Killer Critique (17 page)
Authors: Alexander Campion
CHAPTER 23
C
écile looked longingly at the little domed plastic dish of sushi as it traveled down on the little conveyor belt. It was an
asatsuki shake
âsalmon tartare. Just as she reached out to grab it, she caught sight of a
tal shiso
âsea bream dotted with salmon eggs. She hesitated indecisively, reached out for the bream, pulled away, extended an arm toward the salmon, pulled back, and then it was too late. Both had gone by.
écile looked longingly at the little domed plastic dish of sushi as it traveled down on the little conveyor belt. It was an
asatsuki shake
âsalmon tartare. Just as she reached out to grab it, she caught sight of a
tal shiso
âsea bream dotted with salmon eggs. She hesitated indecisively, reached out for the bream, pulled away, extended an arm toward the salmon, pulled back, and then it was too late. Both had gone by.
“
Merde, merde, merde
!” she said, almost shouting. “I can never make up my mind in this place. Capucine, I don't know why on earth I suggested we eat here. I don't know why you let us come. It's like being trapped in an evil video game.”
Merde, merde, merde
!” she said, almost shouting. “I can never make up my mind in this place. Capucine, I don't know why on earth I suggested we eat here. I don't know why you let us come. It's like being trapped in an evil video game.”
In Japan,
kaiten
-style sushi restaurants were distinctly at the bottom end of the spectrum, but somehow a Paris restaurateur had succeeded in elevating the technique to the ne plus ultra of chic. Little dishes of single sushis snaked slowly down a counter on a miniature conveyor belt. Customers chose what they liked and stacked the color-coded saucers for a waiter to tot up when they were ready to go. At the head of the conveyor five chefs cut fish and wrapped rice balls feverishly, making sushis, popping them into little black bowls, topping them with clear plastic domes, depositing them on colored dishes, and placing them on the belt, where they sallied forth bravely like railroad cars of an endless electric train.
kaiten
-style sushi restaurants were distinctly at the bottom end of the spectrum, but somehow a Paris restaurateur had succeeded in elevating the technique to the ne plus ultra of chic. Little dishes of single sushis snaked slowly down a counter on a miniature conveyor belt. Customers chose what they liked and stacked the color-coded saucers for a waiter to tot up when they were ready to go. At the head of the conveyor five chefs cut fish and wrapped rice balls feverishly, making sushis, popping them into little black bowls, topping them with clear plastic domes, depositing them on colored dishes, and placing them on the belt, where they sallied forth bravely like railroad cars of an endless electric train.
Cécile focused on another little plastic dome,
uni
âsea urchin eggs. She raised her hand, lowered it, raised it again. Her lower lip began to quiver, and tears formed in her eyes. As the sushi passed in front of Capucine, she snatched it up with the vigor of a bear clawing a salmon out of an Alaskan rapid and, with her other hand, grabbed a
negi maguro
âchopped tuna topped with finely julienned leeksâtooting along bravely behind. She placed the tuna in front of Cécile.
uni
âsea urchin eggs. She raised her hand, lowered it, raised it again. Her lower lip began to quiver, and tears formed in her eyes. As the sushi passed in front of Capucine, she snatched it up with the vigor of a bear clawing a salmon out of an Alaskan rapid and, with her other hand, grabbed a
negi maguro
âchopped tuna topped with finely julienned leeksâtooting along bravely behind. She placed the tuna in front of Cécile.
“I've never really been all that fond of leeks,” Cécile said, her plaintive voice stammering through a quivering smile.
“Cécile, just taste it. You'll love it.”
“You can't just taste sushi. You have to put the whole thing in your mouth. And then it's too late,” Cécile said. “Can we swap?”
Capucine exchanged the little plastic bowls and scowled at her friend, whose lower lip began to tremble again.
“I'm coming apart,” Cécile almost wailed. “I really am. If this keeps up, I'm going to have a nervous breakdown.”
“You're dating yourself. Nowadays they're called âdepressive syndromes,' ” Capucine said, smiling because she had just caught sight of another
asatsuki shake
finally coming down the conveyor. She had no intention of letting this one escape.
asatsuki shake
finally coming down the conveyor. She had no intention of letting this one escape.
“Aren't you the little psychiatric expert all of a sudden ?”
“This is about your paramour with the granny glasses and the problem skin?” Capucine asked.
“That was unkind. Very. Anyway, it's over. At least to all intents and purposes.”
“Which means it's still on, but you're bored with it.”
“Not exactly, but close enough. She's sweet. She's sensual. She's too awed to even think of judging me. But you miss that male vigor, you know, that power they have. And you're so right! There's that skin.” Cécile shuddered histrionically.
Capucine looked at her expressionlessly.
“I have no idea what's really bothering me. That's why I wanted to have dinner with you. I was hoping you could tell me,” Cécile said.
Capucine said nothing but expertly gripped the
asatsuki
with her chopsticks and placed it elegantly in her mouth, raising one eyebrow in interrogation.
asatsuki
with her chopsticks and placed it elegantly in her mouth, raising one eyebrow in interrogation.
“The firm is making noises that they'll put me up for election to the partnership in the fall.”
“Congratulations! That's quite a coup!” Capucine moved to hug her friend, but Cécile blocked her with her shoulder.
“Do you know what that means? You can't imagine how awful it would be. Two partners would be assigned to my case and would review every second of my past six years at the firm. Everything! Project performance appraisals. All those psychological assessments they always do. Interview my clients. My peers. My subordinates. Everything! And on top of that they would investigate my private life. Even poor, defenseless Théophile would be put under the microscope. Think of the poor dear! And they'd probably even find out about Honorine. It would be like being thrown out of my apartment stark naked so all those awful people could look at me and see how ugly I really am and laugh at all my warts and moles.”
She began to cry in earnest. As the sorority of women required, Capucine took Cécile in her arms but her heart didn't go out to her. She had already spent far too many meals dissecting Cécile's Machiavellian career moves. Also, an
unagi
âgrilled eelâCapucine's absolute favorite, bumped down on the conveyor and she was powerless to grab it.
unagi
âgrilled eelâCapucine's absolute favorite, bumped down on the conveyor and she was powerless to grab it.
“So you're going to say no to the firm?”
“Why would I do that?” Cécile awkwardly negotiated a sushi, which fell apart. When she had finally consumed the fragments, she brightened.
She leaned closer to Capucine. “I'm going to tell you a deep, deep secret. You won't breathe a word of this, will you?”
Capucine remained silent.
“I've been talking to a headhunter about a possibility of becoming the head of strategic planning for Nestlé.” She paused. “To tell you the truth, I've been to three rounds of interviews in Switzerland and I'm pretty sure they'll make me an offer.”
“Are you tempted?”
Cécile raised an arm vaguely in the direction of a domed sushi but let her arm drop listlessly. She sighed deeply.
“Capucine, I am
so
coming unglued. I really am. Nestlé would be like Honorine on a larger scale. Relaxing. Pleasant. Even satisfying at a certain level. But it would be far away from the flame. And how could I ask dear Théophile to move to Vevey? He would want to bring his fifteen thousand bottles of wine with him. Can you imagine!”
so
coming unglued. I really am. Nestlé would be like Honorine on a larger scale. Relaxing. Pleasant. Even satisfying at a certain level. But it would be far away from the flame. And how could I ask dear Théophile to move to Vevey? He would want to bring his fifteen thousand bottles of wine with him. Can you imagine!”
“What's this about a flame?”
“My life is all about flitting around a flame. Trying to get closer and closer without sizzling to a crisp. Honorine was a respite from that. Vevey would be too.”
“I would have thought Théophile would be relaxing and tranquilizing. Isn't he?”
“Of course not. I married him for the same reason you married Alexandre. He's a judge. When he tastes a wine the severity and cruelty of his decision is absolute. Just watching him picking up a bottle and examining the label with that scowl of his is an erotic experience. You must feel that way with Alexandre's judgments of restaurants. Doesn't reading his reviews excite you?”
“I'd never thought about it that way.” Capucine paused. “So the choice is move to Vevey with Honorine and tend your garden or stay in Paris and flirt with the flame.”
“Don't mock me. Not flirt. Try and become one with it without perishing in the process.” She looked at Capucine with the merest hint of a sneer. “But of course you don't understand. You wouldn't. You couldn't.”
Capucine said nothing. She was beginning to find Cécile beyond irritating. Here was a girl who had been handed all the gifts the world had to offer from the moment she uttered her first howl, who had never faced the doubts and anguish that sheâor, for that matter, Béatriceâhad had to deal with all her life. And now, when the cornucopia of her good fortune tipped over even further, showering ever more of its bounteous flow, she was on the edge of a nervous breakdown, or a depressive syndrome, or whatever the hell it was supposed to be called.
“You know, I envy you,” Cécile said. “You're perfectly content with an undemanding husband and a relatively simple job, the main merit of which is that it's iconoclastic and a symbolic wedge between you and the bourgeois life you claim to despise.”
Capucine glared at her.
“I'm sorry. You
do
have your little mysteries to solve. Of course, they have none of the complexities of a management consulting strategic assignment, but there must be a certain challenge. I'll grant you that. How
are
you doing with your case?”
do
have your little mysteries to solve. Of course, they have none of the complexities of a management consulting strategic assignment, but there must be a certain challenge. I'll grant you that. How
are
you doing with your case?”
Capucine remained silent, her eyes dark with anger.
“If I were smart,” Cécile continued, “I'd follow your example. Go to Vevey. Cart Honorine along with me to keep me company and leave Théophile in Paris with all his precious dusty bottles. He'd never notice I was gone. I'd have marvelously boring lunches with wonderfully boring Swiss executives, gaze out serenely at boring Swiss cows, with their boring bells, chewing their boring cud next to that boringly big lake they have, and have nice, tender, boring sex with boring Honorine. And I'd never be judged again.” She paused and her face tightened into a rictus of anger.
“But I'd kill myselfâor someone elseâbefore I ever let that happen.”
CHAPTER 24
T
he next morning Capucine was aghast when she saw
Le Figaro's
front page. An above-the-fold, four-column headline screamed,
JUGE ANNOUNCES NEXT RESTAURANT KILLING WILL BE IN PROVINCIAL TOWN.
Martinière had apparently given a press conference. A picture of himâattempting to look grim and determined, but coming across as severely dyspepticâran across all four columns. The caption under the picture stated that he had warned the entire nation to be on its guard since “the restaurant killer” was likely to strike again without warning anywhere in the national hexagon, even though he had the case “firmly in hand.”
he next morning Capucine was aghast when she saw
Le Figaro's
front page. An above-the-fold, four-column headline screamed,
JUGE ANNOUNCES NEXT RESTAURANT KILLING WILL BE IN PROVINCIAL TOWN.
Martinière had apparently given a press conference. A picture of himâattempting to look grim and determined, but coming across as severely dyspepticâran across all four columns. The caption under the picture stated that he had warned the entire nation to be on its guard since “the restaurant killer” was likely to strike again without warning anywhere in the national hexagon, even though he had the case “firmly in hand.”
Below the fold, under the photos of professors Caillaud and Caillot,
Le Figaro
had included a box detailing the murderer's profile in clever graphics. Just as Capucine began reading, her phone rang.
Le Figaro
had included a box detailing the murderer's profile in clever graphics. Just as Capucine began reading, her phone rang.
Without preamble Tallon launched into a smoldering imprecation against Martinière and the two professors, frequently using the term “criminal charges.”
As he ranted, Capucine skimmed the profile. “Effeminate. . . possibly homosexual ... works in a menial position in a restaurant or hotel ... childhood history of cruelty to animals, bed-wetting, pyromania ... public to inform local police immediately if seen ...”
Capucine realized Tallon had concluded his rant and had moved on to the substance of the call. “And then it seems he followed up his press conference with phone calls to the editors of the major papers in Lyon and Marseille. Obviously, every newspaper in France had a field day this morning.”
“Has there already been an impact?” Capucine asked.
“Impact?” Tallon growled. “Most of the provincial police switchboards are already jammed. Everyone who dislikes a neighbor is calling in to report him as a gay bed wetter who is cruel to animals and behaves suspiciously. There are also calls from feuding restaurant workers, denouncing their colleagues. Next we're going to get complaints from the restaurant owners' association and at least three gay-rights movements. Trust me on that.”
“Won't this be enough to get Martinière removed from the case?”
“I don't know about removed, but I think I finally got a muzzle on him that he won't be able to slip out of.”
He paused dramatically.
“This morning someone very senior in the police hierarchy made a call on the minister of the interior's chief of staff to discuss
la situation Martinière
. I believe he will be speaking to the minister of justice later today. I trust that call will prevent a repetition of this debacle.”
la situation Martinière
. I believe he will be speaking to the minister of justice later today. I trust that call will prevent a repetition of this debacle.”
“Let's hope so.”
“And for good measure I put in a call myself to the doyen of the Université Panthéon-Assas to make sure those two clowns don't appear in public again.”
Capucine couldn't help but feel that even if Martinière had had the door successfully slammed in his face, he would still be snooping around the house, searching for an unlocked window.
“Now we need to get to work,” continued Tallon. “I've set up a task force here at the Quai to evaluate calls made to the local police forces. It's not impossible that our murderer will actually strike outside of Paris. In theory the task force will keep that information from drowning in the tidal wave of misinformation Martinière has created. They'll make their first report tomorrow morning at eleven. I'll need you here for that.”
Â
The next morning Capucine rushed down the third-floor hallway her usual fifteen minutes late. Isabelle was at her side, fretting and muttering about their lateness, as David and Momo trailed behind. Capucine assumed they would slip into the conference room unnoticed and melt unseen into seats against the wall.
“
Enfin, Commissaire,
” Tallon boomed as they walked in. “How kind of you to come. Now we can begin our meeting.”
Enfin, Commissaire,
” Tallon boomed as they walked in. “How kind of you to come. Now we can begin our meeting.”
Isabelle tried desperately to hide behind Capucine.
“Come sit up here next to me. We've been making progress.”
The conference room was packed. Tallon's task force was far larger than she expected. There were a handful of
commissaires
she knew slightly and a large group of more junior officers, most of whom she knew by sight only.
commissaires
she knew slightly and a large group of more junior officers, most of whom she knew by sight only.
“A special switchboard has been set up, and these gentlemen are in charge of collating and triaging what comes in.
Lieutenant
Cornudet,” Tallon said, nodding at a man sitting at his left, “has been appointed as the secretary to the task force.”
Lieutenant
Cornudet,” Tallon said, nodding at a man sitting at his left, “has been appointed as the secretary to the task force.”
Capucine smiled at him in acknowledgment.
“All right,
lieutenant
, let's hear what you've got so far.”
lieutenant
, let's hear what you've got so far.”
“Oui, monsieur le contrôleur général,” Cornudet said, consulting a notebook. “As of ten thirty this morning, three hundred and thirty-one people have called various local police forces, reporting suspicious individuals. Also, eleven people have called various police departments, confessing to the Paris murders. Five others called to confess to other homicides of which we have no record. And ...” He paused for effect. “Several regional police have informed us of thirty-two criminal incidents they feel may have been perpetrated by the Paris murderer.”
“Thirty-two?” Capucine asked.
Cornudet laughed. “They're calling in anything that's happened in or near a café or restaurant, fights, lovers' quarrels, the occasional mugging, stuff like that. Nothing that's even remotely connected to your cases.”
“But,” said Tallon, “it all has to be checked out, particularly the unreported murders. That's what these gentlemen are here for.”
He indicated the other participants at the table. “We owe
Monsieur le Juge
Martinière a vote of thanks. We finally have something to fill up our days.”
Monsieur le Juge
Martinière a vote of thanks. We finally have something to fill up our days.”
There was a polite ripple of laughter from around the table.
“Commissaire
Bertoli, tell us about the confessions,” Tallon said.
Bertoli, tell us about the confessions,” Tallon said.
“Oui, monsieur le contrôleur général,”
said a lantern-jawed man with close-cropped hair. “All of the eleven have been interviewed by my men. None of them knew any details of the murders that hadn't been reported in the press. They were very carefully interviewed in this regard. They have all been given psychiatric examinations and appear to be compulsive confessors. However, when confronted with the fact they were not credible as the author of the Paris killings, four of them confessed to other murders. It appears that one of them may possibly have committed at least two murders three years ago. One of the victims was a waiter, but there doesn't appear to be any connection with the Paris cases. The suspect has been placed under
garde à vue
and the
Police Judiciaire
in Lyon has opened up a full investigation.”
said a lantern-jawed man with close-cropped hair. “All of the eleven have been interviewed by my men. None of them knew any details of the murders that hadn't been reported in the press. They were very carefully interviewed in this regard. They have all been given psychiatric examinations and appear to be compulsive confessors. However, when confronted with the fact they were not credible as the author of the Paris killings, four of them confessed to other murders. It appears that one of them may possibly have committed at least two murders three years ago. One of the victims was a waiter, but there doesn't appear to be any connection with the Paris cases. The suspect has been placed under
garde à vue
and the
Police Judiciaire
in Lyon has opened up a full investigation.”
“Excellent, Bertoli. Excellent,” Tallon said.
“Now,
lieutenant,
tell us about your
pièce de résistance. ”
lieutenant,
tell us about your
pièce de résistance. ”
“Yes, sir,” Cornudet said. “The Lille
Police Judiciaire
has reported that last night a man was murdered, shot in the head with a shotgun at close range, in the garden of a restaurant in Seclin, a few miles south of Lille. The restaurant is in an inn.” He glanced at his notes. “Called Le St. Jacques de Lorraine. Apparently a very up-market place. Affiliated with the Relais & Châteaux and given one star in the Michelin
Guide
.”
Police Judiciaire
has reported that last night a man was murdered, shot in the head with a shotgun at close range, in the garden of a restaurant in Seclin, a few miles south of Lille. The restaurant is in an inn.” He glanced at his notes. “Called Le St. Jacques de Lorraine. Apparently a very up-market place. Affiliated with the Relais & Châteaux and given one star in the Michelin
Guide
.”
“I know the place,” said Capucine.
“I was sure you would,” Tallon said.
Cornudet glanced anxiously at Tallon and Capucine to see if the interruption would blossom into a conversation. The nuance of the exchange had eluded him. Seeing that it was over, he continued his report with the relentlessness of a hound questing after a scent.
“The victim was a local journalist. He wrote for the main Lille paper,
La Voix du Nord
. Mainly filler pieces, human interest stories, book and movie reviews, and every now and then a restaurant review. In fact,” Cornudet said, “last night he was at the restaurant, working on a review. It was the last of three visits before he wrote his piece.”
La Voix du Nord
. Mainly filler pieces, human interest stories, book and movie reviews, and every now and then a restaurant review. In fact,” Cornudet said, “last night he was at the restaurant, working on a review. It was the last of three visits before he wrote his piece.”
Everyone in the room sat up straight.
“How was the murder committed?” Capucine asked.
“Shotgun,” Cornudet said. “He walked out of the restaurant, took a few steps, and someone shot him in the head from about three feet away. Killer fired both barrels, probably a twelve-gauge, number six steel shot. Not much of his head left. The local gendarmerie found footprints in the shrubbery next to the door. Looks like the murderer was crouched down and rose to fire when the victim walked out.”
“So he was hit in the back of the head?”
“No,” Cornudet replied. “The head was almost facing the gun. The victim must have heard something or the murderer spoke to him.”
There was a long moment of silence.
“What do you think,
Commissaire?”
Tallon asked.
Commissaire?”
Tallon asked.
“The essential ingredients are there. A restaurant critic undertaking a review killed in or close to a restaurant. It's definitely the right MO.”
“Of course, it could be a copycat killing. I'm actually amazed we haven't had more of those,” said one of the officers halfway down the table.
“Good point,” Tallon said. “Still, it has to be investigated thoroughly. We can't leave this to the Lille people. How quickly can you get up there,
Commissaire?”
Commissaire?”
“I'll leave right after the meeting, sir,” Capucine said.
As the session broke up, Tallon signaled Capucine to remain. The two sat silently at the table. Tallon pivoted in his chair, looking for a window. Finding none, he massaged his chin, staring into space.
“You don't think it's our killer, do you?” Tallon asked.
“I can't really say why, but you're right. I don't. I think it's the absence of poison that bothers me. Other than that, the MO is identical. Even the escalation of violence is right on track.”
“If it's him,” Tallon said, “he's right on the Belgian border. He could have moved north. Belgium or Holland could be his next stop. The last goddamn thing I want is to get Interpol involved.”
“Lille is only an hour away by the TGV. High-speed trains make it an easy day trip. And there'd be no trace. He could have paid for his ticket in cash. But that's not what bothers me.”
Tallon looked at her gimlet-eyed.
“If this isn't our guy,” Capucine said, “that means he hasn't killed for over three weeks.”
“Three weeks and four days. And your point?”
“What if he never kills again? We'll have lost him. We have nothing on him so far. Not a single clue. Not a single shred of evidence. That whole business of the short list of the people who were present at both the first killing and the embassy reception seems to be a red herring. If the killer stops now, the cases would be filed and forgotten.”
“Things like that happen,” Tallon said with the ghost of a wry smile. “Jack the Ripper was active from the end of August to the beginning of November, a little more than two and a half months. Then he never killed again. And the Brits still haven't caught him.”
Capucine started to respond to his joke but couldn't find anything to say.
“I understand you've been seeing a Docteur Vavasseur,” Tallon said. “What does he say? Does he think our killer is possessed by an insatiable thirst that will keep driving him until he's caught?”
Capucine started slightly. Tallon's apparent omniscience never failed to unnerve her. With an effort she succeeded in responding to the question as if it had been perfectly anodyne.
“Vavasseur says the killer has defined his modus operandi so minutely, it may be becoming extremely difficult for him to find suitable opportunities. He thinks that may be the cause of the long intermission.”
Tallon grunted. “I hope you're enjoying those lunches of his. I understand they're three-star quality.”
“Sir, is there anything you don't know?”
“I don't know the important things. Like who the killer is.”
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