Chapter Twenty-nine

Hugo sat across from Ambassador Taylor, an untouched coffee pot between them. It was not yet eight on Sunday, the morning after Al Zakiri’s death, but the ambassador had wanted to circle up, see where everyone stood. They leaned forward, listening to Tom’s phone as it rang, both relieved to hear his voice.

“Tom Green.”

“It’s Hugo. I’m in the ambassador’s office.”

“Does he know? If not, steal some of his good hooch.”

“He knows,” Taylor said with a smile. “How’re you doing, Tom?”

“Hey, boss. They said they’d let me out today, if I promise to stay still and not work.”

“Guess you’ll be staying there, then,” Hugo said. “Have you had a full report on Al Zakiri?”

“Yeah, and I gather you almost got Claudia and yourself shot. I warned you those boys were trigger happy.”

“You were right,” Hugo said. “Are they still investigating Al Zakiri?”

“Yes. And finding nothing. They went through his barge and didn’t even find dirty pictures. Not that he needed them, damn, did you see his girlfriend?”

“You know I did,” Hugo said. “Plus she’s famous, everyone’s seen her.”

“Quite something, we should go to a show. Anyway, she was interviewed all yesterday afternoon and evening. All night, probably. I got a report on that, too. When you were with him, did you tell the stupid bastard to turn himself in?”

“I did,” Hugo said. “Several times. He thought he’d end up being tortured or framed or something. Didn’t trust us, not even a little bit.”

“Do you blame him?” Taylor chipped in.

“Nope,” Tom said. “But look where it got him. Anyway, I found my terrorist, did you find your beetle?”

“Scarab,” Hugo corrected. “And he wasn’t a terrorist.”

“Maybe, but your guy’s a serial killer,” Tom said.

“Not technically,” Hugo said.

“Actually yes, technically.”

The ambassador and Hugo exchanged glances. “What are you talking about?” Taylor asked.

“Killed a girl in the Eighth Arrondissement. Close range, side of the head, shot and dumped in her apartment.”

“Who found her?” Taylor asked.

“Her roommate. Not only found her, but ran smack-bang into the Scarab himself as he was leaving. He just walked right on past her. She described him as a little guy with a buzz haircut and a forehead like the Rock of Gibraltar. Well, those are my words but you get the picture.”

“A buzz haircut?” Hugo asked. A blurred image tugged at his mind. “He’s changed his appearance. No surprise there, I guess. But he didn’t hurt the roommate?”

“Scared the crap out of her. Of course, that ugly bastard was nothing compared to what she saw in the apartment.”

“Her dead friend?”

“Her skinned dead friend. He’d cut her dress off and skinned her.”

“He did? Like Abida Kiani, or . . . worse?” Hugo asked.

“Worse. Much. Sliced from the knees to her chin. Trophy, you think?”

“If he took the skin with him,” Hugo said. “I guess it must be.”

“He did,” Tom said. “The crazy son of a bitch has graduated from the dead to the living. Well, the long-dead to the recent-dead, but you know what I mean.”

“What was her tattoo?”

“He took the front off of her, does it matter what the damn picture was?”

“Jeez, Tom, you know it does. Find out, will you?”

“Sure, of course. Sorry. It’s like this shit’s getting to me finally.”

“That’s OK. Was she sexually assaulted?” Hugo asked.

“It doesn’t look like it.”

“Still, it’s a shift in MO,” Hugo said. “He’s getting bolder as well as changing his target. The question is, why?”

“No idea,” Tom said. “But as I pointed out before, I found my bad guy so you better hurry up and find yours.”

“Are the French police back in charge now?” Hugo asked. “And can I see the report and photos from the scene?”

“Yes and yes,” Tom replied. “And I’ll let you know if the fingerprints come back to anyone.”

Hugo sat straight up. “You have fingerprints?”

“Yep.”

“Well, thanks for mentioning that.” Hugo paused. “When will you know? And how much longer on the DNA from the Montmartre Cemetery?”

“A week, probably less, for the DNA. Fingerprints are much quicker, we’ll know within an hour or two. Oh shit, hold on. I figured out how to use call waiting and the lab’s calling right now. Sit tight.”

Hugo and Ambassador Taylor sat staring at the phone, their nerves humming.

A minute later Tom came on the line. “Now there’s a spot of luck,” he said. “Our guy has a record, and exactly what you’d expect from a serial killer.”

“Let me guess,” Hugo said. “Trespass, maybe burglary, either indecent exposure or peeping in windows.”

“Don’t forget the big two,” Tom chided. “Both present here.”

“Arson and animal cruelty,” Hugo said. “Who is he?”

“They’re digging into his background right now, but I assume you weren’t asking a philosophical question.”

“No, I wasn’t.” Hugo didn’t disguise his impatience. “His name, Tom. Give me the bastard’s name.”

 

 

 

Hugo met Capitaine Garcia at a café halfway between their respective offices, on the Rue Saint-Honoré. The little Frenchman beamed when Hugo walked through the door and rose to shake his hand.

“Salut, mon ami,” Hugo said. “They told me you’re back in charge. I’m very happy about that.”

“Moi aussi. And I’m glad that other business is out of the way, though I’m sorry it ended the way it did. I’m hearing, unofficially, that he was more of an asylum seeker than a terrorist.”

“I think that’s right. And yes, a great shame.”

Hugo ordered a grand crème from the waiter, and Garcia asked for a second one.

“Alors, to work.” Garcia reached into a briefcase by his side and pulled out a manila file. “We know a little about him, and we’re searching high and low.”

Hugo picked up the file. It read Claude Villier in block letters on the front. “Tell me,” Hugo said.

“He’s twenty-six years old,” Garcia began. “Born and raised in the southwest, a little village called Castet.”

“Believe it or not,” Hugo said, “I know the place.”

Garcia raised an eyebrow, then remembered. “Ah yes, the case last year, your friend Max. You interviewed a witness down there.”

“Right. Nice part of the world.”

“Beautiful,” said Garcia. “If you like all that nature stuff. Anyway, you’ll remember that a night watchman at the cemetery down there was shot.”

“While our hero was stealing bones from a grave.”

“Exactement. The ballistics reports matched that shooting with the two kids at Père Lachaise, and the girl last night. But I don’t see what they all have in common. Who exactly are we looking for? What kind of killer is he?”

“Let’s look at what those have in common.” Hugo sat back as the waiter arrived with their coffees. When the waiter had left, he continued. “For a start, he’s taken a trophy from every one.”

“Skin and bones,” Garcia said.

“Oui. And yet I don’t think they are just trophies.”

“Why not?”

“Too much trouble. A trophy is almost like an afterthought. A killer may know what he’s taking as his trophy, I’ve seen everything from rings to eyeballs, but it’s not usually as intricate as something like skin.”

“Eyeballs?”

“Delightful, I know.” Hugo grimaced at the memory. Six jam jars, each containing two pairs of eyeballs. Color coded. “Anyway, it’s like we have two distinct crimes, the bone-stealing and the killing. But I’d bet anything that’s not true. The murders and the bone gathering, they are for the same reason.”

“And what is that?” Garcia watched Hugo for a second. “You’re not saying he’s Dr. Frankenstein?”

“I’d have said he’s putting together a woman, except the bones in Castet were male, right?”

“Oh yes, most definitely.” A smile tugged at the corners of Garcia’s mouth. “And now we know the Scarab’s name, we can say that they weren’t any old male bones.”

“No? There’s a connection?” And then Hugo remembered his phone call with the ambassador while Tom was in surgery, a conversation all but forgotten in the stress of the moment. “Villier. That’s the name of the man who was dug up.”

“Exactement.” Garcia held Hugo’s eye for a second. “His father. He dug up his own father.”