36 Quai des Orfèvres, Monday, 3 a.m.
Manien’s husky smoker’s voice. “The recording on this CD here comes from the psych ward of Salpêtrière Hospital. It’s dated March 14, 2007, and it was given to us by Dr. Faivre, Frédéric Hurault’s psychiatrist. Do you know Dr. Faivre?”
Sharko squinted. In the narrow confines of the office, the bright light of the bulb was hurting his eyes. Shadows clung to the file cabinets and shelving, plunging them into a tenacious darkness. Manien had been grilling him for more than twenty minutes already. In the course of the day, he had brought him sandwiches, coffee, and water but had denied him a phone call.
Leblond wasn’t in the room, but he hadn’t gone far. Now and again, they could hear his soles creaking in the hall.
“I’ve heard of Dr. Faivre,” Sharko replied.
“Nice guy, with an excellent memory. I asked him a few questions, and from what he told me, you saw each other from time to time, you and Hurault, since you were being treated in the next department over. Does that ring any bells?”
“Vaguely. So what?”
Manien picked up the CD.
“Did you know the psych ward has surveillance cams?”
“Like everywhere, I imagine.”
“They especially have them in the lobbies and in front of the hospital, where the patients sometimes go to have a smoke and a chat. It’s where you used to have your coffee while waiting for your appointment . . . They keep it all archived, for security reasons and in case of problems down the road. They keep the recordings for more than five years. Five years, can you imagine? I suppose that’s not too surprising, when you’re dealing with loonies . . .”
Sharko felt he was on a slippery slope. If his interrogators had put wires on him, they would have seen that, despite his outer calm, his tension level had just spiked, and his body begun to sweat abnormally. The last day and night had been pure hell. This time he didn’t answer at all. Manien sensed he was gaining traction and pushed on.
“I’m sure you can guess that we found several instances of you and Hurault talking together. I’ve spent the last two days looking through these tapes. Hours and hours of watching retards stumble around in pajamas.”
“And?”
“And? And so I asked myself, what can a child-killer, who’s been judged irresponsible for his actions and who got off with just nine years in psych, what can he possibly have to say to the cop who put him away?”
“No doubt stuff along the lines of, ‘How’s your schizophrenia coming along? Still hearing voices?’ The usual chitchat when two loonies get together. How am I supposed to remember?”
Manien twiddled the CD between his fingers. A ray of light danced on the surface, like the sinister eye of a lighthouse.
“The video on this CD has no sound, but we can clearly see both your lips. We were able to reconstruct one of your conversations with the help of a lip-reader.”
Manien got off on the intrigued look that flashed across Sharko’s face. He stood up abruptly, a smug twinkle in his eye.
“That’s right, Chief Inspector, you’re screwed. We found a recording.”
Silence. Manien twisted the knife a little more.
“That day, Hurault told you he’d pulled it over on everybody—cops, judge, and jury. He confessed he was fully aware of what he was doing when he killed his two girls. And that’s why, three years later, you stabbed him in the gut several times over with a screwdriver. You made him pay.”
Stunned, Sharko leaned forward to pick up his cup of water. His fingers were trembling and his eyes stung. His entire organism was about to give in. Of course, he could demand to see what was on the CD, but wouldn’t that be playing their game and digging himself in even deeper? His words and his reactions had been recorded; now it would all work against him . . .
He tried to read Manien, hesitated a long time. His eyes fell on the calendar behind the other man.
He choked back the words that were about to come out of his mouth.
He leaned back in his chair and made a quick mental calculation.
Then he slapped his two open hands to his face.
“You’re bluffing. Jesus fucking Christ, this whole interrogation is just hot air!”
For a second, Manien looked shaken. Sharko was exultant. He took a moment to calm his nerves, then asked:
“What was the date of that recording again?”
“March 14, 2007. But . . .”
Manien turned around to look at the calendar behind him, not understanding. When he turned back toward Sharko, the inspector was standing, fists planted on the desk.
“That’s three years ago. If I’ve figured correctly, it was a Wednesday. And I never had any sessions at the hospital on a Wednesday. They were always on Monday, sometimes on Friday when I had to go twice a week. But never Wednesday. You know how I know? Because my wife and daughter died on a Wednesday, and it’s the day I go visit their graves. I was going to the hospital to get rid of the little girl in my head who reminded me of my daughter, and to do that on a Wednesday would have been unthinkable. The illness wouldn’t have allowed it, don’t you see?”
Sharko snickered.
“You tried to beat me down with details, dates, places, to make me think you had something. But you overdid it and got yourself caught in your own trap. You don’t have any video of me and Hurault. You were just . . . supposing.”
Sharko took three steps backward. He could barely stand.
“It’s three o’clock in the morning. I’ve been rotting in this stinking office for twenty-one hours. The battle is over. I think we can call it quits now, don’t you?”
Manien gave the ceiling a spiteful glare. He picked up the CD and flung it in the trash. Then he shut off the digital recorder with a sigh, before giving a coarse laugh.
“Goddammit . . . Son of a bitch . . .”
He stood up and slapped his hand noisily on the calendar.
“You can’t convict somebody because he starts parking his car underground. Right, Sharko?”
“No, you can’t.”
“There’s one last thing I’d like to know. Just between us, how did you manage to get Hurault into the Vincennes woods without leaving any traces? Not a phone call, not a meeting, no witnesses, nothing. I mean, shit, how did you do it?”
Sharko shrugged his shoulders.
“Why should there be any traces when I didn’t kill him?”
As he was about to leave, Manien called to him one last time.
“Go in peace. I’m dropping the case, Sharko. The file will go cold and get stacked up with the others.”
“Am I supposed to say thank you?”
“Don’t forget what I said the other day: nobody knows about this. The DA acted in secret, as did I. He doesn’t want any waves.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“Meaning that if you try to fuck me with what happened here, be prepared for all this shit to explode in your face. And frankly, Sharko, between you and me, you did the right thing offing that bastard.”
Sharko went back inside the room, picked up his holstered weapon, and held his hand out to Manien, who held out his own with a smile. Sharko grabbed it, yanked the police captain toward him, and jammed his head smack into the other man’s nose.
The cracking sound, like the shock, was huge.