. That’s the bare minimum. Why did he do it? And with my shoes on. How did he get them? Did he actually use my shoes, or did he buy the same brand and style? How did he know about them? Was it Patroclus who tore Caroline Berthier apart? And then there’s this question, the ultimate one, the real one, the only one that makes sense, the one that prevails beyond any other questions that may arise: Why does he want me to take the blame for this?

  Please understand me. Please just try to imagine this. You’re the copycat. If you do something like this, it’s probably because you want to cause me trouble, isn’t it? You might have chosen me quite randomly maybe, so you could act with total impunity, but I somehow don’t think that’s the case here. You know who I am. If you killed in Montpellier, leaving behind the prints of those damn shoes, then you know my identity. I am hereby formally excluding any notion that the perpetrator is a police officer. Yes, a policeman might well have access to the files and would know about the shoes, but I simply don’t believe it.

  This has all been very carefully planned out, of that I’m sure. I am the target. Me: Achilles. Some unknown assassin knows everything about me and is now goading me. If he’d wanted, he could have left a clue at the scene of the murders that would have pointed to my identity. The fact that I’m a sales rep and travel throughout France makes me the ideal suspect, but I’m highly cautious – the law would find it hard to establish any formal evidence against me. No suspicions will find any basis in concrete proof, not if I can help it.

  Since this copycat has done nothing to lead them to me, I can only deduce that he wants to play with me. He doesn’t want me to end up in some chilly cell alongside the country’s most ruthless convicts; he wants to challenge me.

  The first thing I need do is eliminate a few potential suspects. That’s how the police would go about this. It is a given that the person plagiarising my work has identified me as The Artist. I know that because of the shoe prints in Montpellier. So who has access to the case files? How about Jacques Lambert? No, no . . . impossible . . . I detected a hint of envy in his eyes when we talked, but he wouldn’t be up to a game of cat and mouse, not him.

  I know a lot of people, far too many people, in fact. The truth is, I know nothing. All I know is that I didn’t commit this murder because I was in Ottrott at the time.

  So what about all those people who skirt around my circle of friends, those not quite in the group? And what about those who haunt my past? There are loads of them. I’ll have to tell you about them.

  Let me picture this ghost for myself. I’m Achilles. He can be Hector: my sworn enemy, the one who defies my courage and questions my invincibility.

  Let’s do it Greek-style, my friend. Lambert will never have the cunning and brilliance of Ulysses, and so I, Achilles the Invincible, will face Hector. Our fight will have the same outcome as that between the son of Peleus and the Trojan. I don’t yet have my Trojan horse, but I know I’m smarter than my opponent.

  First of all, I have to get to Grasse and dig in the undergrowth. I’ll watch my back, of course. I need to see if Patroclus, my gloves and my shoes are still there. The problem is, I often go and get Patroclus out. I can’t bear to leave him all alone out there. The risks I take in doing this are enormous.

  I remember that the last time I went to dig up the backpack, I had the feeling I was being followed. Do you remember that? I told you about it at the start of these confessions. I told you how I went back to Grasse after having done some superb work up in Lille.

  What if I really was followed? What if someone found out who I really am? What if . . . ? What if . . . ? What if . . . ?

  I rummage through the soil. The shovel is still there. I grab it firmly and push myself further into the woods. A few hundred yards on – I’ve already described the scene – and I’m at the foot of the old oak tree. It only takes ten minutes to get the backpack along with everything in it out of the hole.

  The gloves are there. Patroclus is there. The shoes are there. There’s no way of knowing if anyone else has been digging here. It’s hard to determine if these shoes have been worn by Hector. When I look closely at the sole, I think I can see brownish traces that aren’t supposed to be there. I’m a conscientious type and I always take particular care with cleaning my tools. It’s dried blood all right. I’m going to have to stash the backpack a little further away.

  I just can’t be sure of anything. I may have been less meticulous than usual after killing Françoise. It was a long journey home, via Paris, Dijon, Lyon, but I certainly took the time to nervously polish Patroclus and my shoes. They were immaculate – gleaming when I left them.

  There’s no point in overthinking, so I’m going to start from the simple premise that I was followed and watched when I came into the woods before going up to Lille. Then, after my return, Hector came here, grabbed my beloved tools, went down to Montpellier, killed Caroline Berthier, and quietly returned to bury my possessions where he’d found them.

  I spend the next few days mulling it over. I’ve always claimed, rather arrogantly, that I’m more intelligent than the police. It’s time to prove it. My advantage is that I now know that Hector understands me – as if he were my double – but he doesn’t realise that I’m already there. Two steps ahead. I’m closer to him than he thinks.

  Jean-Paul comes over for dinner one evening. He’s in Nice for a couple of meetings, which suggests that he finally wants to expand beyond Lyon.

  I’m thinking about Hector. I’m obsessed with this enemy in the shadows. He may not be in my immediate entourage, but I must know him from somewhere. Maybe we’ve done some business together? Does he have a similar background to me? How did I come to be like this?

  The Artist is hated by everyone, but Achilles has no real enemies. I do have a few jealous competitors and two or three dissatisfied customers, but nothing that would justify such hatred and deceit. I mean, Machiavelli himself would pale at this little situation.

  I think and think some more. I eliminate, adjust my position, confront all the possibilities.

  How did I come to be like this?

  I’ve asked myself that question a million times over. Police officers don’t have a clue when it comes to anything artistic. I discovered painting and sculpture as a teenager – perhaps even as a child – but these disciplines remained a hobby and I never approached any real artists, except Antoine, and neither did I make this gift of mine my profession. I’m not a painter, I’m a salesman. If the investigators continue to search among artists, I’ll feel that bit safer.

  Blood is something that entered into my soul very early on. It’s something you can’t control. You don’t become addicted to blood – you need to understand that. Desir
e develops, but it’s basically a virtue – an innate and contained virtue. I have always had this thirst in me, but it was not until I was twelve or thirteen years old that it revealed itself. Had I at some point read about or witnessed some brutal scene? And had my mouth watered? Other than my cousin Albert . . . and some of our adventures . . . I don’t really remember much out of the ordinary.

  I used to draw on yellowing sheets of paper given to me by my father, and then I started working on dead animals. All artists change media at some point.

  Things just happened. It was out of my control. Sic vita est – ‘such is life’. I killed dogs and cats to begin with, and then, when I’d had enough and felt ready to move on, I started to think bigger.

  It was in Cannes in 1974. Sixteenth of June, to be exact. My first human victim. I was already forty-two years old by then. I know, I’m a late starter. If I’d embarked on my career somewhat earlier, just after the war, for example, I might really have blossomed at a young age.

  But there you go, I wasn’t so lucky. I was too timid. Never mind, I’m making up for it now. I’ll tell you later about my first. It was a test run. An initiation. I could have done better, but even though I have a couple of regrets, I have nothing to be ashamed of.

  But it was as a child that I first set to work. I remember it as if it was yesterday.

  My childhood was spent in Collioure in a familial, yet dangerous, setting. I was only seven years old when Germany declared war on the world and when I think back to that time, Proustian memories of certain smells and senses come immediately to mind. I remember the sea, the scorching caress of the sun, the taste of anchovies caught by furrow-browed sailors from Port-Vendres.

  It was there, in this historically and culturally rich architectural paradise that I drew my first line on a corpse – a stray kitten. It was 1945.

  And as I think back to how I felt that day, as I recall that sleepy little town all those years ago, it dawns on me. I know who Hector is.