The two officers exchanged glances in the hallway. Then Captain Plassard went into the room where Daniel Vion was waiting. Commander Kriven shut the door behind him in the room where Camille Mercier was being held. They were determined to glean what they could from Laurent Mercier’s friend and spouse.
Kriven immediately saw how fragile the woman was. She was huddled in her chair, and Kriven sensed that she wanted to disappear, to forget the father of her children and the miserable life he’d put her through. That was what Nico had implied. It was up to him to find out if this assessment was correct.
“Mrs. Mercier, your husband is suspected in the murder of Jean-Baptiste Cassian.”
She bit her lip and was blinking quickly, a telltale sign of anxiety.
“Were you and Laurent lovers before your friend’s disappearance?”
She sat up straight. Her hands were trembling.
“Not yet.” Her voice was hoarse. “But I loved him.”
“And did he love you?” Kriven asked.
“Would he have married me if he didn’t?”
Who was she trying to convince?
“How long have you two been married, Mrs. Mercier?”
“Twenty-seven years.”
“And how would you describe your relationship as a couple?”
She didn’t seem to understand the question.
“Has your sexual relationship with your husband seemed normal to you?” Kriven pressed.
Her face turned red and then went ashen.
“Of course!” she shot back.
Too insistent to be honest.
“Laurent has always been preoccupied with his work,” she said. “And it’s demanding, so he tends to get tired. But I understand. He works hard to give us a good life.”
She didn’t look like she believed what she was saying.
“How is he with the children?”
“He’s a good father. He’s always there for them.”
Clearly, Laurent Mercier didn’t have much time for his wife.
“You and your husband have the same degree, but your name isn’t on the plaque at the entrance. Why?”
“Oh, he’s the one who runs everything. I’m just happy to help out when he’s got too much on his plate.”
Her statement contradicted what their clients had said. They said Mercier exploited his wife.
“That’s not what we found when we talked with your clients. Laurent actually relies on you quite a bit, doesn’t he?”
Camille was visibly embarrassed by the question.
“Is Laurent often absent in the evenings?” Kriven asked, changing the subject.
“Not at all. He enjoys spending time with his family. But sometimes he has to see clients in the evening.”
“And what about the other evenings?”
“He often works late in his office.”
“And that doesn’t seem odd to you? Have you ever suspected that he looks at websites? At porn or hookup sites?”
She opened her mouth slightly.
“Jean-Baptiste was gay. Did you know that?” Kriven asked.
She rocked back and forth in her chair. She looked panicked.
“He had a lover, and we think the lover is the photographer who took these pictures of him,” Kriven said as he set the prints on the table. “Do they look familiar?”
She shook her head emphatically.
“They demonstrate the same techniques your husband’s skilled at, wouldn’t you say?”
Camille was paralyzed.
What had Dominique Kreiss said? That if he was right, Camille Mercier was a submissive wife controlled by a tyrannical husband. Over the years, he had beaten her down to the point where she felt that she amounted to nothing on her own. She had become entirely dependent on him and didn’t think she could live without him. And so whatever he did, she would justify his actions.
Why had Laurent Mercier opted to live a cruel lie? Same-sex marriage had been legal in France for a while, but society was much less tolerant at the time Laurent Mercier and his friends were going to school. Being gay wasn’t accepted in the straight world, and many men felt compelled to marry women in an effort to reject their sexual orientation or cover it up. And men who had a real desire to father children were practically forced to marry women. Some gay men, pressed into pursuing lives that were dishonest at best, became mean-spirited and made their wives suffer for their bad choice.
“Haven’t you ever thought about going through his computer and personal things to see what he’s been hiding from you?” Kriven said. “An affair, maybe?”
“Yes,” she said in a tight voice.
Nico took Laurent Mercier out of his cell and walked him to the interview room with a guard at their side. His Sig Sauer was clearly visible on his belt. That always made an impression.
“Mr. Mercier, as you know, we found your darkroom. We also found your photographs,” Nico said as soon as they sat down. “Our specialists have looked at them and will tell us if, based on their resemblance, you’re the person who took the photographs of Jean-Baptiste Cassian.”
“Those portraits are at least thirty years old,” the suspect said, his tone still emotionless.
“The style and technical aspects of the photographs all bear a resemblance. You might even be using the same camera.”
“Even if I took those photographs, what does that prove?”
“Why hide it from us?”
“I was afraid you’d get the wrong idea and waste your time. If I’d confessed that I was the photographer, you’d have put me at the top of your list. But I’m innocent. I had nothing to do with Jean-Baptiste’s disappearance.”
“So are you saying that you took these pictures?”
“Yes,” he said with exasperation.
The two men sized each other up.
“I know you’re proud of your work, Mr. Mercier,” Nico said carefully. “And you’ve helped us with our investigation. Did you, by any chance, save the negatives?”
Nico noticed how Mercier’s pupils were dilated, and his jaw was clenched.
“Those photographs are very old. I get rid of the negatives when they’re a year or two old. If I kept all of my negatives, I would quickly run out of space.”
“What kind of relationship did you have with Jean-Baptiste Cassian when you took those photos?”
“He was a friend.”
“Yes, but his disappearance hit you especially hard, considering that you frequently visited his parents.”
“I wanted to comfort them.”
“I got the impression that you were the one who sought out Samuel Cassian and his wife and that they were kind enough to take you in.”
“I’d just lost a friend.”
“Lost?”
“A disappearance is a loss, is it not?”
“You would go into his room by yourself. That’s an odd thing to do, wouldn’t you say?”
“That was my way of dealing with it. I didn’t want to let him go. I felt like I could be close to him in his room.”
“You needed to smell his skin, his scent?”
Laurent Mercier didn’t flinch. Just then, the guard opened the door. Deputy Chief Rost came in without paying any attention to the suspect. He gave his boss a paper folded in half. He left just as quickly. “Gianni and Théo have positively identified Laurent Mercier’s voice. There was no question. Charlotte is on her way to the hospital. The doctors say Clément can listen to the recordings.”
Nico read the message slowly to keep his suspect off balance.
“We have witnesses,” he said calmly.
It was time to get serious.
“What did you find, Mrs. Mercier?” Commander Kriven asked.
“Folders on his computer,” she whispered in a hurried, nervous tone.
“What was in those folders?”
“Photos. Porn. Men together.” Kriven’s colleagues were analyzing Mercier’s hard drive and already had proof of what his wife was saying.
&nbs
p; “Did you find anything else?” Kriven asked.
“E-mails. Laurent was meeting men.” Anger and disgust were evident on Camille Mercier’s face. She was a wounded woman.
Kriven swallowed. He had gotten what he wanted.
“Laurent Mercier is starting to go weak,” Nico told Jean-Marie Rost. “How’s everything going at your end?”
“Plassard’s done with Daniel Vion. He confessed that he suspected something was up with Jean-Baptiste and Laurent. But he wasn’t sure, and he was close to both Lara and Camille. He didn’t want to say anything. He’s still in custody.”
“Mercier should be nervous about his old friend being in the room next to his. Is David still with Mrs. Mercier?”
“He’s been with her the whole time. It’s getting good. She went through her husband’s computer and found gay porn. She’s spilling all his dirty secrets right now.”
“Perfect. It’s time for the lineup.”
The Paris police headquarters had changed little since the 1931 publication of Georges Simenon’s first crime novel about Jules Maigret. The police didn’t have modern rooms conforming to twenty-first-century standards. The holding cells on the third floor were used. So the hallway lights had to be dimmed to keep suspects from seeing witnesses. And the witnesses had to talk quietly, because there wasn’t any soundproofing. The whole setup was a far cry from the public perception of a police headquarters.
“We’re going to do this another way,” Nico said. “Set up a table in the room so that five men can sit side by side facing the one-way mirror.”
“Five,” Rost said. “That means Mercier, Vion, Krall, and two of our colleagues.”
“Perfect. I’ve also asked Michel Cohen to find us a young guard about the same height and weight as Jean-Baptiste Cassian and the victims from the Parc de la Villette. He’ll face the suspects, and we’ll put him in charge of the interrogation. Michel Cohen should be preparing him and the two officers right now.”
“How sneaky!” said Rost said.
Twenty minutes later, Michel Cohen, Jean-Marie Rost, David Kriven, Pierre Vidal, and Ayoub Moumen were all squeezed around Nico behind the one-way mirror. Gianni and Théo, the witnesses from the nightclub were let in, and Gianni gave the chief a hearty handshake. A few moments later, the young brown-haired guard who was to play the role of interrogator arrived.
“Go on in,” Nico whispered to him.
He was a guy who knew how to handle himself, Cohen had said. And he looked cool in his jeans and tennis shoes. They trusted him to do the job.
He stepped into the lion’s den. Mercier, Vion, Krall, and the two recruited officers were in place, with numbered placards in front of them.
“Gentlemen, let me explain why you’re here,” the interrogator began, looking them over one by one as he pulled out his chair.
Cohen had told him to play seducer.
“We’re here for an identification. Behind the mirror, witnesses are watching you. Keep in mind that you’re being filmed,” he said, sitting down and crossing his legs.
He paused to let the words sink in.
“Do not say a single word,” he said firmly.
He didn’t want Laurent Mercier’s voice to influence the witnesses.
“You can answer my questions by nodding or shaking your head. Do you understand?”
The five men nodded.
“Number One, are you familiar with the Parc de la Villette?” This man was one of their police officers. He nodded. “Do you visit the park?” Another nod.
“Number Two, are you married?” Daniel Vion shook his head. “Do you have children?” He did not.
“Number Three, do you live in Paris?” Timothy Krall nodded. He seemed shaky.
“Number One, do you live in Paris?”
Laurent Mercier was waiting to be called, and the abrupt return to the first man seemed to make him nervous.
“Number Four, have you ever visited the Parc de la Villette?” The second police officer shook his head.
“Number Five, did you book a hotel room for one night near the Parc de la Villette?” The question was meant to up the ante. Mercier paused, then shook his head.
“Number One, did you spend a night in a hotel near the Parc de la Villette?” The cop nodded. The best was yet to come. “And was the room to your liking?”
“Wait,” Gianni said.
“What do you see?” Nico asked. He leaned in to hear what the lawyer had to say.
“That gesture.” He pointed to one of the suspects. “The guy who picked up Clément was doing exactly the same thing.”
“I saw him do it, too,” Théo said. He was thoroughly absorbed in the drama unfolding on the other side of the one-way mirror.
“Number Five, are you married?” Mercier nodded. “Do you love your wife?”
Nico saw his unease. Gianni held up his fist.
“It’s Number Five,” he said quietly.
Mercier stroked his lip slowly with the middle of his finger.
“Now for the coup de grace,” Nico said.
33
Michel Cohen walked down the long hallway and crossed the third-floor landing, which boasted a bay window and security monitors. Only a few people could access this level of headquarters. Farther off, he opened a door and walked into a comfortable waiting room with white walls and a hardwood floor. A bronze lamp with five lights held aloft by sculpted Nubians lit the room. It was a Louis XV: tacky and blatantly racist, Cohen knew. But the bureaucrats kept saying it was an antique and wouldn’t change it. The waiting room opened onto his office and that of the chief of staff, who managed the records, paperwork, and statistics. From there, he entered the antechamber of his boss, Nicole Monthalet. He walked past the light well and the secondary stairwell leading to the different departments. Finally he entered office 210. The commissioner’s secretaries gave him a wave. One of them held out an ashtray. Cohen crushed out his cigar before stepping into Mrs. Monthalet’s office, the only place where he couldn’t smoke.
“Have a seat, Michel,” she said authoritatively. “How far along are we?”
“It’s almost done.”
“What did he have up his sleeve?”
“He’s getting ready for it.”
“Ah, he’s a smart one, isn’t he?” She smiled, and her eyes sparkled.
“He’s a first-rate cop. That’s for sure.”
“I had to fight to keep him, did you know that? The minister of the interior wanted to snap him up.”
“Sirsky wouldn’t have wanted the job.”
“How much longer can he stay at headquarters, though? I’m worried, Michel. We need him here.”
“To accomplish the impossible,” Cohen joked, knowing all too well that his boss used the term only when she was talking about Nico Sirsky. “You’ll have proof of it on your desk later this morning. I’m sure of it.”
Nicole Monthalet, the thorough professional who turned heads with her blonde good looks, nodded in agreement. Her expression became pensive. There had been a lot at stake in this case, which involved a famous artist, a world-renowned park, and a former minister of culture. The art world was watching, and government officials wanted the case closed quickly and efficiently.
“Mr. Mercier, we’ve looked at your digital files,” Becker said. “We’ve found pornographic photos and particularly suggestive e-mails.”
Laurent Mercier kept his head up, but he had taken a serious blow.
“We know you’ve had extramarital affairs.”
“I wasn’t aware this was a crime.”
“We’ve learned that Jean-Baptiste Cassian had a relationship with a man,” Becker continued. “And from everything we’ve gathered, we have reason to believe it was with you.”
“Do you have any proof?”
“Your wife told us,” Nico said. “She was very clear on that point. She also suspects you of murdering your friend.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Jean-Baptiste had decided to break thing
s off with you and marry Lara,” Becker continued. “You were hurt and angry. But in your eyes, it wasn’t just his relationship with Lara that stood in the way. It was Jean-Baptiste’s fear of disappointing his father. So you murdered him and threw his body in with his father’s work. It wasn’t all that hard, after all. The tables, chairs, and implements had just been buried. All you had to do was wait until dark. The soil was still loose and easy to dig up. Once the job was done, you just smoothed over the dirt and walked away.”
“But even then, after you murdered and buried your former lover, your anger wasn’t assuaged,” Nico accused. “You married, had children, and managed to keep your anger under control, but it kept eating at you. And when you learned that Samuel Cassian’s tableau-piège was being exhumed, your feelings welled up. Jean-Baptiste had rejected you in the worst way. It was something you had never gotten over, and you needed to lash out again. And so you seduced and assaulted three young men. They were just substitutes for Jean-Baptiste Cassian.”
“Your alibis for the evenings when the attacks happened don’t check out,” Becker added. “But we have something better, Mr. Mercier. Proof, in fact.”
“Witnesses recognized your voice,” Nico said. “Especially your last victim, who survived.”
Laurent Mercier blanched. He hadn’t expected Clément Roux to live.
“In addition, you have a habit of rubbing your finger over your lower lip. Our witnesses saw you doing it. This tic has betrayed you.”
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Becker asked.
“I’d say you don’t have anything on me,” Mercier said quickly.
“We’ll see,” Nico said, giving him a knowing smile. He got up to leave the room. “We’ve saved a little surprise for you.”
In the Coquibus room, they were watching the scene on a webcam. Claire Le Marec, Jean-Marie Rost, Kriven and Maurin’s groups, and the psychologist Dominique Kreiss were all glued to the screen and hanging on every word of the interrogation.
“Shit, he’s good!” Vidal said.
“He’s going to nail that bastard,” Moumen added.
“Look!” Plassard said. He’d just come out of his office.
“This is when it happens,” Deputy Chief Rost said.
The City of Blood Page 18