Franck Thilliez - Syndrome E

Chief Inspector Péresse let out a wild burst of laughter. He stood and turned up the fan, placed just in front of President Sarkozy’s portrait.

“So you want all the info, do you? Well, canvas of the area— nada for the moment. Direct or indirect witnesses— nada . Apart from the rotting corpses, we didn’t pick up a single clue at the scene, which is understandable given they’ve been buried for several months and with the storms we’ve had. The whole medical corps—the ME’s office, forensic anthropologist, entomologist—are squabbling among themselves to figure out what belongs to who. It’s worse than a jigsaw puzzle. They’ll definitely be at it all night again. Our only certainty is that they’re all human adults. Unfortunately, that’s about all you’re likely to leave with, Inspector. In other words, not much.”

Sharko closed his eyes each time the breeze from the fan lapped at his cheeks.

“What does the missing persons file say?”

“Too early to tell. I’m waiting for the medical examiner’s report for the ages and physical characteristics. One thing’s for sure, we haven’t had any specific reports of a group disappearance, either here or anywhere else in the country.”

“And what about outside the country? What does Interpol say?”

“First things first. The investigation has only just got under way. First we’ve got to figure out exactly what we’re dealing with here. I’ve got nothing against intel from Interpol, but first we have to know what information we’re asking them for, don’t you think?”

He crossed his arms and stared out through the smoked-glass window. The central police station, a glass and steel blockhouse, clashed with the rest of the city’s left bank. Péresse turned back to his colleague from Paris.

“And what are your early deductions?”

Normally, working from thick dossiers, Sharko started with four basic elements to work up a profile: the crime scene itself, the MO, the killer’s psychological state during the crime, and his psychological state overall. For the moment, he didn’t have a precise starting point. The only plausible hypothesis was that the victims had not been killed on site—slicing open a skull wasn’t the kind of operation you performed on the street corner.

“Frankly, I don’t have much. It might be worth checking into the delinquents and violent criminals in the area. Recent parolees, for instance. Given the number of bodies, we can’t exclude revenge killings. In most cases, criminals attack people they know. We’re probably looking for somebody with a panel truck or SUV. You can’t cart around five stiffs in a buggy. Maybe check with the local car rentals?”

“We’ll take care of it.”

Sharko snatched up his jacket from the chair and slung it over his shoulder.

“I’ll look in on the ME tomorrow, once all the autopsies are done. Could you make sure they know to expect me?”

A vague sigh.

“As you wish. Will there be anything else?”

Sharko held out a solid hand.

“See you tomorrow, Inspector. Here’s hoping the corpses are feeling talkative. I used to be in your shoes once upon a time. I know it’s no cakewalk.”

Half an hour later, Sharko was quietly dining at a sidewalk table outside a restaurant facing the magnificent Rouen cathedral. A trace memory from his school days told him that the crypt housed the ticker of Richard the Lionhearted. Sharko smiled. He still had excellent recall, which he regularly exercised with crossword puzzles. One of his few qualities that hadn’t gone to hell. There, at that moment, he was content, almost happy. Getting out of the capital had done him a world of good. Here life seemed different, more leisurely and restful. To his great satisfaction, he’d discovered his room had a tub, on the fifth floor of a certain Hotel Mercure, behind the cathedral.

He ate pasta until he’d had his fill, followed it with a disgusting Camembert sorbet—clearly meant for tourists—and doused himself with water. This heat, even at night, was definitely going to wind up kicking his ass.

He went back to the hotel. After an ice-cold bath, he slipped into some undershorts, shined his shoes, and pulled a wrapped package from his duffel bag, along with an old battery-operated tape recorder. He delicately removed the bubble wrap to reveal an O-gauge Ova Hornby locomotive, with its black car for wood and charcoal. One of the front headlights had broken off, but the engine beat all speed records on the wide circuit set up in his apartment.

The chief inspector placed it on his nightstand, swallowed a Zyprexa with a glass of water, and lay down on top of the sheets, hands folded behind his neck. The hotel, the dampness of an anonymous room… all of that was so far away now, since he’d begun tracking down his suspects from the safety of his leather desk chair.

Today, he recognized his old self in the contact with the terrain, the blood, the guts. He still didn’t know how it would affect him. He might well get off on it, but the past also threatened to rear its head big-time. Better to keep some distance. Remain procedural, do his job, and stay behind a pane of glass. Otherwise, Eugenie would make him pay. The little girl in his head hated it when he derailed.

When all the lights were out, he rolled onto his side and turned on the tape recorder. Tonight, Eugenie would certainly not come to visit. Those radiations in his brain would keep her asleep for a bit.

The rasp of miniature trains, cruising full steam ahead on their tracks, rumbled from the speaker. Sharko fell asleep with a smile on his lips, seeing the faces of his wife and daughter, whom he’d lost five years earlier in horrible circumstances.

He had come to Rouen to investigate an abominable crime, but no matter. Alone in the middle of his bed, with his trains and a bathtub nearby, he felt just fine.

After her misadventure at Ludovic Sénéchal’s, Lucie had left that vile film with the restorer, Claude Poignet. Once he had absorbed the news of Ludovic’s blindness, the septuagenarian specialist in film autopsies had taken the reel away with him, promising to look at it first thing.

For now, Lucie sat with her daughter. Heaving a long sigh, she brought the fork one last time to Juliette’s mouth. The doctors had said to keep pushing; the girl needed to eat. Easier said than done.

“Come on, just take one bite, just for me.”

The child shook her head and started to cry. Her complexion was sallow, her cheeks sunken. Lucie pushed away the tray holding the awful dish of pureed peas and held her daughter tight. She felt the little hands slip off her back, their strength gone. It was hard seeing such an energetic and happy kid disappear inside pajamas that were now too big for her, or move around with an IV in her arm.

“Never mind, sweetheart. It’s okay.”

“Mom, I want to see Clara.” Her voice was a whisper.

For the past two days, Lucie had been gauging the breadth of her mistake. She hesitated to call back Juliette’s sister from her first summer camp. Clara had so been looking forward to this vacation with her little chums.

“Soon, Juliette. Soon. She’s going to send you a beautiful postcard. She promised.”

Lucie verified that no staff was around and took some chocolate-covered cookies from her pocket.

“Want one of these?”

Juliette nodded limply. “Can I?”

“Yes, of course. But just don’t tell anybody, okay? Cross your heart.”

Juliette weakly crossed her chest and smiled, then finally swallowed some of the cookie. Her throat got stiff, making her veins and tendons stand out. Lucie made sure to get rid of the wrapper, happy that her daughter finally had something in her stomach.