"What sectors use this kind of technology?"
"No idea. You'll have to find out. That's your job. And don't forget, I'm not sure about all this. These bubbles might have a completely different explanation. But if so, I don't know what it is."
Schiffer said. "And there's nothing about the three bodies that gives us any physical information about our man?"
"Nothing. He washes them down carefully. Anyway. I'm sure he wears gloves when he's at work. He doesn't have sex with them. He doesn't caress them. That's not his thing. Not at all. He's more clinical. Robotic, even. This killer is… inhuman."
"Does the madness increase with each murder?"
"No. Each time, the tortures are carried out with the same rigor. He's an evil obsessive, but he never loses his cool." He smiled wearily "He's an orderly killer, as the textbooks put it."
"What do you reckon turns him on?"
"Suffering. Pure suffering. He tortures them diligently, obsessively until they die. It's their pain that excites him. that he feeds off. Deep down, he has a visceral hatred of women. Of their bodies, and their faces."
Schiffer turned toward Paul and sneered. "Looks like I'm up to my ears with trick-cyclists today."
Scarbon flushed. "Forensic science always involves psychology. The acts of violence we examine are just the symptoms of diseased minds…"
The officer nodded but continued to smile. He picked up the wad of typed pages that had been placed on one of the slabs. "Thanks, Doctor."
He headed for the door that stood out beneath the three bays of light. When he opened it, a violent burst of sunlight shot into the room, like a flood of milk across the blue sea.
Paul grabbed another copy of the autopsy report. "Can I take this one?" The doctor stared at him silently, then said, "Do your superiors know about Schiffer?"
Paul grinned back. "Don't worry Everything's under control.”
“It's you I'm worried about. He's a monster."
Paul shivered. The scientist went on. "He killed Gazil Hemet."
The name brought back memories. October 2000. The Turk crushed by the Brussels express, Schiffer accused of murder. Then April 2001. The charges were mysteriously dropped. lie replied in a frozen voice: "The body was flattened. The autopsy didn't prove a thing."
"It was me who gave the second opinion. The face bore terrible wounds. An eye had been torn out. The temples had been drilled open." He pointed at the sheet. "It was just as bad as her."
Paul felt his legs go weak. He could not admit such a suspicion about the man he was now working with. "The report just mentioned some lesions and-"
"They suppressed my other findings. They covered for him.”
“Who do you mean by 'they'?"
"They were scared. All of them were scared."
Paul stepped back into the whiteness outside.
Claude Scarhon inflated then removed his elastic gloves. "You've teamed up with the devil."
13
"They call it the Iskele. Pronounced is-kay-lay.”
"What?"
"You could translate it as 'jetty' or 'departure dock.' “
“What are you talking about?"
Paul had joined Schiffer in the car but had not yet driven off. They were still in the courtyard of the Vasale Unit, in the shadow of its slender pillars.
The Cipher went on. "It's the main mafia organization behind getting illegal Turkish immigrants into Europe. They also help get them work and accommodations. They try to organize it so that there are groups from the same region in each workshop. Some sweatshops in Paris contain the entire population of a village in the backwaters of Anatolia."
Schiffer came to a halt, tapped his fingers on the glove compartment, then continued: "The price varies. The rich take the plane and bribe customs guards. They arrive in France with a fake work permit or false passport. The poor go in cargoes via Greece, or in trucks via Bulgaria. Whichever way you have to pay at least two hundred thousand francs. The family in the village chip in and get together about a third of that amount. The worker then slaves away for ten years to pay off the rest."
Paul observed Schiffer's clear profile against the brightness of the window. He had been told dozens of times about these networks, but it was the first time he had been given so many details.
The silver-headed cop gave him more: "You have no idea how well organized they are. They keep records. Everything is written down: each immigrant's name, origin, workshop and outstanding debt. They communicate via e-mail with their opposite numbers in Turkey who keep up the pressure on the families. Meanwhile, they deal with everything in Paris. They look after sending money orders or giving phone calls at lower prices. They replace the post office, the banks and the embassy. You want to send a toy to one of your kids? You ask the Iskele. You need a gynecologist? The Iskele provides you with the name of a quack who's not too bothered about your legal status in France. You've got a problem with your workshop? The Iskele will sort it out. Nothing happens in the Turkish quarter without their knowing about it and putting it in their records."
Paul at last realized where the Cipher was heading.
"You think they know about the murders?"
"If those girls really were illegal immigrants, their bosses will have contacted the Iskele first. One, to find out what happened. Two, to get replacements. More than anything, murdered girls mean wasted money."
A hope began to form in Paul's mind. "You… you think they could identify the girls?"
"Each file contains a photograph of the immigrant. Their Paris address. And their employer's name and address."
Paul hazarded another question, but he already knew the answer. "And you know these people?"
"The head of the Iskele in Paris is called Marek Cesiuz. But everyone calls him Marius. He has a concert hall on Boulevard de Strasbourg. I was present when one of his sons was born." He winked at him. "Are you starting this car. or what?"
Paul stared at Jean-Louis Schiffer for a moment. You've teamed up with the devil. Maybe Scarbon was right. But for the kind of game he was after, what better partner could he hope for?
PART III
14
On Monday morning, Anna Heymes discreetly left her flat and took a cab to the Left Bank. As far as she recalled, there were several medical bookshops grouped together around the Odéon crossroads.
In one of them, she browsed through various studies of psychology and neurosurgery in search of information about biopsies performed on the brain. The expression Ackermann had used still echoed in her mind: stereotaxic biopsy. She soon found some photographs and a description of the technique.
She saw the patients' heads, shaved, inserted in a square casing. A sort of metal cube that was screwed onto their temples. The frame was topped by a trepan-like a drill.
She followed the illustrations of each step of the operation: the bit piercing the bone, the scalpel entering the opening and in turn penetrating the dura mater that encircled the brain, the hollow-headed needle going inside the cerebrum. In one of the photographs, the pinkish color of the organ could even be seen while the surgeon was extracting the probe.
Anything but that.
Anna had made a resolution. She had to get a second opinion, find another specialist, and quickly, who would suggest a different treatment.
She rushed into a café on Boulevard Saint-Germain, ran downstairs to the phone and thumbed through the directory. After several fruitless requests to absent or overbooked doctors, she finally came across a certain Mathilde Wilcrau, a psychiatrist and psychoanalyst, who was apparently available.
The woman's voice was deep, but her tone was light, almost mischievous. Anna briefly mentioned her memory problems and insisted on how urgent the situation was. The psychiatrist agreed to see her at once. Near the Panthéon, just five minutes away from Odéon.