tired.”
Tuesday, April 8
1
On the
métro
he read the papers, and his fears – or, as with any hypochondriac, his diagnosis – were confirmed. The media had already made the link with the Tremblay murder. The speed with which the story had reached the papers was as astounding as perhaps it was inevitable. Stringers were hired to coax information from local police stations and it was common knowledge that many officers leaked stories to particular papers. Even so, Camille took a moment to try and work out the route the story would have taken since mid-afternoon the day before, but soon realised it was hopeless. The facts were as they were. The papers had revealed that the police had linked the Courbevoie killings, about which they had few details, with the Tremblay murder, on which, by contrast, they all had thick files. The headlines crackled with lurid sensationalism, the subs had clearly had fun: “the wreath of severed fingers”, “the tremblay butcher strikes in courbevoie”, or “tremblay terror linked to courbevoie carnage.”
He stepped into the mortuary and headed for the viewing suite.
*
Maleval, with his occasionally inventive bluntness, considered that the world was divided into two categories: cowboys and Indians, a somewhat simplistic version of the distinction people made between introverts and extroverts. Camille and Doctor Nguyên were both Indians: silent, patient, sharp-eyed and attentive. They were men of few words, and could make themselves understood with a simple glance.
Perhaps the Vietnamese refugee and the pocket-sized policeman shared a solidarity born of adversity.
Évelyne Rouvray’s mother looked like a yokel just up from the country. She was wearing a curious get-up which was not quite her size. To Camille, she seemed smaller now, and older. Grief, probably. She stank of alcohol.
“This won’t take long,” Camille said.
They stepped into the viewing room. On the table, covered by a white sheet, lay something that now vaguely resembled a human body. Camille helped the woman shuffle towards the table and nodded to the man in the white coat to carefully pull back the sheet to expose the face but not the neck, beyond which there was nothing to see.
The woman stared blankly, her face expressionless. The head lying on the table looked like a theatre prop with death coiled inside it. The head did not look like anything or anyone, but the woman said “yes”, a simple, bewildered “yes”. And she had to be caught before she collapsed.
2
There was a man waiting in the corridor.
Like everybody else, Camille tended to judge men against his own height. To him, the man did not seem particularly tall – five foot six, perhaps. What immediately struck him were his eyes. He was about fifty, the sort of person who looks after himself, keeps himself in shape and runs twenty-five kilometres on Sundays rain or shine. A perceptive man. Well dressed, but not ostentatious. In his hands he held a pale leather folder; he was waiting patiently.
“Dr Édouard Crest,” he announced, proffering his hand. “I’ve been appointed by Juge Deschamps.”
“Thanks for coming so quickly,” Camille said, shaking the man’s hand. “I requested you because we need someone to draw up a psychological profile of these guys, of what motivates them … I’ve run off copies of the preliminary reports.” Camille handed the doctor a folder and watched closely as he leafed through the first pages. “Handsome man,” Camille thought, and immediately, inexplicably, he thought of Irène. He felt a fleeting wave of jealousy which he quickly dismissed.
“Timeline?” he asked.
“I’ll let you know after the autopsy,” Crest said. “It will depend on the evidence I can pull together.”
3
At a glance, Camille knew that what was to come would be grotesque. Having to confront the horror of what had been done to Évelyne Rouvray’s head was one thing, but performing an autopsy that resembled a ghoulish
Tuesday, April 8
1
On the
métro
he read the papers, and his fears – or, as with any hypochondriac, his diagnosis – were confirmed. The media had already made the link with the Tremblay murder. The speed with which the story had reached the papers was as astounding as perhaps it was inevitable. Stringers were hired to coax information from local police stations and it was common knowledge that many officers leaked stories to particular papers. Even so, Camille took a moment to try and work out the route the story would have taken since mid-afternoon the day before, but soon realised it was hopeless. The facts were as they were. The papers had revealed that the police had linked the Courbevoie killings, about which they had few details, with the Tremblay murder, on which, by contrast, they all had thick files. The headlines crackled with lurid sensationalism, the subs had clearly had fun: “the wreath of severed fingers”, “the tremblay butcher strikes in courbevoie”, or “tremblay terror linked to courbevoie carnage.”
He stepped into the mortuary and headed for the viewing suite.
*
Maleval, with his occasionally inventive bluntness, considered that the world was divided into two categories: cowboys and Indians, a somewhat simplistic version of the distinction people made between introverts and extroverts. Camille and Doctor Nguyên were both Indians: silent, patient, sharp-eyed and attentive. They were men of few words, and could make themselves understood with a simple glance.
Perhaps the Vietnamese refugee and the pocket-sized policeman shared a solidarity born of adversity.
Évelyne Rouvray’s mother looked like a yokel just up from the country. She was wearing a curious get-up which was not quite her size. To Camille, she seemed smaller now, and older. Grief, probably. She stank of alcohol.
“This won’t take long,” Camille said.
They stepped into the viewing room. On the table, covered by a white sheet, lay something that now vaguely resembled a human body. Camille helped the woman shuffle towards the table and nodded to the man in the white coat to carefully pull back the sheet to expose the face but not the neck, beyond which there was nothing to see.
The woman stared blankly, her face expressionless. The head lying on the table looked like a theatre prop with death coiled inside it. The head did not look like anything or anyone, but the woman said “yes”, a simple, bewildered “yes”. And she had to be caught before she collapsed.
2
There was a man waiting in the corridor.
Like everybody else, Camille tended to judge men against his own height. To him, the man did not seem particularly tall – five foot six, perhaps. What immediately struck him were his eyes. He was about fifty, the sort of person who looks after himself, keeps himself in shape and runs twenty-five kilometres on Sundays rain or shine. A perceptive man. Well dressed, but not ostentatious. In his hands he held a pale leather folder; he was waiting patiently.
“Dr Édouard Crest,” he announced, proffering his hand. “I’ve been appointed by Juge Deschamps.”
“Thanks for coming so quickly,” Camille said, shaking the man’s hand. “I requested you because we need someone to draw up a psychological profile of these guys, of what motivates them … I’ve run off copies of the preliminary reports.” Camille handed the doctor a folder and watched closely as he leafed through the first pages. “Handsome man,” Camille thought, and immediately, inexplicably, he thought of Irène. He felt a fleeting wave of jealousy which he quickly dismissed.
“Timeline?” he asked.
“I’ll let you know after the autopsy,” Crest said. “It will depend on the evidence I can pull together.”
3
At a glance, Camille knew that what was to come would be grotesque. Having to confront the horror of what had been done to Évelyne Rouvray’s head was one thing, but performing an autopsy that resembled a ghoulish
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