Franck Thilliez: Syndrome E

On the Mac screen, the green area continued to pulsate for several seconds, then gradually faded. Sharko opened his eyes. He stared at his boss with a weary smile.

“You’re going to have to get rid of your chief inspector someday, seeing him talk such crap.”

“You’re dealing with your problems and they haven’t kept you from doing your job. I’d even say you’re sometimes better at it.”

“Yeah, try telling that to Josselin. The guy never lets up busting my chops. I think he’s got it in for me.”

“That’s always how it is with a new boss. All they care about is cleaning house.”

Dr. Bertowski, of the psychiatric department at La Salpêtrière Hospital, finally arrived, flanked by his neuroanatomist.

“Shall we get started, Mr. Sharko?”

“Mr. Sharko”—it rang funny, since “Sharko” sounded like the name of an advanced form of muscular atrophy: Charcot’s disease. As if all the world’s illnesses were his doing.

“Let’s.”

Bertowski leafed through his ever-present file.

“The episodes of paranoid persecution have become pretty scarce, from what I see here. Just a few lingering traces of distrust—that’s very good. And your visions?”

“They’ve come back full force, maybe because I’ve been cooped up in my apartment. Not a day goes by without a visit from Eugenie. Most of the time she just sits around for two or three minutes, but she’s kind of a pill. I can’t tell you how many pounds of candied chestnuts she’s made me buy since our last session.”

Leclerc withdrew to the back of the room while they removed Sharko’s hood.

“Have you been under a lot of stress lately?” the doctor asked.

“The heat, mostly.”

“Your job doesn’t help matters. We’re going to shorten the time between sessions. Every three weeks seems a good compromise.”

After immobilizing his head with two white straps, the neuroanatomist moved a figure eight–shaped instrument toward the crest of his skull—a coil that delivered magnetic impulses to a very precise area of the encephalon, so that the targeted neurons, like micromagnets, would react and rearrange themselves. Transcranial magnetic stimulation allowed them to attenuate, even eradicate, the hallucinations related to schizophrenia. The main difficulty was, of course, to target the right spot, as the area in question measured only a few centimeters, and being off by even a millimeter could make the patient start meowing or reciting the alphabet backward for the rest of his life.

Sharko lay there, a blindfold over his eyes, with just one order: don’t move a hair. The only sound was the crackle of small magnetic pulses emitted at the frequency of one hertz. He didn’t feel any pain, not the slightest discomfort, just the profound anxiety of knowing that, ten years earlier, they would have been treating him with electroshocks.

The session ended without incident. Twelve hundred pulses—or about twenty minutes—later, Sharko stood up, his muscles feeling a bit numb. He readjusted his spotless shirt and ran a hand through his brush-cut black hair. He was sweating. The sweltering heat of the hospital and the slight pudginess caused by Zyprexa didn’t help. At the beginning of July, even the air-conditioning had trouble overcoming the hellish temperature outside.

Sharko jotted down his next appointment, thanked his psychiatrist, and left the room.

He joined Leclerc at the coffee machine at the end of the hallway. The Violent Crimes chief felt like having a cigarette; those few minutes of observation had worn him out.

“That really gave me the willies, seeing them play with your head like that.”

“Just routine. It’s like sitting under the dryer at the hairdresser’s for a perm.”

Sharko smiled and raised the plastic cup to his lips.

“So go on. Tell me about the case.”

The two men walked slowly.

“Five bodies, buried about six feet underground. Not a pretty sight. From what we know so far, four of them badly worm-eaten, the fifth in relatively good shape. All five missing the tops of their skulls, as if they’d been sawed off.”

“What do the local cops make of it?”

“What do you think? They’re in this provincial little town where the biggest crime up to now is not sorting your trash. The bodies must go back weeks, if not months. They’re in it up to their necks, and the investigation is likely to get complicated. They could probably use a psychological leg up. Do what you usually do, no more, no less. You gather info, talk to who you gotta talk to, and after that we’ll handle it in Nanterre. Two, three days, tops. Then you can get back to your miniature trains and go about your business. And I’ll do the same. I don’t want this to drag on. I need to go away pretty soon.”

“Are you and Kathia going on holiday?”

Leclerc’s lips made a thin line.

“I don’t know yet. It depends.”

“On what?”

“On a bunch of things that aren’t anyone’s business.”

Sharko didn’t push it. When they exited the hospital doors, a wave of heat crashed over them. His hands in the pockets of his linen trousers, the chief inspector looked back at the long, white stone building, its dome sparkling in the implacable sun. The establishment had become his second home these past few years, after the squad room.

“I’m a bit nervous about going out there again. All that seems so far away.”

“You’ll get used to it pretty fast.”

Sharko remained silent for a moment, apparently weighing the pros and cons, then shrugged.

“Fuck it. Why not? I’m starting to look like a chair from spending so much time on my ass. Tell them I’ll be there midafternoon.”

Lucie was just finishing her coffee in the waiting room of Salengro Hospital when the attending physician in charge of Ludovic Sénéchal walked up to her. He was the tall, dark sort, with fine features and nice teeth, the kind of guy she might have crushed on in other circumstances. On his oversized scrubs she could read DR. L. TOURNELLE.

“So, Doctor?”

“No visible injuries, no scabs to indicate trauma. The ophthalmological tests didn’t show anything abnormal. Ocular mobility, retinal exam—it’s all good. His photomotor reflexes and pupil contraction are as they should be. That said, Ludovic Sénéchal can’t see a thing.”

“So then what’s wrong with him?”

“We’re going to run some more tests, especially an MRI to make sure he doesn’t have a brain tumor.”

“Can a tumor make you blind?”

“If it’s pressing on the optic nerve, sure.”

Lucie swallowed hard. Ludovic was no more than a memory, but even so they’d spent seven months of their lives together.

“Is it treatable?”

“It depends—on the size, the position, if it’s malignant or benign. I’d rather not say anything before we do the scan. You can go see your friend if you like. Room 208.”

The doctor gave her a firm handshake and quickly strode away. Lucie didn’t have the strength to take the stairs and instead waited for the elevator. Between the tears and the vomiting, her two sleepless nights in the pediatrics ward had drained her. Lucky that her mother was able to take over in the daytime so she could get some rest.

After knocking softly at the door, she entered Ludovic’s room. He was lying on his bed with a fixed stare. Lucie felt a lump in her throat. He hadn’t changed… Hairline receded a bit, of course, but he still had the features of the mature man with the soft, round face that had first made her fall for him on the Web.

“It’s Lucie…”

He turned toward her. His pupils didn’t look at her directly but instead aimed at the wall just beside her. Lucie shivered and rubbed her arms. Ludovic tried to smile.