The Faces of God

by Mallock;

  Amédée was impressed. It was an incredible story, the kind most police officers dreamed of. You wanted to be a hero when you became a cop, not hand out fines and knock people around with a billy club. Capturing big game like that was the top; Legion of Honor stuff.

  “But how has he been able to stay one step ahead of so many police for so long?”

  Mallock wanted to get into the marrow of the subject, the meat of the matter, its substance. What could they take away from this that was concrete and would help him, today?

  “Assuming that he was a teenager when he started killing, he’d be a very old man now. Two hundred murders, over such a long time span and without getting caught. It’s unbelievable.”

  “Especially because he would have to have had superhuman speed. When I cross-checked everything I found two cases in which people were killed at the same time but several hundred miles apart. It would have taken hours to drive from one location to the other. It’s unlikely but not impossible by plane.”

  “Or we could go back to the copycat theory.”

  “That’s not really worth considering, unfortunately. The ritualistic procedures are very precise, as you know, and they were painstakingly adhered to every time, down to the composition of the pigments used for the makeup. Also, the Makeup Artist’s methods have never been revealed to the press—nor has his very existence, come to that, let alone the details.”

  “Look, let’s be logical about this,” Mallock mused. “If I’m hearing you right, given what you’ve just said there can only be one solution.”

  The two Americans stared at the Frenchman. What was he getting at?

  “A cop. And moreover, a cop who’s part of the investigation. Only he, knowing the ritual, would be able to duplicate it. To be so precise it would have to be him or someone close to your Needles, a relative or friend. It’s a sure thing. And either way this gives us a trail to focus on for France: look for someone originally from the United States. Track the accent.”

  “It’s far from being as clear-cut as that, Mallock. The ritual changes and gets worse as it crosses the Atlantic. In the American cases we have . . . exsanguation, is that the word in French?”

  “We say exsanguination, actually.”

  “Exsanguination,” repeated Tom, before continuing. “On each victim there was this practice of draining the blood through twelve puncture sites, and then the application of makeup, undoubtedly for masturbatory purposes or the souvenir photograph. But that’s it. What I’ve seen in your photos isn’t comparable to it. The guy’s gone completely insane!”

  “What if it’s just age?” Angelina suggested. “Senile dementia combined with his obsessions?”

  “That makes sense,” Mallock agreed. “If we accept the idea of a hundred-year-old murderer!”

  Marvin hesitated before his next words, but the idea was already on all their minds. “Someone who is somehow . . . regenerated by drinking the blood of his victims.”

  Mallock didn’t dismiss the hypothesis. He had seen too many things. “We’d have to ask the science experts to find out if that kind of ‘diet’ would be possible or beneficial—if not for prolonging life, at least for good health.”

  “We’ve already asked, and the answer is no, unless the person is able to prepare and add other ingredients to this beverage. In principle, and in any other situation, I’d reject the idea. But here, after everything we’ve seen . . . Senile dementia could explain the horror of it, couldn’t it?”

  “It does fit with the age and your date of 1929. And once you’ve eliminated all rational explanations,” said Mallock, doing his best Sherlock imitation, “the only thing that remains is the unthinkable. It’s better than nothing, no?”

  “Yes,” agreed the Americans, sighing.

  The three of them looked at each other, almost embarrassed at having admitted their mutual disillusionment.

  Silence. Fade to black.

  Two or three minutes went by before anyone spoke. Snow fell softly outside. Mallock’s eyes went to his whiskey cabinet. When he felt stress and discouragement overtaking him, he often indulged in a little restorative single-malt. It had the effect of a hand wiping across a fogged-up window; it was that quick and effective. And just as tenuous, too. He clearly wasn’t the only one who knew this trick.

  “I’d love one,” said Tom, following Mallock’s gaze.

  “Two?”

  “Three,” said Angelina.

  A moment later they were sipping their medicine dreamily, watching the snow fall in the courtyard. Bit by bit, it was erasing the traces left by Marvin’s fall. A goddamn hundred-year-old vampire in their midst. It would make even the most hardened cop’s blood run cold—or at least give him something to think about. It was Mallock who interrupted their contemplation of the courtyard.

  “To sum up, we’ve got a first murder identified in 1929, a first guilty party who killed himself almost right before your eyes twenty years ago, and a second one a decade ago who was gunned down. Then our phoenix reappears in France. And it appears highly unlikely that we’re dealing with copycats, because the information has never been released.”

  “That’s about right.”

  “That leaves the cop assigned to the investigation, or . . . here’s another idea: a family. Imagine a case of insanity passed down from father to son. It would only take three generations from grandfather to grandson. And that would also explain the double murders in different places—a father and son, for example.”

  Marvin was silent for a few seconds. He was in agreement. His French colleague’s idea was, like the man himself, strange but appealing, imaginative and rational at the same time.

  But instead of voicing his approval, he glanced at his watch and asked, in a worried tone:

  “Is there a church nearby?”

  “What for?” was Amédée’s inappropriate response.

  “To go to mass. It’s eleven o’clock. I’ll miss it.”

  Mallock should have directed him to Saint-Paul, but he thought better of it. The image of the child in the font was still very fresh in his mind. The church should have reopened its doors by now, but better to avoid it.

  He suggested Saint-Gervais, right nearby.

  No, no thanks, he wouldn’t go with them. It had been a very long time since he’d taken part in that kind of rejoicing.

  31.

  Monday, January 10th

  The snow on the ground was in its death throes. It lay in brown slabs, flakes clinging together as if trying to freeze again, die a little later. Mallock hadn’t felt so awful in a long time. He was exhausted by his attempts to make contact with the killer’s mind, and he couldn’t seem to plant his feet firmly back in reality. He was floating somewhere a few centimeters off the ground, and only his migraine still gave him the sense that he existed. His taking of prohibited substances and his dream-devoured nights hadn’t helped things either. Arriving at his office, he was pleasantly surprised to find his whole team assembled, with the exception of Robert.

  Ken jumped in first. “I think I’ve discovered something.”

  “Your timing is perfect. I could really use some good news. Where?”

  “The homes of the latest victims—we found similar bags. Made out of brown craft paper, pretty large and very strong, all with staple marks in the upper part. Two of the victims had reused them as garbage bags. A lot of people do that. They must have electric staplers, and—”

  “Can you get to the point any faster?”

  “So last night, my dear little wife went out and ran errands for the first time in her life.”

  “Conclusion?”

  “It’s the kind of bag that big stores like Monoprix use for transporting perishable foodstuffs, when they don’t have their own bags with their logo on them. I noticed that they go way overboard when they seal them, with a ton of staples, and the victims’ bags happe
ned to have the same type of perforations.”

  There was only one Polish-Japanese man—or Nippo-Polish, as Francis called him—in the world who would use an expression like “perishable foodstuffs.” Mallock decided to be a good sport and let the remark pass without comment.

  “Bravo; that’s a lead. How are you going to follow up on it?”

  “I’ve asked Jules to help me find out which stores use this kind of bag, and then we’ll get the names of all their delivery people, and you should have a new list to play with. And I know how much my superintendent loves lists!”

  “It’s nice of you to think of me, but if you do it that way it’s going to take weeks. I’ll be an old man by then.”

  “We don’t have any other solutions, boss,” said Jules.

  Julie, who had sensed the trap, was quick to intervene. “Unless our boss has one of those simple yet brilliant ideas of his that make all our little meetings such a joy, and fill us with admiration.”

  “He does have one, as a matter of fact. Take a look at the victims’ bank statements and you’ll have the names and addresses of the stores you want. You can use the date of payment to get the delivery date, and that should make it easy to find the delivery person, or people, to bring in for questioning.”

  For once, Ken couldn’t think of a witty comeback. He was slightly vexed that he hadn’t thought of this solution himself. There was more than just humor in his little ninja’s head; there was a lot of pride as well.

  The silence stretched until Julie, like the good colleague that she was, stepped in with a diversion. Out of solidarity, and also because she didn’t like it when Mallock, deliberately or not, made one of them look foolish.

  “Jules and I have been working on another lead,” she said. “A pretty good one, too.”

  “Tell me.”

  “We started with the cast you had taken of the imprint of the tripod. And we got lucky, for once. The cast was tiny to start out with; they had a lot of trouble getting anything readable out of it, even using the most state-of-the-art elastomers. But the lab techs did an amazing job. Thanks to the precision of their cast, we were able to see that the points of the tripod had been deliberately fashioned, and in a very particular way. Listen to this: there’s only one brand that makes the tips of its tripods that way. Gascht!”

  Flung out that way, the final word sounded like an expletive, or maybe a sneeze.

  “It’s German. There are only eleven vendors in France, seven of which are in Paris or the Paris metropolitan area. We’ll take an inventory of everyone who’s bought this model in the last ten or fifteen years. Then we can compare it with Amélie Maurel’s datebook and the other lists, and voilà! Alea iacta est!”

  Julie and Jules gave Mallock a sideways glance. Had they forgotten anything?

  “Perfect. Nothing to say. Happy hunting, but hurry up. I’ve got a little theory of my own.”

  Mallock felt guilty about hiding a crucial element of the case from his own colleagues. He promised himself he would spill the beans at the first opportunity. He had gotten Tom’s tacit agreement, after all.

  “Don’t forget the syringe! The Makeup Artist must have stolen it from Amélie Maurel, because it had her fingerprints on it. So we can reasonably assume that this individual knew her or saw her often, personally or professionally. That’s why I keep going back to her appointment book. For me there’s a ninety percent chance that the Makeup Artist’s name is in there. We should keep it as our reference directory, our go-to list. Francis has put it in the system; he’s waiting for your lists to start with the cross-checking. We’ll put Bob on the bags. Let him know. Jules and Julie, you stay on the tripod. You know my favorite technique: list-comparing. In the meantime, Ken and I will take an overall look at the people in the appointment book. Anyone that might correspond to one of the possible profiles. That area is still wide open for now, unfortunately.”

  “You’re taking me off the bags?” asked Ken, sulkily. “It was my idea!”

  “I need you. Got a problem with that?”

  “No, but usually . . . ”

  “Don’t form habits, old man. I need your brain right now, not your feet.”

  As his colleagues filed silently out of the room, Mallock added:

  “Don’t ask me why, but don’t hesitate to check out everyone, of any age whatsoever, and I mean that.”

  “From 7 to 77, like with Tintin?” asked Jules, smiling.

  “And even older than that!”

  When Francis, Jules, and Julie had gone, Ken asked: “We’re starting with the letter A in the appointment book, I assume?”

  “No, I want to pick out a few personally first. If I can narrow it down a bit we’ll save some time.”

  “Other than your whim about the elderly, what criteria are we using?”

  “Just let me do it.”

  Ken knew when to ease off. Mallock the Wizard was going to put his bizarre talents to work again. Pretend not to notice.

  “Come back and see me at two o’clock. We’ll put together the attack strategy for our interviews. I want the same method of approach to be used every time, the same questions, to get homogeneous results for all the people in the appointment book. That reminds me, where has Bob gone? He needs to be briefed about your bag story, pronto.”

  “It’s none of my business, but I walked in when he was on the phone. He didn’t want to say anything, but . . . ”

  “But what?”

  “I think his wife might have taken off. I’m not positive, but you should have seen his face.”

  “I’ll call him.”

  “Don’t do that—you’re not supposed to know. And plus, you know how proud he is. Also this isn’t the first time she’s run off.”

  “Really? I thought things were going better.”

  “No way. Bob’s a good guy deep down, but frankly, he’s not exactly a prize when it comes to women.”

  With that harsh but fair statement, Ken went off to get himself a coffee. Mallock found himself alone. This time the premonition needed no drugs, no smoky helping hand. Amédée felt himself overwhelmed by sudden and tremendous understanding.

  He stood up, swearing:

  “Shit!”

  Fifteen minutes later he was driving up the Rue de Cronstadt toward the Georges-Brassens park, sick with worry. He parked not far away from the Deux Taureaux, remnants of an old covered meat-market. This was where Robert Daranne lived. Almost all his children had told him off and left, one by one, with haste that was highly understandable when you knew their father’s character. He still lived in the family home, alone except for his exhausted wife and their youngest son, the famous “Alas.”

  Amédée dashed up to the second floor of Bob’s building and rang the doorbell. He waited for a few seconds and rang again, then knocked with his fist. He knew Bob was there, but there was no answer, not the slightest noise. He went down to the landlord’s apartment; maybe he had a set of keys.

  “I’m sorry, but Monsieur Daranne isn’t the trusting type,” the man felt the need to explain.

  Mallock didn’t reply. He had made his decision. He went back upstairs, took out his Glock 34, and fired three shots into the lock. The semi-armored hollow-point bullets worked like a charm. He added to the violence by elbowing the door open. Bob was inside, sitting at the living-room coffee table, having a conversation with his revolver. He had emptied three-quarters of a bottle of Scotch.

  “She’s gone,” he slurred.

  Mallock knew from the tone of his voice that he only needed to be convinced. He had plenty of experience with this type of situation. So he talked to Bob, and let him talk. An hour later Amédée left with Bob’s weapon, a snub-nosed .38. In the stairwell he changed his mind and took it back to him.

  “I’ll leave this right here, in case you’re stupid enough to . . . ”

  He even wen
t so far as pretending to make sure the gun was loaded, while Bob watched.

  “I’ll send over a locksmith from the office and expect to see you, cleaned up and smiling, tomorrow morning at eight o’clock sharp. Otherwise, you’re fired. And I’m not kidding, believe me.”

  Bob nodded. Mallock, without adding anything further, turned around and walked out. When he tried to pull the door shut behind him it fell down with a giant crash. He went down the stairs, grumbling. Outside, still worried but determined not to go back up to Bob’s, he drove back to the office.

  By the time he’d gotten back to Number 36, an ugly migraine had reared its head. He managed to yell anyway. He desperately needed to offload the anguish that he had just transferred from Bob’s heart into his own. Ken and company looked at each other discreetly. They knew what to expect. At times like this it was better to leave him alone.

  “You all know your jobs; I don’t need to tell you again.”

  But, of course, he did tell them again. This was one of his manias. He repeated himself, convinced that they hadn’t fully understood him the first time, or that they had forgotten what he asked them to do.

  “Ken and I are on the hunt,” he said. “Every individual listed in Amélie Maurel’s notebook will have to be either brought in or visited. Jules and Julie, you’ll finalize the list of buyers of those tripods . . . Gouache.”

  “Gascht, boss!” Julie corrected him.

  “Gouache or Gascht, the list needs to be finished. Robert will be here tomorrow morning. He’s a little out of sorts, so be nice to him. He needs some human warmth. Francis or Ken, put him on the list of users of brown-paper bags and delivery people. I’m counting on you to be exhaustive on this, too. I’d rather have too many names than not enough. Don’t forget, it’s the computer that will do the sorting. Remember, above all, we can’t reel in this piece of shit if we don’t have the right name. Execution!”