The City of Blood

by Frédérique Molay

  “May I borrow them?” Kriven asked.

  “Only if you promise you won’t damage them. He may need them someday, you know.”

  Damn it! He’d have to ask Dominique Kreiss, the division’s psychologist, to see the woman.

  “You have my word,” he said.

  “Well, you seem like a good man, and honest, too. Like Jean-Baptiste. You’ll bring them back, won’t you?”

  The top floor at headquarters was filled with small interview rooms. The rooms had computers with cameras to record the questioning. Each had only a skylight. This dearth of natural lighting gave the rooms a claustrophobic feel and also deterred escapes. The room Captain Franck Plassard was in felt even gloomier as he thought about his boss and Anya Sirsky.

  The door opened, and an officer poked his head into the room.

  “Mrs. Béal is here,” he said.

  The director of Monaco’s contemporary art museum, the Nouveau Musée National, had attended Samuel Cassian’s banquet, as well as the opening ceremony for the archaeological dig. She was a major player in the art world.

  “Send her in,” Plassard said.

  The officer let her in, then closed the door and stood in a corner. In French cop lingo, the officer in the background was called a “ghost”—not seen, not heard, but there.

  Plassard got up to greet the witness and asked her to take a seat.

  “I have to thank you for responding so quickly.” He wanted to set her at ease; he had no reason to consider her a suspect. At the moment, no one was a suspect.

  “It’s absolutely fine. This isn’t a practical joke to draw more attention to the dig, is it?”

  “I’m sorry to tell you that the bones we’ve uncovered are human remains, as we suspected.”

  “My God! But who could it be?”

  “We haven’t gotten that far yet,” Plassard said in a soothing tone. “You were at the banquet and the excavation of Samuel Cassian’s tableau-piège. Tell me: Did you notice anything in particular at either of these two events? I know the banquet took place a long time ago, but it must stand out in your memory.”

  “Oh, we were all so happy and excited to take part in this experience. We were all friends, some of us closer than others. We discussed ideas. We talked about the arts. And we laughed. It was a lovely event. Samuel’s idea to bury his last banquet and symbolically renounce his tableaux-pièges was sheer genius.”

  The captain smiled politely.

  “What else can I tell you? We had to bring our own silverware and a few things to put on the table for posterity. I came with a bouquet of flowers in a white porcelain vase. The person sitting next to me drew on the vase. And he wasn’t just anybody. He was Fabrice Hyber. The Fabrice Hyber!”

  “You don’t say,” Captain Plassard said. “That’s quite a story. I bet you wish you had that vase on your mantel now.”

  “Of course. Who wouldn’t? One of his artworks, The Artery, is in the Parc de la Villette. It’s an immense pathway made of ceramic tiles. A homage to AIDS victims.”

  “Can you recall any particular incident that day? Maybe some kind of argument?”

  “Not at all. Samuel looked like he was happy to be turning over a new leaf. He wanted to work in bronze.”

  “In your reports to the archaeologists, you say that the tables buried in the trench were made of wood,” Plassard said. “But they were plastic. Samuel Cassian thought plastic would survive better than wood.”

  The woman blushed. “I was mistaken about the tables. But do you think I would have forgotten an argument?”

  “I suppose it isn’t easy to remember everything, even about a gathering as noteworthy as Samuel Cassian’s banquet.” Plassard wasn’t intent on trapping her, but he needed her to recall as much as she could.

  She looked equal parts annoyed and perplexed. “What I remember vividly was that we all truly enjoyed ourselves.”

  “Was Samuel Cassian’s son there?”

  “Jean-Baptiste? Of course! His father had asked him to help, and he put his heart and soul into the project. He was such a charming young man with a promising future. If he hadn’t disappeared so suddenly, I’m sure he’d have become one of the best artists of his generation.”

  “Do you know anything about his disappearance?”

  “It happened a week after the banquet was buried. Like everyone else, I was shocked. Samuel was crushed. He loved his son. I’m told that his wife lost her mind. Samuel never talked about it.”

  “Nobody mentioned the disappearance the day they began the excavation?”

  She shook her head. “Why are we talking so much about Jean-Baptiste? Has he come back after all these years?”

  She had no idea how close to the mark she was.

  “Damn it!” Professor Charles Queneau never liked being the last to know. Captain Vidal had told the director of the police forensics lab that Nico’s mother was in the hospital, and Queneau was angry nobody had told him sooner.

  “How old is she? Barely sixty-five? Damn it. Bloody hell! Do you have any other information?”

  “No,” the captain said. “Not at the moment. As soon as we hear anything, we’ll let you know.”

  “Nothing to do but hope,” Queneau said.

  “For now, we need to focus on the investigation. That will help to ease the chief’s mind. For starters, we have to confirm the victim’s identity.”

  Queneau led the police captain into one of the labs in the Quai de l’Horloge building. This building was as old as division headquarters. To partially compensate for the lack of space, mobile units had been set up in the courtyard. Only the pleasure of being in the Latin Quarter made the cramped conditions acceptable—and even then, only for so long.

  The lab was filled with workers in white coats, as well as machines connected to computers, printers, microscopes, and a surprising number of flasks and test tubes. As Queneau and Vidal passed by, some of the lab techs nodded and waved and returned to their work. A young woman approached them. She was holding Skeletor’s watch in a gloved hand.

  “It’s a Rolex Explorer II,” she said. “Initially, we thought the watch was older than that. This was part of a limited-edition series sold by Tiffany & Co. in 1984. It’s worth four or five thousand euros today.”

  “That much?” Vidal said.

  The scientist put the watch in a plastic bag and sealed it. Then she brought out the shoes found in the trench with a few toe bones inside.

  “Our victim was pretty cool,” the young woman said. “These are Adidas mi Forum Mid black-and-white shoes for men. They’re Adidas’s most emblematic shoes, and they also came out in 1984. If these shoes have been buried for thirty years, that certainly shows how resistant to the elements they were.”

  “The toes have disintegrated, but the Adidas live on. We have the makings of a brilliant advertising concept,” Vidal said, smirking.

  “Considering what people find acceptable today, consumers would probably go for it,” Queneau said.

  “Speaking of ads, I’ve got one to show you,” the researcher said.

  She turned to the computer and clicked. Ray Charles’s “Hit the Road Jack” blared from the speakers. Spotlights flashed on a tennis court, and a bare-chested man leaped over the net. Yannick Noah caught a racquet and swerved wildly to hit the ball. The C17 jeans logo was visible as the narrator repeated the name over and over.

  “He’s hot,” she said.

  “These days, he’s a few years worse for the wear,” Vidal said.

  “I bet he’s stayed in shape. But you’re right. This commercial is also from 1984.”

  “A year after his win at the Roland-Garros,” Queneau said. “I was new to my job. This woman was barely born, and you, Captain, were just old enough to be building sand castles. It really is time for me to think about retirement.”

  “That’s if you can ever tear yourself away from this place,” Vidal said with a good-natured smile.

  “C17 was a popular French brand in the eighties,�
� the young woman said. “Its ads were aimed at the fifteen-to-twenty-five-year-old market, as you can tell. The leather label and the fibers we found all match up with this design.”

  “The belt hasn’t given us any clues,” Queneau said. “But overall, the victim’s wardrobe aligns with Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s disappearance in the middle of the eighties.”

  “And what about the fingerprints and samples taken at the site?” Vidal asked.

  “We’re drawing a blank there,” Queneau responded. “We’re waiting for more. Shall we?”

  They walked down a floor. Skeletor’s skull had been set on a metal plate. A technician was in the process of digitizing it for 3D visualization, turning it on its axis while the laser scanner recorded its image on the computer. The computer modeled the face on the basis of the skull’s shape and the bones’ thickness and gave it features typical of the victim’s age, build, and ethnicity.

  The technician, who had been at the machine for several hours, showed them the result. After a few seconds, Vidal took the photo of Jean-Baptiste Cassian out of his briefcase and held it up to the screen.

  “Looks like him,” Professor Queneau said.

  “No kidding. They look like brothers. Good work.”

  “Hello!” They heard a voice behind them and turned around. Lieutenant Almeida was there, holding some bags intended for Queneau.

  “Here are the DNA samples from Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s home,” he said. “And I’ve got more. You’ll never believe it: a hairbrush that’s been untouched since the artist’s disappearance!”

  DNA extraction from hair was far easier than from bones or organs. The DNA molecules were protected by a layer of keratin, which was a malleable natural substance that formed a barrier resistant to bacteria and other invaders, even after death.

  “We can make the comparison with the bone samples,” Queneau said.

  “So it looks like we’re making some headway, Professor,” Vidal responded.

  Deputy Chief Jean-Marie Rost was busy writing the preliminary report, a crucial part of the investigation. He had to cover the circumstances of the corpse’s discovery, explain the location and presence of clues, summarize the witness accounts, and include the complete autopsy report. With his signature as section chief, the report would be sent to the prosecutor in charge of the case. Based on the conclusions, a magistrate would almost certainly open a criminal investigation, which would give them more time. The mere discovery of human bones in a trench dug and filled thirty years earlier would likely be the deciding factor. The director of the medical examiner’s office had helped. According to her, a violent blow to the head was most likely the cause of death. The magistrate owed Samuel Cassian and his wife a full explanation of their son’s disappearance and death, even if the statute of limitations had passed.

  The phone rang. Looking up from his computer keyboard, Jean-Marie Rost paused at the picture of his son stuck to the edge of his screen. This little boy with a round head and a smile that curved like a banana was the cutest baby in the world.

  “Deputy Chief Rost? Professor Vilars would like to speak with you.”

  “Put her on.”

  “Lieutenant Almeida has sent me dental records for Jean-Baptiste Cassian,” Vilars said. “I’ve just compared the antemortem records with the X-rays.”

  Oral characteristics and bone morphology were significant calling cards.

  “There is no room for doubt. It’s a positive ID.”

  This was good news for the investigation.

  “I’ll send a note with Lieutenant Almeida to include in your preliminary report.”

  “Thank you, Professor.”

  “Of course. Any news about Mrs. Sirsky?”

  Like Vilars, who spent her days and many of her nights cutting open bodies, Rost was keenly aware of how quickly loved ones could be lost. As easily as a file folder could be dropped into a trash can.

  “We’re waiting to hear more,” he replied quietly.

  “Keep me posted.”

  She hung up. Rost got up from his chair, left his office, and went to knock on Claire Le Marec’s door.

  “Come in!” she said.

  “Professor Vilars just called,” he said.

  Le Marec’s cell phone went off.

  “About the dental records…”

  She hunted through her bag for the phone.

  “We were right. The skeleton is Cassian’s son.”

  “Good work,” she said. She gave him a quick thumbs-up before punching in a number an holding the cell phone to her ear.

  “Nico?”

  8

  The tower of Bichat Hospital loomed, cold and imposing, over the Porte de Saint-Ouen. Nico had rushed over a few hours earlier, a bundle of nerves. The once-familiar gnawing in his gut had been reawakened. He had already lost his father. He wanted more time—a lot more time—with his mother. She was still young and full of energy. He rebuked himself for taking her to Ukraine; she’d had the vague feeling of having come full circle in that ancestral land. The trip had jinxed them.

  Nico had been taken down a long hallway with cold fluorescent lights to the intensive coronary-care unit. It felt like a hostile environment, where doctors and nurses marched with muffled steps to the beat of beeping machines. Organ failure called for sophisticated technology and close surveillance. Welcome to hell, Nico thought. Here, a patient’s life could hang by a single strand. Everything could be lost in a second. What was his mother doing in such a terrible place?

  “Mr. Sirsky?”

  Nico froze. When was the last time he took his mother to lunch on the Île Saint-Louis, a few steps from his office? Anya loved the terrace at Le Flore en l’Île on the Quai d’Orléans and the famous Berthillon ice cream served there. The restaurant was often packed with tourists, but the views of the Seine and Notre-Dame Cathedral were astonishing.

  “Mr. Sirsky?”

  Nico thrust his hand toward the person in the white coat. Good God, what had happened?

  “I’m Dr. Fursac, head of the intensive coronary-care unit.”

  This was the man who had called, the bearer of bad news.

  “What happened? Where’s my mother?” Nico asked in a tone he didn’t recognize.

  “Come with me to my office, and I’ll explain.”

  They sat down facing each other. The silence was uncomfortable. Nico’s anxiety kept him from talking.

  “Your mother has suffered a heart attack.”

  Your father will die. You need to prepare yourself.

  “It happened while she was eating at La Lorraine at the Place des Ternes. Roger called an ambulance immediately. He’s waiting at the entrance. He’d like to talk to you before he leaves.”

  Nico tried to think. Who was Roger? Why had he come to the hospital with his mother?

  We’re making your father comfortable. He’s in no pain.

  “Because it was cardiac arrest, the medics began CPR.”

  Right hand flat on the sternum, left hand on top. Use both arms to depress the rib cage, then release. Maintain blood flow to the brain and the rest of the body.

  Oh, right! Roger was the maître d’ at La Lorraine.

  “They used a defibrillator to shock your mother’s heart.”

  His vital functions have stopped. Your father is dead.

  “Once the ambulance came, the medic intubated her.”

  Nico imagined the sirens wailing, the ambulance barreling through red lights and weaving through traffic. And his mother lying inside, unconscious, defenseless, dependant on a machine. A nightmare.

  “When she arrived here, we put her on a ventilator.”

  She wasn’t breathing on her own. Nico came back to reality.

  “I have to ask, Mr. Sirsky, if your mother’s affairs are in order and if she has specified any final directives, should her condition take an even more serious turn.”

  Tears were welling in his eyes. She was alive, but this gift could be taken away at any moment. Final directives? He ha
d never asked, and she had never broached the subject. She probably knew that he would refuse to discuss anything related to her death.

  There was a knock on the door. Dr. Fursac got up to let the visitor in. Nico turned slowly, lost in thought, and saw Caroline. He pulled her into his arms.

  Caroline turned to the doctor. “What’s the prognosis?”

  “It depends,” Dr. Fursac replied. “First, concerning any cerebral anoxia…”

  “That’s when the brain doesn’t get enough oxygen because of cardiac arrest,” Caroline explained to Nico. “There can be neurological aftereffects. Fortunately, most patients survive without any problems.”

  “In her case, it’s too early to tell,” Dr. Fursac said. “For now, your mother is asleep. We’ve put her in an induced coma, which is standard procedure when we have to ventilate a patient.”

  “She’s sedated and will be kept comfortable,” Caroline said.

  “We’ll keep her sedated for about twelve hours. Then she should wake up. If, after forty-eight hours, her neurological state is fine, we’ll remove the intubation tube and transfer her to a step-down unit.”

  Caroline nodded.

  “The other issue is her ventricular fibrillation,” Dr. Fursac said. “We’ll have to determine the cause of this attack.”

  “But we’re not there yet,” Caroline said to Nico. “We need to be optimistic, and take this one step at a time. Every hour that Anya remains stable will give us a bit more hope.”

  “I understand,” Nico said. “Can I see her?”

  “Your mother is unconscious, and she won’t know that you’re there,” Dr. Fursac said. “We’ll have to keep it brief.”

  “I’d like that, please.”

  “First, can you tell me who her primary-care physician is? I need to contact him.”

  “Umm, yes,” Nico stammered. “Dr. Alexis Perrin. He’s on the Rue Soufflot in the fifth arrondissement. He’s my brother-in-law. What do you need from him?”