The First Fingerprint (25 page)

“I have to find out who killed her.”

“That's your job! But I want to know more!”

“Before long you will, I should think. The snag is, there's the other one.”

“Which other one?”

“The Saint-Julien and Cadenet killer.”

“What's that got to do with it?”

“For the past few days, I've been thinking that they're all connected, in one way or another.”

“How's that?”

“It's just what I think.”

“Just what you
think
? I want certainties and proof. And there, old chap, you have a problem. The Cadenet killer has been put away. The case is as solid as concrete. Before long, he'll confess to it, and the killing in Saint-Julien too.”

“It's not him.”

“How would you know?”

“I just know. And I'll prove it. For both Cadenet and Saint-Julien.”

“Michel, I know you're a great policeman. I've never doubted your abilities, but you're going to drop Saint-Julien. I'm the one who decides, O.K.?”

“O.K., but it's not him.”

“Come on now, you're as stubborn as a mule. Out with it!”

“What you don't seem to realize, Christophe, is that a shrink of his abilities would never make those mistakes. What's more, he's got an alibi.”

“Some alibi! He was having dinner with friends in a restaurant. I could cook up alibis like that every two seconds. As for Saint-Julien, he has no alibi whatsoever, apart from his claim that he was at home. Highly original. So, Michel, open your eyes. We're sure about him!”

“Has he confessed?”

“No.”

“You'll end up looking stupid in court.”

Barbieri went purple.

“The court's my problem, NOT YOURS!”

“In fact, you're not sure of anything.”

“Watch your step, Michel. I don't appreciate your manners. So, explain yourself, or get out of here!”

“I'll tell you where I'm at with the Christine Autran murder. Firstly, I've found out that Autran and Franck Luccioni—who was found dead in the same place as Autran last July—knew each other. They were childhood friends. They grew up in the same neighborhood, Mazargues. Luccioni was without doubt murdered in Sugiton. Secondly, someone has been to her flat on boulevard Chave on two
occasions. I'm sure of it. I've checked everything out. And I have a suspect: Professor Palestro, a prehistorian like her. Her boss, in fact! We've found his fingerprints all over her flat. But I don't think he killed her, although I can't be sure. In any case, he seems to be the only other person to have the keys to her place. Thirdly, I have a witness, Sylvie Maurel, who worked with Autran and Palestro. It's a small world …”

Barbieri interrupted him with a wave of his hand.

“I don't know if you're going crazy, or if you've been drinking this morning, anyway, what can I say? Go on, you're amusing me.”

“Really?” the Baron replied edgily. “Well, I have an informer who drinks at the Bar des Sportifs in Endoume. He volunteered the information that Lolo asked him to follow a woman. And guess who this woman was?”

“I give up,” Barbieri murmured.

“Christine Autran, Sir. So far, nothing very exciting, but where things get complicated is that he saw a man hovering around Autran's flat: forty-something, about a meter eighty tall, thick spectacles … There, you see, things aren't as simple as all that …”

“What are you on about? I don't get it. Autran, Luccioni, what's his name … What's all this got to do with Caillol?”

De Palma grinned.

“If you hadn't interrupted, you'd already know. Caillol worked with Autran.”

“What?”

“I'm not trying to make war between the forces, Christophe, but I learned from Sylvie Maurel that Caillol is a specialist in neuro-psychology and that he used to work with Autran.”

“Neuropsychology and prehistory? Can you be a bit clearer? Because I'm having problems taking all this seriously.”

“Caillol studied shamanism and hallucinatory phenomena in primitive tribes. And it seems that certain practices haven't evolved since the dawn of time … There you are.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Absolutely.”

“So, what's your hypothesis?”

“I don't think Caillol is the guilty party, but I think he has a connection.”

De Palma drew an imaginary line in front of him.

“Autran, Luccioni, Caillol, the two murders, and the guy who was spotted by two witnesses. And I think we should add the three divers found in the tunnel just before the discovery of Le Guen's Cave was announced. At the time, no-one, least of all me, suspected it was a triple murder. When I think back over it now, we really should have looked into it.”

He fell silent for a few seconds and frowned.

“I think we're up against a group of loonies who practiced, or still practice, magical rituals.”

“Come on, your story is a bit far-fetched.”

“I'm telling you, he'll kill again. And the sooner the better, because it will clarify things. But he won't strike yet. He'll wait for the psychiatrist to go on trial, then he'll kill again in a year or two. Unless he goes somewhere else, which would be the worst scenario.”

Barbieri leaned back in his chair and sighed. Even if he was not completely convinced, he sensed that he ought to listen to the Baron.

“Put like that, I understand better. Is that all?”

“No. Shortly before Franck's death last July, a man came to Jo Luccioni's bakery. The man with the red motorbike, remember?”

“Yes, vaguely, so what?”

De Palma pointed a finger at Barbieri.

“So I think this investigation is just beginning, and that the gendarmes wanted to pull a fast one. You've made a real balls-up of all this!”

“Calm down, Michel. Don't forget who you're talking to. Another word like that, and I'll take you off the Autran case.”

“I haven't forgotten!”

“That's enough, Michel. Control yourself!”

“Sorry, Christophe … Can I … Can I ask you for a favor?”

“What?”

“Let me see our psychiatrist friend.”

“There are times when I wonder why I don't tell you to piss off, Commandant. Two things. Firstly, I don't want you getting involved
in the Saint-Julien case again. Secondly, I will let you see Caillol. But I'm warning you, you've got a fortnight to bring enough evidence to challenge the gendarmes' case. I'm not doing anything without solid evidence. And I mean proof, not just your personal conviction that Caillol is innocent. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“You can see Caillol later this week, does that suit? But I'll have to be there with you.”

Barbieri looked up at de Palma. This policeman did not want to lose the game of hide-and-seek which had now begun. He would make people talk, whatever the cost, pitilessly. He would devastate everything in his path, without leaving a single initiative to anyone else. Always on the offensive, even if that meant losing everything.

“This week, I'm going to Aix to question Professor Palestro.”

“O.K. Are you going to bring him in?”

“Maybe.”

The 11.43 bullet which killed Jean-Marc Ferri had entered his left eye and come out through the back of his head. Bits of gray matter and scraps of skull were stuck to the headrest in the Fiat Uno. The blood was still fresh. But the most unusual thing about this gangland killing was that the hit-man had fired just once, from point-blank range.

De Palma walked round the car and examined the body of Véronique Ferri, Jean-Marc's wife. At first glance, he could see three bullet holes, two in her back and one in her right temple. Véronique was lying on the ground, blood still flowing from her nostrils, her hand resting on the running board of the car. The door was open.

“I think she tried to run away, and he finished her off,” said Vidal.

“You're right, Maxime.”

De Palma walked round the car again, then stood back to get an overview of the scene. A Megane pulled up, its siren blaring. Commissaire Paulin got out, crossed the security tape and strode toward de Palma without even looking at the carnage.

“Well?”

“Jean-Marc and Véronique Ferri, husband and wife. An 11.43 I'd say.”

“They've stepped up a gear,” Paulin murmured. “It's the first time they've killed a woman.”

“And probably not the last …” remarked de Palma laconically.

“Any ideas?”

“None, except that for Ferri, it was inevitable. Just a matter of time. Everyone had it in for him. Especially the boys in Aix.”

Paulin approached the corpse. He looked at it for a few moments, his right hand on his tie, and then circled the Fiat. Beyond the yellow
tape that closed off the scene of the crime, there was a growing crowd of onlookers: the old boys from the Le Globe bar, their racing predictions interrupted by the blasts, had crossed the road to join the schoolchildren on their way home for lunch.

“Have you picked up anything, Maxime?”

“I questioned the manager of the petrol station and his staff. They didn't see anything.”

“And the passers-by?”

“I've spoken to four. Nothing doing, they each have their own version …”

“Who made the call?”

“The manager.”

“We'll talk to him again, he must have seen something.”

“What do you reckon?”

“The wife was killed. There can be only two reasons for that: revenge, or else she recognized the guy.”

“I thought of that.”

“Go and fetch me the manager.”

Vidal returned with a short man aged about thirty. He had a dry face and greasy hair and was wearing faded blue overalls with black oil stains on the elbows and knees.

“And you are …?”

“Patrick Fitoussi.”

“Well, Monsieur Fitoussi, where were you when you heard the gunshots?”

“I was at the till.”

“So, what did you see?”

“Nothing, I've already told your colleague …”

“You told my colleague a pack of bullshit,” de Palma yelled. “But things are different with me. With me, you're going to talk. Was he alone?”

The mechanic looked at him fearfully.

“Yes.”

“On foot?”

“Yes.”

“So what did you see?”

“I …”

De Palma grabbed him by the overalls and pulled him close.

“DID YOU SEE ANYTHING OR NOT?”

Fitoussi began to shake all over.

“Yes, I did, but it was a way off …”

“I can understand why you're scared … That's normal. You're coming along with us, Monsieur Fitoussi. We're going to show you some photos. And you're going to tell us if you recognize him, O.K.?”

“O.K., Sir.”

“Vidal, go with this gentleman and his employees and see what you can do.”

Paulin, who had been observing the scene, walked over to de Palma.

“Well done, de Palma, right in front of the journalists. I don't know what gets into you sometimes.”

“If you don't shake them up a bit, they don't tell you anything. That's how it goes in Marseille; people never see anything, hear anything or say anything, just like the three monkeys …”

“I don't like that method, and you know it. I totally disapprove.”

De Palma almost jumped on him. He knew that Paulin had pulled strings to get him off the Saint-Julien case. He nodded toward the two bodies, which the forensics team had now removed from the Fiat.

“Look, Commissaire, he acted quite openly. They don't even hide any more.”

“I know,” said Paulin, clenching his teeth.

They were now undressing the victims. Blood was still running from Véronique Ferri's wounds. The smell of death mingled with the odor of benzene. Police officers were holding back journalists and onlookers, who were crowded at the edge of the cordon. The siren of a fire engine could be heard on boulevard des Dames. De Palma went back to the bodies.

“It looks really bad, just a few meters away from the council building,” de Palma remarked.

“What do you mean?”

“It's not like in Saint-Julien.”

“Watch it, de Palma, you're not untouchable. Just deal with Autran! As for the rest, we'll see what the gendarmes can extract from Caillol.”

“I didn't mean to offend you, Commissaire. It's just that there are only two of us working on a highly complicated case.”

“O.K., I'll give you Moracchini on a permanent basis.”

“She's a very good officer … excellent even. And what about Ferri?”

“Just see what you can do.”

“Thanks a bunch …”

De Palma had a fleeting vision of the long queue of witnesses at police headquarters, the questions that had to be asked, which were always the same, the reports to be typed out one after another, in other words, the dull side of policing in all its splendor, with nothing proven at the end of it beyond the fact that it was a contract killing carried out by a professional. He turned away and swallowed his anger.

Paulin did not believe in the Baron's theories about the murders of Hélène Weill and Julia Chevallier. He had succeeded in getting him taken off the Saint-Julien case and had now lumbered him with a gangland killing, as part of his great crusade against the mob. This was the only way he would be able to leave Marseille for a comfortable post at headquarters. It was the fast track to Paris.

At the station, Vidal spent an hour with Patrick Fitoussi, showing him dozens of photos. The mechanic shook his podgy cheeks at each one, as if to say “No, I don't recognize him.” At 4:00 p.m., a disappointed Vidal took his statement. And that was the end of his Tuesday.

Spring was at its height. Heat enveloped Marseille in a heavy, humid cloak. Everyone waited for thunderstorms, as a deliverance, but the storms failed to materialize. It was incomprehensible.