Bred to Kill (33 page)

Saturday evening

S
harko pushed his old leather suitcase into a corner of the bedroom and reassured himself that everything was finally ready for their adventure in the Amazon. He'd been surprised how easy it was to find a tour operator through a “last-minute bookings” site. Thank you, economic crisis. Officially, he and Lucie were going on a trek—medium difficulty—up Pico da Neblina, called the “Cloud Trek.” The person on the phone had barely asked what kind of shape they were in (fortunately) and had given him a list of equipment to bring along. Sharko had paid for the ten-day expedition, including fees, food, miscellaneous costs, and insurance for two. Money spent for nothing, but no matter.

Despite the short notice, he'd tried to think of everything. Medicines, bug repellent, antiseptics, toiletry kit, knee socks for hiking, thick pants, new backpack, miner's lamp, mosquito netting . . . On the bedside table lay his passport and a printout of his e-ticket. Lucie had received hers, in an e-mail that also contained the same list of items to pack.

He had added that he was thinking of her.

She had answered that she was too.

They were to meet at the airport at 8:30 the next morning, two hours before takeoff. The tour operator would be responsible for getting the group to São Gabriel, lodging them for the night in a hotel, then guiding them down the Rio Negro toward the tallest peaks in Brazil. Except that at that point, Lucie and Sharko would split away from the group and get their own guide to lead them to the Ururu.

Just a stroll through a giant natural park
, he sighed to himself.

Finally, he headed off to bed, knowing sleep wouldn't come easily. So many shadows surrounding him. He was dying to call Lucie, hear her voice, tell her how much he missed her. He was dying to take care of her, shelter her from the storm raging in her head.

Two cursed lovers
, he thought. He had finally driven his imaginary Eugenie out of his own head, and now Lucie was picking up where he'd left off, as if this particular evil simply bounced from one person to another, without ever fading away. Sharko knew all too well the vile outlines of that hidden curse. After his daughter Eloise had died, miserable little Eugenie had begun visiting him unannounced, appearing to him off and on for more than three years, resisting every attempt to dislodge her. At first, they had probably tried to tell Lucie that her little Juliette didn't exist—or no longer existed—that she was the product of Lucie's imagination, but it had done no good: her mind blocked it out, created its own reality, and rejected anything that threatened it, setting up a wall of tantrums, denials, and refusals. And so her loved ones—her mother—had probably decided to play along, both hoping for and dreading the moment when Lucie would finally be able to confront reality.

For the reality was that Clara and Juliette were both dead, victims of Carnot's madness.

Since the beginning, Sharko had known exactly what had happened that night in late August 2009, seven days after the discovery of Clara's body in the forest. The investigation was about to break open. Thanks to cross-checks, witness statements, and composite sketches, they were on the point of arresting Grégory Carnot. Despite the hellish suffering she was going through, Lucie had followed the case, stayed with the teams. The night of the arrest, she had run upstairs with the other police, toward the small light coming from the bedroom. She had found the incinerated body on the floor—Juliette's body—and had collapsed, to wake up two days later in a hospital. Her mind had shattered. Partial amnesia due to severe psychological shock, among other ills . . . In Lucie's head, Juliette had progressively returned in the days following the tragedy.

Juliette had become a hallucination. A little ghost that only Lucie saw at certain moments, when her mind tried to remember. In the little girl's room, near the school, walking beside her.

Alone in his large bed, huddled under the blankets, Sharko felt terribly cold. Lucie, this investigation, his own demons . . . The night before, he had read Napoléon Chimaux's book, discovering for himself the violence of the Ururu, their barbarous, inhuman rituals, but also the ambition and cruelty of the book's young author. As he had written, “The chief organized a raid to capture the women of a distant tribe. They went to the place and asked the natives to teach them how to pray, using gestures and grunts. When the men knelt down and bowed their heads, they decapitated them with axes made of sharpened stone, grabbed their women, and fled.”

What were they like today? How, in forty years, had this tribe evolved in the presence of the French explorer? Internet searches hadn't turned up anything; the Ururu, like their white chief, remained a mystery, unapproachable, prey to legends and questions. He told himself once again that seeking them out might be pure folly.

But everything had already been taken from Lucie and from him.

They had nothing left to lose.

In the haziness of his thoughts, at the borderline of sleep, the inspector couldn't help thinking of Francis Ford Coppola's film
Apocalypse Now
: the viscous plunge into the bowels of human madness, showing itself more nakedly as the heroes venture deeper into the jungle. He imagined Chimaux as a kind of Colonel Kurtz, covered in blood and guts, howling to the sky and subjugating a horde of savages. He could clearly hear the word repeated at the end of the film, in that haunted, sepulchral voice:
the horror . . . the horror . . .

After a while, sounds and images blended together in his head. He was unable to tell whether he was dreaming or awake. But he started up in a fright when he heard the dull knocks at the door of his apartment. In a daze, he glanced at the alarm clock. It was exactly six in the morning. Not 6:01, not 5:59. Sharko felt his throat constrict. Six a.m. on the dot had a particular meaning, known to any police officer.

He got up, threw on a pair of pants and a T-shirt. He hid his passport and e-ticket as best he could, shoved his suitcase in the closet, and slowly walked to the door.

When he opened, not a word. Two dark silhouettes flattened him against the wall. With precise, brutal movements, they wrenched his hands behind his back and cuffed him. They waved a duly executed arrest warrant in front of his face.

Then they led him out into the rising dawn.

Charles de Gaulle Airport, Terminal 2F

T
housands of electrons gravitating around atoms of steel. Gallons of stress, billions of interconnected neurons, a compacted view of the world via huge electronic boards: Bangkok, Los Angeles, Beijing, Moscow . . .

Lucie nervously glanced at her watch next to the check-in counters. She was surrounded by adventurers of all stripes, mostly young, some of them couples, or singles out for a thrill. Twenty-two people—including her and Sharko—en route for a ten-day expedition in the heart of the jungle, watched over by Maxime, their guide. Some were already trying to chat him up, get on his good side, but Lucie's mind was elsewhere.

She had taken her place in line because the plane was due to depart in less than an hour and a quarter and Maxime had insisted. What the hell was Sharko doing? He wasn't answering his phone and hadn't sent any word. Was he having trouble with his phone? Caught in traffic? Lucie reassured herself he'd have to show up. So when it was her turn, she went ahead and put her suitcase on the scale. The attendant checked her ticket and passport, slapped a label on the brand-new duffel bag, and pushed a button. Her belongings disappeared behind strips of rubber, heading for the cargo hold.

Lucie moved apart from the group, excited and nervous, keeping to herself. A little later they heard an announcement: passengers for Manaus were kindly requested to proceed to the departure gate. Lucie crushed her coffee cup in her hand and, after a long hesitation, went up to a bank machine. She withdrew the maximum allowed on her credit card, twenty-five hundred euros. It would put her account seriously in the red, but too bad. She nervously passed through the security check, constantly turning around, scanning the crowd, craning her neck. She was still expecting a sign, a voice calling out her name. Once past the security scanner, she stood indecisively for a few more minutes, then followed the last stragglers to the departure lounge, where the stewards were already boarding passengers: her group of adventurers, simple tourists of all ages, Brazilians heading back home . . . Once more, Lucie considered dropping the whole thing and going back.

Swept forward by the flow of bodies, she moved closer to the airline personnel. She waited for the last possible instant before finally holding out her boarding pass.

There were two announcements: passenger Franck Sharko was asked to proceed immediately to Gate 43 for final boarding call. Lucie found herself still hoping and tried to make one last call before cell phones had to be switched off.

Then they closed the airplane doors.

Twenty minutes later, the Airbus A330 took off from the Paris airport. A guy of about twenty-five who looked like Tintin took advantage of the empty seat to sit next to Lucie. A clingy single man who started in about treks and camping gear. Lucie politely dismissed him.

Her forehead glued to the window, she thought to herself that she could never, ever catch a break in this miserable life.

Like Eva Louts, she was heading off to meet the savages with a huge question hanging on her lips: what could have happened to Franck Sharko to make him miss one of the most important rendezvous of his life?

T
he “interrogation rooms” at number 36 are not at all as we imagine them. No one-way mirror, no sophisticated equipment, no lie detectors. Just an absurd little garret office, in which the ceiling looks like it's about to come down on your head and the cabinets stuffed with case files press in as if to choke you.

Sharko was alone, perched on a basic wooden chair, cuffs on his wrists, facing a wall with a calendar and a small desk lamp. Manien and Leblond had let him stew for a few hours, locked in there like a caged lion. It was Sunday. The hallways were empty, and Manien had chosen an office on the administrative floor, below Homicide, ensuring that no one would bother them. No water, no coffee, no phone. Those bastards didn't respect any of the protocols. They wanted him nervous, tense, and especially they wanted him to wonder. An old cop's tactic, which forced the suspect to ask himself a thousand questions and start doubting himself.

The inspector had had enough. It was almost noon. Six hours, handcuffed, ass on this rock-hard chair, in a stifling office that stank of acrimony. He thought of Lucie and his insides twisted up. She must have tried calling his cell over and over, worried and impatient. And she had finally left for Manaus, he was sure of it.

She had ventured into the shadows on her own, without an explanation.

That idea alone drove him insane.

The two shitheads came back into the room, cigarettes dangling from their lips. They walked back and forth, slowly, without saying a word, just to show they were working his case. This time, Manien had a thick file under his arm. He put a CD on the desk and asked bluntly:

“Did you ever talk with Frédéric Hurault at Salpêtrière?”

“Talking with somebody doesn't make you a murderer.”

“Just answer the question.”

“It happened now and again.”

Manien left the room again, whispering to his colleague. They were going to toy with him, take advantage of their allotted twenty-four hours to make him sweat. Many people trapped in these offices confessed to crimes they hadn't committed. The trick was to deprive an addict of his heroin, an alcoholic of his bottle, a mother of her child. They threatened, intimidated, pushed you to the limit. Every human being has a psychological breaking point that can be reached through intimidation and humiliation.

Alone once more, Sharko stared at the CD on the desk. What was on it? Why were they asking about Salpêtrière Hospital? Why had the DA authorized his arrest? A good hour later, the two men returned with more questions, then left yet again.

Then another salvo. This time, Manien sat down opposite Sharko, across the desk, while Leblond stood near the closed door with folded arms. The moron was fiddling with a rubber band.

Manien turned on a digital recorder and tipped his chin toward the CD.

“We've got proof you killed Frédéric Hurault.”

Sharko didn't flinch. Any cop or shrink could tell you: to survive an interrogation, you had to deny and keep denying, weighing your words carefully. And never ask, What proof?

“I didn't kill him.”

Manien opened his thick folder, making sure Sharko couldn't see what it contained. The inspector nodded toward the manila cover.

“What's in there, a ream of white paper?”

Manien took out a photo and slid it toward the inspector.

“It's white enough, but it's not paper. Have a look.”

Sharko hesitated. He could refuse to cooperate, stand his ground, but he did as told. Since the moment he'd been taken into custody, Manien had been sparring with him. They both knew how it worked; they both knew that at the end of twenty-four hours, there'd be only one winner.

When he saw what was in the photo, he was overcome by violent anxiety, and his face contorted. He felt like screaming. He couldn't repress a shudder.

“I see this one got a rise out of you,” said his interrogator.

Sharko clenched his fists behind his back.

“It's a picture of two little girls drowned in a bathtub, for fuck's sake!”

Manien blew out a cloud of smoke, as if to make himself look devilish.

“Do you remember the first time we talked about Frédéric Hurault, in my office? It was last Monday.”

“I know it was last Monday.”

“Why didn't you mention that his daughters were twins?”

Sharko remembered all too clearly the apocalyptic sight from that long-ago Sunday morning in 2001. Small bodies, absolutely identical, their heads shoved under the water. He tried to remain calm, even though it felt like his nerves could shatter at any moment. Manien had found his weak spot, the bad kneecap he'd keep pressing on until it tore the ligaments. Sharko told himself that from this point on, he'd have to hold out. Just hold out.

“Why should I? Was it important? Do you really think
that'll
help you track down his killer? I can't believe you're still hitting a brick wall on this case.”

Manien turned the photo around and put it right in front of Sharko, giving the knife a further twist.

“Look at them. Pretty little blond twins, barely ten years old. Their father shoved their heads into a bathtub full of water, both of them at the same time. Just imagine the scene . . . Doesn't it remind you of anything?”

Sharko felt the storm rumbling in his head, but he kept silent. Words and phrases echoed.
We've got proof you killed Frédéric Hurault
.

Manien strung out his conclusions:

“Let's go back a year. August 2009. You flirt with a colleague from Lille, Lucie Henebelle, pretty little thing, nice-looking piece of ass. My compliments.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“She's the mother of two eight-year-olds. Twin girls. And they get themselves kidnapped right on the beach while you're sitting there having a cozy little chat with the lady.”

He intercut his sentences with long silences, watching for the slightest inflection on his suspect's face.

“They find the first body five days later in the woods, burned beyond recognition . . . Even her mother doesn't know her. And the second, found seven days after that, has suffered the same fate in the perp's house. So eight years after Hurault, here you are again, faced with the murder of twins. Except this time, it's personal. It's as personal as it can get. Crazy how fate can keep dishing it out.”

Sharko had removed himself mentally. His body remained made of stone, but inside he was boiling. How had Manien got hold of all those details? How far had he gone in violating his privacy?

“So from that point on, it's all downhill for you. No more cushy desk in Nanterre. You come back to Homicide, in my squad. You're a real wreck. You can't get over what happened, so you scrape shit from the street, because that's all you've got left. Henebelle would just as soon slit your throat as look at you. As far as she's concerned, you took away her children. And there's no way you can give them back . . .”

Sharko didn't answer. What could he say? What could he do? He contented himself with giving Manien a disgusted stare. Manien blew another cloud of smoke at him. His face was gray, emotionless.

“Sometimes, to give somebody something, you have to take from somebody else. That's what you did—you took a life. A life that deserved to rot in hell. A life that looked a lot like Grégory Carnot's. Eye for an eye, and all that.”

Sharko sighed, then stood up. He walked around a bit, cracked his neck joints. He stopped in front of the silent reptile and looked him in the eyes.

“Since we're probably going to be here for some time, couldn't you remove these cuffs?”

“Go ahead,” Manien ordered his subordinate. “He knows the rules.”

Leblond undid the cuffs. Sharko forced himself to smile.

“Thanks, that's very kind of you. And while you're at it, would you mind fetching me a cup of coffee and some water?”

“Don't push it,” were Leblond's only words before he finally left the room. Manien had also stood up. He walked to the barred window and, hands behind his back, stared out at the rooftops before resuming.

“You know, this business with the eyelash and the DNA on Hurault's clothes really had me going. A cop like you, if you committed a murder, you wouldn't leave a hair at a crime scene like that. You'd have put on a mask or a ski cap, taken all sorts of precautions.”

“So you know all you need to know. You must be looking for somebody else.”

“Unless you did it on purpose.”

He turned around suddenly, staring deep into Sharko's eyes.

“You killed someone, but you're a cop, so something way down inside you, something unconscious, told you you'd have to pay your debt. Leaving proof of your presence there was like . . . like a way of absolving yourself of the crime. You could tell yourself that if we didn't catch you, then it wasn't really your fault. But you didn't want to make it too easy. That's why you contaminated the scene the day we found the body. Given where the crime took place, you knew thirty-six would catch the case, and you wanted to stir things up a bit. Complicate our job by leaving that ambiguity about the DNA. Did you leave it there when you committed the crime, or when we found the body?”

“It's an interesting theory, but I'm not that masochistic. Why would I want to spend the rest of my life in prison?”

Manien smiled. He went over to the desk drawer and pulled out Sharko's Smith & Wesson, bagged and unloaded, which he waved in front of him.

“Hence the gun, with just one bullet in the chamber.”

Sharko felt like ramming his head into the other man's nose. Manien kept at it:

“You bought it last March in a gun shop in the sixth, according to your bank statement. You do Hurault, and if the law catches up with you, you off yourself. Because deep down, you want to die; it's just that you don't have the balls to do it on your own. You'd have to be cornered like a wild beast. There'd have to be no other way out.”

“You're crazy.”

“Except, Henebelle has now come back into your life. And that's changed everything, because now you don't want to die anymore. Now you've got just one thing on your mind: to figure a way out of this mess.”

Sharko shrugged.

“For the Smith and Wesson, I was planning on joining a firing range. You can check it out. The bullet in the chamber came from a box of cartridges that you must also have found in my closet. So I didn't take it out—so what? People forget things sometimes, don't they? Your explanation's a real corker, but it'll never stand up in court. You've got nothing against me, no material proof, no witnesses. You've hit a dead end, and that's why you're making such a hash of this. You play at intimidation, even if it means screwing up procedures and your career along with them. It's so delicate going after a cop from thirty-six . . .”

Sharko sat back down on his chair.

“It's either you or me—the DA must have told you that, right?”

“None of your business what the DA said.”

“If you're still empty-handed tomorrow morning at six, I'll be in a position to fuck you both.”

Manien's jaws clenched.

“Yeah, you'll be in a position.”

The squad leader ripped the cups from Leblond, who had just returned, and slammed them on the desk. Half the water spilled on the inspector's knees. Manien snatched up his folder and headed straight for the door.

“Except you'll never be in that position. Because the proof we've got is on that CD right there in front of you. And to show we're not panicking and we're confident of our case, we won't come back to see you until late tonight, for the kill. So until then, you can just stew in your own lousy juice.”