"I hope not," Paul replied. "Just remember, there's only one serving officer around here. And I'm not a kid."
Schiffer clicked his heels together to mimic standing at attention. Paul did not even grin. He opened the car door, got in and pulled off at once. Trying to swallow his apprehensions.
The Cipher said nothing during the journey. He was absorbed in the photocopy of the file. Paul knew it by heart. He could recite everything that was known about the bodies, which he had now baptized his "Corpuses."
When they had reached the outskirts of Paris, Schiffer asked, "Searching the scenes of the crimes didn't turn up anything?"
"No."
"Forensics didn't find a single dab, a single trace?"
"Not one."
"Not on the bodies either?"
"Especially not on the bodies. Forensics thinks the killer cleans them with industrial detergent. He disinfects the wounds, washes their hair and cleans under their nails."
"And what about your neighborhood inquiries?"
"I've already told you. I've questioned workers, shopkeepers, whores and the garbage collectors near the scene. I've even spoken to tramps. No one's seen anything."
"What do you reckon?"
"I think the killer goes around in a car and dumps the bodies as soon as he can, at dawn. A lightning raid."
Schiffer flicked through the pages. He stopped at the photos of the corpses. "What do you reckon about the faces?"
Paul took a deep breath. He had thought about those mutilations for nights on end. "There are several possibilities. Firstly, the killer might just be trying to throw us off the track. The women knew him, and if we identify them, then we could get to him."
"Why not mess up their teeth and fingers, then?"
"Because they're illegal immigrants and not on any records."
The Cipher accepted this point with a nod of his head. "And secondly?"
"A more… psychological motive. I've read a few books on the subject. According to the specialists, when a murderer destroys the means of identification, it's because he knows his victims and can't stand the way they look at him. So he takes away their status as a human being. He keeps them at a distance by reducing them to mere objects."
Schiffer leafed through the papers again. "I'm not much of a one for the trick-cyclists. And next?"
"The murderer has a thing about faces in general. Something in the faces of these redheads scares him, brings back a trauma. He has to kill them but also disfigure them. I reckon these women looked alike. It's their faces that spark off the attack."
"That sounds even more iffy"
"You haven't seen the bodies," Paul replied, raising his voice slightly. "This is a real sicko. A pure psycho. So we've got to think as crazy as he does."
"And what's this here?"
He had just opened a final envelope, which contained photographs of antique sculptures. Heads, masks and busts. Paul had cut them out of museum catalogues, tourist guides and magazines such as Archaeologia and the Bulletin du Louvre.
"It's an idea I had." he replied. "I noticed that the cuts look like cracks, notches, marks in stone. Then there's the fact that the noses and lips have been sliced off and the bones filed down, as though worn by time. I wondered if the killer might be inspired by old statues."
"Come off it."
Paul felt himself blush. His idea was a little far-fetched, and despite all his research he had never managed to find a single detail that was in any way reminiscent of the wounds of the Corpuses. Nevertheless, he blurted out: "For the killer, these women are maybe goddesses, to be hated but also respected. I'm sure he's Turkish and up to his eyes in Mediterranean mythology."
"You've got too much imagination."
"Haven't you ever followed your intuition?"
"I've never followed anything else. Just take my word for it. All this psycho stuff is off the point. What we have to do is concentrate on the technical problems he has."
Paul was not sure if he understood correctly.
Schiffer went on: "We have to think through his modus operandi. If you're right, and these women really are illegal immigrants, then they're Muslims. And not Muslims from Istanbul in high heels. They're peas ants, timid souls who keep themselves to themselves and can't speak a word of French. To catch them, you need to know them. And speak Turkish. Our man maybe runs a sweatshop. Or else is a shopkeeper. Then there's the question of timing. These working girls live underground, in cellars and hidden workshops. The killer must grab them when they resurface. When? How? Why do they agree to go with him? It's by answering questions like those that we'll identify him."
Paul agreed. But such questions merely revealed the depth of their ignorance. Quite literally, anything was possible.
Schiffer took a different tack: "I suppose you've checked out any other similar homicides."
"I've looked at the new Chardon archives. And also Anacrime, the gendarmerie's records. I've quizzed everyone in the squad. There's never been anything this weird before in France. I also checked out the Turkish community in Germany. Nothing doing there, either."
"And in Turkey itself?"
"Zero there, too."
Schiffer changed subjects. He wanted a full situation report. "Have patrols been increased in the area?"
"We made an agreement with Monestier, the commissioner at Louis-Blanc. There's an increased police presence, but a discreet one. We don't want to panic everyone."
Schiffer burst out laughing. "Don't be daft. All the Turks know what's happening."
Paul paid no attention.
"In any case, up till now, we've avoided any media attention. That's the only guarantee I have if I want to go it solo. If word leaks out, then Bomarzo will put other people on the case. Right now, it's just a business with Turks, so no one gives a damn. I've got a free hand."
"Why isn't the Brigade Criminelle on a case like this?"
"That's where I used to be. And I still have contacts there. Bomarzo trusts me."
And you haven't asked for more men?"
"No."
"You haven't set up a team?"
"No."
The Cipher could not help smirking. "You want him just for yourself, don't you?"
Paul did not reply.
Schiffer brushed some fluff from his trousers. "Never mind what you want. Never mind what I want either. We'll nail him. I promise you that."
11
On the bypass. Paul drove west, toward Porte & Auteuil.
"Aren't we going to La Rapée?" Schiffer asked, surprised.
"The body's in Garches. At Raymond-Poincaré Hospital. There's a forensics unit there that does autopsies for the courts in Versailles."
“I know. Why there?"
"For reasons of discretion. To avoid the hacks and amateur profilers that are always prowling round the Paris morgue."
Apparently Schiffer was no longer listening. He was observing the traffic in fascination. Occasionally, he would half close his eyes. As though getting used to the light. He looked like a con on conditional release.
Half an hour later, Paul crossed the Suresnes bridge and drove up Boulevard Sellier, then Boulevard de la République. He then went through the town of Saint-Cloud before reaching the outskirts of Garches.
The hospital finally appeared at the top of the hill. Fifteen acres of buildings, surgical theaters and white rooms. It was like a town, inhabited by doctors, nurses and thousands of patients, most of them victims of car accidents.
Paul drove toward the Vésale Unit. The sun was high and sparkled off the fronts of the brick buildings. Each wall offered a fresh tone of red, pink or cream, as though it had been carefully baked in an oven.
As they went on, they passed groups of visitors carrying flowers or cakes. Everyone walked with stiff, almost mechanical seriousness, as though contaminated by the surrounding rigor mortis.
They had now reached the inner courtyard of the unit. The gray-and pink building, with its porch supported by thin columns, looked like a sanatorium, or a spa concealing mysterious curative powers.