‘I wasn’t aware of the time passing. So do you think Francis Heaulme could be involved?’
They needed to appreciate the complexity of his character for themselves.
‘I suggest that first of all I describe to you his behaviour when he was held for questioning, and then when I went to see him in prison. But first of all, I think you’d find it useful to get acquainted with the Moulin Blanc case. If you like, we can visit the scene of the murder. I’d rather proceed in this way so that you can form your own opinions more easily. You may find that there are similarities between the two cases.’
They seemed satisfied with my reply. Outside, the sky had suddenly turned cloudy. At 2 p.m., as we stepped onto the shingle of Moulin Blanc beach, it started to pour with rain and there was a strong wind. We walked towards the Sables Rouges headland, passing two fishermen on foot, curious to see us inspecting the scene. Our attitude must have given away our purpose.
‘You know,’ said the commander, ‘this is an extraordinary place to commit a murder. You can be seen from anywhere. The same applies to our case, in fact.’
Being back there made me feel uncomfortable. Storms had slightly altered the contours of the beach, but the main locations were still identifiable. I gave them details of the crime scene, showing them the precise spots where the photos in the file had been taken, walking across the shingle as the murderer had done on that day in May 1989.
My colleagues did not say a word. They were absorbing the atmosphere of the place as I had done three years earlier. Having finished our inspection of the beach, we decided to go back. Before returning to the gendarmerie, we drove past the Emmaüs community where Heaulme had stayed. I pointed out the other access to the beach, the path the murderer had used.
On our arrival, the criminal investigation boss invited us into his office for a coffee. The Aline Pérès dossier lay ready on a table for them to consult. The major then handed me part of their file. It was my turn to examine their findings. It was too late to look into three years of inquiries, so I concentrated on the scene of the murder and the immediate surroundings. As I turned over the pages of photographs one by one, I noted that there were striking similarities between this new crime scene and the ones with which I was familiar. Another murder near a road. The unusual violence of the killing. The sexual aspect of the attack. And the victim, someone quite ordinary. It was all there.
‘Is there anything you need to know?’ asked the major.
‘No, well … Could you hand me the autopsy report?’
Reading this document was just as revealing …
5.30 p.m. We had finished reading through each other’s documentation. Now it was time to prepare for the interview.
‘If you’re ready,’ I began, ‘I’ll describe to you my experiences of interviewing Francis Heaulme.’
Everyone stopped talking. Sitting round two desks, François and my new colleagues listened. I slowly launched into my account, but after a few minutes, they started firing questions. The officer began, ‘You say he can talk normally, without bringing in fabrications or other actual experiences, so why does he keep doing this with you?’
‘That’s what intrigues me. I am convinced he’s playing a game. He’s protecting himself by mixing up different incidents. In fact, he never makes anything up, but he transposes the different stories, even if, paradoxically, he’s taking a risk. But for the time being, nobody has been able to identify these cases. He is perfectly aware of this. I also believe he likes to dominate, to feel that his interlocutor is powerless in the face of his stories. The worst thing is to think that in talking about them, he is in a way reliving his acts. This behaviour is consistent with the psychiatric reports. Until now, he has only spoken clearly to me once. We were having lunch, in Strasbourg. That shows he pays attention to the context; as far as he was concerned, he was no longer in custody. Remember he is mentally lucid and knows perfectly well what we are driving at. He remembers exactly what he did, and what he said. Above all, don’t ask him any questions to which you don’t have the answer. Let him talk.’
I sensed that they were receptive to my advice.
‘How can we manage that, if all we have are suspicions that he may have been involved in our case? This fellow’s going to take us for a ride. It’s impossible to know everything about his movements …’
‘You’ve seen how long he’s been on the road,’ the major went on.
‘That’s precisely the situation I found myself in the other day in the prison. He blurted out a whole series of stories when I’d asked for nothing, and I decided to cut it short as fast as possible. In your shoes, I wouldn’t ask him anything other than where and when he stayed in Reims. If he went there, he’ll tell you. You’ll be amazed at his memory.’
The officer spoke again.
‘Perhaps you’ll be able to help us during the interview?’
‘Francis Heaulme knows me now. He notices everything. If we hesitate over a question, or exchange glances, for example, he’ll sense it. I’ll try and get him to relax in your presence, then you take the lead. If you feel that one of his answers eludes you, don’t go back over it. It’s better to stop the interview and check what he says.’
‘But,’ said the major, ‘if he talks to us about somebody else instead, we won’t know whether it’s true or not. We’ll have to mention it in the interview and he’ll see exactly where we are at.’
Then I remembered Francis’s behaviour in Strasbourg.
‘In the Brest case he spoke to me about “another” man who had stabbed the victim. That was when I asked him to do me a drawing of the beach and what he had seen. He was very precise and positioned all those involved. Quite simply, by the time he had finished the drawing, the “other” had turned into himself. There was no make-believe character any more. What’s more, the interview had continued without this “other” man being mentioned again. A sketch of the scene is probably the solution.’
The questions stopped there. We were all secretly wondering how the interview would go.
‘By the way, I nearly forgot to mention that it would be better if you came to the prison tomorrow in plain clothes. Francis Heaulme told me that uniforms make him want to kill.’
My two colleagues exchanged dubious glances.
‘Who on earth is this character?’ muttered the major.
We returned to our hotel.
Next day, at 2 p.m., the three of us were outside the prison gates. After checking our IDs, the warder opened the heavy metal door into this other world. We walked in silence, each mulling over the questions he wanted to ask.
As we neared the visiting rooms, I broke the silence.
‘If I introduce you to Francis as acquaintances, I’ll have to use your first names, is that all right with you?’
My question amused them.
‘No problem. I’m André,’ replied the commander.
‘And I’m Claude,’ added the major.
A warder came to meet us.
‘Are there three of you?’ he asked in surprise. ‘We’re going to have to find some more chairs if you all want to sit down.’
We found another couple of chairs in the room next door and seated ourselves in the little visiting room, the same one as usual. I was beginning to feel at home there. Claude took out his typewriter while André seemed to be concentrating his mind.
‘If you’re ready, I’ll have the prisoner brought in,’ said the warder.
To avoid surprising Francis, I waited for him by the entrance to the visiting rooms. A few moments later, his tall frame appeared behind the metal grille. The door opened, and in two strides he was facing me. Behind his fixed smile, I thought I could detect that he was pleased to see me.
‘Hello, François, how are you?’
This was the first time he had asked after me.
‘Fine, Francis, and what about you?’
Our hands brushed. He did not reply. He had spotted my colleagues in the visiting room.
&nbs
p; ‘Come in, Francis, and I’ll introduce you. Meet Claude and André. They do the same job as me, and they have a few things they want to ask you.’
Francis Heaulme stared insistently at them and avoided shaking hands. He was already very tense.
‘Go on, sit where you like.’
I sat down beside him. André was the first to speak.
‘We’re from Reims, and we’d like to talk about your travels on the road.’
Claude was still busy preparing forms. Heaulme looked at me obstinately.
‘I told you there were some other people who wanted to meet you, and here they are,’ I said.
My words diverted his attention away from me. His gimlet eyes lighted on André. He gazed fixedly at him, giving the impression that he was trying to read his thoughts. Of his own accord, he began the slow account of his endless travels, interspersed with war scenarios, citing one by one the towns he had passed through. He told an anecdote or made a comment on each place, as if he wanted to prove that he had really been there. We listened closely while Claude busied himself at his typewriter. Francis Heaulme had been speaking for an hour, when abruptly he stopped. For a few seconds, the only sound was the clatter of the typewriter keys. What was going on? Heaulme seemed to have run out of steam. He looked from one of us to the other. This claustrophobic little room had not been designed for spending long periods of time in, especially when there were four people. It was hot and stuffy. Claude took off his sweater. Heaulme went on:
‘Actually, I’ve got good memories of Reims.’
Then he gave the dates, described the buildings, estimated the distances between different points in the city, and eventually told us how he had witnessed the killing of a woman on a patch of waste land, giving full details.
Francis Heaulme was now ignoring me and speaking directly to Claude. He probably knew that nobody believed his version, but he continued with astonishing aplomb. The ‘other’ entered the scene.
Claude immediately handed him a sheet of paper and a pen, and asked if he could do a sketch to describe the incident. Francis drew his chair up to the little table, like a schoolboy. Hunched over the paper, without hesitation he drew a map of extraordinary accuracy, using only a section of the page. We watched him in silence. This sketch made Francis Heaulme the number one witness.
The ‘other’ had disappeared. The tension was almost tangible. Francis finished and handed over his drawing, which he dated and signed. André spoke:
‘We’re going to stop now. I think we’ll be back in a few days.’
Taken aback, Francis Heaulme looked at me. I said nothing. As usual, he rose without a word and left the visiting room with the warder.
A few minutes later, we were back at Brest gendarmerie. Claude did not disguise his satisfaction.
‘As soon as we’ve checked Francis Heaulme’s statement back in Reims, he’ll be charged. His sketch definitely corresponds to the scene of the murder. The rest is less reliable.’
These were the words of an investigator sensing that the end was within reach. I understood him, but I couldn’t help thinking about the missing material. The many details of the murder Heaulme had witnessed … A different case in all likelihood. My two colleagues decided to leave the next morning. They needed to review the case with the investigating magistrate as quickly as possible in the light of this new evidence.
We returned to the Petty Officers’ Club. André and Claude invited me to dinner. As soon as I walked into the hotel restaurant at 8 p.m., André said:
‘Talk to me about anything you like except murder, OK?’
‘OK, but only if you buy me a drink.’
After this light-hearted beginning, it turned out to be a short evening. The session with Heaulme had been exhausting, confined as we had been in that tiny prison room. At 9.30, we retired to our rooms.
The next morning, I accompanied my two colleagues to their car outside the ancient grey gendarmerie building. Just before driving off, André said:
‘We’ll check everything out and then we’ll be back.’
No sooner had they left the premises than a colleague called down to me from the window:
‘Your boss is on the phone, quick!’
The colonel wasn’t the sort who called his staff for nothing. Something must have happened and a team needed backup. I rushed up to his office.
‘Hello, Abgrall, have you still got your two rooms booked? Then hold on to them. The Bordeaux unit is arriving tomorrow. Jacky R and an investigator from Périgueux are coming to question Heaulme. The magistrate has given his authorisation.’
Things were beginning to move fast. The case they were working on wasn’t classed as a priority. Even if their dossier had all the hallmarks of the Moulin Blanc killer, there was one significant detail that continued to worry me. The murder they were investigating had been committed by several people. For the moment, there was no indication that Francis Heaulme had been involved, even less with an accomplice.
A few hours later, the Bordeaux investigators arrived. Their dossier also contained a horror story. On 9 May 1986, the battered body of a young conscript doing his military service had been discovered in a gym in the centre of Périgueux. Laurent Bureau was twenty years old. His killers’ footprints could be seen in the pools of congealed blood.
The case had been removed from the police department originally in charge of the investigation as a result of serious procedural errors. Two vagrants had been imprisoned and subsequently cleared. The file, somewhat depleted, had landed on Jacky R’s desk four years later. These were not ideal working conditions, but on listening to these investigators and seeing their determination, I realised that they might have something. They too were experienced. The details of the Moulin Blanc murder and the profile of the killer I outlined did not deter them. On the contrary, they pinpointed a number of analogies with their case.
The presence of an accomplice … Perhaps that was the question Francis Heaulme was waiting for me to ask? If that was the case, I thought that Laurent Bureau’s name could be added to the list.
It was 9.30 a.m. when we entered the jail. The chief warder was getting used to my visits.
‘You again, Jean-François, come to see your friend?’ he asked, adding, ‘In here he’s as meek as a lamb, you know …’
‘Don’t you believe it, Jean-Yves,’ I replied with the utmost seriousness. I knew only too well how dangerous Francis Heaulme was beneath his quiet façade.
Once we’d agreed on using first names, Jacky R placed his laptop on the little table. He had prepared a list of questions the day before. Christian sat next to him.
I gave them one last word of advice:
‘Be low-key, show that you want something from him, but look him right in the eye. He likes to dominate the conversation. He’ll talk.’
As soon as I caught sight of Francis in the corridor, I knew something was amiss. His face was closed, he did not look happy to see us. He greeted me curtly. I barely had time to reply before he was in the room.
‘You’re here about Charleville, you’re here about Charleville-Mézières!’ he insisted, addressing Jacky.
‘Not at all, Francis, they’re from Bordeaux, not Charleville-Mézières.’
‘I thought they were here about Charleville-Mézières. So, you’re from Bordeaux?’
At once his face relaxed. He changed his tune, no longer displaying the animosity he’d shown on assuming my colleagues were from Charleville-Mézières. He was interested. A new game was about to begin for him.
‘That’s right, Bordeaux,’ Jacky reassured him.
Heaulme sat down and immediately launched into an account of his travels, adding some new twists. He clearly seemed pleased that I was there. I was certain he had mentioned Charleville-Mézières on purpose. He was playing games. When he included little changes in his life story, he glanced in my direction. There was no longer any scorn or contempt, he was seeking my connivance. He was pleased that I didn’t contradict him. Actuall
y, he was using the situation to send me messages. Jacky asked:
‘I have a photo album to show you. It has pictures of people you might have met on the road. Would you look at it?’
Heaulme leaned over the table and slowly studied each photo.
‘I met this bearded chap in Charleville-Mézières. At the time I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and velvet shorts … He told me that he and some others were living in a squat. He invited me to stay … To get to the house, we walked two or three kilometres … We arrived around 10 o’clock. Then some other people came. A Turk who I only remember vaguely, a very fat German, aged around thirty-five. He didn’t speak French. There was also an Arab with a blonde woman aged about thirty to forty. She had a dachshund on a lead …’
Christian broke in and asked if Francis could do a sketch showing the location of this squat. Wordlessly, Heaulme obliged with his usual precision, once again providing a wealth of detail. He even mentioned the colour of the shutters. Jacky said:
‘But you’ve just drawn the outskirts of Périgueux, not Charleville-Mézières!’
Francis turned to me in fury. He could not cope with being confronted with his contradictions.
‘I’m going to smash the place to bits! I’m going to smash the place to bits!’ he shouted.
But from his expression, I could see that he was still in control. In fact, that message had been addressed to me. It was his way of asking me if he could. He didn’t want to lose face.
Inside The Mind Of A Killer Page 11