The Whisperer (19 page)

“Was it you?”

“…Yes.”

“And did you push him as well?”

“…”

“No one will punish you if you tell us what happened. That is a promise.”

“He told me to.”

“Who’s he? Billy? Did Billy ask you to push him?”

“No.”

“So was it one of the other boys?”

“No.”

“Who, then?”

“…”

“Ron.”

“Yes.”

“Come on, answer me. This person you’re talking about doesn’t exist, does he? He’s just a figment of your imagination…”

“No.”

“There’s no one else here. Just me and your companions.”

“He only comes for me.”

“Listen to me, Ron: I want you to say you’re very sorry for what happened to Billy.”

“…I’m very sorry for what happened to Billy.”

“I hope you mean that…At any rate, this will remain a secret between me, you and the Lord.”

“OK.”

“You mustn’t speak of it to anyone else.”

“OK.”

“I absolve you of your sins. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

“Amen.”

W
e’re looking for an individual by the name of Ronald Dermis,” Roche announced to the packed audience, speaking into flashes and microphones. “He is about thirty-six years old. Brown hair, brown eyes, light complexion.”

He showed an image based on the photograph in which he had posed with his companions, showing a hypothetical adult Ron. He held the image up as the flashes went off.

“We have reason to believe that this man was involved in the abduction of the missing girls. Anyone who knows him, who has any information about him or who has had contact with him over the last thirty years is requested to inform the police. Thank you.”

The last word set off a chorus of questions and pleas from the journalists. “Mr. Roche!…Chief Inspector!…A question!…”

Roche ignored them, leaving the room by a back door.

It had been an inevitable move. They had to set alarm bells ringing.

Boris and Mila’s discovery had been followed by two feverish hours. The situation was clear now.

Father Rolf had recorded Ron’s confession on Billy’s tape recorder. Then he had buried it with him, like someone planting a seed knowing that it will sooner or later bear fruit, in the hope that the truth would one day redeem everyone. The one who, in spite of his innocent years, had committed this terrible crime. The one who had been its victim. And the one who had taken the trouble to bury it under six feet of earth.

…
At any rate, this will remain a secret between me, you and the Lord…

Goran said, “How did Albert know about all this? Father Rolf and Ron were the only ones who were aware of the secret. So the only possible explanation is that Ron and Albert are one and the same person.”

Perhaps the decision to involve Alexander Bermann also needed to be read in that context. The criminologist couldn’t remember who it was who had told him that their serial killer had chosen a pedophile because he had probably been abused as a child. Perhaps it had been Sarah Rosa. But Stern had immediately dismissed the hypothesis, and Gavila had agreed with him. Now he had to admit that he might have been wrong.

“The preferred victims of pedophiles are orphans and stray children, because they have no one to defend them.”

Goran was angry with himself for not having reached that answer sooner. And yet he had all the pieces of the puzzle in front of his eyes from the start. Instead he had allowed himself to be seduced by the idea that Albert was a subtle strategist.

“Serial killers are telling us a story with what they do: the story of their inner conflict,” he constantly repeated to his students.

So why had he been misled by a different hypothesis?

“He used my pride to trick me. I could only see that he was trying to challenge us. And I liked thinking we faced an adversary who was trying to be smarter than me.”

After watching Roche’s press conference on television, the criminologist had once again assembled the team in the laundry room at the orphanage, where Anneke’s body had been found. It struck him as the most suitable place to relaunch the investigation. His brief
mea culpa
had served to dispel all doubts about the idea that they were still a team and not just a laboratory for Dr. Gavila’s experiments.

The corpse of the second girl had been removed some time before, the marble basin had been drained of its tears. All that remained was the halogen lamps and the generator hum. Soon they would be taken away too.

Goran had requested the presence of Father Timothy. The priest arrived breathless and in a clear state of agitation: even though there was nothing in the room that recalled the crime scene, he still felt terribly ill at ease.

“There’s no sign of Father Rolf,” the young priest began. “And I really think that—”

“Father Rolf must be dead by now,” Goran interrupted him curtly. “Otherwise we would have heard from him after Roche’s appeal.”

Father Timothy looked shocked. “So what can I do for you?”

Goran took a moment to choose his words. Then, turning towards everyone, he said, “It might seem unusual to you, I know…but I would like us to say a prayer.”

Rosa couldn’t conceal her astonishment. Nor could Boris, who immediately exchanged a glance with her. Mila was baffled. Not so Stern, who was very religious. He was the first to welcome Goran’s suggestion. He placed himself at the center of the room and held his arms out by his side to take the hands of the others and form a circle. Mila was the next to approach. Rosa followed her unwillingly. Boris was the most reluctant, but he couldn’t refuse Dr. Gavila’s request. Father Timothy nodded, serene at last, before taking his place among them. Goran didn’t know how to pray, and perhaps there weren’t even any prayers appropriate to the occasion. But he tried anyway, in a sad voice.

“In recent times we have witnessed terrible things. What has happened here is unspeakable. I don’t know if a God exists. But I have always wished it so. I know for certain that evil exists. Because evil can be
demonstrated
. Good can only be witnessed. But this isn’t enough for us, who need concrete proof…” Goran paused. “If there were a God I would like to ask him…Why did Billy Moore have to die? Where did Ronald Dermis’s hatred come from? What happened to him during those years? How did he learn to kill? What led him to choose evil? And why does He not put an end to all this horror?”

Goran’s questions hung in the silence that surrounded them.

“When you wish, Father…” said the irreproachable Stern after a while.

And Father Timothy took control of the little gathering. He clasped his hands together and began to intone a sacred hymn. His voice—confident and beautiful—took possession of the echoing space, and began to swirl around it. Mila closed her eyes and allowed herself to be transported by his words. They were in Latin, but their meaning would have been obvious even to the deafest of men. With that chant, Father Timothy was bringing peace to where there had been chaos, cleansing everything of the defilement of evil.

The letter was addressed to the Department of Behavioral Sciences. It would have been classified as the work of a pathological liar had the handwriting not shown some similarities with a piece of homework that Ronald Dermis had done as a child.

It had been written on the page of an exercise book, with a perfectly normal ballpoint pen. The sender hadn’t worried about leaving fingerprints on the page.

Apparently Albert had no need of contrivances.

Goran had made a copy of the letter so that he could study it more closely. He would spend that night at home, with Tommy. He really wanted an evening with his son. There were days when he didn’t see him at all.

He stepped into the apartment and immediately heard him coming.

“How was it, Dad?”

Goran grabbed him and pulled him up in a hearty hug.

“I can’t complain. What about you?”

“I’m fine.”

They were magic words. His son had learned to use them when the two of them had been left alone. As if to say that Goran had no reason to worry, because he was “fine.” He didn’t miss Mum. They were learning not to miss her.

But that was also as far as it went. The subject was closed with those simple words. Everything was reconciled.
There, we’ve remembered how much it hurts to be without her. Now we can get on with our lives.

And that was what happened.

Goran had brought a bag that Tommy impatiently explored.

“Oh wow! Chinese food!”

“I thought you might like to vary Signora Runa’s menu a bit.”

Tommy pulled a disgusted face. “I hate her meatballs! She puts too much mint in them, they taste of toothpaste!”

Goran laughed: the boy was actually right.

“OK, off you go and wash your hands.”

Tommy ran to the bathroom. When he came back he started to get things ready. Goran had moved lots of the kitchen equipment down from shelves higher than the boy could reach: he wanted to make him feel he was part of their new family arrangement. Doing things together meant that they now had to look after one another, so neither of them could give up. Neither of them was allowed to yield to sadness.

Tommy picked up a plate, on which he put the fried wontons and sweet and sour sauce, while his father poured Cantonese rice into two bowls. They also had chopsticks and, instead of fried ice-cream Goran had bought a tub of chocolate and vanilla.

As they had their dinner they talked about the day. Tommy told him how his plans for summer camp were going. Goran asked him about school and was proud to discover that his son had got outstanding marks in gymnastics.

“I was lousy at almost all sports,” Goran admitted.

“Which one were you good at?”

“Chess.”

“Chess isn’t a sport!”

“What do you mean? They play it in the Olympics, don’t they?”

Tommy didn’t seem entirely convinced. But he had learned that his father never told lies. That had been a hard lesson, in fact. Because the first time he had asked him about his mother, Goran had told him the whole truth. No beating around the bush. “No funny business,” as Tommy always said when claiming someone’s loyalty. And his father had immediately agreed. Not out of revenge or to punish his mother. Lies—or, worse, half-truths—would only have increased the boy’s anxiety. He would have found himself on his own, facing big lies: the lie of his mother who had left, and his father who didn’t have the courage to tell him.

“Will you teach me to play chess one day?”

“Of course.”

With that solemn promise, Goran put him to bed. Then he went and closed himself away in his study. He picked up Ronald’s letter and read it for the umpteenth time. One thing had struck him about the text since he first read it. The phrase:
then HE came. HE understood me. HE taught me.

The word “HE” had been deliberately written in capitals. Goran had heard that strange reference once before. It was on the tape of Ronald’s confession to Father Rolf.

He comes only for me.

It was a clear example of personality dissociation, in which the negative
I
is always separated from the acting
I
. And becomes
He.

“It was ME. But HE told me to do it. It’s HIS fault I’m what I am.”

In that context, everyone else became “NOBODY.” That too written in capitals.

NOBODY came to save me. NOBODY can prevent all this.

Ron wanted to be saved. But everyone had forgotten him and the fact that he was, in the end, only a child.

She had gone out to get something to eat. And after wandering pointlessly among shops and restaurants that had closed early because of the weather, Mila had had to settle for some ready-made soup from a grocery store. She thought she would heat it up in the microwave she had noticed in the Studio kitchen. But she had remembered too late that she wasn’t even sure it worked.

She went back to the apartment before the searing cold of the evening paralyzed her muscles, keeping her from walking. She wished she had her tracksuit and jogging shoes there: she spent whole days not moving much and the lactic acid building up around her joints made moving more difficult.

As she prepared to climb the stairs, she saw Sarah Rosa on the pavement outside, in animated conversation with a man. He was trying to calm her down, but without apparent success. Mila thought it must be her husband, and felt a great deal of sympathy for him. Before the harpy could spot her and thus have one more reason to hate her, Mila entered the building.

On the stairs she bumped into Boris and Stern who were coming down.

“Where are you going?”

“We’re calling in at the Department to check how the manhunt’s going,” Boris replied, putting a cigarette in his mouth. “Want to come?”

“No, thanks.”

Boris noticed the soup. “Then
bon appétit
.”

Mila continued on her way upstairs, and heard him addressing his older colleague. “You should take up smoking again.”

“You’d be better off taking up these…”

Mila recognized the sound of Stern’s box of mints, and smiled.

She was alone in the Studio now. Goran was going to spend the evening at home with his son. She was slightly disappointed. She had got used to him being there, and found his investigative methods interesting. Apart from the daily prayer. If her mother had been alive and had seen her taking part in that ritual, she wouldn’t have believed her eyes.

The microwave worked. And the soup wasn’t too bad. Or perhaps it was her hunger that made it seem better than it was. With the bowl and a spoon, Mila went and sat in the guest accommodation, happy to have a bit of time for herself.

She sat down cross-legged on the camp bed. The wound on her left thigh felt a bit tight, but it was getting better.
Everything always gets better,
she thought. Between one mouthful and another, she took a photocopy of Dermis’s letter and put it in front of her. She studied it as she went on eating. Of course Ronald had chosen a very strange moment to reappear in this business. But there was something about his words that wasn’t quite in tune. Mila hadn’t had the courage to talk to Goran about it, because she didn’t think he could offer any advice. But the idea had tormented her all afternoon.

The letter had also been made available to the press, quite unusually. Clearly, Gavila had decided to stroke their serial killer’s ego. It was as if he were saying, “You see? We’re paying attention to you!” when in fact he only wanted to distract him from the little girl he was keeping prisoner.

“I don’t know how long he’ll be able to resist the impulse to kill her,” he had said a few hours before.