The First Fingerprint (39 page)

“I couldn't.”

“And may I ask why?”

“A whole series of reasons … I was arrested soon after the murder. At the time, I didn't know about the hands. I realized when the gendarmes showed me one.”

“So why didn't you explain everything?”

“I did tell the gendarmes, but they wouldn't listen to me. Do you know what it's like being held in custody, Judge?”

“YES I DO,” Barbieri yelled. “And you should know that, in the eyes of the law, you're at the very least an accomplice, if not guilty of aiding and abetting a murderer.”

Discreetly, de Palma gave the judge a slight tap on the shoulder, then sat down beside the psychiatrist.

“François, you're not being very coherent, as I'm sure you realize. And this incoherence is making things even worse for you. So pull
yourself together! Let go of the fear that's paralyzing you and crushing your guts. I still think you're completely innocent. So nothing you tell us now will make you look any more or less guilty.”

Caillol trembled slightly as his defenses weakened, one after the other. Soon, he would be incapable of keeping his mental ramparts from collapsing under the blows of the policeman and the judge.

“When did you last speak to Thomas?”

“Just before he was released from hospital.”

“In 1985, is that right?”

“Yes, in 1985.”

“What was wrong with him?”

“Behavioral problems which were … deep-rooted. Incredibly violent impulses which, oddly enough, he was able to control. He was suffering from paranoid schizophrenia. He lost all touch with reality and became alienated from the outside world. He lived in … in an imaginary chaos and had auditory hallucinations. He had the impression that his thoughts were being imposed on him.”

“And I would add that he had a fascination for magic, and that his craziness had a mystic, almost religious side. He thought he'd been given a divine mission.”

“That's right.”

“And did his sister come to see him?”

“Often, extremely often.”

“And what did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“No, François, don't say that! I'm going to tell you what you did: you freed her brother from a place he should never have left.”

Caillol collapsed into his chair.

“Yes.”

After a long silence, de Palma stood up.

“It was Christine who stole the negative hand from the A.P.S. collection. Yes or no?”

“I don't know.”

“She would have stolen it to give it to her brother. Yes or no?”

“I … I don't know.”

“Christine Autran, Hélène Weill and Julia Chevallier killed Anna
McCabe during a shamanistic séance. Yes or no?”

“I think you're wrong.”

“Why do you think so?”

“From what the F.B.I. told me, she died of a heart attack caused by taking hallucinogenic drugs. So the cause of her death was not criminal, if you see what I mean …”

“It wasn't the F.B.I. who told you that, it was Christine when she got back from America. And Christine also told you that Anna had been cut up with flints, hence the police investigation and the involvement of the F.B.I.”

Caillol did not deny this. De Palma looked at him with unconcealed scorn and then let the judge have his turn.

“You see, we're now starting to have a clearer view,” Barbieri said. “Let's proceed. It's 1985, and Thomas Autran is released from the asylum. You're guilty of that at the very least.”

Caillol did not respond.

“And you knew that he was a killer. A real killer who murders for pleasure, to calm his impulses. In other words, a serial killer.”

“He … he'd never killed anyone. He controlled his instincts, as I've told you.”

“And you said nothing to the gendarmerie, not only because they would be able to track down your ‘release form,' but also because you felt guilty. Guilty about freeing such a dangerous person.”

“I didn't think he'd do anything like that, I promise you. When I heard about Chevallier's death, you can't imagine how bad I felt. And how bad I still feel.”

“That's the least of it,” cried Barbieri.

“Let's get back to our motive,” said de Palma. “Thomas broke into your home and set about framing you well and truly … Isn't there anything that bugs you about all this?”

“No, I mean … I don't know.”

“Well, I do. It's not typical behavior for this kind of killer. Setting you up like that wasn't about obeying his impulses; instead it required cold, methodical and patient planning. What's your opinion?”

“You seem to know more about all this than I do. I don't have any answers.”

“I don't think he's alone. I think he's obeying someone.”

“The only person who had any real authority over him was his sister. She could make him do whatever she wanted. As long as his sister was with him, he would never go off the rails.”

“And do you think someone else could have taken his sister's place?”

“I've no idea. But it is possible.”

“You can't imagine who it might be?”

“No, really I can't.”

“I'll tell you something, Caillol. You took part in these superstitious practices not out of scientific curiosity, but in an attempt to live in the primitive state of humanity—or the first state, to use your jargon, before the Neolithic revolution and the notion of property set brother against brother … I read about all this in your books. Your first folly was Anna McCabe, and the second was Thomas Autran … which was far more serious. Today, Thomas is destroying your entire group of lunatics. As he's more intelligent than you, he used you. And you saw him with his sister long after the date of his supposed death. Did you speak to him?”

“No.”

“Or to Christine?”

“Nor to her.”

“I hope you're not lying. If you are it might cost you dear. Very dear.”

“This morning, I finally understood your strategy,” Barbieri said. “Your lawyer called me and asked for D.N.A. tests to be run on the sample of ochre paint found in your house. These tests proved your innocence … And, above all, this would have meant not having to talk about the darker side of your activities. What if it all leaked out to the press! That wouldn't look very good for someone who bears the name of one of Aix's finest families, and who is a highly reputed psychiatrist, would it? A psychiatrist who knows everything, but refuses to collaborate with the justice system.”

Caillol understood the judge's barely veiled threat, but he chose to ignore it. De Palma cast his eyes round the walls of the visiting room.

“I've got no more questions,” he said, turning toward the judge.

“Nor have I,” said Barbieri as he stood up. “Now we're going to have to sort this all out.”

Ignoring Caillol, the judge walked out with heavy steps, as though dragging a burden behind him. De Palma gave the detainee a long, hard handshake. When he saw that Caillol was on the verge of tears, he left him to his solitude.

For three days the mistral had been shaking the city by its mighty shoulders. Up in Saint-Julien, the wind doubled in violence before plunging toward the Huveaune valley and invading, gust by gust, the large, white estates of the southern quartiers.

He had not slept all night. He had smelled the dusty air which was blowing around the presbytery like a ravenous beast, banging on the shutters before leaving and coming back again in a further fit of rage. In the early hours, he went out into the yard to unwind a little. He sat down on the small, green, metal bench between the large pine trees with their silver trunks, and stared into the infinity of that weary night.

For a long time he watched the bristly crowns of the trees brushing the great void of the sky with each blast of wind. The last scraps of cloud had finally disappeared behind the limestone bastions of Saint-Loup. The immaculate blue swelled, without a single mark, as virgin as in the dawn of time. In three days, it would be full moon. The mistral would probably last until then. Then the weather would change. Summer would arrive, and reign supreme until the autumn. After consulting the spirits, the goddess would claim another victim.

In the middle of the village, they have set up the fetish with its multicolored feathers. The enemy ghosts now know that the warrior's soul is being protected
.

All day, the men and women of the clan have wept. Now, on the funerary fire, they are burning the warrior's body. His spirit is free and has gone to the enemy territory to cause the most terrible tortures. In the next season, the spirit will return to its own. It will wander around the water gourd which its brother has left under a tree, near the border that separates the two territories
.

He breathed in the air. It was heavy with the smells of the city, and he stared at the sharp gravel on the ground in front of him. His thoughts focused on the policeman he had tailed.

Time was running out. It would not take the detective long to track him down. In this respect, he had not underestimated him. And sooner or later the young officer who had come to the parish might make the connection too.

Full moon was approaching. He had to strike. His trap was ready. Sylvie Maurel began her day's work at the marine archaeology laboratory at 9:00 a.m. She was never late. He would do nothing until she had breakfast. Then, at about 2:00 p.m., he would carry out the first part of his plan. Methodically.

He went back into the presbytery and down to the cellar. He switched on an ancient light, and a yellow gleam shone from a bulb fixed to the vaulted ceiling by two old wires wrapped in moldy cloth. At the end of the corridor, he opened a door and went into a tiny room, with plain stone walls. It was piled high with all sorts of objects: old Christmas cribs which were no longer used; large notices made by children for the spring fair; a stack of cardboard boxes containing knickknacks collected by previous priests. He deftly slipped a hand under one of the boxes and removed a long packet wrapped in cloth and secured by two pieces of string. He undid the knots and laid out its contents on the floor.

He breathed deeply, looking with delight at each of the objects in front of him: an ax and two pieces of sharpened flint. Nothing more.

He picked up the ax and made two large, circular movements in the air, as though testing its solidity, then he inspected the strips of gut which attached its stone head to the ash-wood handle. It was all in perfect condition. He picked up the two blades and inspected the edges. The flint had not been damaged during his previous hunts. All was well.

He opened another cardboard box, removed a plain sheet of paper and laid it on the floor. From the same box, he took out a bottle containing a yellow liquid, with an ochre deposit in the lower third. He shook it vigorously until the mixture was perfect. He poured
some of the liquid into his mouth, placed his left hand on the paper and sprayed it with the ochre earth and water. After a moment, he removed his hand and examined the print of his palm and fingers. The little and ring fingers were cut in half. Perfect. The first man could not have done it better.

He stood up, closed his eyes and performed the ritual.

“
Spirit of the hunt

Goddess of life

Here is the hunter's sign

Take her life to fortify mine

May her death be swift

May I not make her suffer

May your spirit guide me in the shadows

May the force of her blood enter into my blood

May her flesh fortify the first man”

He remained motionless for a while with his eyes closed. Then he suddenly came to life, picked up the sheet of paper, the ax and the two blades, and went back up to the ground floor.

Fifteen minutes later he was walking rapidly along avenue Saint-Julien toward the vast city. He was wearing faded jeans, a baggy T-shirt and a baseball cap which barely concealed his large bifocals. These glasses deformed his face so much that no-one would recognize him. He had to wear them on the end of his nose when he was walking because, in fact, his vision was perfect.

When he got to avenue Saint-Barnabé it was almost deserted, and the sun was already high in the sky. Violent blasts from the mistral were blowing bin-liners about and he had to lean forward. He looked at his watch. It was now 8:00 a.m. If he walked at this speed, he would be at Fort Saint-Jean in an hour.

His plan was simple: kill Sylvie then draw the policeman into his trap. Then he would sacrifice him on the altar to appease the goddess's anger.

A few days earlier, the goddess had appeared to him in a dream. She had spoken to him from the spirit world and reproached him for not having been careful enough about the girl in Saint-Julien. It could turn out to be a fatal mistake if he did not eliminate the only man
capable of tracking him down. He would have to trap him and then vanish. Forever.

Beside the clan's flat, green, sacred stone, the valiant band have come together around the enemy's body. They will devour it. In supreme vengeance
.

At 7:00 a.m., police headquarters resounded with a din that de Palma knew well. Hulks from special branch were on their way in through the courtyard, followed by two journalists from the local telly. The serious crime squad were hauling in three people responsible for the bloody hold-up in La Viste: two adults and a minor.

There was hatred in the corridors, crawling like a rattlesnake, ready to bite anyone unwise enough to tread on its tail. De Palma leaned out the window. He saw Big Zuccarelli and an officer he did not recognize, presumably a new recruit, accompanying a figure covered by a jacket. This was the first gunman; the second and the third would soon follow.

When he heard footsteps, de Palma went out into the corridor. Zuccarelli was pushing the figure ahead of him. He stopped in front of the Baron and took the jacket off the man's head to reveal a brown face with matte skin and a childish grin. He was wearing trainers which looked too big for him, and a tracksuit left open to reveal a huge crucifix. His small eyes sent off sparks in all directions, without ever coming to rest on the police officers. He was hunched, aware that he was going into the ring for the final combat. After the last round there would be prison, with a minimum sentence of twenty-five years. No problem.