Syndrome E

14

A schizophrenic’s apartment tends to be messy. The internal personality disorder—the mental fracture—often manifests in an external disorder, to the point where some schizophrenics engage the services of a housekeeper. On the other hand, the apartment of a behavioral analyst demands a certain rigor, mirroring a rectilinear mind accustomed to compartmentalizing pieces of information the way you’d arrange shoes in a storage cubby. As such, Sharko’s apartment pulled in two different directions. While the coffee cups piled up in the sink and the wrinkled suits and ties amassed in a corner of the bathroom, various other rooms, all very neat and tidy, made it look like the residence of a peaceful family. A lot of photos in frames, a small plant, a child’s room with old stuffed toys, the yellow wallpaper with its frieze of dolphins.

On the floor of this latter room, a magnificent railway sprawled out its vintage tracks and locomotives, bordered by landscapes made of foam, cork, or resin. Restoring life to this miniature world, which had once required hundreds—thousands—of hours of assembly, painting, and gluing, was the first thing Sharko had done on his return from Rouen two hours earlier. The locomotives sent joyous whistles into the air and emitted their good, steamy smell, mixed with his wife Suzanne’s perfume, which he’d added to the water tank. As always, Eugenie sat amid the tracks, smiling; at moments like these, the cop was glad to have her around.

When she decided to leave, Sharko stood up and retrieved a dusty old suitcase from the top of a closet. The smells of the past poured out as he opened it, laden with nostalgia. Sharko’s heavy heart felt a pang.

His departure for Cairo was scheduled for the next morning, on Egyptair out of Orly. Economy class, the bastards. By prearrangement, the police inspector attached to the French embassy would be waiting for him. Sharko had checked online for the local temperature: celestial fires torched the country, a veritable sauna, which wouldn’t help matters. He packed his suitcase with plain short-sleeved shirts, two bathing suits—you never know—two pairs of twill trousers, and Bermuda shorts. He didn’t forget his tape recorder, cocktail sauce, candied chestnuts, or O-gauge Ova Hornby locomotive, with its black car for wood and charcoal.

His phone rang the moment he shut the valise, left half empty to make room for presents. It was Leclerc; Sharko picked up with a smile.

“Some cartons of cigarettes, Egyptian whiskey whose name I already don’t remember, perfume burner for Kathia… So what else do you want now, a cardboard pyramid?”

“Have you got time to swing over to Gare du Nord?”

Sharko glanced at his watch: 6:30. Normally he’d be having dinner in a half hour, reading the paper or doing the crosswords, and he hated disrupting his routine.

“Depends.”

“A colleague from Lille CID wants to meet you. She’s already on the TGV.”

“Is this a joke?”

“Supposedly it has some bearing on our case.”

A pause.

“What kind of bearing?”

“A rather strange and unexpected kind. She called me, on my direct line, if you can believe the nerve of this one. Go find out if it’s just a load of crap. You’ve already got something in common: you’re both supposed to be on vacation.”

“Some coincidence.”

“Her train gets in at 7:31. She’s blond, thirty-seven. She’ll be wearing a blue tunic and tan pedal pushers. Anyway, she’ll recognize you—she saw you on TV. You’ve become something of a star.”

Sharko rubbed his temples.

“Thanks for nothing. Tell me about her.”

“I’m sending you some background. Print it out and get moving.”

Sharko had his electronic plane tickets in front of him.

“Aye, aye, Chief. At your service, Chief. By the way, two measly days in Cairo is a bit short, don’t you think?”

“The locals don’t want us there any longer than that. We have to follow protocol.”

“Why are you sending me? Protocol isn’t exactly my thing. And besides, what if I backslide? You remember that little green light in my brain?”

“It’s when that little green light goes on that you’re at your best. Your illness does some funny things to your head, a kind of stew that lets you grasp things nobody else can sense.”

“If you wouldn’t mind saying that to the big boss, he might treat me a little better.”

“The less we tell him, the better off you are. By the way: Auld Stag.”

“What?”

“The Egyptian whiskey—it’s called Auld Stag. Write it down, for goodness’ sake. For Kathia, find the most expensive perfume burner you can. I want to give her something nice.”

“How’s she doing? It’s been a while since I’ve been to see her. I hope she doesn’t hold it against me too much and that—”

“And don’t forget the bug spray, or you’ll really be sorry.”

He hung up sharply, as if to cut the conversation short.

Fifteen minutes later, Sharko settled into the commuter train at Bourg-la-Reine, printed sheets on his knees. He pored over the brief report his boss had sent. Lucie Henebelle… Single, two daughters, father died from lung cancer when she was ten, mother a homemaker. Police sergeant in Dunkirk in the early 2000s. Assigned a desk job, she’d found herself caught up in a sordid case, the “death chamber,” which had shaken the northern part of the country. Sharko was all too familiar with the hierarchic barriers back then between the rank of sergeant and that of detective. How had a simple paper-pusher managed to become the lead on such an investigation, which involved psychopaths and rituals? What inner forces had driven this mother of two to the other side?

After that, she’d been transferred to Criminal Investigations in Lille, with a rank of lieutenant. Nice promotion. She’d opted for the big city, where she’d have many more opportunities to come face-to-face with the worst. Spotless record so far. A driven, punctilious woman, according to her supervisors, but with an increasing tendency to go off the rails. Rushing in without backup, frequent shouting matches with the brass, and a worrisome habit of zeroing in on violent cases, especially murders. Kashmareck, her superior officer, described her as “encyclopedic, possessed, a good psychologist in the field, but sometimes out of control.” Sharko dug deeper into the file. It was like reading his own story. In 2006, she had apparently taken a tumble: an intense manhunt to the far end of Brittany that in the end had put her on medical leave for three weeks. The official reason was “overwork.” In cop speak, that meant depression.

Depression… And yet this woman seemed fairly solid, at least on paper. Why had she fallen so far down the hole? Depression grabs hold of you when an investigation kicks you in the teeth, when other people’s pain suddenly becomes your own. What had happened to her that was so personal? Could it have anything to do with her two girls?

Sharko raised his eyes, a hand gripping his chin. She was only in her thirties, and the darkness already had such a hold that it was controlling her life. How old had he been when he’d started to tip over? Possibly well before that. And this was the result. Anyone watching could have guessed his situation in the blink of an eye: a guy bloated on meds who’d grow old alone, marked with the stamp of a fragmented life, encrusted along his wrinkles like a river of sorrow.

He stepped off the train at Gare du Nord at 7:20, less sweaty than usual. In July, the commuters were replaced by tourists, better behaved and much less sticky. The pulse of Paris beat more slowly.

Platform 9. Sharko waited among the pigeons, in a current of sullen air, arms crossed, in tan Bermudas, a yellow polo shirt, and docksiders. He hated station platforms, airports, anything that reminded him that every day people left each other. Behind him, parents were bringing their children to trains, packed for holiday camp. That kind of separation had its good side, promising the joy of reunion; but for Sharko, there would be no more reunions.

Suzanne… Eloise…

The mass of passengers surged like a single entity from the TGV arriving from Lille. Colors, a tempest of voices, and the noise of suitcases dragging along on wheels. Sharko craned his neck among the taxi drivers holding up signs with names on them. Making the obvious connection, he immediately spotted the right party. She came up with a smile. Small, slim, hair to her shoulders, she struck him as fragile, and without her damaged smile and that fatigue you see on certain cops, he might have taken her for just some broad coming to Paris to look for seasonal work.

“Inspector Sharko? Lucie Henebelle, Lille CID.”

Their fingers met. Sharko noted that in their handshake, she looped her thumb on top. She wanted to control the situation or express a kind of spontaneous dominance. The inspector smiled back at her.

“Is the Nemo still on Rue des Solitaires in Old Lille?”

“I think it’s up for sale. Are you from the north?”

“For sale? Damn… The best things always disappear. Yes, I come from the north, but that goes back a way. Let’s go to the Terminus Nord—not very glamorous, but it’s nearby.”

They left the station and went to the large café, finding a sidewalk table in the shade. In front of them, the taxicabs lined up in an endless colored queue. It was as if the station were regurgitating the entire world: whites, Arabs, blacks, Asians were dispatched in an indistinguishable swarm. Lucie set down her backpack and ordered a Perrier; Sharko, a Weissbier with a slice of lemon. The young lieutenant was impressed by the fellow, especially his bearing: trim hair, eyes of an old vet, and a solid build. He gave off the ambiguity of a composite material, something indefinable. She tried to keep any of this from showing.

“They tell me you’re an expert in criminal behavior. It must be fascinating.”

“Let’s cut to the chase, Lieutenant—it’s getting late. What have you got for me?”

The guy was direct as a boxer’s fist. Lucie didn’t know who she was dealing with, but she knew he’d never give without getting something in return. That’s how everyone worked in this profession: you scratch my back, I scratch yours. So she took her story from the top. The death of the Belgian collector, the discovery of the film, the violent, pornographic images buried in it, the fellow in the Fiat who seemed to be hunting for the same film. Sharko betrayed not a hint of emotion. He was the kind of guy who must have seen it all in his career, withdrawn behind his thick shell. Lucie didn’t forget to tell him about the mysterious phone call to Canada that afternoon. She jabbed her finger on the table as the waiter brought their drinks.

“I went online and watched all the newscasts from that week. Monday morning, the builders find the five bodies, and that evening it’s the lead story on the news. They talk about several bodies found buried with their skulls open.”

She pulled a memo book from her backpack. Sharko noted her attention to detail, and the dangerous passion she harbored. A cop’s eyes should never shine, and hers gleamed way too much when she talked about her case.

“I wrote it down: that Monday night, the report on the corpses started at 8:03 and ended at 8:05. At 8:08, old Szpilman placed a call to Canada. I got the length of the call from his phone log: eleven minutes, which means he hung up at 8:19. At around 8:25, he died trying to get hold of that film.”

“Were you able to check Szpilman’s other calls?”

“I haven’t yet put my unit on the case. It would have taken forever to explain it all. The most urgent thing was to meet you first.”

“Why’s that?”

Lucie put her cell phone down in front of her.

“Because the mysterious caller is supposed to ring back in less than fifteen minutes, and if I don’t have something meaty for him by then, that’ll be it.”

“You could have gotten info from headquarters over the phone. But you wanted to see a real one, right?”

“A real what?”

“A real profiler. Somebody who’s been there.”

Lucie shrugged. “I’d love to flatter your ego, Inspector, but that has nothing to do with it. I’ve told you what I know. Now it’s your turn.”

She was a straight shooter, with no tricks. Sharko liked the unspoken contest she was proposing. Still, he had to needle her a bit.

“No, seriously, you think I’m going to just hand over confidential information to some stranger from the land of the caribous? Shall we put up notices at the bus stops too, while we’re at it?”

Lucie nervously emptied her Perrier into a glass. Skinned alive, thought Sharko.

“Listen, Inspector. I’ve spent my day on the road and I pissed away almost a hundred euros in train tickets to come drink a Perrier. A friend of mine is locked away in a mental hospital because of this nonsense. I’m hot, I’m tired, I’m supposed to be on vacation, and to top it off, my daughter is very ill. So with all due respect, spare me your lousy jokes.”

Sharko bit into his lemon slice, then licked his fingers.

“We’ve all got our little woes. Some time ago I had to stay in a hotel without a bathtub. Last year, I think it was… Yes, last year. Now that was a real problem.”

Lucie couldn’t believe her ears. A round-trip from Lille to Paris just to listen to this shit?

“So what am I supposed to do? Just get up and go home?”

“The brass has been briefed on this case of yours, at least?”

“I just told you no.”

Good lord, she was just like him. Sharko tried to get a bead on her.

“You’re here because you feel life has overtaken you. In your head, pictures of corpses have replaced the photos of your children, am I right? Turn back, or you’ll end up like me. Alone amid a population that’s slowly wasting away.”

What tragedies had sucked him in and stirred up so many shadows? Lucie recalled the pictures on the news when she’d first seen him, at the pipeline construction site. And that horrible impression he’d left her with: that of a man at the edge of a cliff.

“I’d like to feel sorry for you, but I can’t. Pity isn’t my strong suit.”

“I’m finding your tone a bit blunt. Have you forgotten you’re talking to a chief inspector, Lieutenant?”

“I’m sorry if I—”

She didn’t have time to finish. Her telephone started ringing. Lucie glanced at her watch—the man was a bit early. She snatched up the cell apprehensively. A number with area code 514. She gave Sharko a somber look.

“It’s him. What do I do?”

Sharko held out his hand. Lucie clenched her teeth and slapped the phone into his palm. She swung over to his side to listen in on the conversation. The inspector answered the phone without speaking. The voice at the other end of the line demanded abruptly: “Do you have the information?”

“I’m the profiler you might have seen on TV. The guy with the shirt that should have been green and who’d had it up to here with reporters and the heat. So, about the information, yeah, I’ve got it.”

Lucie and Sharko exchanged a tense glance.

“Prove it.”

“And this I do how? You want me to take a photo of myself and mail it to you? Let’s quit playing hide-and-seek. The lady cop you talked to on the phone is with me. The poor thing pissed away a hundred euros in train fare because of you. Now tell us what you know.”

“You first. This is your last chance, or believe me, I’ll hang up.”

Lucie tapped on Sharko’s shoulder, urging him to accept and soften his tone. The inspector acquiesced, taking care not to reveal too much.

“We discovered five male individuals. Young adults.”

“That much I saw on the Net. You’re not telling me anything.”

“One of them was Asian.”

“When were they killed?”

“Between six months and a year ago. Now you. Why are you so interested in this case?”

There was a palpable tension in the crackling of voices that passed from ear to ear.

“Because I’ve been investigating this for two years.”

Two years… Who was he? A cop? A private detective? And what was he investigating?

“Two years? The corpses were only dug up three days ago, and at worst they’ve been dead for no more than a year. How can you have been investigating for two?”

“Tell me about the bodies. The skulls, for instance.”

Lucie didn’t miss a word. Sharko decided to let out a bit more line: negotiations often required concessions.

“The skulls had been sawed off, very cleanly, with a surgical tool. Someone had removed their eyes, as well as…”

“…their brains.”

He knew. Some guy nearly four thousand miles away knew what was going on. Lucie made the connection with the film: the stolen eyes, the iris-shaped scarring. She murmured something to Sharko. He nodded and spoke into the phone:

“What’s the connection between the bodies in Normandy and Szpilman’s film?”

“The children and the rabbits.”

Lucie strained to remember. She shook her head.

“What children, what rabbits?” asked Sharko. “What do they mean?”

“They’re the key, the start of the whole thing. And you know it.”

“The start of what, for Christ’s sake?”

“What else about the bodies? Any chance of identifying them?”

“No. The killer eliminated any possibility of identification. Hands cut off, teeth pulled. One of the bodies, better preserved than the others, had large areas of skin missing from his arms and thighs, which he’d torn off himself.”

“Do you have any leads?”

Sharko decided to play it coy.

“You’ll have to ask my colleagues. I’m officially on leave. And I’m about to head off for a little ten-day trip to Egypt, near Cairo.”

Lucie threw up her arms, furious. Sharko gave her a wink.

“Cairo… So then, you… No, it couldn’t have gone so fast. You… you’re one of them!”

He hung up. Sharko crushed his mouth against the speaker.

“Hello! Hello!”

A horrible silence. Lucie was virtually glued to his shoulder. Sharko smelled her perfume, felt the dampness of her skin, and couldn’t bring himself to push her away.

It was over. Sharko put the phone back on the table. Lucie stood up, fit to be tied.

“I don’t believe it! Jesus, Inspector! Holidays in Cairo! What are we going to do now?”

The inspector jotted the caller’s number on a corner of his napkin and put it in his pocket.

“We?”

“You, me. Are we playing it solo, or do we eat from the same plate?”

“A chief inspector never eats from the same plate as a lieutenant.”

“Please, Inspector.”

Sharko took a gulp of his beer. Something cool, to clear his mind. The day had been particularly freighted with emotion.

“Okay. You drop the film restorer and get the reel to the lab. You bring your unit up to speed. Let them do a full workup. And have them send me a copy. Have them also get in touch with the Belgians, to check out this Szpilman. We absolutely have to find out who this Canadian was who just hung up on me.”

Lucie nodded, feeling like she was crumbling under the weight of her responsibilities.

“And what about you?”

Sharko hesitated a moment, then began telling her about the telegram sent by a policeman named Mahmoud Abd el-Aal. He told her about the three girls, skulls sawed off just like here in France, and the mutilations. Lucie hung on every word; the case was burrowing deeper under her skin.

“He said, ‘You’re one of them,’” Sharko added. “That confirms that the killer I’m looking for isn’t working alone. There’s the one who cleanly saws off the skulls, and the butcher, the one who chops them up with a cleaver.”

Sharko thought for a few seconds more, then handed her his business card. Lucie did the same. He pocketed it, finished his beer, and stood up.

“I need to go find some bug spray before I turn in. To say that I hate mosquitoes would be an understatement. I hate them more than anything in this world.”

Lucie looked at Sharko’s card, turned it over. It was completely blank.

“But…”

“When you find somebody once, you always find him again. Keep me posted.”

He left the exact amount of the bill on the table and held out his hand. At the moment Lucie went to shake it, he blocked her thumb and slipped his own on top. Lucie clenched her jaw.

“Nicely done, Inspector. One to nothing.”

“Everyone calls me Shark, not Inspector.”

“Forgive me, but—”

“I know, you can’t quite do it. In that case, let’s stick with Inspector. For now.”

He smiled, but Lucie noticed something deeply sad in his dark eyes. Then he turned away and headed off toward Boulevard de Magenta.

“Inspector Shark?”

“What?”

“In Egypt… be careful.”

He nodded, crossed the station, walked through the entrance, and disappeared.

Alone. It was the only word that Lucie retained from their meeting.

A man alone, terribly alone. And wounded. Like her.

She looked at the blank card, which she held in her fingers; she smiled and wrote, diagonally across one side, “Franck Sharko, alias Shark.” For a few seconds her fingers espoused the letters of that name with its harsh, Germanic consonance. Peculiar fellow. Slowly, she pronounced, stretching out each syllable, “Fran-ck Shar-ko.” The Shark.

Then she slipped the card into her wallet and stood up in turn. The burning red sun was setting on the capital, ready to set it ablaze.

She headed for the Lille medical center, 125 miles away. The great divide, as always, between her work and family life. Her daughter needed her back.