Syndrome E

15

It was after ten when Lucie slipped into Juliette’s room. The antiseptic surroundings were becoming almost familiar. The nurses in the hallways, the carts loaded with diapers and bibs, the hum of neon… Her mother was at the console, neck leaning casually against the headrest of the large brown armchair.

Marie Henebelle hardly fit the stereotype of a grandmother, or even a mother. Short hair bristling with bleached blond locks, trendy clothes, fully conversant with the latest kids’ gadgets: Wii, PlayStation, Nintendo DS. Moreover, she spent long hours playing Big Brain Academy on DS and Call of Duty on PlayStation, a game in which you had to kill as many enemies as possible. The contamination of the virtual world no longer had any age limit.

Marie greeted her daughter unsmilingly, stood up quickly, and grabbed her red leather handbag.

“Juliette threw up two more times this afternoon. Be prepared for a scolding from the doctor.”

Lucie kissed her sleeping daughter, fragile as an ivory needle, and turned back toward her mother. On the screen, Call of Duty was on pause. Marie had just riddled three soldiers with a pump-action shotgun and seemed frankly annoyed.

“Scolding? How come?”

“The chocolate cookies you give her behind his back. You think they don’t know? They see parents like you every day of the week. Parents who don’t listen.”

“She won’t eat anything else! Seeing the face she makes at that disgusting mush makes my heart ache.”

“Don’t you get it? Her stomach won’t stand even an ounce of fat. Why do you always insist on breaking the rules?”

Marie Henebelle’s nerves were on edge. Spending her day shut indoors, the TV, the tears, those video games that hammered on your brain. This kind of hospital was nowhere near as restful as a three-star ocean spa in Saint-Malo.

“You’re on vacation, you could spend a little time with your girls. But no—you ship one off to camp and you go running around Belgium and Paris while your other daughter pukes up her guts.”

Lucie had had enough; the last few hours had already pushed her to her limit.

“Mom, I’ve got more time off coming in August and the three of us will go on vacation together. It’s already planned—that’s going to be our real family time.”

Marie headed toward the door.

“All time is real family time, Lucie. I thought you had priorities in life, but I guess I was wrong. And now, I’m going home to bed. Because, if I’m not mistaken, I have to be back here in a few hours. Good thing Gramma Marie is here, right?”

She left. Lucie ran a hand over her face, exhausted, and turned off the television. The image of the pixilated soldier immediately vanished. Lucie thought of what Claude Poignet the restorer had said: violent imagery could strike anywhere, even in this children’s room in the depths of a hospital. Wasn’t there enough hostility on the streets, without having to bring it into the heart of a family’s privacy?

Darkness fell, for once bringing peace.

In her pajamas, Lucie pulled the chair up to the bed and gently settled next to Juliette. Tomorrow morning she’d stop by the station to inform her superiors about this business with the film, even if no DA would launch an official investigation over a fifty-year-old movie. That Inspector Sharko was full of big ideas: send the reel to the lab, search Szpilman’s place! As if it were all so easy. Where did they find him, that odd duck of a cop with his Bermuda shorts and docksiders? Curiously, Lucie couldn’t shake the impression he’d left her with: of a guy who had more crimes under his belt than she’d see in a lifetime, but who didn’t want to let anything show. What horrors were lurking in the back of his head? What had been his worst case? Had he already run across serial killers? How many?

She finally drifted off to sleep, her head filled with dark images, her hand resting in her child’s.

Her awakening, yet again, was sudden: neons snapping on and tearing through her lids. In her half-sleep, Lucie didn’t bother opening her eyes. It was probably a nurse, coming in for the nth time to make sure all was well. She was curling up tighter in her chair when a heavy voice yanked her from her slumbers once and for all.

“Get up, Henebelle.”

Lucie grumbled softly. Could it be…?

“Captain?”

Kashmareck was standing in front of her. Forty-six, stiff as a crowbar. The stark light chiseled his features and etched areas of shadow into his juglike face. He nodded toward the still-sleeping child, nestled under the blankets.

“How’s she doing?”

Lucie covered herself with a sheet, embarrassed at being seen by him in such a scanty outfit. Too much intimacy.

“Oh, well… You didn’t come here just to hear about her. What’s going on?”

“What do you think? We’ve caught a murder. Something rather… unusual.”

Lucie still couldn’t figure out the reason for his visit. She sat up a bit and stuffed her feet into the rabbit slippers.

“What sort?”

“Bloody. This morning, a newspaper deliveryman calls us. He was in the habit of going to his customer’s house every morning at six for a cup of coffee. Except this time, he finds the customer hanging from the kitchen chandelier, hands tied behind his back. And gutted, among other things…”

Lucie was talking to herself. She still couldn’t understand what was going on.

“Forgive me, Captain, but… how does this relate to me? I’m on vacation and—”

“We found your business card in his mouth.”