René cringed at the life-like portrayal of these diseased body parts. The wood floors creaked and a stale smell emanated from the showcases.
A sign informed the visitor that Baretta, a shop owner in the Passage Jouffrey, who made casts of fruit to display his produce, had been discovered by a dermatology doctor who used Baretta’s skills to document skin diseases. So helpful was Baretta that the museum still displayed more than 2000 of his casts documenting every form of skin disease on every body part imaginable.
Finally, René located Dr. Serge Leaud, full black beard over a rosy complexion, standing on a podium before a screen, pointing at slides. An audience of a hundred or so men and women sat on folding chairs surrounded by the glass showcases. Many wore white labcoats and some, René figured, were medical students.
Léaud indicated a slide on the screen, showing a purplish and yellow lesion. “Here’s an excellent example of the small ulcer, less than a centimeter, another manifestation of the various infectious complications of intravenous drug usage. In this case, an ulcer has developed as a consequence of a throm-boembolic event associated with bacterial endocarditis. Of course, I’m sure you remember the cutaneous ulceration and destruction of the underlying tissue so reminiscent of the profound heart valve damage due to the antibiotic-resistant organisms we observed this morning.”
René suppressed a groan. He pulled the laptop from his bag, averted his eyes from the screen, and did some work.
Finally, Léaud finished and the group of students surrounding him dispersed. René stood and smiled at him. Serge returned the smile, motioning toward a side chamber with a lowered ceiling and even more lighted displays. More intimate and quiet.
“Riveting stuff, Serge.”
Serge nodded. “It’s a little-known killer. In the morgue, we’ve seen only three incidents of this in the past thirty-five years. But last month, an ulcer reached a woman’s varicose vein.” He snapped his fingers. “Bled out like that.”
“Fascinating, Serge, but I’m short on time. Did Aimée tell you . . .”
“You didn’t hear this from me,” Serge interrupted, looking around and lowering his voice. “If you repeat it, I’ll deny every word.”
“Deny what?”
“The Dolet autopsy findings,” he said. “I assisted. Saw most of the preliminary examination. But the final pathology reports take time. All the other Beast of Bastille victims’ autopsy findings, according to the attached police report, were consistent. Only Dolet’s evidenced nothing of a sexual nature. But then, maybe he was interrupted.”
Serge moved toward a window facing a display of syphilitic noses and leprous, misshapen ears. René winced but followed, as Serge tamped the end of a nonfiltered Gauloise and lit up.
“That can kill you,” said René.
“So my wife tells me,” Serge said. He glanced at his wrist, a red Mickey Mouse watch with a EuroDisney strap on it. “A birthday present from my twins,” he said, in explanation.
“We know the victims ranged from twentysomething to fortysomething blondes living in the Bastille. Party types,” said René. “Vaduz waited in the passages they lived in or walked through, slipped in the door behind them, and attacked.”
Serge nodded. “Not the most innovative or original serial killer. Boring but consistent. He did it every time. The DNA was monumental.”
“So what distinguished Josiane Dolet from the Beast of Bastille’s victims? That’s what I need to know,” said René. “What made her different from the others, the serial victims.”
Serge buttoned his pea-coat, lifted his briefcase. “According to the Préfet, we don’t have serial killers in France. That’s an American phenomenon.”
“What do you call Polin and his predilection for slicing up old ladies in Montmartre?” asked René.
Serge grinned. “We called him an old lady killer.”
“So how did Vaduz get released?”
“Technicality. Verges, his lawyer, knows the game. And how to play it after a flic makes a procedural error. This Verges, known as a big civil liberties crusader, moves in the lofty Lefty circles.”
René remembered what Aimée had asked. “Were the autopsy details released to the public?”
Serge shook his head, puffing away. “Never. That’s why it was so hard to nail him. The flics didn’t enlist the public’s help until the last murder. The one before Dolet’s, that is. It was only then the newspapers put it together, labeling him the Beast of Bastille, saying he killed women in the passages. The next day they found him. But no thanks to whoever routed the file to the wrong arrondissement.”
“Like Aimée says, Napoleon’s centralization of the military, police, and administration decentralized their power. But it bolstered his. They couldn’t overthrow him,” said René. “And still couldn’t today.”
“We let Waterloo and the Russian winter do that,” Serge said.
“When did Vaduz die in the car crash?” René asked, as Serge edged toward the door.
“He’s dead, what does it matter?”
“That’s just it,” René said, wishing Serge would slow down. His hip hurt again. “If Vaduz stole the car and died before Aimée and Dolet were attacked, it’s proof he couldn’t have attacked them. Even if he died later, but before Aimée was attacked in the residence, we’d know there was another culprit.”
René had followed Serge out under the colonnades, glad to escape the musty musée and its contents.
“She didn’t tell me about that.” He shrugged. “I asked around. The dossier’s been moved. Seems they found Vaduz like steak tartare, mostly raw and scattered, his edges burnt when the engine caught fire. They cremated whatever bits were left.”
René winced.
“Serge, you have to find out,” he said.
How did they do it on those TV shows? They always had some clever way to obtain information. All he could think of was mundane.
“Can’t you find out what time they delivered Vaduz to the morgue? Someone must have logged it.”
He was guessing but in a bureaucratic system one needed a signed, stamped certificate for everything, and even more so in the police.
A breeze laced with damp leaves from nearby Canal Saint Martin wafted under the stone arches to them.
“I want to help, René, but I’m late for the lab,” Serge said. “Alors, tonight’s our wedding anniversary, my mother-in-law’s coming to babysit. If I’m late they’ll both shoot me.”
René racked his brain. What could he do?
“Look, Serge, when you leave the morgue can’t you go out the back?” René said. “Through the gate used by the vans and ambulances. On your way, have a brief chat with the drivers, the men who unload bodies. Say you’re just wondering about something and check their log. It will only take a minute, then you’re on your way home. I’ll meet you outside.”
“How bad is Aimée?”
She must not have told him.
“She’s blind, Serge.”
René saw anger in Serge’s eyes.
“See you at five.”
RENÉ STOPPED at Leduc Detective to check the mail and messages. He needed to get some work done, rack up some billable hours, and honor their security contracts. Someone had to keep their income coming in. And he worried, as he had since Aimée’s attack, about how they could make things work now. Or if they could.