The First Fingerprint (38 page)

De Palma swallowed a mouthful of coffee which burned his lips. He grimaced.

“And we're not even up against a classic maniac … this guy refuses to accept our civilization or morals. He thinks he's a Cro-Magnon man. Just imagine it! The Middle Ages and antiquity are already too civilized for him. Let's go back to animal skins and a good old lump of flint! Talk about a profile—he's a sociopath who soothes his impulses by imitating prehistoric hunters. Or, at least, the image he has of them. But I reckon those hunters weren't as savage as some people think.”

Another mouthful. Another grimace.

“In any case, they're no more savage than hoods who blow each other away for no reason—they don't think any more, they just shoot. Just look at the Ferri couple!”

“You're right, Michel,” Moracchini answered. “I also get the impression that everything's speeding up.”

“So, shall we have a sitrep?”

“O.K., let's go.”

Commissaire Paulin burst into the office.

“You didn't go with the others?”

“No,” said Vidal. “Except in spirit.”

“Very good … De Palma, where are you at with the Ferris?”

“They've been buried.”

“You mean they're no longer in the morgue?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because a Ferri bloats.”

Paulin stared at him, then burst out laughing, showing his horse's teeth stained with nicotine.

“I prefer it when you talk about opera, de Palma.” Vidal felt ill at ease.

“What is it, Maxime? Anything wrong?” the Baron asked sarcastically.

“I don't agree with you, Michel. If we don't do something, who will? That's all I want to say.”

“Apart from that, are you still pleased to know me?”

“I can see that today is getting off to a good start,” Moracchini mumbled.

“Commandant de Palma and I wanted to see you again in order to obtain further information. I should say that I've not yet made a decision about your possible transfer out of solitary confinement. But I shall during the course of this week … Everything depends on your cooperation.”

François Caillol looked uncomfortable in his chair. He had laid his fingers on the Formica table and was now tapping out the Andante movement of an imaginary concerto. Barbieri and de Palma sat in front of him and stared. Caillol arrogantly met their gaze. The prison world was already at work.

“I think I've told you everything I know.”

Barbieri turned toward the Baron. With a nod, he invited him to step in.

“Dr. Caillol,” he said, standing up, “I've had enough of being taken for a fool. From now on, we're going to put all our cards on the table. All of them, you hear me? Does July 1996, Albany, New York State—and Denver, Colorado—ring any bells?”

Caillol looked like he'd been punched in the stomach.

“Yes,” he said, swallowing his saliva.

“I want proper answers, not just yeses and nos. I want to know what you were doing in Denver with Hélène Weill and Julia Chevallier, just a few days before the murder of Anna McCabe.”

The doctor squirmed in his chair and leaned forward to avoid their eyes.

“I was taking part in a series of lectures about … about shamans in prehistory. I left the U.S.A. on July 1, that's all. I explained all of this to the American police.”

“So you knew Julia and Hélène?”

“Yes.”

He spoke in a loud voice to conceal his panic.

“Dr. Caillol,” said Barbieri, on the verge of losing his temper, “I can't help wondering why you didn't tell me about all this before.”

“Why should I? Since my arrest, no-one's believed a single word I've said!”

“Fine … But there's still something that intrigues me about your trip: you are no scientific authority. Experts such as Christine Autran, or Professor Palestro were better placed than you to lecture on the subject. So why were you chosen? Why you, and not someone else?”

“Because I was a member of the American Prehistory Society.”

“And you are no longer?”

“No, I left the A.P.S. in 1996, after the death of Anna McCabe.”

“Can you explain your reasons in more detail?”

Caillol concentrated, as though trying to dispel his confusion.

“I left the American Prehistory Society when I realized that, beneath its scientific veneer, it was in fact some kind of cult with dubious practices. That became clear to me when I heard about Anna's death.”

De Palma noticed that he had just referred to the victim by her forename. He decided to try his luck.

“Did you first meet Anna in Denver?”

“No, in Aix. During a symposium under the direction of Professor Palestro.”

De Palma and Barbieri were flabbergasted.

“Dr. Caillol,” said the magistrate. “The time has come for you to tell us everything. The police officer sitting in front of you will work out the truth sooner or later. Talking to us will alleviate your suffering. I know that solitary confinement is not easy. So, I beg of you, please give me a reason to transfer you to another wing.”

The psychiatrist laid his hands on his knees. He lowered his head, thought for a few seconds, then spoke to the Baron directly.

“The first time you came to see me, I didn't tell you everything because I wanted to get out of here. That was my lawyer's advice … Just don't forget that I never lied to you.”

“I didn't say that,” murmered de Palma.

“Christine Autran proposed me when I joined the A.P.S. She'd been a member since 1990. The first time I visited the U.S.A., in the summer of 1991, I went with her. We met various members of the society, and Christine delivered a series of lectures about prehistory. That's all.”

“And did you take part in any of their weekends?”

“Twice. We went into the mountains and lived like prehistoric men. Christine was extremely knowledgeable. She knew all the plants and fishing techniques. It was really fascinating. I suppose that must sound strange to you! But you have to realize that some of the most serious prehistorians take part in this kind of reconstruction. For example, my friend John Davoli from the University of Austin, cuts flints. He's a real expert. I can even …”

“What about the second time you went to Denver?”

“It was in 1993. Once again, Christine gave a few lectures. But this time on a different subject.”

“What was it?”

“The seminar was about the first inhabitants of the continent of America. Christine's contribution was to show that the first men in America didn't come from Asia, as is generally thought, but from Europe. She based this idea on the fact that flints have been found over there which were cut in the same way as those discovered here during the Solutrean period. She interpreted these similar industries as a sign that migration came from the east, not the west. In other words, she didn't believe that the Mongol-like Indian was America's first man …”

“Is that all?”

Caillol's face suddenly began to twitch.

“No. During one weekend, Christine and one of the organizers conducted some shamanistic rituals.”

“What do you mean?”

“They arranged to meet in a Paleolithic hunter's shelter, not far from Denver, where they invoked the spirits. Rather like Indian medicine men.”

Despite his anxiety, Caillol was controlled, still able to negotiate with himself and keep his emotions in hand.

“Were you there too?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“Christine went into a sort of trance. She really shocked me that day. Afterward, I decided to keep my distance from her.”

“Tell me how a psychiatrist of your standing can be shocked by someone in a trance.”

Caillol remained silent for some time, his chest rising a little higher each time he breathed.

“Christine wasn't one of my patients … When she started foaming at the mouth, with her eyes popping out of her face, and then convulsing, I panicked. How can I explain? I was the one who'd encouraged her to conduct the experiment. I … I had no idea of the sort of state she'd get into.”

“Did she become violent?”

“Yes, extremely violent … It took several of us to control her.”

As he finished, his voice broke slightly, and he suppressed a sob.

Barbieri placed his hands over his mouth. He let the doctor pause for a moment. Under the table, one of his legs was jiggling up and down.

“Let's sum things up, Doctor,” he said. “You became a member of the A.P.S. in 1991, and made your first visit in the summer of that year. So far, so good. Then you go for a second time, to Denver in 1993, and you realize that something is wrong, that Christine is not completely normal. And you decide to keep your distance from her.”

“Yes, that's right.”

“So why did you go back in 1996 to give a series of lectures?” Caillol all of a sudden looked pained.

“They asked me to … I … I had no reason to refuse. I suppose it was pride really. As you said, I am not a scientific authority, so I can't lecture here. The A.P.S. gave me an opportunity and I accepted it.”

“Was Christine there?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And did she perform magic rituals again?”

“I don't know. I wasn't invited to the weekends. It was as if they didn't trust me any more. I was excluded from their activities outside the seminar itself.”

“Had you seen Christine between these two trips to Denver?”

“Yes.”

“In what circumstances?”

“We weren't lovers, if that's what you mean. I told you that the last time we spoke. She was just a friend. And we worked together on various projects.”

The psychiatrist had regained control of his emotions. They were going to have to trap him, but not too hastily. De Palma once again took the lead in the questioning.

“In your opinion, could Christine's death have been the outcome of a shamanistic ritual?”

“Yes, I think that's quite possible. It's no coincidence that she died just by Le Guen's Cave. There must be a connection, as I'm sure you've already worked out.”

“Did you know Franck Luccioni?”

“Not personally, but she did mention him to me. Apparently he was an excellent diver, a treasure hunter. I suppose she used him for underwater investigations.”

“Does the A.P.S. own any prehistoric artifacts?”

“Yes, of course. I had the opportunity to see some of them. They have an incredible private collection, which can only be seen by invitation. They own a large number of flints from the Solutrean and Magdalenian periods, a Venus and quite a few necklaces … Some sculpted bones, too. A fine collection … they use them in their ‘ceremonies.'”

“Are these objects stolen?”

“Yes, for example they have a negative hand, which came from some mysterious source.”

“I see,” said Barbieri. “But we're going round in circles. So, doctor, tell me: who could have it in for you to the extent that they've framed you like this? Someone who hates you enough to want you condemned to a particularly long prison sentence. Who detests you, Caillol? Who?”

“I have no idea … really I don't.”

Caillol's eyes clouded, and the smell of fear filled the room. De Palma went to sit beside him, so that their faces were only a few centimeters apart. The trap was now ready.

“Did you know that she had a brother?”

“No, I didn't.”

“I don't believe you, François,” de Palma said, drawing back. “I think you've known for quite some time. I've been looking into your career. You worked for many years at the Edouard Toulouse hospital, and among your patients you treated a ferocious spirit, a natural born killer, a certain Thomas Autran. True or false?”

Caillol did not answer. He went pale and his lips trembled.

“In fact, you knew everything about Christine. EVERYTHING, do you hear me?”

His head drooped. He was beaten.

“Look, François, this is the first time you've had anything to do with the police. But as far as I'm concerned, you're just the most recent in a long list, a very long list, and tomorrow it will be even longer … hundreds of names, faces, social deviants, barbaric acts … You might think you know about people's psychology, but so do I! I learned on the job, twenty-five years on the murder squad dealing with beasts and the craziest of predators. If you knew what I've seen in my life, you'd shit yourself.”

Caillol remained perfectly still. Barbieri slowly went over to him.

“Now, François, we're going to change gears, because we're about to attack the mountain road. You know, the one that leads to a lovely panoramic viewpoint. I need a clear vision of things. In my humble opinion, it's her brother who's put you in this mess. Have you any idea how, or why?”

“I don't know. I honestly don't know.”

“Having it in for someone that much,” the magistrate said, “means that there must be a solid motive. Don't forget, he could just as easily have killed you.”

“Did he break into my house …? I don't understand.”

“Try to concentrate! Try to remember something!”

“I think he used me to cover up his crimes.”

“What crimes?”

“The murders at Cadenet and Saint-Julien!”

“Why do you think it was him?”

“I'm sure of it, absolutely sure. You found a hand beside the corpses, didn't you?”

“Yes … so?”

“It's his signature.”

“How do you know that?”

“He used to draw hands in hospital.”

“Wait a minute, Caillol,” Barbieri said, barely containing his anger. “You knew it was him and you said nothing to the gendarmerie! And nothing to me. Do you realize that this is extremely serious?”

“I know, but …”

“But what?”