27

Police could keep someone in custody for twenty-four hours without pressing charges. With a magistrate’s authorization, they could extend the period. Suspected terrorists or members of organized crime rings could be jailed for as long as six days before facing any charges.

They used their limited time to overwhelm Tim, undermine him, and force a confession. Nico called in colleagues to help with what they called a bertillonage, a technique they sometimes used when they wanted to make a suspect miserable. It was named after Alphonse Bertillon, who in 1891 devised a biometric method of identification that involved taking the dimensions and identifying characteristics of a suspect. In Bertillon’s day, measurements included height and reach, as well as width of head, size of ears, and length of the feet. The method was flawed, however, and using fingerprints as a means of identification soon succeeded the Bertillon method.

Now, the term bertillonage referred to strategic use of procedure. The officers took mug shots and fingerprints. They also took a DNA swab from inside his cheek. He was free to refuse, but that was an offense publishable by a year in prison or a fifteen-thousand-euro fine. They shuffled him back and forth many times between the cell and the cops’ offices, where he was treated like the worst criminal.

The holding cells were Spartan at best. The floor area of each was barely a few square feet. There was no ventilation, and a bench was the sole piece of furniture. Vidal and Almeida brought Tim a mattress for the night, which he had to squeeze between a wall and an unbreakable glass window. The view was depressing: an imposing guard sitting in a chair. No hope of escape. Timothy Krall, the fifty-year-old failed photographer, was scared to death. That was Nico’s intention. Officers came in to handcuff him again and take him to an interrogation room.

“All yours,” Nico said to Becker.

An investigating magistrate was expected to use any legal means necessary to get at the truth, and that didn’t necessarily mean telling the truth. It was up to Becker to decide if the evidence was sufficient to send the suspect in front of a court, which was the only way to determine his culpability. The French judicial system was founded on the presumption of innocence, so Nico wanted a detailed and signed confession that would hold up. The door closed, and Becker sat across from the suspect. Tim looked like a mouse caught in a trap.

“I’ll get right to the point, Mr. Krall,” Becker said. “Do you admit taking the false identity of Damien Forest, a Reuters photographer, in order to cover Samuel Cassian’s banquet-performance thirty years ago in the Parc de la Villette?”

Tim licked his dry lips.

“Yes,” he replied hoarsely.

“Was Samuel Cassian aware of your true identity?”

“No.”

“To your knowledge, did he have any reason to believe that you were Lara Krall’s brother?”

“No, I don’t think so. No.”

“Did you know Jean-Baptiste Cassian, your sister’s fiancé?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Was Jean-Baptiste Cassian informed of your presence at the banquet-performance?”

“Yes!”

Becker registered the tension in Timothy Krall’s face.

“What was your reason for pretending to be Damien Forest?”

“They needed a professional photographer.”

“And you weren’t one?”

“I was unemployed.”

“Did Jean-Baptiste Cassian agree to lie for you?”

“He wanted to help me. I was broke. I needed the money.”

“A witness caught you arguing with him that day. What was the argument about?”

Tim’s eyes widened. He looked stupefied.

“A witness?” he asked. Becker could see that he was trying to recall the scene. Then his body sagged.

“Jean-Baptiste had already helped me several times. He said he’d had enough.”

“He said…” Alexandre Becker leaned over the thick folder on the desk and leafed through the pages one by one, raising the tension in the room. “‘Don’t ask me ever again, Tim!’” he read out loud. “What had you been asking him, Mr. Krall?”

“I’d asked him for help with work. That’s all.”

“And what, specifically, was Jean-Baptiste referring to?”

“Lying to his father for me, I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“Yes… I don’t know!”

Becker spread the photos of Jean-Baptiste on the table.

“Did you take these photos, Mr. Krall?”

“No.”

“Who could have taken them?”

“I don’t know! And that’s the least of my worries.”

“Jean-Baptiste Cassian was found dead, Mr. Krall. Killed thirty years ago, shortly after the tableau-piège’s burial.”

“I had nothing to do with that! I didn’t kill him if that’s what you’re thinking!”

Lara Krall had been taken into another interrogation room under the eaves. The heat was stifling. It wasn’t a trick. The air-conditioning was broken.

Nico put on his poker face and sat down opposite her. She had lied to him, and they both knew it.

“Mrs. Weissman, it’s clear that your brother, Timothy Krall, pretended to be Damien Forest, a Reuters photographer, at Samuel Cassian’s banquet thirty years ago. Were you aware of this?”

Lara Krall’s years were hanging on her like dead weight.

“Yes,” she said.

“How did you learn this?”

“Tim told me.”

“Were you aware that Samuel Cassian, your future father-in-law, and his guests were taken advantage of?”

Her lips were trembling now.

“I… I never saw it that way.”

But of course not.

“Tim was having financial difficulties. Jean-Baptiste was willing to help him. And my brother was a good photographer. I didn’t see the harm.”

“Evidently, your brother’s financial situation hasn’t changed. I imagine you still help him regularly?”

She looked down. Nico could tell she was confused. Tim was probably Jean-Baptiste’s complete opposite.

“That wasn’t a small thing that Jean-Baptiste did for your brother. He was willing to lie to his father. And what if the photos hadn’t turned out? It would have been a disaster. This wasn’t just a banquet, after all. It was an art event designed to span three decades. Jean-Baptiste was willing to go out on quite a limb for your brother.”

“Jean-Baptiste wasn’t taking any risk as far as my brother’s abilities were concerned.”

Tears had started to stream down her cheeks. Nico sensed that the woman had died on a June night thirty years ago, when her fiancé disappeared. Since then, she had walked through life as though it were an immense, dry, and dangerous desert.

“During the banquet, a witness overheard an altercation between Jean-Baptiste and your brother. Did they have any reason to fight?”

“Timothy could be tiresome. He always seemed to think that we owed him, as if making him happy and successful was our responsibility. I suppose Jean-Baptiste had had enough. He was right; I wouldn’t have reproached him for it.”

“Your fiancé told him, ‘Don’t ask me ever again, Tim!’ What was he referring to?”

“He was probably sick of putting up with Tim.”

There was a knock on the door, and a guard gave Nico a note from Deputy Chief Rost: “Gregory has just arrived in the building.”

“Their argument could have escalated, and your brother could have killed Jean-Baptiste out of rage or jealousy,” Nico suggested.

“My brother didn’t kill Jean-Baptiste!” Lara Krall shouted. “That’s impossible! He’d never do that to me!”

“Was Tim aware of your fiancé’s infidelity?”

Lara’s rapid blinking told Nico that she was petrified.

“Yes,” she said.

“How did he find out?”

“I felt horrible. I had to tell someone.”

“And you picked Tim, your brother.”

Lara had taken the wrong person into her confidence. Nico surmised that Lara’s immature and unstable brother had taken advantage of the information.

“Did you specify the nature, back then, of this relationship? Let me be clear: Did you tell Tim that Jean-Baptiste had been involved with another man?

Lara Krall’s face flushed. Tim knew Jean-Baptiste’s secret.

“I’d like to know how Jean-Baptiste Cassian agreed to give you the job of photographing the banquet-performance, Mr. Krall,” Becker said. “He was lying to his father and risked being found out.”

“My photos were good! And nobody else would give me a chance.”

“That’s not what I’m asking, Mr. Krall. Much had to be at stake for Jean-Baptiste Cassian to lie for you. The burial of his father’s final tableau-piège was a major event. Samuel wanted to avoid even the smallest mistake.”

“Let’s say he owed me.”

“Okay, he owed you,” Becker said. He was getting angry. “What was it, exactly, that he owed you?”

“Let’s just keep it at that,” Krall said.

Alexandre Becker suspected that this man had all the qualities of a blackmailer.

“I think Jean-Baptiste was buying your silence.”

Tim stood up.

“Your sister is being interrogated, Mr. Krall,” Becker said. He closed in on the failed photographer. Becker wanted him to think that Lara Krall was telling the police everything. There was no point in trying to weasel out. “Did you know that Jean-Baptiste was cheating on your sister?”

“Yes, Lara confided in me,” he finally said.

“With a man.”

He shrugged.

“You had information that could have hurt Jean-Baptiste, and you used it to get the job of photographing the banquet-performance, didn’t you?”

“It’s true, okay! I threatened to out him to his family. I had him by the short hairs.”

“Jean-Baptiste lost his temper,” Becker said. “He wanted to put an end to your game, even if it meant that his secret was disclosed. That would have been the end for you. Everybody would have known what you were: a dirtbag, scum who’d throw anyone under the bus. So you killed him.”

“No! I didn’t touch the arrogant little faggot! I was in control. He was afraid of me!”

Becker didn’t speak. He was a dirtbag, yes. But that didn’t mean he was a murderer.

“Did Tim threaten Jean-Baptiste? Did he tell Jean-Baptiste that he’d out him if he wasn’t hired to photograph the tableau-piège?”

“Jean-Baptiste would never have lied to his father if he hadn’t been cornered. But why would my brother have killed Jean-Baptiste? There was nothing in it for him.”

Lara Krall had clearly thought things over.

“Maybe things got out of hand. Jean-Baptiste could have told your brother that he wouldn’t be blackmailed any longer, even if it meant coming out. Maybe your brother lost control.”

Nico was no longer talking in terms of a one-night stand, which was what Jean-Baptiste had confessed to Lara. He had used the words “coming out.” Lara didn’t dispute them.

“My brother couldn’t have killed Jean-Baptiste. It’s impossible,” she said.

“Are you sure about that?”

Leaving the interrogation room, Nico walked past Gregory Weissman, who looked exactly as he’d envisioned. Being dragged to police headquarters because of his wife clearly had him fuming. Poor Lara, who had refused to be happy since Jean-Baptiste’s disappearance and had opted for a marriage of convenience—which had become an interminable prison sentence. And all this time, the idea that her brother could have played a role in this drama had been tearing her apart.

He went back to his office and his team members, who were waiting for him. Despite the late hour, they were all gathered around his desk. Nico could see the fatigue on their faces. Becker joined them and took a seat.

“Timothy has the guiltiest face I’ve ever seen and a motive, too,” he said.

“We don’t have any concrete proof,” Nico countered.

“All we have to do is get him to admit when and how he killed his future brother-in-law, and we’ll be done,” Becker said.

“Let’s check his alibis for the nights of the Villette attacks.”

“What if Jean-Baptiste’s murder and the attacks in the park are unrelated, Nico?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. He was also tired, and his voice betrayed his irritation.

Claire Le Marec cleared her throat to diffuse the tension.

“What does Krall do with his free time?” Nico asked more calmly. “I think he has plenty of it.”

“He has been unable to maintain a relationship with a woman for more than a few months,” Becker said. “They all left him. He sounds like a complete homophobe. He called Jean-Baptiste an ‘arrogant little faggot.’ But I still can’t see him all that motivated to attack young men in a park.”

“We’ve got some time left to keep questioning him and get a clearer idea of his involvement.”

“Nico, if we don’t have anything more by tomorrow evening, I’ll have to release him.”

“Give me the benefit of the doubt, Alexandre. Tim might be the attacker and just playing dumb with us.”

“You still think there’s just one perpetrator. Okay.” Becker sighed. “Commander Maurin can examine his alibis carefully. If something turns up, I’ll extend his stay with us.”

“Thank you, Alexandre. What would you say if Rost and Kriven took over the questioning?”

“I won’t decline the offer. You know how to reach me if you need to.”

Nico smiled at his friend, the magistrate.

“Charlotte, are there any other suspects?” he asked.

“The night of the attacks, Nathan Sellière, the antiquarian, was at home. He says he was alone, so we have nobody to confirm this. That said, he doesn’t match up with the murderer’s profile. And he had an exhibition at his gallery on Wednesday night. He closed the gallery at around one in the morning. The room Florian Bonnet was found in was paid for at twelve thirty in the morning. So the timing is off.”

“So we can cross Dufour and Sellière off our list,” Nico said.

“That leaves Laurent Mercier and Daniel Vion. Mercier had a dinner with clients Tuesday night in Paris.”

“Did his wife confirm that?” Becker asked.

“Yes. I contacted those clients and the Hôtel du Louvre, where they met. Specifically Le Defender, the bar there. It’s a cozy place with Second-Empire-style curtains. Lots of cocktails, and it’s open until one thirty in the morning.”

“What time did he get back home?” Nico asked.

“At midnight, according to his wife. But I get the feeling that she’s the type to do what her husband says, and she’d protect him any way she could.”

“What about Vion?”

“Daniel Vion wasn’t able to give us a clear alibi. He’s still in the running.”

“So we have two suspects,” Becker said. “Assuming that Jean-Baptiste’s murderer is the attacker in the park.”

“Two, plus Timothy Krall. Everybody’s going to be questioned again. What do you think of these suspects?” Nico asked Becker and Rost.

“You and David interviewed Daniel Vion first, so you have a handle on him,” Jean-Marie Rost replied. “Despite being close to Jean-Baptiste, he had no suspicions that he was gay.”

“But Sophie Bayle wasn’t surprised, which means Daniel Vion is completely clueless, or he’s lying,” Kriven said.

“And Mercier?”

“Our deputy chief has some candid views on him,” Becker said, giving Rost a wink.

“He’s a pretty boy,” Rost said. “A fifty-two-year-old who’s trying to pass for thirty. It’s pathetic. To his credit, Mercier knew that something was off with Jean-Baptiste. He didn’t play naïve the way Daniel Vion did, although he apparently didn’t know about any problems Jean-Baptiste and Lara were having. He ended up marrying Camille and lives with her and their three children. Happily ever after. He didn’t recognize any of the portraits. And unlike Daniel Vion, Laurent Mercier has an alibi for the attack on Tuesday night. Charlotte will have to verify it. I’ll wrap all this up with a side thought. Dufour told Vion that Jean-Baptiste fled to the United States. Dufour heard it from Mercier. Mercier got it firsthand from Jean-Baptiste’s mother. Quite a game of telephone.”

“What about Plassard and company? Where are they in their interviews?” Nico asked.

“They’re coming to the end of their list,” Kriven replied. “They’re not letting up. They got that one juicy tidbit, and you never know if something else might crop up.”

Nico smiled. Plassard had uncovered the gem about Timothy Krall’s argument with Jean-Baptiste.

“The excavation’s under way,” Becker said. “They’re going slowly to ensure that they don’t disturb the scientific and artistic aspects of the project.”

“It’s going to be a few days before they know whether Cassian’s skeleton has any companions,” Deputy Chief Rost said.

“Well, one thing’s for sure. That lunch in the park was no picnic for Jean-Baptiste Cassian,” Kriven said.

“No, it wasn’t. It’s going to be a long night if we expect to get to the bottom of this,” the chief said.

“Don’t forget, we can’t hold Timothy Krall forever,” Alexandre Becker warned.

Maurin’s phone rang.

“My crime scene investigator,” she said as she looked at the screen and hit speakerphone.

Authorized by Becker, the investigator had gone to the hospital to examine the still-unconscious Clément Roux—the man attacked in the architectural folly and found alive, by some miracle.

“I’m done here,” the investigator told Maurin. “The shape and depth of the cut were identical to those found on the other victims. But there’s something else. A bit of ultraviolet ink on the back of the victim’s hand. It’s a stamp from a club—invisible except under a black light.”

“And legible?” Charlotte asked.

“He got it last night. I have the name of the place; it’s in the Marais. I’ll text you the location.”

“Good job.”

“Do you think Clément Roux met his attacker there?”

“It’s a definite possibility.”

“His parents haven’t left the hospital, and the men haven’t been able to talk with them at length. Clément Roux is gay, which his mother has known for a long time. His father’s had more trouble accepting it, but he’s there and just as upset as his wife.”

“Is their son going to make it?”

“Not sure yet. All right, I’m coming back to headquarters. I’m guessing we’re spending the night and possibly longer.”

They ended the call.

“We’ll have to go to the club tonight, with a photo of Clément Roux and recent ones of Timothy Krall, Laurent Mercier, and Daniel Vion. Let’s not forget that synthetic hairs were found on the first victim, Mathieu Leroy. The attacker probably altered his looks to avoid being recognized.”

The room went quiet.

“I’ll go,” Nico said, breaking the silence.

As the chief of the Criminal Investigation Division, Nico could participate in an investigation in any way that he wanted. His officers admired Nico for being a fully involved leader instead someone who sat behind his desk and accepted medals without dirtying his hands.

“Women aren’t allowed in that bar,” Maurin said.

“All right, then I’ll take Ayoub Moumen with me.”

Nobody would be sitting around tonight. His mother’s operation was scheduled for the morning, so he had to make the most of the time he had.