Bred to Kill (27 page)

T
he sun had already started sinking through the foliage when police cars screamed up to the isolated property of the Lamberts. CSI van, crime scene photographer, squad cars for the officers. That Thursday evening, in the still summerlike temperatures, the men were on edge: they'd already started the week with horrors enough, and the situation didn't seem to be getting any better now that there were two new corpses to deal with.

Sharko was sitting against a tree in front of the house, head resting in his hands. The shadows were falling over his face, pressing against him as if to swallow him whole. In silence, he watched the different teams bustle about, the morbid ballet common to all crime scenes.

After the CSI team had finished its meticulous labors, Félix Lambert's body had been covered in a sheet, then sent off to Forensics, along with his father's. From the first indications provided by the degree of rigor mortis, Bernard Lambert had been dead at least forty-eight hours. Two days that the father had spent splayed out on the floor of the dining room, soaking in his own blood, with the TV on full blast and water pouring from the sink in the upstairs bathroom.

What had gone through Félix Lambert's head? What demons had pushed him to commit such horrors?

With a sigh, Sharko stood up. He felt drained, worn down to the bone by too long a day and too twisted a case. Dragging his feet, he joined Levallois and Bellanger, who were arguing bitterly at the entrance door. The tension between them was palpable. The more time went on, the more the men felt the pressure. Marriages would burst asunder, and bars would see policemen with frayed nerves drowning their sorrows.

The team leader finished with Levallois and took the inspector aside, near a fat blue hydrangea bush.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“A little tired, is all. I'll be fine. I slugged down a thermos of coffee the guys brought; it picked me up a bit. To tell the truth, I haven't eaten much these past few days.”

“Nor slept, for that matter. You need to get some rest.”

Sharko nodded toward the area cordoned off with police tape—the spot where Félix Lambert's body had lain a few moments before.

“Rest time will come later. Were you able to notify the family?”

“Not yet. We know Lambert's older sister lives in Paris.”

“What about the mother?”

“Not a trace for the moment. We're just getting started, and there's so much to do . . .”

He sighed, looking worn down. Sharko had been in his shoes once upon a time. Leading a squad in the criminal police was nothing but a thicket of hassles, a position in which you got shat on from above and below.

“What do you make of this mess?”

Sharko raised his eyes to the smashed upstairs window.

“I met the son's eyes before he jumped. I saw something in them I'd never seen in the eyes of any human being before: pure, unadulterated suffering. He was ripping the skin off his own cheeks, and he had pissed on himself, like an animal. Something was tearing him up inside and driving him insane, making him completely disconnected from reality. An evil that drove him to commit unspeakable acts, like the massacres of those hikers and his own father. I don't know what it's about, but I'm convinced what we're looking for is hidden inside him, in his body. Something genetic. And Stéphane Terney knew what it was.”

Silence surrounded them. Nicolas Bellanger rubbed his chin, staring into space.

“In that case, let's see what the autopsy has to say.”

“When's it being done?”

His boss didn't answer immediately. His mind must have felt like a battlefield after a major encounter.

“Uhh . . . Chénaix is starting at eight tonight. First the father and then the son. Some evening.”

The young chief cleared his throat; he seemed preoccupied, ill at ease. Sharko noticed his discomfort and asked what the matter was.

“It's about Terney's book,” said Bellanger. “The genetic fingerprints naturally drew our attention to Grégory Carnot, the last prisoner on Eva Louts's list. So Robillard called Vivonne Penitentiary, and guess what he discovered . . .”

Sharko felt himself grow pale. So they'd found out. While he kept silent, Bellanger continued.

“He discovered that you hadn't just called on the phone. You actually went there to question the prisoner on your day off. You know what Robillard's like, he dug a bit deeper and found out someone else had been there, too, the very same day. And not just anyone: the mother of the two girls Carnot kidnapped, named . . .”—he took out a sheet of paper—“. . . Lucie Henebelle. You know her?”

Sharko's blood froze, but he didn't flinch.

“No. I went there to talk with one of the prison shrinks about a prisoner on the list, that's all.”

“And you didn't say a word. The part that bothers me is that you've known for a while that Carnot was found dead in his cell. So why didn't you say anything about it? Why didn't you tell anybody about this business of the upside-down drawing, the violent outbursts, or the lactose intolerance?”

“Those were just details. I didn't think they had anything to do with our case. Louts went to see him and asked the usual questions, just like she did in the other prisons.”

“Just details? It was those details that led you here! You lied to us, you kept it all to yourself, selfishly, to the detriment of our investigation and to the colleagues working with you. You made this personal.”

“That's not true. I'm trying to catch a murderer and understand what's going on, just like the rest of us.”

Bellanger shook his head energetically.

“You've gone off the rails way too many times. You break into a private home without informing your colleagues or any authorization. Those are procedural infractions that could shoot our entire investigation to hell. And not only do you enter the premises illegally, now we've got two bodies on our hands. We're going to have to explain that.”

“I . . .”

“I'm not finished. Because of you, Levallois is facing the full barrage and'll probably end up with an official reprimand on his record. I'm in for a shitload of hassles. Major Case is already overworked; they'll be here any minute to figure out what the fuck we're doing in this mess to begin with. What got into you to try and go around them?”

He paced back and forth.

“And to top it all off, Manien's now got involved.”

Sharko saw red. Just hearing that creep's name made him want to puke.

“What did he tell you?”

“He trotted out your actions at the Frédéric Hurault crime scene. Your negligence, your complete disregard . . . He claims you intentionally contaminated his crime scene, just for spite.”

“Manien's an asshole. He's trying to use the situation to fuck me over.”

“It's too late.”

He looked Sharko squarely in the eyes.

“You do understand that I can't just let this slide, right?”

The inspector clenched his jaws and started walking toward the house.

“We can deal with that later. For now, we've got work to do.”

He felt pressure on his shoulder, forcing him to turn around.

“You don't seem to get it,” Bellanger said in a loud voice.

Sharko shook himself free.

“I get it perfectly. But I'm asking you, let me stay on the case for a few more days. I'm getting a feel for this one, I can sense we're getting close. Let me attend the autopsy and follow any new trails it opens. I need to see this one through to the end. Afterward, I promise, I'll do whatever you want.”

The young chief shook his head.

“If this had just been between us, I could probably have delayed things a bit, but . . .”

“It's Manien, is that it?”

Bellanger nodded.

“He knows everything, the shit that happened here and about Vivonne. He's already got the people he needs behind him at thirty-six, and at this point I don't have a choice.”

The inspector's fists tightened as he caught sight of Marc Leblond, Manien's right-hand man, talking on his phone in the distance while looking straight at him.

“His spies blabbed . . .”

“No doubt. I'm forced to take disciplinary action, the way we would with anyone else in this situation, to protect myself and the team. I don't want everyone else to have to pay for your mistakes, especially not Levallois.”

Sharko looked sadly over at the kid who was pacing nervously some distance away, arms folded and eyes downcast. He must have been worried for his future in the department, fearful that his ambitions could come tumbling down in a heartbeat.

“No, especially not him. He's a good cop.”

“I know . . . But it's not over for you. There'll be a ruling on your case. They'll certainly weigh in your years of service, the crimes you've solved. We all know how much you've done for the force over the years.”

Sharko shrugged with a nervous cackle.

“I spent the last five years shuttling between my office and a psychiatric hospital, where they were treating me for fucking schizophrenia. Every Monday and every Friday, week in and week out, I sat with a shrink who tried to figure out what had gone tilt in my head. If I'm still here today, it's because I had the backing of a good man who's no longer on the force. There's no one left to support me. I'm screwed, period, amen.”

Bellanger held out his open hand. With a sigh, the inspector took his police ID and service weapon and slapped them into the other man's palm. It tore his heart out. He looked at his chief without managing to hide his sadness.

“This job was all I had left. Make no mistake, you've buried a man today.”

With those words, he walked away from the property without a backward glance.

F
or a moment, Sharko couldn't believe his eyes.

She was there, really there, in his kitchen.

Lucie Henebelle.

The cop stood frozen for an instant at the door of his apartment. The sofa, the living room table, the television, and the rest of the furniture had all been moved around. A large green plant had pride of place on a pedestal table in the corner, and there was a pleasant smell of lemon in the air. Sharko walked slowly toward the kitchen, his mind reeling. Lucie gave him a quick smile.

“You like it? I figured it might do you good to change things around a bit. And besides, I needed to keep myself busy while waiting for you to get home. Nerves, the whole thing . . . I . . . I bought the plant at a place near here. I know you like them green and fairly large.”

She set the table as if she were spring-loaded. Her ease at finding the dishes and silverware made it seem as if she'd always lived there.

“I also figured you might be hungry.”

She opened the fridge and pulled out a large serving dish particolored with different foods, along with two bottles of beer.

“I wasn't sure exactly when you'd be back, so I got Japanese takeout. It'll be a change from all those noodles you've got stacked in your pantry. It looks like the Salvation Army in there. Okay, well, let's eat and then we can get down to work.”

Sharko looked at her with a tenderness he was unable to hide. He wanted to take a firmer tone, but he didn't have the strength.

“Get down to work? But . . . Lucie? What are you doing here? I thought you went back home.”

He went over to the window and glanced down at the street. Lucie caught the worry in his eyes.

“Strange as it seems,” she said, “I like being here. Come on, come sit.”

The cop remained frozen, back to the window, arms hanging limply and his head crowded with conflicting emotions. Finally, he undid his jacket and removed his empty holster, which he hung on the coatrack. The detail didn't pass by Lucie unnoticed.

“What happened to your gun?”

He looked at her, lips pressed tight.

“They . . . they suspended you?”

She understood immediately and ran up to hug him.

“Oh, I don't believe it . . . and it's all my fault.”

With a sigh, Sharko caressed her back. He felt so at peace, holding her like this.

“It's not your fault. I've fucked up too many times lately.”

“Yeah, but they know about Vivonne, don't they?”

Sharko closed his eyes.

“They don't know anything about Louts's trip to Montmaison, or about Terney's theft of the Cro-Magnon.”

“So what's got you so worried?”

Sharko took a step back and massaged his temples.

“My former boss, Bertrand Manien, has been on my back since the beginning of the investigation and he's doing everything he can to make my life a living hell. Our meeting in Vivonne must have made him curious. He's like a tapeworm; he'll keep digging and find out about the two of us, last year. He'll realize I wasn't just interested in Carnot's past as a murderer. He'll find out about our relationship, and about the twins.”

Lucie's heart was pounding.

“I understand—it's very private and it's none of their business. But would it really be so bad if they knew, when you get down to it?”

The cop pulled up a chair, collapsed into it, and uncapped his beer. His jacket and shirt were wrinkled from the long day.

“We . . . they found two more bodies today.”

Lucie's eyes widened.

“Two more bodies? Tell me everything.”

The inspector took a deep breath to let out the tension of the last several hours, while Lucie unwrapped the sushi and little containers of soy sauce.

“So many things have happened . . . Basically, it all revolves around Terney's book
The Key and the Lock
. Hidden in the pages are seven genetic fingerprints. It was Daniel, the young autistic at the crime scene, who set us on the right track. Two of those fingerprints are already in the national database. The first belongs to . . . to Clara's killer.”

He expected to read more surprise in Lucie's eyes, but she remained calm, merely taking a swallow of beer in turn.

“And the second one?”

Sharko outlined the series of events that had led him to Félix Lambert. The conversation with the local gendarme, Claude Lignac; the visits to the nursery schools; the part about lactose intolerance. Lucie noticed that he was unburdening himself freely, without putting up any barriers, without holding anything back. She felt that the deeper they delved into this blackness, the more she was gradually rediscovering the man she had met the year before. Only his outer shell was dented; inside, he was still the same. He told her of his hunch, talked of the suffering he'd seen in young Lambert's eyes, of the horrible sense that some evil was gnawing at him from within. The same impression that Grégory Carnot's psychiatrist had had, before Carnot committed suicide. While he hadn't seen any upside-down drawings at Lambert's, Sharko was convinced the two men had suffered from the same mysterious illness.

After listening carefully, Lucie went to get the small brown envelope containing the photos of Stéphane Terney's crime scene, the videocassette, and the DVD. She took out the photo of the paintings in the doctor's library and handed it to Sharko.

“My turn now. I've also made some progress on my end.”

With his chopsticks, the inspector lifted a piece of sushi to his mouth, with a hint of a smile. It was the first time Lucie had seen him do that.

“Why am I not surprised?” he asked. “You're incredible.”

“Mostly, I'm a mother prepared to do anything to get at the truth.”

He looked at the photo while Lucie swallowed a piece of sushi.

“What's with these hideous paintings again?”

“You were wondering how Terney got Carnot's genetic fingerprint? He arranged it so that he was the one who delivered him, twenty-three years ago. And he took a huge number of blood tests, from which he was able to establish a DNA profile. It's as simple as that.”

In turn, she began relating her discoveries since that morning. Reims, Carnot's birthplace and the city where Terney had practiced medicine. Her visit to Colombe Hospital, Carnot's full name, and her conversation with the former nurse. The hypervascular placenta, the gleam in the gynecologist's eye at the moment of birth . . . And finally, her detour to see the doctor's first wife, who had told her of his odd behavior and given her the videotape.

Sharko handled the black plastic case with a dark look in his eyes.

“We found melted videocassettes in Terney's fireplace. They'd been hidden under the floorboards. The killer had come looking for them, which is why Terney was tortured. Unfortunately we weren't able to get anything from them.”

“Those were probably the originals. This is a copy.”

“What's on it?”

“Possibly the key to this whole case. His wife told me the original had a label on it, with the words ‘Phoenix number one.'”

Sharko ran his finger over the photo.

“Phoenix . . . The bird that's reborn from its ashes.”

“Exactly. I did some research. The phoenix has the gift of longevity and never dies. He symbolizes the cycles of death and rebirth. Legend has it that, since he didn't have a female, when he saw his time of death approaching, he ensured his posterity by setting fire to his own nest. He then perished in the flames and a new phoenix was born from the ashes. It's awful, but I couldn't help thinking of Amanda Potier and Grégory Carnot. She dies, but the child is born from her womb, after destroying the nest . . .”

“If each of these paintings has a particular meaning,” said Sharko, “we still need to figure out what the photo of the Cro-Magnon is doing there. There's obviously a reason for it . . . Those three paintings are like Terney showing off his secrets, figuring no one will be able to understand them.”

Lucie picked up the DVD.

“Come see this.”

She went into the living room and slid the disc into the computer.

“Before we start, I should tell you this takes place in the Amazon.”

“The Amazon . . . Eva Louts's trip. Don't tell me you've figured out what she was doing in Brazil?”

“Not entirely, but I'm getting there. The film lasts ten minutes. Brace yourself.”

Sharko sank into the unwholesome universe of the film. He, too, jumped when the two eyes suddenly snapped open, oozing with fever and disease. So many stabs of the knife added to the shadows, again and again.

When the documentary was over, the inspector got up with a sigh and went back to sit in the kitchen, where he picked up the VHS tape in silence. He turned it over in his hands without looking at it, his eyes seemingly caught in the void. Lucie came up to him.

“What are you thinking about?”

He was shaken.

“We can't be certain of anything, Lucie. Apart from the Amazon, there's nothing that ties Eva to those natives. Do you realize that film goes back more than forty years? There's no clear connection.”

In a troubled silence, he gobbled down sushi after sushi, not even tasting them. Lucie could see how upset he was. She moved into his field of vision.

“Of course we can be certain! It's too much of a coincidence for them
not
to be connected. We've got all we need to go on, except for one essential detail: the name of that tribe.”

“And what if we knew it? Where would that get us?”

“It would help us understand why Louts wanted to go back there, with all those names and photos from her prison visits. And a bunch of other things as well.”

Sharko noticed a frightening gleam in her ice-blue eyes. He felt she was capable of leaving everything behind and heading into that cursed jungle. He tried to regain control of their conversation; the terrain was much too slippery and dangerous.

“Let's forget about the tape for the moment and take it all from scratch, piece by piece.”

He grabbed a sheet of paper and a pencil, energized by Lucie's revelations and almost forgetting that he'd been suspended barely an hour before. The investigation still had him in its clutches, gnawing at him without his being able to resist.

“Let's put everything in order. So what do we have to work with, exactly? We need a central knot, a hub that the whole investigation turns around.”

“Terney, of course.”

“Right, Terney. Let's focus on him . . . Let's try to retrace his steps to get a clearer picture, and find the correspondences between your findings and mine. There are certainly things that will intersect and help shed light on all this. You're the one who looked into his past, so you go first.”

Lucie paced back and forth, charged like a battery. Sharko took notes as she started talking.

“I get the sense that 1984 is the beginning of the whole story. It was the year Terney met the men at the racetrack. One or both of those individuals is the man who shot the film. Without a doubt, they're the ones we need to find today, probably about the same age as Terney, since they were already adults in 1966. One of them, or maybe both, is
our
man.”

“Easy, okay? Let's not jump to conclusions too quickly. Keep going.”

“Fine. So the men meet a number of times. Terney becomes more reserved, more secretive and mysterious. Then the men give him several videotapes.”

“Why do they give him the tapes?”

“Maybe to show him what they've discovered? Make him aware of a . . . I don't know, some sort of research? Or some monstrous project they want him to be a part of? ‘Phoenix number one' sounds like an introduction. The birth of something.”

“How did the three men meet in the first place?”

Lucie answered without hesitation.

“Terney was a well-known scientist. The other two must have found
him
.”

“That sounds plausible. What next?”

“In 1986, Terney gets divorced and leaves for Reims. Right afterward, he enters into contact with Amanda Potier and becomes her gynecologist. In January '87, he delivers Grégory Carnot, while the mother dies in childbirth. Highly vascularized placenta, which contradicts the diagnosis of preeclampsia. Terney collects samples of the baby's blood. The blood has his DNA. Is the DNA hiding something? Phoenix?”

“Hold on, just a second . . . There, okay.”

“Nineteen-ninety, Terney returns to Paris. Neuilly clinic. I don't know a lot about that.”

“They're looking into it at number thirty-six. Interviewing his colleagues and friends. Unfortunately we won't have access to the info.”

“We can do without it for now. Let's move on.”

Sharko nodded.

“Okay, my turn now. Two thousand six, publication of
The Key and the Lock
, with the help of a young autistic—who by the way is never acknowledged in his book. Terney hides seven genetic fingerprints in it. Carnot, Lambert, and five others who, if they follow the pattern, must also have the same morphological and genetic characteristics.”

He fell silent for a few seconds, then added:

“Most likely seven left-handers, big, strong, and young. Lactose intolerant. Prey to bouts of sudden, extreme violence when they reach adulthood. Even if Terney didn't deliver every one of them, he probably met them when they were small. In your view, how can seven individuals present such similar characteristics?”

“Genetic manipulation? Seven mothers who unwittingly received special treatments during their pregnancy? Amanda Potier and Terney were close. He treated her as a patient. She was depressed and alone. He could have given her whatever he wanted. What's to say he didn't do the same with the other mothers? He or some other doctor? Maybe people he'd met through his lectures on preeclampsia. Why not other eugenicists? Those guys might have gotten together like a little sect.”