The 7th Woman (5 page)

The woman's eyes showed terror, which boosted her torturer's motivation. The first blow bruised her skin. On the second, she twisted desperately, trying to escape. Blood came with the third. She was hurting. God! He loved that!

NICO dialed his mother's number. Certainly she had been waiting for his call since his doctor's appointment. She already knew all the details, thanks to Tanya, but she would still hold it against him for not telling her in person. He loved her, and they had a close relationship. But sometimes he needed to distance himself. When he was little, she had been possessive and protective, in the habit of whispering sugary-sweet words in his ear.

“Anya Sirsky,” a deep, self-assured voice said.

“It's me, Mom.”

“It's about time! Would you be good enough to at least call me after your endoscopy tomorrow? Do I need to remind you that you are my son? I worry about you.”

“There's nothing wrong with me, Mother.”

“Are you totally sure about that? I know you're in pain, even if you won't admit it. A mother can feel things like that. You're too tired these days. You can't go on living like this. Tanya, Dimitri and I are not enough. You need to start thinking about get married again.”

“You can't mail order a wife.”

“Don't joke about it. How's Dimi doing?”

“You saw him on Sunday, Mom.”

“Yes, but do you have any news?”

“He slept at my place last night,” Nico admitted.

“Again? Clearly, Sylvie doesn't know what to do with that kid.”

“Mother! I don't want to hear comments like that. Dimitri splits his time between his two parents and will continue to do so.”

“But he adores you.”

“His mother adores him, too. Let's not mix everything up. They both have to make an effort to get along so that they don't regret things later. It will be important for Dimitri one day. I won't choose sides, and you shouldn't either. We've talked about this a hundred times, and I won't change my mind. So don't go putting any ideas into my son's head.”

“Don't be silly, Nico. Am I going to see you this weekend?”

“Of course. I've got to go. I've got more work than I know what to do with.”

HER skin was covered with lacerations. She moaned in pain and couldn't stop crying. He felt a slight erection. With the exception of this reaction to the pleasure he felt, he didn't betray the slightest emotion, which terrified his prey even more. He removed the scalpel from his bag. He slowly slid the blade along her neck, between her breasts and down to her navel. He was enjoying every second spent in her company.

“I am going to cut off your breasts. Let me warn you: You will suffer.”

She found the energy to struggle. Horrified, she shook her head as a plea. He sat down on her, forcing her to be still. He caressed her nipples with the cold blade. Then he cut into the skin. Leaving the blade deep inside, he skillfully detached the breast from the rest of her body. She fainted. He had expected that. It was too bad they couldn't hold out until the end, awake and lucid, conscious despite the atrocious pain he was inflicting. He did the same with the other breast. When he had finished, he placed the breasts in a jar he had brought for this purpose. He got up and prepared to stab his victim. One blow, quick and clean, right into that perverted woman's abdomen. Finally, all he had to do was to cover up the crime, leaving a scene that would cause the cops to doubt. The thought was enough to make him gloat.

THREE p.m. The staff in the reception area explained how to get to Mrs. Pasquier's office. The illustrious dean of the Sorbonne was around fifty and inspired respect. Despite a rather slight build, she exuded energy and determination. She shook his hand firmly; she was probably used to doing battle with men. You could see in her eyes that she could judge a person in a glance. She invited him to sit down at a round table, where a young woman placed two cups of coffee and some cookies.

“I prepared a list of professors at the university with their contact information,” she announced. “I underlined the ones Marie-Hélène was close to. In an institution like ours, many people don't know each other. There is also a list of her students. I already questioned some of them to find out if Marie-Hélène had had any problems lately. She was always punctual, never missed a class and taught with passion. She was pleasant to be around and cordial. Her colleagues and students admired her, as did I, for that matter.”

“Thank you for this information. My men will start calling and making appointments with the various people. We shouldn't neglect any lead.”

“Was her murder that atrocious? Her companion talked to me about it yesterday night.”

Nico did not sense any unhealthy curiosity, but rather a feeling of responsibility and a determination to know the truth in order to face it. He chose to be frank.

“Yes. She was whipped, mutilated and stabbed. She must have suffered terribly. I ask that you not say a word about the circumstances of the murder.”

Mrs. Pasquier did not betray any emotion, but Nico's professional eye noted that she blinked several times.

“Thank you for your trust. Do you think it was someone she knew?”

“It is too early to tell. Could she have gotten on a student's bad side, over an exam, for example?”

“I was expecting that question. Here are the names of the students who received the worst grades in Marie-Hélène's class, and in the other classes, as well.”

“Could any of them have felt amorous toward her?”

“There are always students in love with their professors. You might remember a teacher for her perfume or legs that you admired. It's common. Everyone knows it and sets boundaries. That is part of the job. Dealing with young adults just barely out of adolescence isn't always easy. But I had not heard of anything related to Marie-Hélène, or at least nothing out of the ordinary.”

“OK. So you have nothing to tell me.”

“Perhaps because the murder has no connection to the university. Believe me, if I had the slightest doubt, I would be turning things upside down.”

“I'm sure that is true. Thank you for seeing me. The coffee was excellent. That's rare in a public institution.”

“I buy it myself. That's the secret. Don't hesitate to let me know if you need anything else. I'll give you my personal number.”

Nico was almost sorry to leave. He liked this strong woman.

ANNE was worried. She kept calling and calling, but nobody answered. They had agreed to meet at three-thirty in front of Victor Hugo's house at the corner of the Place des Vosges. She felt a strange solitude in this setting that was so truly theatrical. She couldn't explain it, but she had a bad feeling. A dull anxiety dried her throat. It was four p.m. She decided to go to her friend's house. She walked quickly, nearly running to the building on Rue de Turenne. She knew the code. She took the elevator to the fourth floor. She rushed to knock on the door. Nobody came. What should she do? She would contact Greg. A secretary answered. Greg couldn't be reached at the moment. She nearly screamed that it was an emergency, scaring the secretary. A silence. Then Greg's tense voice.

“Anne? What's going on?”

“I don't know. Your wife and I were going to meet, and she never showed up. It's been forty-five minutes. I'm in front of your door, but she's not answering. Something's not right.”

“What do you mean something's not right?”

“You have to come and open the door, Greg.”

“I'm in the middle of a meeting with one of my biggest customers. I can't …”

She hung up on him. He would come. She had scared him. She put her hand on the heavy door and closed her eyes. She said her friend's name over and over, like a prayer. Chloé, Chloé, Chloé. A ball of anxiety spread from the middle of her belly through her entire body. She was guessing and began to cry softly.

N
ICO WAS STARING AT the crime scene photos spread across his large desk. The layout of the living room, a close-up of the tied wrists, the victim's clothes carefully folded and placed on a leather chair, the mutilated body. There was obviously a message in the pictures. He focused on each one of them, forcing himself to memorize every detail. The murderer had brought his own material: rope, duct tape, gloves so he wouldn't leave any prints, a whip, a scalpel and a dagger. This was proof that they were dealing with an organized, intelligent and skilled killer, much more dangerous than a psychotic maniac. The man had carried out what could be considered a ritual. The complexity of the scene and the risks the culprit took left the hope of discovering some clue. Perhaps that clue was there somewhere, hiding in one of the photos.

It was nearly six p.m. when his team reported to his office: Deputy Chief Rost, Commanders Kriven and Théron and Dominique Kreiss.

“Let's go to Cohen's office,” Nico said. “He wants to know what's going on.”

They went down a flight of stairs. Walking past an open door, they could hear a voice over the hallway sounds.

“Rape? Right—she was asking for it, I tell you.”

Nico felt rage overcome him, and he charged into the room. He saw a uniformed cop standing in front of two detectives from the division and knew who had been speaking. The detectives started at this sudden appearance but quickly looked respectful, while the officer showed surprise.

“Damn it! In these offices, I never want to hear anyone say that a woman was asking for it!” Nico yelled. “You don't ask to be raped. Is that clear, Officer Asshole? I hope that you understand what I'm saying, or you don't deserve to be on the police force.”

Nico slammed the door behind him.

“Good for you,” Dominique Kreiss said. “How many times have I tried to explain just that?”

Nico nodded, exasperated. He preferred to say nothing more and hurried to the deputy commissioner's office. With authority, the secretary told them to come in. She had been working for the deputy commissioner so long, he joked that she knew him better than his own wife.

“So,
messieurs
 …” their superior said. “Oh, excuse me, Ms. Kreiss! I sometimes forget you are a member of the lesser sex.”

“I suppose I should take that as a compliment?” the psychologist responded.

“My mistake. That will teach me to watch what I say to a shrink. Years of working with men and becoming accustomed to all those macho habits—of which I disapprove—don't just disappear with a snap of your fingers. Please accept my apologies, Mademoiselle Kreiss.”

“Accepted.”

Everyone knew that Cohen had chosen Dominique Kreiss himself.

“So?” he said.

“Nothing really major,” Nico said. “A thirty-six-year-old woman, one month pregnant, assistant professor of history at the Sorbonne, murdered in her home, Place de la Contrescarpe in the Latin Quarter. The crime was meticulously staged, leaving no clues. No witnesses. She clearly did not meet him in the street when she ran her errands in the morning. I imagine that he knocked at the door and that she didn't hesitate to open it to him. The couple had no problems. Everything was smooth at the university. The bank where Paul Terrade works confirmed that he is a model manager. Nothing suspicious with the family or friends. We still have to question Marie-Hélène Jory's colleagues and students and to find out if Paul Terrade is actually the child's father.”

“You went through the lab in Nantes again, Nico,” Cohen noted. “One of these days, you're going to get a real dressing down for that. Need I remind you that we have our own forensics lab? There's no need to send saliva samples gallivanting across all of France.”

“They process DNA faster and better in Nantes.”

“You're impossible, Nico!”

“I'm right, and you know it. We'll have the results tomorrow at noon. Just one thing, though.”

“Yes?” Cohen asked.

Nico pulled out a picture showing Marie-Hélène Jory's tied-up wrists.

“The rope is certainly some kind of boating material. Let's come up with a list of specialty stores that supply it and go see them. There can't be that many in Paris. We are still waiting for the forensics report, but I'm sure this is a special kind of rope that you can't find everywhere. We need to get a specialist to look at it.”

“Good idea,” Cohen said.

His secretary burst in, interrupting the discussion.

“There's a call for Chief Sirsky. It's urgent.”

Cohen handed him the phone.

“Hello. Chief Sirsky of the
brigade
criminelle
,” Nico said.

“Chief, this is Lieutenant Schreiber. This afternoon, my station received your fax about the crime at Place de la Contrescarpe and your order to be immediately informed of anything similar. I have something for you. I'm at 33 Rue de Turenne. I think you should get over here right away.”

“Is it a murder?”

“Yes. A Caucasian woman, thirty-one years old, named Chloé Bartes, married, no children. She had a date with her best friend, who got worried when she didn't show up and called the husband. At four twenty p.m. the two of them discovered the body and called the police. I have been at the scene for thirty minutes, and I thought we should alert you.”

“Have you cleared the scene?”

“Of course, sir. The husband and friend are in the kitchen with one of our officers and two doctors from emergency services. I had to call them. The friend was in shock and was having trouble breathing. My men are checking the building and keeping anyone from going in or out. They have totally cordoned off the apartment.”

“I'll be right there.”

Nico hung up and looked at his colleagues.

“There's been a murder, Rue de Turenne. Right around the corner, damn it! Théron, you handle Ms. Jory's colleagues and students and the rope. Kriven, take your team to the Rue de Turenne. Rost and Kreiss, follow me. What do you think, Michel?”

“Perfect. I'm coming with you.”

NUMBER 33 Rue de Turenne was off limits to the public. Michel Cohen and his team showed their badges to the officers guarding the entrance, who let them through with deference.

“There is a code,” Nico noted. “Two possibilities. Either the murderer knew it, or someone let him in. It's a very upscale building. Chloé Bartes was well off. Kriven, get some men canvassing the neighbors.”

Commander Kriven left the group to get the order out. The rest of the troop continued on to Chloé Bartes' apartment. An officer was watching the door. He called Schreiber, who showed up immediately. He was about thirty years old and had a dark complexion and raven-colored hair. He looked like a nice guy.

“Chief Sirsky?” he asked.

“That's me,” Nico answered, introducing the others.

The presence of the deputy commissioner clearly impressed Schreiber. “It's really not a pretty scene in there,” the lieutenant explained. “The husband and the girlfriend walked all over the scene and touched the victim over and over again before the police intervened. I did the best I could.”

“You had excellent reflexes, Lieutenant Schreiber,” Cohen said.

The man blushed a little. Nico went into the apartment, led by the lieutenant. In the entrance hall, there was a commode dresser with the top drawer still open.

“Was it like that when you arrived?” Nico asked, pointing at the mahogany piece that dated from the Restoration.

“Yes,” Schreiber answered. “The bedrooms are on the right. To the left, you have the kitchen and the living room. Do you want to start with the victim?”

“Yes,” Nico responded.

They walked past the kitchen and pretended to ignore the scene playing out inside. Chloé Bartes' friend was lying on a stretcher, with two doctors on either side of her, busy with an oxygen mask and medical equipment. A police officer was supporting the husband, who could barely stand up. He was in a state of shock. They entered the living room. The room was over a thousand square feet and magnificent. Oak parquet and immaculate white walls highlighted a vast living space that displayed a pronounced taste for contemporary art. Italian sofas, varnished furniture, elegant rugs and modern paintings all reeked of the occupants' affluence. An oval frosted-glass table could seat at least twelve guests. The couple liked to entertain.

The victim was lying there, nude, stretched out on her back, in a position identical to Marie-Hélène Jory's. It was now clear that the case was taking on another dimension. Her arms were raised above her, and her wrists were tied to the table. Nico and Dominique Kreiss knelt at the same time, as if by habit, to get a better understanding of the crime scene. The others stayed at a distance. Nobody said anything. They were numbed by the horror spread out in front of them.

“We have ourselves a serial killer,” Nico finally said. “The ritual is comparable.”

“The woman's clothes are folded up there,” Dominique Kreiss said. “And did you see the shoes? They have been placed carefully under the chair. The murderer is a perfectionist. Everything has to be in order. That is part of the staging. I am sure that the guy is well groomed and always at his best. Everything must be impeccably arranged at his place.”

“The victim was whipped and stabbed, just like Jory,” Nico said. “The breasts were excised and then returned to her body.”

Pierre Vidal, the third detective in Kriven's squad, had turned on his tape recorder and was recording the chief's comments.

“Death is not enough for the serial killer,” Ms. Kreiss said. “This kind of person is looking for some original way to cause suffering and does so with an imagination that would never occur to anyone else. He objectifies his prey. He doesn't feel any pity but does experience an imperious need to mutilate the victim. The breast amputation is a way of further dehumanizing her. That choice is a serious clue that again brings us to the mother image. The man certainly experienced a childhood trauma that is motivating his actions.”

“Something's not right with the breasts,” Nico said. “It's hard to tell, but the skin color is not the same. I don't know, they don't fit.”

“Marie-Hélène Jory's breasts?” Cohen suggested.

“Possibly,” Nico said. “The medical examiner can confirm. What does it mean?”

“The two women are similar, Chief, so he's after a certain type of woman,” the psychologist said. “The memory of his mother at the same age? Some sort of humiliation she caused him that he's getting others to pay for? That's what this scene makes me think.”

“In that case, the choice of victim is not linked to the attacker's family or social or professional surroundings,” Nico said. “He is looking for a prey whose appearance reminds him of his mother, which makes this investigation particularly complex. The rope is similar to the rope used in the previous case.”

The psychologist nodded before getting up, shaking out her legs.

“Michel?” Nico asked.

“I don't see anything else,” the deputy commissioner said.

“Vidal, you're on,” Nico ordered. “Rost and Kriven, you question the witnesses and let them go. What do you say, Michel, should we search the apartment?”

Pierre Vidal handed them some gloves, and everyone took to their tasks.

THE atmosphere in the kitchen was truly unbearable.

“We gave the victim's friend an IV of Valium,” one of the paramedics explained. “She's not really in any state to answer questions. The husband is not any better. He didn't want to take anything, but he is very weak. That's hardly surprising, considering. What do you want us to do?”

“Leave us alone with them for a few minutes, then you can take them,” Jean-Marie Rost answered. “They should probably spend the night in observation. Has somebody informed the friend's family? What is her name?”

“Anne Recordon,” said a uniformed officer, “No, not yet.”

“I saw a wedding ring on her finger. Call her husband,” Rost ordered.

The paramedics and the police officer left the kitchen. Rost and Kriven found themselves alone with the husband and friend. Rost leaned toward the woman. Kriven offered the husband a chair.

“Mr. Grégory Bartes?” Kriven began, placing a hand on the husband's arm. “I am a commander with the Paris Criminal Investigation Division. What happened is—there are no words for it. My job is to make sure it doesn't happen again. Do you understand? I need your help. Anything you could tell me could be key to the investigation. Mr. Bartes?”

The man finally looked at the policeman. His features were totally distorted, and his eyes were expressionless. Kriven shivered.

“Mr. Bartes?” he tried again in a barely audible voice.

“I'm here, commander,” came the response in a voice so monotone, it could have been from a zombie. “Ask your questions, since that is your role. But I can already tell you that your chances of success are slim. I have nothing to tell you. Absolutely nothing. We led a perfectly normal life until today. I don't know what could have happened. I'm afraid I can't be much help to your investigation. Let's hope it's quick.”

Kriven didn't like Grégory Bartes' condescending way of talking to him. But he had to get over that.

“Even something small, Mr. Bartes. Try to remember any detail that didn't seem worth noticing but could be meaningful today. Did your wife mention anything unusual happening recently?”

“No. I told you already. I have nothing to tell you.”

“I was sure,” Anne Recordon cried out.

“What do you mean?” Rost asked, kneeling near the woman.

“I felt it. She didn't come to our meeting place, and I knew she was dead. I can't explain why.”

“Did you have any particular reason to think that something so serious had happened to her?” Jean-Marie Rost asked.