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Authors: Donato Carrisi
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had got here. Seven years had passed since the first disfigured corpse in Memphis. That had been followed by Buenos Aires, Toronto and Panama. Then Europe: Turin, Vienna, Budapest. And finally, Paris.
These at least were the cases he had managed to identify. There might have been many more, which would never be discovered. These murders had taken place in such widely flung places and at such long intervals that nobody, apart from him, had linked them to a single perpetrator.
His prey was also a predator.
At first the hunter had assumed he was dealing with a ‘pilgrim’: a serial killer who travelled in order to conceal his crimes. If that were the case, he would only have needed to locate his base. Clearly, he was dealing with a Westerner, someone who lived in a large city. Pilgrims were socially integrated individuals, with families, children and enough money to afford frequent travel. They were clever, cautious, able to camouflage their movements as business trips.
But then he had noticed something about that chain of crimes, something that had escaped him at first but now threw a new light on everything.
The age of the victims was increasing.
That was when he had realised that the criminal mind he was dealing with was much more complex and terrifying than he had thought.
He was not killing and then leaving. He was killing and then staying.
That was why, here in Paris, this could finally be it, or it could turn out to be yet another failure.
After a couple of hours, a response had arrived from the government files. The faceless corpse found in Bagnolet had a criminal record.
He was not a drug dealer, but a normal man who had committed a youthful sin: at the age of sixteen he had stolen a model car, a Bugatti, from a shop for collectors. At that time, the police even took the fingerprints of minors. The charge had been withdrawn and the case had been closed, but although his file had been deleted from police records it had ended up in the archives of a government body that was carrying out a statistical investigation at the time into crimes committed by adolescents.
This time, his prey had made a mistake. The corpse without a face now had a name.
Jean Duez.
After this, it had been easy to discover the rest. Jean Duez was thirty-three years old and unmarried. He had lost both his parents in a road accident, and had no close relatives except for an elderly aunt in Avignon who suffered from Alzheimer’s. He had set up a small business on the internet, working from home, selling model cars to collectors. Human relationships reduced to the minimum, no companion in his life, no friends. A passion for miniature racing cars.
Jean Duez was perfect. Nobody would notice his absence. Nobody would bother to look for him.
The hunter assumed that the previous victims had had similar profiles. Nondescript people, with no distinguishing features. Jobs that required no special gifts or abilities. A solitary life verging on the misanthropic, with no acquaintances and few human contacts. No close relatives, no family.
The hunter was impressed with his prey’s cleverness. He might be committing the sin of pride, but he was pleased when the challenge was of such a high level.
He looked at his watch: it was almost seven. Regulars were starting to come into the bistro, having made reservations for early dinner. He signalled to a waitress that he wanted to pay. A boy was walking between the tables, selling the latest edition of the eveningnewspaper. The hunter bought one, although he knew that the news of the discovery of Jean Duez’s body would not appear until the next day, which was why he still had an advantage over his prey. He was excited, the wait was finally over. The best part of the chase was about to begin. He only needed one thing to confirm it. That was why he was here, sitting in this bistro.
Again the breeze blew along the street, carrying with it a cloud of coloured pollen from the florist’s stall on the
These at least were the cases he had managed to identify. There might have been many more, which would never be discovered. These murders had taken place in such widely flung places and at such long intervals that nobody, apart from him, had linked them to a single perpetrator.
His prey was also a predator.
At first the hunter had assumed he was dealing with a ‘pilgrim’: a serial killer who travelled in order to conceal his crimes. If that were the case, he would only have needed to locate his base. Clearly, he was dealing with a Westerner, someone who lived in a large city. Pilgrims were socially integrated individuals, with families, children and enough money to afford frequent travel. They were clever, cautious, able to camouflage their movements as business trips.
But then he had noticed something about that chain of crimes, something that had escaped him at first but now threw a new light on everything.
The age of the victims was increasing.
That was when he had realised that the criminal mind he was dealing with was much more complex and terrifying than he had thought.
He was not killing and then leaving. He was killing and then staying.
That was why, here in Paris, this could finally be it, or it could turn out to be yet another failure.
After a couple of hours, a response had arrived from the government files. The faceless corpse found in Bagnolet had a criminal record.
He was not a drug dealer, but a normal man who had committed a youthful sin: at the age of sixteen he had stolen a model car, a Bugatti, from a shop for collectors. At that time, the police even took the fingerprints of minors. The charge had been withdrawn and the case had been closed, but although his file had been deleted from police records it had ended up in the archives of a government body that was carrying out a statistical investigation at the time into crimes committed by adolescents.
This time, his prey had made a mistake. The corpse without a face now had a name.
Jean Duez.
After this, it had been easy to discover the rest. Jean Duez was thirty-three years old and unmarried. He had lost both his parents in a road accident, and had no close relatives except for an elderly aunt in Avignon who suffered from Alzheimer’s. He had set up a small business on the internet, working from home, selling model cars to collectors. Human relationships reduced to the minimum, no companion in his life, no friends. A passion for miniature racing cars.
Jean Duez was perfect. Nobody would notice his absence. Nobody would bother to look for him.
The hunter assumed that the previous victims had had similar profiles. Nondescript people, with no distinguishing features. Jobs that required no special gifts or abilities. A solitary life verging on the misanthropic, with no acquaintances and few human contacts. No close relatives, no family.
The hunter was impressed with his prey’s cleverness. He might be committing the sin of pride, but he was pleased when the challenge was of such a high level.
He looked at his watch: it was almost seven. Regulars were starting to come into the bistro, having made reservations for early dinner. He signalled to a waitress that he wanted to pay. A boy was walking between the tables, selling the latest edition of the eveningnewspaper. The hunter bought one, although he knew that the news of the discovery of Jean Duez’s body would not appear until the next day, which was why he still had an advantage over his prey. He was excited, the wait was finally over. The best part of the chase was about to begin. He only needed one thing to confirm it. That was why he was here, sitting in this bistro.
Again the breeze blew along the street, carrying with it a cloud of coloured pollen from the florist’s stall on the
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