Checking in at Quai de la Rapée is a required step in any criminal investigation assigned to the sleuths of 36 Quai des Orfèvres. The cops rarely go there to admire the Seine and the barges: the sights they see are much less picturesque.
Arms folded, Sharko stood between two autopsy tables in one of the large rooms of the Paris forensic institute. Around him were solid walls, endless corridors, and neon lights giving off late autumn hues. Not to mention an odor of dead game that, over time, impregnated even your chest hairs. Levallois was leaning against a wall just behind the inspector, looking a bit pale: before going in, he’d confessed that autopsies weren’t really his thing. The opposite would have been worrisome.
Paul Chénaix, the medical examiner, had seen some weird stuff in his day, but this was the first time he’d had a chimpanzee on his table. The unconscious animal was lying on its back, arms and legs splayed. Its huge fingers were slightly bent, as if clutching an invisible apple. To the right, the nude body of Eva Louts was devoured by the interrogating light of the scialytic lamp, the same kind they used in operating theaters, which had the peculiar property of creating no shadows.
Sharko rubbed his chin without a word, impressed by the sight of the two inert bodies lying side by side, in more or less identical positions, and showing distinct morphological similarities. Ninety-eight percent of our DNA is chimpanzee DNA, the primatologist had said.
Just as the two cops arrived, Chénaix had been finishing the external examination of the human subject. Her skull had been shaved, very clearly revealing a fracture and a large hematoma at the occipital level. Rudely splayed on the steel surface, poor Eva Louts had lost the little bit of humanity left to her.
“It’s anything but an accident. If you don’t mind my horning in on your territory, Cheetah here had nothing to do with it.”
First good news of the day. Clémentine Jaspar would get back her chimpanzee, her “baby,” safe and sound. On the other hand, it meant there had indeed been a murder, announcing what looked to be a diabolical case.
“Cause of death was the blow to the skull. The victim was probably struck, and blood loss from the scalp wound did the rest. Death occurred between eight p.m. and midnight. Lividity on the shoulder blades and around the buttocks suggests the body was not moved postmortem. As for the bite, hard to tell if it was made before or after death.”
In fifteen years, Chénaix had carved up several tons of cold meat. Neatly trimmed goatee, small round glasses, tough exterior: in his white lab coat, he could easily have been mistaken for a university professor, especially since his knowledge of various spheres of medicine was staggering. The man was a fount of science and had an answer for everything. He and Sharko knew each other well.
In silence, the inspector walked around the table, studying the victim from every angle. After the first contact, which was always hard, he now saw not the body of a nude woman but an investigatory landscape, from which clues jutted like little flags to be plucked.
“Did they show you the paperweight?”
“Yes—it matches.”
“And why rule out the monkey right off the bat? There’s still the bite mark. And just before coming here, we learned it had handled the paperweight. Couldn’t it have picked it up and hit her?”
“It might have handled it postmortem. In any case, the size of the bite mark doesn’t correspond to what the chimp could have left. The traces are very clear. The diastema, the gap between the upper incisors, is different. Same for the spread of the jaws. Besides, the chimp’s molars don’t show any traces of blood. And the blood on her limbs and fur is no doubt from touching the victim after death. The killer tried to commit a perfect murder and he was very sly but not enough to fool us.”
Chénaix turned toward the anesthetized chimpanzee.
“Shery, my chérie, I’m happy to report you’ll be eating bananas for some time to come.”
His comment lightened the atmosphere for a few seconds, before they got back to business.
“So in that case, who or what caused the bite?”
“Something a bit bigger than this critter. The shape of the jaws is distinctly simian, probably of the family of great apes, according to the vet. He ruled out gorillas and orangutans. He’s leaning more toward another chimpanzee, just larger. In any case, an animal that the situation made very aggressive.”
The ME nodded toward some stopped-up glass tubes near the sink.
“The blood samples from the wounds are going to the lab. I asked for a saliva analysis. That way we should be able to get the DNA of the attacking animal, and its exact species.”
“Can you do that—tell an animal species from its DNA?”
“With genome sequencing, sure. It’s all the rage these days. We unspool the DNA molecules of plants, bacteria, dogs, toss them into huge machines, and we get a genetic cartography specific to each species. To put it another way, it’s the complete, detailed listing of all of its genes.”
Levallois had moved toward the tiled floor. He lifted a flask that looked almost empty.
“You can’t stand in the way of progress. What’s in here?”
“Looks like a minuscule piece of enamel. I found it inside the facial wound. There’s also DNA there that could be analyzed, in case the saliva is too diluted by the blood. At this point, it’s up to the biologists.”
“Anything else?” said Sharko.
The ME flashed him a little smile.
“Give you an inch . . .”
“You know me.”
“I’ve already told you quite a bit, don’t you think? Now comes the internal exam.”
Sharko held out his hand to the ME, who shook it out of reflex.
“What, you’re not staying to watch?” said the doctor.
Behind him, Levallois’s eyes flashed. Sharko didn’t leave him time to react and headed for the exit.
“Not in the mood for innards today. My colleague can get along fine without me. He’s crazy about autopsies.”
“And what about our little lunch? You’ve owed me for years.”
“Soon, I promise. In the meantime, have a beer for me.”
He pushed through the swinging doors and disappeared without looking back.
Outside, he sucked in a huge gulp of air.
By telephone, he let Clémentine Jaspar know that she would get her animal back safely and asked her to try, in the coming days, to make Shery talk more. Jaspar promised to call back if she got any results and thanked the inspector warmly. Sharko knew the woman would do everything possible to help him.
Sluggishly, he went to sit on a small metal bench on the banks of the river. Not many people in the area. The proximity of the forensic building and the number of police cars discouraged casual strollers. Nearby was Paris-Arsenal port, with its shuttle boats and massive barges. A light breeze, the early September sun: it was all so pleasant. He mused that Eva Louts would never again enjoy such a view.
Sharko rubbed his temples and, after putting on his sunglasses, one stem of which had been glued back on, he bent his neck and turned his face to the sky. Warm rays gently caressed his cheeks. He closed his eyes, pictured the killer entering the animal housing facility with an aggressive primate. One struck the victim, the other bit her in the face, following its wild instincts. Perhaps the “monster” Shery had witnessed, one of her fellow simians . . .
He started violently when a hand dropped onto his shoulder and it took him a few seconds to remember where he was. He rubbed his neck and sat up with a grimace. Levallois was standing in front of him.
“Nice of you to leave me in the autopsy room. We’ve just started working together and already you’re putting me through the grinder.”
Sharko looked at his watch. More than an hour had passed. He stifled a yawn.
“Forgive me—things are a bit difficult at the moment.”
“Things have been difficult for a lot of moments, from what I hear. Sounds like you and Manien were at each other’s throats until he finally sent you packing.”
“Let evil tongues wag. You’ll hear a lot of things in the corridors of number thirty-six. Unflattering rumors, most of which are unfounded. So, what about the autopsy?”
“You didn’t miss anything. Staying to watch that, honestly . . . it’s just nauseating, end of story. If there’s anything I hate about this job, it’s that.”
“Was the victim raped?”
“No.”
“Not a sex crime, then.”
“Guess not.”
Nervously, Jacques Levallois stuck a stick of mint chewing gum on his tongue, putting on his own sunglasses. The guy had a handsome face, a bit like Brad Pitt in the film Se7en.
“Shit . . . This isn’t the kind of case I want to tell my wife about.”
“Then don’t.”
“Easy for you to say. Tell me, there’s something your colleagues and I can’t figure out . . . You must have been making twice the salary in Nanterre, with half the grief. In less than ten years, you’d have been eligible for a pension. What made you come back to muck around at Homicide? Why did you ask to be demoted to lieutenant? No one’s ever done that—it doesn’t make any sense. What’s the matter, you don’t like money?”
Sharko breathed in, forearms between his thighs like some derelict who feeds crumbs to birds. His colleagues knew almost nothing about his last case at the Bureau of Violent Crimes, which he’d conducted from the offices in Nanterre. Given the political, scientific, and military repercussions, the Syndrome E case had been kept under wraps.
“Money’s fine. As for my reasons, they’re private.”
Levallois chewed his gum while gazing at the river, hands in his pockets.
“You’re kind of a bitter sort, aren’t you? I hope we’re not all destined to become like you.”
“None of it’s up to you. You’ll become what fate intends you to become.”
“Wickedly fatalistic.”
“More like realistic.”
Sharko watched a barge for a few seconds, then stood up and headed to their car.
“Come on, let’s go. We can grab a bite to eat, then have a look around Eva Louts’s place.”
“If it’s all the same to you, let’s skip the bite and go straight to Louts’s. This shit has spoiled my appetite.”