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Footsteps, the stench of a cigar. Chief Nico Sirsky looked up from his files and glanced at his watch: 1:11 p.m. Deputy Police Commissioner Michel Cohen, his boss, walked into the office without knocking.

“If I were you, I’d turn on the news,” Cohen advised.

No hello. It was an order. Nico grabbed the remote control and pointed it at the television. The news anchor appeared. Black eyeliner and smoky shadow accentuated her eyes. Not a hair was out of place. In a panel at the bottom of the screen, a reporter was clutching his microphone.

“Just watch,” Cohen said.

Directly behind the reporter was the Géode, the gigantic steel globe at the Cité des Sciences et de l’Industrie. The huge Cité complex in northeast Paris encompassed a science, technology, and cultural center, a museum, and much more. It attracted visitors from around the world. Nico raised the volume.

“I can only imagine the consternation there,” the newscaster lamented, a touch theatrically.

“Absolutely, Élise. This story has gripped people in France and beyond.”

“Arnaud, please bring those viewers who have just tuned in up to speed on this horrible discovery. I must warn those watching that this may not be appropriate for young children.”

The camera panned to an open pit next to the Canal de l’Ourcq in the Parc de la Villette.

“Here, at this exact spot, archaeologists, artists, and others started an extraordinary excavation three days ago,” the reporter said. “Now that dig has taken a strange and ghastly twist.”

The camera zoomed in slowly on the pit. It was possible to make out dirt-covered tables, dishes, and bottles. The shot then turned into a full close-up of an inconceivable sight.

“You see what all the commotion’s about?” Cohen asked.

Several men in orange vests were pushing back spectators on the Prairie du Cercle meadow and forming a security perimeter.

The news anchor was talking. “Arnaud, we can hear the sirens. Is that the police?”

“Yes, Élise, officers are arriving now.”

Those were the local precinct officers, who would guard the crime scene and take down witness accounts. Normally, they would then call in the public prosecutor and his underlings—“the devil and his minions,” as Cohen liked to put it. That was in theory. But this was not a normal situation. The television news had already tipped everyone off, and Nico was betting that Christine Lormes, the public prosecutor, was putting on her coat at that very minute.

“Looks like we’re going to be on the news,” Cohen said with a note of sarcasm. “We’re set to meet the prosecutor in the courtyard. Which squad are you putting on this?”

“Kriven’s.”

Nico could forget about his sandwich. The week was off to a bad start.