along the way are pure. Colors, curves, light. And then letters, sometimes words, which transcend language.
He has cast off from the shore. Floating like a baby.
6
Mercator is alone in his big empty office, as is his custom. The ebony desk is clear. The Sheaffer pen is tidied away in a drawer; the sheets of paper covered in circles are nowhere to be seen. The two lieutenants—feeling somewhat uneasy—have answered the chief’s summons.
“The orchids, incidentally . . . There were three?” he asks.
Silence.
“Laid out in a triangle on the toilet seat, correct?”
“Yes—we took some photos if you’d like . . .”
“No need. A triangle inside a circle—well, an oval to be precise, but a circle in the eyes of the person who took such pleasure in arranging them. The fact is you’ve been focused on one element of the crime scene—the most obvious one, namely the pork. But there are two. Think about it. A triangle . . . Inside a circle . . .”
“You think . . .”
“Nothing just yet. Let’s each think on our own. We’ll come back to it later. It’s still a little early to be wondering ‘aloud’. What else have we got?”
“The pathologist’s report has told us a bit more about the circumstances of Laura’s death. The cause of death was the hemorrhage brought about by roughly fifteen stab wounds to the vagina. Afterward they drained her blood into a bowl, no doubt about it, though there isn’t any trace of it. I reckon it’s the nastiest thing anyone’s ever seen. Rachel spoke to Scarpone, so I’ll hand over to her.”
“She had pig’s blood smeared on her. As a matter of fact, according to the pathologist, they tipped the blood over what was left of her vagina after killing her. To get back to the staging of it though . . . The knife was buried in a pork joint on the table. Almost like an installation, in the artistic sense—could have been titled The Punishment of Impurity or something like that. There are a lot of Jews and Muslims living in the neighborhood, a significant number of whom are fundamentalists. For both groups, this horror has a more profound meaning. It shows a desire to defile the dead woman—to kill her a second time, for eternity. The murderers assumed the right to damn her, so to speak.”
“Or to make it look like that was their intention,” Mercator says.
“Yes, indeed. But whether the killers were motivated by religion or not, there’s a paradox: Laura Vignola was not a member of either community. Yet the crime scene was intended to appeal to the imaginations of Jews or Muslims.”
“Or both . . .”
“That thought had occurred to me. And then there are her three friends . . . One comes from a family of what would appear to be Hasidic Jews, and the other two are of Muslim origin.”
“And her neighbor . . .”
Jean instantly glances over at Rachel and takes over.
“Ahmed Taroudant. Manic depressive. Frankly I can’t see him doing something like this. It doesn’t stick. We’ll investigate him, of course. And the three friends. The Jewish girl seems to have disappeared, and we’re going to meet up with the two Muslim ones when they get back from college in . . .”—he checks his watch—“half an hour.”
“Perfect. You’ve got an ‘in’ with the Hasidic Jews, I believe, and with the local mosques too. But it’s too soon to go bulldozing in. I’ve already ordered a complete blackout with regard to the crime scene. As ever that won’t last longer than a day or two. Someone from Forensics or the morgue always blabs. All it takes is for a handsome young journalist to rub a receptionist up the right way . . . Make the most of your brief head start over the media to get stuck in. You can take some time off when this is all sorted out. I’m not sure why, but I feel like these killers are within reach. Off you go!”
The two lieutenants are already out in the corridor when their chief calls them
He has cast off from the shore. Floating like a baby.
6
Mercator is alone in his big empty office, as is his custom. The ebony desk is clear. The Sheaffer pen is tidied away in a drawer; the sheets of paper covered in circles are nowhere to be seen. The two lieutenants—feeling somewhat uneasy—have answered the chief’s summons.
“The orchids, incidentally . . . There were three?” he asks.
Silence.
“Laid out in a triangle on the toilet seat, correct?”
“Yes—we took some photos if you’d like . . .”
“No need. A triangle inside a circle—well, an oval to be precise, but a circle in the eyes of the person who took such pleasure in arranging them. The fact is you’ve been focused on one element of the crime scene—the most obvious one, namely the pork. But there are two. Think about it. A triangle . . . Inside a circle . . .”
“You think . . .”
“Nothing just yet. Let’s each think on our own. We’ll come back to it later. It’s still a little early to be wondering ‘aloud’. What else have we got?”
“The pathologist’s report has told us a bit more about the circumstances of Laura’s death. The cause of death was the hemorrhage brought about by roughly fifteen stab wounds to the vagina. Afterward they drained her blood into a bowl, no doubt about it, though there isn’t any trace of it. I reckon it’s the nastiest thing anyone’s ever seen. Rachel spoke to Scarpone, so I’ll hand over to her.”
“She had pig’s blood smeared on her. As a matter of fact, according to the pathologist, they tipped the blood over what was left of her vagina after killing her. To get back to the staging of it though . . . The knife was buried in a pork joint on the table. Almost like an installation, in the artistic sense—could have been titled The Punishment of Impurity or something like that. There are a lot of Jews and Muslims living in the neighborhood, a significant number of whom are fundamentalists. For both groups, this horror has a more profound meaning. It shows a desire to defile the dead woman—to kill her a second time, for eternity. The murderers assumed the right to damn her, so to speak.”
“Or to make it look like that was their intention,” Mercator says.
“Yes, indeed. But whether the killers were motivated by religion or not, there’s a paradox: Laura Vignola was not a member of either community. Yet the crime scene was intended to appeal to the imaginations of Jews or Muslims.”
“Or both . . .”
“That thought had occurred to me. And then there are her three friends . . . One comes from a family of what would appear to be Hasidic Jews, and the other two are of Muslim origin.”
“And her neighbor . . .”
Jean instantly glances over at Rachel and takes over.
“Ahmed Taroudant. Manic depressive. Frankly I can’t see him doing something like this. It doesn’t stick. We’ll investigate him, of course. And the three friends. The Jewish girl seems to have disappeared, and we’re going to meet up with the two Muslim ones when they get back from college in . . .”—he checks his watch—“half an hour.”
“Perfect. You’ve got an ‘in’ with the Hasidic Jews, I believe, and with the local mosques too. But it’s too soon to go bulldozing in. I’ve already ordered a complete blackout with regard to the crime scene. As ever that won’t last longer than a day or two. Someone from Forensics or the morgue always blabs. All it takes is for a handsome young journalist to rub a receptionist up the right way . . . Make the most of your brief head start over the media to get stuck in. You can take some time off when this is all sorted out. I’m not sure why, but I feel like these killers are within reach. Off you go!”
The two lieutenants are already out in the corridor when their chief calls them
Similar Books
