‘Perhaps, but you never know. The gendarmerie is going to close down the special unit. Besides, officially, we never seconded you. Our conversation didn’t happen. If you are charged, consider hiring a defence counsel.’
He was reneging on everything, with no concessions. For me, it was unthinkable. I looked at my colleague and we left. As we reached the exit, I said:
‘Tell me, did you hear what I heard? Mission impossible. It’s over!’
A few days later, in Rennes, my new boss ordered me to continue assisting the Aix-en-Provence unit, even if it meant being involved in the interview.
‘I can’t, there’s no unit any more. What’s more, there never was one, apparently. By the way, Francis Heaulme has been transferred to Aix and I don’t have the authority to interview him.’
I knew that in Aix, the team was experiencing major difficulties with the case, but I wanted to show my displeasure. Briefing investigators is very different from interviewing. Everybody has their own approach, and this time there was a lot at stake, given the lack of support. If he gave me detailed confessions without his accomplice being identified, I would come in for heavy criticism. I didn’t want to be the fall guy, either.
I stood my ground for a few days, until headquarters gave me a temporary secondment to the Aix-en-Provence unit. There was now no legal obstacle to my interviewing Francis Heaulme in person. The investigating magistrate of the Draguignan high court was unaware of these manoeuvres. She approved the initiative and requested my direct help with the case.
On 13 December 1993 at 2.30 p.m., in the offices of the Draguignan brigade, my Aix counterpart, Francis Heaulme and I brought this case to a swift close.
In less than two hours, Joris’s murderer gave us all the details of his crime. The object he used as a weapon was a small screwdriver. We did not know that. On the other hand, he refused once again to name his accomplice. He was adamant. Even so, we had a very good lead. We knew the identity of the accomplice but we had no proof. We had to keep looking.
The same day, Francis Heaulme was charged. The case was officially closed.
To my great surprise, the unit was kept going for another six months to give the last teams the opportunity to question the killer. Among them was the Lille criminal investigation unit, which had been waiting its turn for several months. This time the victim was a man, Jean Rémy, whose body had been found in early 1992 on a beach in Boulogne-sur-Mer. This murder had been committed the weekend before Heaulme had been arrested in Alsace.
To my astonishment, I heard him tell the investigators:
‘François told me he was going to come back and arrest me. So I went to see the sea, at Boulogne-sur-Mer … and I killed a man. It was an accident, he wanted to die.’
‘ I went to see the sea …’ A phrase he’d come out with nearly two years earlier, on the day he had been arrested. The announcement of a murder, committed while he was waiting for me. I remembered that moment with the utmost clarity, his fixed stare, my bafflement. Retrospectively, it sent a chill down my spine.
The incident has since been reconstructed. Jean Rémy, sixty-five years old, retired, was grieving after the premature death of his wife, which he had never got over. He had decided to set off on a journey retracing their past, in a final tribute to her. He wanted to go back to Le Touquet, where he and his wife had spent their most wonderful holiday. An inhabitant of the Somme region, he took the evening train from Amiens. This was Friday 4 January 1992. Unfortunately, Jean Rémy fell asleep and woke up at the end of the line, Boulogne-sur-Mer. There was no way back until the following morning. Dispirited, he was wandering along the strand, at a loss, when he met Francis Heaulme, who had come to see the sea … Very quickly, the man whom I was to arrest three days later noticed Jean Rémy’s disarray. They talked, the widower unburdened himself, described his wife and how hard it was for him to carry on with out her. They walked together for quite a while, as far as the beach. When they reached the end, well out of sight, Heaulme killed him.
That May 1994, Francis Heaulme had already been charged with eight murders. The list of similar crimes still included a number of murders that corresponded to the killer’s fantasies. So, despite the announced closure of the unit, I travelled around France one last time and gave Francis Heaulme’s itinerary to the units concerned. I tried once again to explain the weirdness of his behaviour and the complexity of his personality. Some listened to me, others didn’t. There was no time left for me to convince them. Now I know that most of these murders have been forgotten.
PART THREE
An unfinished story
11
First trial
The beginning of January 1994 was a whirl of press conferences given by Maître Pierre Gonzalez de Gaspard. Francis Heaulme’s counsel was continually trumpeting to the media that his client had not killed Aline Pérès. Nor had he committed any other murders. These repeated declarations eventually bore fruit. On the eve of the first trial, which took place in Quimper, Heaulme was described in most of the newspaper articles as a simple ‘confused vagrant’. The same words kept recurring. They pointed at me. It was not rare to read that ‘Abgrall made me talk, he pressurised me until I couldn’t take any more,’ or: ‘I had faith and then I found myself caught up in the system.’
Considering how little backing I enjoyed, I stayed on my guard in face of this turn of events, even though I realised that this was part of his defence strategy. This was not the most worrying thing. On the dawn of the opening day of the trial, ‘The Gaul’, the key man, the only witness to the murder of Aline, had once again gone missing. Francis Heaulme’s lawyer knew it, and was now intimating that his client, who denied his involvement in the murder, had an alibi. In the eyes of the law, the disappearance of ‘The Gaul’ was tantamount to flight, an offence punishable by a prison sentence. Under these conditions, I felt pretty nervous at the prospect of taking the witness stand opposite Pierre Gonzalez de Gaspard, especially as I was not allowed to allude to the other cases in order to elaborate on the killer’s personality. Only the Moulin Blanc investigation could be referred to in the trial.
28 January 1994, 9 a.m. The lobby of the modest Law Courts in Quimper was packed. Potential jurors, witnesses, experts, the victim’s relatives and those of Francis Heaulme mingled in silence with the usual onlookers. Already the media pack, brandishing cameras and mikes, were trying to get exclusives.
Everyone was waiting for the heavy court room doors to open, but they remained resolutely shut. A new passage had been specially created to channel the flow of people in and out of the building. Everyone had to go through the metal detector. These unusual measures and the huge media interest increased my apprehension. I wasn’t thrilled at having to cross the lobby in uniform. I needed calm, the stakes were too high. I slipped discreetly into the courts through a side door that was reserved for detainees. Together with Éric from the Brest criminal investigation unit, who had also been summonsed to testify, I stayed out in a corridor until the waiting room emptied.
Francis Heaulme arrived, escorted by four police officers. He entered quickly, and passed close to where we stood, his hands bound, led on a chain held firmly by a police officer. As he passed me, he shouted:
‘Oh, hello François! It wasn’t me. I didn’t do Brest!’
I watched him disappear into the little room reserved for the defendant, telling myself that this trial was going to be extremely difficult. I began to feel the pressure. When the time came, we entered the court room unobtrusively. It was full to bursting point. High up on the ceiling, neon lights glared. On a side wall, small windows looked out onto a corridor. Faces were pressed behind every pane. The wooden benches had places reserved for relatives, the press and a privileged few. Everyone else remained standing, crammed behind the guard-rail on the back row of benches. There was a heavy police presence. Curious members of the public had to remain outside for lack of space. The opening of the trial resembled a theatre performance.
A be
ll rang. The usher announced the arrival of the judge. The court rose. Two female magistrates flanked the presiding judge, who wore a red robe. The counsel for the prosecution followed, at a slight distance. Everyone sat down again, and there was silence. The presiding judge spoke into the microphone:
‘Bring in the defendant!’
Francis Heaulme, handcuffed and heavily guarded, had to walk the width of the court room to reach the dock, where his handcuffs were removed. The flashbulbs started popping and the cameras whirring. The presiding judge soon put a stop to the photography, and some of the press were already leaving.
The usher began the roll-call of jurors, then, immediately, the random selection process began. Statistics have shown that certain make-ups of jury tend to be more sympathetic either towards the defence or the prosecution depending on the age, sex and profession of the jurors. The drawing of jurors’ names began and the counsel for the prosecution and Pierre Gonzalez de Gaspard then opened the subtle game of challenging. The people called by the usher crossed the court room one by one, watched by all present. Without knowing why, some were challenged off. The jury ended up being composed of six women and three men. Then the witnesses were called. When ‘The Gaul’s’ name was read out, there was no reply. The presiding judge ordered an immediate search to be launched. When I signalled my presence, the whole court turned around in unison. There was a brief murmur. I couldn’t fathom the meaning.
The roll-call continued. Only eight witnesses would appear: the three experts – psychiatrists and psychologists – to testify with regard to the defendant’s personality, the forensic scientist to state the causes of death, ‘The Gaul’, Éric and myself for the prosecution, and Christine, the defendant’s sister, as a character witness. This was very few for a court of assizes. The other testimonies gathered during the investigation were to be read out by the presiding judge during the course of the trial. Then, with great solemnity, Maître Gonzalez de Gaspard spoke:
‘Your Honour, Francis Heaulme deserves more than two days’ trial. He is appearing here solely for the Brest case, yet everyone sees him as a serial killer. The jury has been influenced, as the presence of the media illustrates. I demand due calm. For this reason, I request that the trial be postponed.’
The counsel then handed his written conclusions to the judge. A murmur rippled through the court. The first speech, the first interruption. Pierre Gonzalez de Gaspard had got off to a successful start. After a few minutes’ deliberation, the judge decided to uphold the trial. He informed the witnesses of the order in which they would be called. Éric and I were asked to appear the following day at 2 p.m. We left the court – witnesses are not allowed to attend the trial, even if it is public – and hurried back to the Quimper gendarmerie, where several of our colleagues were following the proceedings on the radio. They told us that Heaulme’s counsel was claiming that his client had admitted to the crime under police pressure. They made noises of encouragement but deep down they were relieved not to be in our shoes. With a half-smile, one of them brought me a message from my new departmental boss: ‘Commanding officer and criminal investigation unit commander will attend trial Quimper court of assizes, reserve front row seats.’ Like at the theatre … That was all I needed. Let them make their own arrangements!
Meanwhile, the confrontation between Francis Heaulme and the experts had begun. Some of my colleagues attended the trial, and after the verdict was announced, they faithfully relayed the exchanges back to me. The psychiatrist had been the first to speak. He declared:
‘Despite his slightly half-witted air, Francis Heaulme is of normal intelligence…He is not subnormal as defined by Article 64 of the penal code … Alcohol makes him feel all-powerful. He identifies with his terrifying, violent father.’
The interpretation of the Rorschach test inkblots was referred to and the expert emphasised the fascination with which Francis Heaulme described them: ‘It flows, it’s red, you can smell it, it’s alive.’ And lastly, with a hint of irony, he spoke of the defendant’s ‘unfortunate’ destiny – in the words of Francis Heaulme, ‘Wherever I go, a murder takes place.’
The other two doctors described his profound discomfort regarding his sexuality. One of them declared:
‘Everything concerning the body increases his sense of insecurity and provokes an aggressive defence at the same time as arousing desire.’
‘What can you tell us about the defendant’s “vision” of the murder?’ the judge asked the experts.
‘It is more like a defence strategy,’ they replied.
The experts concluded that Heaulme was conscious of his actions; he was not insane, but he was dangerous and, given his personality, he could indeed have been the author of the murder. The judge then turned to the defendant and invited him to speak. After a brief silence, Francis Heaulme spoke to the psychiatrist.
‘I have two questions: Am I mad? Am I dangerous?’
Slightly at a loss, the doctor indicated that he had just answered those questions. Pierre Gonzalez de Gaspard seized the chance to jump in again:
‘It is perfectly clear that my client is mentally deficient. It is easy to see that there’s something wrong with Francis Heaulme. Everything suggests that this man does not grasp the reality of the world around him.’
In vain. This time, the Moulin Blanc killer’s counsel was unable to undermine the psychologists’ testimonies. In the court room, nobody seemed inclined to believe that the presumed murderer was not responsible for his actions.
The afternoon session was devoted to examining the defendant’s personality. For several hours, the judge fired endless questions at Francis Heaulme, who replied. By the end, the contrast with the morning’s proceedings was striking. The media all reported his declarations in the witness box. The man knew how to pull the wool over people’s eyes. A number of journalists were beginning to ask questions.
Francis Heaulme talks about his inner turmoil in a soft voice. He is precise and deferential. He told his life story – the beatings, bereavement, the aimless wandering and the alcohol, but then denied murdering Aline Pérès. A puzzle.
Or:
Heaulme is a man who is to be pitied rather than feared. Labelled ‘the French serial killer’, Francis Heaulme could just be a blip in the criminal annals of the late twentieth century.
As the day drew to a close, it seemed to me that the absence of ‘The Gaul’ was increasingly ominous, as Francis Heaulme and his counsel were turning things on their head. In my hotel room, I reread the records of the Moulin Blanc investigation in detail. I learned nothing new, but it kept me busy.
The next morning, I returned to wait at the Quimper gendarmerie. The colleagues who had attended the trial informed me that my superiors had sat on the bench near the victim’s family.
The morning was devoted to questioning Christine, the defendant’s sister. She spoke of the poverty of their family life, the death of their mother and the problems they had faced as a result. Christine Heaulme was moving, for their life truly had been hard. She had not been able to hold back her tears, nor had some of the jury. This was the moment chosen by the defence counsel to speak. The minute her testimony was over, Francis Heaulme again stated his innocence. The judge began questioning him about the murder, emphasising, for example, the accuracy of the sketch.
‘It was imaginary,’ replied Heaulme, ‘it’s a coincidence if my sketch is the same as the scene of the crime … I was in hospital in Quimper on Sunday 14 May 1989, and I didn’t leave the building. I was not involved in this crime. I talked about a vision I’d had on Saturday 13 May on the beach where the murder took place. I had taken Tranxene 50 with a litre of beer, and, while I was asleep, I saw a fair-haired man stabbing a woman with a knife … I read about the murder in the newspaper … when I talked, it was to please officer Abgrall. He hypnotises me!’
The counsel emphasised his client’s psychological frailty:
‘He couldn’t cope with the pressure of being in custody, he’s a liar,
a fantasist …’
He went on, stressing that the investigators had suggested details of the case to Francis Heaulme, perhaps even unconsciously, through the questions they asked him. The atmosphere was becoming more heated. It was 12.30 when my colleagues from Quimper returned. They immediately told us about the mood in the court room.
‘Heaulme’s counsel is attacking you, he speaks of that “devil Abgrall”,’ said one of them. ‘What’s more, he went for you so savagely, that your bosses left and went back to Rennes.’
It goes without saying that I had no appetite for lunch. I was growing impatient to have my say, the waiting was becoming unbearable.
At 1.45 p.m., when we arrived at the court, a crowd even bigger than yesterday’s was waiting in the lobby. Even more daunting, the court room was already full to bursting point. We went directly into the witnesses’ waiting room. This was it. A police officer on sentry duty saw to it that we stayed put and did not communicate with the outside.
The area was small, but roomy enough for Éric and me. We did not know how the trial was progressing. We waited, and the minutes dragged by. We did not speak. We didn’t admit it, but we were tense. From time to time, the police officer left us to go and watch the trial for a few minutes. He kept coming and going, and each time he opened the door I expected the usher to call me to the witness stand. Two hours passed thus. Then the police officer returned and asked:
‘Which one’s Abgrall?’
Taken by surprise, I replied:
‘I am.’
‘Whew,’ he said, shaking his right hand, ‘things are hotting up in there!’
Then he hurried off again. I looked at Éric, dumbfounded. Then the hearing was suspended. Ten minutes went by and the door swung open to reveal ‘The Gaul’, in a blue anorak. I was totally taken by surprise, but felt a surge of relief. The police officer went back to his post, we were forbidden to talk to each other. ‘The Gaul’ turned to him and tried, anxiously, to explain his absence.
Inside The Mind Of A Killer Page 16