The First Fingerprint

by Xavier-Marie Bonnot

  “And there’s no connection with the painted hands?”

  “Maybe, maybe. Who knows? This was the dawn of time. And we haven’t got a very clear vision of it at all!”

  “Still, try to think who could have stolen those pieces … You never know.”

  17.

  The church of Saint-Julien stood in the heights of Marseille, toward the east, in the middle of what had once been a small village. This had since been swallowed up by the conglomeration, as had most of the outlying quartiers, but there remained a few shadowy lanes that led toward a square with two small bars and a corner store. All around, desirable residences were hidden behind high, dry-stone walls topped with broken glass.

  The façade of the little church had been completely restored the previous autumn. Masons had stripped the entrance arch until it was pristine. As a result, this house of God had recovered its Provençal look, which made Saint-Julien all the more attractive. But the parishioners still had not come back. Like many others, the priest had to divide his time between this and two other parishes, Trois-Lucs and Les Caillols.

  It was dull and rainy. The inside of the church was barely visible in the gloomy light from the stained-glass windows. Father Paul looked at his watch. It was 4 p.m. His few parishioners were presumably expecting him.

  He kissed his purple stole, put it round his neck and came out of the presbytery. He passed the altar, put one knee to the floor, crossed himself and meditated for some time.

  He saw that no-one was waiting for him outside the confessional, so he walked slowly along the ambulatory and stopped for a while beside the crib. Shortly before Christmas, the primary school children had repainted the mill and cave. They had also carefully placed green and red fairy lights in the tiny cardboard houses. The priest looked long and hard at the children’s work. The crib seemed to him to be even more naïve and lively than it had a year ago. But Christmas was over, and now he would have to put away the cottages, the pieces of cork, the backdrop of the sky and the figurines, and store them in the presbytery until next year.

  In a few days, the little church would become calm once more. Father Paul knew that he could count on only a handful of the faithful, while the Christmas crowd would not be seen again until Easter or else for a wedding, baptism or funeral. He would enjoy a quiet life. Apart from catechism on Wednesday mornings, he would have the opportunity to devote himself to other concerns.

  He glanced again toward the confessional, a cage of glass and wood which, according to the diocese’s recommendations, had been placed to the right of the entrance in the chapel of Sainte Marie Madeleine. Personally, he preferred the old confessional just beside it, which was more impressive thanks to its shadowy Gothic appearance and the anonymity it provided.

  A woman was waiting there. From this distance, she looked young. The priest crossed the nave toward her.

  “Good morning, Father. I want to make a confession.”

  She must have been about forty, maybe a little older. The fine lines on her face showed that she had been through a lot.

  “You’ve come to the right place,” the priest replied.

  He smiled broadly at her and pointed at the two confessionals.

  “Do you prefer this one, or that one? Here we have the new model, face to face or side by side, in the open. And there we have the traditional one: kneeling in the dark, seeing nothing of the other person except their conscience. For serious sins, it’s better. So which would you prefer?”

  The woman nodded toward the old confessional. The priest showed her inside, and almost at once she started speaking.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she murmured in the silence of the confessional. “It has been years since my last confession …”

  Behind the lattice-work of wood, the priest coughed. She felt like running away, but stayed there, glued to the floor by a mysterious force.

  “How long? How many years? I suppose you mean a very long time …”

  “Forever, in fact …”

  “Ah …” Father Paul’s voice grew softer. “So you’ve never really made a confession, is that right?”

  “Yes, it is. My parents used to force me to go, so I made things up to tell the priest. I said I’d stolen sweets, or lied. That kind of thing.”

  The priest sighed. She heard him shift about on his chair. It made little creaking sounds which echoed around the church.

  “I know,” he said. “It’s the sort of thing I hear every day. People make up all kinds of things to try to mislead the Almighty. But I’m afraid he isn’t so easily fooled. So what do you want …?”

  “Father …”

  “Call me Paul. ‘Father’ is so old-fashioned. What’s your name?”

  “Julia.”

  “What a beautiful name.”

  The priest’s voice was even gentler. Julia felt uncomfortable; an indefinable sensation made her shiver. At each word, the sound of his voice entered her more deeply. Her neck prickled.

  “Do you live in the parish?”

  “At 36, chemin du Vallon.”

  “Yes, I see,” he said. “A lovely street. Splendid houses. So, the Lord has spoiled you! In material terms, at least.”

  “Oh, Father, you know …”

  “No, Paul.”

  “Father Paul, then!”

  “If you insist … but you know that the disciples called the Lord by his first name.”

  “Yes, I know,” she answered timidly.

  “Tell me, Julia, why do you so want to confess?”

  “I don’t know, I … I have sinned. That’s why.”

  “I have no doubt about that, but how? Have you cheated on your husband?”

  “No, I’m single.”

  “Forgive me for such a personal question. I’m just trying to help you.”

  “You wouldn’t understand. As a priest …”

  “Stop right there. I’ve not always been a priest. I had another existence before. I know just as much about life as you do. And I sinned a lot. I have done things that might make you blush or run straight out of this confessional if I told you. And then, you know, what with all the things people have told me … Some even accuse themselves of murder.”

  “I know, but it’s hard for me to admit to.”

  “Maybe you’d prefer to come back later? On another day? I remain at your disposal at any moment of the day and night,” he paused, then started to laugh. “But the night’s only for really serious sins. The sort that can’t wait.”

  “What if I came back tomorrow, at the same time, would that be alright?”

  “Absolutely. But be punctual, because I have to go and preside over a funeral at Les Caillols.”

  “I’m never late.”

  “Go in peace, Julia.”

  “See you tomorrow, Paul.”

  The bells in the clock tower were chiming nine o’clock. All that could be heard in chemin du Vallon was the purring of televisions. A gentle breeze was blowing through the pine trees. Paul rang at number 36. Julia was alone, as she was every evening.

  She had phoned him an hour earlier, completely distraught. She wanted to deliver herself of a burden which was weighing down on her. He had agreed to come and talk to her after a certain amount of hesitation. To avoid gossip, he never went to see his parishioners at such a late hour.

  Father Paul felt ill at ease in the huge salon. It reminded him of the life of luxury he had had as a child. Julia sat on a coral-pink sofa and stared at him. The man of God shifted in his armchair, his little knapsack lying between his feet.

  She offered him a drink, which he refused. She poured herself a whisky and began to talk about this and that. Gradually, the conversation centered on her, her lonely life and her despair.

  The priest listened to Julia in silence, tapping his fingers on the arms of his chair. She told him that she never saw anyone, like most of the young women who came to him for confession. This was the sad reality he had observed since starting to spend most of his time takin
g care of people’s souls.

  They spoke for an hour before Julia began to feel at ease. At the age of forty-two, she was finding it more and more difficult to bear her homosexuality and loneliness. In her youth, after a strict Catholic upbringing, she had turned to spiritualism and the Occult, and had then taken an interest in early religion. Shamanism had fascinated her as a return to genuine practices, untainted by the moral weight she had experienced in her childhood. After such a progression, she had had her doubts, and considered becoming a nun to escape a world which seemed to her full of turpitude. The priest replied that you did not take holy orders like that, without first having received the call from God, a sort of illumination in the mists of life. She admitted that she had never received such a call.

  At about 11:00, visibly tired, the priest went home. She watched him walk through the trees in the garden, like a disturbing yet familiar shadow.

  Fast asleep, Julia had a nightmare. Black on black. Inside the confessional, she was admitting her sins to Father Paul, who was laughing at every word she said. Long, sonorous, mocking laughter. The sarcasm of sanctimonious moralists from her tender childhood.

  She woke with a start, her forehead covered with sweat, her hands and feet as cold as ice.

  She looked toward the window and noticed that she had forgotten to close the shutters. There was a full moon, a bluish light enfolded the garden, and only the top of the tall pine tree reflected the yellow glow from the lamp post, as it was swayed in the slight breeze.

  She decided to get up and shut out this hollow vision of the night. As her feet touched the floor, she heard a strange, barely perceptible sound, like a breath. She turned toward the door, but saw nothing except the familiar shadows of the corridor that led to the salon. And yet, she was not dreaming. The sound of breathing was definitely there, now even more distinct.

  She sat on her bed and nervously felt for the switch of her bedside lamp. In her haste, she knocked over some books and a pile of fifth-year homework which was lying on the table. There was a crash. Then silence.

  The breathing was coming from right in front of her.

  She suppressed her fear so as to overcome the darkness and saw a moonbeam’s pale reflection glint in the glassy whiteness of a savage eye. A monstrous shape was approaching in the cold light. A tall, thickset figure from the dawn of time.

  And then, this strange prayer:

  “I am the hunter

  Give me your blood

  May the spirits of the dead guide you through the night

  May your flesh fortify the first man …”

  18.

  “Jean-Louis, do you have any mussels left?”

  “Yes, a dozen.”

  “Little ones?”

  “No, they only had big ones!”

  “That’s why they’re not biting. Just look at the mussels we’re giving them. They’ve never seen anything like it!”

  “It’s not a question of mussels, it’s a question of time. Sea bream generally feed at night.”

  “But how do you think they can spot mussels at night, dimwit! My grandfather used to fish at any time of the day.”

  “Yes, but in those days, there were still fish!”

  The waves broke against the seawall of Pointe-Rouge, flopping against the blocks of concrete. Since 7:00 that morning, Maistre and de Palma had been enjoying a day off and were attempting to fish using sugared mussel as bait. The technique was as complicated as it was mysterious, and it required a certain skill. First, the hook was placed in the mussel, which was then held shut with elastic wrapped round a sugar cube … Once in the salt water, the sugar would dissolve allowing the mussel to open gradually. It looked more real than real! It was an infallible method which Maistre had learned from a fisherman in L’Estaque, but he still hadn’t mastered it.

  It was nearly noon.

  “Have you got any worms, Le Gros?”

  “I bought two.”

  “Is that all?”

  “We said we were going to try with mussels.”

  “Give me a worm. They work better than your carry-on.”

  De Palma picked up the long worm and slipped it on to a hook with the help of a piece of metal wire as thin as a needle. He was about to cast out when his mobile rang.

  “Michel, it’s Maxime. I didn’t want to disturb you, but you’re going to have to come to Saint-Julien, 36 chemin du Vallon. It’s absolute carnage … Jesus … I think it’s the same one as at Cadenet. I’m even sure of it.”

  “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  In exasperation, de Palma cast out. The lead and the worm whistled in the air, before falling into the water twenty meters away.

  “What’s up, Baron?”

  “He’s struck again.”

  “Who?”

  “Our Cadenet customer.”

  “The fucker!”

  “Quite.”

  At 12:30, there were not that many people outside 36 chemin du Vallon: a few pensioners and neighbors who had been passing by. Maxime Vidal had parked the police Mégane right in the middle of the street, with its light still flashing on the roof and the windows wide open.

  A young officer standing on the threshold with his arms crossed hailed de Palma with a vague gesture and looked at him glumly. In the salon, Vidal was talking to a young woman from forensics. He was wearing latex gloves and gesticulating as he spoke, trying to appear composed.

  “Ah, there you are Michel! Unfortunately, Judge Barbieri has just gone … Come and have a look. But I warn you, it’s not a pretty sight at all.”

  They went down a long corridor cluttered with forensic equipment. De Palma kept his eyes down, noticing traces of vomit on the floorboards and on the blue, Oriental wallpaper. When he entered the bedroom, he could smell recent death, the tenacious odor of blood and the stench of spilled intestines. He swallowed back his bile several times, trying to leave his disgust deep down in his guts. Lieutenant Agnès Bernal from forensics came over to him. “Hi, Michel. We’re done here.”

  “Hi Agnès.”

  “No joke at all … she was hit in the face and then gutted. Her left leg is missing.”

  De Palma slowly approached. Intestines were hanging down to the floor, wobbling slightly every time the photographer bumped into the bed. The skull had been completely smashed in, a mush of shards of bone mixed with brains. There was only one eye left in the middle, where the nose should have been. The other had disappeared.

  Her left leg had been severed at the knee. The amputation looked almost perfect, but de Palma noticed that the skin tissue was torn. He mentally compared it with the body of Hélène Weill, and saw that the amputation had been carried out using the same kind of knife, with rather a blunt blade.

  He examined the hands: the nails were curiously clean, but that of the middle left finger had been reversed. This was not immediately visible, because the nail had been put back into place, then carefully cleaned with a cotton swab: fiber from it remained stuck to a piece of dead skin.

  “The work of a madman. Classic. Cold. No traces. No proof. Not the slightest clue … And yet, he must have left something behind … They all do. But what?”

  He stayed for a while in the bedroom, trying to understand this killer who had found his way in, presumably while his victim was asleep. He thought hard.

  “He knew his victim. There’s no other possibility. He’d known her for at least a few days. Maybe he met her yesterday. But he definitely knew her. He didn’t break in. She was asleep and woke up when he was already on top of her. The body hasn’t been moved. There are very few signs of a struggle. And no bite marks. It’s the same man for sure.”

  Vidal broke his train of thought:

  “Michel, there are two or three things I have to tell you.”

  “I’m coming.”

  He stared at the scene once more. He would have liked to have said something to the dead woman, but nothing came to mind. He looked at what was left of her belly and pubis and thought to himself that she
had been an attractive women, with a soft belly, just as he liked. Then he went into the salon, where Vidal was pacing back and forth.

  “Jesus Christ, Michel. I’ve never seen anything like it. How can you possibly stay so long in a room with a thing like that?”

  “It’s now or never if you want a chance to understand him. Try to imagine: he arrives in the middle of the night, she hears a noise and wakes up, he grabs her, she scratches him. Look at her nail … Then he hits her, once or twice … No more. That’s enough. Then he cuts her up. He takes his time. After that, he guts her for good measure. He takes away one of her legs … Because he only eats the muscle. Finally, he cleans up anything that might give him away.”

  Agnès Bernal intervened:

  “She doesn’t seem to have been raped. He didn’t torture her or tie her up. Death occurred last night, at about 1:00 a.m. We’ve been through the place with a fine-tooth comb, but we haven’t found much: a few fibers, footprints on the carpet. The most significant item is a shard of stone in the skull. I think it’s flint.”

  “Did you use your lamp?”

  “The Polilight? Of course I did.”

  “And?”

  “And there are traces of footprints all over the place. We’ve probably identified his. I’ll tell you tomorrow once we’ve analyzed everything.”

  Vidal glanced at de Palma, who said:

  “Well, son, what have you found out since you got here?”

  “The victim’s name is Julia Chevallier. She was born on October 20, 1957, in Marseille. She was an English teacher at Lycée Longchamp. That’s all. Apart from that, the door has not been forced, there’s no sign of a break-in, and there aren’t any fingerprints in the bedroom or salon. According to the neighbors, she lived alone and hardly ever went out. The body was discovered at 10:00 this morning by the cleaning lady. She was murdered during the night. Presumably around 1:00. Nobody saw or heard a thing.”