‘Yes.’
‘Do I have to tell you how strong you’ve got to be to overcome an adult, and then stab them with a weapon?’
‘The trident gives the blow extra power.’
‘Maybe so, but the killer then dragged the victim – and her bike – off into the fields, about ten metres off the road, and there was a ditch to cross and a bank to climb over. You know what it’s like pulling a deadweight along, don’t you? Elisabeth Wind weighed 62 kilos.’
‘Last time I saw this man, he wasn’t young, but he still seemed very strong physically. He really did, Trabelmann. He was over one metre eighty-five, and he gave an impression of vigour and energy.’
‘An “impression” you say, commissaire,’ said Trabelmann, opening the back door for the gendarme, and saluting him briefly in military style. ‘And when might that have been?’
‘Twenty years ago.’
‘Well, you’ve given me a laugh, Adamsberg, I’ll say that for you. Mind if I call you Adamsberg?’
‘Feel free.’
‘We’re going straight to Schiltigheim, bypassing Strasbourg. Pity about the cathedral, but I guess you won’t be bothered about that.’
‘Not today, no.’
‘I’m not bothered about it, full stop. All that old stuff’s not for me. I’ve seen it a million times, mind you, but it’s not my kind of thing.’
‘What is your kind of thing, Trabelmann?’
‘My wife, my kids, my work.’
Simple.
‘And fairy stories. I do like stories.’
Not quite so simple, Adamsberg corrected himself.
‘But stories are old stuff too, aren’t they?’ he said.
‘Yeah, even older than your madman. But keep going.’
‘Can we stop at the mortuary?’
‘You want to get out your tape measure, I suppose. No problem.’
Adamsberg had reached the end of his story by the time they reached the Medico-Legal Institute. When he forgot to stand up straight, as at this moment, he and the commandant were about the same size.
‘What?’ shouted Trabelmann, stopping dead in the middle of the hall. ‘Judge Fulgence? He’s your man? Commissaire, you must be out of your mind.’
‘You’ve got a problem with that?’ asked Adamsberg calmly.
‘For crying out loud, you know who he is, don’t you? Fulgence? This isn’t a fairy story. It’s as if you told me Prince Charming had started spitting fire instead of the dragon!’
‘He’s as handsome as Prince Charming, yes. But it doesn’t stop him spitting fire.’
‘You realise what you’re saying, Adamsberg? There’s been a book written about Fulgence’s cases. It isn’t every judge in France gets a book written about him, is it? Respected, famous, a pillar of the justice system.’
‘Not fond of women or children, though. Not like you, Trabelmann.’
‘I’m not going to compare myself with him. An eminent man like that. Everyone in the profession looked up to him when he was on the bench.’
‘Feared, rather, Trabelmann. He handed down heavy sentences.’
‘Well, justice has to be done.’
‘He had a long arm too. When he was in Nantes, he could strike the fear of God into the assizes at Carcassonne.’
‘Because he had authority, because his views commanded respect. Well. As I said, at least you’ve given me a laugh, Adamsberg.’
A man in a white coat hurried up to them.
‘Please, gentlemen, show some respect.’
‘Morning, Ménard,’ said Trabelmann.
‘My apologies, commandant, I didn’t see it was you.’
‘Let me introduce a colleague from Paris, Commissaire Adamsberg.’
‘I’ve heard the name,’ said Ménard, shaking hands.
‘He’s got a remarkable sense of humour,’ said Trabelmann. ‘Ménard, we need to see the caisson containing Elisabeth Wind.’
Ménard carefully pulled up the mortuary sheet to display the body of the young victim. Adamsberg looked at it without moving for several seconds, then gently lifted the head to examine bruises on the neck. After that, he concentrated on the puncture wounds in the abdomen.
‘As I recall,’ Trabelmann said, ‘the line of wounds runs to about 21 or 22 centimetres.’
Adamsberg shook his head doubtfully, and took a tape measure out of his bag.
‘Can you help me, Trabelmann? I’ve only got one good hand.’
The commandant ran out the tape measure. Adamsberg put one end at the outside edge of the first wound and measured the exact length from there to the outside edge of the third.
‘16.7 centimetres, Trabelmann. I told you, it’s never much more than that.’
‘Matter of pure chance.’
Without replying, Adamsberg used a wooden ruler as a marker and measured the maxium width of the wounds.
‘0.8 centimetres,’ he announced, snapping the tape measure back in its case.
Trabelmann, looking slightly bothered, contented himself with a slight twitch of his head.
‘I suppose you can provide me with a note of the penetrative depth of the wounds, back at the station?’ asked Adamsberg.
‘Yes, I can – along with the awl, and the man who was holding it. And his fingerprints.’
‘But will you at least do me the favour of taking a look at these files?’
‘I’m no less professional than you, commissaire. I don’t leave any lead unexplored. Ha!’
Trabelmann laughed again, for no reason that Adamsberg could detect.
At Schiltigheim gendarmerie, Adamsberg put the bundle of files on the commandant’s desk, while an officer brought him the murder weapon in a sealed plastic bag. The tool was of a standard make and brand new, except for the dried blood on the shaft.
‘If I’m following you rightly,’ said Trabelmann, sitting down at the desk, ‘and that’s a big if, we would need to look for someone buying four of these, not just the one.’
‘Yes, but it would probably be a waste of time. The man in question’ – Adamsberg dared not pronounce the name of Fulgence again – ‘would never make the elementary mistake of walking into a hardware store and buying four identical tools. That would attract attention to him in the most amateur way. That’s why he chooses ordinary cheap makes. He can get them from several different shops, spacing out his purchases.’
‘That’s true, it’s what I’d do too.’
Once back in the office, the commandant’s tough persona was becoming more established and his sense of humour was vanishing. Perhaps it was because he was now sitting behind his desk, in his official surroundings, Adamsberg thought.
‘He might have bought one of these in Strasbourg in September, another in Roubaix in July, and so on,’ he said. ‘We’ve got no chance of following that lead.’
‘That’s that, then,’ said Trabelmann. ‘Well, do you want to see the suspect? Another few hours in here and he’ll be confessing. I’m warning you, when we picked him up, he had the equivalent of about a bottle and a half of whisky inside him.’
‘That’s why he can’t remember anything.’
‘The amnesia is what’s getting you worked up, isn’t it? Well I’ll tell you something, commissaire, it doesn’t surprise me one bit. Because by saying he can’t remember a thing, and pleading temporary insanity, this character’s sure to get ten or fifteen years knocked off the sentence. Worth a try, isn’t it? And everyone knows that. So I believe in your killers and their amnesia about as much as in your Prince Charming turning into a dragon. But go ahead, Adamsberg, take a look at him yourself, if you want to.’
Bernard Vétilleux, a gaunt man in his middle years, with an unhealthily puffy face, lay sprawled across the bed in his cell. He watched without displaying the remotest interest as Adamsberg walked in. This or any other cop, why should he give a shit? Adamsberg asked if he was prepared to answer some questions, and he agreed.