Murder in the Bastille

Rene suppressed a groan. He pulled the laptop from his bag, averted his eyes from the screen, and did some work.

Finally, Leaud finished and the group of students surrounding him dispersed. Rene stood and smiled at him. Serge returned the smile, motioning toward a side chamber with a lowered ceiling and even more lighted displays. More intimate and quiet.

“Riveting stuff, Serge.”

Serge nodded. “It’s a little-known killer. In the morgue, we’ve seen only three incidents of this in the past thirty-five years. But last month, an ulcer reached a woman’s varicose vein.” He snapped his fingers. “Bled out like that.”

“Fascinating, Serge, but I’m short on time. Did Aimee tell you . . .”

“You didn’t hear this from me,” Serge interrupted, looking around and lowering his voice. “If you repeat it, I’ll deny every word.”

“Deny what?”

“The Dolet autopsy findings,” he said. “I assisted. Saw most of the preliminary examination. But the final pathology reports take time. All the other Beast of Bastille victims’ autopsy findings, according to the attached police report, were consistent. Only Dolet’s evidenced nothing of a sexual nature. But then, maybe he was interrupted.”

Serge moved toward a window facing a display of syphilitic noses and leprous, misshapen ears. Rene winced but followed, as Serge tamped the end of a nonfiltered Gauloise and lit up.

“That can kill you,” said Rene.

“So my wife tells me,” Serge said. He glanced at his wrist, a red Mickey Mouse watch with a EuroDisney strap on it. “A birthday present from my twins,” he said, in explanation.

“We know the victims ranged from twentysomething to fortysomething blondes living in the Bastille. Party types,” said Rene. “Vaduz waited in the passages they lived in or walked through, slipped in the door behind them, and attacked.”

Serge nodded. “Not the most innovative or original serial killer. Boring but consistent. He did it every time. The DNA was monumental.”

“So what distinguished Josiane Dolet from the Beast of Bastille’s victims? That’s what I need to know,” said Rene. “What made her different from the others, the serial victims.”

Serge buttoned his pea-coat, lifted his briefcase. “According to the Prefet, we don’t have serial killers in France. That’s an American phenomenon.”

“What do you call Polin and his predilection for slicing up old ladies in Montmartre?” asked Rene.

Serge grinned. “We called him an old lady killer.”

“So how did Vaduz get released?”

“Technicality. Verges, his lawyer, knows the game. And how to play it after a flic makes a procedural error. This Verges, known as a big civil liberties crusader, moves in the lofty Lefty circles.”

Rene remembered what Aimee had asked. “Were the autopsy details released to the public?”

Serge shook his head, puffing away. “Never. That’s why it was so hard to nail him. The flics didn’t enlist the public’s help until the last murder. The one before Dolet’s, that is. It was only then the newspapers put it together, labeling him the Beast of Bastille, saying he killed women in the passages. The next day they found him. But no thanks to whoever routed the file to the wrong arrondissement.”

“Like Aimee says, Napoleon’s centralization of the military, police, and administration decentralized their power. But it bolstered his. They couldn’t overthrow him,” said Rene. “And still couldn’t today.”

“We let Waterloo and the Russian winter do that,” Serge said.

“When did Vaduz die in the car crash?” Rene asked, as Serge edged toward the door.

“He’s dead, what does it matter?”

“That’s just it,” Rene said, wishing Serge would slow down. His hip hurt again. “If Vaduz stole the car and died before Aimee and Dolet were attacked, it’s proof he couldn’t have attacked them. Even if he died later, but before Aimee was attacked in the residence, we’d know there was another culprit.”

Rene had followed Serge out under the colonnades, glad to escape the musty musee and its contents.

“She didn’t tell me about that.” He shrugged. “I asked around. The dossier’s been moved. Seems they found Vaduz like steak tartare, mostly raw and scattered, his edges burnt when the engine caught fire. They cremated whatever bits were left.”

Rene winced.

“Serge, you have to find out,” he said.

How did they do it on those TV shows? They always had some clever way to obtain information. All he could think of was mundane.

“Can’t you find out what time they delivered Vaduz to the morgue? Someone must have logged it.”

He was guessing but in a bureaucratic system one needed a signed, stamped certificate for everything, and even more so in the police.

A breeze laced with damp leaves from nearby Canal Saint Martin wafted under the stone arches to them.

“I want to help, Rene, but I’m late for the lab,” Serge said. “Alors, tonight’s our wedding anniversary, my mother-in-law’s coming to babysit. If I’m late they’ll both shoot me.”

Rene racked his brain. What could he do?

“Look, Serge, when you leave the morgue can’t you go out the back?” Rene said. “Through the gate used by the vans and ambulances. On your way, have a brief chat with the drivers, the men who unload bodies. Say you’re just wondering about something and check their log. It will only take a minute, then you’re on your way home. I’ll meet you outside.”

“How bad is Aimee?”

She must not have told him.

“She’s blind, Serge.”

Rene saw anger in Serge’s eyes.

“See you at five.”

RENE STOPPED at Leduc Detective to check the mail and messages. He needed to get some work done, rack up some billable hours, and honor their security contracts. Someone had to keep their income coming in. And he worried, as he had since Aimee’s attack, about how they could make things work now. Or if they could.

As he hung up his jacket, the phone rang.

“Monsieur Rene Friant?”

“Speaking.”

“I saw him again,” said a hesitant man’s voice.

Rene took a breath. “Who did you see?”

“Draz, only he’s not called Draz. These Eastern European names confuse me. He’s called Dragos.”

Now Rene recognized the voice of Yann Remouze, the flutemaker who lived in the square overlooking Gymnase Japy. And Dragos was the name the architect Brault had mentioned, too.

“So tell me more, Yann.”

“You gave me your business card but I didn’t want to call you too early. They had one of those loud techno parties in the abandoned building.”

“Who’s they, Yann?”

“Those East Europeans.”

Rene stopped unbuttoning his coat.

“At dawn they milled around in the square,” said Yann. “This Dragos, they were calling him. He was surrounded by his comrades. Some fight broke out around the block, the flics car pulled up, then they all disappeared.”

So Yann had called to tell him of a missed opportunity. Late again. Rene figured getting any information about Josiane from the Romanian mecs who evicted people had to be a long shot anyway.