The First Fingerprint

by Xavier-Marie Bonnot

  “This is the motherfucker who shot Richard,” Zuccarelli said. “The little shit.”

  The Baron’s slap went off on its own, like an extraordinarily powerful mechanism. A sharp, cold clack echoed down the corridor. Moracchini and Vidal, who had just arrived, recoiled. The gunman began to shake all over. Zuccarelli shoved him into his office. Duriez, the departmental head, arrived completely out of breath.

  “Go and get some rest, Zuccarelli. Your men, too,” he said. “Let the pressure drop. We’ve nailed them, and now I’ll take over. Come back this afternoon. We’ve got the press downstairs …”

  The Baron turned on his heel and disappeared into his office.

  “O.K.,” he said, without looking at Moracchini and Vidal. “We’ve learned a few things. After the hospital, he convalesced with priests. Then he worked in one of their institutions. So far so good. He went to Australia and then, nothing. In my opinion, it was there that he started making up his little scenario about prehistory.”

  When he had returned from Les Baumettes the previous day, de Palma had spent a couple of hours telling his teammates about the interrogation he had conducted with Barbieri. Moracchini had made several objections, all of which came back to the same question: why would a killer like that frame Caillol? De Palma’s explanations had failed to convince his two colleagues. Something did not gel.

  De Palma had spent all night turning the shaman story this way and that. His first step had been to convince himself that the most widespread ritual, apart from those associated with hunting or mastering the elements, was healing. A second step had led him toward Christine and her brother. By combining all these elements, he had reached the conclusion that Christine had practiced healing rituals on Thomas to save him from insanity. Christine’s death, for as yet unknown reasons, had liberated her brother’s instincts because she was no longer there to control him. The scenario was now starting to stand up, despite a few gray areas. It was clear that everything depended on the relationship between the twins but, before he talked to his teammates, he wanted the fog to lift a little more.

  The phone rang. Vidal answered it.

  “Yes, Father. You’re an early riser! I’ll hand you over to Capitaine Moracchini.”

  “What a day of grace!” said de Palma, turning on the loudspeaker.

  “Good morning to you, Madame. I’ve found the postcard … It came from the Queensland Catholic Mission, in the Gulf of Carpentaria. The town’s called Kajabbi. I think you’ll be able to find it easily enough. That’s all. I can’t do anything more for you.”

  “But that’s already plenty! Thanks again, Father, and don’t hesitate to call me if even the slightest detail occurs to you.”

  Moracchini hung up.

  “Well, well, new leads are springing up all over! Maxime, do you know what time it is in Australia?”

  “No, early evening I should think. Hang on, I’ll look in my dairy. Here … If it’s 9:00 a.m. here, then in Australia it’s about 8:00 p.m. But it depends on the region.”

  “Good, we’ll have to call them up. Can you do it Maxime? After all, you do speak English.”

  De Palma called Sylvie’s mobile and got her answerphone. He called her landline and got her answerphone there too. Each time, he left a message. He then tried the laboratory at Fort Saint-Jean. A researcher by the name of Pierre Craven told him that she had just gone out to buy croissants from the bakery on rue Caisserie, and that she would be back soon, because she had to finish preparing a meeting scheduled for 11:00 a.m.

  The Baron frowned.

  “Our man is convinced that he reasons like a Paleolithic hunter,” he said. “From what I know, cannibals obey a ritual, or a code if you like. They eat their enemies’ flesh to absorb their strength. That’s all. There’s no pleasure in it. In this respect, his behavior is consistent.”

  “If I follow you,” Moracchini said, “he’s eating these women because he thinks they’re his enemies, but at the same time he’s trying to capture their strength. Is that it?”

  “Yes, that’s what I think. And I also think that he’s obeying some kind of shaman, who might be either real or virtual. This being tells him that these sacrifices have to be made if the community is going to recover its harmony. That’s where the hands come in. It’s a ritual!”

  “Yes, why ever not?”

  “Anne, this is just a feeling I have. You don’t know what twins are like … We now know that his sister was into shamanistic rituals and that she also experimented with them. It could be that, after her death, her brother decided that he had to re-establish some sort of harmony. Let’s imagine that he’s been unable to accept her death, and that he thinks his sister is talking to him from the spirit world. Do you see what I mean?”

  “Of course. But these are just hypotheses.”

  “Yes, they’re hypotheses … but we need a scenario if we want to be able to anticipate his actions. And time is running out!”

  “There’s a big piece missing from your scenario.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Who killed Christine? It can’t be him, because according to you he loved her more than anything.”

  “I’m beginning to have a few ideas about that.”

  “Are you thinking of Caillol or Palestro?”

  “Neither.”

  “Could you tell us a little more?”

  “No, not right now. You’ll think I’m completely crazy.”

  “Sometimes you really get on my nerves, Michel!”

  “We’ll have to run D.N.A. tests on the negative hands and ask the gendarmes to send us the sample of ochre paint found in Caillol’s place. Then test that for D.N.A. too … then we’ll compare them.”

  De Palma rang the number of the archaeology lab. Pierre Craven answered and seemed nervous: Sylvie had not come back and he was worried. It was nearly time for the meeting.

  When he hung up, the Baron sensed that something terrible had just happened. Moracchini noticed.

  “She’s still not back?”

  “No, I’m going to check. Can you try to contact the missionaries in Australia?”

  On the way, de Palma called the laboratory once again. Still no Sylvie. He went to the bakery on rue Caisserie. A middle-aged woman behind the counter confirmed that Sylvie had called by at around 9:15. She also said that she had seen a man in the street who had then quickly vanished. When the Baron asked for a description, all she could remember was that he had been wearing a cap. He immediately made the connection with the man Tête had described running into on boulevard Chave.

  A shiver ran through him, despite the overpowering heat. Sylvie had been missing for over an hour. Given this sort of killer, he knew that she would not be long for this world. She might be already dead. Images of Hélène’s and Julia’s sliced-up bodies flashed through his mind. He sat down on a doorstep and tried to think fast. But an awful pain in his guts stopped him from concentrating. Ideas spun in his head. He tried to cry, to release his anger, but his anger wanted to stay within and dominate him.

  All he could do was phone Moracchini.

  “I’ll come at once,” she said.

  Five minutes later, she arrived at the bottom of rue Caisserie in an unmarked car.

  “What are we going to do, Anne? Shall we put out an A.P.B.?”

  “I don’t think so. The press will be on to it within minutes.”

  “So what the fuck shall we do?” de Palma yelled.

  “Pull yourself together, Michel. Keep calm and cool, just like you taught me.”

  “I’d like to see you in my place!”

  “But I am here, Michel!”

  “And?”

  “And, how do you know she’s been kidnapped?”

  “The woman in the baker’s saw someone out on the pavement. Exactly his description …”

  “Did they leave together?”

  “No, but he followed her.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just know, that’s all. She didn’
t go back to the lab. Where do you think she is? At the hairdresser’s?”

  “It isn’t funny, Michel. I’m just trying to understand.”

  De Palma raised his hands toward the sky.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Let’s try to understand. Meanwhile, that fucker will be …”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The Baron wheeled round to face Moracchini.

  “No, Michel, I don’t think he’s abducted her. That’s not the way he works. You would have expected him to break into her place, or else draw her into a trap. Like he did with Hélène and Julia. That’s what I think.”

  “So you think he kidnapped her to ask for a ransom?”

  “Don’t be silly, Michel. If you ask me we still have some time in hand. First, we’ll put out a call, but without explaining exactly why. Then we’ll go to the lab while Maxime is dealing with the Australians. So, teammate, let’s get going,” she ordered.

  Two minutes later they were knocking at the door of the marine archaeology laboratory. The man who opened it was clearly put out by their visit, but he calmed down when Moracchini showed him her tricolor card.

  “Can I speak to Pierre Craven, please?” de Palma asked over his colleague’s shoulder.

  “That’s me.”

  “Has Sylvie come back yet?”

  “No.”

  “And you still have no idea where she could be?”

  The only answer he gave was to look up toward the heavens and whistle in exasperation. De Palma moved in front of Moracchini.

  “What’s up with this guy. Doesn’t he want to answer our questions?”

  Anne tried to push her teammate to one side. Too late. The Baron had already pinned Craven to the stone wall.

  “Listen, you fucking pathetic little student, your friend might already be dead. Got me? So please be good enough to tell us everything you know, or I promise you’ll soon have a good conversation piece about police violence for your zit-head parties.”

  Moracchini’s mobile rang. She stood to one side to take the call.

  “I’ve got nothing to tell you,” Craven replied, trembling from head to foot.

  “No unusual phone calls this morning?”

  “No.”

  “How many people came here this morning, between 9:00 and 9:30?”

  “Just Sylvie and me.”

  “Did she seem nervous?”

  “No.”

  “When you arrived, was there anyone waiting by the door? Anything odd?”

  “No.”

  “What about the past few days? Any strange phone calls?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Who’s here now?”

  “Only the lab team, that’s all.”

  “O.K.”

  “Has she been …?”

  “I don’t know. But she certainly seems to have disappeared. Maybe she’ll resurface again any moment. We’re a bit tense right now.”

  “Is it to do with all those murders?”

  “No, it’s because of the thirty-five-hour working week, what do you think?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “O.K., here’s my card. If anything unusual happens, call me.”

  “I will,” said Craven.

  De Palma turned and went to join Moracchini, who had just finished her call.

  “That was Maxime. He’s managed to get in touch with the Australians.”

  “Anything new?”

  “Yes. Thomas Autran was indeed in Australia from 1992 until last year, when he returned to France.”

  De Palma did not listen to her answer. He was already thinking about something else. The worst thing of all.

  “Right, I’m going to Sylvie’s flat. Are you coming?”

  “Do you want me to call for reinforcements?”

  “We haven’t got enough time, Anne.”

  As he emerged from the lift, de Palma drew his Bodyguard. The corridor was twelve meters long, ending in a broad window that looked out over the sea. He nodded toward the door of Sylvie’s flat. It did not have a spyhole.

  They crept toward it. De Palma stood to its right. With the tip of her finger, Moracchini rang the bell and leaned against the wall to the left. Once, twice … No answer.

  The last time he was there, de Palma had noticed that the door was reinforced. It was impossible to break in. He rapidly tried to think of a plan. Calling a locksmith from headquarters would take too long. But they had to get inside Sylvie’s flat. Even if the worst scenario was waiting for them. He rang her neighbor’s bell. No-one. Another neighbor. Again no-one. He was beginning to feel desperate when he caught sight of the window in the corridor. It opened on to the front of the building and Sylvie’s balcony might well connect with it.

  He walked down the corridor, opened the window and looked to see if he could reach Sylvie’s balcony. By stepping on to a fifty-centimeter-deep cement ledge, he could make it easily.

  Moracchini did not have time to stop him. De Palma clambered out the window, put one foot on the ledge and grabbed the guardrail of Sylvie’s balcony, while still holding on to the corridor window with his left hand.

  He closed his eyes. The void attracted him inexorably. His legs quivered. He made a superhuman effort not to climb back into the corridor. The noises of the city reached his ears, though they sounded distant, wrapped in cotton. He opened his eyes and saw the steeple of La Major in a blur—drops of sweat were obscuring his vision. He gathered all his strength in a crouch, like a wild cat. In one bound he landed on the balcony, completely out of breath and trembling all over.

  Sylvie had not closed the shutters. He burst into the living room, gun in hand. The room looked just as it had the last time: cozy and tidy. Nothing had been disturbed.

  In the hallway, he found a rack with a spare set of keys. He opened the front door and Moracchini stepped inside.

  Gingerly, he walked toward the bedroom and pushed open the door with his foot, expecting the worst. The bed was still unmade. He breathed in deeply and smelled the body lotion Sylvie used. The sight of this empty bedroom both reassured and terrified him.

  “I’ve checked out the other rooms,” Moracchini said. “Nothing and no-one. No clues. Do you want us to call in forensics?”

  “No. I think she was picked up between the bakery and the lab.”

  Moracchini put away her revolver.

  “If you say so,” she said. “But … when she was just walking in the street?”

  “Let’s see if we can find her car.”

  They went down to the ground floor and wandered around for a while looking for the concierge.

  “I was delivering the mail and, as there was a parcel, I went up the eighth floor. What can I do for you?”

  “We’re from the police, Monsieur,” Moracchini said. “We’d like to know if you saw Sylvie Maurel leave in her car this morning.”

  The concierge was a short man aged about fifty, with slicked-down hair and a small mustache which made him look like a tango dancer attempting a comeback. He eyed the two officers warily.

  “The police? So what’s going on?”

  “We asked you a question,” de Palma said angrily.

  “In her car …? I’ve no idea.”

  “Do you know which is her car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we take a look?”

  “O.K., we’ll go down to the car park.”

  Space 138 was empty.

  “She doesn’t often use her car on weekdays,” said the concierge.

  “Did you see her come back this morning at about 9:00?” Moracchini asked.

  “No.”

  “Can you get into the car park without going past your lodge?”

  “Yes, you just have to come through the door from the street … At the back there, you see? It takes you straight out on to esplanade de la Tourette. Assuming you have the key …”

  “Can you tell me the make of her car?”

  “I don’t know,” the concierge said, apologetically. “I th
ink it’s an Audi. A big car, but I don’t know which model it is. There are more than 150 cars in this building.”

  For the past fifteen minutes, Vidal had been pacing up and down in front of the coffee machine. He was relieved to see his two teammates arrive.

  “I’ve spoken to the mission in Queensland!”

  “And?” asked de Palma, throwing his jacket on to a chair.

  “Two things. First, they had a sort of handyman who came from France and who answers our description. But according to them, he never showed the slightest sign of madness … He behaved more like a holy man.”

  “What else?”

  “The man in question didn’t have the same name.”

  “Not the same name?”

  “That’s right. When I mentioned Thomas Autran, they told me they’d never heard of anyone by that name. Their man was called Luc Chauvy.”

  “So?”

  Vidal started paced up and down.

  “So I described Autran to them in detail—I even emailed the photo of his sister—and they positively identified him as Luc Chauvy. Which means that our man has changed identities.”

  “That’s not possible,” Moracchini said. “You can’t change your identity just like that. It takes time … The Church isn’t the Foreign Legion!”

  De Palma leaped up, and as he did so, he knocked over a cup of cold coffee.

  “Maxime, think fast. You too, Anne. Let’s drop our wonderful logical scenarios and get our brains in order. When you think about these three murders, is there anything that strikes you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Vidal said.

  “What about you, Anne?”

  “Nothing.”

  “There must be a detail we’ve overlooked. A detail which could take on real significance, given what we now know. There must be something that opens up the whole case.”

  Moracchini and Vidal were silent.

  “He’s holding Sylvie. In my opinion, we’ve only got a few hours. I just have to nail this fucker.”

  De Palma sat down again in exasperation.

  “He’s got her, but you’re right, Anne. He won’t do anything until there’s a full moon. All the murders took place on nights when the moon was full. He has to be performing a ritual, and let’s suppose he consults the spirits. That’s why his sister wanted to find the other entrance to the cave.”