19

“Lara Krall and her husband, Gregory Weissman, met several years after Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s death,” Kriven said without preamble.

The commander had been waiting for Nico to arrive on this Saturday morning and joined him in his office as soon as the chief had poured his coffee. At La Crim’, there weren’t any vacations or weekends off when they were on the trail of a killer or killers.

Nico added Kriven’s latest piece of information to his mental file. Was Jean-Baptiste’s slaying linked to the two recent murders? Nico had a hunch—which Kriven seemed to share—but so far there was no hard evidence.

“There does seem to be a connection, if only because of the sexual orientation of the three young men,” Kriven said.

For the moment, however, Nico wanted to focus on the Jean-Baptiste murder.

“I never really suspected Lara Krall,” he said. “It wasn’t likely that she’d kill her fiancé and bury him in a public park. We should focus on Jean-Baptiste’s friends. If anyone can give us more clues about the victim and his relationships, it’ll be one of them.”

“I interviewed Sylvia Bayle and Nathan Sellière yesterday afternoon.”

“The jewelry designer and the antiques dealer?”

“Yes. They didn’t know who took those photos of Jean-Baptiste. And they’d never heard of Damien Forest, that Reuters photographer who covered the banquet-performance.”

“How did they react when you told them that Jean-Baptiste had experienced at least one gay encounter?”

“It didn’t really surprise Sylvia Bayle.”

“No? Why not?”

“Jean-Baptiste loved Lara. That was clear to her. But when she looked back on it, she realized that they seemed more like siblings or friends than lovers. With girls, he was always the protective, playful brother. Sylvia Bayle came to believe that deep down, Jean-Baptiste was attracted to men.”

Nico took a sip of his coffee.

“So what if Jean-Baptiste had more than a one-time fling?” Kriven ventured. “What if he was involved in a serious—and secret—relationship?”

“With the person who took those portraits of Jean-Baptiste?” Nico asked.

“Why not? These shots do give the impression of intimacy.”

“What did you think of Nathan Sellière?”

“He’s far more interested in antiques than the fairer sex or Cassian’s escapades. He’s a bit on the fat side, and he seems to sweat a lot. But he’s got a good mind for business, I’m told. In the antiques community, he has a reputation for emptying pockets. He’s done quite well for himself.”

“That wouldn’t seem to line up with our picture of the Parc de la Villette murderer. Being attractive and in good shape would be important to that sort of seducer, I imagine.”

“Yes, but I don’t agree entirely. Nathan Sellière’s money might attract a few people.”

“True, but according to Charlotte, Mathieu Leroy and Florian Bonnet weren’t looking for partners. Economic stability is sometimes a factor when you’re looking for a mate. But it appears that Leroy and Bonnet were just two men who liked to go out and have a good time.”

“At any rate, I’m interviewing the Merciers, Jérôme Dufour, and Daniel Vion today.”

“No news of Damien Forest?”

“Not yet. We’re working on it.”

“We’ll come back to that later.”

“That’s fine.”

“Speaking of problems, I’ve noticed that you haven’t been as sharp these past few days. I’m concerned.”

Kriven frowned. “You’ve had a lot on your own mind.”

“David, don’t. I’ve seen all too well how hard things have been with Clara.”

“She’s had trouble getting back on her feet. We don’t talk much, you know.”

“So are you thinking about getting involved in a new relationship?”

“Dominique and I are just friends!” Kriven said, tensing up.

“Take my advice, David. You love Clara. Don’t give up on your marriage just yet.”

“Dominique gave me the same advice.”

“That proves she’s a smart woman. She hasn’t tried to take advantage of the situation, even though I’m sure you’re her type.”

Kriven smiled.

“Tell Clara what you know in your heart to be true. She’s a good woman, David. You two deserve a bit of good luck. God knows, we have enough of the other kind to go around.”

The police commander stared at his feet. “I’ll do that,” he said at last.

“You’d better!” Nico smiled.

Kriven left to find his team in the Coquibus room.

The phone rang. Nico picked up the receiver.

“Hello, old buddy!”

Few people had Nico’s direct line. It was Alexandre Becker, a friend and also a magistrate. Nico and Becker’s professional collaborations had always made the higher-ups look good. So Becker was frequently assigned to Nico’s cases.

“The prosecutor has opened a criminal investigation to determine the date and exact cause of Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s death, and I’ve just been given the case. So here I am, once again a slave to La Crim’,” Becker said with a chuckle.

“We all know you love it.”

“You got that right. Okay, I’ve read the preliminary report. I imagine there are further developments, and you have updates to share?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you have a few minutes to fill me in?”

“I’ll come over.”

The Palais de Justice occupied a third of the Île de la Cité island. It was a sanctuary of law encompassing the police headquarters, government administrative offices, a jail, and the courthouse. This structure symbolized the splendor of the French Republic, with its gilded embellishments, three-sided courtyard, and large stone staircase leading to the vestibule flanked by four monumental statues that allegorized strength, abundance, justice, and prudence.

Getting to Magistrate Alexandre Becker’s office from headquarters at 36 Quai des Orfévres didn’t take all that long. But it was still a feat. Nico trotted down Stairwell A to the second floor and made his way through the door that opened directly to the courts and their offices. A tiled hallway, with uncomfortable benches on one side and offices on the other, led to the lawyers’ library, which boasted a monumental wooden door. Then the corridor narrowed until it was nothing more than a passageway. The main part of the building was a few steps ahead. Nico crossed an immense span of marble floor interspersed with statues, bronze busts, and columns. Outside the windows, he could see the royal Sainte-Chapelle chapel and its ancient windows, which were perfect examples of religious architecture dating to the Middle Ages.

He entered the René Parodi vestibule. A long hallway stretched ahead, ending at Stairwell F and the investigating magistrates. He preferred Stairwell G, which was more discreet. Becker worked on the fourth floor. To reach it, Nico had to get through a locked door. He entered the numbers on a keypad. Nico held out his badge to the guard, a tense, Sylvester Stallone look-alike, and knocked on the magistrate’s door. One day he’d have to bring a timer.

“Nice of you to come all the way over here,” Becker said.

The two of them met more often in Nico’s office. “Have a seat,” Becker said as he took out a notepad and a pen. “I ordered the excavation of the full 130 feet of the banquet. The heavy equipment’s there already, and Professor Queneau’s at the helm.”

“What does the Society for the Disinterment of the Tableau-Piège say?”

“Its directors understand what we’re trying to do and are working with us to ensure that their aims are still met.”

“And Samuel Cassian?”

“It looks like he’ll be involved, as you guessed. All right, let’s start with the discovery of the skeleton.”

Nico summarized the investigation, including the interviews with Lara Krall and the victim’s group of friends. He mentioned Damien Forest, the banquet photographer, and laid out the pictures of the younger Cassian.

“They’re very nice photos.”

“That’s what’s bothering me,” Nico said.

“They’re better than ordinary amateur photos. And they show a certain intimacy.”

Nico summoned his courage and took the plunge.

“Here’s how I see things. We’re looking for Damien Forest. I think Jean-Baptiste Cassian was gay or bi and in the closet. We’re questioning Jean-Baptiste’s friends on that aspect of his life. I’m wondering if the person who took these photographs was Jean-Baptiste’s lover and if one of his friends knows who that person is.”

“You’re setting aside the idea that someone was jealous of the father’s celebrity or his son’s? Jealous enough to murder Jean-Baptiste?”

“Absolutely not. Kriven’s group is still questioning everyone who was at the banquet and the excavation. We’re trying to get at any enmities. But my gut tells me that artistic jealousy wasn’t the motive. I want to focus on the group closest to the victim. One of his friends could match our profile of the Butcher of Paris and—”

Becker stood up, a pensive look on his face. “So you really think that the person who murdered Jean-Baptiste could be the one who murdered these two other young men? That’s a big leap.”

“Think about it. As soon as he’s exhumed from the tableau-piège, Mathieu Leroy and Florian Bonnet are killed in the same area. One in the Leitner Cylinder, the other in a hotel room that overlooks the park. It’s a strange coincidence, isn’t it? We’re dealing with attacks that appear to be homosexual in nature in the area where the bones of a promising and probably gay young artist were found.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little hasty, calling Cassian gay? He was about to get married.”

“Precisely!”

Alexandre Becker raised his eyebrows.

“Maybe we should be looking for a scorned lover who didn’t like the fact that he was about to get married,” Nico said.

“That’s a lot of gut feeling, don’t you think?”

“I may be skipping some steps here, but it’s plausible, isn’t it?”

Nico noticed that he’d raised his voice, and his breathing had become shallow. He paused. An image of Anya with monitors attached to her chest flashed in his mind. He looked away from Becker for a moment and took a deep breath.

“There’s something else,” Nico told Becker. “Lara Krall found bite marks on her fiancé’s shoulder. It sparked an argument between the two of them. And I think the murderer in the Parc de la Villette is biting his victims in the same spot and then cutting away that part of their flesh to avoid leaving any evidence. Leroy and Bonnet are the spitting image of Jean-Baptiste Cassian.”

Becker was silent for a few minutes. It felt like an eternity to Nico.

“Fine,” Becker said at last. “The prosecutor has not opened the criminal investigation of the Leroy and Bonnet cases, but it can’t wait any longer.”

“If you can, give her a push.”

“I will. In any event, I imagine you don’t have an alternative scenario?”

“Whether or not the recent park murders are related, I believe that Jean-Baptiste and the person who murdered him were very close. So it’s crucial that we keep exploring that lead.”

“Hmm,” Becker said. “And how is your mother?”

Nico looked him in the eye. “The whole thing with my mother has shaken me up, you’re right. But I’m still running the show.”

Becker was almost a brother. He had lost his mother when he was seven years old, and his wife, Stephanie, had been calling Caroline every day to ask for the latest news on Anya. Of all his friends, Becker was in the best position to understand how distraught he was.

Nico got up, and the two men hugged.

“She’ll be all right, Nico. Don’t worry.”

Nico returned to his office. He needed to think. He recalled the archivist’s recommendation and searched online for Franju’s Blood of the Beasts. He started the video and turned up the sound.

The camera moved from a bucolic setting to the slaughterhouses. Nico glimpsed the Porte de Pantin and the market at La Villette. The Canal de l’Ourcq marked the boundary between the two worlds. The animals were unloaded at the abattoirs, and the workers, with cigarettes hanging from their lips, severed the animals’ spinal cords before bleeding them. The steaming blood flowed into containers or streamed down drains. Then the butchers skinned the animals, removed their feet, and carved them up. The words underscored the violence and odd lyricism of the images.

Nico lost the thread for a few moments. He was thinking about Marcel, who was in charge of the human bodies donated to the medical and dental programs at Paris Descartes University. Marcel had once been a butcher at La Villette. He was an incredible man, and Nico visited him often. Marcel had told him how the workers at the abattoirs labored at frenetic speeds under harsh conditions. The jobs were highly specialized. There were slaughterers, carvers, and meat carriers. Some jobs, such as removing bristles and fat, were reserved for women.

Nico was pensive, his mind fixated on La Villette’s atmosphere. He understood why Samuel Cassian had chosen the northern half of the park—the half with the abattoirs, the City of Blood—to bury his banquet-performance. It went hand in glove with the artistic and scientific auspices of the place. Cassian had been ruminating on the idea of death.

“Nico?”

The voice jolted Nico out of his torpor. Kriven was in the doorway.

“It’s about Damien Forest, the photographer from Reuters.”

“Yes?”

“The agency had nothing on him. He never worked for them. So I did some more research. Damien Forest never existed. There isn’t any trace of him anywhere.”