Murder in the Bastille

Friday

A HUNDRED THINGS WEIGHED on Loïc Bellan’s mind, which was webbed by a dull receding hangover, the least of which was the mec from a derelict building rave party allegedly selling Ecstasy. Bellan also had several cases on his desk. On top of it all, the little doubt about Aimée’s attacker being the Beast of Bastille still nagged him.

But the duty detective leaving his double shift had dumped everything on Bellan’s desk and rubbing his tired eyes, said, “Welcome back, we’re short staffed. Your date’s in lockup four.”

Bellan considered himself lucky to have grabbed a bed in a building used for out of town flics on temporary assignment. At least by working late he’d avoid facing the dormitory-style bunkhouse with its bare walls that would drive him to finish the flask of scotch malt whiskey in his pocket.

And he’d avoid Marie’s silent accusing face that woke him up at night, slicing through his dreams. And the small bundle in the Vannes hôpital, his son Guillaume, who’d lapsed into renal failure and was fighting for his life.

Bellan opened the thick metal door and stood in front of the wire cages in the Commissariat where they kept the prisoners. Like animal pens, he’d always thought. He stared at a sullen young man sitting on the narrow bench, a sheen of perspiration on his face.

“Iliescu, D.” said Bellan, consulting the file. “Come with me.”

Iliescu wore a skinny T-shirt and baggy sweatpants. He lurched toward the grille. He kept rubbing his nose and looked flushed and feverish. Shakes like a junkie, Bellan thought. But more buff than the usual twitching skin-and-bone types.

They went back to an office.

“Looks like you had some bad shit, eh?”

“I don’t do drugs,” Iliescu said, with a thick Romanian accent. He heaved, then covered his mouth with his hand as if about to throw up. “Never, I work out.”

All through the short interrogation, Bellan noticed Iliescu fighting waves of nausea.

“Where do you come from?”

“Budapest.”

One of his palms had numbers written in ink on it. Numbers with odd curlicues on them.

“What’s that?”

“I write notes to myself,” Iliescu said, breathing faster. “If I don’t write down the time, I’m late for work. Listen, I’ve got a job.”

“We’ll have to search your domicile,” Bellan said, cutting it short. “I’ve applied for a search warrant.”

Iliescu’s eyes rolled up in his head. He gagged and fell back in his chair. Alarmed, Bellan pulled on some latex gloves, from a box kept handy on the desk. He grabbed the wastebasket almost in time for Iliescu to spew inside it.

And then Bellan saw the blackened skin under the man’s arms. Big charred places, some cracked and bleeding. Cigarette burns? He looked closer. Bigger. He’d never seen anything like this.

“Get the on-call medico here. Right away,” he shouted into the hallway.

The sounds of scuffling and the banging of metal drawers came from the hallway.

“Nobody answers,” said a duty sergeant. “Will a paramedic do?”

“Anybody, quick!”

A short man with a graying beard wearing lab coat rushed in.

“What’s up?”

“Look at his arm.”

“Spanish Inquisition time eh, Bellan?” said the paramedic. “Burning your victims these days?”

“They’re not new burns,” Bellan said.

“But recent. Notice the blackened skin.” He pointed.

Iliescu’s eyes fluttered. His skin appeared clammy and moist, but he was still coherent. “They’ll fire me if I don’t show up at work,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“You mean you’ll lose your drug connections,” Bellan said.

Iliescu tried to sit up as the paramedic brought in another man to help him.

“No drugs,” said Iliescue. “Never.”

“Take him to Hôtel Dieu,” Bellan said. Hôtel Dieu, on Île de la Cité, one of the oldest charity hospitals in Paris, treated prisoners and the indigent.

“No! I’ll lose my job!”

“Where do you work?”

“The loading bay at the Opéra,” said Iliescu.

Something clicked. Vaduz, the serial killer, had worked there, too. “Do you know Patrick Vaduz?”

Bellan saw recognition in Iliescu’s fevered eyes.

“That pervert!” said Iliescu. “He made everyone’s skin crawl. We avoided him.”

After wheeling Iliescu out, the paramedic looked back at Bellan from the door,

“It’s odd, but it’s as if he has a major case of sunburn. A megadose.”

Bellan stared at him.

“What do you mean?”

“But no one gets sunburned in just one spot, do they?” said the paramedic, tugging his beard.