Killer Critique (13 page)
Authors: Alexander Campion
“The movie star?” Théophile asked. “The one with all that curly dark hair and those luscious ...” He caught himself and glanced guiltily at Cécile. Capucine was amazed he had any interests at all other than wine.
“She winked at us. And gave us all a delightful smile. And then”âAlexandre paused dramatically to take a sip of champagneâ“her beau's head appeared, and he waved at us, too.”
“Distinguished-looking older fellow with well-brushed white hair?” Capucine asked.
“The very man, except that his hair was in a bit of disarray.” Alexandre chuckled. “Now, there's a couple who will figure largely in the gossip columns of tomorrow's press.”
“Let's eat,” Jacques said with a leer. “All this salacious gossip makes my appetite perk right up!”
Alexandre frowned at the double entendre.
Théophile inflated and took over center stage. “Capucine told me we were going to start with an extraordinary lobe of foie gras. So I brought some bottles of Château Climensâthe year two thousand, of course.” He turned to Cécile. Despite considerable evidence to the contrary, Théophile persisted in the belief that his wife was as passionate about wine as he was. “It's from Barsac, of course, even though it says Sauternes on the bottle. To my mind the mechanical balance between the acid and the unctuous is absolutely perfect, possibly rivaling even Yquem'sâ”
Capucine cut him off with a loud “Voilà !” as she produced the foie gras. Cécile smiled in gratitude.
There was a dismayed silence as the industrial starkness of the foie gras was revealed. But when it was served, even with an amateurish dribbling of the sauce, it was as superb as at the restaurant. For a long moment the dish overwhelmed the table. The surrounding crowd, the traffic on the avenue, even the rising yellow and roseate hues of the early evening, all faded into the distant background as the flavor soared up to its crescendo. They spent a good half an hour eating two helpings while talking of little else.
“This is quite a revelation,” Alexandre said. “I need to take that young woman even more seriously. This is going to be quite a meal. What's next?”
“Capucine has already told me,” Théophile said. “And finding the right wine was quite a challenge. In the end I picked a Château Chasse-Spleen, the two thousand again, naturally.” He turned to Cécile. “It's a Moulis, of course, and there's an interesting little controversy over whether the name comes from Baudelaire or Lord Byron. In my opâ”
Capucine cut him off again by reading from the little card that had come with the food. This time the smiles of gratitude came from the entire table.
“This is called âla poularde de Marcel Meunier' and is a pan-roasted fattened henâpresumably raised by this Monsieur Meunierâserved with blue lobster tail, green asparagus, morels, and a lobster reduction.”
There was a murmur of appreciation and approval.
As Capucine began to unpack the container and Théophile poured wine with great concentration, a faint commotion was heard from the Etoile. Was it just merrymakers whooping, or was there the note of a girl screaming? Capucine fell silent, cocking her ears, analyzing the noise, instinctively placing her hand over her crotch, preparing to grab her firearm. Jacques was equally alert but couldn't resist smirking at her gesture and giving a knowing wink.
The tumult at the top of the avenue increased in volume. Someone yelled,
“A l'aide! Police! Police!”
Capucine got up and ran up the hill.
“A l'aide! Police! Police!”
Capucine got up and ran up the hill.
When she reached the Etoile, a large knot of people had gathered around one of the buses, talking loudly to each other, spilling out into the roundabout, slowing traffic. Angry motorists vented their rage with their horns. Four uniformed Paris police officers approached at a rapid, self-important walk from the opposite direction. In the distance Capucine could hear the faint double note of the
pan-pon
of police sirens coming up the avenue de la Grande Armée.
pan-pon
of police sirens coming up the avenue de la Grande Armée.
Capucine pushed through the crowd. The epicenter seemed to be in the tight alleyway created by two buses parked in parallel. Gawkers peered in from either end. A dark lump lay half under one of the buses.
The four Paris police officers appeared behind Capucine and ordered her away. She produced her tricolor police card. They saluted smartly. She ordered two to stand at either end of the corridor between the buses and the other two to clear the
Etoile
of people and restore the flow of traffic. They moved off readily. Traffic control held no secrets from them.
Etoile
of people and restore the flow of traffic. They moved off readily. Traffic control held no secrets from them.
Capucine inched down the narrow space. The buses were so close to each other that the area was shrouded in deep twilight. In the exact middle of the alleyway, a man lay prone half under one of the buses, his head and face hidden by the chassis. The body was completely immobile. She knelt down and felt the carotid for a pulse. Nothing.
With two hands she gently turned the head toward her. It was a grotesque parody of an African headhunter's trophy about to be shrunk in hot sand. The cheeks billowed out, horribly distended. The lips had been pulled tight over an open jaw and sutured shut with white string. The mouth had obviously been crammed to the bursting point with something. Clumps of green leaves protruded from between the sutured lips. The eyes bulged, lifeless, beginning to glaze like a bad fish's. A cord had bitten deeply into the neck, leaving a blackened depression.
In the half-light recognition came slowly but surely. It was Peroché. Without any doubt whatsoever.
CHAPTER 19
B
y the time Capucine arrived home, it was nearly one in the morning. It had been a long night.
y the time Capucine arrived home, it was nearly one in the morning. It had been a long night.
After her examination of the body she had immediately called her brigade and given orders for Isabelle, David, and Momo to be found, wherever they were, and sent to the crime scene, along with a contingent of uniformed officers and the forensic unit.
As she'd waited for the troops to arrive, she had called Tallon's cell phone to give her report. They had a long conversation, frequently punctuated by Tallon's salty invective. When she had announced that a van of Paris police had arrived, Tallon had said, “
Bon sang
, get off the phone and deal with them before they destroy your crime scene. We'll finish this discussion in my office in the morning.”
Bon sang
, get off the phone and deal with them before they destroy your crime scene. We'll finish this discussion in my office in the morning.”
The van had disgorged eight uniformed officers with the cloth badges of the Paris police on their arms. She had flashed her card and had directed them to get the names and addresses of the people who had been gawking when she arrived and to cordon off both buses. A broad yellow tape marked
POLICEâZONE INTERDITE
had been hastily wrapped twice around the two buses with the enthusiastic zeal of a child wrapping an oversize Christmas present.
POLICEâZONE INTERDITE
had been hastily wrapped twice around the two buses with the enthusiastic zeal of a child wrapping an oversize Christmas present.
The driver of the bus farther from the curb had arrived on the scene and was outraged at being denied access by the officer guarding the front of the buses. The driver's wallet was in the jacket hanging on the back of his seat, and he needed it to have a bite in a café. Sullenly obdurate, the officer asked for the driver's
papiers
. In a rage, the driver explained with mordant irony that his national identity card was in his wallet in his jacket on the bus, which he had not been allowed to get. Just as Capucine was about to step in to quash the escalating confrontation between irresistible and unmovable, the local Paris police commissaire and one of his lieutenants arrivedâimposing in blue uniforms dripping with silver trimâin a midsize Renault police car, self-importantly announcing itself with an arrogant
pam-pom-pam-pom
.
papiers
. In a rage, the driver explained with mordant irony that his national identity card was in his wallet in his jacket on the bus, which he had not been allowed to get. Just as Capucine was about to step in to quash the escalating confrontation between irresistible and unmovable, the local Paris police commissaire and one of his lieutenants arrivedâimposing in blue uniforms dripping with silver trimâin a midsize Renault police car, self-importantly announcing itself with an arrogant
pam-pom-pam-pom
.
“Eh bien, voilà !”
the
commissaire
had said with a broad grin. “Now, this is something you don't see every day. Normally, we arrive at the crime scene and stand around for hours cooling our heels, doing fuck-all waiting for the
PJ
to turn up. But here you are first! This is something I'm going to have to tell my grandchildren, if either of my daughters ever have the wit to get married.”
the
commissaire
had said with a broad grin. “Now, this is something you don't see every day. Normally, we arrive at the crime scene and stand around for hours cooling our heels, doing fuck-all waiting for the
PJ
to turn up. But here you are first! This is something I'm going to have to tell my grandchildren, if either of my daughters ever have the wit to get married.”
In a few minutes two vans of uniformed
Police Judiciaire
officers rolled up and took over the crime scene. Capucine dismissed the Paris police and got busy with her men.
Police Judiciaire
officers rolled up and took over the crime scene. Capucine dismissed the Paris police and got busy with her men.
They taped off a wider perimeter using yellow tape marked
POLICE JUDICIAIREâZONE INTERDITE
and removed the tape from the buses, clucking at the sloppy application. Just as they finished taping, two TV vans and a dozen reporters appeared. Capucine delegated them to David, who was a past master with the press. Skillfully, he gathered them in a tight clutch, let the cameramen get set up, and made a statement so crisp and upbeat, he might have been a professional actor. Although he spoke for ten minutes, he revealed nothing at all, not even the victim's name, and left the residual impression that the death was most likely from natural causes without actually having specifically made any such statement. Artfully, he fed them a story that wrote itself so easily none of the reporters felt the need to ask the obvious question of why the
Police Judiciaire
was present in such force at the scene of a humdrum food poisoning.
POLICE JUDICIAIREâZONE INTERDITE
and removed the tape from the buses, clucking at the sloppy application. Just as they finished taping, two TV vans and a dozen reporters appeared. Capucine delegated them to David, who was a past master with the press. Skillfully, he gathered them in a tight clutch, let the cameramen get set up, and made a statement so crisp and upbeat, he might have been a professional actor. Although he spoke for ten minutes, he revealed nothing at all, not even the victim's name, and left the residual impression that the death was most likely from natural causes without actually having specifically made any such statement. Artfully, he fed them a story that wrote itself so easily none of the reporters felt the need to ask the obvious question of why the
Police Judiciaire
was present in such force at the scene of a humdrum food poisoning.
Despite the commotion, the
Dîner en Blanc
continued merrily on from a point five hundred feet down from the Etoile. In the morning the diners would read that some poor reveler had collapsed under a bus and would mutter an only mildly interested, “
Tiens!
So that's what that was all about,” to their spouses.
Dîner en Blanc
continued merrily on from a point five hundred feet down from the Etoile. In the morning the diners would read that some poor reveler had collapsed under a bus and would mutter an only mildly interested, “
Tiens!
So that's what that was all about,” to their spouses.
A large van with double rear wheels, painted in police colors but marked only with the letters INPS, swept up majestically. Capucine smiled. The Institut National de Police Scientifique never seemed to be able to make up its mind if it was the police's forensic department or an independent academic function.
The van disgorged Ajudant Dechery and five of his
agents spécialisés,
who lost no time in cordoning off an even larger crime scene area using yellow tape marked
POLICE TECHNIQUE ET SCIENTIFIQUEâZONE INTERDITE
.
agents spécialisés,
who lost no time in cordoning off an even larger crime scene area using yellow tape marked
POLICE TECHNIQUE ET SCIENTIFIQUEâZONE INTERDITE
.
In less than five minutes Dechery came up to Capucine. “You know the drill, my dear. Can't say anything with certainty until the autopsy is done, tests performed, etcetera, etcetera, but I can certainly point out the obvious. The victim was killed by strangulation. Someone slipped a cord around his neck, held both ends in his fist, and twisted. I can tell that from the mark of the cord and the bruising at the nape of the neck. It's a good way to kill someone. Takes about ten seconds for the victim to lose consciousnessâcompressed carotidsâand then the murderer has no trouble keeping the pressure on for five to ten minutes, while he waits for the victim to die.
“From the look of it, the stitching was done after death. No blood from the wounds. The murderer must have crammed the mouth full of something that had leaves on it and then sewed it shut. Never seen that one before.
Commissaire,
you get some good ones, no doubt about that.”
Commissaire,
you get some good ones, no doubt about that.”
It took another two hours for Dechery's team to complete their analysis of the crime scene; for the uniformed officers to scour the area around the buses, only to find nothing; and finally, for the buses to be released. Capucine was tempted to ask the disgruntled driver if he eventually managed to get something to eat, but thought better of it.
Walking into her apartment later that night, Capucine had been sure that Alexandre would be pottering around in the kitchen or reading in his study. She was astonished to find him in the sitting room, immersed in a game of backgammon with Jacques on an antique ebony and ivory board that she had bought Alexandre on the rue Jacob as a Christmas present the year before.
When she walked into the room, Alexandre tipped over his dice cup, declaring a forfeit. Both men stood up and greeted her warmly. There was a feeling that something was a little off. More than a little off.
“I'm starving,” Capucine said with strained brightness. “I've been on my feet since seven, and other than two bites of foie gras at dinner, I haven't had a thing to eat.”
“But what a foie gras it was!” Alexandre said with genuine admiration. “That girl's a genius.”
“And Monsieur Meunier's
poularde
was not only sublime but also seemed to be engaged in a deliciously complicated maneuver with a crustacean. You know, Alexandre, that makes me think there are really twelve sexes, not just ten.”
poularde
was not only sublime but also seemed to be engaged in a deliciously complicated maneuver with a crustacean. You know, Alexandre, that makes me think there are really twelve sexes, not just ten.”
Neither Alexandre nor Capucine responded. They both had worried eyes only for each other.
“So,
cousine,
I understand the victim was that poor man Peroché you were chatting with. Did you find out what kind of leaves were in his mouth?”
cousine,
I understand the victim was that poor man Peroché you were chatting with. Did you find out what kind of leaves were in his mouth?”
Capucine looked at him levelly. “How do you know about that? Do your little slips of paper flit by even when you're not at your desk?”
“Of course.” He reached out in a pantomime of grabbing a passing butterfly.
“It was Peroché!” Alexandre exclaimed, visibly upset.
“Merde, double merde, triple merde!
He was the most gentle person I'd ever met. Capucine, this really has to stop.”
“Merde, double merde, triple merde!
He was the most gentle person I'd ever met. Capucine, this really has to stop.”
No one said anything for a very long moment.
Alexandre put his arm around his wife's waist.
“
Chérie,
forgive me. It's just that I always had such regard for Peroché. Let's go in the kitchen. I'll make you an omelet with dried
cèpes
and
confit
duck
gésiers,
and you can tell us what happened.”
Chérie,
forgive me. It's just that I always had such regard for Peroché. Let's go in the kitchen. I'll make you an omelet with dried
cèpes
and
confit
duck
gésiers,
and you can tell us what happened.”
They settled in the large kitchen. With its long table topped with Provençal tiles, its huge La Cornue professional range, and its walls festooned with utensils and strands of hanging peppers, sausages, and garlic, the room was normally a temple of calm for Capucine. But tonight even the very core of her hearth seemed threatened.
While Alexandre beat eggs in a bowl, Capucine shared the meager findings from the crime scene.
“Peroché must have gone back to his bus to retrieve his camera bag. When he left our table he mentioned he'd forgotten it. We found the bag in the overhead rack, so it looks like he never made it onto the bus. The murderer garroted him with a cord and, when he was dead, stuffed something in his mouth and sewed it shut with kitchen twine.”
Alexandre put the bowl down and stared at the wall.
“And that's it?” Jacques asked.
“I thought you knew everything.”
“Just checking to see if you'd understood all the nuances.”
“I had a long cell phone chat with Tallon. He's far from pleased. This is going to be classified as a serial killing. The technical definition is three or more deaths, presumably by the same hand, with at least a three-day interval between each.”
“So what does that change?” Alexandre asked from his stove.
Jacques leaned back, smirking his all-knowing smirk.
“What changes is that serial killers are viewed as deranged. Or at least they are driven by something abnormal, and not by the usual motives of revenge, sex, money, or what have you,” Capucine said.
“So, can't Tallon do what he did the last time and just delay in reporting the case to the magistrates?” Alexandre asked.
“No, this time he can't,” Capucine said. “The case will require psychological profilers and under French law only a
juge d'instruction
can assign people who aren't members of the police to a case. So Martinière will have full charge of whatever experts he chooses, and he doesn't even have to report their findings to us.”
juge d'instruction
can assign people who aren't members of the police to a case. So Martinière will have full charge of whatever experts he chooses, and he doesn't even have to report their findings to us.”
“Good for you,
petite cousine,
you
do
understand,” Jacques said, lazily running a finger up and down Capucine's thigh under the table, well out of the range of Alexandre's vision.
petite cousine,
you
do
understand,” Jacques said, lazily running a finger up and down Capucine's thigh under the table, well out of the range of Alexandre's vision.
Lifting his hand away from her leg, Capucine said, “I can't even guess who Martinière will pick. The man who lectured us on profiling at the academy was an American. I think there are some professors at the Sorbonne the
PJ
has consulted in the past, but I have no idea who they are.”
PJ
has consulted in the past, but I have no idea who they are.”
“Ah, the Americans,” Alexandre murmured, serving Capucine her omelet. “They've created the McDonald's of the crime world. They really do understand how to do things on a broad scale. We poor French know nothing about serial killing.”
“I don't know about that,” Jacques said, mimicking the drawling tone of a Saint-Germain intellectual argument. “What about Gilles de Rais? What about the unforgettable Eusebius Pieydagnelle? What about Henri-Désiré Landru, killer of ten women but who is recognized as the precursor of feminism by that great philosopher Jean-Baptiste Botul?”
Capucine tucked into her omelet with relish. Things were finally getting back to normal. “Alexandre is absolutely right,” she said. “Legendary historical figures don't count. It's true we've had a small handful of multiple killers in this century, but serial killing really is an American thing. Something we know next to nothing about in this country.”
After they finished their omelets, they each had a tiny thimbleful of Armagnac.
Alexandre looked at his watch. “Good Lord, it's nearly three in the morning.”
“Time for me to hop into my pumpkin and leave you lovebirds twittering in your feathered nest,” Jacques said with a loud cackle. “
Cousine,
walk me to the door and I'll give you some tips on how to tickle some life into geriatrics with one of those cute pink feathers.”
Cousine,
walk me to the door and I'll give you some tips on how to tickle some life into geriatrics with one of those cute pink feathers.”
At the door, in an unusually serious voice, he said, “Two things. If I were you, I wouldn't let Alexandre go to restaurants at night without a ... ah ... professional escort.”
“I'd already figured that one out myself. And the other?”
“A couple of weeks ago, when you were pedaling away in choucroute, you begged me to tug on some of my moldy little strings and extract you.” He cackled loudly enough to wake the neighbors. “And now you're going to get your wish. I'm going to pull you out well before your adorable little dabtoes start stinking of cabbage.”
“What do you mean?”
“I'm going to introduce you to someone. A very special expert who's going to solve your case for you.”
Capucine deflated. “An expert? A profiler? I'm sure Martinière will find enough of those.” She smiled tiredly at Jacques. “You're sweet. But I'm sure I'm going to be up to my eyeballs all week. Why don't I call you next weekend and we can set up a date for me to meet your friend?”
“No need for that. You know me. You can never tell when I'm going to pop up. Don't bother to call me a cab. I have one or two members of my fan club waiting downstairs. I'm sure they'll be delighted to give me a lift home.”
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