30

Nico returned to his office, more nervous than ever. He had asked Caroline to go to the hospital and stay there until Anya woke up. Caroline, as understanding and generous as ever, had agreed. Nico couldn’t bear the thought of not being at the hospital when his mother went under the knife. But she would understand. He couldn’t do anything for her at the hospital anyway. But he could do everything in his power at headquarters to apprehend Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s murderer and the Butcher of Paris. He had to keep his promise and honor his end of the deal.

Nico went up Stairwell A. On the fourth floor, Moumen was leaning against the department’s symbol on the wall—a thistle and the motto “Brush against us and you get stung.” Nico was every bit as prickly. Nobody would dare to needle him this morning.

“We’re all here, Chief,” Moumen said, standing at attention.

“Everyone in my office now. Is Becker here?”

“He’s on his way.”

Moumen was happy. His little trip with the boss had swelled his head.

Nico was already on his way down the narrow corridor to his office. Moumen left to round up his colleagues.

Clare Le Marec brought warm croissants to the meeting; their aroma filled the room. Jean-Marie finished a text to his wife. Kriven and Plassard set their cups of hot coffee on the table. Moumen pulled the chair out for Commander Maurin, who smiled with a bit of exasperation. Alexandre Becker set a thick folder on the table—the one about Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s murder. Then he pulled an accordion folder with a strap and metal clasp out of his briefcase. It had a compartment for each of the recent victims. Becker was now on top of these cases too, which meant that Nico’s suspicions were being taken seriously.

“You’ve spent all night at the clubs, so we’re eager to hear what you’ve turned up. That is, if you’re comfortable telling us. It might be too personal,” Becker said, winking at his friend.

“We picked up some juicy stuff, all right,” Nico retorted. “Didn’t we, Ayoub?”

“The boss is right.” Moumen looked around the table. “He had to sell his body for a few leads. But they were high-quality leads.”

“Really? Do tell us,” Kriven said.

“We met Gianni and Théo, two regulars at the nightclub Clément Roux usually goes to,” Nico said, getting serious again. “The young man met an older guy, according to the bartender. And it wasn’t Timothy Krall. On that point everyone agreed. According them, Clément Roux would have never been attracted to a guy like Tim.”

Maurin raised her hand.

“Timothy Krall has an airtight alibi for Wednesday night. He was photographing an anniversary party until two in the morning. I called his clients, and they backed up his story. And Sunday night, he was at his computer, working on a series of prints to hand in the next day. The edit times on his machine, as well as two e-mails he sent correspond with what he told us. It doesn’t appear that he had anything to do with the recent attacks.”

“That doesn’t clear him of Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s murder,” Magistrate Becker said.

“Tim’s a pretty typical loser. That’s true,” Kriven said. “But I can’t really see him as a murderer.”

“In a moment of anger, perhaps?” Becker asked.

“I have trouble imagining him killing his sister’s fiancé and then burying him in the park,” Kriven said. “He doesn’t have the sangfroid for it. I don’t even know if he has the smarts for it.”

“Well, we do know that he’s homophobic,” Becker said. “Maybe he couldn’t tolerate the fact that his sister was about to marry someone who was gay. That’s a plausible motive.”

“He used the word ‘faggot,’ but deep down, I don’t think it’s much of an issue for him,” Rost said. “I don’t even think he cared enough about his sister to keep her from marrying a man who, in the end, wouldn’t make her happy. He cared about what he stood to gain. And Jean-Baptiste was the goose that laid the golden egg.”

Becker let out a deep breath.

“What do you think?” he asked Nico.

“I’m inclined to agree with them. Tim Krall didn’t do it.”

“Franck? Are you done with all the banquet and excavation VIPs?” Nico asked.

“Yes, Chief,” Captain Plassard said. “We saw the final witnesses last night. There’s nothing to add.”

“Okay, let’s get to our scoop from the club,” Nico said. “I’m sure Ayoub can’t wait to tell you.”

“Yes, let’s,” the magistrate said. “The investigation has exonerated Timothy Krall a priori.”

“Gianni actually had some intriguing details to share—”

“And he only had eyes for the chief!” Ayoub interjected.

“Gianni definitely saw Clément Roux’s attacker,” Nico said, moving the conversation along. “He didn’t especially like the man and thought he was manipulating the kid. But that’s not the most interesting part. To describe him, Gianni used a term that struck me, because I heard Jean-Marie use the same term.”

Everybody around the table was quiet. Nico had their attention. “Jean Marie, you described Mercier as a kind of pretty boy who wanted to come off as much younger than his fifty-two years.”

“Yes, that was my impression,” Rost said.

“And you called him a—”

“A little girl,” Ayoub interrupted, looking at his boss.

“That’s exactly the term Gianni used. We must find out if Mercier and the man Gianni saw at the club are one in the same.”

Nico banged the table to emphasize his words. He was usually calm during these meetings, but not now.

“There was something else that struck me about the guy,” Jean-Marie Rost said. He seemed to be thinking out loud.

“His voice,” Becker suggested. “It was reedy, a bit higher-pitched.”

“But someone’s voice can be controlled and modified,” Claire Le Marec pointed out. “That’s why people take voice lessons. Furthermore, exhaustion and illness, the tone of a conversation, even switching from one language to another can change the pitch, volume, timbre, and tempo of someone’s speech.”

“It’s still an integral part of our identity,” Becker said. “Researchers have made progress there, with ways to do electronic voice recognition. Courts accept it as a form of identification. But we need some kind of comparison. If we had a recording of the attacker, the lab could compare his vocal imprint with Mercier’s.”

“But we have something else,” Nico said mysteriously.

Everyone turned his way.

“A tic. Clément Roux’s attacker kept rubbing his lower lip with the middle part of his finger. According to Dominique Kreiss, this kind of gesture is a very telling form of nonverbal communication. She’s gone over this with us before: the face has seven key points, including the mouth, and caressing the lower lip is suggestive of a sexual impulse.”

“I didn’t notice that sort of gesture when I interviewed Mercier,” Becker mused.

“Me either,” Jean-Marie Rost said.

“There’s only one conclusion I can draw from that,” Kriven said. “You aren’t Laurent Mercier’s type.”

“And right you are, David,” Nico said, laughing.

“Evidently, Laurent Mercier is attracted to men who look like Jean-Baptiste Cassian,” Becker said. “Let’s say that you’re right, Nico. What do you suggest?”

“The witnesses from the club and Clément Roux could identify the attacker’s voice. It’s worth a try, isn’t it? With a clean setup, that index-finger tic could reappear and be an additional marker.”

“And we’d be in a good position to get a confession,” the magistrate acknowledged.

“Charlotte, any news on Mercier’s alibi the night of Mathieu Leroy’s attack?” Nico asked.

“The bar at the Hôtel du Louvre had so many customers, the employees couldn’t be sure if they’d seen the man and his clients Tuesday night. If Mercier paid the bill with his credit card, we’d have a trail. But we’ll have to wait until the banks open. As for his clients, I tried to get in touch but couldn’t reach them. On Wednesday and Sunday night, we only have his wife’s testimony, and I’m not convinced that she’s trustworthy.”

“Is it time to search their place?” Becker asked.

Val-de-Marne, where Vincennes was located, was a Paris suburb that was under the jurisdiction of the Paris police. That would make things easier.

“We’ll need a search warrant and warrant for Laurent Mercier’s arrest,” Nico confirmed. “I’d also like to see Daniel Vion again and keep Tim Krall here. Three suspects for a lineup. What do you think?”

“That’s fine. I’ll draw up the warrants.”

“Get ready,” Nico told his team. “It’s going to be a busy day.”

The Rue Jean-Moulin in Vincennes was a narrow one-way street not far from the Château de Vincennes. The Merciers lived at number 17, a rambling house with blindingly white walls. A plaque read “Laurent Mercier, Certified Landscape Designer.”

The unmarked police cars parked in the street, blocking the morning traffic. The officers didn’t use their sirens or flashing lights. Nico wanted to approach the house as quietly as possible. Kriven’s and Maurin’s groups got out of their cars quickly. They were wearing bulletproof vests and carrying their Sig Sauger SP 2022s, nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistols. Each one had fifteen bullets and weighed about two pounds. Not as heavy as the old Manurhin revolver, which was now retired.

Nico’s men had sangfroid and reflexes, and they knew that there were three children in the house.

A gated entry for cars in the middle of the building opened to an interior courtyard. From there, they would make their way to the office and the secondary entrance to the house, which had a garden. The goal was to control all the exterior spaces to prevent anyone’s escape to the Rue d’Estienne-d’Orves or the Avenue de Paris. Commander David Kriven and his troops rushed into the courtyard as discreetly as possible. On the street, a small set of steps hidden behind a low wall led directly to the family home. Nico went up the steps while Commander Charlotte Maurin and Captain Ayoub Moumen kept a safe distance. The three other members of their group stood along the front wall, ready to break a window and demonstrate their authority if needed. Finally, Nico rang the Merciers’ doorbell. It was breakfast time.

The chief heard chairs scraping the floor, muffled voices, and footsteps in the vestibule.

“Yes?” a woman asked behind the door. It was probably Camille Mercier.

“Good morning, ma’am. I’m Chief Sirsky of the Criminal Investigation Division. Can you open the door, please?”

Silence. Then a barely audible whisper. She was trying to get her husband.

“Mrs. Mercier?” Nico asked again. “I have a warrant to search the premises as part of a criminal investigation. You are under obligation to grant entry. I hope that we can do this peacefully. There are minors inside. But if you don’t open the door, I will be required to use force.”

A line from Blaise Pascal ran through his head. “Justice without power is inefficient, and power without justice is tyranny.”

A key turned in the lock, and the door opened. Camille Mercier, wearing pajamas, seemed frightened. Nico handed her the search warrant. Commander Maurin mounted the steps and closed ranks behind her boss. The lady of the house stepped aside in resignation, and Laurent Mercier approached with a relaxed smile.

“Chief, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” he asked in a toneless voice.

A finely chiseled face, Deputy Chief Rost had said. A nice ass and a nicer face. Yes, Nico could see what Rost had meant.

“The investigation into Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s murder.”

“That old thing? Again? I’ve managed to move past that sad affair, which hurt Camille and me so much.”

“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Mercier. But we believe this murder is connected to more recent attacks.”

“What does it have to do with my family?”

“You were among the victim’s closest friends. I have a search warrant signed by the magistrate.”

“A search warrant? Forgive my ignorance, but I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

The man was extraordinarily calm, just as he’d been when Rost and Becker had stared him down.

“We also have a warrant for your arrest.”

“An arrest warrant for me?” Mercier asked, clearly taken aback.

“Now!” Nico yelled to his teams. They had talked enough. It was time to act.

“Where are your children, Mrs. Mercier?” he asked.

“I sent them to their rooms to get ready for school.”

“Can somebody in your family take them to school this morning?”

“Why would that be necessary?” Laurent Mercier asked.

His wife didn’t say anything. She was looking at the floor.

“If not, our agents will go with them and then take your spouse to headquarters for questioning.”

“I thought I was the one you wanted.”

“Your wife is being brought along as a witness. I would suggest that you get ready, ma’am.”

Commander Maurin followed Camille Mercier to make sure she didn’t destroy or hide any evidence. The investigators would scour the house.

Nico asked Laurent Mercier to wait in the kitchen and assigned an officer to watch him.

Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Mercier and her three teenagers came downstairs. Two officers followed them.

Nico had gone into the kitchen and was inspecting the drawers and cabinets with a calculated slowness and false concentration as a clearly anxious Laurent Mercier looked on.

“Over here!” he heard Franck Plassard shout.

“Where?” Kriven responded from the living room.

“In the basement! Chief, we need you.”

“What’s in the basement?” Nico asked Mercier.

“A game room,” the man replied. “With a bar, couches, a billiards table, a CD player, a television, and a console.”

“Nothing else?”

“Chief?” Kriven had come upstairs again and had joined Nico in the kitchen.

“I’ll come in a minute.”

Kriven left, and Nico looked Mercier in the eye.

“What else?” he repeated.

“A lab.”

“A photo lab, is that what you mean?”

“Yes,” Mercier confessed.

Nico left him with the officer guarding him. He went down the stairway to the basement dark room. Kriven and Plassard were looking at the prints pinned on a clothesline. Although practically all photographers were now using digital methods, some professionals, as well as hobbyists, still preferred the older way, which involved processing film in a room with only a red light. They considered it more creative and satisfying. Mercier had a fully equipped darkroom with enlarger, developing tanks, tongs, paper, and chemicals.

“Portraits,” Kriven observed.

“So that’s his hobby,” Plassard said. “But unlike Vion, he doesn’t take group and travel photos.”

“He’s good. His angles are well-framed and thought-out.”

“If Mercier is Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s photographer, then maybe he kept a souvenir,” Nico whispered. “Let’s find it.”

He knew they had to work fast. Anya would be going into the operating room at any minute now.