The First Fingerprint (11 page)

“I don't trust these kinds of connections,” he said. “Beware, Baron, many mistakes have been made by working like that. You think it all fits together, then you end up in a terrible mess … Just because two corpses are found in the same place five months apart, it doesn't mean there's any criminal link between them. As for the woman in Cadenet, that might just be a coincidence. The
modus operandi
wasn't the same. Not even similar. Neither Autran nor Luccioni were sliced up by a lunatic. You know how serial killers work: always the same method!”

De Palma disappeared into his bedroom without a word. Maistre heard him pull open a cupboard and rummage though his papers. Some time later, his friend returned holding a wad of documents as fine as cigarette papers. He passed half of them to Maistre, who cast an expert eye over the witness statements. They were carbon copies of the originals.

DEATH BY DROWNING
QUESTIONING OF MR AUDISIO Francis, aged 38,
French, residing 34000 MONTPELLIER

The report was dated September 1, 1991, and signed by Inspector Claude Duluc:

Statement by Monsieur Audisio Francis, born 14/11/53 in Montpellier, commercial engineer, residing Montpellier, tel: 76.35.25.78.12, who declared:

I am a member of the Grande Bleue Club, Port des Goudes, 13008 Marseille, and as such I
led a group of divers from Montpellier. The course was to last for ten days, beginning on 31/08/91.

There were fifteen people in the group. Today we organized a dive for eight people. They left the port at about 9:45 in two groups, with two boats of four people, me included.

They went to Sugiton creek. At 11:00, the dive began, with four people going down 25 meters to reach the cave. Of these four people, one was inexperienced. I was one of this group. We went into the cave, a kind of underwater cavity, which we explored with our torches. We stayed for about eight or ten minutes before starting to go back up. I was leading, and when I looked down I could see the group of three people. I emerged from the hole. I waited for the others, in vain.

I resurfaced to call for the security group to help those three people.

We tried to go back into the cave. But there was a cloud of silt and opaque matter making this impossible. We tried everything, I did all I could to find them, and I ran out of air. A companion took me back up by sharing his air with me.

I can't explain what happened because it was behind me. Did they panic? Couldn't they find the way out?

In terms of equipment, everyone had a
cylinder of compressed air with capacity for 40 minutes, a diving suit, flippers, a mask, a snorkel, a ballast belt and a torch. In the group were Patrick Granville, Gérard Sylvain and Christophe Pietri.

I declare the above to be true.

The witness signed the original document, which is appended.

Inspecteur de Police.

Maistre looked up at de Palma and waved the paper at him.

“There isn't much of interest here. But I do remember that, at the time, they said on television that the entrance was thirty-eight meters down, and he says twenty-five.”

“At times like that, people often can't remember the details.”

“If you say so …”

Maistre, doubtful as ever, continued to leaf through the pages. He came across a report by the Baron:

Observations on the body of PIETRI Christophe, born 11/10/60 in Montpellier. 6 rue Ampère, 34000 Montpellier.

The body of the third victim was brought up and taken in charge by the boat “La Bonne Mère,” from the Marseille coastguards.

It was transported to the port of Pointe-Rouge for examination.

On board “La Bonne Mère” with coastguards, we registered the presence of a man's corpse in a bodybag.

He was already dead. Caucasian type. Dark brown hair. Dressed in a blue diving suit. The coastguards gave us the objects found on the victim: diving cylinders, almost empty. The first one registered 0302685, the second 0304726. The coastguards indicated that when he was found, the tanks' valves were set in the parachute position. Two flippers, a snorkel, a mask, a knife and an ascension parachute.

All of these objects were taken in charge by the team of the 8
^th
Arrondissement, before being deposited at the headquarters of the 9
^th
Arrondissement of Marseille.

A requisition was made and the body transferred to Saint Pierre morgue at 19:40.

Inspecteur Divisionnaire.

Further on, Maistre found another report drawn up by the Baron. It was briefer than the others:

DE PALMA Michel
Inspecteur Divisionnaire.

I declare that Doctor Claude MARCELLIN, of the coastguards, examined the three bodies, and for each delivered a descriptive certificate in which he indicated that death occurred by drowning during a scuba–diving expedition, and that examination of the bodies revealed nothing to contradict this fact.

Examination of the faces of Gérard SYLVAIN
and Christophe PIETRI showed that each of them was covered with saliva, mucus coming from their orifices, their eyes and mucous membranes swollen.

“Hey, Michel, do we have to read all this stuff? It happened ten years ago.”

De Palma rapidly flicked through the pages.

“You never know, Le Gros. I do remember that at the time there was something which surprised me. That's why I kept copies. Here, this is it. Listen, this is one of the coastguards talking:

The cave's entrance is approximately 1 meter wide by 1.50 meters high.

We found one of the bodies about 13 meters down the tunnel of the cave. I must point out that inside the cave there is zero visibility.

The body was floating about 50 cm above the bottom, its head turned toward the far end of the cave, its feet toward the entrance, facing the ground.

The diver no longer had the mouthpiece of his regulator in his mouth. His lead belt had slipped down and was around his knees.

He had no BC vest.

I confirm that when I found the diver's body, visibility was about 5 to 10 cm and there were no jutting rocks on which he might have become stuck.

I found no torch on the body.

“What do you find surprising in all that?” Maistre asked.

“I don't know. But it did make me wonder. Why didn't he have a torch? Why was his lead belt around his knees?”

“You're right, it is a bit odd. But still, nothing to get into a fix about. Maybe his belt was around his knees because one of his companions tried to pull him backward … And maybe he lost his torch earlier. The coastguard says you couldn't see further than 10 cm. How could he find his torch in such a soup? So what are you trying to prove, Baron? That these diving accidents are linked to today's murders. You're losing the plot. It was all ten years ago.”

“You never know!”

“There's one thing I do know. You need some rest and relaxation. Go and see your wife. Tell her you love her, and that's all there is to it.”

“A serial killer, Jean-Louis …”

“In that case, it's a job for the gendarmerie. I know how you feel. You're a hunter. A big-game hunter! An obsessive investigator. It's all you have in your life. But Jesus, just for once, slow down a bit! You're forty-seven, for crying out loud! In ten years' time you'll retire and it will all be over. So concentrate on your prehistory lecturer and tell the rest to fuck off.”

Maistre leaped up like a wild cat and went over to his friend.

“As a matter of fact, I know why you want to join up all these cases!”

“Why's that?” de Palma mumbled.

“Because you want to nobble some psychopath. You've often talked to me about good and evil and all that claptrap. I know your theory: the bad side of human nature; we're all monsters deep down, and the only difference between the nutters and us is a padlock in our heads, locking the door on our impulses. I know you want to nail the loony, like you nailed Ferracci. And I know why! It's personal business, let's put it that way … What you're thinking is: ‘At last, someone worthy of my abilities!' But you're barking up the wrong tree. I repeat, the
modus operandi
isn't the same! He can't have drowned those divers ten years back, killed your lady and massacred the other two, whose names now escape me. There are no recurring behavioral patterns. But you
reckon that at last you're on to the master of murder! You're proud as hell and all you're thinking about is finding someone who's up to your own megalomania. Even if you have to bend the evidence!”

Maistre fell silent for a while.

“Just you watch it, Baron. I might not be around to cover for you! In fact, I won't be! I know you blew away that faggot Ferracci, like the piece of shit that he was! I'm not as thick as I look.”

De Palma looked up. His friend was staring at him harshly, as his father had when he had behaved particularly badly. Maistre was right. To achieve serenity and harmony, he would have to abandon a part of himself. But that was impossible. Either you were born a big-game hunter, or you weren't.

“In notte cupa la mente è perduta …

E nell'ansia crudel vorrei morir”

“Come on, Jean-Louis. Let's go for lunch at my mother's. She'll be pleased to see you.”

At 2:00 a.m. on the morning of January 10, he slipped between the graves in Saint-Julien cemetery and reached the far wall. No-one could have seen him.

In one leap he was over the wall and beside the canal. The night was dark. He waited a while until his eyes became used to the darkness. The light from the lamp posts on place de l'Eglise glittered on the surface of the water, just enough to guide him and stop him from falling in. In the distance, he could hear the roar of a powerful car on its way up avenue Saint-Julien.

He set off without a sound, like a cat. After fifty meters he stopped and shrank into the high grasses. He could hear snatches of conversation coming from a house nearby. A man and a woman were arguing about their son's behavior. Amused, he listened to them for a few seconds before moving on.

Ten minutes later he was standing outside what he took to be Julia's house—if his calculations were correct. He produced a tiny torch, shone it for a moment at the wall, then turned it off. It was higher than expected, but by standing on the trunk of an old bay tree, he managed to take a look over the other side.

Then he pulled himself up to the top.

A tall, bay window looked out over the garden, giving off a bright light. Despite the late hour, Julia was sitting on the sofa in her salon, reading a large, leather-bound book.

He climbed down from his observation post and sat in the moist grass. Julia was a night bird. She might hear him jump over the wall or see him in the light as he approached. He would not take that risk.

A hunter should never fail at the first attempt
.

He switched on his torch and noticed a door in the wall, just a few meters away. He examined the lock for a moment and saw that it would open without too much difficulty.

The next day he came back with his tools: a flat screwdriver, two pairs of pliers and some thick wire. Ten minutes later, the lock gave way. He opened the door and found himself in a shed. A smell of old earth, dry grass and dust invaded his nostrils. He breathed deeply. This smell reminded him of hiding in the lean-to in his grandfather's garden when he was a boy.

He noticed a shaft of yellow light coming from what he took to be Julia's kitchen. It was past midnight, and Julia was still up. He came out of the shed, took a few steps into the garden and suddenly found himself surrounded by light. Julia had just turned on a lamp in the salon and was now sitting on the sofa, in the same place as the day before. He hid behind a box shrub and got his breath back. Despite the chill air, droplets of sweat were running down his cheeks. Violent shivers ran through his body. He pushed aside some branches and watched Julia. She had let her hair down and was wearing a dressing gown which revealed her white thighs.

A pain invaded his belly and crept down his legs. His eyes were hurting, as though they wanted to burst out of their sockets. The goddess spoke to him in her smooth voice: “The moment is not favorable, the spirits command you to wait.”

In the distance, the cries of children. He wants to see, but the sun dazzles him. He squints, but can see only indistinct forms. He is alone at the bottom of the garden. He is always alone. Aloof from the others
.

Suddenly, a firm hand pulls his shirt collar back. A first slap bites into his face, then a second even more violent one. He raises his arms to protect himself. Another slap. His nose starts to bleed
.

A strident voice: “YOU LITTLE BASTARD …”

He closed his eyes to chase away the bad dream. The rhythm of his breathing accelerated.

The shaman holds at arm's length a hollow stone filled with reindeer fat. A straight, red flame rises up from the wick, ending in a thick line of black smoke
.

The shaman stops for a moment, raises the lamp above his head,
then lowers it. Once. Twice. The stone animals begin to dance at each movement of the weak light. A bison flees into the darkness, another emerges from the gaping hole
.

Everywhere, hands are at work. The ghosts of the great hunters surround the shaman. He falls to the ground
.

From the shadows rises the mysterious chant of the spirits. They come from the beyond the rock. From dream time
.

All he had to do now was wait for the moon.

“Do you know this woman?”

For the past two hours, Vidal had been going round Mazargues with a photo of Christine Autran. No-one recognized her. All the Baron had said to him was: “I'm going to Sugiton. You pick over Mazargues for me.”

“What's her name?”

“Christine Autran.”

The landlord of the Bar de l'Avenir, a fat mustachioed Italian, shook his head as he gave one last wipe to his chrome espresso machine.