Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

His still-powerful frame was obscured in a royal blue coverall, whose collar divided into two wavy wings over his shoulders. Beside the plate, Paul spotted a stack of betting slips. Jean-Louis Schiffer, the street legend, had become the bookmaker for a crew of retired traffic cops.

How had he ever imagined that such a wreck could help him? But it was too late to turn back now Paul adjusted his belt, gun and handcuffs and put on his most impressive look-eyes ahead, and jaws clenched. The glassy eyes had already located him. When he was only a few paces away, the man said straight off: "You're too young to be a cop's cop."

"Captain Paul Nerteaux, first section, tenth arrondissement." He rattled this off in a military tone that he at once regretted.

"On Rue de Nancy?"

"That's correct."

This question was an indirect compliment. It was the address of the neighborhood station. Schiffer had recognized the investigator in him, the cop on the beat.

Paul grabbed a chair, glanced around automatically at the gamblers, who were still stuck in front of their television. Schiffer followed his eyes and laughed.

"You spend your life putting crooks behind bars, then what happens? You end up doing time yourself"

He raised a piece of meat to his lips. His jawbones went to work beneath the skin like fluid, alert machinery Paul revised his judgment. The Cipher was not as far gone as all that. All he had to do was blow the dust off the mummy.

"What do you want?" the man asked, after swallowing his meat.

Paul adopted his most modest tone. "I've come to ask you for some advice."

"What about?"

"About this." He removed a brown paper envelope from the pocket of his parka and placed it next to the betting slips. Schiffer pushed aside his plate and unhurriedly opened it. He took out a dozen color photographs.

He looked at the first one and asked: "What is it?"

"A face."

He turned to the next pictures.

Paul added, "The nose was sliced off with a box cutter. Or a razor. The lacerations and tears on the cheeks were made using the same instrument. The lips were cut off with scissors."

Without a word, Schiffer turned back to the first photo.

"Before that," Paul went on, "there was a beating. According to the forensic scientist, the mutilations were done postmortem."

"Who was she?"

"We don't know. Her fingerprints aren't on record."

"How old was she?"

"About twenty-five."

"What was the actual cause of death?"

"You've got a choice. Blows. Wounds. Burns. The rest of the body's in the same state as the face. Apparently she underwent more than twenty-four hours of torture. I'm expecting more details. The autopsy's being carried out now."

The old man raised his eyes. "Why are you showing me this?"

"The body was found at dawn yesterday, by Saint-Lazare Hospital.”

“So what?"

"So, that was your territory. You spent over twenty years in the sector."

"But that doesn't make me an expert on faces."

"I think the victim is a Turkish working girl."

"Why Turkish?"

"First because of the area. Then there are her teeth. They have traces of gold fillings that are now used only in the Near East." He then added: "Do you want the names of the alloys?"

Schiffer moved his plate back in front of him and started eating again. "Why an immigrant worker?" he asked after a long chew.

"Because of her fingers," Paul replied. "The tips are crisscrossed with scars typical of certain types of sewing work. I've checked."

"Does her description match anyone reported missing?"

The old man was pretending not to understand.

"No reported disappearance," Paul muttered patiently "No one came asking after her. She's an illegal alien. Schiffer. Someone with no official status in France. A woman no one will come to the police about. The ideal victim."

The Cipher slowly and calmly finished his steak. Then he dropped his knife and fork to pick up the photos again. This time, he put on his glasses. He observed each image for a few seconds, attentively examining the wounds.

Paul could not help looking down at the pictures. He saw, upside-down, the dark sliced opening of the nose, the lacerations in the face, a purple, horrific harelip.

Schiffer laid down the packet and grabbed a yogurt. He carefully raised the top before plunging in his spoon.

Paul sensed that his reserves of calm were quickly running out.

"I've been doing the rounds," he went on. "The sweatshops, the homes, the bars. Nothing doing. No one's gone missing. Which is normal, because no one really exists. They're illegal aliens. How can you identify a victim in an invisible community?"

Schiffer silently scooped up his yogurt.

Paul pressed on. "None of the Turks have seen anything. Or else they won't tell me. In fact, no one's been able to tell me anything. Because none of them speaks French."

The Cipher continued toying with his spoon. Finally, he deigned to add, "And so, someone mentioned me…"

"Everyone mentioned you. Beauvanier, Monestier, the inspectors, the boys on the beat. If they're to be believed, you're the only person who can make this damned case advance."

Silence again. Schiffer wiped his lips with a napkin, then grabbed his little plastic pot. "That's all a long time ago. I'm retired, and I've got other things on my mind." He pointed to the betting slips. “I now devote myself to my new responsibilities."

Paul grabbed the edge of the table and leaned over it. "Listen, Schiffer. He smashed her feet to pulp. The X-rays show over seventy shards of bone sticking in her flesh. He sliced off her breasts so that you can now count her ribs through her skin. He rammed a bar covered with razor blades into her vagina. -He banged the table. "He's got to be stopped!"

The old cop raised an eyebrow. " 'Got to be stopped'?"

Paul wiggled on his seat, then clumsily removed the file that was rolled up inside pocked of his parka. Reluctantly, he added, "We've got three of them."

"Three?"

"The first one was found last November. Then a second in January. And now this one. Every time, in the Turkish quarter. And always tortured and disfigured in the same way"

Schiffer stared at him in silence, spoon in midair.

Paul started yelling, drowning out the cries from the racecourse. "Jesus Christ, Schiffer, don't you understand? There's a serial killer in the Turkish quarter. Someone who attacks only asylum seekers. Women who don't exist, in an area that isn't part of France anymore!"

At last, Jean-Louis Schiffer put down his yogurt and took the file from Paul's hands. "You should have come to see me before."

Outside, the sun had come out. Silvery puddles enlivened the large gravel courtyard. Paul was pacing up and down in front of the main entrance, waiting for Jean-Louis Schiffer to finish packing.

There was no other solution. He had realized that right from the start. The Cipher could not help from a distance. He could not advise him from his retirement home, nor help him out over the phone when Paul had run out of ideas. No. It was necessary for the former officer to question the Turks alongside him and exploit his contacts by returning to the neighborhood he knew better than anyone else.

Paul shivered at the possible consequences of what he was doing. No one had been informed, neither the magistrate nor his superiors. And it wasn't good practice just to let loose such a bastard, known for his violent, unrestrained methods. He was going to have to keep him on a very short leash.

He kicked a pebble into a puddle, thus disturbing his own reflection. He was still trying to convince himself that he had had the right idea. How had he come to this? Why was he so obsessed by this case? Why, since the first murder, had it seemed that his entire existence depended on the outcome?