The beginning of January 1994 was a whirl of press conferences given by Maître Pierre Gonzalez de Gaspard. Francis Heaulme’s counsel was continually trumpeting to the media that his client had not killed Aline Pérès. Nor had he committed any other murders. These repeated declarations eventually bore fruit. On the eve of the first trial, which took place in Quimper, Heaulme was described in most of the newspaper articles as a simple ‘confused vagrant’. The same words kept recurring. They pointed at me. It was not rare to read that ‘Abgrall made me talk, he pressurised me until I couldn’t take any more,’ or: ‘I had faith and then I found myself caught up in the system.’
Considering how little backing I enjoyed, I stayed on my guard in face of this turn of events, even though I realised that this was part of his defence strategy. This was not the most worrying thing. On the dawn of the opening day of the trial, ‘The Gaul’, the key man, the only witness to the murder of Aline, had once again gone missing. Francis Heaulme’s lawyer knew it, and was now intimating that his client, who denied his involvement in the murder, had an alibi. In the eyes of the law, the disappearance of ‘The Gaul’ was tantamount to flight, an offence punishable by a prison sentence. Under these conditions, I felt pretty nervous at the prospect of taking the witness stand opposite Pierre Gonzalez de Gaspard, especially as I was not allowed to allude to the other cases in order to elaborate on the killer’s personality. Only the Moulin Blanc investigation could be referred to in the trial.
28 January 1994, 9 a.m. The lobby of the modest Law Courts in Quimper was packed. Potential jurors, witnesses, experts, the victim’s relatives and those of Francis Heaulme mingled in silence with the usual onlookers. Already the media pack, brandishing cameras and mikes, were trying to get exclusives.
Everyone was waiting for the heavy court room doors to open, but they remained resolutely shut. A new passage had been specially created to channel the flow of people in and out of the building. Everyone had to go through the metal detector. These unusual measures and the huge media interest increased my apprehension. I wasn’t thrilled at having to cross the lobby in uniform. I needed calm, the stakes were too high. I slipped discreetly into the courts through a side door that was reserved for detainees. Together with Éric from the Brest criminal investigation unit, who had also been summonsed to testify, I stayed out in a corridor until the waiting room emptied.
Francis Heaulme arrived, escorted by four police officers. He entered quickly, and passed close to where we stood, his hands bound, led on a chain held firmly by a police officer. As he passed me, he shouted:
‘Oh, hello François! It wasn’t me. I didn’t do Brest!’
I watched him disappear into the little room reserved for the defendant, telling myself that this trial was going to be extremely difficult. I began to feel the pressure. When the time came, we entered the court room unobtrusively. It was full to bursting point. High up on the ceiling, neon lights glared. On a side wall, small windows looked out onto a corridor. Faces were pressed behind every pane. The wooden benches had places reserved for relatives, the press and a privileged few. Everyone else remained standing, crammed behind the guard-rail on the back row of benches. There was a heavy police presence. Curious members of the public had to remain outside for lack of space. The opening of the trial resembled a theatre performance.
A bell rang. The usher announced the arrival of the judge. The court rose. Two female magistrates flanked the presiding judge, who wore a red robe. The counsel for the prosecution followed, at a slight distance. Everyone sat down again, and there was silence. The presiding judge spoke into the microphone:
‘Bring in the defendant!’
Francis Heaulme, handcuffed and heavily guarded, had to walk the width of the court room to reach the dock, where his handcuffs were removed. The flashbulbs started popping and the cameras whirring. The presiding judge soon put a stop to the photography, and some of the press were already leaving.
The usher began the roll-call of jurors, then, immediately, the random selection process began. Statistics have shown that certain make-ups of jury tend to be more sympathetic either towards the defence or the prosecution depending on the age, sex and profession of the jurors. The drawing of jurors’ names began and the counsel for the prosecution and Pierre Gonzalez de Gaspard then opened the subtle game of challenging. The people called by the usher crossed the court room one by one, watched by all present. Without knowing why, some were challenged off. The jury ended up being composed of six women and three men. Then the witnesses were called. When ‘The Gaul’s’ name was read out, there was no reply. The presiding judge ordered an immediate search to be launched. When I signalled my presence, the whole court turned around in unison. There was a brief murmur. I couldn’t fathom the meaning.
The roll-call continued. Only eight witnesses would appear: the three experts – psychiatrists and psychologists – to testify with regard to the defendant’s personality, the forensic scientist to state the causes of death, ‘The Gaul’, Éric and myself for the prosecution, and Christine, the defendant’s sister, as a character witness. This was very few for a court of assizes. The other testimonies gathered during the investigation were to be read out by the presiding judge during the course of the trial. Then, with great solemnity, Maître Gonzalez de Gaspard spoke:
‘Your Honour, Francis Heaulme deserves more than two days’ trial. He is appearing here solely for the Brest case, yet everyone sees him as a serial killer. The jury has been influenced, as the presence of the media illustrates. I demand due calm. For this reason, I request that the trial be postponed.’
The counsel then handed his written conclusions to the judge. A murmur rippled through the court. The first speech, the first interruption. Pierre Gonzalez de Gaspard had got off to a successful start. After a few minutes’ deliberation, the judge decided to uphold the trial. He informed the witnesses of the order in which they would be called. Éric and I were asked to appear the following day at 2 p.m. We left the court – witnesses are not allowed to attend the trial, even if it is public – and hurried back to the Quimper gendarmerie, where several of our colleagues were following the proceedings on the radio. They told us that Heaulme’s counsel was claiming that his client had admitted to the crime under police pressure. They made noises of encouragement but deep down they were relieved not to be in our shoes. With a half-smile, one of them brought me a message from my new departmental boss: ‘Commanding officer and criminal investigation unit commander will attend trial Quimper court of assizes, reserve front row seats.’ Like at the theatre … That was all I needed. Let them make their own arrangements!
Meanwhile, the confrontation between Francis Heaulme and the experts had begun. Some of my colleagues attended the trial, and after the verdict was announced, they faithfully relayed the exchanges back to me. The psychiatrist had been the first to speak. He declared:
‘Despite his slightly half-witted air, Francis Heaulme is of normal intelligence…He is not subnormal as defined by Article 64 of the penal code … Alcohol makes him feel all-powerful. He identifies with his terrifying, violent father.’
The interpretation of the Rorschach test inkblots was referred to and the expert emphasised the fascination with which Francis Heaulme described them: ‘It flows, it’s red, you can smell it, it’s alive.’ And lastly, with a hint of irony, he spoke of the defendant’s ‘unfortunate’ destiny – in the words of Francis Heaulme, ‘Wherever I go, a murder takes place.’
The other two doctors described his profound discomfort regarding his sexuality. One of them declared:
‘Everything concerning the body increases his sense of insecurity and provokes an aggressive defence at the same time as arousing desire.’
‘What can you tell us about the defendant’s “vision” of the murder?’ the judge asked the experts.
‘It is more like a defence strategy,’ they replied.
The experts concluded that Heaulme was conscious of his actions; he was not insane, but he was dangerous and, given his personality, he could indeed have been the author of the murder. The judge then turned to the defendant and invited him to speak. After a brief silence, Francis Heaulme spoke to the psychiatrist.
‘I have two questions: Am I mad? Am I dangerous?’
Slightly at a loss, the doctor indicated that he had just answered those questions. Pierre Gonzalez de Gaspard seized the chance to jump in again:
‘It is perfectly clear that my client is mentally deficient. It is easy to see that there’s something wrong with Francis Heaulme. Everything suggests that this man does not grasp the reality of the world around him.’
In vain. This time, the Moulin Blanc killer’s counsel was unable to undermine the psychologists’ testimonies. In the court room, nobody seemed inclined to believe that the presumed murderer was not responsible for his actions.
The afternoon session was devoted to examining the defendant’s personality. For several hours, the judge fired endless questions at Francis Heaulme, who replied. By the end, the contrast with the morning’s proceedings was striking. The media all reported his declarations in the witness box. The man knew how to pull the wool over people’s eyes. A number of journalists were beginning to ask questions.
Francis Heaulme talks about his inner turmoil in a soft voice. He is precise and deferential. He told his life story – the beatings, bereavement, the aimless wandering and the alcohol, but then denied murdering Aline Pérès. A puzzle.
Or:
Heaulme is a man who is to be pitied rather than feared. Labelled ‘the French serial killer’, Francis Heaulme could just be a blip in the criminal annals of the late twentieth century.
As the day drew to a close, it seemed to me that the absence of ‘The Gaul’ was increasingly ominous, as Francis Heaulme and his counsel were turning things on their head. In my hotel room, I reread the records of the Moulin Blanc investigation in detail. I learned nothing new, but it kept me busy.
The next morning, I returned to wait at the Quimper gendarmerie. The colleagues who had attended the trial informed me that my superiors had sat on the bench near the victim’s family.
The morning was devoted to questioning Christine, the defendant’s sister. She spoke of the poverty of their family life, the death of their mother and the problems they had faced as a result. Christine Heaulme was moving, for their life truly had been hard. She had not been able to hold back her tears, nor had some of the jury. This was the moment chosen by the defence counsel to speak. The minute her testimony was over, Francis Heaulme again stated his innocence. The judge began questioning him about the murder, emphasising, for example, the accuracy of the sketch.
‘It was imaginary,’ replied Heaulme, ‘it’s a coincidence if my sketch is the same as the scene of the crime … I was in hospital in Quimper on Sunday 14 May 1989, and I didn’t leave the building. I was not involved in this crime. I talked about a vision I’d had on Saturday 13 May on the beach where the murder took place. I had taken Tranxene 50 with a litre of beer, and, while I was asleep, I saw a fair-haired man stabbing a woman with a knife … I read about the murder in the newspaper … when I talked, it was to please officer Abgrall. He hypnotises me!’
The counsel emphasised his client’s psychological frailty:
‘He couldn’t cope with the pressure of being in custody, he’s a liar, a fantasist …’
He went on, stressing that the investigators had suggested details of the case to Francis Heaulme, perhaps even unconsciously, through the questions they asked him. The atmosphere was becoming more heated. It was 12.30 when my colleagues from Quimper returned. They immediately told us about the mood in the court room.
‘Heaulme’s counsel is attacking you, he speaks of that “devil Abgrall”,’ said one of them. ‘What’s more, he went for you so savagely, that your bosses left and went back to Rennes.’
It goes without saying that I had no appetite for lunch. I was growing impatient to have my say, the waiting was becoming unbearable.
At 1.45 p.m., when we arrived at the court, a crowd even bigger than yesterday’s was waiting in the lobby. Even more daunting, the court room was already full to bursting point. We went directly into the witnesses’ waiting room. This was it. A police officer on sentry duty saw to it that we stayed put and did not communicate with the outside.
The area was small, but roomy enough for Éric and me. We did not know how the trial was progressing. We waited, and the minutes dragged by. We did not speak. We didn’t admit it, but we were tense. From time to time, the police officer left us to go and watch the trial for a few minutes. He kept coming and going, and each time he opened the door I expected the usher to call me to the witness stand. Two hours passed thus. Then the police officer returned and asked:
‘Which one’s Abgrall?’
Taken by surprise, I replied:
‘I am.’
‘Whew,’ he said, shaking his right hand, ‘things are hotting up in there!’
Then he hurried off again. I looked at Éric, dumbfounded. Then the hearing was suspended. Ten minutes went by and the door swung open to reveal ‘The Gaul’, in a blue anorak. I was totally taken by surprise, but felt a surge of relief. The police officer went back to his post, we were forbidden to talk to each other. ‘The Gaul’ turned to him and tried, anxiously, to explain his absence.
‘I was at the Emmaüs community of Château-Gontier when a mate who was watching TV turned round and told me I was wanted by the police. We called the gendarmerie, and here I am. But I haven’t done anything, honest!’
Less than five minutes later, the usher led him into the court room. The press described what happened next. On catching sight of him, Francis Heaulme did not bat an eyelid, whereas ‘The Gaul’ was visibly ill at ease.
‘Do you know the defendant?’ asked the judge.
‘Yes,’ replied ‘The Gaul’.
‘What about the victim?’
‘I knew her too.’
Then came a trying examination. The witness had difficulty understanding the questions. He seemed frightened and mumbled his answers.
‘I met Heaulme at the beach. I was on the rocks. He saw that girl. He went over to her, and that’s when I left to get a train.’
As the questions became more precise, the witness became more specific.
‘I’d been on the beach for several days, and I’d noticed Aline, who sunbathed by the rocks. I met Heaulme in the nearby Emmaüs community. That Sunday, Heaulme had come up to me. He was drunk. I told him there was no point hassling the girl. He went up to her and grabbed her by the throat. I saw him do that when I looked over my shoulder. Heaulme was all wound up, you could see it in his eyes. I left. I was afraid he’d do the same to me.’
The judge reminded the court that Francis Heaulme had told the gendarmes that the witness had been present for the entire time, but ‘The Gaul’ stated that he had left at that point. Maître Gonzalez de Gaspard spoke and referred to failure to assist a person in danger.* The witness replied that his conscience was clear, even though it was true that he had not taken the precaution of calling the police. Heaulme rose and spoke too:
‘I don’t know this man. I’ve never seen him before.’
The prosecution took the floor:
‘Then why did you go over and shake his hand on the day the reconstruction was staged?’
Heaulme replied:
‘To please François Abgrall.’
The witness was then free to retire. This time, the usher called my name. In the corridor I passed ‘The Gaul’ and the police officer escorting him. He gave me a smile, proffered his hand and said: ‘Go on, my friend!’ In passing, he slipped into my hand a tiny Emmaüs community calendar. I didn’t have time just then to dwell on this gesture or its signification. I later realised that actually he was trying to give me the only wealth he had, his calling card, the symbol of his respectability.
I entered the court room. The witnesses’ entrance faced the dock. Francis Heaulme was in front of me, our eyes met and he did not reply to my discreet ‘Hello’. There was absolute silence, the only sound my footsteps on the parquet floor. I felt as though time had stopped.
The judge asked me to give my evidence. I began, and slowly described the investigation, the leads we’d followed up and the reasons for ruling them out. Then the similarity between the alibis for this murder and for the one in Courthézon, near Avignon, which confirmed my suspicions. And lastly, I described at length the behaviour of Francis Heaulme during his interviews. I reproduced the chilling gesture showing the neck hold on the victim as he had demonstrated it in Strasbourg. I reminded the court that the forensic scientist had drawn our attention to it at the time. The judge requested clarification. Then I mentioned the sketch and the spontaneity of the confessions.
A few moments later, it was defence counsel Pierre Gonzalez de Gaspard’s turn to question me:
‘Were you, Mr Abgrall, and this is very important, on first-name terms with my client during these interviews?’
I replied in the affirmative to the judge, as is customary. The lawyer was jubilant and went on, addressing the jury:
‘You heard, this gendarme was on first-name terms with Francis Heaulme throughout the interviews. Heaulme, who can’t cope with pressure, as the psychiatrists have explained, this fabricator who accuses himself of crimes that he did not commit, this gullible person. What credibility can his confessions have?’
Amazed at the violence of his outburst, I couldn’t help replying:
‘It was Francis Heaulme who started calling me by my first name. Ask him.’
Without even being invited, Francis Heaulme spoke and confirmed this was so, but his counsel insisted:
‘Mr Abgrall, you are a likeable man. Your whole attitude shows it. I am convinced that my client’s confessions were obtained through trust and kindness. Could that not be called psychological abuse?’
‘You know, if all I had to do was use his first name and be nice to him to get him to talk to me about all the murders he’s been involved in, then it wouldn’t have taken me three years and we wouldn’t be where we are today.’
In the end, we left it at that.
Once I had given my evidence, I decided to stay and listen to the hearing. The testimony of Éric, the last witness, was quick and confirmed the defendant’s behaviour. Even so, I was worried. I could sense that the defence counsel’s repeated attacks had unsettled the jury. Nothing was certain.
Then came the closing speeches. Francis Heaulme’s lawyer tried to minimise the impact of ‘The Gaul’s’ testimony and cleverly to sow doubt in the jury’s minds by reversing the roles. According to him, Heaulme could not have killed, as he had been in hospital. If he described the Moulin Blanc murder in such detail, it was because someone had told him about it. Probably the killer himself. Heaulme not having been present, there was only one person who admitted having been near the victim at the time of the crime: ‘The Gaul’. This carefully orchestrated demonstration had the desired effect. In the court room, doubt could be read on many faces. For a few moments, I envisaged the worst: Francis Heaulme’s acquittal.
The judge and jury retired. An hour and a half later, the court filled up once more. Verdict: twenty years’ imprisonment. It was not the maximum sentence, but justice had been done. The convict showed no emotion. His gaze blank, he gave nothing away, as if he had withdrawn deep into himself, probably into that universe filled with morbid dreams where he was no longer that unloved creature forsaken by the real world.
In any case, Aline Pérès’s killer was not about to claim any more victims, especially as further trials were in the offing. Probably further convictions too. I was relieved. Francis Heaulme’s killing spree had come to a full stop here, in Quimper. At least, that is what I believed.
* Translator’s note: Under the French penal code, ‘non-assistance à personne en danger’ is counted an offence.