Murder in the Bastille

Tuesday Evening

AIMÉE HEARD FRANCE 2 news blaring from somewhere in the ward. A hoarse voice declared: “The Beast of Bastille may have claimed another victim late Monday night in a Bastille passage. Confusion reigned as investigators discovered Patric Vaduz, the twenty-eight-year-old alleged serial killer awaiting charges in the Commissariat, had been released due to incorrect procedure in the Procès-Verbal. Vaduz, rumored to be attending his mother’s funeral, has not been located.”

Stunned, Aimée grabbed for the bed rail. Where was the télé? Disoriented and dizzy, she pulled the hospital robe around her. When she located the source of the sound, she slid her feet onto the cold floor. She heard coughing, then a request for medication from somewhere behind her.

Was she in a ward or a room? She bumped into something, got caught on what felt like a plastic tube . . . an IV hookup?

Merde!

Or maybe it was a radio cord. Somehow she disentangled herself. She groped her way along the bed rail, barefoot, toward the source of the broadcast.

The newscaster continued

“France 2’s informant close to the investigation revealed that the female victim, discovered mid-afternoon rolled up in an old carpet in a courtyard, appeared to have been murdered in circumstances similar to those surrounding other victims of the Beast of Bastille. Though the particulars have not been released, rumor has it another victim was attacked in nearby Passage de la Boule Blanche. This victim remains in stable condition in the hospital. Names will not be released pending investigation and until next of kin are notified. Police offer no comment at this time other than that the investigation is proceeding.”

Conversation at the nurse’s station, interrupted by the pinging of bells, obscured the rest of the broadcast.

Aimée froze, terrified. Could that be her? She had to hear more. “Please could someone help me. . . .”

Her arm was gripped and someone steered her forward. “I’m a volunteer. Like to hear the evening news, eh? I’ll help you to the TV lobby.”

By the time Aimée reached the télé she’d controlled her shaking. The announcer continued: “Our correspondent spoke with an inhabitant of the passage who said ‘I saw this bloody shoe behind my neighbor’s old rug,’ said a quavering voice, ‘near my cat’s dish . . . bothered me, but then I saw the twisted leg of a woman sprawled in the corner. I thought she was Chinese. But it was just her bloodied jacket.’ ”

“I’m wanted downstairs, but if you need help, clap your hands to get the nurse’s attention,” the volunteer said. “Looks like you’re new here. The staff’s run off their feet with patients, but I’m sure rehab will organize an orientation.”

“An orientation?”

“To help you navigate the ward on your own.”

Of course. But she really didn’t want one, or a white cane or a guide-dog. She wanted to see.

She pushed that out of her mind. Time enough to worry. Maybe she could find someone with a newspaper who’d read it to her.

The woman mentioned in the broadcast had to be her! So Bellan had questioned her because the Beast of Bastille had murdered a woman in the next passage.

She clapped her hands.

No answer. She stood. What sounded like the ding of an elevator came from behind her. She edged forward, bumped into a wall, and felt her way along it to what sounded like the nurse’s station. The smooth counter and rustling papers seemed familiar. She’d made some progress. Maybe she was getting better at this. A loud beeping came from near her.

“Excuse me, but can a nurse help me read a newspaper . . .”

“Doctor’s on rounds, mademoiselle,” said a brisk voice. “And two new admits must be processed. Can it wait?”

“Of course.” Now she was stuck.

“I’ll find the volunteer coordinator,” the nurse said, guiding Aimée to a hard plastic chair with sticky armrests. “Have a seat. It might take some time.”

“Where’s my room?”

“Second door on the left. But wait until we can show you, mademoiselle. We follow rules in this ward. It’s for your safety.”

Footsteps slapped over the linoleum.

No way would she wait, it could take hours. Might as well find her own way back.

She stood, felt her way along the smooth wood hall railing, guiding herself by the low drone of the TV from rooms and the muffled beep of machines. So far so good, she thought. But as she rounded a corner and felt the second door, she smelled bleach and soap.

Then she ran into something with ridges that crinkled like cellophane. She stepped on a soft foamlike substance that yielded. Something hard whacked her cheek. Clanging noises came from her feet and then they were cold and wet. She grabbed what felt like a pole. Her feet stung.

Great.

She’d walked smack into a mop, upsetting a pail of soapy ammonia by the stink and the burning of her toes. Or something worse. She’d stumbled into a broom closet.

A total liability! She couldn’t even find her room. Useless! She fought back tears welling in her useless eyes.

What was that other smell . . . familiar and jarring? And it came back. That awful odor as hands gripped her neck from behind, squeezing tighter and tighter. Her choking gasps for air. She trembled.

Tar.

“Found something interesting, mademoiselle?” asked a voice she recognized.

Why had he sneaked up on her?

“Dr. Lambert,” she said, taking a deep gulp, “what’s tar used for in the hospital?”

“Besides tarring the roof?” he said. “Who knows?”

“That wouldn’t be kept in a closet, would it?”

“Mademoiselle Leduc, I planned to run more tests on you,” he said, before she could ask more. “But now I need to finish my rounds.”

“Go ahead, Dr. Lambert.”

“First, you need help.”

Strong arms grasped and lifted her up. A stethoscope hit her arm. Her wet, bare feet dangled in the air. She felt frightened and disoriented.

“Look I can walk . . . put me down.

“Not if you’ve got a chemical burn.”

Her feet stung and a big lump wedged in her throat. Hugging her to his warm chest, the doctor carried her back to her room, sat her down, stuck her feet in a tub of water, and paged the nurse. “Do me a favor,” he said, an edge in his voice. “Try to stay out of trouble until I get back.”

“ ZUT! TH I S looks like a nice mess,” said a nurse with a soft Provençal accent. Embarrassed, Aimée let the nurse clean her up. The doctor hadn’t answered her question about the tar. The nurse remained silent when Aimée asked, and scurried off before she could press the question.

In the hospital bed, Aimée fumbled for the room phone. After two tries she got the operator. But Leduc Detective had the message machine on. She tried René’s apartment. No answer. Then she tried his cell phone, and got his voice mail.

“Please René, I’m sorry, but can you bring me clothes?” she said. “Makeup. My boots. Everything’s gone. Unless it’s scattered in the passage. And can you check on Miles Davis?”

She knew how to do two things well, smoke and park at an impossible angle. Now she could do only one. If only she could have a smoke!

What was she thinking? How could she apply makeup? And her apartment, she’d have to reach the contractor and put the work on hold.

All she got was their answering machine. She left a message to call her at the hospital. Would they have started the work?

She dialed the operator again and had him try Commissaire Morbier, her godfather, at the Préfecture.

“Groupe R,” said an unfamiliar voice.

“Commissaire Morbier, please.”

“What’s this regarding?”

“I’m his goddaughter, Aimée Leduc.”

“He’s working out of the Commissariat in Bastille. Hold on, I’ll transfer your call.”

For someone approaching retirement, she thought, Morbier moved around the force a lot. He’d cut back his hours to spend more time with his grandson Marc . . . or so he said. But she wondered if his back gave him more trouble than he let on.

“Commissariat Principal at Place Léon Blum,” he answered.

“Back on the beat, Morbier? Hitting the cobblestones again?”

She heard him suck in his breath. In her mind she saw him—his mismatched socks, suspenders, and shock of thick salt-and-pepper hair. She wondered if he’d kept off the weight he’d lost over the summer and if he still wore patches to help him stop smoking.

“They call it special detail, Leduc.”

That meant several things. Damage control was one of them. Since he was working out of the Bastille area, was he involved with the serial killer . . . had she found what she was looking for?

“Look Morbier, I need to know about the victims and anything else you feel like sharing about the Bastille serial murders.”

“Leduc, I’m busy.”

Maybe he didn’t know she’d been attacked.

“Something tells me you have the information I need.”

“What’s it to you if I do, Leduc?” he said. She heard a metallic ratcheting, as if he had turned in an unoiled swivel chair.

Something in his voice told her he knew.

“Leduc, I just got in,” he said. “I haven’t had time to read the update file. Or finish my espresso.”

She sensed another presence in her hospital room. Something she couldn’t explain. The hair stood on the back of her neck. Wariness overtook her; she covered the phone with her hand.

“Who’s there?”

No answer. And then footsteps moved away. Was it a nurse, the doctor, or a volunteer?

Or . . . ? That tar smell near the broom closet? For an awful moment she was struck by the thought of the attacker, lurking, waiting to finish his task. It would be so easy to don a uniform, wear a mask, and search the corridors. Her heart clenched with fear. She took a deep breath.

“Call me curious, Morbier,” she said. “Please, we need to talk.”

“I’m tied up,” he said. “Staff meeting in five minutes. The unit has to come up with some answers. And I still haven’t read the file.”

“Answers to why Patrick Vaduz was released due to incorrect procedure? And why a woman got murdered in the passage? Well France 2 news put it together and blamed the bungling on . . .”

“Got to go,” Morbier interrupted. In the background, chairs scraped the floor, murmuring voices rose.

“But they’re wrong. I don’t think Vaduz killed that woman,” she said. “Meet me in room 312, l’hôpital Quinzes-Vingts.”

“Investigating something?” he said. “Leave the serial killers to us, Leduc. Stick to computers.”

“I can’t, it’s personal.” She wanted to confront him face to face.

Morbier’s voice betrayed no surprise. “Leduc, you know hospitals bother me.”

True. He hadn’t even come to see her after the terrorist bombing in Place Vendôme, the one that killed her father and put her in the burn unit. She’d been lucky; the skin graft on her palm was the only visible scar.

“I can help you,” she said, lowering her voice. “But not over the phone.”

“Tiens! We know Patric Vaduz did it.”

She had to make Morbier interested enough to come. This needed to be said in person. “Well, there’s a witness who thinks otherwise.”

A siren wailed below Aimée’s window as an ambulance pulled into the hospital courtyard.

“So this witness has proof?”

She heard an edge of interest in his voice.

“You might say living proof.”