The 7th Woman

by Frédérique Molay

Professor Vilars recorded her observations as she proceeded with the autopsy.

  “The general appearance of the victim is that of a healthy woman who seems to have exercised regularly. She has little body fat. Body height is five feet six inches. Blood is being sampled for typing and DNA testing. Her hair is being combed for trace evidence. Nothing. There are thirty similar blunt-force wounds on the torso that I am measuring. Molds will also be taken to determine if they were made by the same weapon, more specifically, a whip, and, above all, if the same person inflicted the wounds. We will compare strips of skin to analyze impact and angles. There is a penetrating wound near the navel. The blade is deep, damaging vital organs. I am removing the knife and sending it to forensics as evidence. I am photographing all the wounds. Now for Miss Jory’s hands: Nail clippings are being taken and will be examined. Maybe she had some contact with her attacker, but I’m not hopeful. Now I’m taking ultraviolet shots that could reveal any invisible bruising on the body. Lasers will show any saliva, sperm or fingerprints on the skin. Are you OK, Nico?”

  He jumped. He was so focused, it felt as though he had been holding his breath since the beginning of the autopsy. He felt fatigue gaining on him.

  “Nico?” the medical examiner said again.

  “Yes. I’m OK.”

  “Fine. I’ll continue. The breasts were amputated with a scalpel. The technique was sophisticated. The thorax and abdomen are being opened, using a vertical incision from the xiphoid process to the pubis. I’m removing the organs one after the other, from top to bottom. There is no water in her lungs. I’ll analyze her stomach and intestinal contents later, which should give me her time of death. I’m reaching the pelvic zone. I will examine bladder content later. Now the genitalia. Her uterus has increased volume. The victim was pregnant. No doubt about it.”

  “Pregnant?” Nico said. “How far along?”

  “About a month,” she said. “There’s a rough placenta and amniotic cavity. Forensics can do a paternity test with DNA identification.”

  Nico felt himself shiver.

  “We’ll examine the head next,” Professor Vilars continued. “I’m opening the eyes. The corneas are cloudy, but I can still make out her brown eye color. There are traces of ether around her mouth, so he started by knocking her out. I see traces of duct tape adhesive on her lips and skull. She couldn’t scream. Now you know how the victim was neutralized. There are no contusions under the hair. The skull is being opened, first by cutting the skin from one ear to the other, and the brain is being inspected for blood clots.”

  Armelle Vilars finished her job.

  “I’m seeing the public prosecutor at eleven,” Nico said.

  “The autopsy report will be on his desk. I’ll send you a copy by email, with details about the wounds, tox and blood results, stage of pregnancy, my conclusions and impressions about the time of death and the nature of the weapon.”

  He had nothing to add. He left feeling as though he was in a waking nightmare. Marie-Hélène Jory was expecting a child. He imagined his son, Dimitri, a strong fourteen year old, a joy. He sighed and made a face when a dull pain in his upper abdomen brought him back. His thoughts shifted to Dr. Dalry. He suddenly wanted to see her. She would know how to distract him and take him far away from these sordid stories.

  His cell phone rang again. It was Tanya.

  3

  Personal Business

  IT’S NEARLY MIDNIGHT, NICO,” his sister said, sounding worried. “Are you still working?”

  “It’s been a hard day. I’ll be going home soon.”

  “You could have let me know what the doctor said.”

  Her maternal tone amused him. Tanya was two years younger than he was, yet she had a protective attitude toward him. What would he do without her?

  “I’m really sorry, but I didn’t have time.”

  “In any case, I know exactly what she said. Alexis talked to Dr. Dalry.”

  Dr. Alexis Perrin was his brother-in-law, first of all, and on rare occasions, his general practitioner.

  “What about doctor-patient privilege?” he asked, trying to get her angry.

  “You can complain all you want to Mom,” she said in a teasing voice.

  Their mother, Anya Sirsky, was Russian. Her parents had fled their homeland in 1917, and she took pride in her roots. Still, she had married a Sirsky, who was Polish, even though he had lived in France for quite some time. Her Russian ancestors must have turned over in their tombs when she married a Pole! She was tall and thin, with long blond, nearly white hair, a strong personality and acting skills in the purest Slavic tradition. She could shift from laughter to tears in seconds. Anya loved Griboyedov, Pouchkine, Lermontov and Gogol and could recite entire passages written by her favorite authors. All his life, Nico had listened to her do so in the slightly gravelly voice that was distinctly her own. Nico smiled affectionately at this mention of their colorful mother. She could have been a character in a novel.

  “At least call me on Wednesday, when you have the results of the endoscopy. Don’t forget that I’m your sister, and it is normal that I worry about you. Who else would bother?”

  Tanya never missed a chance to hassle him about his bachelorhood.

  “Do you know Dr. Dalry?” he dared to ask, trying to sound detached.

  “She went to medical school with Alexis, and they’ve stayed in touch. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  “No reason? I doubt that. First of all, I know you, and you generally don’t waste your time asking meaningless questions. Second, you are my brother, and I am still waiting for you to show some serious interest in a woman.”

  “Tanya, your imagination is way too active. I just wanted to make sure I was in good hands.”

  “The best. You know Alexis. For that matter, are you free for dinner on Thursday?”

  “Sure. But please spare me the latest young woman you’ve found for me to meet.”

  His sister let out an exaggerated sigh.

  “Promise,” she said, adding a hint of defeat. “Now get home and go to bed. And call me on Wednesday.”

  Nico returned to his home on the Rue Oudinot in Paris’ seventh arrondissement. He opened the blue porte cochère between the French Overseas Territories Ministry and the Saint-Jean Clinic. A garden in the middle of the city opened before him. A few ivy-covered homes with flowers lined a small private alley. In the distance, you could see the Montparnasse Tower all lit up. Here, he was in the very heart of the capital, and yet there was no noise. He would never have had the means to pay for this without the inheritance from his father. By means of hard work, intuition and certainly a bit of luck, his family had made a fortune in trading, and he had often lent a hand. This had allowed him to do the police work he loved without any financial constraints. The day he could no longer put up with the intense demands of his job, he could leave the police and live comfortably.

  He unlocked the front door and immediately felt a presence. One of the three windows on the first floor was open. He pulled out his weapon, which he carried in a holster on his right side. He crept in the shadows. A small hallway opened onto the dining room and the kitchen. He decided to take the stairs to the second floor, which had a comfortable living room, his bedroom and an adjacent bathroom. He slipped out of his shoes before climbing the first step. He heard a vague breathing. He was sure someone was there. When he reached the top of the stairs, he let out a sigh of relief. His son was sleeping in his pajamas on the black sofa. He holstered his pistol and quietly approached the teenager. His son looked so much like him, he could have been a younger clone. He had a long, muscular body, refined features, deep blue eyes and blond hair that could have used a cut. The boy had a room and a bathroom on the third floor, next to the office. Nico decided not to wake him up, grabbed a plaid throw and covered him up. He climbed up a flight and saw that his son’s things were scattered across the floor, and his book bag was emptied on the bed. Nico and his ex-wife shared custody of Dimitri, and this was
not his week. He was ready to bet that once again mother and son had fought. Sylvie held it against Dimitri that he looked so much like his father. She couldn’t help it. She resented her son’s affection for his father. She wanted her son’s exclusive love. What else could Nico do but try to smooth things out between the two of them? He knew that it was important that they get along. He even discouraged Dimitri from moving in with him permanently. Not that he didn’t want him to, but because Sylvie couldn’t handle it. He decided to call his ex-wife.

  “Nico?” he heard her say.

  “Yes, it’s me,” he responded. “He’s here. Don’t worry. I would have called you earlier, but I just got back. He fell asleep on the couch.”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone.

  “Sylvie, are you there?”

  “Yes. You know, I don’t know what to do with him,” she said, distraught.

  Her trembling voice announced a storm. Sylvie broke down easily.

  “It’s not the first time this has happened. Step back a little. Give him some slack. You’ll see. Things will go better.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. You’re everything to him.”

  “Don’t start that again. We’ve talked about this a thousand times. It’s true that he and I are close, but you’re his mother. He loves you, and he needs you.”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know anymore.”

  She was crying. He had to stay calm to keep things from getting any worse.

  “This shared custody thing …”

  “Listen, Sylvie, I won’t ever question that. I promised you. So stop pummeling yourself with those stupidities. Take a vacation with Dimitri, and talk things over. In any case, I’ll send him back to you tomorrow. It’s your week. In the meantime, go to bed. I’m doing the same.”

  “OK,” she said in a whiny voice.

  He hung up and returned to look at his son sleeping peacefully. He leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. Then he went to his room, removed his holster from his belt and put his gun in the safe. He took a good shower and climbed under the sheets. It was nearly one in the morning. As soon as he closed his eyes, he saw Marie-Hélène Jory’s body. First it was in her apartment, in the middle of the living room. Then it was in the refrigerated morgue. The medical examiner’s incisions were superimposed over the attacker’s wounds. A dangerous psychopath. A criminal who took pleasure in his victim’s terror. He was sure there would be more murders.

  He fell asleep with this anxiety-ridden certainty.

  TUESDAY

  4

  The Day After

  THE NIGHT WAS AN ordeal. Sometimes Marie-Hélène Jory came back to life to be killed again as he stood by, incapable of making the slightest movement, watching her being tortured by an unknown masked man and writhing in merciless pain. Then she died, staring at him. At other times, Dr. Dalry appeared, gentle and attentive. He wanted to hold her but couldn’t. He woke up several times and drank a glass of milk to calm the heartburn gnawing at him.

  He managed, however, to leave early for his eight a.m. appointment with Rost and Kriven. Two uniformed police officers wearing bulky bulletproof vests guarded the area around the division headquarters. One opened the red and white gate that led to a small parking lot squeezed between the imposing building and the traffic on the Quai des Orfèvres. He pulled into his reserved parking spot and went directly through the security checks, where the officers addressed him with a respectful, “Good morning, Chief.” His steps rang out in the tiled hallway that led to the interior courtyard. He followed the outside wall on his left to a glass doorway, which he went through several times a day to enter the division’s offices. He climbed the famous three flights of black linoleum-covered stairs. The walls had lost their cream color and looked dirty. The premises were cramped and ramshackle—as if they were from another age—and hardly worthy of a division such as the one he commanded. How long had they been promising a renovation? Visitors who were well aware of the division’s impressive reputation were always shocked by this state of disrepair.

  Nico entered his office, one of the few decent-sized rooms on that floor. The furnishings and colors were all dated, but he had the space he wanted and, above all, a view of the Seine. The inevitable portrait of the president reigned over a small sideboard across from the door. He settled into a brown leather chair in front of a huge desk piled with papers, including complaints filed the night before, pending cases and an assessment of terrorist risks related to events in the Middle East. He quickly scanned them until Jean-Marie Rost and David Kriven interrupted for their appointment.

  The commander looked haggard. He handed his superior officer a bag of fresh croissants. Nico helped himself without hesitating. The upper-abdominal pain was still there.

  “You look exhausted, David,” Nico said.

  “I couldn’t get this case out of my head all night,” the commander said.

  He was, of course, talking about Marie-Hélène Jory’s murder. Nico gave him a kind look. He hoped his colleague would learn to leave his work behind when he went home, although he knew that wasn’t likely. Even after several years on the beat, the images had a way of coming back. You would go over the interviews again and again. You would have doubts and wade through terrible nightmares.

  “I’m sorry, David.”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s the same for everyone here. You looked fried yourself.”

  There was no need to respond. Who could remain indifferent when faced with torture and murder? What surprised Nico was the distress that Commander Kriven was exhibiting. He was a showoff some of the time, but he was just a cop like the others. Deep down, that was reassuring.

  “You’ll see, David, it gets easier with age,” he said, winking at Deputy Chief Rost to conclude the conversation.

  Commander Kriven didn’t believe him but was grateful for the reassurance. Nico slapped him on the shoulder, and they relaxed a little.

  “The interview with Paul Terrade didn’t provide anything useful,” Nico said. “He doesn’t appear to have anything to do with what happened and seems to be telling the truth. His girlfriend was one month pregnant, and we need to find out if Terrade was the father.”

  “That’s horrible!” Kriven said.

  “I know. Terrade didn’t talk to me about it. Does he know? Did she know? This is what we need to find out this morning. Rost?”

  “I’ll join Théron’s squad to speed things up. Today we need to see the couple’s doctors, go to the bank to go over their accounts, visit the Sorbonne, where she was teaching, and finish questioning Terrade’s employer, colleagues, family and friends.”

  “OK for Théron,” Nico said.

  Indeed, he thought that Joël Théron’s team would need all the help it could get to collect as much information as possible in such a short time frame. Three of the four sections he managed worked on serious infractions—murders, kidnappings, missing persons and sexual molestation. The fourth dealt with counter-terrorism and had been particularly busy since September 11, 2001. The men assigned to it were worn out and constantly on call, just as he and his deputy chiefs were. He was already concerned about the holiday season. Right now, things were relatively calm as far as criminal cases were concerned. So Théron’s men could work with Kriven’s on the Jory case.

  “I will deal with the paternity issue and contact Ms. Jory’s gynecologist,” Nico said. “Then I’ll go to the Sorbonne. Go ahead with the rest. Use the usual methods. I have an appointment at eleven a.m. with the state prosecutor, so we’ll do a first review of the investigation at ten. Let’s get those scientists to move their asses on this.”

  Rost and Kriven left the office. Nico called Paul Terrade’s sister, where he had spent the night. She answered after a single ring.

  “How is your brother holding up?” Sirsky asked after identifying himself.

  “He was up all night. He refuses to sleep, as if he were keeping vigil for Marie-Hélène.”

  “He won�
��t last long that way. You should take him to see a doctor. He has experienced a trauma that he may have trouble handling on his own.”

  “That’s exactly what I was going to suggest today. But Paul can be so stubborn.”

  Nico had the impression that Paul Terrade was in good hands. His sister was obviously sad, but she was dealing with the situation.

  “I need to see your brother. It’s urgent.”

  “Why? Do you have something new?” she asked.

  “In a way. Can you manage to be in my office at nine?”

  “So it is important. Of course, we’ll be there.”

  “See you then,” Nico concluded.

  He then made a list of the couple’s doctors, including their general practitioner, his ophthalmologist, a dentist and her gynecologist. He was most interested in talking with the gynecologist, whose offices were certainly not open yet. He asked his staff to find the physician’s home phone number and called it. A woman answered. He gave his name, and she called her husband, Dr. Jacques Taland.

  “What can I do for you, Inspector?” he asked, sounding anxious.

  “It is about one of your patients.”

  “Oh.” He sounded relieved.

  “Marie-Hélène Jory.”

  “I saw her last Friday.”

  “Ms. Jory passed away, Doctor.”

  Silence settled.

  “She was murdered,” Nico added.

  “That’s horrible! How can I be of help?”

  “I need you to send me her medical file. It’s urgent.”

  “I suppose that under these circumstances medical privacy does not apply?”

  “Send me the papers today, and I’ll send you an order from the public prosecutor. How’s that?”

  “I trust you. That’s terrible. I told her she was pregnant. She was beaming. It’s hard to forget that look, even though I deliver this kind of news all the time. Her blood tests should be in soon.”

  “In addition, I need you to make a statement. When can you stop in?”