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Authors: Alexander Campion

BOOK: Killer Critique
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“You never killed anyone? Not even your little dog?”
“Who told you about that!!!” Béatrice yelled, attempting to rise from the chair. “It's
so
not true.”
“A man who lives under a bridge told me about it.”
“What? What man? You're making this up. That's bullshit. No one knows about Ratafia. No one at all! And it wasn't even me. He fell into the barbecue all by himself. It was an accident. And anyway he deserved it. He never stopped yapping all day long.”
“Are you telling me you put your puppy on the barbecue ?”
“Not at all. Why would you think that? I've never even had a puppy. You know, for a supposedly hot
flic
, you have a very hard time understanding people.”
“Tell me about Gautier du Fesnay.”
“Gautier? Another one from the evil empire. He had taste but he was vicious. Another wicked judge.”
“And he had to die because he judged?”
Béatrice stared at the floor as if she had not heard.
“You had to kill him?”
Béatrice looked unblinkingly into Capucine's eyes as if she had been woken in the middle of the night and was trying to understand where she was.
“I've never killed anyone, ever,” she said with chilling sincerity.
 
After an hour Capucine gave up. She had gone around the track three more times and had got absolutely nowhere. She left the interrogation room with the orders that Béatrice was not to be questioned. She trudged up the famous staircase A to the third floor and went to the conference room. Tallon sat as erect as if on parade reading
Le Monde.
When Capucine walked in, he raised an index finger instructing her to remain silent. After a long wait, he closed the tabloid-size newspaper, smoothed it flat with the palm of his hand, folded it in half, pushed it away on the table.
“Your husband has quite a way with words. He's very amusing. I never go to the places he writes about, but I love his reviews. Was he shaken up by the events this evening?”
“Shaken up? When last seen he was getting sloshed in our infirmary with one of my
brigadiers
and threatening to spend the rest of the night at the Pied de Cochon. I gave instructions to the uniforms who were going to drive him that they were to take him home, even if they had to use force.”
“Too bad. I would gladly have joined them. I know it's not the done thing to eat onion soup in the middle of the summer, but I would have made an exception. How did you make out with Mademoiselle Renaud?”
“She's a smart cookie. She's playing a role to set herself up for a plea of insanity and enjoying herself immensely. She talks openly about the murders and why it was oh so necessary for the victims to die, but denies ever having killed anyone. She has a talent for acting.”
“So we have a difficult choice, don't we?”
“Yes, sir, we do.”
“Sit down. Let's talk. You first.”
“Yes, sir.” Capucine paused. “This is the first time on this case that I'd have valued the advice of a competent
juge d'instruction.”
She laughed.
“We have two choices,” Capucine said. “We apprehended Renaud attempting a homicide. We could take her to the
tribunal correctionnel
and the judge would automatically convict her and she'd begin her sentence immediately. There would be no possibility of appeal. The problem with that is that since no one died in the attempt, she'd get ten years at the outside and be out on parole on in six or less.”
Tallon scratched his chin and searched in vain for a window to stare through. “My guess would be an eight-year sentence, with her out on parole in four years. Go on.”
“The other thing we could do is prepare a case for all the murders to take to the
cour d'assises.
We have a fair amount of evidence. Some of it very damning.”
Tallon frowned.
“The problem, of course, is that Renaud's father would pull out all the stops in hiring a legal team. Even if she's convicted the first time, they would definitely appeal.”
“But she'd be in the clink.”
“She could be out in a year if we went that route.”
“Commissaire,
you're not thinking like a
flic.”
“A confession? Please. Of course, you could go down there and whack her into submission and she'd sign anything you wanted. But she'd repudiate it in court and start yelling about police brutality. She'd probably get off scot-free. And can you imagine the press we'd get with her father's money behind it?”
Tallon scowled at her and tapped the table with his middle finger.
“So?”
“So? I just don't know.”
They discussed pens, night-vision glasses, turkey trussing needles, and DNA until the small hours of the morning, as Béatrice remained taped to her chair below the level of the Seine. In the end, taking the risk,
faute de mieux,
Tallon remanded Béatrice to La Santé prison, where she would wait until she was transported in a dark cage in a police van to spend her day being scrutinized by a row of men in long black robes with flowing white bibs, to return to La Santé, if the gods of justice were so disposed, to spend the rest of her life behind dark gray walls.
Leaving the Quai, Capucine had a clear vision of Béatrice enclosed in her glass dock, listening to witnesses accusing her from the podium facing the semicircular bench, recoiling from the forbidding, evaluating scowls of the judges. It would be the embodiment of her worst nightmare. Capucine rejoiced at the thought of Béatrice's suffering and hated herself for her pleasure.
CHAPTER 41
C
apucine didn't get home until after three. Alexandre was flat on his back on their bed. He snored deeply, rattling from the base of his throat, emitting an almost visible miasma of morning-after beer at each eructation. Nevertheless, Capucine experienced the flood of love she always felt when she saw him asleep. And with the rush came the guilt. There was no getting around it. She had pitted the entirety of what she loved most in life against a single arrest. It was merely one among scores of arrests that were certain to happen in coming years. What kind of person would do that to her husband? What was that telling her about her marriage? What did that tell her about her life?
She walked down the long hall to the guest bedroom. No Momo. She hadn't really expected he would stay the night. Aimlessly, she walked back up the hall and wandered into the living room, far too keyed up to even think of sleep. She poured herself a double measure of vodka and took it into the kitchen, opened the freezer door, and twisted a pink rubber ice-cube tray, hoping to extract two cubes while leaving the others in place. The ice shattered with a noise like a short string of Chinese firecrackers. She stood stock still for a moment listening intently to see if she had woken Alexandre. Silence. She dumped three cubes into the glass and rooted through the lower compartment of the refrigerator for a lemon. She found one, squeezed it in her hand to loosen the juice, and then tossed it back irritably. This was no time for niceties.
She dug into her trousers for her cell phone and pressed in Isabelle's speed dial. Despite the hour Isabelle seemed wide awake. Capucine could hear the murmur of a television in the background.
They spoke for twenty minutes, during which Capucine poured herself another vodka.
“And so how do we know when to make the arrest?”
“I'll be there with you by then.”
“What if you're late?”
Capucine snorted a laugh. “That's the one thing you don't have to worry about. Get some sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.”
When she hung up, Capucine's exhaustion fell on her all at once like an impossibly heavy coat of chain mail. Making it to the bedroom was an accomplishment. She shrugged off her clothes, leaving them in a pile by the bed, slid under the sheet, and—oblivious to his snores and the stench of beer—pulled Alexandre's outstretched arm over her as if it were an expiating blanket, capable on its own of granting absolution.
It seemed like her cell phone started buzzing the minute her head hit the pillow. She leaned over the side of the bed and groped through the pile of clothes searching for her tan twill trousers. Inexplicably, the yellow light of an advanced morning was visible around the edges of the blind. She extracted the phone from the pocket of her trousers, glanced at the screen, and was astonished that it was noon. The caller was marked “private.” She pushed the green TALK button and was greeted with the near-hysterical voice of Martinière.
“Yet another outrage,
Commissaire.
This time I'm definitely going to have to take disciplinary action.”
Capucine sighed audibly and contemplated hanging up. There was a long pause.
“
Allô, Commissaire.
Were you asleep? It's after twelve. Are you derelict in your duty as well as insubordinate?”
“All right,
monsieur le juge,
what's the problem this morning?” Capucine sat up, her bare legs dangling over the side of the bed. She made patterns in the rug with her big toes. She bent over and examined her feet closely. No matter what happened, she was going to have a pedicure on Saturday.
“Morning? It's hardly the morning. And the problem? I think it goes far beyond being a mere problem. I just finished reading the magistrates' morning circular, and I see that you have arrested a suspect and remanded her for trial. If I understand the situation, there was the opportunity to have her convicted on the spot
in flagrante delicto
but you—without consulting me—have chosen a full court prosecution for three murders.”
“That's exactly right,
monsieur le juge.”
“It is my role to determine judicial procedure, not the police's. As it happens, you did make the correct choice. An on-the-spot delicto conviction would have been a mistake.”
Capucine sighed and wrote Alexandre's name in the carpet with her big toe. How could anyone be so long-winded?
“The most serious offense is that I see that Contrôleur Général Tallon has requested a mandate of arrest for someone he seems to believe is the suspected perpetrator of one of the restaurant murders.”
“That is also correct.”
“That arrest simply must not happen. I will not allow it.”
Capucine was amazed. She would never understand the man.
“Why ever not? We arrest guilty people. That's our job.”
“Think about it,
Commissaire.
What happens if this person confesses to having committed more than one of the murders?”
“Monsieur le juge,
I'm just not following you here.”
“Don't you see, in that case Béatrice Renaud would no longer be a serial killer? She needs to have committed three murders to be deemed a serial killer.”
Without putting on any clothes, Capucine had walked into the kitchen and started making coffee on the Pasquini. She stifled her laughter.
“I think I understand. If she's not officially a serial killer, you couldn't claim you'd apprehended the first serial killer arrested in France in decades.”
“Exactly. Do you understand now?”
Her coffee made, Capucine poured some milk into a small metal jug.
“You and the contrôleur général have been precipitate. You made your arrest far too soon. If you'd waited, Renaud would have killed two or three more people. Since you went off half-cocked, it's imperative you don't further jeopardize the situation by making this other arrest. In any event the matter is closed. I've rescinded your arrest warrant and you will be sanctioned if you proceed. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly.” Capucine laughed as she fitted the little jug under the steam jet and turned it on. A violent burst of steam blew through the milk, frothing it. She knew an empty threat when she heard one.
“What is that irritating noise?”
“Probably something in the street,
monsieur le juge.
There's no need to be alarmed. The arrest is not planned until next week at the earliest. Why don't I ask monsieur le contrôleur général to give you a call later today? I'm sure he will be very interested in hearing your position.” Capucine poured the foaming milk into her coffee, rooted through a small bowl of irregularly shaped Le Perroquet lumps of cane sugar, found one of exactly the right size, dropped it in her coffee. “Will that do,
monsieur le juge?”
“It will have to, won't it?” Martinière said bitterly and hung up.
Capucine was no more than halfway through her café au lait when her cell phone buzzed again. It was Isabelle with the tight-throated voice, that invariably indicated imminent action.
“I've got them. They've just settled in at the Alsatian restaurant at the end of the Ile Saint-Louis. You know, the one that looks out over the
passerelle
that goes over to the Ile de la Cité.”
“Are they having lunch or just a drink?”
“Lunch. They're drinking champagne right now but they're looking at menus. I'm on the rue Jean du Bellay behind a postcard stand in front of a bookstore.”
“Good. There's a café across the street from you. Walk up the block, come down on the other side of the street and slip in. If you stand at the bar, you should see them through the window and they won't see you. Get David on his cell phone and tell him to walk down the quai d'Or-léans and go into the restaurant at the end. He can say he's waiting for someone. He'll have a perfect view from there. I'll be with you guys in twenty minutes. Don't do anything until I get there.”
She got Momo on his cell phone.
“Where are you?”
“At my desk at the brigade,
Commissaire.
I'm on duty today.”
“How're you feeling?”
“Fine. I took Monsieur de Huguelet upstairs and the squad car took me to my place. I had a couple of Calvas and went to bed. I was here at eight, no problem.”
“Alexandre doesn't have your fortitude. He's still asleep. Anyhow, we need to get going. They're sitting down to lunch. Get one of the squad cars and three uniforms. No automatic weapons. Go to the Ile Saint-Louis. Corner of the rue le Regrattier and the quai de Bourbon. Wait for me there. Do it fast. I need you now.”
“Don't worry. I'll drive the car myself.”
Fifteen minutes later Capucine pulled up behind the double-parked squad car on the rue Regrattier. The two cars blocked traffic on the street but that was no real inconvenience to the citizenry since the only cars that ever came down the street were delusionally in search of a parking space, something well known not to exist on the Ile Saint-Louis.
Capucine told the three officers they were to wait until called. They nodded, expecting nothing less: waiting was the lot of a police officer. Capucine walked down the quai de Bourbon with Momo and explained the situation. They walked past the rue Jean du Bellay and continued on to the little square at the very stern of the island. There they stopped and Capucine called to give Isabelle and David their instructions.
Capucine rounded the point of the island and walked up the quai on the other side, Momo trailing twenty feet behind.
As she emerged into the little square it was a Paris scene straight from a travel brochure. Tourists cruised boisterously from shop to shop or ogled jugglers and jazz bands on the wide pedestrian bridge. The Seine flowed its stately flow, winking reflections from the sun as huge barges passed, their engines vibrating deep, slow rhythms.
On the terrace of the Ile Saint-Louis' venerable Alsatian restaurant, Sybille and Guy Voisin luxuriated in the sun, surveying the scene and drinking champagne. Voisin placed a proprietary hand on Sybille's thigh as he finished a story. Both of them laughed in bubbly good spirits.
Voisin caught sight of Capucine and stood up.
“Commissaire,
come have a drink,” he said, loudly enough to be heard twenty feet away. “We're celebrating. Sybille has just signed a fabulous new movie.”
Sybille beckoned Capucine enthusiastically.
The juxtaposition of
“commissaire”
and “new movie” was a tonic for both the terrace and the crowd on the bridge, who peered, goggled, gossiped, identified Sybille, and edged closer while trying hard to appear uninterested.
Seeing Capucine advance toward their table, Voisin beamed. But after she took a few steps toward him, his smile evaporated and his eyes darted sharply right and left, a threatened rodent. Capucine had no idea if he'd caught sight of David or Isabelle, but he definitely knew something wasn't right. He jumped out of his chair and ran for the bridge.
As Capucine wheeled to follow she broke a heel, twisting her ankle, nearly falling. She cursed Italian shoemakers. Voisin was already on the bridge, with Momo fifteen feet behind. From the corner of her eye she saw Isabelle and David sprinting from their hiding spots. Capucine took off her shoes and broke into a run.
Momo gained steadily on Voisin. When Voisin reached the middle of the span, he turned, his face contorted in a snarl, produced a pistol, fired once in the air.
Momo continued on without breaking stride.
Isabelle appeared at Capucine's side. “Do I drop him?”
“No. Let it play out. There are too many people on the bridge.”
As Momo closed in on Voisin, his eyes widened. He leveled the gun at Momo, taking careful aim. Momo ran on relentlessly. Voisin appeared to lose his nerve, pocketed his pistol, vaulted over the metal railing.
Momo reached the railing a split second after Voisin's leap and clambered over after him. Capucine, Isabelle, and David arrived in the next instant.
As they peered down, the stern of a barge was just disappearing under the bridge, its motor drumming loudly beneath the arch. They ran to the opposite railing. Two shots clanged hollowly, resonating in the steel structure of the bridge.
The bow of the barge emerged almost immediately. Voisin sat drooping in the forward end of the sand-filled cargo hold, a tired child waiting for his mother in the park's sandbox. His right hand clutched his left shoulder. A red stain spread on his suit jacket. Twenty seconds later Momo appeared at the aft end of the hold, kneeling on his left leg in the sand. As he passed under them he struggled to rise and fell back, genuflecting like a worshiper in church bending the wrong knee.
Even though there didn't seem to be any blood, Capucine had the impression Momo had been shot. She flipped open her cell phone and gave a rapid series of orders.

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