“Just because you wanted to join the police?”
“Our fathers are opposites, Sophie. Mine couldn’t stand for his decisions to be contradicted. He was charming when you agreed with him, but when you didn’t . . . There, now you know the source of my vocation.”
Sophie looked at the woman across from her. She was an elite police officer, but such suffering and hatred lined her insides.
Nadia continued, “I have to thank you, Sophie.”
Surprised, Sophie questioned her. “Why thank me? I’m grateful to you for sharing your story with me.”
“Thank you for giving me the strength to trust someone.”
Chapter 39: Monsieur Ibrahim
A teenager wearing a sweat suit jacket designed in Olympique de Marseille colors stepped hesitantly into the police station lobby. He glanced around warily and went up to reception. “I need to talk to M’sieur Drancey.”
The officer on duty looked him over. He’d have taken the time to explain to the kid that the first thing to do when addressing someone is say hello, but the lieutenant had requested he be notified as soon as someone asked for him. The officer looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock, on the dot. He grabbed the telephone handset, dialed a number, and exchanged a few words with the person on the other end. The teenager watched him anxiously.
“He’s coming,” said the officer.
Three minutes later, Drancey arrived with two other police officers. He nodded toward the OM fan to the man on guard.
“Him?” Lieutenant Drancey asked, more affirmatively than questioning. As soon as he had confirmation, he approached the teenager. “I’m Lieutenant Drancey. You can give me the information.”
“Sorry, m’sieur, I’m just s’posed to take you to someone.”
“Someone?”
“Yes, I’m just here to guide you. Follow me?”
Drancey and his colleagues immediately started after him.
“Just you, m’sieur. They told me you had to be alone.”
The police lieutenant’s two colleagues frowned.
“It’s okay,” Drancey reassured them. “I’ll go alone.”
They left the police station. Without a word, the guide motioned at him to follow. They crossed through the little park on the other side of the street and came to the Saint-Roch cemetery. In the shade of a tree, seated on a bench, a man was waiting. He was smoking a cigarette and watching a squirrel jump from one branch to another. He was wearing an astrakhan cap. The police officer headed toward him. His companion had vanished.
“Hello, Lieutenant Drancey.”
“Monsieur Ibrahim himself. The information must be important.”
“I think I have something to interest you. But do sit down next to me.”
Drancey was surprised by this old man’s personality. He’d asked his colleagues about him, but they knew absolutely nothing.
“The car you’re looking for is a Peugeot 307, gray. The man who was driving it is between fifty and sixty years old. He’s rather tall and was wearing a white shirt.”
“Were you able to get the car’s license plate number?” asked the policeman hopefully.
“You know the conditions under which the events took place, Lieutenant. Everything happened quickly, and those who provided this information were . . . stressed, to say the least.”
“Let’s not get into those details, Monsieur Ibrahim. Your informers would have raped and killed one of my colleagues if we hadn’t stressed them . . .”
“And their behavior upsets me—be sure of that! But you’re right, I will continue my story. I wanted to know if the same car had been spotted over by the Old Diocese Museum the night of the first victim’s murder.”
Drancey felt his heart rate quicken. Monsieur Ibrahim paused, took another cigarette out of a century-old tin box, and lit it.
“Allah was with you.”
“And how did Allah manifest himself?”
“Allah manifests himself in many ways, Lieutenant. Happy is he who knows how to listen. Someone who lives in the neighborhood was coming back from a party. It was four o’clock in the morning. The Peugeot had stopped just in front of his garage door. The man, displeased, therefore took down the license plate number in order to make a complaint later, then went to park in an adjacent street. When he came back, the car had disappeared.”
“But how did you get this information?”
“Thanks to Allah . . . and a few friends.”
Monsieur Ibrahim took a piece of paper out of his pocket. He handed it over—the killer’s license plate number was written there in a shaky hand. Drancey folded it and put it in his wallet.
“You’ve kept your word, and impressively so. We’re even, Monsieur Ibrahim.”
The policeman intended to get up, but hesitated. The old man fascinated him. He emanated a serenity and power that nearly intimidated him. His wrinkles seemed to have been formed by wisdom, and the amused gleam the lieutenant saw in the depths of the man’s eyes intrigued him. Drancey knew the man had sized him up long ago.
“Who are you, Monsieur Ibrahim? Who are you to be respected to the letter and to find the information you just gave me in just one night?”
The old man hadn’t stopped looking at him. He shook his head slowly. “I’m just an old man who wants to see peace around him. The two boys you left me yesterday had committed the most reprehensible acts. But rest assured the discussion I was able to have with them was much more beneficial to them than prison could have been.”
“I hope so for their sake. You can also rest assured that we’ve disclosed nothing, but get it into their heads that it won’t happen again.”
“You made the right choice. Most of those who live around me are good kids. Some are more difficult to focus. But I’m working on it,” he added with a tired sigh.
“So are you a sort of priest or sage?”
“God is above us all, my friend. It’s up to us to take his counsel and act according to his will.”
“Certainly,” remarked the policeman. “I’ve heard more talk of God in three days than in the last ten years of my life. Anyway, tell him to watch a little more closely over the victims of the butcher who cut them up.”
Rodolphe Drancey stood up and extended a hand to the old man. “Good-bye, Monsieur Ibrahim.”
“As-salamu alaykum,” replied the old man, bringing his hand to his heart.
Excitement dominated the meeting room. Commissioner Mazure had urgently convened all the teams. Everyone was awaiting orders. Rivera couldn’t hide his joy at finally being in on the action. Drancey and his colleagues felt their adrenaline rising. They were finally going to bust this son of a bitch. Mazure took several seconds to quiet the conversations.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve just obtained a key piece of information: the license plate number of the car the killer used. This car was spotted at both crime scenes, which leaves little doubt that it belongs to the criminal. We’re in the process of verifying the address of the owner in the files. I just spoke with the magistrate. Men from Lyon police’s tactical GIPN force will be here in less than two hours. We’ll launch the attack as soon as possible.”
A policeman suddenly entered the room.
“Commissioner, we have the name of the killer and his address.”
“Who is it?”
“The man’s name is Dominique Sartenas. He lives in Saint-Martin d’Uriage.”
Chapter 40: The Attack
10:00 p.m. Julien Lombard walked resolutely into the police station lobby. He had to know who Magali was, and who this father was who horrified him. He’d decided to deal with his mental state later and instead concentrate on action. On finding clues to his mother’s murder, which would inevitably lead him to his “father” and allow him to stop the man before he committed another murder.
He addressed the officer on dut
y. “I need to see Lieutenant Fortin.”
“Do you have an appointment with him?” the man asked in an unfriendly tone.
“No, but I have extremely important information that would lead to the killer currently running rampant.”
“Lieutenant Fortin just left for the courthouse. I’m going to contact the officer in charge of the investigation, Captain Rivera.”
Julien hesitated for a moment, but the situation was serious enough for him to get over his resentment. “Perfect, I’m at his disposal.”
Julien waited barely five minutes in the lobby. Captain Rivera arrived, accompanied by several men overwhelmed with excitement. He frowned when he saw the young man.
“Your lawyer isn’t with you to protect you today?”
“Listen, Captain, I didn’t come here to waste your time or mine.”
“What do you have that’s so important to tell me?”
“I have information on the killer.”
Stéphane Rivera looked at him in astonishment. “I’m listening.”
“I know his wife’s first name—Magali. He killed her thirty years ago. You must be able to find his name with that.”
“Another one of your visions?” he tossed out mockingly, looking at the men around him.
Julien breathed deeply to keep his cool. “Correct. But I can give you hard evidence.”
“Don’t worry about it anymore, Lombard. You have visions that got you the wife’s name; I have investigators that got me the killer’s name. Aren’t the police effective? We haven’t just been standing around twiddling our thumbs waiting for this information. We studied all the murder cases over a period of thirty years. And I can assure you that Magali wasn’t killed on French soil thirty years ago. So if you’ll excuse me, my men and I have work to do. We have a murderer to take off the streets.”
Then, addressing the man at the desk, he added, “Vincent, take the gentleman’s statement when you have some free time. I’ll read it over later. It’ll relax me. Come on, guys, the cowboys from Lyon should be here any minute.”
Surly bastard, thought Julien, enraged, as he watched them move toward the exit.
The officer on duty had only moderately appreciated the role that Rivera had forced him to take on. The power had gone to Rivera’s head, and the officer dared not imagine the state Rivera would be in after the criminal’s arrest. He spoke to Julien, who was leaving the building.
“Monsieur, Lieutenant Fortin isn’t here, but I can call one of his teammates, Lieutenant Garancher.”
Julien turned back.
“He’s nothing like Captain Rivera,” added the policeman.
“Okay, I’d like to meet with him.”
Julien sat down on one of the lobby chairs. Rivera’s comments had shaken him. No murder of a Magali thirty years earlier. And he’d seemed sure of his facts! Julien struggled with himself. He shouldn’t let it go. He had to understand what had happened.
Noon. The four vehicles slowly climbed up the deserted road. The house was two hundred yards away. It was isolated and hidden by large trees. A steep, narrow driveway about fifty yards long led up to it. They had little information about their target, and at the present moment had no other means of judging what kind of threat he was. Was he on his guard, did he have a firearm? They’d done a very quick survey of the neighborhood. The man lived alone in the house. No one knew him very well; he was rather solitary. But he’d never caused any trouble.
The house was far enough away from the neighboring buildings to limit the potential risk of collateral damage during the attack. Captain Garin, head of the operation for GIPN, had managed to obtain the house blueprints. He didn’t know how his guys had gotten them, but he owed them big-time. Three entries—one via the garage, one via the front door facing them, and a third one located behind the building. He’d sent two men into each of the neighboring properties, accompanied by an officer from Grenoble. He wanted to use their yards to take up position behind the house.
Six men were with him. Stationed on the edge of one yard and hidden by the bushes, they blended into the surroundings. They had to be discreet to avoid being seen by the occupant, who might be on the lookout. In twenty yards, they could get a visual on the main entrance.
Garin brought his binoculars up to his eyes. It was strange. All the shutters were closed, as if no one had ever lived there. The building was large, two stories. Garin observed the windows and doors one by one—nothing moved. Only the remains of shrubs recently crushed by the wheels of a vehicle gave this area a semblance of life.
Garin brought his walkie-talkie up to his mouth. “On my signal, team one, you go in on the ground floor. Team two, you neutralize the second floor. Team three, you enter through the garage and secure the basement.”
As soon as he was assured the three teams were in place, he launched the attack. Like a perfectly orchestrated dance, the men sprang into action. Within a few seconds, the doors were open. Two minutes later, the sweep was done. The occupant of the premises was nowhere to be found.
His second in command brought the men together in the living room. “We checked all the rooms, Captain. He’s flown the coop. He must have left recently, since there’s still a half-cooked meal in the kitchen.”
“Shit. Come on, don’t touch anything, and fall back. I’ll notify Captain Rivera so that he can come in with the forensic team. That’s it for us.”
Rivera vacillated between anger and dejection.
“Are you sure he won’t come back?” he asked the GIPN officer.
“He’s gone, and he won’t come back. In my experience, there’s a ninety-nine percent chance you won’t see him here again. He’s on his guard and will notice that something happened. You can always leave two guys on duty during the day, just in case.”
“That’s what I’ll do.”
“As you wish . . . I’ll leave you to your work. From the little we saw, the kitchen looked like your invisible man’s favorite living space. I’ll go back down to debrief Commissioner Mazure.”
Chapter 41: Rain Man
Garancher and Lombard pushed open the café door. Nadia Barka and Étienne Fortin, ensconced at a table in the back of the bistro, waved them over hurriedly.
Julien greeted them.
“So?” Garancher asked his colleague.
“The judge was sympathetic to the Chechen story.” Nadia showed her still-painful shoulder. “There won’t be any difficulty proving legitimate self-defense. And what about you?” she said to Julien.
Julien told her about his adventures from the day before, ending with Stéphane Rivera’s flat refusal.
“Do you know how the operation turned out?” Nadia asked her colleague.
“It’s happening right now,” replied Garancher.
“So we’ll know in a few hours.”
“Yes, but why did this Magali speak to Monsieur Lombard about a murder when we didn’t find one?” said Garancher. “I was on the team that conducted the research, and I can assure you it was thorough. We looked at all of France. I now have enough to write an encyclopedia of horrors with everything I saw, but nothing on the murder of a Magali in the early eighties, I’m sure of it.”
“And on that, we can trust Jérôme’s memory.”
Deep in thought, Julien concentrated on the officers’ discussion. He declined the daily special the waiter offered them. Then suddenly he said, “There’s another possibility. Magali was killed by her husband, but the murder could never be proved.”
“Like, a body buried in the yard and an unexplained disappearance?”
“For example. Did you look into disappearances?”
“No, the proven murders already required a lot of effort,” commented Garancher.
“And do you think you could dig around in that area?”
“I doubt Rivera wants to put any energy into it, especially if he
returns with the killer in handcuffs,” replied Garancher. “But . . . well, I don’t know . . .”
“Are you thinking about Villard?” asked Nadia.
“Exactly, he could help us, but we’d need his address.”
“He left it for me the day of his retirement shindig,” Nadia explained, smiling. “I never thought I’d use it one day, but I kept it without really knowing why.”
“Do you have all the retirees’ phone numbers?” asked Fortin, amused.
“Practically all of them. I always took them. After all, it made them happy, and they could be useful to us today.”
“And who is this Villard?” interjected Julien.
“Jean-Jacques Villard is a cop who worked in Grenoble for more than thirty years. He didn’t go out in the field much, but he was a first-class archivist and analyst. With a memory like Rain Man,” explained Garancher.
At Lombard’s questioning look, he went further.
“Rain Man! You know, that movie with Dustin Hoffman! He plays an autistic guy with a phenomenal memory—he learns the phone book by heart just by reading it. Well, Villard is almost there. If a Magali disappeared thirty years ago, it must have gone through us at one point or another. And he’ll let you know about it. All right, I’ll leave you to it. I have to go back to the station, but Nadia is the best in you can get with our friend Villard. He always had the hots for her.”
“I want to clarify that he was always very courteous,” noted Nadia.
“Considering his wife was keeping an eye on him, it was in his interest to behave,” added Fortin. “Jérôme, I’ll take your car.” Then to Julien, he asked, “You have a ride?”
“My car is in front of the police station.”
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