Murder in the Bastille

Wednesday Noon

DOWNSTAIRS AT THE COMMISSARIAT, in sunlight dappled Place Léon Blum, Sergeant Loïc Bellan thumbed the fat Beast of Bastille dossier. As he had so many times. But this would be the final run-through. After this, he’d sign off on the compilation, then turn it over to the frigo, slang for the archives . . . to be frozen cold and deep in the police vault’s repository under the Seine.

Bellan hunched over the long wooden table in the deserted operations room. Outside in the square, named for the Socialist Prime Minister of France between world wars, early morning buses, taxis and bicycles passed the grilled windows.

Nearby, embedded in the pavement, were five stones which had once supported the wood scaffold of the guillotine. Lacenaire, the poet, had referred to them as the “flagstones of death.” Today they were part of the white-striped crosswalk pedestrians used daily.

Bellan knuckled down to what he did best, putting the perp under his own brand of microscope. Rereading and combing the information one more time, sifting the loose ends, arranging and rearranging items. Searching for loose threads and ways to knot them. Maybe then he could let go.

He pored over the notes made by the quai des Orfèvres’ psychological profiler, the photos of the victims, details from the forensic lab reports, the few witnesses’ and neighbors’ accounts. Then he looked at the map of the Bastille quartier . . . at the location of the attacks.

No question remained in his mind. Vaduz had committed the murders described in the dossier. But this last one, of Josiane Dolet, smelled off. Like an overripe Brie.

His conscience had to be clear . . . his nights were bad enough without Marie and his daughters. Whiskey deadened the pain for only so long. He’d wake in the middle of the night, thinking he had to get the girls up for school. But a yellow pool of light on the bare wooden floor was his only companion.

Jean-Claude Leduc’s aphorisms from Loïc’s rookie year echoed in his head: “If you smell something, follow your nose. . . . When it pecks at your shoulder night and day, pay attention.”

What had he missed?

With the combination of his huge caseload, the few of hours of restless sleep, the endless espresso on prolonged stakeouts, and the flask of whiskey he’d taken to keeping in his vest pocket . . . he couldn’t be sure.

Something nagged at him. Was it the remark Aimée had made about the passage . . . its narrowness? Loïc chewed the end of his pen. He stood back and surveyed the enlarged bus and Métro map on the wall.

Vaduz’s victims’ trails aligned themselves in the few blocks where the #86 and #91 bus routes merged. This corresponded with the Bastille, Ledru Rollin and Faidherbe Chaligny stops along the purple Métro line. Loïc studied the detective’s notes verifying that the suspect and victims had taken the same bus to work; his customary bars, cafés, and laundromats in the quartier which were also frequented by the victims. This commonality had led them to Vaduz, a seasonal prop mover at the new Opéra.

Bellan reread the file notes. Vaduz picked the same type, over and over again. All the women resembled his cousin: blonde, curvaceous, glamorous. The cousin had ignored the introverted Vaduz since childhood, refusing to introduce him to her friends. But he’d fixated on her, covered his walls with obsessive poems and drawings reflecting the fantasies he’d had about her. On weekends when he’d visited the family, she’d had boys with her in her room. Though she belittled and rebuffed him, he claimed he loved her.

But Josiane Dolet was rail-thin, stylish, and reserved in appearance. Wealthy and left-leaning, she’d followed her family’s tradition and joined the family newspaper. When the paper merged with Libération, she went freelance, writing investigative exposés and garnering respect for solid reporting.

Josiane Dolet seemed an unusual choice of victim for Vaduz. She was the most intellectual of them all. Had that made her the most threatening? But when he attacked women, they had no time for discussion.

Yet, Bellan reasoned, his selection of victims showed premeditation and a pattern. Methodical, though sick, he’d taken his time. His victims either lived in a passage or walked through one to their apartments. But Josiane Dolet’s apartment overlooked the glass-roofed market in Place d’Aligré; she would walk through the open square to reach it.

The Préfet was breathing down his neck; the report had to be submitted by noon. How did Aimée figure in this? Loïc couldn’t put his finger on it, but something troubled him.

“Bellan! Line 3,” shouted the sergeant from the front desk.

He picked up the wall phone. “Oui.”

“Loïc,” Marie said, her voice faint. “Guillaume’s sick.”

And the world stopped. All he heard was a heavy silence on the other end, then the whine of a scooter by the window.

“What is it?”

“Strep throat,” she said.

Poor Marie, she must be overwhelmed to call him.

“Marie, the girls had that last year, it wasn’t so serious.”

“They’re worried about his kidneys.”

“Why?”

“For babies like him, it’s serious. We’re at the hospital in Vannes,” she said. “He’s in intensive care. As his father, I thought you should know.”

The phone went dead.

He couldn’t leave Marie to face this alone. Something caved inside him. And all he could think of were those little pink pearllike toes.

He closed the files, pulled on his jacket, and hailed a taxi for Gare Montparnasse.