The French Widow

by Mark Pryor

  Behind him, Marchand was looking through a large chest of drawers, tutting as he went.

  “A nineteen-year-old who folds all of his clothes,” he said. “Even his socks and underwear. What’s that about?”

  “No idea. I don’t have kids but my impression of a teenager’s bedroom isn’t anything like this, so neat and tidy.” Hugo glanced at Laland, who was even paler than before, and seemed to be swaying on his feet. “You okay, Pierre?”

  “Non. Do you mind if I step outside?” Laland asked. “I think I’m about to puke from the smell.”

  Marchand waved at him to leave, adding, “We’ll be right behind you, unless there’s more you need to see, Hugo?”

  “Give me just a minute.” Hugo was on one knee, peering under the bed. “What have we here?” He reached out and grabbed the handle of a suitcase. He gave it a tug, and it felt at least half full. He turned to Marchand. “You want me to leave it here so crime scene can photo it where he kept it?”

  “Yes, please.” Marchand looked at Hugo, wariness in his eyes. “You think we need to have it cleared by the bomb squad?”

  “Are they here?”

  “Yes. I’ll have them run a dog over and sniff for explosives. Doesn’t seem likely he’s that sophisticated, but you never know. With the internet anything’s possible.”

  “Yeah, about that.” Hugo stood, leaving the case where it was. “I’ve not noticed a computer anywhere in the house. It’s like it’s the seventies in here.”

  “Controlling religious mother?”

  “Could be.” Hugo took another look around. “Poor teenage boy missing out on all that porn.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” Marchand sounded surprised.

  “Oh, my mistake.” Hugo grimaced. “A joke I should only make to my friend Tom.”

  “Ah, yes. I’ve heard you speak of him.” Marchand put his hands on his hips. “I think we’re about done here, don’t you?”

  “I don’t see anything else here of much interest.” Hugo took a final glance around the ordered, clean room and followed Marchand down the hallway and into the welcome fresh air. Hugo walked along the broken pathway deep in thought. He’d hoped to have an idea of who this kid was, more than just his name and where he lived. But his mother wasn’t talking, and neither was his bedroom, which would’ve been Hugo’s second-best shot at understanding who Victor Roche was, and why he wanted to kill random people in such a public way. And maybe why he wanted to commit suicide in such a public way, too.

  Hugo leaned against Marchand’s car and watched the man talking with the three crime scene specialists. One of them would photograph the scene as it was, and then another would put down evidence markers beside anything that could later prove relevant. The third would video record everything the other two were doing to show that they were not changing or tampering with the site.

  After a couple of minutes Marchand walked over to Hugo. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “What else do we know about those two, mother and son?”

  “Not much,” Marchand said. “We’re still gathering statements from neighbors, but so far the impression is that they were both recluses. She left the house to go to church, usually taking him with her. No one we’ve talked to liked the mother. We’ve heard words like angry, hostile, preachy, unfriendly. One neighbor said if you went asking for a cup of sugar you’d get a sermon instead.”

  “School records?”

  “Weirdly, no. He didn’t attend any of the local schools, so either she homeschooled him or . . . she didn’t. A couple of the neighbors said their impression was that he wasn’t very bright, and that’s putting it kindly.”

  “So what’s your next step?” Hugo asked. “And where’s your partner?”

  “Laland? Puking somewhere. The first time that smell gets into your nose, it stays for a while.”

  “Yeah, it does.” Hugo agreed. “Second and third times, too.”

  Marchand nodded. “You asked what my next step is. Probably the first thing is to let the press know that you’re not behind some bizarre conspiracy to bring guns to Europe.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “But of course.” Marchand clapped him on the shoulder. “Now you can go back to being a hero.”

  “I’ll settle for not being the villain.” Hugo frowned, unable to put his finger on what was bothering him about the crime scene, other than the obvious violence.

  “Why the long face?” Marchand asked. “To be honest, this is about the best we could have hoped for, apart from a chopped-up human being.”

  “How so?”

  “I was afraid this was a religious thing, but there wasn’t so much as a prayer rug in that house, let alone in the boy’s room.”

  “Christians can be killers, too.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. But his room was devoid of anything extreme, in terms of religion or anything else. So we’re left with a troubled kid, an oppressive mother who died at his hands, and the Americans off the hook.”

  “Case closed?”

  “I would say so, yes.” Marchand looked happy about that.

  “What about the gun? Where did he get that?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say someone from your embassy sold it to make money, and he bought it on the streets.”

  “Guessing is an investigative technique now?” Hugo said it lightly, but Marchand didn’t take it that way.

  “Hey, don’t you dare accuse me of . . . whatever the hell you’re suggesting. We identified the shooter and he’s dead. His mother is also dead, and whatever loose ends we need to tie up we can do so from follow-up interviews and what we find in that suitcase.” He pointed a finger at Hugo’s chest. “And considering you people supplied the murder weapon, I’d think it’s in your very best interests to agree that for all intents and purposes, this case is closed.”

  “That’s my point,” Hugo pressed. “How much time between the guns disappearing from the embassy and him using them? A few days, right?”

  “So what?”

  “So, much less likely someone just stole them to sell on the street, and they happened to end up with Roche.”

  “Jesus, Hugo, why can’t you—”

  “Which means you might still have a coconspirator out there.” “Might being the operative word.”

  “It’s too much of a coincidence.”

  “Look, I agree we need to find out who stole the gun,” Marchand said, exasperated. “But that’s just the pretty bow on an already-solved investigation.”

  “I hate to burst your bubble, Adrien.” Hugo gave him a sad smile. “But after seeing that house, his room, his mother, we’re not just looking for some guy who stole two guns.”

  Marchand stiffened. “Meaning?”

  “We’re looking for whoever is behind this.” Hugo pointed down the street to the house. “He may have been the gunman, but I’d bet my hat that he was as much a tool in this as the gun was.”

  “So now there’s a mastermind behind everything?” Marchand sounded incredulous.

  “Yes, and whoever it is would just love to see you tie that bow on this investigation and walk away from it right now.”

  “Who?” Marchand demanded.

  “That’s the part I haven’t figured out. But I have an idea or two.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  THE KILLER

  One of the biggest myths about people like me, the sociopathic and psychopathic of the world, is that we’re all evil geniuses. That we’re all highly intelligent and if we’re not racking up body counts we’re running oil companies and hedge funds.

  Not true.

  Go to any prison and you’ll find a high percentage of psychopaths. And yes, they’re in prison because they got caught. Not swindling millions from little old ladies, or plotting to take over the world—no, they got caught robbing banks or stealing cars. The reason for that is, psychopaths tend to be reckless, to repeat the same mistakes and behaviors, and in searching for a thrill, they are not careful. N
ot clever.

  Just plain stupid.

  So I want to be clear that while I do share many of the same traits as those prison-bound psychopaths, things like impulsiveness, lack of empathy, and ruthlessness, my intelligence sets me apart from the vast majority of them. It’s why my recklessness is calculated, planned. It’s the difference between jumping out of a plane (them) and jumping out of a plane wearing a parachute (me). The latter is only slightly less thrilling than the former, but a hell of a lot smarter.

  Of course, not everything goes to plan. But my intelligence helps there, too. For instance, I knew about Fabien and that American girl. I don’t blame either of them, she’s very pretty. But knowing about that, unlike everyone else in the family, let me incorporate her into the plan. That wasn’t chance, bad luck, or good luck. I knew she’d be coming my way. I knew her body on the landing would make much more of an impact on people’s minds, family and police, than the missing paintings. (And if you’ve not figured it out yet, they were not an afterthought, they were the point.)

  Now, I am intelligent but I’m still (sort of) human, which means I do make mistakes. Not finishing her off was one and had me worried for a while, but I know now she didn’t see me because she obviously hasn’t given the police my name.

  And yes, like everyone I do make mistakes. I’m just clever enough, and plan well enough, to get away with mine. So far, anyway. That damned American Marston still makes me nervous. But as I indicated before, I have a plan for him, too, if need be.

  Talking of plans, my master plan progresses well. The finger in the box with the other paintings was fun to do, even though it makes it obvious that the mastermind behind all of this isn’t Fabien. In some ways it’s a shame to narrow the list of suspects for the police, but it was necessary. Well, I assume they’ll eliminate Fabien as suspect, because who would do that to themselves? I mean, I freely admit I like to be the center of attention and make a scene, but I’m not cutting off my own finger to create one.

  Do you want to know how good I am at this? At reading and manipulating people? I know the one question that everyone wants answered right now. Apart from Who are you?, of course. The one thing everyone wants to know after they opened the box and found Fabien’s finger.

  Does this mean that Fabien is dead?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Hugo looked at the list of names and addresses confirming he was at the right place. The apartment on Avenue Parmentier the top two floors of the five-story building, the ground floor being a high-end wine shop, judging from the prices on the bottles staring out at Hugo. He’d stopped at a café run by an American couple for his once-a-month peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, and now finished the last of it before ringing the bell for Arnaud Brodeur’s apartment. He waited and a hesitant voice came through the speaker a few seconds later.

  “Oui?”

  Hugo introduced himself and asked if he could come in.

  “From the embassy? I don’t understand.”

  “Monsieur Brodeur, I am the man who shot your wife’s killer. I have some information about him that’s not been released to the public, but the police thought should be shared with you.”

  “You are not the police?”

  “I am working with them, monsieur.” Which is to say, they don’t know I’m here but wouldn’t be surprised to know I am. Unhappy, but also unsurprised.

  “With Albert Mach . . . I forget his name.”

  “Adrien Marchand, yes.”

  A pause. “I have told them what happened, what I saw, and I don’t want to relive that.”

  “I understand. I’m not here to ask any more questions about that.”

  Another pause, then the front door clicked open. “Take the stairs—the elevator is broken. Again.”

  Hugo made his way up the wooden stairs, after nodding a greeting at the two men dismantling the elevator on the way in. He knocked on the fourth-floor door and a moment later it was opened by a man in his fifties, sturdier than he’d sounded over the intercom. He was almost six feet tall, with gray hair swept back from a high, intelligent forehead, and he wore a gray sweater over a blue collared shirt, and blue jeans.

  “Monsieur Brodeur, pleased to meet you.” Hugo extended a hand.

  “Technically, it’s Doctor Brodeur, but I’ve not seen patients for a few years so either one will do. Please, come in.”

  Brodeur led Hugo into the sitting room, which was decorated in a modern style and that caught Hugo by surprise. The sofa, chairs, and side tables looked almost new, but when he sat Hugo appreciated that the furniture had also been built for comfort.

  “Can I offer you anything to drink?” Brodeur asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  “So. What can you tell me?”

  “That the man’s name was Victor Roche, and he was nineteen years old. He lived with his mother, but they were both recluses. The neighbors didn’t know them and, to be frank, didn’t particularly want to know them.”

  “Not friendly people?”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Hugo said. “What’s not in the press yet, and I’d be grateful if you kept this to yourself, is that he killed his mother, sometime before committing the shooting.”

  “Killed his own mother?” Brodeur’s eyes opened in surprise. “Who does that?”

  “People keep asking me that. Unfortunately, the answer is: quite a lot of people.”

  “Well, in my line of work I’ve seen a few things, heard of a few things, so maybe I shouldn’t be that surprised. But still.” He sighed. “What else?”

  “We’re still trying to figure out how he got the gun, and what his motivation might have been.”

  “Not some religious nutcase?”

  “His mother was religious, but we’ve not seen evidence that he was. Certainly nothing pointing to him being an extremist and using that as justification for mass murder.”

  “But you think . . . my wife, it was random still, yes? That’s what the other policeman said—she was just unlucky to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Yes, that seems to be right.”

  “If you hadn’t shot him, he might have shot me, too.” He looked up at Hugo. “And God knows how many other people.”

  “I suppose that just means I was in the right place at the right time.”

  Brodeur nodded. “I read online some of the conspiracy theories. I never believed them.”

  “Thank you. They were pretty wild.”

  “So, if you don’t mind me asking, how’re you dealing with this?”

  “In what sense?” Hugo asked, surprised by the question. “You killed a teenager. That must weigh on you.”

  “Of course. But I’ve had a long career in law enforcement and am very good at compartmentalizing.”

  “So you have killed others?”

  “In the line of duty, yes, I have.” Hugo thought for a moment, wondering if there was more information he could or should share with the doctor. He came up empty. “Do you have any questions for me?”

  “I don’t think so.” Brodeur’s voice sounded weak again, and a moment later he started to wheeze. “Monsieur, you didn’t eat peanuts recently, did you?”

  “I had a sandwich with peanut butter half an hour ago. You’re allergic?”

  “Yes.” Brodeur was wheezing harder now, glimmers of panic in his eyes.

  “Shoot, I’m so sorry. What can I do?”

  “I have an EpiPen, can you . . .?” He pointed to the far end of the sitting room. “Bathroom cabinet.”

  “Yes, of course.” Hugo was on his feet in a flash, moving fast toward the bathroom and he only just heard Brodeur croak out the words, “And wash your hands before you touch it.”

  Hugo found the bathroom and washed his hands as quickly and thoroughly as he could, then dried them and flung open the cabinet above the sink. His eyes scanned the rows of medicines, ointments, and pill bottles, his curious mind registering some of the labels but his decency trying to prevent him from noticing. He
found an EpiPen wedged between a box of Benlysta pills and a large bottle of oxycodone with Arnaud Brodeur’s name on it. He rushed back to Brodeur, who sat hunched forward, his hands clasping at the seat cushion either side of him as he gasped for air.

  Hugo uncapped the EpiPen as he hurried across the room and handed it to Brodeur, who immediately jammed it into his thigh, pushing down on the auto-ejector and holding it still for three long seconds. When he withdrew it, he sat slowly back and almost immediately his breathing sounded easier to Hugo.

  “Do you need me to call an ambulance?” Hugo asked.

  “No, no.” Brodeur’s voice was still a whisper. “I’ll be fine now.”

  “I’m so sorry to have put you in this situation.”

  “No way for you to know. Would you mind getting me a glass of water?”

  “Of course.” Hugo had passed the kitchen on his way to the bathroom, and hurried back in that direction. There was a shot glass and two stemless wine glasses in the draining board by the sink, so he quickly filled one of the wine glasses with water from the tap and took it to Brodeur. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes, thank you. And please, it’s not your fault—you had no way to know.” His voice was almost back to normal and he managed a smile. “My wife, she used to vet every guest, every visitor. I should be careful like that, but I got so used to her doing it.”

  “I think that would be very sensible,” Hugo said.

  The color had returned to Brodeur’s face, and he looked at Hugo. “You know, I’ve never known the police to show up and hand out information without asking for anything in return.”

  It was Hugo’s turn to smile. “You are very astute. If you feel up to it, I do have a couple of questions.”

  “Please.”

  “Merci.” Hugo took his seat again. “Before he shot your wife, did the gunman say anything?”

  “Not that I recall, no.”

  “He didn’t shout at anyone in particular, or randomly at everyone?”