Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

Frank parked Nicolas Hulot’s Peugeot in a no-parking zone in front of Roby Stricker’s building. He took the POLICE ON DUTY sign out of the glove compartment and placed it on the rear window under the windscreen wiper. A cop walked towards him as he was getting out of the car, but he saw the sign and raised a hand to show that everything was okay. Frank answered with a nod, crossed the street, and headed over to Les Caravelles.

He pushed the glass doors and went into the building. The doorman was not at his post. Looking at his watch, Frank saw that it was exactly 7 a.m. He fought back a yawn. The lack of sleep was beginning to get to him. First the radio station, then the hunt for Roby Stricker, then standing guard at his house. The hope, the disappointment and, finally, the new murder, the disfigured body of Gregor Yatzimin.

Outside, the sky and sea were tinged with the blue of a new day. How he would have liked to forget everything and relax in his comfortable Parc Saint-Roman apartment, close the shutters and his eyes, and stop thinking about blood and words on walls.

I kill…

He remembered the wall in Yatzimin’s bedroom. If they didn’t stop him, that bastard would never stop. There wouldn’t be enough walls to write on or cemeteries for the dead.

It was not yet time to sleep, even if he could. He still had to clear up the unfinished business with Roby Stricker. He wanted to know how and why Ryan Mosse had got in touch with him, although he could probably guess. He had to know how far the general had got with his investigation and what else the soldiers were planning.

Frank looked around. Just then, the doorman came out of what must have been his apartment, buttoning his jacket. He approached, hurriedly chewing something. Caught in the act of eating his petit déjeuner. He went into the guard box and looked Frank over from behind the glass.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Roby Stricker.’

‘My orders are to say that he’s sleeping.’

Frank pulled out his badge. As he removed it from his jacket, he made sure that the doorman saw the Glock hanging from his belt. ‘This says you can wake him.’

The doorman changed his tune immediately. The saliva he swallowed was harder to get down than that last mouthful of food. He picked up the intercom and punched in the number in a single nervous movement, letting it ring for a long time before pronouncing his verdict.

‘No answer.’

Odd. Stricker couldn’t have slept through those rings. Frank didn’t think he had the balls to skip town. He had scared him badly enough to keep him from doing anything rash. Though if he had taken off, it would be more of a nuisance than a tragedy. If they needed him, that asshole would be very easy to find. Even hidden behind his father’s legal protection.

‘Try again.’

The doorman shrugged.

‘Still no answer.’

Frank had a sudden, terrible premonition. He thrust his hand at the guard.

‘Give me the master key, please.’

‘But I’m not authorized-’

‘I said please. If that’s not enough, I can be less polite.’ Frank’s tone was final. The doorman swallowed nervously. ‘And then go outside and tell the policeman there to come up to Stricker’s apartment.’

The man opened a drawer and gave him a key on a BMW key chain. He shifted his weight as if he were about to get up. ‘Get moving!’ Frank headed towards the lift and pressed the button.

Why aren’t lifts ever there when you need them? And why are they always on the top floor when you’re in a hurry? Damn Murphy and his law…

The door finally slid open and Frank got in, hurriedly pressing the button of Stricker’s floor. In the eternity of that ride, he hoped that he was wrong. He hoped that his sudden suspicion would not become a mocking reality.

When he reached the fifth floor, the lift opened with the same soft whoosh. Frank saw that the door to the playboy’s apartment was ajar. Taking out his Glock, he pushed the barrel against the door to avoid touching the handle.

The hallway was the only thing in order. The living room where he had sat with Stricker and the girl was a complete mess. The curtain of the French door was half torn from the rod and hanging down like a flag at half mast. There was a glass on the floor and the bottle of whisky that Stricker had been drinking from earlier lay shattered on the pearl-grey carpet. The contents had spilled on to the floor, leaving a dark stain. A painting had fallen, revealing a small safe in the wall. The glass had slipped off the table, strangely enough without breaking, and lay on the floor beside the crooked frame. Cushions lay scattered on the floor. There was nobody in the room.

Frank crossed the living room and turned right, down the short hallway that led to the bedroom. On the left, a door opened on to the bathroom. Empty. The room was neat and untouched. He reached the doorway of the bedroom and had to catch his breath.

‘Shit. Shit. Shit. Motherfucking shit,’ he uttered.

Frank stepped forward, careful where he placed his foot. Roby Stricker’s body lay on the marble floor in the centre of the room, in a pool of blood. The entire room seemed covered in it. He was wearing the same shirt he had on when Frank had left, except now it was soaked red and glued to his body. There were a number of stab wounds on his back. His face was heavily bruised and there was a deep cut on his cheek. His mouth was a bloody mess and Frank could see that his left arm, bent at an unusual angle, was broken. Frank leaned over and touched his throat. No pulse. Roby Stricker was dead. Frank jumped up and tears of rage obstructed his vision.

Another one. The same night. Another fucking murder just hours later. He silently damned the world, the day, the night, and his role in the whole thing. Damn Nicolas for involving him. Damn himself for letting him do it. He damned everything he could think of.

He removed the walkie-talkie from his belt, hoping they could pick up his signal. He pressed the button.

‘Frank Ottobre for Nicolas Hulot.’

A crackle, a sputter, and finally the inspector’s voice. ‘Nicolas here. What’s up, Frank?’

‘Now I’m the one who has to give you some bad news, Nick. Really bad.’

‘What the hell happened now?’

‘Roby Stricker’s dead. In his apartment. Murdered.’

Hulot let loose with a string of curses that ordinarily he would seem incapable of pronouncing. Frank knew exactly how he felt. When his anger cooled down, and after a little more crackling, the inspector asked what he wanted to know most.

‘No One?’

‘No, just plain murdered. His face is still there and there’s no writing on the wall.’

‘Describe it.’

‘I’ll tell you what I see at first glance. Death probably wasn’t instantaneous. He was attacked and stabbed. There are signs of a struggle everywhere and blood all over the floor. His murderer thought he was dead and left while he was still alive. It sounds strange, but that poor bastard Roby Stricker accomplished much more as he was dying than he managed to do in his whole life…’

‘Meaning?’

‘Before he died, he wrote the name of his killer on the floor.’

‘Do we know him?’

Frank lowered his voice slightly, as if he wanted to let Hulot digest what he was about to say.

‘I do. If I were you, I would call Durand and have him issue a warrant for the arrest of Ryan Mosse, captain in the US Army.’

The door opened and Morelli entered the small, windowless room and placed a stack of black-and-white photos, still damp from printing, on the grey Formica table where Frank Ottobre and Nicolas Hulot were sitting. Frank leafed through them, chose one, and turned it in the direction of the man in front of him. Leaning forward, he pushed it to the other end of the table.