Her instincts hadn’t failed her. She’d dialed the telephone number the doctor had given her during her previous visit. He’d welcomed her ten minutes later. If she hadn’t been suffering, she would have smiled at the young man’s enamored eyes. He’d cleaned her wound, which was starting to get infected, given her two shots, and finally remade her dressing with the utmost care. She’d let his timid hands wander once or twice to the nape of her neck or her arm. After all, it wasn’t so unpleasant. Nadia enjoyed a few extra moments in the hospital bed.
Then she got up. The pain was starting to fade. Whatever the doctor had just injected her with was incredibly effective; he also went to get her the latest generation of anti-inflammatories from the pharmacy. She felt ready to resume the investigation. The doctor came back into the room. He was about to give her a sermon when she interrupted him with a wave of her hand.
“Doctor, you’ve put me back on my feet, and I’m very grateful to you for it. But the killer is roaming Grenoble. He mustn’t strike again.”
“But, in your condition, you can’t be serious.”
“Better to have a damaged shoulder than a big hole in place of a heart!”
The doctor looked at her, speechless.
“Everything’s fine, Doctor, and thanks to you.”
She went up to him, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and left the room. He watched her go without a word, sighed heavily, and headed back to the emergency room. They were waiting for him.
Nadia was passing by the intake desk when she heard a voice exclaim off to her right, “Nadia, what are you doing here?”
She didn’t have to turn around to know who was speaking to her. “I’m getting medical treatment. That’s why one goes to the hospital, right?”
She headed over to Étienne Fortin and Henri Blavet. She embraced her colleague and shook the doctor’s hand.
“I don’t deserve a hug, too?” asked the medical examiner with laughing eyes.
“Of course you do. But I didn’t dare.”
They took a few minutes to summarize the situation for her. Captain Barka had regained all her concentration and didn’t miss a single bit of their account.
“Do you have any idea about the name of Cabrade’s orgy companion? And who could be the one he performed his macabre dissection work with?” she asked.
“No,” replied Blavet. “But I’m going to tackle the job. In a file somewhere, there must be the trail of that student who was expelled. It rarely happens. But it might take a lot of time, and we have little. For this administrative research, I’m going to ask you to contact Rivera so that he can put someone on the case, to support the hospital administration’s search,” he proposed to Fortin. “As for me, I’m going to try to find a few people who would have been able to witness it.”
“Almost forty years later?” asked Nadia Barka.
“Yes, I wasn’t there back then, but for a time I headed a fishing club at MUMC!”
“You do a bit of fishing?” marveled Fortin.
“My friend, you can’t imagine how relaxing it is to find yourself alone with the sea, a lake, or even a little pond, listening to the silence while hoping some fish will get the unfortunate idea of swallowing your hook. Especially when you’re tense after a long week. Basically, many MUMC employees were members of this club, and many have stayed in contact with me. I could have some information by tonight.”
“Not before?” asked Nadia.
“They’re all retired,” the doctor pointed out to her.
“I understand that, but there’s a good chance Cabrade is at this moment in search of a heart . . . and the woman around it.”
Blavet grew serious again. “I know, Nadia, and I’m going to do everything I can.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Julien Lombard spoke to us of an Aurélien. Could that be him?”
“We asked Hélène Guyancourt. That name didn’t mean anything to her. But all that happened thirty years ago. It would, however, be surprising if it were him, after what Magali Dupré’s father said. He seemed to hold him in high esteem.”
“Maybe. But you know better than anyone you can’t trust psychopaths. They have an art of dissimulation that’s sometimes undetectable. Étienne, did Rivera send someone to question him?”
“Not yet, from what I understand. Although I haven’t set foot in the station for the last few hours.”
“I’d like to meet him. Can you call Rivera so he’ll let me contact him?”
“You don’t want to do it yourself?”
“We made peace last night, but I still shouldn’t ask too much.”
“Okay, I’m on it. Where are you eating lunch?”
“Probably the Pomme d’Amour, Aurélien Costel’s restaurant—it’s Michelin starred.”
Étienne Fortin thought about the sandwich he was going to have to swallow and looked with envy at his colleague on leave. There weren’t only disadvantages to taking a bullet in the shoulder, he thought sheepishly.
“Well, hello, expense account!”
“Don’t be jealous. And I’m treating myself to this pleasure. Besides, if the restaurant is worth it, you can take me out to it one night!”
Chapter 54: The Meeting
Sophie left her father’s office. She’d had a quick lunch with him at the Ikea restaurant a few minutes away from the university. She didn’t particularly appreciate the store’s commercial ambiance or the food offered by the cafeteria, but her father liked it. Sophie had never understood the famous historian Antoine Dupas’s love for pseudo-Scandinavian cuisine, but she clearly had greater need to get her mind off things than to have herself a feast. And a good thing, too! Her father had relished the menu full of unlimited meatballs with its mystery sauce and a few cranberries to give it all some local color. After all, why not! She’d chosen a tossed salad, only to conclude that although the Swedes might be masters of steel manufacturing, they were still in the prehistory of their culinary evolution. But were the prepared meals at an international chain really representative of a people’s culture? She’d quickly set aside her anthropological thoughts to listen to her father tell her about the university’s latest gossip. The historian’s head-in-the-clouds reputation attracted confidences. Sophie had laughed heartily and forgotten Julien’s behavior for a few minutes.
She’d been devastated when Julien had left her so suddenly that morning. But all the excuses she’d found for him were fading one after the other. She perfectly understood the trauma he was experiencing. But that didn’t excuse his behavior in the slightest. She’d proven to him he could rely on her.
After accompanying her father back to his office, she paused in the shade of a willow. She took a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and lit one. It had been three years since she’d stopped smoking, but today, her resolutions were fizzling out. She breathed in the smoke and exhaled it slowly. She cared about Julien more than ever, but she would wait until he called her. Her phone vibrated in her handbag. Smiling, she crushed the cigarette against the tree trunk and quickly grabbed her cell:
“Hello!”
“Sophie Dupas?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“This is Professor Boisregard. Pardon me for disturbing you, but I think I have very interesting information.”
Sophie was expecting anything but a call from her father’s colleague.
“Could you be more precise, Professor?”
“Of course, excuse me, mademoiselle. You must be wondering what’s come over me. My call is in response to the conversation we had recently with Captain Barka and yourself. I’m trying to reach her, but I don’t have her number. I just asked for your contact info from your father.”
Boisregard’s explanations were confused. Sophie sensed the curator wasn’t in his usual state. “Stay calm, Professor, what’s going on?”
“I’m sorry, Sophie, but what I’ve discovered distur
bed me.”
“I’m listening, Professor, but you have to call the police station!”
“It’s too soon. I’m only spouting hypotheses, and I can’t allow myself to submit them to others without further substantiation.”
“But what are we talking about, Professor?”
“I’ve been thinking long and hard about our discussion in your father’s office. You know I was very shaken by the murder of the young woman found in my museum. And I think I’ve found a potential connection between Aztec customs and that murder.”
Sophie felt herself instantly petrified by what she’d just heard. Were they finally in possession of a serious lead that would take them to the killer?
The historian added, “And a name immediately came to mind.”
“Well, go directly to the police station! If that’s the case, you have a crucial element in the hunt for the killer!” screamed Sophie into her phone.
“I can’t, mademoiselle! What if I’m wrong?” He hesitated for a moment, then asked almost timidly, “Or maybe you’d agree to listen to my theory? You could assess it. If you find it credible, then I’ll go present it to the police.”
“Well of course. When are you available?”
“Right now, mademoiselle. I think it would be easier for me to present it to you face-to-face rather than over the telephone.”
“I understand perfectly. Where would you like to meet?”
Boisregard hesitated a bit before suggesting a locale. “I’m in Uriage at the moment. I’m waiting for a friend who’s supposed to pick me up to go back to Grenoble. But he won’t be here for an hour. I can try to find a taxi and you—”
“I have my car. I can be there in less than fifteen minutes. Just tell me where you want me to find you.” Sophie hung up. Maybe this was the lead they were missing. She trembled with excitement at the idea of getting closer to the killer. She thought immediately of Julien. Should she inform him? No, she’d call him with the results of her discussion with Boisregard . . . if something interesting came of it. However, she was going to tell Nadia before leaving. She speed-dialed the number and waited, lighting a new cigarette. The phone rang into the void, trying her patience. Then she got voice mail.
“Nadia, it’s Sophie. I’ve got a lead. Call me back on my cell as soon as you get this message.”
She ran to her car, opened the door, threw her jacket on the passenger seat, and took off, tires squealing.
Chapter 55: Aurélien
1:45 p.m. Nadia watched two birds at play on the restaurant terrace’s arbor. She felt good. The pain wasn’t bothering her, and she’d eaten admirably well: a grilled sea bass with pureed onions and crunchy vegetables. She hadn’t been able to resist a dessert, which had plunged her, at last, into a blissful state. She was now finishing her coffee. She looked at her watch: Aurélien Costel would be arriving soon. He didn’t work at his restaurant during lunch. But when she’d shown her police badge, the waiter had given her the proprietor’s personal phone number. He’d agreed to cooperate as soon as she’d told him the reason for her call. He just had to come back from Lyon.
She saw the two waiters greet a man coming in, then indicate the table where she was sitting. The epicurean who’d just had lunch now tried to focus on assuming the role of police officer. The transition wasn’t complete, though—the three glasses of wine accompanying the meal, which were perfectly paired with the dishes served, had slightly slowed her power of concentration. She watched the man in his fifties approach at a leisurely pace. She gauged him more precisely—she was instantly persuaded she’d already met him and was instinctively put on guard. She usually had an excellent visual memory, but in this case couldn’t recall the circumstances. She’d think about it later. She knew she’d eventually remember why they’d crossed paths.
Upon reaching the table, he bowed slightly in greeting. Nadia understood what Pierre Dupré had been able to sense the first time he’d met this man. Everything about him called out for friendship. But she politely kept her distance—wasn’t Cabrade also adored by his peers?
“Aurélien Costel. I’m at your disposal, madame.”
“Captain Barka.”
“Very well, Captain, tell me exactly how I can be of use to you? When I heard you speak of Magali Dupré, I confess everything started spinning. You can be sure I’ll do everything in my power to help you.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Costel. Actually, I do want you to tell me about Magali . . . but especially about her husband.”
Something nasty flashed briefly in the restaurant owner’s eyes. His face had grown serious, closed. “Could you possibly tell me why you’re interested in Dominique Cabrade?”
The police officer hesitated for a moment, then decided to lay her cards on the table. The situation was critical enough to reveal minimal information. “Yes, but what I’m going to tell you has to remain confidential.”
“You have my word.”
“We suspect him of the murders of Monica Revasti and Camille Saint-Forge, the two young women found dead in the last few days.”
The restaurant owner didn’t respond, but he sat down in the chair facing Nadia’s.
“That’s terrible. So he’s not dead . . . I’d hoped for it, though. I’ll tell you a secret, too—I myself wanted to kill him, more than thirty years ago. Maybe I should have done it . . . but that’s something I probably shouldn’t confess to the police,” he added with a sad smile.
“You might have carried out an act of public safety. But it’s always difficult to live with a murder on your conscience, even if the victim is the lowest of the low. Well, enough of the soliloquy. I’m listening, Monsieur Costel. Just give me a few seconds to turn off my cell phone and I’m all yours.”
Half an hour after Nadia left the Pomme d’Amour, she was still shaken by what she’d just learned. Aurélien Costel’s revelations had been astounding, but she tended to believe them. She knew now why she’d recognized him. Now she just had to check certain facts before announcing anything.
Chapter 56: Forbidden Dissection
The fourth phone call was the ticket. Henri Blavet thanked the heavens and the Lord above. He’d just landed a meeting with Jean-Paul Boucanier, the former head of sterilization in the equipment rooms at Grenoble Hospital.
His luck had turned. The first three calls were dead ends—his intended targets were either absent or unavailable. Boucanier was next on the list, but he didn’t want to disturb him; after all, it wasn’t as if the retiree had held an influential position at MUMC. Still, his desire for a pleasant chat with Jean-Paul overcame his hesitation, and Blavet contacted him. And how fortunate! Because as soon as he’d explained the reason for his call, Jean-Paul had given him key information. He’d actually been at the heart of this stifled story at the time.
The retiree had arranged to meet him in a bar. The doctor had gladly accepted. He’d eaten nothing since morning and felt hunger gnaw at his stomach now that it was early afternoon.
2:00 p.m. Jean-Paul Boucanier was already sitting at the counter nursing a draft beer when Henri Blavet entered the bar. The dimness of the place gave him a pleasantly relaxed feeling. Jean-Paul had already climbed off his stool and come toward him, arms outstretched and smile wide.
“Doctor, how delightful to see you again!” he boomed. “It’s been a while, don’t you know!”
Blavet smiled. He’d always enjoyed this man’s integrity.
“Since you went into retirement, it’s been . . . two or three years.”
“Two or three years?” replied Boucanier, bursting out laughing. “You don’t see the time passing with all your work. I’ve been living happily with Thérèse for seven years now.”
“How is your wife?” asked the doctor, thinking back on that ever-smiling woman.
“She’s fine. She’s got herself a new hobby. She started playing bridge with a group of girlfriends. And to
think she never wanted me to teach her to play pinochle! It seems their teacher is charming. That’s probably a significant advantage when trying to learn the game. Anyway, Doctor, I’m not complaining. During that time, I can go trout fishing with my pals and enjoy a few glasses of chilled white wine. But you didn’t come here to hear about my fishing exploits.”
“Another time, with pleasure. But it’s true, the investigation we’re conducting is most pressing.”
“Well, let’s go sit in a corner. There aren’t many people, but what I’m going to tell you doesn’t need to be overheard.”
Henri Blavet ordered a beer and a sandwich and joined his former colleague.
“When you told me about this event on the phone, I almost wasn’t surprised. It happened decades ago, but I was certain, who knows why, that it would resurface one day.”
“Remind me how you were mixed up in this.”
“It’s very simple, Doctor. At the time, I was in charge of cleaning the dissection rooms used by second- or third-year students, I don’t quite remember which. They were of course cleaned after each use, and I always did the rounds in the morning to make sure everything was in order. One night, I was at the hospital for some emergency maintenance. I remember the date: April 12, 1973. Huh, that makes it forty years ago.”
Boucanier went back in time. The images that came to mind were as clear as if they’d happened the day before. He resumed.
“I’d finished my work, and to leave I had to pass by the dissection rooms. As I approached the door, I thought I heard a noise. I stopped and listened. No one ever worked at three o’clock in the morning. I went up silently, and I gently pushed on the door. It was open. I was sure I’d closed it the previous evening. You know me, Doctor, I’m not frightened by much. But there, I have to say the situation sent shivers down my spine.”
“What did you do, then?”
“What I had to do. See who had come to use the facilities at that hour of the night. I thought for an instant it was a schoolboy prank, but it was too quiet. So I went to the equipment room and got an iron bar that had been sitting there for months. I took a deep breath, pushed the door open hard, and screamed. What I saw rendered me speechless with surprise.”
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