“His staff must be able to deactivate them, though?”
“He swears to high heaven that his people are above all suspicion. But our specialists went to study his security system. According to them, there was evidence that the system had been overridden, but don’t ask me anything else for the moment. The investigation is ongoing.”
A middle-aged man raised his hand next. She called on Jérôme Garancher, squad archivist for more than twenty years. “Who’s going to handle the press? I’ve already seen two or three reporters outside the station.”
“I’ll take care of it,” announced Commissioner Mazure. “We somehow managed to suppress the news yesterday, but given the number of people on the scene at the museum, it was bound to leak. So early this morning, I called our contact at the Dauphiné Libéré to release the first round of information. Obviously I made absolutely no mention of how the victim had been mutilated. But still, we should expect an onslaught of reporters. The warden’s chief of staff has already been contacted by the twenty-four-hour news networks. I will be with the prosecutor when he addresses the reporters. A press conference is scheduled for noon. As usual, not a word on your end.”
Another hand went up. Mazure called on Lieutenant Rodolphe Drancey, a man in his middle years dressed in a leather jacket, who made it a point of honor to keep his scalp perfectly shaved ever since one of his colleagues told him he looked a little bit like Bruce Willis. Nasty during interrogations or police raids, Drancey loved this role that gave him an authority he didn’t possess at home.
“Rodolphe?”
“Any leads on the identity of the victim?”
Nadia Barka answered. “Not for the moment. She doesn’t appear in our files, which isn’t at all surprising. We made the rounds of hospitals in the area as well as the police stations in Grenoble and Isère, but no missing persons report was filed. We can assume she was single, otherwise her family would have shown up. We’ve sent her picture to the newspapers and television stations. That means we should get ready to handle dozens or even hundreds of ridiculous calls to try to ferret out the good intel.”
A mocking voice rang out across the room. “And when will you bring us the second victim? That’s your specialty, isn’t it?”
“If you have nothing to say but bullshit, Rivera, you can go back to sleeping in your corner!” retorted Captain Barka.
Captain Stéphane Rivera, a former senior investigator who was frustrated in his career, had a gift for getting on her nerves. Approaching retirement, he had been sidelined by his superiors and colleagues alike, who could no longer stand his constant mockery, particularly with regard to women. He had committed a grievous error that had cost two people their lives ten years earlier. He could have been forgiven for the error, but he’d tried to falsify the facts. The deception had been uncovered, and he’d kept his job only because of well-placed supporters. Nevertheless, his advancement had been stopped cold. Because his superior at the time was a woman, he’d become the archetype of the misanthropic misogynist.
A stern-faced woman, hair pulled back and wearing a gray suit, answered him. “I am not aware of this specialty of Captain Barka’s that you mentioned, but I know she possesses qualities you do not have, Captain Rivera. Now, if your contribution is finished, I would like to speak.” Isabelle Tavernier, a psychiatrist, regularly got involved in the course of investigations to help flesh out the profile of certain offenders or murderers. Stéphane Rivera shrugged but didn’t respond to her.
“We currently have little information, and I will have to spend some time with Dr. Henri Blavet. These conclusions are therefore quite preliminary, but here are the hypotheses I can put forward. The man—or woman, because anything is possible—who committed this murder is someone who is particularly methodical. No evidence, a corpse that came from nowhere, but a process of killing or mutilation that follows a very clear logic for its perpetrator. He presents his work to us, like a question we must find an answer for. Does he wish to taunt us, or is it part of a ritual whose significance only he knows? We cannot tell at present. Based on the photos that were taken, it does not appear that the position the body was left in has any importance. The corpse was laid directly on the ground, faceup, and nothing suggests any staging. Why leave it in a locked sacred space rather than abandon it in the woods? That’s what we have to figure out. And that’s what makes me fear that our killer’s process is only beginning. The victim’s identity could potentially help us. I’ll finish up a preliminary report that will be available to the entire team in less than an hour.”
A murmur swept around the room when the psychiatrist ended her speech. A serial killer, with opaque motives to say the least, and ritual murders. Summer was going to be hot in Grenoble, and not just because cars would be set on fire in certain neighborhoods. Mazure broke the wall of silence that had settled on the gathering. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is our responsibility to find this criminal as quickly as possible and prevent any more murders, in case we’re dealing with a potential serial killer. I’m meeting with the warden and will ask him for maximum resources to solve this case as soon as possible. The killer must have left clues—ask questions, dig out files, find out if similar murders have already taken place in France or Europe in the last twenty years. You know your jobs, and I don’t need to teach them to you. Captain Barka is in charge of organizing and monitoring the investigation. Starting today, there will be a briefing here every morning at ten o’clock. You are potentially on call twenty-four hours a day, and nobody better piss me off with any noise about comp time or planned vacations. They’re being postponed.”
None of the participants said a word. The deadly risk one or more women were running without knowing it, a risk that was perhaps living right next door to them, fully justified the overtime.
Captain Barka distributed tasks to the participants, then the team dispersed.
Chapter 10: The Shock
7:00 a.m. Julien dropped his backpack next to his desk. He had to finish an important software user’s guide by the end of the week—in other words, that very evening. His work from the previous day led him to think that what he had at first taken for a challenge would ultimately be doable.
The team usually arrived much later, but the imminence of the deadline had gotten them all out of bed this morning. An unusual excitement prevailed in the office.
Julien saw Sophie just arriving.
“A little coffee so we can get to work in top form?” she asked.
“Okay, but quickly, because I still have some work to do to finish my document.”
They sat on the terrace of their usual café. Upon seeing them arrive, the waiter immediately made and delivered two espressos. Julien leaned over to a neighboring table and snagged a copy of the Daubé, which was the local nickname for the regional daily paper Dauphiné Libéré.
“Hey, let’s look at the weather. It wouldn’t hurt to go looking for a little mountain freshness this weekend,” he said. He unfolded the paper and froze.
“Earth to Julien,” said Sophie. “Did you see a ghost?”
Julien lowered the paper and looked at his friend. “You have no idea.”
The pallor of his face surprised her. He handed her the paper without saying another word.
Sophie scanned it. “A murder in the Grenoble baptistery—that’s unusual, to say the least. This is what put you in such a state?”
“Partly. Look at the picture.”
She looked it over and scanned the caption. “It’s a call for witnesses. Don’t tell me you know her . . .”
“It’s her!”
“Her who?”
“Her, the one I followed the day before yesterday and told you about yesterday morning!”
Sophie put down the paper and looked at Julien. He looked upset. His hands were shaking, but he wasn’t trying to stop them.
“This is madness,” he said. “I’m living
a nightmare.”
“Wait a minute before freaking out. First of all, are you certain it’s her?”
“Certain, no, but she looks so much like her that it can’t be a coincidence.”
“And why not? Are there psychics in your family?”
“Not that I know of.”
She thought about what her friend had just said. He was truly upset. The nightmare thing had rattled him, and maybe he was projecting his dream image onto this photo. Or maybe not. She read the article over again and took down the telephone number underneath the missing persons report. “You have to call the police. It’s the best thing to do.”
“But wait, they’re going to think I’m a crazy person.”
“I don’t think so. You might have key information for their investigation.”
“But it’s madness!”
“A woman is dead, Julien,” she said, raising her voice to pull him out of his stupor.
The customers seated at neighboring tables turned to look at her. She lowered her voice. “You have to go there as soon as possible. We’ll take just an hour, and then we’ll come back and finish our work.”
“We? You’d be willing to come with me?”
“Of course!”
“Thank you. Can you give me the number? I’ll call right now.”
Half an hour later, Julien and Sophie were shown into a large room by a police officer. Their phone call had immediately piqued interest, and their contact person had asked them to give their testimony as soon as possible. They were led to a small meeting room where a sporty-looking woman was waiting for them. Julien was surprised by her haggard appearance. A man in uniform seated behind a desk prepared to take notes on what Julien was going to tell them.
“Hello, I’m Captain Barka, the officer in charge of the preliminary investigation into this murder. Would you like coffee? It’s disgusting, but drinkable if you add two or three sugars.”
“With pleasure,” replied Julien. “With lots of sugars. I think I need it.”
“And you?” she asked Sophie.
“I’ll be fine, thank you.”
“May I ask who you are and why you’ve accompanied Monsieur Lombard?”
“I’m Sophie Dupas. I’m here to testify that Monsieur Lombard spoke to me about the murder victim before the news appeared in the paper.”
“Regardless, I don’t see any problem. Doctor Tavernier, who is in our offices this morning, has asked to join us. She should be here within five minutes at the most. She’s our behavioral analyst, what the Americans call a profiler. And your testimony is the first potentially serious lead we have.”
Captain Barka went out into the hallway to look for Isabelle Tavernier. She came back two minutes later, accompanied by a severe-looking woman who introduced herself and sat down on one of the chairs at a round table.
“Please proceed, Monsieur Lombard,” Captain Barka said. “Tell us everything you remember, even what you think are just details.”
Julien spent fifteen minutes telling his story, then relating the dreams that had plagued him, without anyone saying a word. When he’d finished, the captain opened a file deposited in front of her and took out three photos.
“Do you recognize this woman?”
“Yes.”
“Are you one hundred percent sure?”
“You know, when you run across somebody just once and only dream about her the following night, it might seem difficult to be so certain, but as far as I’m concerned, that’s the same woman.”
“Another question. You told us she had on a white dress. Can you confirm that?”
“Absolutely. It was dazzlingly white, even. No doubt that’s what caught my eye first.”
“And in your dream, do you remember how she was dressed?”
“The same dress, but without that luminous aspect.”
She once more pushed a photo toward him. He’d seen only the victim’s face in the previous photo, but now he had a complete picture of the woman, stretched out on a rough floor. She was dressed in a pale blue skirt and red T-shirt.
“In this photo, she isn’t or is no longer wearing a white dress. Does what she’s wearing mean anything to you?”
“Absolutely not,” replied Julien.
The psychiatrist broke her silence. “Let’s go back to the chronology of facts. You say you followed her, without understanding why. I imagine you must have thought back on it. Do you see any reason at all, even if it might seem trivial at first?”
“Will that help you in your investigation, or does it make me a potential suspect?” asked the young man with a touch of doubt in his voice.
Captain Barka intervened. “Theoretically, the entire population of the region is suspect. But Doctor Tavernier’s questions are not covert charges, I assure you. You’re our first witness, and your account is mysterious, to say the least. We’re trying to understand along with you just where it might lead us.”
“All right. Thinking back on it, I got the impression that it was her aura that had attracted me. How do I put this? She didn’t specifically look at me, but thinking back, it felt like an inner voice told me to follow her, that she had something to show me. I know that sounds stupid, but that’s how it felt.”
“It’s not stupid,” commented the psychiatrist. “The capacity for communication between individuals often goes beyond simple gestures or speech. Do you have an idea of what she wanted to tell you?”
“No, and that’s probably why I followed her—to understand.”
The man sitting at the computer took down their conversation, the clicking of the keyboard punctuating the silence that had just fallen.
The psychiatrist tapped the table with her pen. Julien saw a shadow of annoyance pass over Sophie’s face. She was generally patient, but there were two or three things that profoundly irritated her, and this was one of them. He was inwardly amused by it.
Tavernier spoke to him again. “Are you certain you didn’t dream that scene in the street? Are you certain this woman existed?”
Julien was taken aback by the question. “Can you clarify the meaning of your question?”
“Do you think this woman was real?”
“I didn’t just invent what I told you, if that’s what you’re implying!”
“No, that’s not what I’m implying,” she said, softening her tone. “And I’m sure you’re telling the truth.”
“So I’m supposed to have followed a ghost only I could see?”
“I don’t know, not everything can be explained right away. You’ve never known a woman who looked like her?”
“No, why?”
“You could have transferred her face onto an anonymous passerby.”
“And recognized the photo of the dead woman! No, that face really wasn’t familiar.”
“Think carefully, Monsieur Lombard. Replay the whole scene calmly at home, and perhaps you’ll uncover new clues. Maybe this woman wanted to give you a message? Maybe she didn’t run across you by accident?”
“I don’t know what to say. I already thought about it, but if it might lead somewhere, I’ll think on it some more.”
Captain Barka ended the interview. “Thank you, Monsieur Lombard. Your testimony is valuable. I’m going to ask you to leave us your telephone number so that we can contact you if we need additional information. I’ll also give you mine. If something comes back to you, even if it seems like just a small detail, don’t hesitate to call me.”
Chapter 11: Relaxation
“That’s it, all done!” Julien stretched, yawned, saved his file, and sent it via e-mail to the program manager. “Bodes well for a nice warm weekend,” he said, looking out the window at the blue sky just beginning to darken. He turned around and realized only three of them were left in the room. Sophie, a computer scientist named Michel, and himself.
�
�To celebrate, I’ll buy you a pizza on the riverfront,” Julien said. “We can walk there in ten minutes, and it’ll give us time to stretch our legs.”
“I can’t,” said Michel. “I’m leaving right away for a weekend of windsurfing at Cap d’Agde. And I’m already late. Ciao. It’s the wind, the beach, and the girls for me.”
He ran out of the office.
“Okay, a little pizza, Sophie?”
“We’re inseparable at the moment. I have something else to suggest.”
“Couscous?”
“No, a session at my club’s gym. It’ll do us so much good after today’s excitement.”
Julien grumbled. He wasn’t a fan of exercise or weight training, but the desire to be with Sophie surpassed the desire to eat a Neapolitan pizza, washed down with a little beer, on the terrace of one of the many pizzerias on the Isère riverfront.
“Okay, it can’t hurt. But give me five minutes to run and get some shorts and a pair of sneakers. I could do exercises in bare feet and boxers, but it might raise some eyebrows.”
“Indeed, be careful. About fifteen of us girls go there, and you’ll be the only guy. My trophy for the day, in a way.”
“Now you’ve convinced me. I’m hurrying!”
Liquid was probably the best word for him. Julien, covered in sweat, was stretched out on the gym floor, no longer able to feel his abdominal muscles or his glutes. Or rather, he felt them too much! An alert-looking woman with short hair came toward him.
“So, Julien, you can’t hack it in front of these women?” she asked with a smile.
“You’ve convinced me, Aimée, I really have to come back and train.”
“Very good, there’ll be a man among us. There’s only one more session before summer vacation, but we’re counting on you in the fall.”
Heart Collector Page 4