Inside The Mind Of A Killer

by Jean-Francois Abgrall

  ‘… I heard about the Laurence murder on the television. I was at my girlfriend’s house … We watched the 8 o’clock news. I heard that a fourteen-year-old girl had been strangled in Metz … Actually, it happened in Buchy, a village near Sainte-Barbe …’

  Pedro spurred him on, leaving no space for those little gaps between words that were so laden with significance. He was going too fast. Heaulme went on:

  ‘… The girl was coming back from the May fair on her moped, that evening … They talked about the father, who found the moped … It seemed the girl had been followed by a car – a BMW, according to eyewitness accounts from neighbours in the village of Buchy – after she left the fair …’

  After several seconds’ silence, he added, ‘I had nothing to do with the murder of the girl called Laurence.’

  The interview ended without Francis Heaulme and I being able to meet. He was taken back to prison. My colleagues and I exchanged our impressions of the interview. Pedro began:

  ‘It will be difficult to go any further with him. He talked about the case because he’d seen the news. His allusions to the dead gypsy prove nothing. He’s sick, he talks nonsense.’

  Claude however was more reserved.

  ‘We need to make further inquiries,’ he said.

  I backed him up.

  ‘Heaulme showed that he knew the scene. I don’t think we should stop there. We know he’s never straightforward. Next time, ask him to do a detailed sketch. I think that for him, today was a sort of introduction, a review. He’ll think about it and the next session will be very different.’

  Pedro left frustrated, but agreed to a second meeting. This took place a month later, once again in Reims. The atmosphere was heavy with resentment. Pedro thought he was wasting his time. He still did not believe that Francis Heaulme could be the murderer. However, the interview still went ahead. Again, I was not in the room.

  Heaulme spoke. ‘I insist on being direct with you. On 7 May 1991, I knew that the May fair was on in Metz. I took the train on the Friday evening from Bischwiller. It was 4 p.m… . I can’t remember what time I arrived in Metz … I met a fellow. Then, around 9 p.m., this fellow said to me, “We’re going to get laid.”’

  Pedro broke in, ‘What was this man like? Describe him to me …’

  ‘His name was Dominique. I met him in a bar … He was about thirty, well-built, with a long nose and a scar on his right cheek … He must have been about one metre eighty tall … He had a little moustache. Most of his head was bald, but he had shoulder-length hair growing from the sides and back of his head … He was dark and violent … I even had a fight with him … during one of my hospital stays …’

  I was sure that most of these details had nothing to do with the murder of young Laurence Guillaume. Francis was trying to find out whether my colleague was able to identify this man without him. He was protecting himself. Pedro reacted by asking him to do a drawing.

  ‘I can do you a sketch. I’ll show you where I saw Laurence for the first time with her moped … I can also give details of how she was dressed …’

  This time, it all added up. This was a good start. Pedro tried to extract more information, but Heaulme realised that the investigator was probing and jibbed. He replied slowly, giving inadequate descriptions. The hours went by thus, without yielding any further results. It was 2.30 p.m. when it was time for the first break. I went into the investigators’ room while Francis Heaulme stayed in the room where a sandwich was brought to him.

  Pedro arrived, all fired up.

  ‘It’s him, I’m sure it’s him!’ he said excitedly.

  His partner was an old hand from the criminal investigation unit. He said, ‘Stay calm, be patient, this is only the start of your interview. You’ve got plenty of time.’

  Then I suggested, ‘Ask him to describe what “the other fellow” who was with him did. I think he’ll talk to you.’

  Before the interview continued, I went to see Francis.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘François, they’re from Metz, I’m happy to talk to them,’ he replied, relaxed.

  ‘Well, carry on, I’ll see you later.’

  He was on good form and not the least bit anxious. At 4 p.m. the interview resumed. The questions and answers were becoming increasingly lengthy, and increasingly muddled.

  Heaulme was getting tired and my colleague was growing impatient. The hours dragged slowly by. I was beginning to find it tedious too. Then came a new version.

  ‘… From now on, everything I tell you will be the truth … When I arrived at the bar, I accidentally bumped into a young man who was with his girlfriend … whose name was Laurence … I apologised and offered to buy him a drink … We had a drink together. Shortly after that, the girl, Laurence, said to the young man I’d bumped into, “I’ve got to go home now, my father wants me back by 9 o’clock.” I immediately thought he must be a relative of Laurence’s … He said to me, “We’ll follow her.” He had a white Renault 5 …’

  Then he gave a detailed account of the kidnapping that had taken place that night. It happened around 11 p.m.

  ‘She (Laurence) was wearing a white sweater, denim trousers and low shoes with little heels … when she left, we followed right behind … She went over the bridge beside the fair and stopped at the first red light … she rode off again, past Le Gouest hospital, then past the petrol pumps just before the second traffic lights on the right … she went straight ahead, then turned right at the fork in the direction of the cemetery … After following her for a while, about fifteen or sixteen kilometres, Dominique accelerated and hit the back of the moped with the right front bumper of his car … The moped fell onto the verge and the girl was thrown off and lay on her back … Before getting out of the car, Dominique asked me to take the torch out of the glove compartment … I saw the rectangular yellow metal torch … Then I saw there was a flick knife too … I got out of the vehicle and went over to the girl, who was a metre away from the car … she was lying on her back … When she saw me, she swore at me … she took off her helmet, and that’s when I slapped her … Dominique asked me to help him get her into the back of the car … I refused and he put her there himself …’

  Pedro asked, ‘And then what did you do?’

  Once again, Heaulme gave a detailed account of the assault. He blamed the murder on his accomplice, Dominique. Pedro asked:

  ‘You say it was Dominique who committed the murder, but you know as well as I do that your accomplice’s name wasn’t Dominique and that everything you have told me about the man you were with that evening is untrue, don’t you? Well?’

  Heaulme would not back down, but he knew that this time there was no getting out of it. He finally blurted out:

  ‘I was desperate, I was wound up by everything that had happened. I took out my knife, an Opinel, not a flick knife, and I stabbed Laurence …’

  That was it. It was over. Heaulme had just admitted his involvement in the murder. The following questions merely clarified a few details. Pedro’s tone had changed. Beneath his undisguised delight, there was already a hint of contempt for Heaulme, which I didn’t like. Particularly as three hours earlier he had been cursing about wasting his time.

  Before returning to Metz, Pedro came to say goodbye. He told me who Heaulme’s accomplice had been. ‘The young man with him was Michel, the victim’s cousin, he has a white Renault 5. You were right. I’ll keep you posted.’

  It mattered little to me that Pedro had changed his mind. I was still worried. Francis Heaulme had left me with the feeling that he was still playing games with us. Admittedly he had informed on his accomplice, but at the price of several months’ work. He hadn’t changed, he still wanted to dominate us. It was probably his raison d’être. With this new case, there was a whole new side of his personality to be explored. I was eager to meet his accomplice. What kind of man would be ready to follow someone like Francis Heaulme in his deadly madness?

  * Translators note: In France
, after a period of ten years from the closure of the investigation, no further investigations can be carried out, even if the criminal is subsequently identified.

  * Translator’s note: Hostels/social housing where immigrant workers live.

  10

  Fear of the precipice

  I did not in fact get to meet Michel, young Laurence Guillaume’s cousin and Francis Heaulme’s accomplice on the fatal night. Without formally opposing the idea, Pedro arranged things so that I was not present during the interview. I was merely allowed to see the transcript that was read out in court. Even on paper, it was harrowing.

  My brother and I went around the fair. We had a drink, maybe two or three. At one point, this man came up to us and we chatted. We didn’t know him, but he invited us for a drink. I remember he bought one or two rounds. I think Laurence had a drink with us … A little later, Laurence told us she was going home. I asked her if she wanted me to light up the road with my car headlights … Then the man asked if he could come too. We followed her in my light grey Renault 5. We drove 50 metres behind her…

  The young man then identified Francis Heaulme from the photo. The interview went on:

  As we drove, we talked about this and that, about me, and Laurence. He said she was a nice piece of ass and he’d like to give her one … I told him it was true and that I’d like to do things to her, I mean make love to her. I had never been to bed with a girl. Heaulme decided we should crash into her. I agreed. Laurence fell into the ditch … We forced her into the car. Heaulme shut her up with a slap. We drove for ten minutes … I turned into a ploughed field. She wouldn’t stop yelling at me and calling me crazy … Heaulme was holding a flick knife …

  A flick knife … At the end of his interview, Francis Heaulme had taken pains to mention that he had an Opinel and not a flick knife. Nobody had asked him anything. Changing certain details of his crimes was typical of him.

  He told me to have sex with my cousin. I didn’t want to. Then he threatened me with his knife … Heaulme pushed me away and took Laurence with him … He said to me, ‘If you try anything, I’ll kill her, and then I’ll kill you …’ He dragged her further away. I think Heaulme spent ten minutes alone with Laurence …

  I stayed where I was. I heard her call for help. I didn’t do anything. I began to cry … and then he said, ‘OK, it’s over, don’t go over there, pick up her clothes …’ We left the body where it was and drove off. I dropped him at Metz station.

  ‘Is there anything else you want to add?’

  Yes, I’d like to say that I’m not a killer, a murderer. The thing I regret that night is having met Heaulme, without knowing what he was capable of … I’m sorry I wanted to fool around with Laurence. I didn’t want to hurt her. I thought my cousin was very beautiful, I loved her and I still do. I’m prepared to prove it and to pay for the harm I did her that night. But I repeat, I don’t consider myself a murderer.

  I had never known Heaulme to be so much in control of events. The apparent ease with which he carried out his murderous designs was terrifying. He was a predator. From the moment he had spotted them, his two victims had little chance of getting away from him. He was brilliant at being able to sniff out others’ weaknesses and understand his quarries’ hidden desires and little secrets.

  In this case, he knew even before meeting her what he was going to subject the girl to. For hours on end, he had fantasised about his victim, her age, her body, her personality and the way he was going to kill her. When he happened to bump into her by chance, he knew at once that he would be able to play on her cousin’s repressed desire and manipulate him without danger.

  Heaulme was also an opportunist killer. He rehearsed his murder fantasies for days, but it was circumstances that decided when he would carry them out. The people he met, reduced to mere objects, the places and the atmosphere were all just part of the décor, but he never forgot a single detail. They were prompts that enabled him to relive his crimes in his mind, to replay the film of those morbid scenes and feed his fantasies. But not everything was planned. When and where would he commit his murder? Circumstances provided the opportunities. He could always adapt … Thus he left considerable room for ‘improvisation’. Francis Heaulme adapted his scenarios to the behaviour of his victims, their degree of resistance or the mood of the moment.

  Young Laurence Guillaume’s cousin was more than a mere spectator of Heaulme’s all-powerfulness. Heaulme had made the young man a full partner, the living channel through which he hoped to fulfil his sexual desires. His sexual frustration was certainly at the root of his criminal acts.

  With the string of interviews, my contact with Francis Heaulme had become more and more direct. We were old acquaintances now. During one routine visit to the prisoner, this closeness nearly caused one of the worst moments of my career. It was in May 1993. That afternoon, the weather was glorious. The sun blazed in a dazzling blue sky, and spring was very much in the air. Claude, my colleague from Reims, needed to take some fresh mug shots of Francis Heaulme.

  ‘As you’re here, come with me to the prison,’ he suggested. ‘I’ve got to take Heaulme out to do some photos. It’ll only take about an hour.’

  I agreed and, a little later, we walked over to the prison. We were relaxed, either because of the fine weather or because of the straightforward purpose of our visit. Perhaps too relaxed. The exit formalities only took a few minutes. Soon, Claude, Francis Heaulme and I were out in the street.

  ‘I go for walks outside!’ boasted Francis Heaulme proudly, watching the prison gates close.

  He was thrilled to find himself on the outside, almost free. We didn’t bother to handcuff him. There were two of us, we were armed, and we were only going a hundred metres. Besides, Heaulme was on good form. He had recently told the prison psychologist that he was ‘happy’ there. The warders now called him by his first name, and the governor had even told him that he was ‘part of the family’.

  We walked on the pavement, then alongside the wall to the gendarmerie. A few dozen metres further on were our offices. The photos were taken quickly. While we were waiting, Claude offered us a drink which he brought from the investigators’ lounge. Francis Heaulme gazed at us pensively, as if he were still in a daydream. Suddenly, he snapped out of his torpor and said:

  ‘One day, between Dunkerque and Cherbourg, I strangled a tree. I squeezed, and it went all limp. It was a young one. I left it in the wild grass, by a road, twelve kilometres from the sea. That was in 1989.’

  He stopped dead. As I put down my can of Coke, I said:

  ‘Francis, can you kindly repeat that? But please, try and remember things “properly”.’

  ‘No, François, that’s all I remember.’

  There was no point questioning him there and then. His itinerary for 1989 had been carefully reconstructed. That year, he had not been in northern France. We would have to go backwards. With him, this had become a habit. We knew that.

  Francis Heaulme presented his latest riddle, this time in a more incisive tone. He watched us with a serious expression, but did not seem perturbed. His attitude proved once again that he knew exactly what he was up to. We made no comment, thus deflating the effect of his revelation. He would not have the satisfaction of observing our reactions. Ultimately, we were copying his behaviour.

  When it was time to take him back to the prison, Claude was called away by his colleagues. Another urgent case. I offered to take Heaulme back. So the pair of us set off down the empty street. On the pavement, Francis Heaulme turned to me with a smile and said, ‘I could run away right now …’

  ‘I’m sure you’re not as fast as my bullets.’

  I showed him the gun under my jacket.

  Was he trying to be funny? But can one use the word ‘humour’ in connection with Francis Heaulme? The street was empty and it was as hot as summer. In the distance was a girl on a bicycle. She was wearing a light, floral print dress that billowed in the wind. A real cliché … We were outside the prison gate
. I pressed the buzzer and stood in view of the little surveillance camera.

  Francis Heaulme was right next to me, almost pressed up against me.

  ‘So now you’ve got a cell mate. Is it hard having to share?’

  He didn’t reply. Without moving out of shot of the camera, I repeated my question. Still no reaction. His silence worried me. I turned towards him. His face was contorted into a grimace. That snarling grin was the embodiment of violence. He had turned pale. His sharp, penetrating gaze was riveted on the girl cycling towards us. His jaws clenched, he was breathing heavily. His hands bunched into fists. I shouted, ‘Hey! Francis! Wake up! Calm down! Go easy!’

  I grabbed him firmly with both hands by the collar of his jacket and flung him against the wall. He wasn’t there, he was in his own world, and I had to bring him back down to earth. I shook him. He didn’t budge. The girl rode past without realising anything was amiss. Without making the slightest gesture, he replied in his halting voice, ‘It’s OK, it’s OK, don’t worry.’

  He carried on staring at the girl. Suddenly, he turned to me and said with a sick smile:

  ‘François, how can you resist that?’

  He stared hard at the girl again. It seemed an eternity before the gate began to open. With a sharp movement I pushed Heaulme against the corner of the gate and forced him to look me in the eyes. His face slowly relaxed. The gate finally opened. He walked through as though nothing had happened.

  I stood at the entrance and watched him vanish without a word. I was furious with myself. I had not behaved appropriately. I had placed him in one of his favourite scenarios, the kind of situation which incited him to murder. The girl looked vulnerable, there was nobody in the street. I had forgotten who he was. He had sensed that I trusted him and that I’d relaxed my vigilance. His instinct had immediately come to the surface again. The vulnerability of others, that’s what triggered him. Luckily, I wasn’t weak enough in his eyes for him to go all the way. I swore I would never allow the situation to happen again.