Inside The Mind Of A Killer

by Jean-Francois Abgrall

  Christophe replaced the receiver.

  ‘Christ! Did you hear? Apparently I nearly jammed the whole system. If we want to process your question, we have to do it at night, when nobody’s using the computers. I’m on duty tomorrow evening, I can do it then.’

  1,125 unsolved murder cases in only ten years! I had predicted less than a quarter of that number. I was way out. I was in for some sleepless nights …

  While waiting for all this data to be gathered, I decided to visit the various units that might be able to help me. My first stop was Reims. Francis Heaulme had been charged and transferred to Reims prison for questioning.

  The Reims gendarmerie barracks are at the end of Rue Robe-spierre, just opposite the prison – so close that gendarmes and prisoners are almost able to talk to each other from the windows. Both buildings date back to the nineteenth century. High red stone walls conceal these drab edifices where the monotony is only relieved by the tricolour flag. By comparison, the Brest garrison wasn’t so rundown after all. Francis Heaulme was just a stone’s throw from my new residence. This nearness would make my life easier.

  After the customary greetings and a quick lunch, Claude informed me that Francis Heaulme, told of my imminent visit, had been asking to see me for days.

  With a few strides, I was at the prison gate. Under the gaze of a surveillance camera, I rang the buzzer and introduced myself. A good five minutes ticked by before the little hatch in the forbidding steel door opened. A face appeared, and looked left and right. ‘Are you alone?’ I was asked. I replied that I was and could not repress a smile. The hatch was closed and the jangling of a heavy bunch of keys announced my entrance. I had the strange feeling of stepping back in time.

  The contrast with Brest was striking. Much smaller, this three-storey prison was built of solid stone. The broad, thick walls gave a foretaste of the design of the cells. Square rooms, slightly oppressive, with little rectangular windows positioned too high to see out.

  I crossed the yard. I only had to go through two metal gates before reaching the visiting room. The narrow room was like a sort of stall, with barely room for two chairs and a table. Not only had the environment changed, but the space in which our meetings took place was also smaller.

  Francis Heaulme soon arrived. He was wearing his perpetual purple tracksuit which he had been wearing on the day of his arrest. He opened the conversation immediately, as if he had been waiting for me for a long time.

  ‘Ah, François, you came. It’s not as nice here as in Brest; there are foreigners and rapists. I don’t like that, but it’s easier for my sister. It’s not so far, we’ll be able to see each other more often. She said that a famous Paris lawyer is going to defend me for free.’

  Then, in a confidential tone, like a child who is afraid of having done something wrong, he added, ‘You know, I didn’t tell the fellows from Bordeaux everything. In the gym, it was me who tied up the kid’s hands. I took the lace from my shorts. I grabbed his two hands, but it was too short, it didn’t hold. The lace stayed on his right wrist.’

  This was too much. I didn’t want to get caught up in his game of half-truths again.

  ‘Stop, Francis! I’ve had enough of your play-acting. I know who you are. You had more than enough time in Brest to tell them all that. Talk normally and stop this, otherwise I’m going. Why did you want to see me?’

  Heaulme was taken aback and seemed flustered. For a moment, he appeared to withdraw into himself. Disappointed at having made me angry, he almost apologised.

  ‘Just tell them to come back. I’ll explain to them. You know, I don’t always remember everything. I used to drink, and with my medication, I would sometimes have fits.’

  Maybe, but I didn’t believe him. I told him so.

  ‘Fine, that’s understandable. You should have said so. But I don’t think that’s everything.’

  Now he was staring at me coldly. I went on.

  ‘Are you afraid people will find out what you did? Well that’s what’s going to happen. It would be better if it came from you rather than from the investigators.’

  He was worried.

  ‘I know you know,’ he said, as he had done three years earlier. ‘But I’m not a sadist, François! I’m not a sadist!’

  He added, raising his voice, ‘I’ve forgotten what I did. I don’t want to talk about it any more. I told you, I was another man, I was sick. I used to drink. That’s all.’

  At no point did he ever express, or even feel, any remorse for his deeds. I could see that he was distraught and there was no use pressing the point. In truth, I feared he never would, and that I would have to probe further, deep inside him, to find each fragment of his lethal make-up.

  I resumed the conversation on a lighter note.

  ‘Is there anything you need here? Clothes?’

  ‘No, they offered me some, but I prefer my own … The TV’s free. The governor came to see me. He told me I could call him if I had any problems.’

  ‘He’s a nice governor … Are you alone in your cell? Do you get out a bit?’

  ‘I’m alone. I prefer it. Here there are kids who’ve killed old people, that’s nasty. I’d better not come face to face with them … so I don’t go out for exercise any more. I don’t like the types who are there. I keep to myself.’

  ‘And is everything OK with the warders?’

  He answered with a laugh, ‘They call me Mr Heaulme, like a governor.’

  I smiled.

  ‘That’s impressive! … Francis, I’m just opposite, at the gendarmerie. I have to look after the investigators who will be coming to interview you. So if you could talk to them in a normal manner, that would be good. You can tell them anything, they’re used to it. Anyway, it’s up to you … If you need to see me, let me know. Now I’m going to have to leave you.’

  He looked at me closely. He seemed sorry to see me go. I rose. He asked me:

  ‘Did you come from Rennes to see me? Are you going back there today?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve come from Rennes, but not just to see you. I’ve also got things to do here.’

  ‘Come back before you leave.’

  We went our separate ways. His friendly attitude towards me left me perplexed, but I was still mindful of who he was and, above all, what he was capable of doing. There was no question of my taking his side. He was a killer, I was a cop. It was the only reasonable attitude possible. What’s more, he had stopped play ing games when I’d asked him to … Next time perhaps he would unburden himself freely.

  A little later, back at the Reims gendarmerie, I received a message from Christophe. He had a case that might be of interest to me.

  On 7 May 1991, the body of a fourteen-year-old girl, Laurence Guillaume, had been found in a field at Servigny-lès-Sainte-Barbe near Metz. Another naked female body, abandoned in a field not far from a road.

  I was two hours from Metz. I decided to go there the next morning.

  On my arrival, the reception I received from the homicide team was rather frosty. They couldn’t understand why I wanted to poke my nose into their business. Their case was the only homicide in hand.

  The most sceptical was my contact at the station, Pedro. In his forties, with chestnut hair, light-coloured eyes and a head-strong air, the only thing that was Mediterranean about this native of Metz was his surname, which was why his colleagues had nicknamed him Pedro … He did not believe for one moment that this case had anything to do with Francis Heaulme. He stated that he had checked Heaulme’s movements, and he was in the clear. Even better, he claimed he had identified young Laurence’s murderer, and that he was a local man.

  In front of the assembled crew, who were polite but only half listening, I explained the purpose of my secondment and launched once again into a description of Francis Heaulme’s behaviour. The indifference of Pedro and his team was blatant. As a matter of fact, they were only there because they were under orders from HQ. It was not a good start.

  Even so, I wanted them to listen
to me. Francis Heaulme was born in Metz: that was their patch! I pressed on. ‘Route de Vallières, does that ring a bell? A gypsy knifed to death?’

  Pedro glanced at his superior. After a brief silence, he replied, ‘Route de Vallières? That’s the road Laurence Guillaume rode down on her scooter. Just before she was snatched.’

  He stopped short. From his expression, I gathered he did not intend to elaborate.

  ‘Oh! By the way, I did respond to all your requests for information on Heaulme. If you want to read my notes, they’re on my desk. You can use it this afternoon, I shan’t be here.’

  End of conversation.

  After lunch, I sat down at a proper desk with enough space, at last. A fleeting little pleasure. It was nearly a year since I had set foot in Rennes, my home base. Pedro’s office reminded me of my own.

  The dossier compiled by my colleague was not devoid of interest. Between 1981 and 1987, Francis Heaulme had criss-crossed the region many times. I was particularly surprised at the number of spells in hospital, no less than eighty in five years, both in regional hospital centres and psychiatric hospitals!

  I did not intend to stay there long. I would study these notes back at Rosny-sous-Bois. Meanwhile, I had to consult the impressive proceedings relating to the murder of young Laurence. The documents were methodically classified, but I would never get through them unless I made a drastic selection. Luckily, Pedro had created a computer index.

  What had Francis Heaulme been doing that day? I switched on the computer … There, Heaulme had been stopped by the police.

  The two-page report dated 24/01/92 stated:

  On 8 January 1992, we learned from the Strasbourg criminal investigation unit that Francis Heaulme had been arrested for murder … The suspect being originally from Metz, we checked his movements during the period from 7 to 9 May 1991 …

  I carried on. Several people had been contacted by telephone, the nuns at the hostel where he had stayed, the managers of the rehabilitation association that had tried to find him a job, the members of a presbytery where he ate … According to their evidence, he had been in Alsace at the time of the murder. Had I got it completely wrong?

  On closer examination, however, I noticed that the dates given contradicted those of his stays in hospital which I had in front of me. I was taken aback. Visibly, the gendarmes were mistaken, but the report ended:

  The investigations carried out have established that there is no link between Francis Heaulme and the Laurence Guillaume case.

  I couldn’t believe it. How could they have reached these conclusions without checking up on the spot?

  I had to go back to square one. I put away these documents and took out the reports made after the discovery of the girl’s body. The sheets of photographs were complete, and were accompanied by a map of the site. It was perfect. After examining them for two hours, I no longer had any doubts. The similarities to the other cases were too striking to be coincidental. The extreme violence of the killing, thirteen well-aimed knife wounds. Obvious expertise, as in Brest. The killer was in control of his victim: there were no marks on the body. No bruises or bumps. The murderer had not needed to stun or tie up the girl. There were tyre marks found near the body, but Heaulme couldn’t drive. So he had at least one accomplice …

  I shut down the computer and put away the files. When Pedro came back at the end of the afternoon, I decided not to say anything to him. He wasn’t the sort to take advice from a stranger, and he was pursuing another line of inquiry. Besides, I had nothing concrete. I asked him to show me the scene of the crime anyway, to which he consented unenthusiastically.

  The next morning, I suggested to Pedro that we retrace Laurence Guillaume’s route on the day of her murder. We set out from the centre of Metz. Pedro then began the detailed account of the fourteen-year-old’s last hours, minute by minute.

  ‘This is the site of the May Fair, a huge fairground. Laurence parked her scooter near the entrance, and chatted to some school friends. She had to be home by 9 p.m. She rode off down this street on your left. Route de Vallières, there it is. It leads directly to her house in Servigny-lès-Sainte-Barbe.’

  ‘OK. There’s one thing that is still bothering me. How do you explain the fact that Francis Heaulme talked to me about it?’

  He didn’t answer. I didn’t press the matter. While he drove, I soaked up the atmosphere.

  Everything happened within a radius of ten kilometres from Metz, to the east of the city. Servigny, where the girl had been kidnapped … Vigy, the finding of the body and the clothes … You needed a good knowledge of the area to get to these two villages at night. It is far from being a straightforward journey between the two. There are a number of intersections. The killers were definitely local.

  The murderers had clearly tried to suggest they had fled via the Nancy motorway to the south of Metz. The victim’s jacket, with her identity card, left as a decoy in a visible place in a petrol station, did not deceive anybody. The little road behind this station runs back into Metz. A childish strategy in stark contrast to the sophisticated kidnapping and murder.

  I had mixed feelings about these contradictions. This disconcerting logic could be Heaulme’s, but the Metz investigators categorically rejected this theory. Their behaviour seemed blinkered. I sometimes felt as though I had to spend my time convincing my colleagues how dangerous Heaulme was. In France, however, there weren’t enough crimes of this nature to be able to brush aside the Heaulme possibility so lightly. And each time we found a similar murder, he just happened to have been in the area.

  I went back to Rosny-sous-Bois. During my absence, a considerable amount of information had accumulated. There were details of 234 precise locations where Francis Heaulme had been logged between March 1984 and December 1992.

  At the same time, we had whittled the initial 1,125 unsolved murders down to 94. We would have to sift through these, classify them in order of priority and contact the investigators. This took us several weeks.

  A call from Claude made me think again.

  ‘I had a visit from Pedro, from Metz. He went through my case file. He went and checked up on Francis Heaulme’s movements. It turns out the Metz team had got it wrong. Pedro’s thinking of coming to interview him on 16 June. We’re expecting you.’

  On the appointed date, Pedro was in Reims, accompanied by his partner. In the little meeting room, we made the introductions. The unit commander turned to the Metz investigators and said, ‘You’re going to meet a rather unusual character. The words “cock-up” and “accident” are code for murder, and “young people” for children. When he says he’s not a sadist, it means there’s been a violent sex attack. Make a note of everything he says, it might be useful to us. Any questions?’

  Icily, Pedro replied, ‘No … I’d like to tell you something. There was indeed an error in the report on his movements, but that doesn’t make him a suspect in our case. We have another line of investigation. But we’ll play along and note everything he says, even if it seems incoherent.’

  Claude, escorted by a second gendarme, went to fetch Francis from the prison. It was so close that they went on foot. So as not to inhibit the Metz team, I would not be present during the interview.

  A few moments later, Francis Heaulme was there, handcuffed. He was concentrated, slightly edgy.

  ‘Ah, François! Where are the gendarmes from Metz?’

  ‘They’re here. I’ve told them what you saw by the Route de Vallières. I’m going to leave you with them. You’ll tell them all about it yourself. We’ll see each other after the interview.’

  While talking, I walked with him into the room where Pedro was waiting. On entering, Heaulme asked him, ‘Are you from Metz? That’s where I’m from, it’s good to see someone from home.’

  I looked at Pedro, it was over to him.

  Claude joined them. I vanished next door. I could hear just as well as if I were in the room. Pedro’s tone was resolutely direct, and Francis Heaulme replied in the
same manner. Very quickly, he started recalling his memories, his fantasies.

  ‘I remember one day, in 1984 or 1985, I was working on a building site in Vallières … I was with a kid who was working for the same company … He was called Mustapha Mohamed, nicknamed “Le Moustache” … I noticed there were ambulances and police cars around the Sonacotra hostel.* I went closer and I saw a man lying face down. There was blood on his back, his shirt was bloodstained. I asked an onlooker what had happened. He told me there’d been a stabbing. The next day, in the newspaper Le Républicain lorrain, I read about what I’d seen the day before, it was true … The victim was a gypsy from Metz … As far as I’m concerned, when I arrived at the scene, he was dead. I saw the ambulance men put him in a plastic body bag.’

  It clearly wasn’t possible. He hadn’t been there on the day of the gypsy’s death. What was the significance of this new version? It was even more detailed, and this time, he mentioned another man, Mustapha. There was no connection. He was embroidering. Why? Probably a character from a different scenario … and the stabbing, the blood on the victim’s back, the bloodstained shirt … was he alluding to the murder of Laurence Guillaume? That was my belief. He thought he was manipulating Pedro, but he was giving himself away. Suddenly, he changed the subject. ‘To help you in your work, I remember a murder case … I was thirteen. A man nicknamed “Bouboule”, who lived in Rozérieulles, was found dead in the stream with his head crushed … I’ve always thought it was a murder, and the killer was Marchal …’

  What on earth was he talking about? Marchal was one of his assumed names! Pedro returned to his case, and again Francis replied dutifully.

  ‘As I’ve already told you, I know the area well. Besides, when I was twenty-six, I belonged to a cycling club … I cycled all around the Metz region … Servigny-lès-Sainte-Barbe … Ennery … Pont-à-Mousson …’

  I traced his travels on a map and the connection became clear. Ennery was one kilometre from the spot where Laurence Guillaume’s body had been found. It was the access road to the motorway where her clothes were discovered. He knew Servigny and the little road where the petrol station was. Pedro did not pick him up on it. He continued his direct line of questioning. Francis Heaulme had no difficulty following suit.