3

The arrangement of the body, which was really nothing more than scattered bones and a few bits of mummified flesh, suggested that its owner may have been sitting at the table. A suicidal guest? The victim of an accident? Neither scenario seemed likely; it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that someone had played a nasty trick. The skeleton completed an eccentric vision of an eternal banquet. A macabre mise-en-scène.

“Not everything is where it was originally,” Professor Charles Queneau said. He had joined the teams at the crime site. “The soil has shifted over the years. Visitors have been walking on the lawn. The gardeners have been doing their jobs too, and then there are moles, rabbits, rats, and such.”

The forensics officers were kneeling side by side, examining the grass, collecting soil and plant samples, and looking for any seeds or pollen to compare with any trace evidence they might find on a suspect’s shoes or clothes. They isolated pieces of evidence, bagged them, labeled them, and recorded them for analysis later.

In the pit, a second team had come together around Captain Vidal. The fingerprint experts were working with brushes, powders, and lasers in search of fibers, hairs, and other small biological traces—all potentially useful for DNA identification.

“They shouldn’t delude themselves. The weather and the years have most likely destroyed any evidence,” Queneau said.

There was little chance of obtaining interpretable results. Given the media coverage, however, having forensics officers at the scene would placate everyone.

“There’s hardly anything left of the body. It has putrefied and been devoured by animals,” Professor Queneau said. “Maggots, flies, and beetles have all been at work.”

“What about his clothes?” Lormes asked. The prosecutor couldn’t stop looking at the pit.

“They’ve decomposed,” Queneau said. “We’ll look for labels, which are more durable than the clothing itself, and they might give us a clue or a lead. But really, we don’t have much to go on.”

“There you are!” Michel Cohen shouted. “Samuel Cassian’s just been taken to the hospital.”

“For shock? Or does he have an underlying heart problem?” Lormes asked.

“The medic didn’t say. He’s an old man.”

“Yes. This would upset even a young artist. Cassian’s work has been desecrated in the most horrifying way.”

The men in white began to take the bones out of the pit to inventory them. They would then put the bones in sealed bags.

“His shoes are down here too,” Vidal said under his mask. “And there are a few bones inside.”

“I found a watch!” one of the officers shouted. “On the victim’s left radial bone.”

Queneau examined it. “An invention of Frenchman Louis Cartier and Hans Wilsdorf of Germany, dating back to 1904.”

“A quartz watch.”

“This one hit the market at the end of the sixties, going by the model and the mechanism.”

“There’s a belt,” Vidal said.

“Nothing says it belongs to the victim,” Commander Kriven said.

“Wrap it all up for me,” Nico ordered.

“And there we have it. All we need to do is find the wallet and ID, and we can confirm that we’ve unearthed Skeletor. Our job is done,” Kriven said, trying to rouse some spirits.

Louis Roche joined them at the edge of the pit. “Ms. Clavel and Antoine Gazani, the president of the National Institute for Rescue Archaeology, are at your disposal. In case you’re wondering, rescue archaeologists are experts who help developers and others, such as Mr. Cassian, preserve historic items that have been unearthed.”

Michel Cohen and Lormes decided to supervise the end of the operations at the Prairie du Cercle.

Nico motioned for Kriven to follow him. They returned to their car and made a U-turn. As they drove along the isolated park road toward the Boulevards des Maréchaux and the northern beltway, the sound of highway traffic rumbled in the distance.

Roche pointed. “There’s the Halle aux Cuirs. It’s used for rehearsal studios and storage.” Tractor-trailers and other vehicles were parked amid a variety of construction materials.

“What’s that over there?” Kriven asked.

“Oh, that’s just the no-man’s-land between the park and the suburb of Pantin. There are always a few oddballs out there, and the beltway hasn’t helped matters. In November 1999, a nineteen-year-old Bulgarian prostitute was found there, stabbed to death with twenty-three knife wounds. It wasn’t a pretty sight.”

Just ahead they could see a fountain with Barbary lions. It was a monument to Napoleon’s Egyptian campaign. They parked behind the Pavillon Janvier. Captain Plassard had already requisitioned space in the building, and the officers had begun their interviews. Questioning would soon be moved to police headquarters, where it would go on for several days. This was a massive assembly-line-style undertaking that carried serious risks. Crucial information could be missed. And liars loved to deceive police officers. Nico, Kriven, and Roche walked through the security offices, giving Plassard and the other squad members a nod, and took the elevator to the third floor. Roche knocked on the general director’s door and opened it. He ushered Nico and Kriven in and left without a word.

The park and other officials, arrayed on a comfortable sofa, got up to welcome them. The décor was modern. Along one wall, bookshelves were lined with beautifully bound volumes. A framed map of the Parc de la Villette had been laid out on the floor.

“Can I offer you something?” Clavel asked.

“I’m good, thank you,” Nico said.

They sat down. Kriven took out his notebook and pen.

“Let’s start at the beginning, if that suits you.”

“Of course. A bit after one o’clock—”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Nico said. “Let’s start with the park.” He pointed to the map.

The director, an energetic woman, seemed nervous and unsure of what he wanted. Nico wanted to get a sense of the place. Maybe it would help him understand why Samuel Cassian had chosen it as the burial site for his final banquet.

“Tell me about La Villette,” he said.

She lit up and seemed to forget the reason for their meeting.

“This place is a city within the city. It’s an incredible story…”