He admired once more the crypt he’d created in the basement of a little building close to the house. He’d had it worked on by several teams sent specially from the north of France to avoid arousing suspicion. He’d even called on a Turkish company for the finishing touches. An agreement had been reached; the work wasn’t declared, it disappeared from the workers’ memories, and a large gratuity provided before they’d returned to their country had definitively chased away the last potential memories. Coordinating all that had been much simpler than he’d envisioned at the beginning of his project.
Two rooms on two subterranean levels—these rooms had never existed on the initial plans. The first company had worked on the foundations of a personal movie theater and gymnasium. The second had transformed the layout of the rooms. And the last had created the crypt and the council chamber.
The crypt, or “Sun Chamber”—here is where he had read Fra Bartolomeo’s book, and where he had feigned the ensuing revelation. He’d designed it small. Only a few people could fit. There was a reason for that. He truly wanted his disciples, and he smiled in thinking about that word, to have the impression of being handpicked initiates. He had no desire to dominate the world or create some new order. There were enough crazies on earth, and he despised cults like the Mandaroms in Castellane or the Church of Scientology. He just wanted to make money and satisfy his urges when he felt like it. To live happily, live hidden! This sense of power intoxicated him, but he’d always been careful not to let it get out of hand. Always leave initiates with the feeling they control their fate, always be at their service through service to Fra Bartolomeo, only rarely call on them. And he’d been surprised, in the beginning, by the pride they had in putting themselves at his disposal.
He returned to the present moment and put down on the altar the book he was holding in his hand. No sartorial decorum or kabbalistic signs of membership. He had cultivated people around him who would have fled from that type of ceremony favored by the mentally disturbed. Here, they were among people of good society, who were sharing a secret. The glory they got out of it? A knowledge others didn’t have. A glory it was useless to talk about. The notion of a privileged elite would disappear that way. No, the pleasure of knowing yourself to be superior to others was quite sufficient! A vanity it was useless to share.
That was Arsène’s pride. And the money had come on its own. Never had he asked for a single cent from his victims. To financially motivate his disciples, he would speak, during one-on-one conversations, of complementary research in America, the restoration of this or that piece, even unscrupulous Mexican officials. And unfailingly the proposition came: Let me participate in this adventure. And always the same sequence: two or three discussions before being talked into accepting the money. And the donor’s pride in being the one who would help promote knowledge, which of course the donor would hear about first. Never a meeting with more than five people at a time, and always the same ones. At first, for reasons of security—even if he was vigilant, he was not immune to a traitor. If he had to make somebody disappear, it was better not to have too many people asking questions. And always confidentiality—the group knew there was another group, but less informed than they were, of course. Vanity! What beautiful projects you can accomplish when you know who you’re working with!
It was with one of those groups that he’d conducted his experiment on the young Laure Déramaux. He’d transformed respectable citizens into bloodthirsty wolves. He himself had felt an inglorious pleasure during those three months of confinement and experiments. They met every week, and it was with a sort of joy that they’d finally put her to death. She’d been found shortly after they’d left her on the mountain. He’d followed the investigation with interest. But not once had the investigators approached him. The gods he was celebrating were with him!
Chapter 48: The Cabrade Lead
Nadia Barka slammed her car door. The sound echoed, then faded away across the museum parking garage. A Bach cantata distilled into parking garage Muzak drowned out the silence. She had dropped Julien Lombard off outside Sophie Dupas’s apartment building, then gone back to the police station. Then she’d had dinner with Drancey, Fortin, and Garancher. Her three colleagues had decided not to leave her alone with her disappointment at being taken off the investigation. It was almost touching!
Now she was going back home. She glanced at her wristwatch: 11:46 p.m. Time to take a shower, change her dressing, and swallow a handful of sedatives and anti-inflammatories. She was exhausted, but she didn’t regret her day’s activities. Even if she was no longer in charge of the inquiry, she was at its heart. And putting away Sartenas, or Cabrade, whatever his name was, now surpassed all resentment she could have felt. She’d even managed to talk to Rivera, which had seemed impossible to her two days prior. She’d been surprised by her colleague’s about-face. What she’d initially considered a tactic for obtaining information from her now seemed to be a true change in behavior. In any case, she would have provided the information. However, the fact that he now considered her a major contributor pleased her.
Nadia had left the parking lot and walked down the Quai Jongkind. She took the bridge that crossed over the Isère. Two rather drunk men called out to her. She didn’t answer them, continuing on her way. She had no desire to be inconvenienced tonight. They followed her, making propositions she still chose to ignore. Then they got tired and went back to a bar, drawn by the light, like alcoholic moths.
Nadia had enjoyed her dinner last night with Sophie Dupas. She’d experienced few girls-only dinners in her life. She’d joined the police very young, and it wasn’t the most feminine professional environment. The young woman had a good head on her shoulders and was very good company. Never had Nadia trusted a stranger so quickly. When Sophie had left the apartment, she’d felt wistful. What if life were like that, instead of constantly fighting against the world’s crap and those who make it! But she knew this vigilante mission was rooted in her—no matter what she did to move away from it, she would come back. So it was useless to tilt at windmills. She just hoped to find her Sancho Panza and had an affectionate thought for Étienne.
Half past midnight: the room was half full despite the late hour. Julien Lombard’s revelations had energized them. Mazure was piloting the launch of the investigation with Rivera. Six officers accompanied them, excited by the idea of getting closer to the killer.
“Shit, it should have been Barka who brought us this lead, with Lombard, too!” ranted Rivera.
“You believe his story now?” asked Mazure.
“Yes. When I discovered the nut job’s house, his testimony took a totally different turn. Okay, boys, where do you stand?”
“We’ve just gathered quite a bit of information, and I’m in the process of printing a photo of Cabrade. You’ll have it in a minute. I’ll bring you what I’ve collected for the moment.”
Rivera laid out a dozen sheets of paper on the conference table. He flipped through them quickly.
“Dominique Cabrade, born October 3, 1952. Pignol, check Sartenas’s birth date!” he barked at one of his colleagues. Then he went on: “Studied medicine in Grenoble, specialized in reconstructive surgery. Fuck, two guys who do cosmetic surgery, if that isn’t a coincidence . . .” He looked through the other pages and continued. “Married Magali Dupré in 1981, who disappeared in June 1983. He leaves the Grenoble hospital six months later for an unknown destination. The rest, boys, is it coming?”
A policeman came up to him holding out a photo. “Here’s his picture from thirty years ago.”
Rivera looked briefly at the photo and exclaimed, “But that’s not at all the same guy as Sartenas!” He dug around in another file and put the snapshots side by side.
“What is this shit? They couldn’t even be distant cousins!”
Mazure looked at him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Remind me what these gentlemen’s specialty is?”
“Cos
metic surgery.” He hesitated for a few seconds. “I’m such an ass! He can very easily redo his own face. I’m getting tired. Pignol, do you have Sartenas’s birth date?”
“Yes, Captain. It’s October 3, 1952.”
“Well, we’ve stumbled upon a romantic. It matches perfectly! Pignol, go find me the names of the cosmetic surgeons in Grenoble. Wake them up in the middle of the night if you have to, but find me one you can bring these photos to. I want to know if it’s possible to reconstruct Sartenas’s face from Cabrade’s. I have barely any doubt, but I want to be sure.”
“Very good, Captain, but I’ll have to get their personal telephone numbers and . . .”
“You have carte blanche. Call all the emergency numbers you need!” barked Rivera.
He got up and headed for the espresso machine. He made himself a double and came back to sit at his desk.
“A team will have to go dig around in the hospital archives. I want to know everything about this guy. Garancher, call Doctor Blavet, and ask him to come with you on a tour of the Grenoble services—there must be people who were in contact with him. We have to know everything about this guy’s personality to understand why he suddenly started killing women. I want the first tangible results tomorrow before ten o’clock. If you need Paris, or if you encounter any resistance, I think Commissioner Mazure will know how to support you outside our jurisdiction.”
Mazure nodded.
“We have to have results. I’m also going to appeal to Paris central services to go all out on Cabrade. The more we know about the killer, the more chances we’ll have to corner him. Gentlemen, I’m asking you to give everything you’ve got tonight. I know the day was long, but we have a madman on the loose who might kill again in the coming hours.”
Chapter 49: Genetics
Julien checked his alarm: four o’clock in the morning. He turned over again in the bed, unable to sleep, extremely disturbed by the events of the last few hours. He’d been sustained by excitement and action since the terrible revelation about his real mother. The discussion with his parents, the meeting with his grandfather, and finally the long interview he’d had with the policemen had kept him from thinking too much. But now he just gave in to the worry, and the awareness of his biological father’s personality was ravaging him.
Sophie had invited him to spend the night at her place. He would have been overjoyed under normal circumstances. But these circumstances were far from normal. They’d quickly eaten a salad she’d made, and he’d told her everything. And the further he got into his story, the more he realized the enormity of the situation. Sophie had tried to raise his spirits, but he’d rebuffed her. He wanted only one thing: to shut himself up in a cave far away, very far away, where no one could find him, and where he couldn’t hurt anyone.
He felt the young woman’s hand on his shoulder, vainly trying to bring him a little comfort. He stood up, went toward the living room, and sat down on one of the armchairs facing the coffee table where an open bottle of fruit juice still sat. She followed him and curled up on the sofa.
“Julien, don’t put yourself in this state. You haven’t changed overnight!”
“Actually, everything has changed in me. In barely more than a day, I’ve discovered an ectoplasmic mother and a killer father. That’s not nothing!”
“But it’s not a hundred percent certain.”
“You’re right, not a hundred percent. Just ninety-nine percent. You’re being nice, Sophie, but you’re always the first to look at the facts head-on. Magali tells me she’s my biological mother, my parents follow on by telling me they found me in a park, and Magali’s father calls me his grandson without me giving him a single clue. We’re at least bordering on certainty, don’t you think?”
“Okay, there’s a good chance there’s some truth to it. But the fact that Cabrade might be your biological father doesn’t make you a monster. We’ve known you for three years, and you’ve always had a cheerful demeanor, you’ve always been charming, and you’re considerate of others. What makes you think things will change?”
“Genetics! I must have the genes of that sicko in my blood. And one day, it all could surface. And I don’t want anybody near me who could be adversely affected. I want to protect you, too—especially you.”
Sophie raised her voice. “Now, Julien, it’s time to come back to earth. What is this Z movie you’re making for us? If the children of Nazis who participated in the Holocaust were destined to act like their parents, Europe never would have been reconstructed. In thirty years, you’ve never had a deviant behavior, and now bam, all at once, you’re suddenly becoming a public menace? I completely understand you’re in shock, Julien! But you have nothing to do with Cabrade. He lived his life, and you’re living yours. Besides, he doesn’t even know you exist.”
“No need to lecture me, Sophie. What would you say if you’d just learned your Indiana Jones father had slaughtered children in your basement while you were playing quietly in the yard?”
“But, Julien, that has nothing to do with it. You—”
“It’s okay, Sophie. I think I should appreciate you taking care of me like this, but it’s tiring me out. I’m going to let you sleep peacefully.”
He took his pants off a chair, put them on, and without a word, headed for the door.
“But where are you going in this condition?” Sophie said, alarmed.
“I don’t know, somewhere where I won’t drag you down with my stories. A place where I’ll be able to sit and take stock.”
“But we can keep doing it together. I’m ready to sacrifice my upcoming nights to you if you need them.”
“Considering my progenitor, I don’t know if the word ‘sacrifice’ is the best choice. I’ll let you know.” He pushed open the door and disappeared into the darkness of the stairwell.
“Let me help you, you stubborn mule! I love you!”
The man’s steps didn’t pause, fading away a little more with each floor.
“I love you,” she repeated for herself in a whisper.
She closed the door again. She felt exhausted. Why? She was also at the heart of this drama, which was affecting her much more than she’d imagined it would at the start. She’d recently realized Julien was the man she’d like to spend the rest of her life with. Never had she felt such an attraction to someone. A legend from who-knows-what country says that, somewhere on earth, there’s a person who is made for you. She’d found him, she was sure of it, even if the statistics didn’t support that legend. She’d started at Megatech the same day as Julien. She hadn’t particularly noticed him at first—one colleague among many, not disagreeable, but nothing more. Then there had been their hike around Mont-Blanc. And there she had discovered him! Simple, funny, and above all available. It all snapped into place during an evening when the group had knocked themselves out cooking merguez sausages over the few twigs they’d managed to gather. A collective laughing fit had initiated the connection. She’d gradually moved closer to him, and these last few days had been wonderful. Until he’d come back from Corps, destroyed by the news he’d just learned. She knew he wasn’t like Cabrade: she sensed it in her bones and in her soul. Julien was a fundamentally good guy. But how to convince him of it? She had to save him . . . and save their future, even if he’d just behaved like a lout. These were extenuating circumstances.
Chapter 50: Witnesses
7:30 a.m. Business was already in full swing in the hallways of the Michallon University Medical Center. Jérôme Garancher had been in front of one of the establishment’s administrative unit computers for more than half an hour. He’d gone through the archives from 1975 to 1983 and gathered precious information.
One of the hospital administrators, reticent at first, had ended up cooperating fully. A list of a few names, hastily scribbled in ballpoint pen on a sheet of paper torn from a notebook, was sitting next to the keyboard. The policeman, consumed with
the lines scrolling on the screen, eyes red with fatigue, jumped when he heard the loud voice.
“So, Garancher, is the treasure hunting good?”
He turned around and recognized the medical examiner, who seemed fresh as a daisy. Fortin was standing at his side. Garancher was relieved to see Fortin—he was exhausted and dreamed only of having a little rest. His colleague’s presence was going to allow him to get a few hours of sleep. Reassured by this idea, he got up to greet them.
“Hello, Doctor. Hello, Étienne. Yes, it’s been rather good, thanks to Monsieur Palmain’s assistance. Without his help, I would have spent hours lost in these files.”
“You were lucky to run into André. He’s been here for forty years. His career must be as long as the life of this hospital.”
“You couldn’t be more right, Doctor. I started work on MUMC’s inauguration day, in 1974. I’ve seen doctors come through! I’m far from remembering everyone, but when Monsieur Garancher spoke to me of Dominique Cabrade, I immediately placed the character.”
His three listeners waited for more. Even Garancher forgot, for the space of a few minutes, his desire for rest.
“I didn’t know him personally, but he was—how shall I put this—one of the rising stars of the establishment. A talented plastic surgeon. He was barely thirty years old, and he was already taking the lead on difficult cases—large burns, complex pathologies. I crossed paths with him a few times. At the time, there was still some conviviality in our hospital.”
“What did he look like?”
“I think if I’d been a woman, I’d have fallen for him,” commented Palmain with a melancholy smile.
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