‘Well, it has to be one thing or the other,’ objected Danglard. ‘Either it’s a single weapon or several. The wounds have differences.’
‘It comes to the same thing. What’s so striking about the differences is that they’re tiny, Danglard, absolutely tiny. The space between the perforations, in whatever direction, may vary. But the variation is always small. Look at them again. Whatever the distribution, the maximum length of the line is never more than 16.9 centimetres. That was the case when my brother’s girlfriend, Lise Autan, was killed, and I know the judge used the trident then: 16.9 with a space of 4.7 centimetres between the first wound and the second, and 5 between the second and the third. Look at the other victims. Number 4, Julien Soubise, killed with a knife: 5.4 centimetres and 4.8, in a total length of 10.8 centimetres. Number 8, Jeanne Lessard, murdered with a chisel, 4.5 centimetres and 4.8 centimetres, total length 16.2. The longest totals are when the weapon was a chisel or a long screwdriver, and the shortest with a knife, because the blade is thin. But the total is never greater than 16.9 centimetres. Now how do you explain that, Danglard? Eight different murderers, each killing the victim with three blows, in a straight line never longer than 16.9 centimetres? Since when has there been a mathematical maximum limit for stabbing someone in the stomach?’
Danglard frowned, without speaking.
‘As for the other type of variation,’ Adamsberg went on, ‘the width of the tines, that’s even smaller, never more than 4 millimetres, even when the weapon was a knife, and less if it was some kind of pointed tool. The widest perforation is 0.9 centimetres. Not more, never any more. That was the width of each wound in the case of Lise. How do you explain that? By the use of a ruler? By some sort of agreement among killers? These suspects were all roaring drunk, what’s more, so wouldn’t you think their hands would be unsteady? And they suffered from amnesia. And all of them were confused. Yet not one of them contrived to stab outside a thin rectangle 16.9 centimetres by 0.9 centimetres. Is that some kind of miracle, Danglard?’
Danglard reflected quickly, and conceded that the commissaire’s argument was persuasive. But he still couldn’t see how all the murders were perpetrated with a single weapon.
‘Well, look,’ said Adamsberg doing a rapid sketch. ‘Take a three-pronged agricultural fork. Here’s the handle, here’s the reinforced crossbar and here are the three prongs. The handle and the crossbar stay the same, but the prongs change. Do you get it, Danglard? The prongs were changed. But of course they couldn’t exceed the extent of the crossbar, 16.9 centimetres long, and the perforations 0.9 centimetres across in this case.’
‘You mean to say that our man takes off the metal prongs every time, and solders some other blades on?’
‘Yes, you’ve got it, capitaine. He can’t change the original implement. He’s neurotically attached to it, as serial killers often are, and that attachment is the clearest proof that we’re dealing with a psychopath. The weapon has to be the same one, for him that’s an absolute necessity. The handle and the crossbar are the soul and spirit of the weapon. But to evade detection, the judge modifies the prongs every time, by fixing on blades from knives or screwdrivers or whatever.’
‘That’s not so easy, to solder blades.’
‘Yes it is, Danglard, it’s quite simple. And even if the solder isn’t all that firm, the weapon is only going to be used once. To penetrate vertically, not to dig the earth.’
‘Well, in that case, if you’re right, the murderer would have to get hold of four knives or something similar for every killing: three to take off the points and attach them to the trident, and one to put in the hands of the poor sod who’s going to take the rap.’
‘Exactly. And that isn’t so complicated either. That’s why in virtually every case, the weapon found on the spot was an ordinary everyday one, and above all brand new. A brand new implement, belonging to a tramp, is that likely?’
Danglard rubbed his chin reflectively.
‘He didn’t do it that way for your brother’s girlfriend, did he? According to you, he stabbed her with the fork, then pushed the screwdriver into the wounds.’
‘Same thing for case number 4, where the scapegoat was another teenager, also in a small village. Probably the judge thought that finding a brand new weapon in the possession of a youngster might seem suspicious, and the trick would be discovered. So he chose an old screwdriver, longer than the prongs on the trident, and mutilated the wounds with that.’
‘I suppose that makes sense,’ Danglard said.
‘It makes sense, because it fits together like a jigsaw. Same man, same implement. Because I checked, Danglard. When the judge moved out, I went and searched the Manor. Most of the garden tools were still in the barn, but not the fork. He’d taken his precious instrument with him.’
‘But if all this is so obvious, why on earth wasn’t he found out before this? You said you were after him for fourteen years?’
‘For four reasons, Danglard. First of all, forgive me, but everyone reasoned exactly the same way you’re doing, and stopped right there. The weapons were different and so were the wounds, so there was no connection between these murders. Secondly, the geographical regions of each inquiry were quite far from each other, and as you know, communication between different police forces isn’t all it might be. And next, because every time, there was an ideal suspect ready on hand, with the evidence sitting right beside him. Finally, don’t forget that the judge was powerful and virtually untouchable.’
‘OK, but when you put this dossier together, why weren’t you listened to?’
Adamsberg gave a wry smile.
‘Because I had zero credibility. Every magistrate on these cases knew I had a personal axe to grind, and they thought my accusations were obsessive and subjective. They all thought that I would have dreamed up any scenario to clear Raphaël’s name. And you think that too, don’t you, Danglard? And what was more, my whole hypothesis implicated this powerful man. I was never allowed to get anywhere. “Adamsberg, just get it into your head that it was your brother that killed that girl. His disappearance proves it, if nothing else.” Then I would be threatened with a libel suit.’
‘Right, so you were blocked,’ Danglard summed up.
‘What about you, capitaine, are you convinced? Do you understand that the judge had already killed five other victims before he attacked Lise, and two more afterwards. Eight murders, stretching over some thirty-four years. He’s no ordinary serial killer, he has a cold-blooded, meticulous plan, stretching over an entire lifetime, measured, programmed, scheduled. I found out about the first five crimes by searching the police records, and I may have missed something. As for the next two after Lise, by then I was following the judge’s movements and watching the press. Fulgence knew I would never give up, so I forced him to keep moving. But he kept slipping through my fingers. And you must see, Danglard, that it’s not over. Fulgence has risen from the grave to kill a ninth victim in Schiltigheim. It’s his signature, I know it. Three blows in a straight line. I’ll have to go there myself to check the measurements, but you’ll see, Danglard, the line won’t be longer than 16.9 centimetres. The weapon was brand new. The suspect is some poor old wino, a vagrant, and he can’t remember a thing. It’s all there.’
‘All the same,’ said Danglard, pulling a face, ‘if you include Schiltigheim in the sequence, that gives us a series of murders spread over what? Fifty-four years? I’d say that was unprecedented in the annals of crime.’