The 7th Woman (13 page)

“Let's go,” Kriven said. “Squads five and six, I want to know everything there is to know about Marie Briard, from where she was born to where she is buried. Let's see if we can find some witnesses. The other squads will take Arnaud. What has he become? Where is he today? If he's still alive, bring him to me. If he's the killer, I want to know. Now get to work.”

MARC Walberg stared at the message written in blood. He was entirely focused. The killer was completely crazy, and he was getting worse; he was losing his grip on reality and the social conventions he had observed with so much skill until now. Walberg drew these conclusions from the changes in his handwriting. The killer was now trying, consciously or not, to disguise his writing. The letters were more curved, and the dots on the i's were rounder instead of small and restrained, giving them a feminine appearance. And yet, it was the same person, he was sure of that. For that matter, he had a theory about what was happening: The killer was imitating someone very dear to him, in this case, a woman. He took a number of pictures, from a distance and close up to capture every letter. Now he had to write up his report and give it to Sirsky.

NICO could not stop staring at the rigid body covered with wounds and bathed in its own blood. A few years earlier, Nico had met a woman who was initially intrigued by his work. She wanted to know everything about his day-to-day experiences. Nico had recounted it all—the victims, the aggressors, the blood, the horror. In the end, she had left him, repulsed by the smell of death she perceived when she was close to him. Things were different with Caroline. He felt he could talk to her without fearing that she would be driven away, and he did need to talk to her. That was what it would take to build a solid relationship. She was a doctor, so he hoped she would understand better, would know how to keep things in their place. His cell phone rang in the middle of the autopsy. Cohen and Becker started, while Professor Vilars remained impassive, probably used to the incongruity of the situation. He moved away to answer.

“Professor Charles Queneau here. Is this a bad time?”

“No, go ahead. Do you have something new?”

“Yes. We have just finished comparing the DNA found on the contact lenses with the brown hair. I told you they were related.”

“So?”

“We proved the relationship, thanks to mitochondrial DNA, which is only transmitted from mother to child.”

“Good work!”

“I'll get all that down on paper for you and send you the report within the hour.”

“Thank you, professor. This confirms our assumptions and is very useful.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

Nico hung up and returned to Isabelle Saulière's autopsy. He told his colleagues about the forensic team's conclusions.

“The noose is tightening, Nico,” Cohen said. “We're going to get him. I hope before this afternoon.”

“Before this afternoon.” Nico knew what his boss was saying: “before there is a fifth victim.”

S
UMMER SEEMED TO BE lingering. The weather stayed sunny and hot, sustaining the festive atmosphere in Paris. The back-to-school season had already brought its lot of traffic jams and busy people, but the light gave the city the feeling of a seaside resort. He was quite simply happy with his hand in hers, as if they were alone in the world. He imagined her smiling at him. She could give him one of those kisses on the cheek that only she knew how to give. But she wouldn't. She couldn't anymore; she lived in a world where there was no room for anyone else, a world without a future. He knew that, but what could he do? He wasn't strong enough to get her out of there, and this very thought filled him with a deep sense of sadness.

He held her thin hand a little tighter without getting any reaction. She didn't feel anything anymore, not even love for him. How long had it been like this? Several months. For months she had gone out at night, coming back in the early morning looking spent, her makeup smeared on her pale cheeks. Without saying a word, she would take a shower and go to bed to hide under the covers. She didn't even look at him.

He was so afraid. A long moment went by. He continued to sit on the floor, near the bed, until she woke up again. There had been so many nights filled with anxiety. One day, he would have a good job and would get her out of here. He was a smart boy with a promising future. Then she would be treated like a queen and would get her revenge for these hard times. But she had shooed away this promise of his. She didn't believe him. She had killed their dream.

He was still holding her hand. She was walking quickly. She had picked him up after school, something she hadn't done for a long time. Was everything going to go back to the way it was before? Would she love him again? He wished for it so much. He tried to catch her eye, but in vain. He examined her: She was thin but beautiful. He wanted to stop her and hug her. But it wasn't the right time. He felt a determination in her walk that he hadn't seen in a long time. They went home to the dirty gray building where their apartment was. It had once been decorated with taste. Strangely, she had set the table. The place smelled good. Something was masking the old cigarette smell he had gotten used to. His favorite chocolate cake sat near his plate. But the place was still a mess, with empty liquor bottles scattered around the floor, the ashtray overflowing. She sat him down and served him. The evening was starting off well, and he began to think that maybe everything was going to go back to normal. It was just that her shaking fingers couldn't stop moving, her crazy look kept inspecting everything, and her stiff body had something pathetic about it.

He ate dinner, but she didn't touch her food. Then she sent him to bed. He had a hard time going to sleep, tormented by a dull worry. The dreams followed each other: In one he felt her caresses calming his body and soul, while in the next he couldn't even recognize the woman leaning over him, desperate, nearly mad.

A nightmare or reality, everything changed so suddenly. He had killed her with his own hands. Then he had left the apartment and walked ten yards down the filthy hallway to the neighbors, a retired couple. He knocked on the door. She was the one who opened up, lowering her wrinkled face to look at him, surprised to see him at such a late hour. She had often ruffled his hair and given him candy. He liked the hard candies in all different kinds of colors. This thought warmed him a little. Unless that was the burning sensation that was already consuming him, the terror that had taken hold of his body and his mind, the guilt and that intense feeling that he was forever lost.

“I killed her,” he managed to mumble.

The old woman knit her eyebrows and leaned forward. She hadn't heard his confession. He cleared his throat.

“I killed Mommy,” he said in a plaintive voice.

She stared at him in disbelief. Time stopped. The first tears formed in the child's eyes. It was at that moment that she decided to believe him.

“Dear God in heaven. Roger, Roger!” she cried out.

Her husband ran to her, frightened, and she sent him to the neighbor's.

When he returned, his face was pale, and he called the police. Two officers arrived very quickly. They took notes. Their investigation did not last long. The culprit was there and confessing.

The police officers were dumbfounded and contacted their superior, who then arrived.

“Will I go to prison?” the boy had asked, so serious.

“Don't know—don't think so,” the chief had managed to say. He had never faced this kind of situation before.

Then he questioned the old couple to know if the kid had any other family. But no, the poor little guy was now all alone.

The next day, the story was in the local section of the paper. The following day, a few reporters developed it for the front page. The evening news ran with it. He remembered that she had screamed at him, explaining that the world was a rotten place and that she wanted to send him to heaven; he would be better off there. He didn't agree. He had managed to reach the kitchen and grab a long knife. He killed her as she threw herself at him. He said he was “too little to die.” This sentence made the headlines. He was placed in foster care. Then the reporters stopped talking about him. The story died, and he remained alone with his suffering.

He missed his mother so much.

A drug addict is what she had become, what she tried to hide from others and herself. To fill the growing emptiness and calm her anxiety, she had upped her intake of antidepressants. Her therapist kept telling her that her feelings were temporary, that she had what it took to get through this hard time. All she needed was time and patience. Right now she wanted to let everything go, to run away from her responsibilities and disappear forever. She was thinking about suicide, especially when she couldn't sleep in the early morning. Why resist? For her son, of course. Wasn't that enough? But Dimitri only had eyes for his father. She was sure she loved Dimitri, but she was incapable of showing him. She remembered when he was little, crawling on all fours, his blond hair a mess as he babbled happily. He was so handsome! What remained of those times? If it were up to him, he would be living with his father full time. Nico, the love of her life, had left her. He had never really loved her. He could have taken his son from her a thousand times, but he hadn't done that. As usual, he was decent. Did he even suspect what condition she was really in? The answer was no, or he would be there to protect Dimitri and take charge. Damn it! She was going to tell him. Why spare him? She needed a helping hand,
his
helping hand.

FIVE in the morning. He walked into his office with rare eagerness, and it had nothing to do with the urgency of his job. He was thinking about Caroline. She was there, dozing in the old leather armchair. The patrol officer was on a chair, reading a magazine. Nico signaled to him to leave them alone, but he asked him not to go far. Their whispering had not awakened her. He moved his face toward her neck, smelled her and caressed her lips. He felt her arms wrap around him and her fingers settle on his neck. Her mouth sought his. His heartbeat accelerated, he wanted her. He pulled back, uncomfortable, and looked into her bright eyes. She knew. She stretched, trying to wake up completely, and her movements were sensual. She couldn't have been more attractive.

The phone rang, breaking the silence. It was his mother, Anya. She never called this early.

“Nico, I'm really sorry to bother you.”

“What's happening? Something serious?”

“No, don't worry. Well, it could become serious. Your son just called me.”

“Dimitri?”

“You only have one, as far as I know. He's worried about Sylvie. She hasn't been acting normal, and he thinks she is at the end of her wits. He needed to talk about it.”

“Why didn't he say anything to me?”

“You are always trying to defend her. He was worried that you wouldn't believe him and that you would blame the usual little disagreements. He says she is taking medication, a lot of medication. She cries a lot and barely talks to him anymore.”

“Damn!”

“In any case, he wants to be with you. You asked him to stay out of school this week, so you should try to pick him up this morning.”

“I don't really have the time. But I can't leave things like this.”

“You know, I'm not sure that Sylvie is in any condition to take care of him. You should reconsider your attitude about the living situation. It's no longer healthy for him, and it is disturbing him more than you think. What I want more than anything is to protect my grandson. You couldn't bear it if anything happened to him, could you?”

“OK. I'll take care of it.”

“I can if you want. I'm at your sister's place. We could swing by and pick up Dimitri.”

“No. Don't go anywhere. I'll take care of it. It's my responsibility.”

“Perfect. Keep me posted so I don't agonize over things.”

THEY would know the truth. It was just a question of time. He had managed to hide his past for all these years, and now he was going to have his entire life spread out for everyone to see. How was that possible? How did this happen? He should have known that the time would come. He had committed a sin of pride, thinking he could fool the world until his last breath. What did he feel? It was hard to define. He felt a huge emptiness, like an icy coldness piercing his body and his soul. He felt the fear of finding himself alone again, as he had on that day that was forever engraved in his mind. But he also felt some relief at not having to act out the sure-of-himself role any longer. He could shed the past he had created out of thin air to keep people off his scent. Slumped in his office chair, he waited for it all to catch up with him. All he could do was stay there and do nothing. The phone rang. He answered.

“Sir, Chief Sirsky is here. He would like to see you. Should I let him in?” his secretary asked.

THIRTY years had gone by, too long to find all the witnesses in the Briard case. The professor of child psychiatry who had cared for the young Arnaud had died. Fortunately, the hospital in Evry had preserved all its archives. Kriven had sent a patrol unit. He was now reading the medical file. The doctor had underlined the “extreme rarity” of this kind of murder. “I do not think that it is possible to find a single incident of matricide by a child in the psychiatric journals,” the psychiatrist wrote in his introduction. “In forty years of practice, I have encountered only five or six cases of child criminals, but none like this. Underage criminals are most often teenagers.” Then came an analysis of the boy's profile and the doctor's conclusions: “I am struck by how mature little Arnaud is acting. The mother was depressive and probably decided to put an end to her days after doing away with her child. The care that Arnaud gets must allow him to process his feelings of guilt. He needs help to move on. He needs someone to listen to him, but his psychotherapeutic support should be as discreet as possible and should never resemble any kind of interrogation. This child has already suffered from being asked too many questions. The effects on his mental health are unclear. He could experience depression or attempt suicide; no possibilities should be excluded. On the other hand, he could get past this. Forgetting would be desirable,” the professor concluded, “but that doesn't seem likely.”

“David?”

It was the second-ranking detective in the squad, Amélie, a young woman with a promising future.

“Yes? Do you have something?”

“I found the court report. As the article mentioned, the court in Evry ruled self-defense. A juvenile judge was named to examine the support measures required to protect Arnaud Briard. His maternal grandparents didn't want him. They had not seen their daughter since she left the family home and did not know their grandson. The boy was placed with child services. It was impossible to find a family to take him, despite the recommendation from the court-appointed doctor and the judge.”

“Did you contact the group facility?”

“Not yet.”

“Be quick about it. I want to know where Briard is today.”

BASTIEN Gamby was annoyed. He was the best computer specialist there was and had skills that foiled top terrorist plans. The Quai des Orfèvres counter-terrorist section did everything it could to keep him on board. And here was some serial killer making his life difficult. He had tried everything, but he couldn't follow through to the source. He knew how the murderer introduced the data, but he couldn't identify where it came from. He was ready to blow his top, despite his natural calm in just about any circumstance. He wanted to break something.

The screen was blinking. A woman's smile showed up. What was this bullshit? He typed on the keyboard. A new medical file arrived. He opened it.

“Unbelievable!” he bellowed.

HE didn't call her because he wanted to, but rather because he was afraid that his son might be endangered by his mother's depression. If Sylvie really was going through a tough time, the worst could happen.

“Sylvie, it's Nico.”

“Nico? What's gotten into you to call at this hour? You are most certainly not calling for me. Let me guess, you want to talk about your son. You're worried, which is normal, considering what a bad mother I am.”

“Sylvie, stop. I'm starting to be fed up with resolving your day-to-day issues. I have other things to do, believe me.”

“Oh. Yes, please excuse me, sir chief of police. I forgot how important you are to the country's security!”

“Don't take that tone with me. I'm calling because I know that you haven't been feeling yourself lately, and what you just said confirms it. I should have noticed earlier. What's wrong, Sylvie? What's going on?”

“What's wrong? Well shit! Life is great, can't you tell?”

Nico closed his eyes and rubbed his face with a heavy hand. The suspicions his mother and Dimitri shared were founded. He felt deep sadness for his ex-wife. How could he help her get through this? No, he didn't have any feelings for her anymore, but she was the mother of his son, and he was determined to take that into account despite his exasperation. Yet what he really wanted was to focus on himself, on rebuilding his life and no longer having to bear the burden she represented.