The City of Blood

by Frédérique Molay

  The church was a lost gem. It looked like a mountain chalet on the outside, but it was a pure neo-Gothic church designed by Dimitry Stelletsky. The interior was absolutely spellbinding. All Orthodox churches had a contemplative atmosphere complemented by frescoes, gilded statues, icons, candlelight, and incense. Nico smiled; he and his sister remembered the silliest things every bit as much as they remembered the Byzantine hymns that had bewitched them.

  “Nico?” came a voice behind him.

  He jumped, his daydream forgotten.

  “Is that you, Nico?”

  Nico turned. The parish priest he had known as a child was standing there. He was a large man with a thick beard and hair that was still brown. He looked as though he had come straight from the Russian steppes.

  “I haven’t seen you in such a long time,” the priest said, his voice echoing in the church.

  Nico didn’t know how to reply. Between his Catholic father and his Orthodox mother, the Great Schism of 1054 had played out in his family. But even though Anya had won and had brought up Tanya and him in the Russian Orthodox Church—probably because his father wasn’t a regular churchgoer anyway—he never felt as though he legitimately belonged.

  The priest set one hand on Nico’s shoulder. With his free hand, he shook Nico’s.

  “It’s good to see you, Nico. And your sister, how is she doing? I’ve missed you both.”

  Nico still couldn’t say a word. There were too many emotions.

  “Let’s sit down and talk,” the priest said with a smile. “Tell me how your mother is. I know you need to talk about her. I do, too.”

  So he knew. And if he did, so did the rest of Paris’s Russian community. Nico let the priest lead him to a pew. He wished Tanya could be there with him. He wanted Caroline, too. These two, along with Anya and his niece, Lana—short for Milana, which meant “beloved” in Russian—were the four most important women in his life. He didn’t want to lose any of them.

  18

  “Her heart rate and blood pressure are normal,” Dr. Fursac was telling Nico, Caroline, and Alexis. “We’ve extubated her. Her Glascow reading is fifteen over fifteen, meaning she has good eye, verbal, motor responses. And there are no signs of infection. All in all, she’s presenting well. But we’ve noted some erratic heart rhythms on the EKG, so we’ll need to pay attention to that. Your mother will be transferred to a step-down unit tomorrow morning.”

  Caroline and Alexis agreed that this was good news. Her heart was still a concern, but they had to savor every victory and thank the heavens that Anya was alive.

  Dr. Fursac led them to Anya’s bed. Nico and Caroline stood on one side. Tanya and Alexis stood on the other.

  “My children,” Anya said in a shaky voice after looking them over.

  She didn’t have to say anything else.

  19

  “Lara Krall and her husband, Gregory Weissman, met several years after Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s death,” Kriven said without preamble.

  The commander had been waiting for Nico to arrive on this Saturday morning and joined him in his office as soon as the chief had poured his coffee. At La Crim’, there weren’t any vacations or weekends off when they were on the trail of a killer or killers.

  Nico added Kriven’s latest piece of information to his mental file. Was Jean-Baptiste’s slaying linked to the two recent murders? Nico had a hunch—which Kriven seemed to share—but so far there was no hard evidence.

  “There does seem to be a connection, if only because of the sexual orientation of the three young men,” Kriven said.

  For the moment, however, Nico wanted to focus on the Jean-Baptiste murder.

  “I never really suspected Lara Krall,” he said. “It wasn’t likely that she’d kill her fiancé and bury him in a public park. We should focus on Jean-Baptiste’s friends. If anyone can give us more clues about the victim and his relationships, it’ll be one of them.”

  “I interviewed Sylvia Bayle and Nathan Sellière yesterday afternoon.”

  “The jewelry designer and the antiques dealer?”

  “Yes. They didn’t know who took those photos of Jean-Baptiste. And they’d never heard of Damien Forest, that Reuters photographer who covered the banquet-performance.”

  “How did they react when you told them that Jean-Baptiste had experienced at least one gay encounter?”

  “It didn’t really surprise Sylvia Bayle.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “Jean-Baptiste loved Lara. That was clear to her. But when she looked back on it, she realized that they seemed more like siblings or friends than lovers. With girls, he was always the protective, playful brother. Sylvia Bayle came to believe that deep down, Jean-Baptiste was attracted to men.”

  Nico took a sip of his coffee.

  “So what if Jean-Baptiste had more than a one-time fling?” Kriven ventured. “What if he was involved in a serious—and secret—relationship?”

  “With the person who took those portraits of Jean-Baptiste?” Nico asked.

  “Why not? These shots do give the impression of intimacy.”

  “What did you think of Nathan Sellière?”

  “He’s far more interested in antiques than the fairer sex or Cassian’s escapades. He’s a bit on the fat side, and he seems to sweat a lot. But he’s got a good mind for business, I’m told. In the antiques community, he has a reputation for emptying pockets. He’s done quite well for himself.”

  “That wouldn’t seem to line up with our picture of the Parc de la Villette murderer. Being attractive and in good shape would be important to that sort of seducer, I imagine.”

  “Yes, but I don’t agree entirely. Nathan Sellière’s money might attract a few people.”

  “True, but according to Charlotte, Mathieu Leroy and Florian Bonnet weren’t looking for partners. Economic stability is sometimes a factor when you’re looking for a mate. But it appears that Leroy and Bonnet were just two men who liked to go out and have a good time.”

  “At any rate, I’m interviewing the Merciers, Jérôme Dufour, and Daniel Vion today.”

  “No news of Damien Forest?”

  “Not yet. We’re working on it.”

  “We’ll come back to that later.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Speaking of problems, I’ve noticed that you haven’t been as sharp these past few days. I’m concerned.”

  Kriven frowned. “You’ve had a lot on your own mind.”

  “David, don’t. I’ve seen all too well how hard things have been with Clara.”

  “She’s had trouble getting back on her feet. We don’t talk much, you know.”

  “So are you thinking about getting involved in a new relationship?”

  “Dominique and I are just friends!” Kriven said, tensing up.

  “Take my advice, David. You love Clara. Don’t give up on your marriage just yet.”

  “Dominique gave me the same advice.”

  “That proves she’s a smart woman. She hasn’t tried to take advantage of the situation, even though I’m sure you’re her type.”

  Kriven smiled.

  “Tell Clara what you know in your heart to be true. She’s a good woman, David. You two deserve a bit of good luck. God knows, we have enough of the other kind to go around.”

  The police commander stared at his feet. “I’ll do that,” he said at last.

  “You’d better!” Nico smiled.

  Kriven left to find his team in the Coquibus room.

  The phone rang. Nico picked up the receiver.

  “Hello, old buddy!”

  Few people had Nico’s direct line. It was Alexandre Becker, a friend and also a magistrate. Nico and Becker’s professional collaborations had always made the higher-ups look good. So Becker was frequently assigned to Nico’s cases.

  “The prosecutor has opened a criminal investigation to determine the date and exact cause of Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s death, and I’ve just been given the case. So here I am, once again a slave to L
a Crim’,” Becker said with a chuckle.

  “We all know you love it.”

  “You got that right. Okay, I’ve read the preliminary report. I imagine there are further developments, and you have updates to share?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you have a few minutes to fill me in?”

  “I’ll come over.”

  The Palais de Justice occupied a third of the Île de la Cité island. It was a sanctuary of law encompassing the police headquarters, government administrative offices, a jail, and the courthouse. This structure symbolized the splendor of the French Republic, with its gilded embellishments, three-sided courtyard, and large stone staircase leading to the vestibule flanked by four monumental statues that allegorized strength, abundance, justice, and prudence.

  Getting to Magistrate Alexandre Becker’s office from headquarters at 36 Quai des Orfévres didn’t take all that long. But it was still a feat. Nico trotted down Stairwell A to the second floor and made his way through the door that opened directly to the courts and their offices. A tiled hallway, with uncomfortable benches on one side and offices on the other, led to the lawyers’ library, which boasted a monumental wooden door. Then the corridor narrowed until it was nothing more than a passageway. The main part of the building was a few steps ahead. Nico crossed an immense span of marble floor interspersed with statues, bronze busts, and columns. Outside the windows, he could see the royal Sainte-Chapelle chapel and its ancient windows, which were perfect examples of religious architecture dating to the Middle Ages.

  He entered the René Parodi vestibule. A long hallway stretched ahead, ending at Stairwell F and the investigating magistrates. He preferred Stairwell G, which was more discreet. Becker worked on the fourth floor. To reach it, Nico had to get through a locked door. He entered the numbers on a keypad. Nico held out his badge to the guard, a tense, Sylvester Stallone look-alike, and knocked on the magistrate’s door. One day he’d have to bring a timer.

  “Nice of you to come all the way over here,” Becker said.

  The two of them met more often in Nico’s office. “Have a seat,” Becker said as he took out a notepad and a pen. “I ordered the excavation of the full 130 feet of the banquet. The heavy equipment’s there already, and Professor Queneau’s at the helm.”

  “What does the Society for the Disinterment of the Tableau-Piège say?”

  “Its directors understand what we’re trying to do and are working with us to ensure that their aims are still met.”

  “And Samuel Cassian?”

  “It looks like he’ll be involved, as you guessed. All right, let’s start with the discovery of the skeleton.”

  Nico summarized the investigation, including the interviews with Lara Krall and the victim’s group of friends. He mentioned Damien Forest, the banquet photographer, and laid out the pictures of the younger Cassian.

  “They’re very nice photos.”

  “That’s what’s bothering me,” Nico said.

  “They’re better than ordinary amateur photos. And they show a certain intimacy.”

  Nico summoned his courage and took the plunge.

  “Here’s how I see things. We’re looking for Damien Forest. I think Jean-Baptiste Cassian was gay or bi and in the closet. We’re questioning Jean-Baptiste’s friends on that aspect of his life. I’m wondering if the person who took these photographs was Jean-Baptiste’s lover and if one of his friends knows who that person is.”

  “You’re setting aside the idea that someone was jealous of the father’s celebrity or his son’s? Jealous enough to murder Jean-Baptiste?”

  “Absolutely not. Kriven’s group is still questioning everyone who was at the banquet and the excavation. We’re trying to get at any enmities. But my gut tells me that artistic jealousy wasn’t the motive. I want to focus on the group closest to the victim. One of his friends could match our profile of the Butcher of Paris and—”

  Becker stood up, a pensive look on his face. “So you really think that the person who murdered Jean-Baptiste could be the one who murdered these two other young men? That’s a big leap.”

  “Think about it. As soon as he’s exhumed from the tableau-piège, Mathieu Leroy and Florian Bonnet are killed in the same area. One in the Leitner Cylinder, the other in a hotel room that overlooks the park. It’s a strange coincidence, isn’t it? We’re dealing with attacks that appear to be homosexual in nature in the area where the bones of a promising and probably gay young artist were found.”

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little hasty, calling Cassian gay? He was about to get married.”

  “Precisely!”

  Alexandre Becker raised his eyebrows.

  “Maybe we should be looking for a scorned lover who didn’t like the fact that he was about to get married,” Nico said.

  “That’s a lot of gut feeling, don’t you think?”

  “I may be skipping some steps here, but it’s plausible, isn’t it?”

  Nico noticed that he’d raised his voice, and his breathing had become shallow. He paused. An image of Anya with monitors attached to her chest flashed in his mind. He looked away from Becker for a moment and took a deep breath.

  “There’s something else,” Nico told Becker. “Lara Krall found bite marks on her fiancé’s shoulder. It sparked an argument between the two of them. And I think the murderer in the Parc de la Villette is biting his victims in the same spot and then cutting away that part of their flesh to avoid leaving any evidence. Leroy and Bonnet are the spitting image of Jean-Baptiste Cassian.”

  Becker was silent for a few minutes. It felt like an eternity to Nico.

  “Fine,” Becker said at last. “The prosecutor has not opened the criminal investigation of the Leroy and Bonnet cases, but it can’t wait any longer.”

  “If you can, give her a push.”

  “I will. In any event, I imagine you don’t have an alternative scenario?”

  “Whether or not the recent park murders are related, I believe that Jean-Baptiste and the person who murdered him were very close. So it’s crucial that we keep exploring that lead.”

  “Hmm,” Becker said. “And how is your mother?”

  Nico looked him in the eye. “The whole thing with my mother has shaken me up, you’re right. But I’m still running the show.”

  Becker was almost a brother. He had lost his mother when he was seven years old, and his wife, Stephanie, had been calling Caroline every day to ask for the latest news on Anya. Of all his friends, Becker was in the best position to understand how distraught he was.

  Nico got up, and the two men hugged.

  “She’ll be all right, Nico. Don’t worry.”

  Nico returned to his office. He needed to think. He recalled the archivist’s recommendation and searched online for Franju’s Blood of the Beasts. He started the video and turned up the sound.

  The camera moved from a bucolic setting to the slaughterhouses. Nico glimpsed the Porte de Pantin and the market at La Villette. The Canal de l’Ourcq marked the boundary between the two worlds. The animals were unloaded at the abattoirs, and the workers, with cigarettes hanging from their lips, severed the animals’ spinal cords before bleeding them. The steaming blood flowed into containers or streamed down drains. Then the butchers skinned the animals, removed their feet, and carved them up. The words underscored the violence and odd lyricism of the images.

  Nico lost the thread for a few moments. He was thinking about Marcel, who was in charge of the human bodies donated to the medical and dental programs at Paris Descartes University. Marcel had once been a butcher at La Villette. He was an incredible man, and Nico visited him often. Marcel had told him how the workers at the abattoirs labored at frenetic speeds under harsh conditions. The jobs were highly specialized. There were slaughterers, carvers, and meat carriers. Some jobs, such as removing bristles and fat, were reserved for women.

  Nico was pensive, his mind fixated on La Villette’s atmosphere. He understood why Samuel Cassian had
chosen the northern half of the park—the half with the abattoirs, the City of Blood—to bury his banquet-performance. It went hand in glove with the artistic and scientific auspices of the place. Cassian had been ruminating on the idea of death.

  “Nico?”

  The voice jolted Nico out of his torpor. Kriven was in the doorway.

  “It’s about Damien Forest, the photographer from Reuters.”

  “Yes?”

  “The agency had nothing on him. He never worked for them. So I did some more research. Damien Forest never existed. There isn’t any trace of him anywhere.”

  20

  Daniel Vion was the last of Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s close friends to be interviewed. He had taken all the group photos, but “didn’t like being in front of the camera,” as Lara Krall had put it.

  Nico and Kriven met him in a small interview room on the top floor at headquarters. Vion was a well-dressed man who certainly didn’t look fifty-two years old. Nico could see right away that he spent time and money on his appearance. He probably used only the most expensive products on his neatly trimmed hair and beard. His clothes, meanwhile, were stylish without being trendy. The term “metrosexual” popped into Nico’s head. These days, it seemed, all men—from truck drivers to male models—were paying attention to their looks.

  Commander Kriven set out the group photos taken thirty years earlier. He and Nico had decided to pull out all the stops.

  “They’re yours, aren’t they?” Kriven asked evenly.

  Vion slowly went over the pictures. He was smiling. “Where did you find these? I haven’t seen them in years. They bring back such good memories.”

  “You’re not answering my question,” Kriven replied calmly.

  “Oh, of course I took these. But you already knew that.”