The Winner Stands Alone (31 page)

Doctors look at test results which are completely at odds with what they believe the
actual illness to be, and must then decide whether to trust science or their heart. They
learn, with time and experience, to give more weight to their instincts and they find that
the outcomes for their patients improve.

Successful businessmen pore over graphs and diagrams, then go completely against the
market trend and grow still richer.

Artists write books or films about which everyone says: That wont work. No ones interested
in things like that, and end up becom- ing icons of popular culture.

Religious leaders preach fear and guilt rather than love, which should, in theory, be the
most important thing in the world, and their congregations swell.

Only one group consistently fail to go against the current trend: politicians. They want
to please everyone and stick rigidly to the rules of political correctness. They end up
having to resign, apologize, or contradict themselves.

Morris keeps opening one window
after another on his computer. This has nothing to do with technology, but with intuition.
Hes tried distracting himself with the Dow Jones Index, but wasnt pleased with the results. It would be best to focus a little on some of the characters hes
lived with for much of his life.

He looks again at the video in which Gary Ridgway, the Green River Killer, is describing
in a calm voice how he killed forty-eight women, most of them prostitutes. Ridgway is
doing this not because he wants absolution for his sins or to relieve his conscience; the
public prosecutor has offered to commute his death sentence to life imprison- ment if he
confesses, for despite having acted with impunity for a long time, Ridgway had left
insufficient evidence to convict him. Or per- haps he had just grown weary of the macabre
task he had set himself.

Ridgway had a steady job spraying trucks and could only remem- ber his victims by relating
them to whether he had been working that day. For twenty years, sometimes with more than
fifty detectives on his trail, he managed to commit murder after murder without ever
leaving any kind of signature or clue. One of the detectives on the tape comments that
Ridgway wasnt very bright, wasnt too good at his job or very educated, but was a perfect
killer.

In short, he was born to be a killer, even though he had always lived in the same place.
His case, at one point, was even filed away as insoluble.

Morris has watched this same video hundreds of times. It has, in the past, given him the
necessary inspiration to solve other cases, but not today. He closes down that window and
opens another, which shows a letter written by the father of Jeffrey Dahmer, the Milwaukee
Canni- bal, who was responsible for killing and dismembering seventeen men between 1978
and 1991:

Initially, of course, I couldnt believe that it was really Jeff who had done the things
the police had accused him of. How could anyone believe that his son could do such things?
I had been in the actual places where they said he had done them. I had been in rooms and
basements which at other moments, according to the police, had been nothing less than a
slaughterhouse. I had looked in my sons refrig- erator and seen only a scattering of milk
cartons and soda cans. I had leaned casually on the black table they claimed my son had
used both as a dissecting table and a bizarre satanic altar. How was it possible that all of this
had been hidden from menot only the horrible physi- cal evidence of my sons crimes, but
the dark nature of the man who had committed them, this child I had held in my arms a
thousand times, and whose face, when I glimpsed it in the newspapers, looked like mine? If
the police had told me that my son was dead, I would have thought differently about him.
If theyd told me that a strange man had lured him to a seedy apartment, and a few minutes
later, drugged, strangled, then sexually assaulted and mutilated his dead bodyin other
words, if they d told me the same horrible things that they had to tell so many other
fathers and mothers in July of 1991then I would have done what they have done. I would
have mourned my son and demanded that the man whod killed him be profoundly punished. If
not executed, then separated forever from the rest of us. After that, I would have tried
to think of my son warmly. I would, I hope, have vis- ited his grave from time to time,
spoken of him with loss and affection, continued, as much as possible, to be the custodian
of his memory. But I wasnt told what these other mothers and fathers were told, that their
sons were dead at the hands of a murderer. Instead, I was told that my son was the one who
had murdered their sons.

A satanic altar. Charles Manson and his family. In 1969, three people burst into a house
occupied by a film star and killed everyone there, including a young man who happened to
be driving away from the house. Two more murders followed on the next day: a married
couple, both of whom were businesspeople. Manson claimed to be ca- pable of killing the
whole of humanity.

For the thousandth time, Morris looks at the photo of the man behind those crimes, smiling
at the camera, surrounded by hippie friends, including a famous pop musician of the day.
They all seem perfectly harmless, talking about peace and love.

He closes down all the
windows.Mansonistheclosestthing to what is happening now, involving as it does the cinema
and well-

known victims. A kind of political manifesto against luxury, consum- erism, and celebrity.
Manson, however, was only the brains behind the killings; he didnt actually murder anyone
himself; he left that to his acolytes.

No, thats not it. And despite the e-mails he has sent, explaining that he cant provide
answers in such a short space of time, Morris is beginning to experience what all
detectives always feel about serial killers: its becoming a personal matter.

On the one hand, theres a man, doubtless with some other profes- sion, who, given the
weapons he uses, has clearly planned the murders in advance, but who is on entirely
unfamiliar territory, where he has no knowledge of the competence or otherwise of the
local police force. He is, therefore, a vulnerable man. On the other hand, theres the
accumu- lated experience of all kinds of security organizations accustomed to dealing with
societys aberrants, but apparently incapable of stopping the bloody trail left by this
rank amateur.

He should never have responded to the commissioners call. He had decided to live in the
South of France because the climate was better, the people more amusing, the sea close at
hand, and because he hoped that he still had many years ahead of him in which to be able
to enjoy lifes pleasures.

He had left his job in London with a reputation for being the best. And now this one
failure would be sure to reach the ears of his col- leagues, and he would lose that
reputation earned through hard work and great dedication. Theyll say: He was the first
person to insist that modern computers be installed in our department, but despite all the
technology at his disposal, hes simply too old to keep up with chal- lenges of a new age.

He presses the off button. The software logo comes up and then the screen goes blank.
Inside the machine, the electronic impulses disap- pear from the fixed memory and leave no
feeling of guilt, remorse, or impotence.

His body has no off buttons. The circuits in his brain keep working, always arriving at
the same conclusions, trying to justify the unjustifi- able, bruising his self-esteem,
telling him that his colleagues are right: perhaps his instincts and his capacity for analysis have been affected by age.

He goes into the kitchen, turns on the espresso machine, which has been giving him
problems lately. As with any modern domestic appli- ance, its usually cheaper to throw the
old one out and buy a new one. Fortunately, the machine decides to work this time, and he
sips the resulting cup of coffee unhurriedly. A large part of his day involves pressing
buttons: computer, printer, phone, lights, stove, coffeemaker, fax machine.

Now, though, he needs to press the right button in his brain. Theres no point in rereading
the documents sent through by the police. He needs to think laterally and make a list,
however repetitive.

(a) The murderer is fairly well educated and sophisticated, at least as regards the
weapons he uses. And he knows how to use them.

(b) Hes not from the area; if he was, he would have chosen a better time to come, when
there were fewer police around. (c) He doesnt leave any clear signature, so he obviously
has no desire to be identified. This may seem self-evident, but such signatures are often a
desperate way of the Doctor trying to put a stop to the evils committed by the Monster, as
if Dr. Jekyll were saying: Please arrest me. Im a danger to society, and I cant control
myself.

(d) The fact that he was able to approach at least two of his vic- tims, look them in the
eye, and find out a little about them, means that hes used to killing without remorse.
Therefore, he must, at some time, have fought in a war.

(e) He must have money, a lot of money, not just because Cannes is a very expensive place
to stay during the Festival, but be- cause of the high cost of producing the envelope
containing the hydrogen cyanide. He must have paid around $5,000 in all$40 for the poison
and $4,460 for the packaging.

(f) Hes not part of the drug mafia or involved in arms trafficking or that kind of thing;
if he was, Europol would be on to him.

Contrary to what most such criminals believe, the only reason they havent been caught is
because it isnt yet the right time for them to be put behind bars. Their groups are
regularly in- filtrated by agents who are paid a fortune for their work.

(g) He doesnt want to be caught, and so hes very careful. On the other hand, he cant
control his unconscious mind and is, unwittingly, following a set pattern.

(h) He appears to be completely normal and unlikely to arouse suspicion; he may even be
kind and friendly, capable of gain- ing the confidence of the people he lures to their
death. He spends some time with his victims, two of whom were women, who tend to be more
trusting than men.

(i) He doesnt choose his victims. They could be men or women of any age or social class.

Morris pauses for a moment. Theres something that doesnt fit with the rest.

He rereads the list two or three times. On the fourth reading, he spots the flaw.

(c) He doesnt leave any clear signature, so he obviously has no desire to be identified.

This murderer isnt trying to cleanse the world as Manson was, or, like Ridgway, to purify
his hometown; hes not trying, like Dahmer, to satisfy the appetite of the gods. Most
criminals dont want to be caught, but they do want to be identified, some in order to hit
the headlines and gain fame and glory, like Zodiac or Jack the Ripper. Others perhaps
think their grandchildren will be proud of what they did when, years later, they discover
a dusty diary in the attic. Others have a mission to fulfill: for example, driving away
prostitutes by making them too afraid to walk the streets. Psychoanalysts have concluded
that when serial killers suddenly stop murdering from one moment to the next, its because
they feel that the message theyve been trying to send has finally been received. Of course, thats it! Why hadnt he thought of it before?

For one simple reason: because it would have sent the police hunt off in two different
directions, in search of the murderer and the person to whom he was sending the messages.
And this Cannes murderer is killing people very fast. Morris is almost sure that he will
stop soon, once the message has been received. In two or three days at most. And as with
other serial killers whose victims appear to have nothing in common, the message must be
intended for one person, just one.

He goes back to the computer, turns it on, and sends a reassuring e-mail to the
commissioner.

Dont worry, the murders will stop soon, before the Festival is over.

Just for the hell of it, he copies the e-mail to a friend in Scotland Yard, as a way of
letting him know that the French authorities respect him as a professional, have asked for
his help and received it; that hes still capable of reaching conclusions which will, later
on, prove correct; that hes not as old as they would like to think.

His reputation is at stake, but hes sure his conclusion is the right one.

Hamid turns off his mobile phone. He isnt the slightest bit interested in whats going on
in the rest of the world, and in the last half hour, his phone has been inundated with
grim messages.

Its a sign that he should ditch the whole absurd idea of producing a film. He had clearly
allowed himself to be carried away by vanity in- stead of listening to the advice of the
sheikh and of his own wife. Hes starting to lose touch with himself; the world of luxury
and glamour is beginning to poison him, something he had always believed would never
happen.

Tomorrow, when things have calmed down, hell call a press con- ference for the world media
present in Cannes and tell them that, de- spite having already invested a large amount of
money in the project, hes decided to pull out because it was a dream shared by all those
involved, one of whom is no longer with us. A journalist is bound to ask if he has other
projects in mind, and hell reply that its still too early to discuss such things and that
we need to respect the memory of the departed.

Like anyone with even a minimum of decency, he deeply regrets the fact that the actor who
was going to appear in his first film should have died of poisoning and that his chosen
director is still in hospital although not now in danger of losing his lifebut both these
events carry a clear message: keep away from cinema. It isnt his world and hes bound to lose
money and gain nothing in return.

Leave cinema to the filmmakers, music to the musicians, and lit- erature to the writers.
Ever since he first embarked on this adventure two months before, he has met with nothing
but problems: wrestling with gigantic egos, rejecting outlandish budgets, editing a script
that seemed to get worse with every new version, and putting up with con- descending
producers who treated him as if he knew absolutely noth- ing about films.

His intentions had been impeccable: to make a film about the cul- ture of his home
country, about the beauty of the desert and the Bed- ouins ancient wisdom and code of
honor. He felt he owed this to his tribe, although the sheikh had warned him not to stray
from his origi- nal path.

People get lost in the desert because theyre taken in by mirages. Youre doing an excellent
job as a couturier; focus all your energies on that.

Hamid, however, wanted to go further, to show that he could still surprise people, go
higher, take risks. He had committed the sin of pride, but that wouldnt happen again.

The journalists bombard him with
questionsnews, it seems, is traveling even faster than usual. He says he doesnt yet know
any details, but that hell make a full statement tomorrow. He repeats the same answer over
and over, until one of his own security guards comes to his aid and asks the press to
leave the couple alone.

He summons an assistant and asks him to find Jasmine in the crowd of people in the garden
and bring her to him. They need to have a few photos taken together, a new press release
confirming the deal, and a good PR person to keep the issue alive until October and the
Fashion Week in Paris. Later on, hell try to persuade the Belgian de- signer to join him;
he genuinely liked her work and is sure she would bring money and prestige to his group;
however, he knows that, at the moment, shell be thinking that he was only trying to buy
her because he wanted her principal model. Approaching her now would not only up the price, it would
seem inelegant. To everything its proper time; it would be best to wait for the right
moment.

Ewa appears troubled by the journalists questions. She says: I think we should leave.
Absolutely not. Im not hard-hearted, as you know, but I cant get upset over something that only confirms what you always told me, that I shouldnt get
involved in cinema. Now, though, were at a party, and were going to stay here until the
end.

His voice sounds sterner than he intended, but Ewa doesnt appear to notice, as if she were
as indifferent to his love as to his hate. In a more equitable tone of voice, he adds:

This partys just perfect, dont you think? Our host must be spend- ing a fortune to be here
in Cannes, what with the travel and accommo- dation expenses of the celebrities whove all
been specially selected to be present at this lavish gala supper. But you can be sure that
all the free publicity will send his profits soaring: full-page spreads in magazines and
newspapers, TV airtime and hours of coverage on the cable chan- nels that have nothing
else to show. Women will associate his jewels with glamour; men will wear his watches as
proof that theyre powerful and wealthy; and young people will flick through the fashion
pages and think: One day, I want to be there too, wearing exactly that.

Please, lets leave now. I just have a really bad feeling about this party.

This was the last straw. Hes put up with his wifes bad mood all day without complaint. She
keeps turning on her mobile phone to see if theres another text message, and now hes
beginning to think that there really is something strange going on. Another man perhaps?
Her ex-husband, who he saw in the hotel bar, and who is perhaps doing ev- erything he can
to arrange a meeting? If thats the case, though, why doesnt she just tell him what shes
feeling instead of withdrawing into herself?

Dont talk to me about bad feelings. Im trying to explain to you why people put on parties
like this. If you ever decide to go into fashion as you always dreamed of doing or of once
again owning a shop selling haute-couture clothes, you could learn something. By the way, when I told you that Id seen
your ex-husband in the bar last night, you told me that was impossible. Is he the reason
you keep checking your mobile phone ?

Why on earth would he be here? she says, when what she feels like saying is: I know who
ruined your film project. And I know that hes capable of far worse. Were in danger here;
please, lets leave.

You didnt answer my question.

The answer is yes. Thats why I keep checking my mobile phone because I know him, and I
know hes here somewhere, and Im afraid.

Hamid laughs. But Im here too. Ewa picks up a glass of champagne and drinks it down in
one. He says nothing, feeling that shes simply being provocative. He looks around him, trying to
forget the recent news that flashed up on his phone, and still hoping for a chance to have
a few photos taken with Jasmine before theyre all called into the room where supper will
be served. The death of the actor couldnt have come at a worse moment. Now no one is
asking about the big contract hes signed with an unknown model, and yet, half an hour
earlier, it was all the press were interested in. Not anymore. Despite his many years of working in this glamorous
world, he still has a lot to learn: the contract he signed has been quickly forgotten, but the host of
this party has managed to keep the media interest alive. None of the photographers and
journalists present has left the party to go to the police station or the hospital to find
out exactly what has happened. They are, admittedly, fashion journalists, but their
editors wouldnt have dared order them to leave, for the simple reason that murders dont
appear on the same pages as social events.

Makers of expensive jewelry dont get themselves mixed up in cin- ematographic adventures.
Big promoters know that regardless of how much blood is being spilled in the world right
now, people will always prefer photos depicting an ideal and inaccessible life of luxury.

Murders can take place next door or out in the street, but parties like this only occur at the very top of society. What could be of more interest to mere
mortals than this perfect party, which would have been advertised months before in press
releases, confirming that the jeweler would be holding his usual event in Cannes, and that
all the invitations had already gone out. Not quite true; at the time, half of the guests
would have received a kind of memorandum, politely asking them to keep the date free.

They would, of course, respond at once and reserve the date and buy their plane tickets
and book their hotel room for twelve days, even if theyre only staying for forty-eight
hours. They need to prove to everyone that theyre still members of the Superclass,
membership of which is invaluable in making business deals, opening doors, and feed- ing
egos.

The lavish invitation card would arrive two months later. The women would start worrying
about which dress to wear for the oc- casion, and the men would contact a few
acquaintances to ask if they could meet in the bar to discuss business before supper. This
was the male way of saying: Ive been invited to the party. Have you? Even if the
acquaintance claimed he was too busy and wasnt sure hed be able to travel to Cannes on
that date, the message had been sent loud and clear: that full diary was just an excuse
for not yet having been invited.

Minutes later, that very busy man would start mobilizing friends, advisors, and associates
to wangle him an invitation. This meant that the host could then choose the second half of
his guest list, basing him- self on three things: power, money, contacts.

The perfect party.

A professional team of caterers would be signed up. On the day itself, the order will go
out to serve as much alcohol as possible, prefer- ably plenty of Frances legendary and
unbeatable champagne. Guests from other countries dont realize that theyre being served a
drink produced in the country itself and which is, therefore, much cheaper than they might
think. The women feelas even does Ewa at that mo- mentthat the golden liquid in the glass
is the best possible comple- ment to dress, shoes, and bag. The men are all holding a
glass as well, but they drink much less; theyve come to make peace with a competi- tor, to cement
relationships with a supplier, or to meet a potential dis- tributor of their products.
Hundreds of business cards are exchanged on such nights, most of them among professionals.
A few, of course, are given to pretty women, who know theyre not worth the paper theyre
printed on; no one has come here hoping to find the love of their life, but to make deals,
to shine, and, possibly, to enjoy themselves a little. Enjoying yourself is optional and
not of great importance.

The people here tonight come from three points of an imaginary triangle. At one point are
those who have it all and spend their days playing golf or having lunch or hanging out at
some exclusive club, and who, when they go into a shop, can buy anything they want without
first asking the price. Having reached the top, they have realized some- thing that had
never even occurred to them before: they cannot bear to be alone. They cant stand the
company of their husband or wife and they need to be on the go all the time, in the belief
that they can still make a difference to humanity, although theyve discovered, since they
retired, that their day-to-day life is as dull as that of any other middle- class person:
eat breakfast, read the newspapers, eat lunch, take a nap, eat supper, watch TV. They
accept most of the supper invitations they receive. They go to social and sporting events
at the weekend. They spend their holidays in fashionable places (even though they no
longer work, they still believe in something called holidays).

At the second point on the triangle are those who havent yet achieved anything and who are
doing their best to row in very choppy waters, to break the resistance of the
have-it-alls, to look happy even if one of their parents happens to be in hospital, and
they are having to sell off things they dont even own.

Finally, at the apex, is the Superclass.

This is the ideal mixture for a party. Those who have reached the top and yet carry on
life as normal may well have enough money stashed away for several generations, but their
influence has waned and they have realized, too late, that power is actually more
important than wealth. Those who havent yet reached the top put all their energy and
enthusiasm into making the party go with a swing, thinking that theyre making a really good impression, only to discover, in the weeks that follow, that
no one phones them despite all the business cards they handed out. Finally, there are
those who wobble about on the apex, knowing that its very windy up there and that the
slightest gust could blow them off into the abyss below.

People keep coming over to
talk to him, although no one mentions the murder, either because they dont know about it,
since they live in a world where such things dont happen, or out of polite- ness, which he
very much doubts. He looks around him and sees the thing he hates most in the fashion
world: middle-aged women who dress as if they were still twenty. Havent they noticed that
its time they changed their style? He speaks to one person, smiles at another, thanks
someone else for a kind remark, introduces Ewa to the few who still dont know her. He has,
however, only one thought in his mind: to find Jasmine within the next five minutes and
pose for the photog- raphers.

An industrialist and his wife are telling him in detail about the last time they met, a
meeting of which Hamid has no recollection, although he nods wisely. They talk about trips
theyve made, people theyve met, and projects theyre involved in. No one touches on
genuinely interest- ing topics like Are you happy? or After all weve been through, what
does victory actually feel like? They are part of the Superclass and therefore obliged to
behave as if they were contented and fulfilled, even if theyre actually asking themselves:
What shall I do with my future, now that I have everything I ever dreamed of?

A squalid creature in tight trousers and an Indian top approaches, looking like something
out of a comic strip.

Mr. Hussein, Im terribly sorry . . . Who are you? I work for you, sir. How absurd.

Look, Im busy right now, and I know everything I need to know about tonights sad events,
so theres no need for you to worry. The creature, however, stays where he is. Hamid begins to feel em- barrassed by his
presence, mainly because friends nearby will have heard those dreadful words: I work for
you, sir. Whatever will they think?