The First Fingerprint (42 page)

“A pigment.”

“Yes, that's it. An ochre pigment.”

“What shall we do now?”

“Behave like serious police officers. We take this to forensics for the fingerprints. We'll get the result this afternoon.”

“I wanted to tell you …”

“It's O.K., Maxime, don't bother. Just call Anne and tell her to move off without drawing any attention to herself.”

“I wanted to tell you that I've thought things over, and I've been unfair on you.”

“It doesn't matter, kid. Simply leave the force at once, or else give up on the idea of staying normal. Call Anne.”

The little old men were still sitting there when they left the presbytery.

“Just look at those two,” the Baron said as they pulled away. “They see two suspicious-looking characters break into a presbytery and they don't even call the police. And then they start complaining … Fuck them.”

The first results from forensics arrived at the end of the afternoon. All of the fingerprints taken from the presbytery matched those found in Chevallier's house and Autran's car.

Commissioner Paulin came into the office without knocking.

“Where are you at, de Palma?”

“We've located him. I mean, we've put a name to a face.”

“Moracchini has already told me. Do you think …?”

“I don't think,” de Palma butted in. “The only thing we're sure about is that the fog we've been walking through is less dense. We can now see shadows. The outlines are less hazy, but they're still only shadows. With a third of a fingerprint, we've got nothing. He can always say that he paid a visit to a member of the congregation. There's the bottle, but that's not enough. We'll have to run D.N.A. tests and compare them with the samples we got from Caillol's place—the gendarmes omitted to do that as well. The fact that he's Christine's brother doesn't make
him guilty. We need more: a confession, or else the kind of solid evidence that they like in Aix.”

“I'll put as many men at your disposal as you want.”

“Thanks, but we still have to find out where he's hiding.”

“How are you going to proceed?”

“First, we'll have to watch the presbytery and Saint-Julien church. You never know. Second, we'll have to stop him from leaving the city. In other words, distribute his description and an identikit photo to all units, the airport, railway stations and so on. For once, the anti-terrorism law might serve another purpose than pissing off Blacks and Arabs.”

“And then?” asked Paulin, frowning.

“Then, I reckon we've been lucky once and won't be lucky a second time. We'll have to think things through. Rack our brains. Figure out the sort of place where he could be hiding, and where he could have taken Sylvie Maurel. Anne, take care of the description, please. But don't spend too much time on it. We need your brains. That's all for now.”

“I have to congratulate you, de Palma, and your teammates too. I was beginning to lose hope.”

“The fact that we know what he looks like doesn't mean we're going to be able to catch him like a goby. Far from it.”

“Allow me to trust you! I'm sure you've got a good idea.”

“I'm afraid not. Nothing at all. Not the slightest hint of a lead.”

“I'll let you get on with it,” said Paulin on his way out. “See you later.”

Just as he was closing the door, he added:

“By the way, de Palma, an old acquaintance of yours died in an occupational accident this morning.”

“Who's that?”

“Francis Le Blond. Two charges of buckshot and six bullets from an 11.43. Yet another settling of old scores. But done in real Sicilian mafia style. Not a clumsy local job.”

“At least this time you can't say it's the gambling syndicates.”

“Who knows?” said Paulin, closing the door.

De Palma stretched in his chair. He sensed that Vidal was thinking back over their meeting with Lolo and analyzing it. He did not dare
look at him, and tried to take refuge in Moracchini's eyes, but she was staring at her trainers.

“I think he's using Sylvie Maurel as bait,” she said, “as something which will lead us to him. He must have realized that it's all up. He's just too intelligent not to know that. I think he wants to get this business over with.”

“Logically speaking,” de Palma said, “he'll probably go to Le Guen's Cave. It's his sanctuary.”

“But how would he take her there?” Moracchini asked.

“I've got no idea. He kidnapped her outside the lab and forced her to use her car. But to get to Sugiton creek is another matter altogether! You have to go by foot, and he couldn't take that risk.”

“You're right, Michel,” she replied. “But you never know what people like that are capable of. He might have found a solution which you could never imagine.”

“There aren't that many ways to get to Sugiton creek,” Vidal said. “Either you go on foot or by boat. Unless you fly there. Anyway, it would be practically impossible to take someone along against their will.”

“Unless you're not alone,” observed de Palma suddenly.

“What do you mean?” asked Moracchini.

“I mean that I've always suspected that he's not working on his own. For a time, I even thought Sylvie was with him.”

“And who do you imagine this second loony might be?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“Let me tell you something,” Moracchini said. “To work with someone like that, you'd have to share his madness … just think about it! There aren't that many people around who eat their victims. It's the first time it's ever happened in Marseille.”

“Still, I don't think he's alone.”

“O.K., but I reckon you're on to a false lead.”

“Whatever,” said the Baron, shoving his computer keyboard away. “Logically he would have gone to Sugiton. That would be the most obvious thing for him to do.”

“But he can't have gone there … At least not if he were taking Sylvie Maurel.”

“What do you mean by that?” de Palma snapped, more aggressive than ever.

“I mean that he would either have gone there without her, or …”

“WITH SOMEONE ELSE!” yelled the Baron.

“Calm down, Michel,” shouted Anne. “Calm down for Christ's sake! It's a point we can't neglect. Maxime's right.”

The Baron got up. For the first time, he really imagined that Sylvie might be dead and sliced up, like Hélène and Julia. He had been haunted by the idea since 11:00 that morning, but had refused to admit it. He felt bile rise in his throat.

“Maxime, look at your diary and tell me when the next full moon is.”

“I've already checked. It's tomorrow!”

“Right, in that case, if this loony raises his head, it will be then.”

“What do you suggest?” Vidal asked.

“Tomorrow, we'll go to Sugiton. Just a small group, four or five at most. Too bad if we've got it wrong.”

“What should we do in the meantime?”

“What do you expect me to say? We'll try to force the hand of chance again. If a patrol happens to spot him …”

De Palma slumped in his chair. He felt all in. Moracchini had never seen him in such a state, looking so beaten.

“Professor Palestro told me he was the only person who knew where the second entrance was—even Christine Autran didn't know,” he added. “So, in theory, she can't have told her brother. In that case, he might think that Sylvie is one of the few people who knows, and try to force her to speak.”

“Does Sylvie know where it is?”

“She told me she didn't. But I'm not so sure.”

“So, supposing that he wants to find the entrance, why take her and not Palestro?”

“You're right, I'd start with him. You're quite right … but that's why I'm sure that he's going to try to get into Le Guen's Cave—I reckon that he thinks that his sister's talking to him from there. He's going to invoke her spirit …”

De Palma paused for a moment before adding softly:

“And, obviously, the spirit will tell him to kill Sylvie.”

He withdrew momentarily, faced with his own powerlessness. No terrible visions had haunted him over the past few days; it was as though his ghosts had taken a break. He just felt powerless; and it tormented him.

“Your idea of trapping him in Sugiton creek sounds like a good one to me,” said Moracchini. “Our only good one!”

“What about Sylvie? What shall we do?”

“I can't answer that, Michel. We're up against a wall. We've got no choice. All we can do is hope that everything turns out well.”

“If I've understood correctly, you're going to catch our man tomorrow.”

“I hope so, Commissaire, I hope so …” de Palma said.

Paulin enjoyed these briefing sessions before an arrest. They made him feel important, and he liked them to be marked by a certain solemnity. He paced up and down behind his desk, glancing occasionally at his three bloodhounds.

“What's the plan?”

“We're going to catch him in Sugiton creek,” said de Palma.

“That won't be easy! I don't know the creeks well, but I do know that the terrain is difficult.”

“We'll have to be discreet. I don't want anyone else to be there. We'll go at night, just the three of us.”

“O.K., just the three of you. But what if he slips through your fingers?”

“Sugiton is a dead end. It's impossible to escape, except by sea.”

“That's one way already!”

“Of course, if you put it like that …”

Paulin tried to look important.

“I can give you as many men as you want. And boats, a helicopter, anything … anything you want.”

“I don't think all that will be necessary.”

“Listen, de Palma, I don't want him to elude you. Don't try anything if you're not sure of the result. What do you think, Moracchini?”

“I think we'll need about ten men, in case …”

“And you, Vidal?”

“I think so too. But Michel's right. We'll have to be more or less invisible. We're dealing with someone who knows this place from old. If he hears the slightest suspicious noise, he'll find a way to vanish before we can catch him.”

“As a matter of interest, de Palma, why Sugiton?”

“That's where his sister died … I think each time he commits a murder, he goes there to invoke the spirits.”

“His brains really are messed up,” Paulin said, shrugging his shoulders to push up his jacket collar. “So, you need a dozen men.”

“O.K.,” de Palma conceded, realizing that this would not be the right time to fall out with his superior. “We'll set off from the Luminy car park at dusk. Or at nightfall, to be exact. We'll need five men: two to stay in the car park until he arrives—they'll let him go then follow him twenty minutes later; the other three will be stationed on the path. We'll have to check out the scene tomorrow morning. Anne, you'll position yourself around Sugiton pass with another five men, in case he decides to backtrack. I'll go down into the creek with Maxime.”

“Good, de Palma.”

The commissaire clapped his hands.

“Tomorrow morning,” he said, sitting down, “at 9:00, we'll go and take a look with the boys from the flying squad. Then be back here at noon. O.K.?”

“Fine, boss.”

“Go and get some rest. It feels like I've got three ghost officers here.”

*

“They struck you in your bath, your blood

ran over your eyes
,

and the bath steamed with your blood…”

It was hot. De Palma sat exhausted on his balcony and let Elektra's sad voice take hold of him. Through the open windows, the low and middle register notes of Birgit Nilsson mingled with the subdued
symphony made up of the sounds of his neighborhood at night. He had come home late, thinking that he would be able to sleep for a few hours.

“…
So, he took you

by your shoulders, the coward, and dragged

you out of the room, head first
,

your legs trailing behind, your eyes open

staring at the interior of the house
…”

The siren of a distant patrol car broke the atmosphere. It was probably coming from one of the Pont-de-Vivaux estates. A madman in the asylum opposite began to moan dully. De Palma knew this faceless voice; he had known it for years.

That week—he had forgotten which day—he had got a letter from Marie. In it, she told him she had found work in the suburbs of Grenoble. There was a new man in her life, he could tell by reading between the lines. He had felt neither sad nor angry.

Sleep would not come. As the night progressed, he felt his body grow colder; his joints cracked like old beams. This investigation was coming to an end. Never in his long career had an attempt to understand a killer, and himself, given him so much pause for thought.

Tomorrow he would find himself face-to-face with the sickest murderer he had encountered since the Dustman. What would he do? Kill him? He could telephone Jo Luccioni. He had been thinking about that since the day before. Jo had the necessary fury, that hatred of the human species which must haunt his mind. This thought chilled him even more, so he cast it aside.

“And so you come back, putting one foot in front of the other
,

and suddenly you appear
,

a purple crown on your head
,

fed by the gaping wound in your forehead.”

He thought of Sylvie and tried to imagine the situation she must be in, but he failed to build a mental image of it. His inability to visualize
the horror made him shudder. This was something new to him; usually, he managed to picture the darker side of his investigations. His ability to imagine a perfectly precise scenario was the secret of his legendary intuition. But that night he did not have a storyboard, or any images. Sylvie had become an element, a cog in the mechanism which was grinding his consciousness. Each time he conjured up Sylvie's face, his brain rejected it as though trying to impose the cold reality of the facts.