Three Drops of Blood and a Cloud of Cocaine

by Quentin Mouron

  Someone knocks on the door.

  Franck hides the pile of coke in the desk drawer, runs a comb through his hair, and peers through the peephole. It is the maid, come to do the room. He opens the door.

  “Sir… I’m sorry for disturbing you… I thought you were out.”

  Franck gives a tense smile. “In an hour I will be.”

  Sitting at the hotel bar, he is sipping an indifferent black tea and reading the local newspaper. The first page is devoted to the barbarous murder of an elderly Watertown man, Jimmy Henderson, as he sat behind the wheel of his pickup on the corner of Parker and Mount Auburn Streets.

  “It’s dreadful, isn’t it?”

  Franck looks up. The waiter. An African-American aged about forty, whose impressive stature, scars, broken nose, and missing tooth suggest that he must have been involved in quite a few brawls (unless, of course, he had played football). His badge introduces him as Carl.

  “Maybe so,” answers Franck, taking a sip of tea.

  “There are really some sick folks out there, don’t you think?”

  Franck remains silent for a moment. “Maybe that guy isn’t as sick as you might think,” he finally answers.

  “All the same, he disfigured the guy!”

  “That’s not important.”

  “Pardon?”

  “What I mean is, it’s just secondary. Basically, the guy just wanted to have a bit of fun. Maybe there’s harm in that, but he’s not the only one! Look around you: one guy goes bowling, another goes to a whorehouse, a third swallows an ecstasy pill… They all want to enjoy themselves, have a new experience—”

  “But he killed a guy!”

  “Well, some kinds of entertainment are more unusual than others, the way some people have a liking for spicier things.”

  “He sliced up his face…”

  “That’s just an embellishment, a refinement, which anyway, for me, diminishes the purity of the act from an aesthetic point of view, the way the effect of a masterpiece can be diminished by a frame that’s too heavy, or lighting that’s too bright.”

  The incredulous waiter looks at Franck. Does he really believe what he’s saying? Is he just trying to be provocative? Carl doesn’t know what to make of it. He’d like to question this guest, but he’s already allowed himself to be drawn far enough beyond the bounds of the reserve demanded by his employment. Getting into an argument could earn him a reprimand, or even get him fired. In the Grand Conference Hotel you have to be careful when dealing with guests’ indiscretions. On one occasion he had reacted when a bejeweled, crazy old woman kept him standing there for twenty minutes as she spouted such virulent racism that he didn’t know whether to laugh or drag her to the deep freeze and leave her there for an hour or two to cool off. He had restricted himself to expressing his disagreement quite simply and in a tone that he tried to make as calm, gentle, and neutral as possible, given the circumstances. As a result, he was hauled up on the carpet by his supervisor who, as he sipped his Coca-Cola, told him that while he didn’t agree with the offensive words of the crazy old woman, and he understood why the waiter had spoken up, what he had done was entirely natural and anyone else would have done the same, as long as they were off duty.

  But if I’d been off duty, Carl thought, I’d have slaughtered her.

  The outcome of this interview was a warning and an assurance that if it happened again the waiter would no longer be able to count on the Grand Hotel to continue paying his four kids’ school fees.

  Franck leafs through the newspaper. For the waiter’s benefit he adds, “Anyway, there’s a lot more in the paper than this murder.” He turns the pages. “Let’s see: two corrupt cops awaiting sentencing, a woman knocked down on a crosswalk, the Sox losing a ball game, a pair of African musicians arousing the enthusiasm of the crowd at God knows what festival, several upcoming charitable events, with citizens being strongly urged to get involved, and various associations looking for volunteers… And you can donate blood! And then there are still the vehicles for sale, the boats, the apartment buildings, and a long list of death notices. No cause for rejoicing there, and nothing very surprising. Now, take this murder: you find it bizarre. Well, you’re welcome to think what you like, but you have to admit it’s a success: it strikes a jarring note in the silence, and that’s something.”

  The waiter restricts himself to a nod, and asks if he can be of any further service to Franck.

  “Yes! Lend me your ears, let me explain my thinking! Things aren’t boring in themselves, you see, it’s just that they wear out. Something that has kept you amused for a while eventually becomes tiresome. Do you like women? By the time you get through twenty of them, you’ve had enough. You take drugs? How many ecstasy pills can you take before they make you sick? Books? There are very few worth rereading – less than a dozen; the authors and their works become like the most ordinary red sky, the most ordinary magnificent view: in time they become colorless, you tire of them. So for someone who’s tired, who’s ‘browned off,’ if I can use the term, murder can be an option. Maybe that’s what it costs to feel something? A caprice just acts as a counter to boredom, and, just like it, it’s neither good nor bad.”

  He must be an addict, or an artist – or maybe both. Carl has encountered quite a few of these characters who affect eccentricity and get together in a duplex on Main Street to smoke a few joints or blow a few lines of coke as they expound ludicrous theories about the essence of Art or the Nature of the Good, ideas they’ve forgotten by next morning when they’re on their knees in front of the toilet, puking. Unless he’s a fence for stolen antiques, or something like that, he adds to himself.

  8

  Franck makes his way to the hotel’s underground parking garage and gets into his car, a black rented Chrysler 300C. He moves off, connects his hands-free, and calls his New York office. After three rings, his secretary answers.

  “Franck! I was beginning to worry.” She seems glad to hear his voice.

  “Hi, Mariella. Much going on at your end?”

  He leaves the underground garage and emerges onto Conference Street.

  “Well, Cavendish is sure he’s about to find little Lucy. Apparently she’s been living with her father somewhere between Nebraska and Wyoming. Lefèvre caught three adulterers in the act, and one of the guys clocked him.”

  “What else?”

  “Newman has just gone off on vacation—”

  “That’s what he’s best at.”

  “But first he completed a successful surveillance of the Storm Rifle warehouses. He found out that the intruders were none other than the boss’s son and his buddies, who were helping themselves to the merchandise and reselling it.”

  “Great. And Bergson?”

  Franck turns right onto Paley Street.

  “He’s still taking care of the CEO of BIDH. He’s got three weeks left in the job.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, you’re the only one left, Franck!”

  “I’ve just carried out a rather delicate contract.”

  “And you can’t tell me what it was, right?”

  “Right on, Mariella.”

  “And when will you get back?”

  “I’ve no idea yet… In a few days, most likely.”

  He reaches Mount Auburn Street.

  “Complications?”

  Franck hesitates for a few moments. Finally, he answers, “No.”

  He passes Cimeo and Parker Streets, catching a glimpse of the Watertown First Baptist Church, now converted into condos.

  “Do you want me to send you the list of our upcoming commitments?”

  Parker is closed to traffic and the crime scene guys seem to be at work. In 80 percent of cases they find nothing useful, Franck thinks, and then replies, “No, there’s no point, thanks. Let Cavendish, Lefèvre, and Bergson share the load of adulteries, suspicions, shady business, and paranoia.”

  Mariella laughs. “I suppose I should tell them so in those exact words!” />
  Franck also laughs. “No, no. Tell them the work they’re doing is fantastic, essential, and varied. Explain to them that every marital infidelity is different, that every trashcan they turn out to vet its contents has a story, or even better, a personality.”

  Sherlock Investigations was founded by Franck in the late 1990s. Initially, it was a one-man operation, leaving him to sort through the contents of garbage bins in search of useful evidence, to shadow accountants on their visits to prostitutes, and to act as security for paranoid small bosses with smelly feet and armpits. Franck thought he had learned about humanity from novels, but during these years he rediscovered it in the sewer. Nauseated by the degrading work, which nevertheless brought him substantial profits and at which he excelled, Franck hired Bergson, a Jewish former librarian with a passion for crime novels. This allowed him, as a first step, to offload the marital cases, which he just couldn’t take anymore. Bergson, whom he had at first found somewhat unpredictable, not to say capricious, was soon obtaining excellent results. Franck rented an office in the very heart of Brooklyn, and five years after setting up his company he was enjoying an outstanding reputation. Then he hired Newman and Cavendish, two sinister-looking but intelligent former cops. The first had resigned after an inquiry was opened into police violence, and the second had been fired for using narcotics while on duty. Older veterans, they soon got on well with Bergson. Next, Franck needed a secretary, and along came Mariella, a twenty-three-year-old Latino girl. Then Lefèvre, a French expatriate and former teacher who had had the good sense to resign from his post as he had been working up to a sexual assault on one of his students. Won over both by his vice and the way he controlled it, Franck had hired him after dragging the story out of him. After that, Sherlock Investigations never looked back. The team met with well-heeled clients in new premises on Madison Avenue. As for Franck, he rarely takes on an assignment himself. Adulterous affairs, surveillances, stakeouts, digital security, or acting as bodyguard don’t interest him. His employees do exemplary work. His role has been reduced to supervising and coordinating them. In other words, he has nothing to do. Occasionally, however, he will accept what he calls a “special mission.”

  9

  Deputy Gomez goes to fetch Alexander Marshall from isolation cell 1B and bring him to 2E, a long, narrow room that already contains three individuals. This isn’t the first time Alexander has found himself in a police station in the state of Massachusetts. He knows how things work. He knows they’d never put someone seriously suspected of being a psychopathic killer in with a couple of hookers barely of age and a drunk no longer able to sit upright. The effects of withdrawal are still being felt, he is still feeling nauseous, but all the same, cell 2E offers him a little comfort, a kind of perspective.

  “Does this mean I’m not suspected of murder?”

  “No, it means we still can’t prove you did it, but give us time—”

  “Then why are you keeping me in?”

  “You were arrested for possession of a loaded firearm—”

  “Small caliber!—”

  “You were as high as a kite, and we found a load of crack in your apartment. And add to that about fifteen vehicle registrations not in your name—”

  “What does that prove?”

  “—and suspected sexual harassment of a female minor.”

  “She never reported it!”

  “Sorry, pal, Julia Henderson just left the station a moment ago. Even if you didn’t kill the old guy, you’ll be inside for a stretch.”

  Alexander Marshall isn’t surprised. He should have expected it. Basically, he has nothing against crime or injustice. They have been his lot since birth, and he has become acclimatized to them. When he makes someone suffer, when he beats them, robs them, or allows them to undergo the torments of withdrawal before offering them a tiny packet at an exorbitant price, he knows he’s committing what is usually called an injustice. For him, it is neither moral nor immoral. There is nothing immoral about animals copulating freely and openly, when the humor takes them. Transposed onto human society it becomes a moral question, but in nature it’s an insignificant phenomenon. Himself the product of a mistake and a bungled murder, Alexander Marshall doesn’t exactly live on the same plane as other mortals, and has never felt himself to be a member of society – “I fell by the wayside,” he sometimes says. He leads an ordinary life made up of petty pleasures, occasional highs, and modest gratifications, like when he has sex with Laura Henderson or sits in a muscle car. Nor is there anything original or revolutionary about his thinking: there are the rich and the poor, and the poor have to take the money of the rich to become as wealthy as they – such is the essence of his system. On the other hand, his actions are much less costly for him than for others, as if he occupied a space within which the laws of gravity were more elastic.

  It is 12:45 p.m. Gomez is last to enter the conference room, and takes his place alongside the sheriff. Sitting in a semicircle in front of them are officers Jaspers and Hendrix, Doctor Olson, and also Sergeant Wilde, from the Criminal Division. McCarthy takes a moment to study each of them. He has confidence in Hendrix, who has served under him for the past ten years. In Jaspers too, even if his violent excesses have sometimes resulted in unfavorable reports, reviews, and threats. Gomez has been clean for three years now, and is an excellent deputy. Doctor Olson is an honest practitioner, without any special talent; he hasn’t yet solved his drinking problem, to judge by the bags under his eyes – and there’s every likelihood that he went on a binge last night. As for Sergeant Wilde, he’s the kind of irritating up-and-comer, as stupid as he is intransigent, able to solve a case but not to understand its underlying causes. The product of a radical Protestant culture and too many video games, Wilde is your typical nasty cop. But McCarthy is wary of him for another reason, for, since the murder took place within the municipality, on his territory, he doesn’t understand why he has been saddled with a representative of the State Police.

  Wilde seems to have deciphered McCarthy’s resentful glare. “I know this is your investigation, Sheriff. But it does seem to have some similarities with the Sherman Valley case. Do you remember it?”

  McCarthy nods. He does remember it, and he is furious. That was in 2001, he thinks. Where were you in 2001, Wilde? Huh? Sitting in front of your computer screen? Hiding behind your mother’s skirts? In your bed fantasizing about all the girls that wouldn’t give you a second look?

  At the time, McCarthy had followed the investigation as an onlooker, in the media and from what colleagues in other departments told him. A young mother living in the Bellams had been found dead in the woods at Sherman Valley, a nature preserve close to Boston. Her eyes had been sliced and she had been liberally mutilated with a box-cutter. Suspicion fell on her former boyfriend, a violent alcoholic who had never recovered from their breakup. He had been released for lack of proof.

  Gomez intervenes. “Do you really think the two cases are connected? If I remember rightly, the young woman in the Sherman case was savagely beaten and her aggressor assailed her dead body furiously before leaving the scene. In this case there doesn’t seem to have been any outpouring of violence.”

  Doctor Olson confirms this. “That’s right. Henderson’s throat was cut from left to right, probably with a hunting or kitchen knife, then cruciform incisions were made in the eyes and on each of the cheeks with a finer blade – a small knife or a scalpel.”

  “Wait!” Gomez interrupts him. “You’re saying that two weapons were involved?”

  “Yes, that’s my provisional conclusion.”

  “So there were most likely two killers…” Gomez continues his deduction. “The first killed Henderson, then the other took it out on the body…”

  “That’s one possibility,” the doctor concedes.

  “Or there could have been a single killer, using two weapons.”

  “Have you ever come across such a thing?” McCarthy interjects.

  “Unless he returned to the
scene. Maybe he wasn’t sure Henderson was dead, or he began to feel he hadn’t done enough—”

  “That’s just crazy,” Wilde declares abruptly.

  McCarthy gives him a withering look. “Sergeant, what I find just crazy is mutilating the body of a senior citizen out on the street of a family neighborhood. Don’t you?”

  Wilde doesn’t answer.

  McCarthy continues. “Let me point out a few more things. The killer or killers didn’t think it necessary to dispose of the body deep inside a forest, the victim isn’t a young woman, and there are hundreds of other unsolved murders that would benefit from the attention of a talented officer like yourself…”

  Wilde is aware that nobody in the room likes him. All the officers, and even Doctor Olson, are either from the Bellams or Dorchester. They have known one another for years, they have all experienced difficult family situations, they all attended public schools. Some have not quite come through in one piece (he glances at Olson, who hasn’t been able to conceal his hangover, and at Jaspers, whose superiors do their best to cover up his overzealousness). Wilde himself comes from central Boston and his father is a judge. They eat a healthy diet, drink in moderation, and play golf. Sometimes, it’s true, Wilde’s father allows himself an escapade outside the office to bed a young illegal immigrant, just as the son occasionally takes advantage of his privileges as a cop to beat down the price of a blow job performed in his police car by a street hooker, but such things aren’t really of any consequence.