Heart Collector

by Jacques Vandroux

  “You’re going to obey these nice policemen’s orders. If anybody has something to tell about those murders, let him do it.”

  The policemen looked up. They saw, standing at the top of the stairs, a short man wearing an old-fashioned suit. He looked well over sixty and seemed totally inoffensive. He withdrew and went back downstairs, without another word.

  The aggression instantly relaxed. Rio Sissoko looked questioningly at his colleagues, then released his prisoner. Drancey let go of the ringleader’s arm and pointed at the door. Max, as he’d been called, rubbed his arm, then obeyed the order.

  “Sylvain, it’s Max. Open up, it’s . . . you know who asked you to,” he added, looking distrustfully at the three policemen.

  “They’re bluffing, Max, I know they want to nab me.”

  “No, Sylvain, you have my word!” Voices rose up behind him to affirm the truth of his statement.

  The door opened. Sylvain was standing upright, a pistol in his hand. The policemen immediately took note of his hugely dilated pupils—he must have done a tremendous amount of coke. Sikorski looked at the men standing in the door frame. He immediately recognized Drancey, who was standing behind Max.

  “Motherfucker, you lied to me! They’ve come to bust me!” He raised his weapon and fired two shots at Max, who crumpled. Then he turned his handgun toward Drancey. Hampered by the fleeing residents, Drancey couldn’t get his Manurhin out. He threw himself on the floor. His reflexes saved his life. The bullet grazed his shoulder. A second shot echoed it, followed by a cry,

  “That’s it now, we’re done playing!” Sissoko put his weapon back in its holster. Sikorski was on the ground, his wrist shattered by the nine-millimeter bullet. Panic had overtaken the building. Galtard was leaning over Max.

  “You okay, Drancey?” asked Rio Sissoko.

  “Yes, it only got my jacket.”

  “Good reflexes!”

  Drancey and Sissoko explored the apartment. They found a terrified woman in one of the bedrooms.

  “Are you Madame Sikorski?”

  The woman nodded, trembling.

  “You can come out, it’s all over!”

  “Is he . . .”

  “Alive? Yes. A little banged up, but alive.”

  “Thank God.”

  They went back to the entrance. Sikorski was sitting against the wall and screaming like a madman. Galtard examined Max, stretched out on the floor.

  “Not too bad by the looks of it. He took one in the belly fat and the other in the leg. For being shot at close range, he came out okay. What about the other one?”

  “Wrist shattered. It’ll be some time before he can write again. Call an ambulance and Dispatch.”

  The old man in the suit presented himself before the three policemen, interrupting the hubbub in the hallway. He was a head shorter than they were, but his severe facial features and authoritative manner impressed the police officers. He motioned to Galtard to put away his phone, who obeyed without really knowing why. The crowd watched the scene silently, as though they were witnessing a religious service. The old man removed his astrakhan cap to address the policemen.

  “I’m very sorry about what’s happened, gentlemen.”

  “We are, too. Double attempted homicide and two wounded—you don’t see that every day,” replied Drancey, who was in charge of the mission.

  “I understand. There was a lot of nervousness today.”

  “There’s been too much nervousness lately, monsieur . . .”

  “Call me Monsieur Ibrahim.”

  “We’re going to have to take Monsieur Sikorski with us. It wasn’t our initial objective, but there are things that are just not done, Monsieur Ibrahim.”

  “I understand, I understand completely. But perhaps we could nevertheless come to an agreement?”

  “An agreement? I don’t quite see how, given the current situation.”

  “Let me suggest something to you. Will you follow me?”

  The policemen looked at each other. This man, and his influence on the local population, intrigued them.

  “All right. But I’m at least calling an ambulance.”

  “Wait.” Monsieur Ibrahim spoke to two men in his native language, who then ran off. “We’ll have a doctor in five minutes.”

  They followed the man into the kitchen and sat around the table.

  “Here is my suggestion, gentlemen. You’ve come looking for information on the murders of Monica Revasti and Camille Saint-Forge.”

  The policemen looked at him in surprise.

  “I read the papers. Sylvain Sikorski could have given you a clue, then?”

  “And the one called Max, too.”

  “Here’s what I propose. You interview young Sylvain for five minutes. Anyway, in his current state, I doubt he’ll give you much.”

  “You mean high on coke?”

  “Among other things, unfortunately. Next, we’ll regard this altercation as never taking place.”

  “Altercation?” repeated Drancey. “We’re not using the same vocabulary. We still have your Max on the floor and an attempted murder.”

  “We’ll take care of Max, and we’ll take care of Sylvain.”

  “We have to rush them to the hospital!”

  “I assure you they’ll have all the necessary care.”

  “Let’s pretend I believe you. And in exchange?”

  “Tomorrow, at eight o’clock, someone will come down to the police station to give you all the information on the killer you could have found here. I am personally committed to engaging all the means I have at my disposal.”

  Drancey didn’t cut in, just let him continue. The man went on with a half smile.

  “To gather this type of information, I think our sphere of influence is better equipped than yours. If there’s anything to know, you’ll know it. You have Monsieur Ibrahim’s word.”

  The situation seemed unreal to the policemen: this convincing, soft-spoken old man; the two injured men who had been dragged into the apartment and were now being cared for by who knew whom; and this proposition they were seriously considering despite everything that had just happened. They looked at each other. Drancey’s instinct told him they had to accept.

  “Tomorrow at eight o’clock, in front of the police station. I’ll be there. But your messenger will have to be there, too,” he said.

  “Don’t worry. As you might have guessed, I’m a man of my word.”

  “We accept. But know this, and tell your friends—it won’t happen again.”

  “I thank you. You won’t regret it. As for the two people who stepped over the line, we’re going to explain to them what isn’t done. I’ll take care of it myself, be certain of that. I promise you the police won’t ever deal with them again.”

  Dumbfounded by the bargain they’d just struck, the policemen left the apartment. The hallway, landing, and stairwell were all empty once more.

  Chapter 35: The Specialist

  6:00 p.m. Sophie parked her VW Polo in the history department lot. By this time of year, exams were long over and only a few year-round workers, PhD students, and professors still occupied the premises.

  Sophie shut the door, waited until Nadia got out, and then locked the car.

  “You can never be too careful in this parking lot. My father’s had things stolen several times. He never locks his doors.”

  “That probably keeps him from having to replace the windows,” replied the police officer. She grimaced and moved her shoulders. The pain was still acute, and she’d forgotten to take her pain meds. “However,” she added, “I understand your precautions.”

  They headed for the university building.

  “You might be surprised by my father’s appearance,” Sophie warned. “He’s an eternal daydreamer who had trouble leaving childhood behind. In fact, I’m not convi
nced he left it completely. But that’s ideal for us children, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Nadia. “I never got the impression my father was ever young. Anyway, it’ll take my mind off things.”

  “Then again, he’s a wealth of cultural information, and if he can help you, he will.”

  They entered the building and ended up at an office with a closed door. Sophie rapped sharply three times, then twice more slowly. A voice shouted to them from inside.

  “Come in with your friend, my girl, I’m waiting for you.”

  Sophie pushed open the door. The room was in indescribable disorder: an old oak table; a blackboard on one wall, a bunch of miscellaneous posters and a map of the world on the others; a reproduction of a Miró painting behind Professor Dupas. Two armchairs and a barstool faced the desk. A rickety coatrack occupied one corner, holding up a hat and a leather jacket, and archival boxes were deposited here and there according to the owner’s mood.

  Nadia suppressed a smile when she saw Sophie’s father, feet on the desk, in the middle of reading a historical review. Professor Dupas resembled Harrison Ford in Indiana Jones. She looked around for a whip and couldn’t keep herself from laughing when she saw it. She stopped quickly, realizing her tactlessness. But her laughter hadn’t bothered the historian, who cultivated his natural resemblance to the character. She now understood Sophie’s remark.

  “Antoine Dupas, at your service. My daughter told me I could help you, but I don’t know any more than that.”

  “Thank you, Professor, I’m happy to explain.”

  “Call me Antoine. Where’s my head? Can I get you something to drink? I have a fridge somewhere in this mess, which is indispensable to my work, by the way.”

  “I’ll have a glass of water, thanks.”

  Captain Barka gave him a rundown of events and explained her reasons for seeing him. Antoine Dupas, now totally serious, hadn’t missed a single word of Nadia’s explanation. He took his time responding.

  “I’m not a specialist in Mesoamerican civilizations.”

  “Mesoamerica?”

  “It’s the geographic area covering the territory from northern Mexico to Costa Rica. It includes all the pre-Columbian civilizations. There just happens to be a colleague here today who can advise you.”

  “Who is it?” asked Sophie.

  “You’ve already met him. It’s Professor Boisregard.”

  “The curator for the Old Diocese Museum?” asked Nadia.

  “The same. You know him?”

  “I met him the day after the murder of the first victim, in the baptistery.”

  “What a coincidence! I know he worked for a time on the Inca civilization. He may have gone a bit farther north to the Aztecs.”

  Sophie interrupted her father. “This is the guy who wore a tuxedo to the party you organized for your induction into the Ordre des Palmes Académiques?”

  “Yes, the very same. The one you hit on shamelessly.”

  “Hit on Boisregard?” chuckled Nadia. “Strange notion—he’s likely very nice, but not to flirt with! He also seemed completely clueless the day the murder was discovered.”

  “My father is always looking for the subtleties,” returned Sophie. “I just took pity on this guy getting bored alone in his corner, and I went to talk with him for a few minutes. Period.”

  “Indeed, I might have gotten carried away,” conceded Antoine Dupas. “However, it proves you’re a charming woman. Likely even a bit too sexy for a cocktail party with members of the Académie! Boisregard might have gone home with sweet dreams in his head.”

  “I’d like to remind you, Papa, that you strongly insisted I attend. I’d also like to remind you that I am thirty-one years old, and I don’t need you to tell me about my seductive potential. But we’re not here to work on my upbringing in front of Nadia. Can you introduce her to Professor Boisregard?”

  Antoine Dupas was up like a shot. “You’re right, my girl! Let’s not waste your friend Captain Barka’s time. We’ll go right now!”

  Nadia wondered if he was going to take his hat. But the professor was too excited to think about perfecting his look. He hurried into the hallway and rushed into the office of Olivier Ménard, a specialist in the history of Grenoble from the early twentieth century. Two men were talking quietly, and Antoine Dupas’s noisy arrival startled them.

  “Ah, you’re still here! I have two people who need Professor Boisregard’s enlightenment. Ménard, will you lend him to me?”

  “Do I have a choice, Indy? Go on in, Professor.”

  Nadia and Sophie were still in the hallway when Antoine Dupas came out with his colleague. He introduced the two women, and then said ceremoniously, “Ladies, your mentor in pre-Columbian civilization—the eminent Professor Boisregard.”

  Boisregard recognized the police officer. “We’ve already met, haven’t we?”

  “In your office, a week ago.”

  “Indeed. I remember it well now. And, Mademoiselle Dupas—it’s a great pleasure to see you again. How may I help you?”

  It seemed to Sophie the curator blushed slightly as he greeted her.

  The police officer explained, “I’d like some answers to a few questions I’ve had about the Aztecs.”

  Boisregard looked at her, astonished, but courteously agreed.

  “I can dedicate some time to you.”

  “Thank you so much. Where do you want us to sit?”

  “You can use my office. It’s quite comfortable for conversation,” offered Antoine Dupas. They returned to the lair of the French Indiana Jones.

  “Sophie, are you coming with me?” asked her father.

  “I’d like to listen to the discussion, if Captain Barka doesn’t mind.”

  “You can stay, Sophie.”

  Antoine Dupas took his hat and settled it on his head. He shot them one of his favorite hero’s smirks—he knew how to play up the resemblance to Harrison Ford.

  “My friend, I leave you with your new students,” Dupas declared theatrically to Boisregard. “And take care of them! I’m entrusting you with the apple of my eye.”

  “I’m not the specialist Professor Dupas has done his utmost to portray me as,” began the historian. “I have some knowledge on those cultures, but if you really want details, I’d have to do some research beforehand. I know very prominent scholars in Lyon.”

  “I’m sure your knowledge will be able to help me see more clearly, Professor,” Nadia reassured him. She succinctly explained the case, then asked her questions.

  He began his talk by outlining the pre-Columbian civilizations before the arrival of the conquistadors, then zeroed in on the subject that interested Nadia: human sacrifice.

  “For the Mexicas, or the Aztecs as they’ve been called since the seventeenth century, human sacrifice was part of all their religious ceremonies, their lives, I could even say. It seems barbaric to us today, but you have to remember these sacrifices were totally integrated into the customs. The Aztecs, like the Mayans as well, worshipped the sun, the rain, the moon, and a whole host of gods. They thought Quetzalcoatl, the famous feathered serpent god, had created them. This god had descended to the land of the dead, had watered the bones of the ancestors with his own blood, and thus given them new life. That’s why the Aztecs offered human sacrifices to their god. There were many kinds, but if we look at the case that concerns us, the sacrificial victims had their hearts torn out so that the sun could rise every morning.”

  “So these sacrifices were common practice?” wondered Sophie.

  “As I told you, mademoiselle, very common. Another example: the second month of the Aztec calendar is called Tlacaxipehualiztli, which means the flaying of men. Hundreds of victims were slaughtered or decapitated, then flayed in honor of the god of agricultural renewal. The skulls were exposed, and the priests made themselves clothes out of
the victims’ skin. To complete the picture, cannibalism was also practiced among the Aztecs.”

  “And who were the victims?”

  “Very often prisoners of war, which partly explains why the cities were in constant conflict. But also sometimes consenting members of the society. The victims were thought to have an enviable fate, to accompany the sun in its course and be reincarnated as butterflies.”

  “Were the sacrifices practiced only in honor of the gods?” continued Nadia.

  “Basically, because any trouble was linked to angry gods—a flood, an earthquake . . .”

  “How were the victims killed?”

  “The priest generally tore out the living heart, with the help of an obsidian knife. The blood ran in great gushes, thus satisfying the venerated god.”

  “And what did the priest do with the victim’s heart?” insisted Nadia.

  “Most of the time, he put it on the altar so that the god could feast upon it.”

  “Could he eat it?”

  “Rarely, but it could happen. As I told you, the Aztecs could practice cannibalism, especially with prisoners of war.”

  “Would it have been possible for a sacrifice to be made not for a god, but in honor of another human being?”

  Professor Boisregard paused and looked at the two women worriedly. “Do you seriously think the horrible murders just perpetrated could be an act of mimicry with regard to the rites of these American peoples?”

  “I have no idea, Professor, but I want to explore every lead. Even the most improbable in this case,” the police officer reassured him.

  The curator thought for a few seconds, then continued his discourse.

  “The Mayans believed in a sort of bioenergy. Each living being possessed it—men, animals, plants, and of course gods. The Mayans thought the bioenergy of the gods had to be regenerated regularly. Thus the sacrifices offered the victims’ energy to the gods, restoring the gods’ full powers, and the gods could once again lavish men with their bounty. The Aztecs took much inspiration from the Mayans.”

  “So could you envision sacrifices being used to revitalize not a god, but an important person?”