Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

‘Merde! Merde! Merde! ’ he repeated over and over, as if his fit of rage could take away the sight before his eyes. ‘He did it again, God damn it.’

Frank felt the exhaustion of his sleepless night slide into despair. While they had been sitting in the office, desperately trying to decipher the message of a maniac, he had struck again.

‘Who found him?’ Hulot asked, turning to the policeman behind him.

‘I did, sir,’ replied a uniformed officer. ‘That is, I was the first to arrive. I was here to tow a car and I heard the girl screaming.’

‘What girl?’

‘The girl who discovered the body. She’s sitting in the car. In shock and crying like a baby. She works for the ABC bank above us. She hit the Bentley while parking her car, got out to check the damage, and that’s when she saw-’

‘Did anyone touch anything?’ Frank interrupted.

‘No, I didn’t let anyone get close. We were waiting for you.’

‘Good.’

Frank went to the police car to get a pair of latex gloves and pulled them on as he went over to the limo. He tried the handle of the front door on the driver’s side. It clicked open. He leaned in and looked at the body. The man was wearing a white shirt soaked with so much blood that Frank could barely make out its original colour. His trousers were black, presumably evening clothes. There were slashes all over him from numerous stabbings. Next to the body, on the leather seat, were the words written in blood.

I kill…

Leaning over the padded leather, Frank grabbed the body by its shoulders, pulled it upright, and leaned it against the back of the seat so that it would not slip down again. As he did so, he heard something hit the floor.

He backed out of the car and went to open the other door, next to the body. He squatted down to peer inside. Hulot, standing behind him, bent over to see better, keeping his arms behind his back. He was not wearing gloves and didn’t want to risk touching anything.

From his position, Frank could see something had fallen on the floor. Wedged under the front seat was a VHS videocassette. It had probably been on the corpse’s lap and the movement had caused it to fall. Frank took a pen from his pocket and stuck it into one of the spindles of the tape. He lifted it and looked at it for a second. Then he took a plastic evidence bag out of his pocket, slipped the cassette inside and sealed it.

During this operation, he noticed that the dead man’s feet were bare. Frank stretched out his hand and tested the flexibility of the toes. He raised the trouser legs to see if there were marks on his ankles.

‘This guy was bound with something stiff, probably wire. Judging from the clotting of the blood and the mobility of his limbs, he hasn’t been dead long. And he didn’t die here.’

‘From the colour of his hands, I’d say he died through loss of blood, said Hulot.’

‘Exactly. So, if he died here, there’d be much more blood on the seats and the floor, not just on the clothes. And it doesn’t really seem like the right place to do the job. No, this guy was killed somewhere else and put in the car afterwards.’

‘But why go to so much trouble?’ Hulot stepped back so that Frank could stand up. ‘I mean, why move a body from one place to another, at night, in a car, at the risk of being discovered. Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ Frank responded, looking around him, puzzled. ‘That’s one of the things we have to figure out.’

They stood in silence a moment, looking at the body leaning against the back seat with wide-open eyes in the narrow space of its shiny, sumptuous coffin.

‘Judging from his clothes and car, he must have had a shitload of money.’

‘First, let’s see whose licence plate this is.’

They went around the Bentley and opened the door on the passenger side. Frank pressed a button on the dashboard and the door to the glove compartment slid open noiselessly. He took out a leather folder. The papers were inside.

‘Here it is. It’s a company car, Zen Electronics.’

‘Jesus Christ, it’s Allen Yoshida.’ The inspector’s voice was a shocked whisper. ‘The owner of Sacrifiles.’

‘Shit, Nicolas. That’s what the clue meant.’

‘How’s that?’

‘The song by Santana, the one we listened to over and over. Live in Japan. Yoshida’s half-American, half-Japanese. And remember the song? It’s called “Soul Sacrifice”, get it? “Soul Sacrifice”! Sacrifiles is a play on the word sacrifice. And there’s another song on Lotus called “Kyoto”. I wouldn’t be surprised if Yoshida had something to do with that, too.’

Hulot pointed at the body in the car. ‘Do you think it’s him? Allen Yoshida?’

‘I’d bet my life on it. And there’s something else.’

Hulot looked at Frank in surprise. He could see an idea taking shape in his friend’s mind.

‘Nicolas, if Yoshida was killed somewhere else and then brought here to be discovered in the Place du Casino of Monte Carlo, there’s a reason for it.’

‘What reason?’

‘That bastard wants us to investigate.’

Hulot realized that if Frank was right, then there was no end to what this man would do. He froze at the thought of what was to come, of who they were up against, and the murders they already had to solve.

The sound of screeching tyres announced the arrival of an ambulance and the medical examiner. The forensic van was close behind. While Hulot briefed them, Frank stood apart, lost in thought. His eyes fell on the car radio. There was something sticking out of the tape recorder. He pulled it out.

It was a normal audiocassette that had been recorded and rewound. Frank studied it for a moment, then stuck it in the stereo and pressed PLAY. Suddenly, everyone could hear the jeering notes of ‘Samba Pa Ti’ floating through the still air of the garage.

When they returned to police headquarters, there was a crowd of reporters in front of the building.

‘Fucking vultures.’

‘What did you expect, Nicolas? We steered clear of them at the garage, but you can’t avoid them forever. They’re the least of our problems. Just keep that in mind.’

Lacroix stopped the car at the entrance. Seeing the inspector inside, the horde of reporters shifted position with a single movement, so well synchronized that it looked rehearsed. The barrier was only halfway up when the car was surrounded by people and questions. Hulot was forced to lower the window on his side. The shouting of the reporters grew louder. One man with red hair and freckles practically stuck his head in the window.

‘Inspector, do you know the identity of the body found in the garage?’

From behind him: ‘Do you think it’s the same man who killed Jochen Welder and Arianna Parker?’ It was a reporter from Nice Matin that Hulot knew well, brusquely shoving his colleague aside. ‘Is there a serial killer at large in the city?’

‘What can you tell us about the phone call last night to Radio Monte Carlo?’ yelled someone else behind them.

Hulot raised his hands to stop the volley of questions.

‘Gentlemen, please. You’re all professionals and you know very well that I can’t tell you anything right now. There will be a statement from the chief of police later. That’s all for now. Excuse me. Drive on, Lacroix.’

The driver edged the car forward slowly so as not to hit anyone. At last they passed the barrier, which lowered behind them. When they got out of the car, Hulot rubbed his face with one hand. He had dark circles under his eyes caused by lack of sleep and the horror he had just witnessed.

He handed Morelli the videotape from the victim’s car. Forensics had checked it for prints and returned it.