The sun had already started sinking through the foliage when police cars screamed up to the isolated property of the Lamberts. CSI van, crime scene photographer, squad cars for the officers. That Thursday evening, in the still summerlike temperatures, the men were on edge: they’d already started the week with horrors enough, and the situation didn’t seem to be getting any better now that there were two new corpses to deal with.
Sharko was sitting against a tree in front of the house, head resting in his hands. The shadows were falling over his face, pressing against him as if to swallow him whole. In silence, he watched the different teams bustle about, the morbid ballet common to all crime scenes.
After the CSI team had finished its meticulous labors, Félix Lambert’s body had been covered in a sheet, then sent off to Forensics, along with his father’s. From the first indications provided by the degree of rigor mortis, Bernard Lambert had been dead at least forty-eight hours. Two days that the father had spent splayed out on the floor of the dining room, soaking in his own blood, with the TV on full blast and water pouring from the sink in the upstairs bathroom.
What had gone through Félix Lambert’s head? What demons had pushed him to commit such horrors?
With a sigh, Sharko stood up. He felt drained, worn down to the bone by too long a day and too twisted a case. Dragging his feet, he joined Levallois and Bellanger, who were arguing bitterly at the entrance door. The tension between them was palpable. The more time went on, the more the men felt the pressure. Marriages would burst asunder, and bars would see policemen with frayed nerves drowning their sorrows.
The team leader finished with Levallois and took the inspector aside, near a fat blue hydrangea bush.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
“A little tired, is all. I’ll be fine. I slugged down a thermos of coffee the guys brought; it picked me up a bit. To tell the truth, I haven’t eaten much these past few days.”
“Nor slept, for that matter. You need to get some rest.”
Sharko nodded toward the area cordoned off with police tape—the spot where Félix Lambert’s body had lain a few moments before.
“Rest time will come later. Were you able to notify the family?”
“Not yet. We know Lambert’s older sister lives in Paris.”
“What about the mother?”
“Not a trace for the moment. We’re just getting started, and there’s so much to do . . .”
He sighed, looking worn down. Sharko had been in his shoes once upon a time. Leading a squad in the criminal police was nothing but a thicket of hassles, a position in which you got shat on from above and below.
“What do you make of this mess?”
Sharko raised his eyes to the smashed upstairs window.
“I met the son’s eyes before he jumped. I saw something in them I’d never seen in the eyes of any human being before: pure, unadulterated suffering. He was ripping the skin off his own cheeks, and he had pissed on himself, like an animal. Something was tearing him up inside and driving him insane, making him completely disconnected from reality. An evil that drove him to commit unspeakable acts, like the massacres of those hikers and his own father. I don’t know what it’s about, but I’m convinced what we’re looking for is hidden inside him, in his body. Something genetic. And Stéphane Terney knew what it was.”
Silence surrounded them. Nicolas Bellanger rubbed his chin, staring into space.
“In that case, let’s see what the autopsy has to say.”
“When’s it being done?”
His boss didn’t answer immediately. His mind must have felt like a battlefield after a major encounter.
“Uhh . . . Chénaix is starting at eight tonight. First the father and then the son. Some evening.”
The young chief cleared his throat; he seemed preoccupied, ill at ease. Sharko noticed his discomfort and asked what the matter was.
“It’s about Terney’s book,” said Bellanger. “The genetic fingerprints naturally drew our attention to Grégory Carnot, the last prisoner on Eva Louts’s list. So Robillard called Vivonne Penitentiary, and guess what he discovered . . .”
Sharko felt himself grow pale. So they’d found out. While he kept silent, Bellanger continued.
“He discovered that you hadn’t just called on the phone. You actually went there to question the prisoner on your day off. You know what Robillard’s like, he dug a bit deeper and found out someone else had been there, too, the very same day. And not just anyone: the mother of the two girls Carnot kidnapped, named . . .”—he took out a sheet of paper—“. . . Lucie Henebelle. You know her?”
Sharko’s blood froze, but he didn’t flinch.
“No. I went there to talk with one of the prison shrinks about a prisoner on the list, that’s all.”
“And you didn’t say a word. The part that bothers me is that you’ve known for a while that Carnot was found dead in his cell. So why didn’t you say anything about it? Why didn’t you tell anybody about this business of the upside-down drawing, the violent outbursts, or the lactose intolerance?”
“Those were just details. I didn’t think they had anything to do with our case. Louts went to see him and asked the usual questions, just like she did in the other prisons.”
“Just details? It was those details that led you here! You lied to us, you kept it all to yourself, selfishly, to the detriment of our investigation and to the colleagues working with you. You made this personal.”
“That’s not true. I’m trying to catch a murderer and understand what’s going on, just like the rest of us.”
Bellanger shook his head energetically.
“You’ve gone off the rails way too many times. You break into a private home without informing your colleagues or any authorization. Those are procedural infractions that could shoot our entire investigation to hell. And not only do you enter the premises illegally, now we’ve got two bodies on our hands. We’re going to have to explain that.”
“I . . .”
“I’m not finished. Because of you, Levallois is facing the full barrage and’ll probably end up with an official reprimand on his record. I’m in for a shitload of hassles. Major Case is already overworked; they’ll be here any minute to figure out what the fuck we’re doing in this mess to begin with. What got into you to try and go around them?”
He paced back and forth.
“And to top it all off, Manien’s now got involved.”
Sharko saw red. Just hearing that creep’s name made him want to puke.
“What did he tell you?”
“He trotted out your actions at the Frédéric Hurault crime scene. Your negligence, your complete disregard . . . He claims you intentionally contaminated his crime scene, just for spite.”
“Manien’s an asshole. He’s trying to use the situation to fuck me over.”
“It’s too late.”
He looked Sharko squarely in the eyes.
“You do understand that I can’t just let this slide, right?”
The inspector clenched his jaws and started walking toward the house.
“We can deal with that later. For now, we’ve got work to do.”
He felt pressure on his shoulder, forcing him to turn around.
“You don’t seem to get it,” Bellanger said in a loud voice.
Sharko shook himself free.
“I get it perfectly. But I’m asking you, let me stay on the case for a few more days. I’m getting a feel for this one, I can sense we’re getting close. Let me attend the autopsy and follow any new trails it opens. I need to see this one through to the end. Afterward, I promise, I’ll do whatever you want.”
The young chief shook his head.
“If this had just been between us, I could probably have delayed things a bit, but . . .”
“It’s Manien, is that it?”
Bellanger nodded.
“He knows everything, the shit that happened here and about Vivonne. He’s already got the people he needs behind him at thirty-six, and at this point I don’t have a choice.”
The inspector’s fists tightened as he caught sight of Marc Leblond, Manien’s right-hand man, talking on his phone in the distance while looking straight at him.
“His spies blabbed . . .”
“No doubt. I’m forced to take disciplinary action, the way we would with anyone else in this situation, to protect myself and the team. I don’t want everyone else to have to pay for your mistakes, especially not Levallois.”
Sharko looked sadly over at the kid who was pacing nervously some distance away, arms folded and eyes downcast. He must have been worried for his future in the department, fearful that his ambitions could come tumbling down in a heartbeat.
“No, especially not him. He’s a good cop.”
“I know . . . But it’s not over for you. There’ll be a ruling on your case. They’ll certainly weigh in your years of service, the crimes you’ve solved. We all know how much you’ve done for the force over the years.”
Sharko shrugged with a nervous cackle.
“I spent the last five years shuttling between my office and a psychiatric hospital, where they were treating me for fucking schizophrenia. Every Monday and every Friday, week in and week out, I sat with a shrink who tried to figure out what had gone tilt in my head. If I’m still here today, it’s because I had the backing of a good man who’s no longer on the force. There’s no one left to support me. I’m screwed, period, amen.”
Bellanger held out his open hand. With a sigh, the inspector took his police ID and service weapon and slapped them into the other man’s palm. It tore his heart out. He looked at his chief without managing to hide his sadness.
“This job was all I had left. Make no mistake, you’ve buried a man today.”
With those words, he walked away from the property without a backward glance.