Bred to Kill (4 page)

“I'm sorry, I just can't.”

Sharko took the weapon from her.

“Let go. I'll do it.”

Gripping the bars, the chimpanzee straightened up a bit more, put its hands together, palms outward, then brought them to its throat, moving slightly backward. Just as Sharko was aiming the gun at the animal, Jaspar blocked his arm.

“Wait! She's talking.”

Shery made other signs: hands on either side of her head, waving them palms downward, like a ghost trying to frighten children. Then her right hand on her lips, before dropping it sharply toward the ground. She repeated this series of gestures three or four times, then approached Eva's body and gently caressed her shredded cheek. It seemed to Sharko he'd never seen so much emotion in a living creature's eyes.

“What's she saying?”

“She keeps repeating the same thing: ‘Fear, monster, wicked . . . fear, monster, wicked . . .'”

Jaspar regained hope.

“I told you, Shery is innocent. Someone came here. Someone else hurt Eva.”

“Ask Shery if she knows this ‘wicked monster.'”

With her hands and lips, the woman executed a series of signs that the chimpanzee watched attentively.

“Her vocabulary contains more than four hundred fifty words. She'll understand, as long as we express ourselves clearly.”

After a moment, Shery shook her head no. Sharko couldn't get over it: the woman standing next to him was talking with a chimp, our great cousin on the evolutionary scale.

“Ask her why the monster came here.”

More signs, to which Shery responded. Index and ring fingers of the right hand forming a V, rapidly crossed by the wide-open left. Then a sharp movement of the arm toward the corpse.

“‘Kill. Kill Eva.'”

Sharko rubbed his chin, skeptical and stupefied.

“In your opinion, what does ‘monster' mean to her?”

“A violent, destructive creature, intent on causing harm. What's certain is that it can't refer to a man, because she would have used the term for that. It's . . . it's the part I'm having trouble understanding.”

“Can monkeys make things up or lie?”

“When it's a survival reflex, they might occasionally ‘mislead.' If a group of monkeys is in mortal combat, the sentinel might give a cry signaling an attack from the sky, just to make the others flee. But if Shery says she saw a monster, she really did see one. Maybe another chimpanzee, larger and more aggressive, that she interpreted as a monster.”

Sharko no longer knew what to think. Fatigue weighed on him; his mind was bogging down. A monkey, a cage, a body with its face bitten, and even the blunt instrument typical of so many crime stories: it all seemed so simple. Almost too perfect, in fact. But a “monster” might have been here. And in that case, the talking chimpanzee had been witness to a murder.

He needed more coffee, something in his gut. As he pondered the situation, the chimpanzee went back to her corner, turning her back on them again. The cop aimed his pistol once more.

“I'd like to believe you, Shery, but for the moment I have no choice.”

He fired. A small dart with a red tip sank into the primate's back; she tried to pull it out, then tottered to the side and fell over, just a few inches from Eva Louts's corpse. Jaspar's lips tightened.

“We didn't have any choice. I'm so sorry, my sweet . . .”

Sharko handed her back the hypodermic gun and asked, “In your opinion, why would a ‘wicked monster' have hurt Eva Louts?”

“I don't know. But I discovered something very strange about Eva the day before yesterday. It might be related . . .”

“What was it?”

Jaspar looked one last time at the corpse, then at Shery's inert form. She gave a long sigh.

“Let's go get some coffee, you can't stop yawning. Then I'll tell you. In the meantime, I . . . I should go notify her parents.”

Sharko touched her wrist.

“No, leave it. Their lives are going to be shattered. You don't announce the death of someone's child like that, on the phone. Our people will take care of it. This is just one of the sadder aspects of our job.”

T
he first day of school is a happy time for most children. After two months apart, everyone is reunited with his or her friends, tells what happened over the holidays, shows off the new Spider-Man backpack or
Dora the Explorer
lunch box. Gleaming sneakers, brand-new pens and erasers . . . The kids greet one another, tease one another, size one another up. The world of childhood explodes in a thousand colors and pieces.

When Lucie arrived at the schoolyard fence that Monday morning, the pupils were assembling in the courtyard. Shrieks, shouts, a few tears. In several minutes, roll would be called; girls and boys would find themselves mixed together in their new classes for another year of apprenticeship. Some parents accompanied their offspring, especially the youngest ones just out of kindergarten.

The Sainte-Hélène private school was not the one where Lucie used to bring Juliette before the tragedy. She had learned from a child psychiatrist that there were no set rules on how to survive the loss of a sister, and it was even more complicated in the case of twins. Because of this, Lucie had preferred to make a clean break with the old school. The little girl would have new friends, new teachers, new habits. And for Lucie, too, severing the umbilical cord with the past was for the best. She didn't want to be the one they looked at strangely, the one they didn't dare approach without dragging out the hackneyed sentiment, “I'm so sorry for what happened.” Here, no one knew her, no one looked at her . . . She was just another mother among many.

Pressed against the fence, Lucie watched the children in the courtyard and spotted Juliette in the colorful jumble. The little girl was smiling, stamping her feet impatiently. She showed a real eagerness to return to school. She remained alone for a few seconds in the midst of the indifferent crowd, then joined the line, pulling her spanking new wheeled backpack. No one paid any special attention to her; the other children already knew each other, were talking and laughing. The teacher raised her eyes toward the fence and the parents, her expression suggesting that everything was under control, and went back to her job. The earth did not stop turning; everywhere life went on, come what may.

At the end of the roll call, as most of the parents headed off, Lucie rushed into the courtyard and toward the classrooms. She called after the teacher once all the children had disappeared into the hallway.

“Excuse me, Miss, there's something very important I forgot to ask. It's about recess. Do the teachers come out to watch the children? Do you keep that gate locked?”

“The minute the last parents have left the courtyard. Please don't be concerned for your child. If there's one place he'll be safe, it's here. You are Ms. . . . ?”

“Henebelle. Juliette's mom.”

The teacher appeared to think.

“Juliette Henebelle . . . Sorry, I don't recognize the name, but I haven't learned them all yet. It takes a little time. And now, if you'll excuse me . . .”

She walked up the stairs and vanished into the hallway.

Lucie left the courtyard, feeling reassured. The teacher was right, there was no reason to worry. The establishment had one of the best reputations in Lille for safety and the care it took of the children.

Alone, her head sunk into her shoulders, hands in her pockets, Lucie slowly walked back up Boulevard Vauban, a part of the city filled with students from several nearby universities. The sidewalks were crowded with young people, business executives in suits, assorted deliverymen. After two months of summer doldrums, the capital of French Flanders was perking up. Lucie thought it was about time.

She looked at her watch. Eight thirty-five. She had more than an hour to kill before going to work, in a call center near Euralille, barely a mile from her home. Nine-forty-five to six thirty, with a forty-five-minute lunch break at noon. An asinine six-month term contract that consisted of being insulted all day long, but mind-numbing enough to keep Lucie from having to think. The ideal job, under the circumstances.

She hesitated. Should she sit around in a café and waste a few euros killing time, or go home and walk the young Labrador? She chose the second option: better to avoid unnecessary expenditures. And besides, if she organized her time well in the coming days, she could get back to working out a bit, running with the dog at the Citadelle for half an hour every morning. Getting some oxygen into her mind and muscles would do her a world of good. The roots of her body needed to revive.

Lucie veered off toward her building, a group of apartments split between permanent residents and students. A building with some character, in the Vauban tradition: dark brick, tidy architecture, solid and without needless flourishes. For a long time, Lucie had considered leaving it all behind. Change city, faces, surroundings. Set the dials at zero. But ultimately, what was the point? Where would she go? On what money? And leaving Lille also meant leaving her mother—something that Lucie, at thirty-eight, felt incapable of doing.

“Lucie?”

She stopped in the pathway at the sound of her name. That voice—hard, granitelike, as if from beyond the grave. She turned around and froze. It was he, her former boss at Criminal Investigations in Lille.

She didn't hide her amazement.

“Captain Kashmareck?”

One year later, and he hadn't changed a bit. Still the same regulation buzz cut, the same wide mug, the same pit bull jaws. He was wearing black jeans, his indestructible Doc Martens with reinforced toes, a striped blue shirt that gave him a certain elegance. He came toward her; then they felt a bit stupid when she held out her hand while he leaned forward to kiss her cheek. They settled on a handshake and awkward smiles.

Kashmareck, about ten years her senior, stared at her without opening his mouth. You couldn't say she was looking in the pink, but the police captain had expected worse. Her blond hair had grown and now fell to the middle of her back. Her slightly sunken cheeks and sharp features brought out her blue eyes, which she hadn't made up. A pretty, natural-looking woman, who could melt into the workforce crowd without anyone detecting the sorrow of her private story. More or less the same Lucie he'd always known.

“Can I come in for coffee?”

“It's just that . . . I have to be at work soon and . . .”

“I won't take long. There's something important I have to tell you, and I'd rather not do it here.”

Lucie's heart contracted, her senses went on alert: the presence of her former police captain was surely no mere coincidence.

“Is it about Carnot?”

“Please, let's go inside.”

Lucie could have gone to pieces right then and there. Just hearing the name of her daughter's murderer made her feel sick. She did her best to appear strong and ushered her ex-boss into the small apartment, her brain whirring at top speed. What could he possibly have to tell her? Grégory Carnot had got thirty years, twenty-five of them without parole. The piece of shit was rotting behind the bars of Vivonne Penitentiary, almost four hundred miles away. Was he getting transferred? Married in jail? Writing a book about his miserable life?

Kashmareck entered the apartment in silence. In the several years they'd worked together, he had never set foot in his subordinate's home. They had both respected the hierarchical boundaries.

A young sand-colored Labrador came to say hello. The captain petted it energetically; he liked dogs.

“What's his name?”

“Klark. With two k's.”

“Hey, there, Klark. How old?”

“Almost one.”

The entry led to a living room containing piles of children's things: toys, coloring books, clothes, and the kinds of study guides kids get quizzed on over the holidays.

“Excuse the mess,” said Lucie.

The captain gazed at these objects with a sorrowful sigh.

“No need to apologize.”

On the dresser rested dozens of framed photos. The twins, shoulder to shoulder. Impossible to tell Clara from Juliette without squinting. Lucie had once explained that one of them—he didn't remember which—had a flaw in her left iris, a small black spot shaped like a vase. Kashmareck clenched his jaws, feeling uneasy. He had seen so many grieving parents come through his office, so much distress on their faces. Was Lucie inflicting this daily confrontation with the photos on herself as a torture, a punishment, or had she resolved to face the tragedy head-on, and so move past it?

In the kitchen, Lucie turned on the coffeemaker.

“Before you ask me how I'm doing, I'll save you the trouble: there is not one second when I don't think about what happened. Since the tragedy, I've crossed to the other side, Captain. I'm now one of those people we used to deal with without really caring: the victims. But victims continue to breathe, and occasionally they might even laugh. Life has to go on. So, I'm doing as well as can be expected.”

Lucie nodded toward two dolls in a corner of the room, identically dressed and coiffed.

“And besides, I still have Juliette . . . I have to give her everything I can now.”

The captain gazed at the dolls, then at Lucie, looking somber. She noticed and thought it best to explain:

“It's the two dolls you find shocking, is that it? Two dolls, just one daughter . . .”

She went to pick one up, carefully straightened its miniature gray vest.

“For Juliette, Clara is still alive. The psychiatrist says it will take time, perhaps years, before Juliette can separate
physically
from her sister, but she'll get there eventually. Something is protecting her in her head, a mechanism that makes Clara appear when Juliette needs her.”

The police captain pulled up a chair and sat down, elbows on the table, clenched fists supporting his chin. He watched Lucie in silence, then briefly glanced around him. Not a single bottle of alcohol, no trace of medications. No sign that she was letting herself go. Dishes washed and put away. A nice lemony smell floating over the room.

“And what about you, have you gotten any help? From a shrink, I mean?”

“Yes and no. I saw one at first, but . . . I felt it wasn't doing any good. The fact is, I don't remember much about our sessions. I think my mind put up a barrier.”

She shut herself up in silence. Kashmareck deemed it better to change the subject.

“We miss you a lot at the squad. It was hard for us, too, you know?”

“It was hard for everyone.”

“How are you making out, financially?”

“I'm okay . . . It's not hard to find work when you're prepared to do pretty much anything.”

After setting a coffee packet in place, Lucie pressed a button. The machine quickly filled two cups. Time was passing; they could hear the hand heavily ticking off the seconds. Eight-fifty. In one hour, the phone calls would start, angry voices would shout, ears would buzz. Lucie sat down in front of the police captain, handed him a cup, and cut to the chase.

“What's going on with Carnot?”

“They found him stone dead in the back of his cell in solitary, completely bled out.”