The 7th Woman (11 page)

“Sunday, he might have Nico in his sights. Let's not forget that,” he added in a sober voice.

SIX a.m. Nico went into his office. There were some files on his worktable. He spotted the medical records and the victims' photos printed out from Alexis' computer. It was all there. Kriven had not brought this evidence to their meeting. He understood the message: His commander had not wanted to lay it on too thick. It was up to him to manage the situation as he chose best. He would forgive Kriven for this minor infraction; he knew he could count on him under any circumstances, and that was comforting in a risky job like theirs. He made a copy of the file, put the original in a sealed envelope and ordered an officer to take it to Magistrate Becker right away. That relieved his conscience. No criminal was going to push him into any misconduct. Then he organized protection for Sylvie and their son, sending a team to their home. Afterward, he called his ex-wife to warn her. A sleepy, hoarse voice answered.

“Sylvie, I have something important to tell you, and I need your full attention,” he said to wake her up.

He heard her grumble. She coughed to clear her voice.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I'm working on an ugly case. The criminal I'm seeking is saying that he'll come after my family.”

“Is that why Alexis called me earlier? He asked if I had made an appointment with him this afternoon.”

“And so, did you?” Nico asked, even though he knew the answer.

“No way! I stopped seeing him as a doctor when my husband dumped me. There was no way I was going to stay in the family.”

“Sylvie, I didn't dump you, and you know it.”

They had this discussion on a regular basis. Sylvie always returned to the attack, twisting the truth and passing herself off as the victim. She often claimed that she had gotten rid of the two men who had wrecked her life, but he knew she felt a pain that would hound her until her dying breath. She felt betrayed by her own son, sure that he didn't love her as much as he loved his father. Nico had done everything he could to make things better. But Sylvie had been deeply and permanently wounded. For him, she was still the mother of his son, and he respected her as Dimitri's mom. But today he had a problem that was more urgent than her long-standing resentments.

“In a short while, you and Dimitri will be placed under police protection. Two officers will be knocking at your door. Let them in. Do not leave home until you are told you can. Call Dimi's school and tell them he will be absent until the end of the week.”

“Until I'm told I can? I'm not going to stay locked up here for weeks.”

As usual, Sylvie thought about herself first. Her egotism was limitless.

“Everything should go back to normal on Monday. Trust me.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really. Can you watch over Dimitri?”

“If he doesn't run off to you.”

“Sylvie, this is not a joke.”

“I hear your cops arriving.”

She hung up. Nico did not react right away, and the ring tone on the line resounded for a while in his ear. He thought about Caroline, about her gentleness and the obviously fine mind she had. She was nothing like Sylvie. He imagined her soft skin under his lips …

DEPUTY Chief Rost and Commander Kriven arrived at Alexis Perrin's office. The doctor was around forty and of average height. He had pale skin and blond hair. He looked fatigued and anxious.

Marc Walberg, the handwriting specialist from forensics, was with them. They asked Perrin to sit down, and Walberg dictated the murderer's two messages. With his left hand, Alexis wrote the words on a blank piece of paper. Walberg took the crime scene pictures from his briefcase and compared the two, starting with the A's and the B's. Then the specialist picked up some prescriptions on the doctor's desk and noted that the writing corresponded to what he had just written. The doctor's writing didn't look anything like the killer's. The question, then, was whether Dr. Perrin could have disguised the shape of his letters. If he had done so, it would have been when he committed the murders. However, Walberg's analysis revealed that the killer's handwriting was authentic. He concluded that Alexis Perrin could not be the author of the messages—which didn't mean that he wasn't the murderer. Rost called Nico immediately to tell him, while Kriven checked the doctor's online calendar. He had to find out if he had had earlier appointments with the three victims. Perrin said no, but he needed to make sure.

DESPITE the early hour, specialists were hard at work at the Paris Police Forensics Laboratory, 3 Quai de l'Horloge in the first arrondissement. Professor Charles Queneau greeted Commander Théron in person. He was the lab's director, and he wanted a full role in this investigation.

“We have conclusions regarding the rope,” the scientist said. “Everything's identical—diameter, twists, strands and color. The rope used to tie up the three victims came from the same batch. The contact lenses are the same brand and the same correction. The wearer was far-sighted. I collected DNA from each of the lenses, and we'll compare it with the victim's, using a genetic amplification technique that has excellent results with small samples. You'll have our conclusions in twenty-four hours. The same procedure is being done on the blond hair you sent us last night. Dr. Tom Robin is handling it.”

This detail meant that Professor Queneau had put his best specialists on the case. He was taking the situation very seriously and wanted it to be known. Théron nodded in acknowledgement.

“The blood taken from Mrs. Chloé Bartes' mirror has DNA corresponding to the victim,” the professor continued. “I'm sorry to say that it doesn't reveal anything else.”

“Damn! Well, that was to be expected.”

“However, we did pick up traces of talc on Mrs. Trajan's slippers.”

“What do you mean?”

“You heard me. The talc comes from Triflex, which is a brand of surgical gloves. Your man was wearing a pair when he grabbed the slippers. There is always talc in the packaging. For that matter, manufacturers recommend that doctors remove the excess powder before they do surgery.”

“It couldn't be talc from some another source?”

“This talc has specific characteristics. The medical laboratories that make surgical gloves publish these specifications. There is no doubt.”

“Can you get these gloves easily?”

“It's professional material, but I suppose that someone with enough motivation could steal some. One last point: We have finished examining the brown hairs. What is interesting in studying hair is that even years later you can detect traces of exposure to a whole bunch of foreign chemicals called xenobiotics.”

“What?”

“These are molecules that are foreign to the organism, ranging from medication to pollutants. I can tell you that the person to whom that hair belonged is a regular user of amphetamines.”

“Were you able to establish an age?”

“Impossible. Finding evidence of drug use in hair has even been done on mummies that are thousands of years old. Hair, unlike biological liquids and tissues, is not biodegradable. More important, we have the owner's genetic imprint. For the moment, it is not very useful, unless we can compare that DNA to another sample.”

“OK, talc and amphetamines. That's already pretty good. I'll be waiting for news on the rest, professor.”

“You can count on me. As soon as I have something, I'll call you.”

Théron left the police lab perplexed. He decided to contact Nico before going to the hospital to question Valérie Trajan's husband. He wanted to let him know about the lab's findings right away. There was nothing decisive that would push the investigation forward dramatically, but all the evidence put side-by-side would little by little lead to the murderer. He really wanted to give his boss the key to this mystery, because he knew it was a delicate situation. Nico had every right to be alarmed. In any case, Théron was glad he wasn't in Nico's shoes. He thought about his wife. When you looked closely, she resembled the victims and Nico's ex-wife. Damn, he wanted to go home and take her in his arms. She would be preparing the kids' breakfast. This morning he would give anything to kiss her neck, underneath her thick head of brown hair. To drive her crazy …

T
HERE WERE DAYS WHEN the solitude weighed heavily on him, and today was one of those. He felt his anxiety growing. He was hot and then cold, and then he didn't really know. Above all, he was afraid. He was afraid of looking into the empty eyes of another dead woman—the eyes of a woman he didn't know or the eyes of a woman who meant something to him. Why was the murderer after him personally? He had gone over all the successful investigations he had handled. Most of those men were still in prison, although some had served their time and been released. Remembering their cases drove him into a dreary and violent world where it was often difficult to determine whether the criminal understood exactly what he was doing or whether some mental imbalance could be blamed. Still, he thought that leeway given to law breakers because of their mental problems was sometimes excessive. With a sudden urge, he grabbed his cell phone. He called the number he had memorized.

“Saint Antoine Hospital, how can I help you?” an impassive female voice said.

“I would like to speak to Dr. Dalry, please.”

“Hold on, please.”

Silence. Then another voice.

“Yes, what is it?”

“I would like to speak to Dr. Dalry,” he said again.

“She is busy. Is there something I can help you with?”

“It's personal. This is Nico Sirsky. Could you please tell her right away that I called?”

“Let me see if that is possible. Please hold the line.”

Silence again. Caroline was more difficult to contact than a cabinet member. This thought made him smile. He didn't care about rank-related propriety, but knowing that Caroline's calls were filtered was a sign of her importance and made her all the more attractive.

“Hello.”

He started. There she was, with that soft and calm voice. He felt his heart accelerate.

“Nico Sirsky here.”

“Yes, hi. Things haven't been too hard since last night?”

“We're doing what we can.”

“You didn't go home, did you?”

“No. It was an all-nighter.”

“You already looked tired. As your doctor, I have to tell you I'm not at all happy about that.”

“It's a good sign that you are worried about my health.”

“How is Alexis?” she asked, not reacting. “He wasn't in great shape either. I was going to call your sister.”

“The situation is a little complicated. I'll explain it to you. Actually, I was calling to, uh …”

“Yes?”

“Well, perhaps, um …”

“Tell me.”

“OK. Are you free for lunch today? I don't really have the time, but I would love to see you. Accept. Please. It's just that …”

“I finish my rounds around one this afternoon, and I'm off until Monday. I've put in too many hours.”

“That's great. I'll wait for you at my office, OK?”

“Fine.”

“Caroline?”

“Yes?”

“I'm happy that you can come. I need to talk to you.”

She didn't answer. He hadn't hoped for an answer. He hung up.

ALEXANDRE Becker leafed through Professor Vilars' autopsy report while imagining her dressed as a medical examiner, with her white scrubs, the green waterproof smock, a surgical mask, cap, protective glasses, gloves and boots. He knew the introductory formulas by heart:
“I undersigned Professor Armelle Vilars, chief medical examiner, sworn in by the Paris Court of Appeals, appointed by Mr. Alexandre Becker, investigating magistrate with the High Court of Paris, on this day of … with the assignment to:

• Describe in detail the corpse of Valérie Trajan, brought to the Institut Médico-Légal de Paris
  
• Carry out a full autopsy in view of establishing the circumstances and causes of death and to look for any evidence of a crime or misdemeanor
  
• Proceed with taking any samples required and to carry out any necessary tests
  
• Make all observations that could be useful in uncovering the truth.”
  

The victim's full identity followed, with a summary of the facts, the date and time of the autopsy and the list of people present. The next section covered the examination of the body, including height, weight, eye and hair color, any postmortem lividity related to the position in which the body was discovered and any lesions from being tied up, whipped and stabbed. The wounds were numbered one to thirty and described in detail.

The simple inspection of the body was enough to establish an approximate time of death, always a delicate exercise. Rigor mortis set in two hours after death, reaching its height after twelve hours and then started wearing out after twenty-four hours. Lividity, or areas where the blood settled, began three to six hours after death. It disappeared with vitropression in the first six hours and then entirely after forty-eight hours. After six hours, the corneas became covered with an opalescent veil, making it tricky to discern the patient's actual eye color. Body temperature was also an indicator of time of death. By studying these elements, Professor Vilars deduced that Valérie Trajan died at four p.m. on Wednesday.

Then she focused on the breasts, which had been replaced by those from the second victim, Chloé Bartes. The murderer used surgical sutures and handled the needle with the skill of a professional. Then the medical examiner took blood samples for a toxicology screen, along with urine, gastric content and bile samples. She took two of each sample in case a second opinion would be required later on. The third step involved making large incisions with a scalpel on the thighs, arms and back and under the shoulder blades, looking for bruising.

The report continued with the rest of the autopsy details. Two techniques were generally used to access the abdominal and thoracic cavities. A Y incision was the most common. Armelle Vilars preferred a vertical median incision from just under the sternum to the pubis, removing the sterno-costal mass.

Magistrate Becker could then read the detailed description of what the doctor did. The heart and lungs were removed and sent to the anatomopathology lab. The specialist dissected and studied all the organs. The pregnancy was noted and described, and the embryo was removed. To finish up, Professor Vilars sawed open the skull after making sure there was no fracture. There was no subarachnoid hemorrhage or epidural hematoma. The brain was intact.

As with the two previous murders, the cause of death was stabbing. The knife was introduced violently, penetrating the abdomen, rupturing the vena cava and causing internal hemorrhaging. The victim then died in less than two minutes. Her organs were floating in blood, which explained why it felt like she had a distended belly when it was palpated.
“Violent death, criminal in nature. Death from hemorrhaging following a penetrating wound of vital organs by a knife. I certify, having personally carried out this assignment on this day at 2:15 a.m. that this report is sincere and truthful.”
So ended her analysis.

What was important? The three victims resembled each other. They were pregnant and had fairly pleasant lives. Other than the observation that the killer had some imperious need to humiliate his victims by whipping them and that he amputated their breasts, there had to be something else. But what? The kind of sutures used and the rigorous technique seemed to direct the investigation toward the medical world. A doctor? Why not Dr. Alexis Perrin, despite what Chief Sirsky thought? He would question him and soon have his own opinion. He picked up the three victims' medical files, which Sirsky had sent to him after they were extracted from Dr. Perrin's computer. The photos were eloquent; you could follow the murderer step by step. Only the killer could have taken them.

DANIEL Trajan had experienced a serious emotional shock. His doctors agreed that he needed time to recover. He would probably remain in the hospital for several days. Commander Théron found him lying motionless in his hospital bed, an IV in his arm and an empty look in his eyes, undoubtedly because of the medication. Yet Théron had to question him. Of course, he had verified his alibi with the law firm he worked for. But perhaps, with a little luck, Trajan would know something. As he began the interview, Trajan stared at the white wall in front of him. He answered by shaking his head mechanically, and he had nothing to say. He didn't understand why his wife had been chosen. It must have been a mistake. Théron ended the questioning with a lump in his throat. How could you not feel compassion for this man? But there was no time for that. A detail, however, caught his attention. According to her husband, Valérie Trajan had never worn contact lenses.

DAVID Kriven stared intently at the computer in the office he shared with his team. The office was cramped and uncomfortable. They had given up complaining, focused as they were on their job of safeguarding others. Kriven was reviewing news stories from thirty years earlier, when he was only four. Thirty lashes, thirty years—perhaps it was some sort of anniversary. He was looking for something that could have occurred in Paris and possibly be a lead, maybe a similar crime. Internet proved to be useful for this kind of investigation, even if everything in the papers wasn't available on the Web. So he had sent three of his men to the library to go through the microfilm files. His eyes were dry from staring at the screen. If there were something to find, his team would uncover it.

THEY were finding evidence, but it wasn't leading anywhere useful. Nico was exhausted. But he had to continue looking, at all costs. He put his face in his hands, closed his eyes and massaged his temples, as if that were enough to give him energy. Then he heard steps in the narrow hallway leading to his office. The door opened. He lifted his head to see who was there. It was Caroline. There she was, smiling at him. He stood and crossed his office to embrace her. Ignoring the risk, he pulled her to him and pressed his lips against hers. Nothing else had any importance. Kissing her was all that he wanted. She did not move away from him. He felt her fingers touch his neck, and a shiver ran down his body. He pressed himself against her, feeling her shape through their clothes. He held onto her mouth for a long moment. He tasted her tongue, both furiously and gently. Even as they moved apart to catch their breath, they held onto each other. He kissed her neck. He had dreamed about this. He loved her smell and the heat of her skin. He was crazy about this woman.

MAGISTRATE Becker invited Alexis Perrin into his office. The doctor was quite a sight. His features were distorted, he was extremely pale, and his eyes were full of anxiety. Once seated, Perrin couldn't control the trembling in his legs. The man seemed to be breaking down, and they needed to find out why.

“I have a few questions to ask you, Dr. Perrin, concerning these murders. Chief Sirsky has told me that you are related. You know that he is in charge of the case and that you have become involved. You have become implicated …”

“Implicated?”

“That's right. The analysis of your computer files and your appointment list lead us to believe that you knew the three victims.”

“That's wrong. I never saw them before. I was not their doctor. I don't know how their medical files ended up on my computer. I thought your specialists were looking into that.”

“Relax. I'm just trying to understand.”

“And what do you think I want? This whole thing is driving me crazy. Good God, I saw those pictures. And I haven't been able to think about anything else since. I didn't have anything to do with that.”

“Nobody said you did. Could you just tell me how the last few days unfolded for you at work? I know about those fake appointments …”

HE couldn't take his eyes off her. He was holding her hand. He was afraid she would disappear, like a dream. They crossed the Pont Saint Michel, walking toward the Rue Saint André des Arts. In the middle of the bridge, above the Seine, they stopped to kiss again. A tender embrace. They decided to grab a quick crêpe for lunch, as he had to get back to the office quickly. He suggested that they meet later. He couldn't do without her now.

ALEXANDRE Becker felt very uncomfortable with Dr. Perrin's story. It was a crazy, meticulously orchestrated conspiracy. If the man sitting in front of him was not the murderer, then the killer had an overflowing imagination. He glanced at the report that came from Marc Walberg, the handwriting expert. The doctor was left-handed, like the criminal. But according to Walberg, their writing styles were very different. That did not prove that the doctor was innocent, but it was a piece of information. Becker was doubtful. He couldn't believe that Perrin was guilty, despite being clearly upset, undoubtedly because of the unbelievable nature of the events that were happening to him. So, if he wasn't the man, who was?

THEIR legs were intertwined under the table. The waiter brought them the crêpes they had ordered, along with a bottle of cider. Nico felt twenty years younger, as though he were still a student. He had often hung out in this neighborhood, splitting his time between Science Po and law school at the Sorbonne. She had gone to med school near Odéon, Jussieu and Saint Antoine. Life was strange: Perhaps they had crossed paths on the sidewalk, in front of a gallery on the Rue Mazarine, because both of them had liked walking. He wished he had met her then, but he wouldn't have Dimitri today. In any case, she was here now. He ate with one hand, and rubbed her knee with the other. His fingers moved a little bit up her thigh, along her silky stockings. His breath was short. She smiled. He leaned forward and kissed her again.

They separated in front of 36 Quai des Orfèvres after exchanging their private cell phone numbers. He watched her for a moment as she walked away, feeling heavy-hearted. What he really wanted was to catch up with her, hold her against him and never let go. But that was impossible, duty called. And what a duty it was! A serial killer, a suspected brother-in-law, a personal threat and a fourth victim to come. Tracking criminals was the story of his life. It was more than a job, it was a calling.