Murder in the Bastille

by Cara Black

It cried from the bassinet . . . the blot of life they’d made that wasn’t right, stained with its need for constant care. Their trisomique Down Syndrome baby. Its mewling, a feeble demand for help. More of an aberration than a baby.

  Loïc’s first son. His only son.

  He always noticed the flattened back of the baby’s head, the slanting of his eyelids, and the gap between the baby’s first and second toes. Such tiny pink toes. Like perfect small rose pearls.

  “Marie,” he’d said, “Alors! The stakeout took half the night, I’ve got piles of work on my desk and the Commissaire wants a meeting first thing. Can’t you at least get toothpaste?”

  Marie stirred and batted an eye open. Small cries continued from the bassinet.

  “Cheri . . . didn’t even hear you come in last night,” she said, her voice groggy.

  The baby’s cries mounted.

  “Pass me Guillaume,” she said.

  She called it Guillaume, after his English relative, William. Insisted they christen it in church with the family, invite some men from the force and their close friends. Loïc noticed the single, deep transverse crease on the tiny palms.

  “Guillaume had a rough day yesterday,” she said cradling the baby who quieted immediately. “We went to the médecin, but he said it was just a cold.”

  Loïc bristled. He’d put in a twelve-hour shift. Half of it wasted in a dank abandoned warehouse on a stakeout, aggravating back pain from his old injury. These days, it seemed Guillaume was all she focused on. Surely she could have stopped for tooth gel? Marie’s gaze never lifted. All she had eyes for was the bundle in her arms.

  “But Marie . . .”

  “Shhhh,” she whispered, pointing to the closed eyes of the baby.

  Loïc had thrown the toothpaste, and then a dresser, against the wall. Danielle and Monique had run from their rooms, rubbing their eyes. The baby wailed. Loïc’s mind had blanked out the hateful things he’d screamed.

  But it was the look in Marie’s tired brown eyes that warned him. Fool that he was, he’d ignored it. That night he’d come home to an empty apartment. She’d packed up, hauled the children to her parents in Brittany, and told him to get therapy if he wanted to see them again.

  He’d tried. She’d come once to Paris. But no matter how much they discussed it, Marie refused to put Guillaume in an institution. She’d chosen her mongoloid son over him. Though she told him, over and over, the opposite.

  Now he was back in his apartment. His bloodshot eyes took in the packed boxes in the bare rooms. He needed to move to a smaller place, so he could send them more money.

  He thought back to when he and Marie were happy here. He remembered Danielle’s first steps in the kitchen one Sunday. The yellow parakeet from the quai de la Mégisserie he’d bought late Christmas Eve, rushing home from the Commissariat, and how Danielle and Monique’s eyes sparkled. For once, Daddy’s coming home late brought magic. They’d hung the cage in their bedroom, now empty except for the pink-bordered wallpaper.

  He thought back to Marie’s excitement about his promotion; her proud smile and the fancy bottle of St. Émilion they shared on the roof after Danielle and Monique finally fell asleep. The wonderful time they’d had making a son. Marie’s warm skin and how her hair curled over the sheets.

  The son who emerged, wrong, nine months later. Loïc couldn’t stomach it. The psychologist said he suffered from guilt for chromosomes he had no control over, and grief for passing on the defect. Loïc had told the psychologist to stuff his psychobabble up his ass where it might do him some good.

  In Loïc’s village, there’d been Hubert the Mongoloid, as they’d called him. Harmless, he’d worked in the laundry. Worked hard. The mongoloid’s father, an out-of-work prizefighter, drank away his winnings and beat Hubert up regularly on Saturday nights. And after the village mill closed, others beat him, too.

  Loïc knelt down and found a broken pink barrette in his daughter’s room. The movers found him sobbing, cross-legged on the floor, the barrette clutched in one hand and a bottle of cheap whiskey in the other.

  Tuesday Evening

  AIMÉE HEARD FRANCE 2 news blaring from somewhere in the ward. A hoarse voice declared: “The Beast of Bastille may have claimed another victim late Monday night in a Bastille passage. Confusion reigned as investigators discovered Patric Vaduz, the twenty-eight-year-old alleged serial killer awaiting charges in the Commissariat, had been released due to incorrect procedure in the Procès-Verbal. Vaduz, rumored to be attending his mother’s funeral, has not been located.”

  Stunned, Aimée grabbed for the bed rail. Where was the télé? Disoriented and dizzy, she pulled the hospital robe around her. When she located the source of the sound, she slid her feet onto the cold floor. She heard coughing, then a request for medication from somewhere behind her.

  Was she in a ward or a room? She bumped into something, got caught on what felt like a plastic tube . . . an IV hookup?

  Merde!

  Or maybe it was a radio cord. Somehow she disentangled herself. She groped her way along the bed rail, barefoot, toward the source of the broadcast.

  The newscaster continued

  “France 2’s informant close to the investigation revealed that the female victim, discovered mid-afternoon rolled up in an old carpet in a courtyard, appeared to have been murdered in circumstances similar to those surrounding other victims of the Beast of Bastille. Though the particulars have not been released, rumor has it another victim was attacked in nearby Passage de la Boule Blanche. This victim remains in stable condition in the hospital. Names will not be released pending investigation and until next of kin are notified. Police offer no comment at this time other than that the investigation is proceeding.”

  Conversation at the nurse’s station, interrupted by the pinging of bells, obscured the rest of the broadcast.

  Aimée froze, terrified. Could that be her? She had to hear more. “Please could someone help me. . . .”

  Her arm was gripped and someone steered her forward. “I’m a volunteer. Like to hear the evening news, eh? I’ll help you to the TV lobby.”

  By the time Aimée reached the télé she’d controlled her shaking. The announcer continued: “Our correspondent spoke with an inhabitant of the passage who said ‘I saw this bloody shoe behind my neighbor’s old rug,’ said a quavering voice, ‘near my cat’s dish . . . bothered me, but then I saw the twisted leg of a woman sprawled in the corner. I thought she was Chinese. But it was just her bloodied jacket.’ ”

  “I’m wanted downstairs, but if you need help, clap your hands to get the nurse’s attention,” the volunteer said. “Looks like you’re new here. The staff’s run off their feet with patients, but I’m sure rehab will organize an orientation.”

  “An orientation?”

  “To help you navigate the ward on your own.”

  Of course. But she really didn’t want one, or a white cane or a guide-dog. She wanted to see.

  She pushed that out of her mind. Time enough to worry. Maybe she could find someone with a newspaper who’d read it to her.

  The woman mentioned in the broadcast had to be her! So Bellan had questioned her because the Beast of Bastille had murdered a woman in the next passage.

  She clapped her hands.

  No answer. She stood. What sounded like the ding of an elevator came from behind her. She edged forward, bumped into a wall, and felt her way along it to what sounded like the nurse’s station. The smooth counter and rustling papers seemed familiar. She’d made some progress. Maybe she was getting better at this. A loud beeping came from near her.

  “Excuse me, but can a nurse help me read a newspaper . . .”

  “Doctor’s on rounds, mademoiselle,” said a brisk voice. “And two new admits must be processed. Can it wait?”

  “Of course.” Now she was stuck.

  “I’ll find the volunteer coordinator,” the nurse said, guiding Aimée to a hard plastic chair with sticky armrests. “Have a seat. It might take some time.”


  “Where’s my room?”

  “Second door on the left. But wait until we can show you, mademoiselle. We follow rules in this ward. It’s for your safety.”

  Footsteps slapped over the linoleum.

  No way would she wait, it could take hours. Might as well find her own way back.

  She stood, felt her way along the smooth wood hall railing, guiding herself by the low drone of the TV from rooms and the muffled beep of machines. So far so good, she thought. But as she rounded a corner and felt the second door, she smelled bleach and soap.

  Then she ran into something with ridges that crinkled like cellophane. She stepped on a soft foamlike substance that yielded. Something hard whacked her cheek. Clanging noises came from her feet and then they were cold and wet. She grabbed what felt like a pole. Her feet stung.

  Great.

  She’d walked smack into a mop, upsetting a pail of soapy ammonia by the stink and the burning of her toes. Or something worse. She’d stumbled into a broom closet.

  A total liability! She couldn’t even find her room. Useless! She fought back tears welling in her useless eyes.

  What was that other smell . . . familiar and jarring? And it came back. That awful odor as hands gripped her neck from behind, squeezing tighter and tighter. Her choking gasps for air. She trembled.

  Tar.

  “Found something interesting, mademoiselle?” asked a voice she recognized.

  Why had he sneaked up on her?

  “Dr. Lambert,” she said, taking a deep gulp, “what’s tar used for in the hospital?”

  “Besides tarring the roof?” he said. “Who knows?”

  “That wouldn’t be kept in a closet, would it?”

  “Mademoiselle Leduc, I planned to run more tests on you,” he said, before she could ask more. “But now I need to finish my rounds.”

  “Go ahead, Dr. Lambert.”

  “First, you need help.”

  Strong arms grasped and lifted her up. A stethoscope hit her arm. Her wet, bare feet dangled in the air. She felt frightened and disoriented.

  “Look I can walk . . . put me down.

  “Not if you’ve got a chemical burn.”

  Her feet stung and a big lump wedged in her throat. Hugging her to his warm chest, the doctor carried her back to her room, sat her down, stuck her feet in a tub of water, and paged the nurse. “Do me a favor,” he said, an edge in his voice. “Try to stay out of trouble until I get back.”

  “ ZUT! TH I S looks like a nice mess,” said a nurse with a soft Provençal accent. Embarrassed, Aimée let the nurse clean her up. The doctor hadn’t answered her question about the tar. The nurse remained silent when Aimée asked, and scurried off before she could press the question.

  In the hospital bed, Aimée fumbled for the room phone. After two tries she got the operator. But Leduc Detective had the message machine on. She tried René’s apartment. No answer. Then she tried his cell phone, and got his voice mail.

  “Please René, I’m sorry, but can you bring me clothes?” she said. “Makeup. My boots. Everything’s gone. Unless it’s scattered in the passage. And can you check on Miles Davis?”

  She knew how to do two things well, smoke and park at an impossible angle. Now she could do only one. If only she could have a smoke!

  What was she thinking? How could she apply makeup? And her apartment, she’d have to reach the contractor and put the work on hold.

  All she got was their answering machine. She left a message to call her at the hospital. Would they have started the work?

  She dialed the operator again and had him try Commissaire Morbier, her godfather, at the Préfecture.

  “Groupe R,” said an unfamiliar voice.

  “Commissaire Morbier, please.”

  “What’s this regarding?”

  “I’m his goddaughter, Aimée Leduc.”

  “He’s working out of the Commissariat in Bastille. Hold on, I’ll transfer your call.”

  For someone approaching retirement, she thought, Morbier moved around the force a lot. He’d cut back his hours to spend more time with his grandson Marc . . . or so he said. But she wondered if his back gave him more trouble than he let on.

  “Commissariat Principal at Place Léon Blum,” he answered.

  “Back on the beat, Morbier? Hitting the cobblestones again?”

  She heard him suck in his breath. In her mind she saw him—his mismatched socks, suspenders, and shock of thick salt-and-pepper hair. She wondered if he’d kept off the weight he’d lost over the summer and if he still wore patches to help him stop smoking.

  “They call it special detail, Leduc.”

  That meant several things. Damage control was one of them. Since he was working out of the Bastille area, was he involved with the serial killer . . . had she found what she was looking for?

  “Look Morbier, I need to know about the victims and anything else you feel like sharing about the Bastille serial murders.”

  “Leduc, I’m busy.”

  Maybe he didn’t know she’d been attacked.

  “Something tells me you have the information I need.”

  “What’s it to you if I do, Leduc?” he said. She heard a metallic ratcheting, as if he had turned in an unoiled swivel chair.

  Something in his voice told her he knew.

  “Leduc, I just got in,” he said. “I haven’t had time to read the update file. Or finish my espresso.”

  She sensed another presence in her hospital room. Something she couldn’t explain. The hair stood on the back of her neck. Wariness overtook her; she covered the phone with her hand.

  “Who’s there?”

  No answer. And then footsteps moved away. Was it a nurse, the doctor, or a volunteer?

  Or . . . ? That tar smell near the broom closet? For an awful moment she was struck by the thought of the attacker, lurking, waiting to finish his task. It would be so easy to don a uniform, wear a mask, and search the corridors. Her heart clenched with fear. She took a deep breath.

  “Call me curious, Morbier,” she said. “Please, we need to talk.”

  “I’m tied up,” he said. “Staff meeting in five minutes. The unit has to come up with some answers. And I still haven’t read the file.”

  “Answers to why Patrick Vaduz was released due to incorrect procedure? And why a woman got murdered in the passage? Well France 2 news put it together and blamed the bungling on . . .”

  “Got to go,” Morbier interrupted. In the background, chairs scraped the floor, murmuring voices rose.

  “But they’re wrong. I don’t think Vaduz killed that woman,” she said. “Meet me in room 312, l’hôpital Quinzes-Vingts.”

  “Investigating something?” he said. “Leave the serial killers to us, Leduc. Stick to computers.”

  “I can’t, it’s personal.” She wanted to confront him face to face.

  Morbier’s voice betrayed no surprise. “Leduc, you know hospitals bother me.”

  True. He hadn’t even come to see her after the terrorist bombing in Place Vendôme, the one that killed her father and put her in the burn unit. She’d been lucky; the skin graft on her palm was the only visible scar.

  “I can help you,” she said, lowering her voice. “But not over the phone.”

  “Tiens! We know Patric Vaduz did it.”

  She had to make Morbier interested enough to come. This needed to be said in person. “Well, there’s a witness who thinks otherwise.”

  A siren wailed below Aimée’s window as an ambulance pulled into the hospital courtyard.

  “So this witness has proof?”

  She heard an edge of interest in his voice.

  “You might say living proof.”

  Wednesday Noon

  “ATTENTION, PETIT !” SHOUTED A perspiring delivery man wheeling a dolly loaded with beer crates. “Didn’t see you.”

  René, carrying Aimée’s bag, sidestepped the man on the pavement. He ignored the stares from passersby in rue Fau-bourg St-Antoine. Bo
rn a dwarf, now just four feet tall, he was used to people staring. Most of the time.

  He’d heard Aimée’s message on his voice mail and gathered things from her apartment. Now he turned into the Passage de la Boule Blanche, a narrow half-covered alleyway lined with old storefronts and doorways to courtyards housing craftsmen, upholsterers, and furniture makers. Wide enough for a small car. Once the site of the crimes of the notorious poet-criminal, Lacenaire, guillotined in 1836.

  René retraced his steps to the place where he’d found Aimée sprawled on the cobbles. Not far from the metal waist-high barricade with a Piétons barrés sign. He wondered if there was anything he hadn’t found last night.

  Green garbage bins, emptied and waiting, hugged the narrow stone wall. Too bad, anything left behind would have been cleaned up by the ébouers. Nothing there to indicate the horror of Aimée’s attack last night. What had she said . . . she remembered a light?

  He looked around and in the October sunshine saw the imposing entrance of the Quinze-Vingts hospital at the end of the passage. The Quinze-Vingts—fifteen times twenty—was the number of beds the hospital’s founder, Louis XV, had needed for his knights blinded by Saracens on the Ninth Crusade; the name had endured. Had she meant a light from the hospital?

  The Passage de la Boule Blanche, in the throes of construction, lay deserted. The young designer’s shop was closed. Ahead on the right lay the courtyard of the Cahiers du Cinéma, their former client. He walked over but the gate was chained. On it hung a sign saying CLOSED FOR REMODELING. Too bad, he would have felt comfortable asking questions of people he knew there. He could have ferreted out whether anyone had been in the office late.

  He gazed up. A mossy stone wall lined a good part of the passage. The network of passages in the Bastille once connected the wood shipped down the Seine and the woodworkers and furniture makers in the faubourg’s courtyards. After Louis XI licensed craftsmen in the fifteenth century, this Bastille quartier grew into a working-class area; cradle of revolutions, mother of street-fighters and artisans, home of the Bastille prison.

  Later tinsmiths, blacksmiths, mirror-makers, gilders, and coal merchants joined them, occupying the small glass-roofed factories and warehouses. Now, many of these were gentrified, and the rest had been bulldozed.