Franck Thilliez - Syndrome E

The cops had made good progress in forensics and toxicology. Further analyses of the bones, notably under the scanner, had shown old fractures on four of the five skeletons—wrists, ribs, elbows—with signs of healing, which meant they’d been sustained less than two years previous, and before death, since they were colored. So these unidentified men weren’t the type to rot behind a desk. The injuries might have resulted from falls or hazards of their trade, or from contact sports like rugby, or from fights. Earlier that day, Sharko had suggested cross-checking with the various hospitals and athletic clubs in the area. The investigations were under way.

Despite the lack of head hair, tox screens of the pubic hairs had been extremely fruitful. Three of the five individuals, including the Asian, had been users of cocaine and Subutex, a heroin substitute. Analyzing cross sections of the pubes after cutting them into sections had shown that, for all three, narcotics use had at first strongly declined, then disappeared altogether in the weeks before death. Crushing the insect pupae hadn’t revealed anything: if the men had taken drugs in their final hours, traces of it would have been found in the keratin of the insects’ shells. Given this, the chief inspector had made a note to check releases from detox centers and prisons, as Subutex was a common drug on the inside. Perhaps they were dealing with ex-cons, dealers, or guys who’d gotten mixed up in something to do with drug trafficking. He couldn’t ignore any potential lead.

One final point: the small plastic tube found around the clavicle of the best-preserved corpse. Analysis had not shown the presence of chemo drugs. Alongside the ME’s hypotheses, the report stated that the sheath might also have served to link fine electrodes implanted in the brain to a subcutaneous stimulator. They called this technique deep brain stimulation, and it was used to treat severe depression, limit tremors from Parkinson’s disease, or suppress Tourette’s. That was a key discovery, since the killer seemed to be interested in his victims’ brains.

“Whatcha writing?”

Eugenie had returned. Sharko pointedly ignored her and tried to pursue his thoughts. The little girl tapped on the table with the letter opener, louder and louder.

“Eloise is dea-ead. Your wife is dea-ead. Eloise and your wife are dea-ead. And it shoulda been you instea-ead…”

The conniving little bitch… It was her favorite song, the one that wounded him to the depths of his soul. The cop ground his teeth.

“Shut the fuck up!”

Heads turned toward Sharko. He leapt out of his chair, fists clenched. He rushed over to a desk sergeant who was making photocopies and showed him his police ID.

“Sharko, Violent Crimes.”

“I know, Chief Inspector. Can I help you with something?”

“I need you to go find me candied chestnuts and cocktail sauce. ‘Pink Salad,’ the two-pound jar. Can you do that? For the chestnuts, any brand will do, but for the sauce be sure to get Pink Salad, no substitutes.”

The other man’s eyes widened.

“Well, it’s just that…”

The Paris cop put his hands on his hips and his shoulders swelled. With his added pounds, Sharko, who’d already had a stocky build, commanded respect.

“Yes, Sergeant?”

The young cop left his protest hanging and disappeared. Sharko returned to his spot. Eugenie smiled at him.

“See you later, dear Franck.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Stay home.”

She started running and skipping, then disappeared behind a cork bulletin board. The inspector took a deep breath, eyes closed. His calm was finally returning. The hum of the computers, the creaking soles of his colleagues. He resumed his thoughts, quickly leafed through the technical data in the various reports. In the end, it was only a partial failure. The absence of records meant that these men might have been marginals, illegal aliens, or just foreigners.

Later, Sharko went to get a drink from the water fountain, feeling like his brain was mush. He imagined himself outside, at a sidewalk café. The sergeant had brought him back the jar of cocktail sauce and the glazed chestnuts, and since then Eugenie had left him blissfully in peace. In just a few, he’d head back to the hotel, check in with Leclerc, and probably hightail it back home in another day or two. Because the more time passed, the colder the trail got. Nothing from the hospitals. The detectives who’d returned from canvassing the locals had brought back squat. Out of the hundreds of employees and ex-employees who worked in the industrial zone, not one had seen a thing.

Sharko, plunging one last time into the files, suddenly felt pressure on his shoulder. He turned around. It was Péresse, who stared at the cocktail sauce and chestnuts, then finally said, “We’ve got a real lead. Come take a look.”

Sharko walked with him to his office. The chief inspector from Rouen closed the door and pointed to his computer screen. It showed the scan of a handwritten document in English.

A telegram.

“We got it from Interpol. You won’t believe how this telegram made its way here. Some guy from their shop, name of Sanchez, calls them from where he’s vacationing, some campsite near Bordeaux. He was watching TV, just having a drink before dinner, not a care in the world, when he sees you where the bodies were discovered, next to the pipeline.”

“I was on TV? Jesus, they don’t miss a trick.”

“So at that point, Sanchez calls headquarters to get the lowdown. He wants to know what you’re up to.”

“I know Sanchez. We worked a few cases together in the late nineties, before he swung over to Lyon.”

“He hasn’t been watching much TV these last few days and he missed the media hoopla. So his colleagues tell him about it, the sawed-off skulls and so on. And then something in his head goes tilt. He tells them to look into the Interpol archives, and guess what they turn up?”

“This old telegram.”

“Exactly. A telegram sent from Egypt. Cairo, to be exact.”

Sharko jabbed his finger on the screen.

“Tell me I’m seeing this right.”

“You are. It’s dated 1994. Three Egyptian girls, all violently murdered in Cairo. Skulls sawed off, ‘with a medical saw,’ as it says there, brains removed, eyes gone. Bodies mutilated, multiple stab wounds from head to foot, including the genital areas…”

Sharko felt a morbid giddiness grab hold of him. His rib cage tightened, his chest constricted. The monster of the manhunt reared its head. Péresse kept on reading.

“…All within two days. And no underground burial this time. The bodies were dumped in the open. Our killer wasn’t being particularly subtle.”

The cop from Paris straightened up and lowered his eyes. He imagined the girls spread over the desert sand, covered in lacerations, innards exposed, prey to the buzzards. All these images in his head. He stared at the screen, short of breath.

“That was so long ago. When there are serial killings, they’re normally closer together in time. And in space. Normandy and Cairo aren’t exactly next door… Could we be dealing with an itinerant? Did Interpol turn up any other cases like this?”

“Nothing.”

“Which doesn’t mean anything. As little as ten years ago, this kind of telegram was pretty rare. Spending time on paperwork is the last thing most cops do, and only if they feel like taking the trouble. Our Egyptian colleague was a meticulous policeman. Which is almost a paradox.”

Sharko paused a moment. His eyes continued to run over the telegram while his brain was already in overdrive. Three girls in Africa, five men in France. Lacerations, skulls opened, eyes removed. Sixteen years apart. Why such a long wait between the two series? And especially, why the two series? The inspector returned to the cursory description dispatched to Interpol.