Bred to Kill (7 page)

O
nce the door of the Homicide office had closed behind him, the inspector found himself opposite two men, Bertrand Manien and his right arm, Marc Leblond. One was seated, stiff as a rod, the other casually leaning against the rear window that looked out on the Seine. The atmosphere was tense, the furniture from another era.

“Have a seat, Franck.”

Sharko took a seat. Rudimentary wooden chair: his ass hurt and his bones ached. Too thin, way too thin. Normally that room, arranged as an open space, held an average of five or six officers working at their computers. Now, either the men were in the field or they'd been told to vacate the premises long enough for the “interview.” Marc Leblond walked toward Manien and sat down in turn. Tall guy, also thin, about forty, never seen without his cowboy boots or pack of generic cigarettes. Face like a reptile, narrow eyes that shone with malice. Before Homicide, he'd pulled five years in Vice, cuffing prostitutes and sometimes helping himself to the fringe benefits. Sharko had never liked him, and the feeling was mutual.

The blond reptile fired first. Hoarse voice that brooked no argument: the guy was enjoying the situation.

“Tell us about Frédéric Hurault.”

Frédéric Hurault. The murder victim found in his car in Vincennes. Facing the two cops, Sharko adopted a falsely relaxed posture. Arms folded, slouching a bit in his chair: he was in his former office, no more, no less.

“What do you want to know?”

“How you nabbed him, and when.”

The inspector knit his brow. He tried to stand up, but Bertrand Manien leaned over the desk and pressed down on his shoulder.

“Sit a while,
Chief Inspector
, what's your hurry? For two days we've been drawing blanks on this case. No witnesses, no apparent motive. Hurault wasn't big on whores—he couldn't even get it up anymore with all the meds they'd shot into him at the psych hospital. So what was it, a date? A sudden impulse? But why there, in such a secluded spot? So you see, we've hit a dead end for the moment.”

“You fired me from your team, and now you want my help?”

“I did you a favor by letting you go, didn't I? It was . . . how shall I put it, one good turn for another. Listen, this killer isn't exactly your average moron. We're only asking questions that will help us make headway. You're the one who hunted down Hurault, back when. You're the one who put him away. You know the guy—who he is, who he hangs out with.”

“There are files full of that stuff.”

“Files are heavy and dusty. Nothing beats a good face-to-face. We'd appreciate it if
you
gave us the pertinent info. Soon all my men might be on that monkey thing, and I have to show results on this case no one gives a shit about, you understand?”

Sharko regained his calm.

“Not much to say that you don't already know. It was the early 2000s. Hurault had recently divorced after about a dozen years of marriage, at his wife's instigation. The divorce was messy—Hurault didn't appreciate being left. He was about thirty, a worker at Firestone. Lived in a small apartment in Bourg-la-Reine. The day of the incident, he had custody of his daughters for the weekend.”

The cop swallowed, took a breath, tried to keep his voice neutral, emotionless. Still, he had never forgotten the horrors he'd seen that day, on the fourth floor of that nondescript apartment building.

“The little girls were found by their mother on Sunday evening. They were in their pajamas, drowned in the bathtub. You want me to describe the scene for you?”

“No need.”

“Through his bank records, we traced Hurault two weeks later to Madrid, in some fleabag hotel. He claimed he'd gone temporarily insane when he committed the crime, and that he didn't remember killing the kids. The psychiatric expert testified that he'd suffered a psychotic episode brought about by the strain of his divorce. When he saw the bodies drowned in the tub, he panicked and fled. His lawyers cited Article 122.1 of the Penal Code, the clauses about not being responsible. After a long, drawn-out trial, they got their way. Sainte-Anne psychiatric hospital, for an indeterminate amount of time. After that the mother made several suicide attempts. She's never gotten over it.”

Manien fiddled with a ballpoint pen, not once taking his eyes off Sharko. His movements were nervous, staccato.

“And what did you think? Did you feel he was responsible?”

“What I felt didn't count for much. I'd done my job. The rest wasn't my business.”

“Not your business? And yet you were seen at the trial. A trial you followed closely, as if you were personally involved.”

“I've often sat in on the trials for my larger cases. And I was on vacation.”

“When I'm on vacation, I go fishing or to the mountains.”

He turned to Leblond.

“What about you?”

The reptile just stretched his lips in a grimace, without answering. Manien turned back toward Sharko, looking a bit more relaxed, even a bit mocking.

“And you prefer to go watch trials. Whatever gets you off, I suppose. Did you know of any enemies Hurault might have had?”

“You mean aside from every parent in France?”

Silence. Eyes gauging each other. Manien dropped his pen and leaned forward, fist under his chin.

“Did you know he was out?”

Sharko's reply, frank and without hesitation:

“Sure. A few years ago he'd been transferred to La Salpêtrière, to prepare him for his eventual release. I'd been in treatment there for several months. You know what for, I presume.”

Leblond gave an unpleasant smile.

“Did you run into each other over there?”

“In the padded cell, you mean?”

“Don't take it like that. You're looking awfully nervous.”

Sharko rubbed his forehead. The sun had been beating on the window all day; humidity had seeped into the walls like ringworm. The old impregnated odors oozed from all sides: cigarettes, sweat, worn-out wood. It stank of men.

“No, ya think?” he retorted to the reptile. “You were still scooping out army latrines when I was already doing exactly what you're doing now. Putting guys on the grill. What do you take me for, an idiot? Are you trying to trip me up? Make my life miserable just because I knew the victim? Why, because I did everything I could to get assigned to another squad?”

“Can the paranoia. We're just asking for your help. We're all friends here,
Chief
Inspector
, don't forget. So—did you run into each other at La Salpêtrière?”

“It happened once in a while. We were being treated in nearby departments.”

“And did you see Hurault after he got out?”

“Two days ago, in the Vincennes woods. Not looking too hot.”

“You aren't looking too hot yourself,” went the reptile. “Since you lost your wife and daughter, you've been seeing little blue devils all over the place. I can't understand why they allow head cases to stay on the force.”

It took barely a second for Sharko to leap from his seat and throw himself on Leblond. The two masses of bone and muscle slammed violently against a partition, sending a tray of paperwork flying. A chair fell over. His face tense, Manien managed to separate the two men before they came to blows.

“Cut it out, goddammit! What the hell's the matter with you?”

Hateful looks, saliva on lips, veins bulging. Finally, each man sat back down. Sharko could feel his temples pounding, his blood boiling. Leblond went to light a cigarette at the open window while Manien cooled things down, at least on the surface.

“Don't mind him. All that stuff people say about you drives you out of your gourd, that's understandable. You were a chief inspector, nice and comfy, and now you're back shoveling shit. If I were in your shoes, I'd act the same.”

“You're not in my shoes.”

Manien ignored the remark and continued working on Sharko.

“So, since the hospital, you never saw Frédéric Hurault again until Saturday.”

“Unless my memory's faulty, no. But you know, Bourg-la-Reine and L'Haÿ-les-Roses are pretty close. It's not impossible that I passed by him one day without really noticing. You always said I was capable of forgetting where I'd left my piece.”

Manien turned toward Leblond, pondered him with amusement, then struck a still calmer pose. He was almost smiling.

“Without really noticing . . . okay. Let's get to the real reason for you being here. You know we found an eyelash on the victim's clothes?”

“No, I didn't. It's not my case.”

“It's so hard to avoid leaving
any
traces of oneself, with all our technical know-how. I'd even say it's become impossible. Wouldn't you say so? Skin cells, sweat, flakes, fingerprints . . .”

“So what?”

“The DNA we extracted from the eyelash was fed through the national database. We got a match. If we were basing our case on science alone, leaving aside our instincts as cops, we could say we'd got our man.”

“That DNA wouldn't happen to be mine, would it?” Sharko saw Manien's throat tighten, his eyelid quiver. “That's exactly why our info is now in the database, too,” he added. “We too are contaminants of the crime scene. It happens all the time, and it's going to happen again in that monkey case I'm working on. DNA from the first responder cops, from the chimp, the animal keeper, the primatologist. Tons of fingerprints on the bars of the cage. Shit, you didn't drag me over here just to accuse me, did you? What's your point? To fuck up the few years I have left in this joint?”

Manien hesitated for a moment, before regaining confidence.

“That has nothing to do with it. The problem is the way you conducted yourself on the crime scene. You manhandle the body, you get all over everything. Were you out to pollute the scene so they couldn't find the killer? Or did you just want to break my balls and make sure I'd can you? Be honest,
Chief Inspector
, and don't forget we work in the same shop.”

“I hadn't slept a wink. I had a hundred things on my mind. The car window was wide open, and I wanted to see what kind of clown would go hang around that area at night. I leaned inside the car. I forgot to take precautions. I fucked up.”

At the back of the room, Leblond was silently blowing smoke out the window, one foot flat against the wall. Manien returned to the charge:

“You know, the guy who offed him in cold blood might not have been wearing a face mask . . . He probably wanted Hurault to see his face just as he shoved the screwdriver into his guts. Because . . . I don't know, because maybe he wanted to show him he hadn't forgotten, that he knew he was responsible for his actions? Thanks to the noncompetency ruling, Hurault served only nine years in psych; he would have spent at least twice that in the slammer if he'd confessed. Cops like us hate people like that, because they make us feel we're doing all that work for nothing. What do you think?”

Sharko shrugged. But Manien wouldn't let it drop.

“A little more than a year ago, you were still a behavioral analyst. You must have
some
answer.”

“There are other analysts who are still active. Go ask them.”

Sharko looked at his watch, then stood up, gently this time.

“I've put in almost thirty years in my career. Thirty flippin' years of good and loyal service, locking up guys ten times worse than Hurault. I sweated out this job like you'll never know, no matter how much shit you've seen. And you, you get it into your head to have my hide. You're out to destroy me the way you've already destroyed so many others. Apart from the DNA from the contaminated crime scene, you don't have squat against me. I crapped all over your crime scene, so why don't you report me to Internal Affairs? Is it because they can't stand you either? Maybe because you've already been too heavy-handed with suspects and even with your own colleagues? I already know you're going to keep after this; you're worse than a tapeworm. Are you really that bored?”

He leaned toward the desk, his face just inches from Manien's.

“I'm going to say this once and for all: I had nothing to do with Hurault's death. I'm a cop, just like you. I came back to Homicide because I was climbing the walls at my desk job in Nanterre, simple as that. And in case you still have any doubts, I've got a little piece of advice for you—you and that other moron over there: watch where you stick your flat feet.”

“
You
watch. I need to find the guilty party, and you can bet I'm going to find him.”

As Sharko was walking away, Manien added:

“For now, this business stays between us. Nobody else knows about it. As for the DNA—the contaminant, like you said—piece of cake. I'm not out to cause you any trouble about that. You see how we're looking out for your interests?”

Sharko went out, slamming the door behind him, and walked quickly to the water cooler at the end of the hallway. He needed water, with a coffee chaser. Strong, black, and full of caffeine this time.

Gripping a plastic cup, he veered toward his desk, where Levallois was sitting. Outside, on the roofs of the buildings, the setting sun spread its gilded pigments. In that unbearable humidity, Sharko set down his hot drink and dropped into a desk chair, beat. The day, and that kangaroo interrogation, had sapped him of the little energy he had.

He nodded toward a leave of absence slip.

“Give me one of those, I'm taking a day off.”

“Anything wrong? What happened with Manien?”

“Oh, nothing. I just need sleep, sleep, and more sleep.”

Levallois passed him the form, which Sharko filled out sloppily. Bellanger, his boss, would find the request on his desk when he got back that evening or the next morning. He'd probably pitch a fit, but too bad: it was the least of his worries.