It was the typical apartment of a single grad student. An extensive book collection, volumes piled up by the dozens, crammed shelves, a corner desk that ate up half the living room, cutting-edge computer equipment: huge CPU, printer, scanner, disc burner, turret of CDs. Eva Louts’s one-bedroom was located a few steps from the Bastille, on Rue de la Roquette: a narrow paved street that looked as if it were shoved into the back end of some medieval village.
Armed with a warrant, the cops had had a locksmith let them in. For the past few hours, cell phones had been ringing, information had been pinging back and forth among the investigators. Now that it was ruled a homicide, the four men from Bellanger’s team and a number of colleagues sent as temporary backup had latched on to the case. While Sharko and Levallois combed through the apartment, others were questioning Louts’s thesis adviser, parents, and friends, or going over her bank records. The dragnet was under way; the “number 36 steamroller” was churning forward.
With gloved hands, Jacques Levallois had immediately sat down at the victim’s computer, while Sharko looked through the various rooms. He meticulously studied the types of decoration. Over the course of his investigations, he had learned that objects always whispered the reason for their presence to whoever knew how to listen.
In the bedroom, numerous framed photos showed Louts in elastic harness at the edge of a bridge, or parachute jumping, or in fencing gear at various ages. A lean, agile body that seemed to leap off the mat. About five foot seven, the physique of a panther: forest-green eyes; long, arched eyebrows; a lithe, well-proportioned silhouette. Silently, and also with gloved hands, the inspector carefully examined the rest of the room. In a corner were a rowing machine, an exercise bike, and several barbells. Facing the bed, a large colored fresco depicted the family tree of the hominids, from Australopithecus africanus to Cro-Magnon. It was as if Louts studied the mysteries of life even in her sleep.
Sharko kept rummaging. He riffled through closets and drawers. He was about to leave the room when something clicked in his head. He went back to the framed picture of two dueling fencers. He knitted his brow, placed his finger on Louts’s foils and those of her adversary.
“Now that’s very curious.”
Intrigued by his discovery, he removed the picture from the wall, tucked it under his arm, and continued his inspection. Bathroom, hall, kitchen, all nicely furnished. Mom and Dad, both white-collar professionals according to the initial reports, must have been helping out financially. The cupboards and refrigerator contained various dietetic products, powdered protein, energy drinks, fruit. An iron will when it came to food. The young woman seemed to have everything going for her, mind and body.
Sharko returned to the living room, near the desk, and cast an eye over the surroundings. No television, as Jaspar had said. He checked the books in her library and the ones stacked on the floor, which presumably were the ones she’d consulted last. Biology, essays on evolution, genetics, paleoanthropology: a primitive world about which he knew almost nothing. There were also dozens of science periodicals, to which Louts probably had subscriptions. A calendar of training courses and conferences was tacked to the wall, printed on recycled paper. Full days, unenticing topics: paleogenetics, microbiology, taxonomy, biophysics.
For his part, Lieutenant Levallois was ignoring the universe of paper around him. Absorbed in his task, he was navigating through the computer’s programs. Sharko watched him while snapping the latex of his gloves.
“So?”
“She’s got a left-handed keyboard. It’s a pain, but I was still able to do a full-disc search of her computer by date. The most recent document goes back a year.”
“Anything having to do with hand dominance?”
“Nothing. Not a blessed thing. Someone’s apparently been here and erased it all. Including her thesis.”
“Can we recover the data?”
“Depends on how thoroughly they wiped it. We might only be able to get fragments, or nothing at all.”
Sharko glanced toward the entrance.
“We didn’t find any house keys on the victim or among her effects at the office, but the entry door was locked. After getting rid of Louts, the killer came here, calmly, to clean up, then locked up after himself. Clearly not the panicky type.”
Levallois pointed to the frame under his partner’s arm.
“How come you’re walking around with that? You like fencing?”
Sharko went up to him.
“Here, look at this. You see anything odd?”
“Apart from two masked girls who look like giant mosquitoes? No, not really.”
“And yet it’s clear as day. Both opponents are left-handed. When you consider the odds—one lefty out of ten—you can admit it’s curious, to say the least.”
Jacques Levallois took the frame with aroused interest.
“You’re right. And that’s exactly what her thesis was about.”
“Her thesis which has disappeared.”
Sharko left him to mull it over and opened the drawers. Inside were office supplies, reams of paper, and more science magazines. One of the cover headlines caught his eye: “Violence.” It was on the American magazine Science, an issue from 2009. Sharko glanced through the table of contents. The articles were about Nazis, high school shootings, the aggressive behaviors of certain animals, serial murderers. The editorial was very short: Where should we look for the causes of violence? In society? Historical context? Education? Or in our genes?
Sharko shut the magazine and sighed. He might have been able to furnish an answer, after all the horrors he’d uncovered during his investigation the previous year. He finished looking around and nodded toward the computer.
“What about in her Internet bookmarks? Did you check?”
Levallois put down the framed photo and shook his head.
“No bookmarks, no history, no cookies. I didn’t find anything of note in her e-mail, either. We’ll have to check with her service provider.”
Sharko noticed traces of glue scattered over the large blotter that depicted a map of the world. No doubt Post-it notes that had been torn off. The killer might have taken them.
His gaze stopped at the tower of CDs, which he pointed to.
“I’d be very surprised if Louts didn’t make backup copies of her hard drive.”
“I’ve already had a quick look around. If she burned any discs, they aren’t here now.”
“Let’s bring in a full team for a complete search and take the computer with us.”
A phone rang and Levallois answered his cell. Two minutes of conversation, after which he returned to Sharko.
“Two bits of news. The first has nothing to do with us, it’s about the body in the Vincennes woods, Hurault. The boss asked me to give you this message: your former chief wants to see you in his office, pronto.”
“See me? Fine . . . and the other news?”
“Robillard started by checking through the police files. Apparently, less than a month ago, Louts requested her police record—which is clean, by the way—to obtain authorization to visit penitentiaries.”
“Penitentiaries?”
“At least a dozen of them. It’s as if our victim was out to meet the great jailbirds of France. So I can’t help wondering: what was a student who spends her time watching monkeys hoping to find in those hellholes?”