2

Sirsky and Cohen hurried down Stairwell A, its black linoleum worn down to the cement, and made their way to the interior quad of the courthouse complex, where Lormes was waiting for them. From there, they walked quickly to their car, a black sedan with tinted windows. Nico got behind the wheel, while Michel Cohen offered the passenger seat to the prosecutor. The deputy commissioner slipped into the back. Commander David Kriven and his men would follow in other cars. Nico turned the key. The guitar licks of the Young brothers and Bon Scott’s raw tenor flooded the car. “Touch Too Much” by AC/DC—a song about a guy going crazy over his girlfriend, or in other words, the story of his love affair with Caroline.

Startled by the music, the prosecutor almost hit her head on the ceiling. Nico switched off the CD player.

“Are you trying to kill me, Chief?” she asked.

“There are worse ways to die,” Nico said, grinning.

“Things sure have changed,” Cohen muttered. “The head of France’s legendary criminal investigation division doesn’t wear a dark suit, and he listens to hard rock.”

Lormes stared at Nico, taking in his build, his blond hair, and his eyes as blue as the waters of Norway’s fjords. He smiled at her innocently. The car made its way out of the 36 Quai des Orfèvres parking lot and headed along the Seine, its blue lights flashing.

“The minister of culture was at the archaeological dig’s opening three days ago,” she said. “He shoveled the first pile of dirt, just like his predecessor thirty years ago, when they were burying Samuel Cassian’s tableau-piège.”

“Cassian was what they called a new realist in the sixties and seventies, right?” Nico said.

“Yeah, he glued the remains of meals—plates, silverware, glasses, cooking utensils, bottles, and the like—to panels, and art collectors who liked that sort of thing hung them on their walls,” Cohen said.

“I remember reading something about his work,” Nico said, swerving around several cars. “He was considered an anticonsumerist. He used food and ordinary kitchen items to make a statement about wealth and hunger.”

“Cassian was no starving artist, though,” the prosecutor said. “He made a surgeon’s fortune from his pieces. Then he opened pop-up restaurants and organized interactive banquets.”

“In the eighties he got tired of doing the same thing over and over and decided to have a final banquet,” Cohen said. “He wanted his guests to bury the remains, and he planned to have the whole thing dug up years later.”

The excavation had started a few days earlier, when reporters, scientists, and artists came together to disinter the fragments. They planned to study the remnants and determine the work’s sustainability. It was nothing less than the first excavation of modern art.

“This is quite a scandal,” the prosecutor said. “Samuel Cassian is a prominent figure. The organizations sponsoring the event are going to go ballistic.”

“We’ll have to get to the bottom of this quickly,” Cohen said.

Nico turned onto the Quai de Jemmapes to go up the Canal Saint-Martin, which was lined with chestnut and plane trees and romantic footbridges. The other drivers slowed down to avoid the speeding sedan. This neighborhood, where the famed Hôtel du Nord still stood and the ghost of actress Arletty lurked, had the feel of prewar Paris, with bargemen ready to jump the lock gates to the reservoir linking the Villette basin to the Seine.

At the Place de la Bataille-de-Stalingrad, Nico took the Avenue Jean-Jaurès toward the Porte de Pantin. Then he got stuck in a tangle of cars, heavy trucks, motorcycles, and pedestrians wholly unaware of the specific lanes marked for their use. Nico watched the bikes pass him by and leaned on the horn before skillfully weaving through the traffic like a king of the jungle, careful to keep his distance and avoid bumpers and doors. The prosecutor gripped the handhold without emitting the least objection or interrupting their shared train of thought. What were human remains doing in the middle of tables, tablecloths, dishes, silverware, the leftovers, and trinkets?

They arrived at the Place de la Fontaine-aux-Lions, across from the Grande Halle, where uniformed men were holding back the crowd and the reporters. Nico parked in front of the Pavillon Janvier, named for the head architect of Villette’s former cattle markets and slaughterhouses. The large stone building housed the park’s administration. They got out of the car under the eyes of the television cameras. A man in his sixties with a military crew cut walked up to them, his stare unyielding.

“Louis Roche, chief of security for the Parc de la Villette. We’ll drive to the scene. A few of my men will lead the way. The local precinct chief and Laurence Clavel, the park director, are waiting for you,” the man said, climbing into the back seat.

“Don’t you have camera surveillance?” Nico asked, scanning the area.

“We favor human surveillance, and that’s been more than sufficient. Our stats would put the neighboring precincts to shame.”

His tone was surprisingly relaxed. An old man from yesteryear, a relic, Nico thought. Maybe a former cop or a retired firefighter. Private security services had recruited from their ranks for ages. Now, however, specialized university graduates prevailed in these careers.

“The park has three to four million visitors every year,” the head of security was saying. “All told, we’ve only had about twenty gang incidents, thirty acts of vandalism, and as many thefts. Fifty percent of the time, the criminals were caught by park agents and brought to the Pavillon Janvier, where police took them into custody.”

“How many people work for you?” Michel Cohen asked as the car made its way out of the parking lot.

“Nineteen, all patrolling on foot or by car. I recruit dog handlers for the night shift and hire temporary reinforcements for bigger events like open-air movie screenings and the Bastille Day fireworks. Our role is to prevent and intervene, and we can handle first aid, fire hazards, and emergencies. For everything else, we call the police.”

“You’re from the force, aren’t you?” Nico said.

“I stepped down as captain,” Roche confirmed with a quick smile.

“So you’re employed by the park and the Grand Halle de la Villette?” asked the prosecutor.

“Yes, the concessions and other businesses in the park have their own security.”

They skirted around the Zénith concert arena, crossed the Canal de l’Ourcq—the “Little Venice of Paris”—and passed the Cabaret Sauvage. They also drove by several of the park’s famous architectural follies, thirty-five large red sculptures in various geometric shapes.

“Some have been made into playrooms and information, ticketing, and first-aid centers. One is a restaurant, and another is a coffee shop,” Roche explained. “But most are merely decorative. The director calls them hollow teeth.”

Nico was reminded of Bruno Guedj, a pharmacist from a case a few months earlier. He had been clever enough to hide an incriminating note in one of his teeth.

They stopped at the edge of the Prairie du Cercle.

“The canal runs down the middle of the meadow,” Roche said as he opened the car door. On both sides, the Observatoire and Belvédère follies offered a bird’s-eye view of the site.

Roche brightened up. He was in his element.

They had barely stepped out of the car when the local precinct chief swooped down on them. In the distance, Nico saw a man who was hunched over. Someone was offering him water. It was the artist himself, Samuel Cassian. The prosecutor and Michel Cohen were already heading toward him, amid shouts from reporters hoping for answers to their questions.

Nico shook the precinct chief’s hand.

“Glad you’re here,” the precinct official said without ceremony. “Let me introduce you to the general director of the park, Laurence Clavel.”

The director extended her hand. “The park’s president is away on a business trip,” she said. “He’ll get here as soon as he can.”

Nico recalled that the park president had been an actor in a police show on television.

“There’s no rush,” Nico replied amiably. It was always best to put people at ease.

“The body’s been there for quite a while,” said the precinct chief. “There’s nothing but bones left.”

“It’s revolting,” Clavel said, looking away with a frown.

Nico was thinking about Samuel Cassian and his 120 dinner guests three decades earlier. The news had to be upsetting for those who were still alive.

“Has the site been cordoned off?” Nico asked. “Nobody should get near the pit.”

“Of course. But we can’t take too long. I don’t have enough staff for that,” the precinct chief said.

“We’ll remedy that situation as soon as we can,” Nico assured him.

They would soon know the victim’s age, gender, height, and ethnicity. They would also know the cause of death and whether he or she had suffered any injuries. Forensic anthropology was a specialty of the chief medical examiner.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to speak with my team,” Nico said.

Accompanied by two members of Kriven’s team, Captain Franck Plassard was taking the first witness accounts, for what they were worth. Memory was fickle, and using it required the greatest vigilance. No matter how many people were in a room with a suspect, half would swear that he was wearing a black pullover, and the other half would insist that the sweater was white. Every description came from someone’s subjective perception. Of course his teams all used techniques developed by psychologists, but there was still a margin of error.

Nico walked over to Pierre Vidal, who was responsible for examining the crime scene. He was putting on a sterile suit so as not to contaminate the pit. His toolbox had everything he needed to gather and preserve the evidence he’d find.

His assistant, Lieutenant Paco d’Almeida, was snapping shot after shot with his digital camera and jotting down observations in his notebook.

“You’ll need some help,” Nico said.

“Professor Queneau’s not going to be pleased,” Vidal replied. “He’s about to retire, and he won’t like being hit with something this big at this point.”

Nico disagreed but didn’t say anything. Charles Queneau had buried himself in his work—managing the police forensics lab on the Quai de l’Horlage—to ease his grief over his wife’s death. He would take on this new assignment with the same drive that he had brought to every other assignment. That said, Nico thought it would do him good to spend more time with his grandchildren. They would give his life new meaning and purpose.

“I’ll suggest to the prosecutor that we call in the lab experts,” Nico said. The Code of Criminal Procedure outlined the rules of a preliminary investigation: the prosecutor had to authorize bringing in any new person.

In France, forensics experts rarely traveled to a crime scene. Police officers, especially those working in the criminal investigation division, were trained to collect evidence. The scientists stayed in the lab, where they used their sophisticated equipment to analyze what the cops brought in.

“Be careful!” Kriven yelled to Vidal.

Nearly unrecognizable under his hood and his protective goggles, Pierre Vidal was slipping into the pit. Witnesses were staring wide-eyed: the scene looked like something out of a horror film.

“No point in taking a pulse. He’s dead,” Kriven said.

The skull that had rolled across the table, its empty eye sockets peering at Nico, wasn’t about to disagree.