Syndrome E Page 2

  “You’re the only one we have left around here. And they’ve got wives and kids…Shit, Franck, you know how it is.”

  The silence weighed on them like lead. A wife, children. Beach balls on the sand, laughter lost in the waves. All that was so hazy and far away now. Sharko turned his face toward the real-time animation of the activity in his brain, a fifty-something-year-old organ full of shadows. He jerked his chin, inviting Leclerc to follow the movement of his eyes. Despite the absence of speech, the green area on the upper part of the gyrus was glowing.

  “If it’s lighting up, it means she’s talking to me at this very moment.”

  “Eugenie?”

  Sharko grunted. Leclerc felt a chill. To see his chief inspector’s meninges react to speech like this, when you couldn’t even hear a fly buzzing, made him feel like there was a ghost in the room.

  “What’s she saying?”

  “She wants me to buy a pint of cocktail sauce and some candied chestnuts next time I go shopping. She loves those miserable chestnuts. Excuse me a second…”

  Sharko closed his eyes, lips pressed tight. Eugenie was someone he might see and hear at any moment. On the passenger seat of his old Renault. At night when he went to bed. Sitting cross-legged, watching the mini-gauge trains run around the tracks. Two years earlier, Eugenie had often shown up with a black man, Willy, a huge smoker of Camels and pot. A real mean son of a bitch, much worse than the little girl because he talked loud and tended to gesticulate wildly. Thanks to the treatment, the Rasta had disappeared for good, but the other one, the girl, came and went as she pleased, resistant as a virus.

  On the Mac screen, the green area continued to pulsate for several seconds, then gradually faded. Sharko opened his eyes. He stared at his boss with a weary smile.

  “You’re going to have to get rid of your chief inspector someday, seeing him talk such crap.”

  “You’re dealing with your problems and they haven’t kept you from doing your job. I’d even say you’re sometimes better at it.”

  “Yeah, try telling that to Josselin. The guy never lets up busting my chops. I think he’s got it in for me.”

  “That’s always how it is with a new boss. All they care about is cleaning house.”

  Dr. Bertowski, of the psychiatric department at La Salpêtrière Hospital, finally arrived, flanked by his neuroanatomist.

  “Shall we get started, Mr. Sharko?”

  “Mr. Sharko”—it rang funny, since “Sharko” sounded like the name of an advanced form of muscular atrophy: Charcot’s disease. As if all the world’s illnesses were his doing.

  “Let’s.”

  Bertowski leafed through his ever-present file.

  “The episodes of paranoid persecution have become pretty scarce, from what I see here. Just a few lingering traces of distrust—that’s very good. And your visions?”

  “They’ve come back full force, maybe because I’ve been cooped up in my apartment. Not a day goes by without a visit from Eugenie. Most of the time she just sits around for two or three minutes, but she’s kind of a pill. I can’t tell you how many pounds of candied chestnuts she’s made me buy since our last session.”

  Leclerc withdrew to the back of the room while they removed Sharko’s hood.

  “Have you been under a lot of stress lately?” the doctor asked.

  “The heat, mostly.”

  “Your job doesn’t help matters. We’re going to shorten the time between sessions. Every three weeks seems a good compromise.”

  After immobilizing his head with two white straps, the neuroanatomist moved a figure eight–shaped instrument toward the crest of his skull—a coil that delivered magnetic impulses to a very precise area of the encephalon, so that the targeted neurons, like micromagnets, would react and rearrange themselves. Transcranial magnetic stimulation allowed them to attenuate, even eradicate, the hallucinations related to schizophrenia. The main difficulty was, of course, to target the right spot, as the area in question measured only a few centimeters, and being off by even a millimeter could make the patient start meowing or reciting the alphabet backward for the rest of his life.

  Sharko lay there, a blindfold over his eyes, with just one order: don’t move a hair. The only sound was the crackle of small magnetic pulses emitted at the frequency of one hertz. He didn’t feel any pain, not the slightest discomfort, just the profound anxiety of knowing that, ten years earlier, they would have been treating him with electroshocks.

  The session ended without incident. Twelve hundred pulses—or about twenty minutes—later, Sharko stood up, his muscles feeling a bit numb. He readjusted his spotless shirt and ran a hand through his brush-cut black hair. He was sweating. The sweltering heat of the hospital and the slight pudginess caused by Zyprexa didn’t help. At the beginning of July, even the air-conditioning had trouble overcoming the hellish temperature outside.

  Sharko jotted down his next appointment, thanked his psychiatrist, and left the room.

  He joined Leclerc at the coffee machine at the end of the hallway. The Violent Crimes chief felt like having a cigarette; those few minutes of observation had worn him out.

  “That really gave me the willies, seeing them play with your head like that.”

  “Just routine. It’s like sitting under the dryer at the hairdresser’s for a perm.”

  Sharko smiled and raised the plastic cup to his lips.

  “So go on. Tell me about the case.”

  The two men walked slowly.

  “Five bodies, buried about six feet underground. Not a pretty sight. From what we know so far, four of them badly worm-eaten, the fifth in relatively good shape. All five missing the tops of their skulls, as if they’d been sawed off.”

  “What do the local cops make of it?”

  “What do you think? They’re in this provincial little town where the biggest crime up to now is not sorting your trash. The bodies must go back weeks, if not months. They’re in it up to their necks, and the investigation is likely to get complicated. They could probably use a psychological leg up. Do what you usually do, no more, no less. You gather info, talk to who you gotta talk to, and after that we’ll handle it in Nanterre. Two, three days, tops. Then you can get back to your miniature trains and go about your business. And I’ll do the same. I don’t want this to drag on. I need to go away pretty soon.”

  “Are you and Kathia going on holiday?”

  Leclerc’s lips made a thin line.

  “I don’t know yet. It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On a bunch of things that aren’t anyone’s business.”

  Sharko didn’t push it. When they exited the hospital doors, a wave of heat crashed over them. His hands in the pockets of his linen trousers, the chief inspector looked back at the long, white stone building, its dome sparkling in the implacable sun. The establishment had become his second home these past few years, after the squad room.

  “I’m a bit nervous about going out there again. All that seems so far away.”

  “You’ll get used to it pretty fast.”

  Sharko remained silent for a moment, apparently weighing the pros and cons, then shrugged.

  “Fuck it. Why not? I’m starting to look like a chair from spending so much time on my ass. Tell them I’ll be there midafternoon.”

  4

  Lucie was just finishing her coffee in the waiting room of Salengro Hospital when the attending physician in charge of Ludovic Sénéchal walked up to her. He was the tall, dark sort, with fine features and nice teeth, the kind of guy she might have crushed on in other circumstances. On his oversized scrubs she could read DR. L. TOURNELLE.

  “So, Doctor?”

  “No visible injuries, no scabs to indicate trauma. The ophthalmological tests didn’t show anything abnormal. Ocular mobility, retinal exam—it’s all good. His photomotor reflexes and pupil contraction are as they should be. That said, Ludovic Sénéchal can’t see a thing.”

  “So then what’s wrong with him?�
��

  “We’re going to run some more tests, especially an MRI to make sure he doesn’t have a brain tumor.”

  “Can a tumor make you blind?”

  “If it’s pressing on the optic nerve, sure.”

  Lucie swallowed hard. Ludovic was no more than a memory, but even so they’d spent seven months of their lives together.

  “Is it treatable?”

  “It depends—on the size, the position, if it’s malignant or benign. I’d rather not say anything before we do the scan. You can go see your friend if you like. Room 208.”

  The doctor gave her a firm handshake and quickly strode away. Lucie didn’t have the strength to take the stairs and instead waited for the elevator. Between the tears and the vomiting, her two sleepless nights in the pediatrics ward had drained her. Lucky that her mother was able to take over in the daytime so she could get some rest.

  After knocking softly at the door, she entered Ludovic’s room. He was lying on his bed with a fixed stare. Lucie felt a lump in her throat. He hadn’t changed…Hairline receded a bit, of course, but he still had the features of the mature man with the soft, round face that had first made her fall for him on the Web.

  “It’s Lucie…”

  He turned toward her. His pupils didn’t look at her directly but instead aimed at the wall just beside her. Lucie shivered and rubbed her arms. Ludovic tried to smile.

  “You can come closer—I’m not contagious.”

  Lucie stepped forward and took his hand.

  “It’ll be okay.”

  “It’s funny I dialed your number, isn’t it? It could have been anybody.”

  “It’s also funny that I happened to be in the neighborhood. At the moment, hospitals and I are old pals.”

  She explained about Juliette. Ludovic had known the twins, who were very fond of him. Lucie felt nervous, thinking of the horror that might have been growing in the head of her ex.

  “They’ll find what’s wrong.”

  “I suppose they told you about the tumor?”

  “It’s just a theory.”

  “There is no tumor, Lucie. It’s because of the film.”

  “What film?”

  “The one with the little white circle. The one I found yesterday at a collector’s. It was…”

  Lucie noticed his fingers clutching the sheets.

  “It was weird.”

  “Weird how?”

  “Weird enough to make me lose my sight, for Christ’s sake!”

  He had shouted. Now he was trembling. He felt around him and gripped his visitor’s hand.

  “I’m sure it was this film the owner was looking for in his attic. He broke his skull as he was climbing the ladder. Something must have…I don’t know, made him need to climb up those steep rungs to watch it.”

  Lucie sensed he was on the verge of a breakdown. She hated seeing friends or loved ones in distress.

  “Why don’t I have a look at this film?”

  He shook his head energetically.

  “No, no. I don’t want you to—”

  “What, go blind? Can you tell me how simple images projected on a screen can make me blind?”

  No answer.

  “Is the reel still on the projector?”

  After a silence, Ludovic finally gave in.

  “Yes. You just have to follow a few steps, the way I showed you. Do you remember?”

  “Yes—with A Touch of Evil, I think.”

  “Touch of Evil…Orson Welles…”

  He sank into a pained sigh. Tears had run down his cheeks. He pointed a finger at the void.

  “My wallet must be on the nightstand. There are some business cards inside. Take the one with the name Claude Poignet. He restores old films, and I want you to bring him the reel. I want him to look it over, all right? I want to know where that footage comes from. And take the want ad—it has the name and address of the collector’s son. Luc Szpilman.”

  “What do you want me to do with it?”

  “Take it…take it all. You want to help me? Then help me, Lucie.”

  Lucie let out a silent sigh. She opened the wallet and took out the card and newspaper ad.

  “Okay, done.”

  He seemed more at peace. He was now sitting up, feet resting on the floor.

  “Aside from all this, Lucie, how are you?”

  “Same old, same old. Still just as many murders and assaults. No danger of running out of work in the police.”

  “I meant you, not the job.”

  “Me? Oh, well…”

  “Skip it. We’ll talk later.”

  He held out the keys to his house and tightly squeezed her wrist. Lucie shivered when he stared straight into her eyes, his face mere inches from hers.

  “Watch out for that film.”

  5

  Midafternoon, Notre-Dame-de-Gravenchon. A small, picturesque town lost somewhere in the Seine-Maritime region. Cute shops, peace and quiet, greenery and fields as far as you could see, if you were facing in the right direction. Because if you looked southwest, not a mile distant the banks of the Seine were obstructed by a kind of giant steel vessel, which spewed so much grayish smoke and gas effluvia that it discolored the sky.

  Sharko headed where he’d earlier been told by the police lieutenant, whom he was now hoping to find on site. Even though the bodies had been removed the day before—it had taken them a good day to dig them out of the ground without contaminating the crime scene, a real archaeology job—the chief inspector liked to trace his cases back to the start. Three hours on the road, with the sun smacking him in the face, had set him on edge—especially since he’d pretty much stopped driving years ago. These days he mainly took public transportation.

  A road sign up ahead. He veered off, crossing the Port-Jérôme industrial zone with his windows shut and the AC going full blast. Even so, the air smelled viscous, heavy with metal shavings and acid. Here, embedded in nature, the big names parceled out the empire of fossil fuels and oils. Total, Exxon Mobil, Air Liquide. The inspector drove nearly two miles in this magma of smokestacks, finally crossing past it into a quieter area, a full-on industrial wasteland. Frozen bulldozers shredded the landscape. He parked just short of the construction site, got out, and loosened his shirt collar. To hell with his jacket—he abandoned it on the passenger seat, along with the sports bag that contained his effects for the hotel. He stretched his legs, which cracked when he bent them.

  “Jesus…”

  He slipped on his sunglasses, one arm of which had been reattached with glue, and took in his surroundings. The Seine on the right, a haze of trees to the left, the industrial site behind. Over it all reigned a vast impression of emptiness and abandonment. Not a house to be seen, just unused roads and barren lots. It was as if the area were dead, scorched by the fires of heaven.

  In front of him, farther down, two or three men in hard hats were chatting. At their feet, a wide ocher scar split the earth in two, stretching along the riverbank for miles. It stopped dead right where the yellow-and-black tape of the national police flapped limply in the breeze. The air smelled of warm clay and humidity.

  The cop immediately spotted his colleague from Rouen waiting for him, just from the holster on his belt. His piece shone in the sun like a beacon. The guy disappeared into a pair of low-waisted jeans, a black tee, and old canvas shoes. Dark, tall, lean; twenty-five, twenty-six at most. He was talking with a cameraman and what looked like a reporter. Sharko pushed his shades back into his short hair and showed his ID.

  “Lucas Poirier?”

  “You the profiler from Paris? Nice to meet you.”

  It would have taken too long to get into details and explain that his job, all things considered, had very little to do with profiling.

  “Call me Sharko. Or Shark. No first and last names, no rank.”

  “I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, but I can’t do that.”

  The newswoman came closer.

  “Chief Inspector Sharko, we’ve been told about your
visit and—”

  “At the risk of seeming rude, kindly take your cameraman and get lost.”

  He gave her his darkest stare. Journalists were one thing he couldn’t abide. The woman retreated a few paces, but nonetheless told her partner to get some footage. They’d no doubt cobble together some bit of fluff, with lots of continuity shots, stressing the fact that a real, live profiler was on the case. It would be a sensation.

  Sharko pushed them farther away with his eyes and turned to Poirier.

  “Do you know if my hotel room has been reserved? Who takes care of that at your place?”

  “Umm, I have no idea. Probably the—”

  “I want a large one, with a bathtub.”

  Poirier nodded, like most people from whom Sharko demanded something. The chief inspector gazed over his surroundings again.

  “Right, let’s not waste time. Explain the situation?”

  The young lieutenant downed most of the mini water bottle he held in his hand and waved toward the Algeco prefab in the background.

  “The site started up last month. They’re building a pipeline to carry chemical products from the factory in Gonfreville to the Exxon refinery over there. Twenty miles of underground piping. They had only about five or six hundred yards to go, but with what they’ve just dug up the work’s been shut down for now. They’re not happy about it, and that’s putting it mildly.”

  In the distance, a man in a tie—probably the site foreman—was pacing back and forth nonstop, cell phone glued to his ear. This kind of discovery must have been the last thing he was expecting. Even though he had no control over it, the poor slob still had to account to Financial.

  Sharko mopped his brow with a handkerchief. Wide circles had formed under his arms. Poirier started to walk to the scene.

  “Over there’s where the workmen found them. Five bodies, buried six feet under. The backhoe operator didn’t do too much damage—he stopped the minute he saw an arm appear.”

  Sharko ducked under the boundary tape and walked to the edge of the deep trench. He turned his face away, wrinkling his nose. Poirier stood next to him, nostrils buried in his T-shirt.