The First Fingerprint (37 page)

“I'm sorry I spoke to you about her.”

“No, it's my fault.”

“But I broached the subject. I've been clumsy … I wanted to see you in fact.”

“I've learned some interesting things.”

Sylvie stood up and poured more whisky into their glasses. She was wearing a simple blouse and a skirt with tiny flowers, as light as a silk veil. His body trembled and he felt disconnected from reality. He breathed deeply. His ideal was there before him. She was beautiful; like those images from his childhood that he had torn up so long ago.

He felt lonely, exhausted by life. He had not touched a woman's body for ages now. It had been months since Marie had left.

He made love to her slowly. Until the lava trapped in his guts erupted from all the extremities of his being.

In the middle of the night, she stroked the livid, badly stitched scar that crossed his shoulder.

“What is this, a zip fastener?”

“A souvenir from ‘Le Blond.' A .357 Magnum. It's an old story. An old story which, in a few days' time, might be coming out of prison, where my friend Jean-Louis and I sent him.”

“What had he done?”

“Violation of drug laws, to put it technically. Plus the murder of a magistrate.”

“And the one on your thigh?”

“Are you giving me a full examination?”

“No, I already have.”

“I can't tell you about that one.”

“Today or tomorrow, Sylvie will talk. She knows things.”

He kept repeating this to himself, and it was making him nervous. Everything had been going as planned, or almost. The goddess had not been wrong. The goddess was never wrong.

Yet he was disturbed by what he had seen the night before. It was a policeman, he was sure of it. He had followed them all evening, all the way to her building. When he examined the Clio, he could tell straight away that it was a police car.

He cursed the heavens. Why had this little creep crossed his path? It didn't really worry him, but this unexpected factor had upset his carefully laid plans.

He had a method, which he kept to. He could not bear it being faulted.

He thought about the risks, but he could not see any. Objectively, there were none. But his instinct told him that he should be wary of this policeman; he seemed to be made of different stuff from the others. He was never wrong about things like that.

In any case, his plans had been carried out according to his characteristic method. And without the slightest slip-up. This policeman would never be able to identify him. He hammered out this truth so as to imprint it on his mind.

Yet the last time, with Julia, he had taken extraordinary risks. Just a few meters from home! But his instincts had again been proved right. He was right to be bold. He had become the best, fed by the strength of his victims. Like the great hunters of prehistory.

François Caillol would try to defend himself. But how? The hunter had no idea. He knew that the doctor would be unable to find an
explanation; none of his alibis would stand up to such a huge amount of evidence. No way.

But there was the policeman. He had to be eliminated. He had to be prevented from hanging around Sylvie Maurel and talking to her. His blood began to beat like mad in his temples. His throat swelled. He felt drops of sweat running down his spinal cord.

The goddess had said: “Today or tomorrow, Sylvie will talk. She knows things.” The idea of this devastated him. He sat down on a bench and laid out his thoughts like a pack of cards, trying to devise a strategy with what he had. Sylvie was the only bad card in the hand, like an imperceptible wind that conveys the hunter's scent and alerts his prey. She had to be eliminated. She had to fall.

He banished the thought for a moment.

But the method would have to come first. And he knew it. Time was short. The goddess had said: “Sylvie has met this policeman. She'll tell him sooner or later. There is no other answer. Eliminate Sylvie or disappear.”

It was impossible right now.

He took a deep breath. His instincts had gone silent. He felt life biting him, gashing his flesh. Lacerated body tissue. A wound slowly bleeding the meaning of existence.

His mother's face appeared, cruel and tense with that mocking grin which had so often terrified him. Drops of cold sweat now dotted his forehead. He wiped them away with a sleeve and felt weak. Images suddenly came from nowhere and smacked him in the face: his father's body stretched out, people crying, a hospital bed, his mother kicking him, his sister's sweet belly. He could no longer hear children yelling in the distance. The sun had gobbled them up.

The warrior has been hit by an arrow in his belly. He can hardly breathe, his vision is hazy. Beside him lies his lifeless uncle, pierced by a dozen bolts
.

The shaman approaches as though in slow motion. He is wearing a rattan breastplate and protective netting hangs from his neck. His nose is pierced with a wooden stick. He pushes aside the other warriors and, moaning softly, bends over the wounded man. Slowly he paces round the body, blowing on each part of it, then he stands and invokes the spirits.
For a long time the shaman fights death. He makes small incisions to let the “black blood” flow out and invokes the spirits once more. But the spirits do not come; the warrior's stare has frozen
.

He rubbed his arms hard and looked at the ground. In the gutter, a thin rivulet of water was slowly pushing on a ball of dried chewing gum. It got stuck in a tiny hole and formed a damn. The rivulet swerved round the obstacle and continued on its way. Sylvie's name hammered in his head, bouncing like a rubber ball against each bone of his skull. Then it infiltrated the painful pathways of his brain.

The shaman takes out a fetish of multi-colored feathers stuck in a cane rod and shakes it over the warrior's motionless body
.

Arrows and lances are brandished with a cry of fury. A band has captured an enemy. The chief approaches him, his ax gleaming in his hand. He strikes once, then twice
.

An inner voice rose up from the depths of his being.

“She must be eliminated.”

He looked up and stared at the street full of everyday people.

“She must be eliminated. But first, use her to eliminate the policeman,” the goddess told him.

He would use his method, as ever. He would take his time. The time he needed to find his righteous anger. To lay a fatal trap as only a great hunter can.

To: Commandant Michel de Palma. Murder squad. From: Ron Hoskins, F.B.I., Lyon.

Michel,

Here's some of the information you wanted:

There are many amateur prehistory societies in the U.S.A. Most of them have websites. There are many in Arizona and Utah and they are interested in the first settlements of Pueblos. I don't think that they concern you. There are others in Texas who focus on the Clovis (the first inhabitants of the American continent) … But I won't make a list of all of them.

Regarding the lead you asked me to follow up, i.e. a “sect-like” society based in New York State, I haven't found anything. There is a prehistory club called “The American Prehistory Society,” several of whose members have been charged with the (alleged) homicide of another member. Its headquarters is in Albany, N.Y.

These events occurred in the summer of 1996,
and the case has never been solved.

The victim was Anna McCabe, aged 40, born in Oakland, California. She was a researcher in the ethnology department of the University of San Diego. She was found dead on July 21, 1996 in Lake Otapah, Colorado. Her death occurred before July 8, 1996, from a heart attack caused by an overdose of unidentified hallucinogens (presumably from plants from the mescal family). The body, which was partly decomposed, bore several quite deep wounds made by an unidentified sharp object—these wounds were not the cause of death. (I can find out more, if you want, but I'll need time.)

With a little effort, I unearthed the names of the people who were questioned by our units. They include both men and women. All but five are U.S. citizens. They are:

—Paco Rivaldo, an Argentinian, aged 40 at the time. Professor
honoris causa
at the University of Buenos Aires, Argentina. A specialist in the prehistoric inhabitants of Patagonia. He was not charged.

—François Caillol, a French citizen, aged 40 at the time. A psychiatrist from Aix-en-Provence, France. Member of the A.P.S. He had come to deliver a series of lectures on shamanism and prehistory. The F.B.I. file states that he was not charged. He was in fact no longer in the U.S.A. at the time of the murder, so he was considered innocent.

—Julia Chevallier, a French citizen, aged 38 at the time. A teacher in Marseille, France.

—Hélène Weill, a French citizen, aged 39 at the time. Profession unknown (?).

—Christine Autran, a French citizen, aged 39 at the time. A lecturer in Aix at the University of Provence. A specialist in prehistory. She had come to deliver a series of lectures on shamanism and prehistory. Member of the A.P.S.

When I read these names, I saw the connection with the case you're investigating. I think that this Caillol and the three women will be of interest to you.

The addresses of the A.P.S. are 26, Monroe Drive, Albany, New York State and 1236, Falcon Boulevard, Denver, Colorado. There are other addresses which I'll send you if you want.

The American Prehistory Society couldn't really be described as a sect. They are enthusiasts interested in a particular subject. Like the “Indianists,” they organize weekends where they adopt the lifestyle of early humanity. They shut themselves up in caves, hunt big game with rudimentary weapons and practice survival techniques. Most of its members are wealthy, some extremely so.

Their ideology is rather vague, except that they defend nature and perform shamanistic rituals, a little like the medicine men in the American Native Church. They also organize and finance serious expeditions to investigate primitive peoples. So it's not really a sect, but more of a society, like many others in the U.S.A., which helps to promote research, even if some of their activities are not very conventional.

That's all I can tell you for now. I'd like to carry out more detailed research, but under American legislation I am not allowed to. That's the way it is. Let's talk soon about your market of stolen artifacts.

See you soon, your friend,

Ron.

The Baron put down the piece of paper without saying a word. Moracchini and Vidal were silent too, waiting for their teammate's reaction. First he picked up the phone and called Barbieri.

“Good morning, Christophe, I want to ask permission to see Caillol again …”

“I suppose you've got something new?”

“Yes, something quite incredible. A real bit of luck. I've just been told that he was questioned by the F.B.I. about a homicide carried out by a bunch of prehistory loonies in the U.S.A. I have to see him. It's really urgent.”

“O.K., how about this afternoon?”

“Perfect! About 2:00?”

“O.K. But this time we'll go together. Pick me up at court at 1:00 p.m.”

De Palma headed for the coffee machine, followed by Moracchini.

“Richard came out of his coma an hour ago,” she said as she slipped a coin into the slot.

“I knew it!” de Palma almost shouted, waving his arms. “Can we visit him?”

“No, not yet. The doctors aren't even letting his family see him. They want to avoid any emotional shocks.”

“And so?”

“He should be alright, but they don't know if there will be any after-effects. If there are, they shouldn't be very serious.”

“And where are they all at?” the Baron asked, pointing at the closed doors of the serious crime and murder squads.

“They're seeing the prefect. They're lodging a demand to organize a demonstration. We wanted to go along too, but we waited for you. And now it's too late. Plus Maistre's been looking for you.”

“I know, my mobile battery is flat. Jesus, that's good news about Richard! So what's the demo all about?”

“We've had enough of being shot at!” snapped Vidal, scathingly. “Three dead and two seriously wounded in less than a month. Enough is enough.”

“So you think a demo will change anything?” de Palma replied coldly, dropping his coin into the slot. “It's our entire society which needs changing …”

“Cut the crap, Michel!” Vidal interrupted. “They should provide us with what we need.”

“That's right, more money and Kevlar body armor, and like that we'll be rich and well protected! But definitely DO NOT slap mobsters around.”

“You really do lose it sometimes, Michel,” said Moracchini.

“Tell me why young kids shoot at us like they're plugging farm pheasants! Tell me why in this damned city there's a crazy guy obsessed with eating people! Tell me why there are only three of us on this case!”

“Well …”

“Then what do you want to do with all your dosh and Kevlar jackets? Create good little children, good little killers, healthy in body and mind?”

“So, what do you suggest?”

“I don't have anything to suggest. I'm just a poor dickhead of a policeman who's seen the prisons fill up over his twenty-five-year career. It's not my fault if society is falling apart. Half the restaurants in this city feed the mob's bank accounts. All the nightclubs belong to those guys and imagine what you'd find if you looked into the politicians' finances. Not to mention our bent colleagues … So don't ask me what I suggest! I can remember a time when crooks didn't shoot police officers.”

“So, can we count on you for the demo?”

“As long as those fascist trade unions aren't there! Do I not look like someone who'd go to a peace and love rally?”

“O.K., don't get so wound up.”

“I'm not getting wound up. I just don't know where I stand any more. The whole world is turning into a nightmare. We used to arrest a maniac every five years. Now it's every week. When will we get the next one? Tomorrow? Maybe today?”