The City of Blood

by Frédérique Molay

  Worse for some than for others, Nico thought. He had a responsibility to apprehend the criminal or criminals who had brutally murdered this young man and buried him in the Parc de la Villette. While he admired people like Caroline, who dedicated their lives to fighting sickness, there had to be others like him, who ensured that society did not descend to a chaos where men were free to maim and murder, and survivors were free to carry out their own brand of justice.

  “I’ll take DNA from the tissue remains,” Vilars said. The police lab will analyze the samples. I won’t detain you any longer. It’s already late in the morning. I’ll send the public prosecutor the report this afternoon.”

  “Can you send me a copy?” Nico asked. They were close colleagues who didn’t need to observe all of the administrative formalities.

  “Of course. I’ll e-mail it to you.”

  Nico and Kriven, relieved to be done, quickly left the autopsy room without looking at the gutted old man. They returned to the locker room to change and head back to work.

  Nico took his phone out. Vilars would not tolerate any cell phone calls in the autopsy room. There was a text message from Kriven: “I think I know who Skeletor is.”

  6

  She poked her head out the window and breathed the springtime air: a mixture of flowers, exhaust fumes, and food. The smells of Paris. Even the nauseating ones invigorated her. She took in the view from her sixth-floor apartment. The best view of the capital, she thought. She would never give it up. She liked to sit behind the window or on her narrow balcony, a book in her hand, her eyes moving from the yellowed pages to the majestic edifice at the end of the street. “I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life,” she recited to herself. Her eyes filled with tears. It was such a beautiful day. Her voice rose. “I am the door: by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture.”

  Something was bothering her, but she couldn’t say exactly what it was.

  Nico waited until all his troops had taken their places around the long table in his office. Deputy Chief Clare Le Marec was sitting to his right. He valued her work, her loyalty, and her discretion. Also seated at the table were Deputy Chief Jean-Marie Rost, one of the four section chiefs in La Crim’; Commander David Kriven, a worrier and perfectionist, as well as something of a braggart; and Captains Franck Plassard and Pierre Vidal.

  “Okay, we’ve got our work cut out,” Nico said as everybody quieted down. “The excavation involved an array of people who clearly didn’t expect to find a skeleton, let alone have it covered on the news. Everybody’s eyes are on us now.”

  “According to the autopsy, the bones belong to a white man between twenty and twenty-five years old and about five and a half feet tall,” Captain Vidal said. “He had a broken tibia that required an operation and was buried for three decades. He’s had a blunt blow to the skull, which most likely resulted in a cerebral edema, an intracranial hemorrhage, and then death.”

  “And who exactly was it that died?” Nico asked. It was Kriven’s turn to talk.

  She walked along the Boulevard des Courcelles toward the Place des Ternes, where she had lived for years. She loved buying flowers. Roses were her favorite, while sunflowers symbolized the warmth of summer. Snowball trees blossomed with white flowers in the springtime, and their small clusters of blood-red berries welcomed birds to her balcony in the winter. The men in the green stalls waved to her as though she were royalty. The theater kiosk, where she often bought tickets on a whim, and the antique métro entrance added to the charm of the bustling market at the end of the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. She could see the Arc de Triomphe in the heart of the eighth arrondissement.

  But today nothing could distract her from the mute fear that had gripped her from the moment she woke up. Something terrible was going to happen. She was sure of it. She looked around anxiously, not knowing whether the threat was human or not.

  “I’ve been looking into the main players for this tableau-piège in La Villette, and I came across some interesting information,” Kriven said. “It seems that Samuel Cassian has been cursed by the gods, or at least he’s paid dearly for his success. First off, he lost his father during the war. Then his son disappeared a week after the banquet burial. He never surfaced again, despite an exhaustive attempt to find him.”

  “Which gives us reason to believe that Skeletor might be the king’s son,” Nico said.

  La Lorraine was one of her favorite places to eat. The restaurant had the best raw bar in Paris, and she loved the oysters more than anything else.

  Inside, the décor recalled a transatlantic liner, and a wide assortment of guests rubbed shoulders amid the refracted light of St.-Louis glassware. She liked this sophisticated atmosphere. Maybe it would allay her fears.

  “Nataliya!” the maître d’ said, holding out his arms.

  He could have hugged her, but knew better.

  “Your usual table?”

  “But of course, Roger.”

  She always sat along the glass wall overlooking the crowds on the sunlight-bathed Place des Ternes. It was her ritual. She glanced at her neighbors. They looked like honest people with no dark secrets. Peril might be imminent, but it would not be at the hands of these innocent diners. Still, the lump in her throat wouldn’t go down. Her hands were trembling imperceptibly, her stomach was leaden, and she was sweating.

  She considered calling in reinforcements. Weren’t there options in circumstances such as this: rally the troops? Nyet, she was too proud for that.

  “Today’s oysters are fresher than fresh. I’d be surprised if they weren’t plucked out of the mud minutes ago,” Roger whispered in her ear.

  She suspected that Roger was in love with her and had been from the instant he’d first laid eyes on her. He was quivering.

  “May I serve you a dozen of our finest? With a glass of white wine?”

  She nodded and smiled, unable to speak.

  “Nothing but the best for you!” he said before making an about-face and walking off.

  Finally, she set one of her books on the table. She’d been gripping it so hard, her hands hurt. But right now she would not read, not one word. She was too worried, too busy surveying her surroundings. Someone or something was coming for her. She knew it.

  “Jean-Baptiste Cassian was twenty-two years old then,” Kriven said.

  “What do you know about this young man?” Nico asked.

  “Not much yet. He was an artist too, with a degree from the École Nationale des Beaux-Arts. He was starting to make a name for himself. He had an exhibit in New York when he disappeared. And his pieces were selling rather well.”

  Kriven set a few photos on the table. “I met with the archivist at the Parc de la Villette this morning. She gave me these old prints; they were taken during the banquet.”

  He pointed to one of the pictures.

  “Here’s Jean-Baptiste, sitting on his father’s right.”

  “Well, if that isn’t symbolic,” Jean-Marie Rost said.

  “And that’s exactly where we found the body—right where Cassian’s son was sitting,” Nico added.

  “Indeed!” Kriven said.

  “All the same, we’ll need to verify the victim’s identity before going any further with this lead.”

  “We have these shoes, a clothing label, some tissue samples, a belt, and a watch,” Pierre Vidal said. “They’ll be examined at the lab.”

  “And fingerprints?” Nico asked.

  “That would be a surprise. We’ve found these things and remnants of food near the skeleton, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. A lot of time has passed.”

  “What about soil samples?”

  “We have experts working on that, but we don’t have much there, either. Let’s see if Jean-Baptiste had surgery for a broken tibia. And the forensics lab is reconstructing a face from the skull. That should be interesting.”

  “DNA and dental recor
ds would help,” Jean-Marie Rost said.

  “Those are things we need to do right away,” Nico said. “Have you made a list of who was at the banquet?”

  “We’ve started putting together information from the archivist’s photos,” Kriven said. “And we’ve sent out investigators. It was an extraordinary group: artists, gallery owners, art critics, filmmakers, museum directors, journalists, politicians. A few have died. Others have retired, but the majority are still working. We’re trying to find out if they noticed anything in particular about the two Cassians. Speaking of which…”

  “Yes?” Nico said.

  “Jacques Langier was the minister of culture back then, and he was at the lunch. How would we get in touch with him?”

  “I’ll do it. It won’t take me long.”

  “And what about Cassian?”

  “Go to his place now, and see if you can find any DNA traces and the dental records for his son. And talk to the boy’s mother. I’ll meet with Cassian later. He’s been in the hospital. Do you know who was present when the excavation started?”

  “We have an official list. We also have a list of everyone who has worked at the site since the dig began, as well as those who came for other reasons—park employees, journalists, and such. We can narrow the list to the people who were there when the skeleton was discovered. Murderers often return to the scene of the crime. All in all, we could fill a conference hall with the people who’ve been at the site, so we have our work cut out for us.”

  “In the meantime, I’m going to ask Christine Lormes to have the banquet completely exhumed,” Nico said.

  Everyone at the table gave him their full attention.

  “We’ll need to make sure there aren’t any other nasty surprises. We’re already dealing with what looks like a premeditated murder.”

  “You’re right,” Claire Le Marec said.

  “Jean-Marie, will you write the preliminary report?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  She had barely touched her oysters or pressed her lips to the glass of white wine. The bread basket and butter dish hadn’t been moved. She had no appetite. Neither the crowd beyond the window in the Place des Ternes nor the hubbub in the restaurant could help. The sky no longer seemed blue, and the sun didn’t seem to be shining.

  “Is something wrong?” Roger asked.

  She jumped at his unexpected presence. She could see the concern on his face.

  “I’ll bring you six more if you’re unhappy with these,” the maître d’ said.

  She cursed herself for being an idiot. Showing this much nervousness would attract unwanted attention.

  “Don’t fall all over yourself,” she said, teasing him. “I guess I don’t have a taste for oysters today. I’d rather have the sole meunière. That should bring back my appetite. And I might just have one of those wonderful Grand Marnier soufflés for dessert.”

  He still looked worried. She was avoiding him, and that wasn’t like her. She knew she had hurt his feelings.

  Roger cautiously took away the oyster platter and its pedestal.

  “I’ll bring your sole right away.”

  What did her eyes take in at that moment—the last moment? Her heart was beating violently. She was beginning to sweat. There was a buzzing in her head. It was growing louder, boring into her eardrums. Through the din, she heard someone shout. It was the maître d’, Roger. He was shrieking her name: “Nataliya!” Then Roger’s voice went quiet. The space inside her brain exploded, throwing out thousands of brilliant shards. Then darkness.

  “We need to figure out very quickly whether the skeleton is, indeed, Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s,” Nico said. “But the odds of finding his murderer after three decades are pretty slim, assuming he’s still alive.”

  Nico’s phone interrupted the discussion. His secretary was under orders not to bother him unless it was an emergency. Nico hurried to his desk to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “I think you want to take this call, Chief.” His secretary sounded upset.

  She put him through without waiting for approval.

  “Chief Nico Sirsky?”

  “Speaking.”

  “I’m Dr. Paul-Henri Fursac at Bichat Hospital.”

  Nico saw the hospital in his mind. It was in the eighteenth arrondissement on the north side of Paris.

  “Your mother’s been admitted.”

  “Wait, what happened?”

  “I’d rather not discuss this with you on the phone. It would be best if you came in.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Listen, you should come in as soon as possible, and we can explain.”

  7

  Nico had given his instructions and left. Commander Kriven knew from the dark look on his boss’s face how urgent the situation was. The man’s devotion to his mother was a well-known fact.

  Mrs. Cassian looked at Kriven and Lieutenant Almeida from her place on the sofa, then blew her nose and wiped the tears from her cheeks. She was short and slim, with gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was clearly distraught over the events of the previous day. Her husband, Samuel, had been hospitalized for shock. Fortunately, the doctors had said he could come home soon.

  “It’s horrible. This project meant so much to Samuel.”

  Kriven tried to avoid showing his impatience.

  “Ma’am, I’m sure it’s a relief to know that your husband will be home in no time at all. Now, if I may, I would like to speak with you about the remains of the individual discovered at the site of the banquet.”

  By using the word “individual,” Kriven wanted her to understand that they had, indeed, found a human being in the pit. A person with a face—at one time—and a name. It could serve as a first step. Perhaps she would make the connection between the remains and her son’s disappearance. A few seconds passed without either of them breaking the silence. He had to be careful not to push too hard.

  “This individual died young,” Kriven prodded gently.

  “That’s a shame,” she said quietly.

  “He took a blow to the head. He didn’t suffer at all.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  Her mind seemed to be elsewhere, and she wasn’t willing to connect the dots.

  “Can you tell me about your son?”

  Her eyes immediately went to the throw pillow by his knees. It had fallen off the chair when he sat down. He picked it up and propped it back in place.

  “Do you remember if he ever broke his leg?”

  “Jean-Baptiste,” she said. A long pause followed. “We still don’t know what happened to him. I’m sure he just wanted to get away from his problems. You know, he was such a promising artist, but he was upset over not being as good as his father. I think he feared disappointing him. So he left. I respect that. Maybe he’s living in the United States under an assumed name. I hope he’s happy. He’s my son, my only child. You’ll never know how much a mother can love a child.”

  “Tell me, ma’am, do you remember if Jean-Baptiste ever suffered any broken bones, perhaps a bone in his leg?” Kriven asked.

  She glared at him, as if she couldn’t bear the interruption of her idyllic reflection on parental love.

  “He broke his tibia in a soccer game when he was seventeen. He gave me a good scare. His operation went well, and after his recovery, he ran as fast as a rabbit.”

  Kriven wasn’t taking any chances.

  “And how tall was he?”

  “A bit shorter than you. About five feet, nine inches. But such a handsome boy.”

  “Have you kept his possessions?”

  “Of course. I haven’t moved a thing in his room.”

  David Kriven shivered. Underneath the success and the money, the wound was still fresh. The Cassians had continued living, but were haunted by their son’s specter. People knew that Mrs. Cassian rarely went out and never saw anyone, and now he understood why: she had lost her appetite for life, along with her son.

  “May I see his room?”<
br />
  Mrs. Cassian was plainly suspicious. “What exactly are you looking for?”

  “Well, we’re hoping to find him,” Kriven said. It was a lie.

  The woman’s eyes lit up. She got up quickly and walked across the apartment. Kriven and Lieutenant Almeida followed. As he passed the windows, Kriven took in the bustling Saint-Germain-des-Prés neighborhood. It was an artists’ haunt Samuel Cassian would never leave, Kriven had found out when reading up about the man. Apparently Cassian was nostalgic for the student uprising days of the sixties, when idealistic young people would gather in the Saint Germain cafés to reenvision the world.

  She had barely opened the door when Kriven understood how time had, in fact, stood still for the Cassians. A sweatshirt was still draped over the back of an armchair. The room hadn’t been touched since Jean-Baptiste’s disappearance. It was a mausoleum for the young man and a godsend for the police.

  “May we look around?”

  “Yes, but keep everything in its place.”

  Kriven gestured to Almeida, who opened his briefcase to begin collecting the DNA evidence necessary to make a comparison with the genetic code of the skeleton. It would take twenty-four to forty-eight hours to make that assessment.

  “Did you, by any chance, keep your son’s medical records?” Kriven asked.

  Mrs. Cassian gave him an odd look.

  “His dental records, for example.”

  She stared him as though he were a strange creature.

  “Or at least his dentist’s name?”

  “Hmm, everything’s in the office,” she finally answered.

  He followed her into the hallway. All alone in the room, Almeida could go through Jean-Baptiste’s personal effects. In the office, Kriven stood in front of a desk with drawers full of folders labeled in black marker: “Middle School,” “High School,” “École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts,” “Soccer Club,” “Guitar Lessons,” “Pediatrician,” “General Practitioner,” “Specialists,” “Dentist,” “Letters and Postcards,” “Exhibitions.” Jean-Baptiste’s life had been organized, filed, and archived. Kriven gulped. The woman pulled out the dental folder, set out her son’s X-rays, and looked at them with sadness on her face, as if they were beloved family photos.