Dead Bishops Don't Lie, page 3
“Inspector Dulac?”
“Yes?”
“My name is André Beaulieu, the new head of Interpol Research in Lyon. We have the initial report from our computer search.”
“And?”
“We’ve searched for all possible links with known groups, including Al Qaeda, and can’t find a pattern or link. We don’t have anything on recent crucifixions, but it’s a method of execution in Sudan and Iran. Also, the ‘Ndrangheta mafia has been known to crucify traitors.”
“I doubt the archbishop qualifies.”
“Just a minute,” said Beaulieu, “Mr. Harris is on the line. He wants a word with you.”
Mr. Harris! Yes, this guy is really new. Dulac cringed. The last person he wanted to talk to was Richard Harris, the General Secretary, a.k.a. his boss.
“So Dulac, quid?”
Dulac hated Harris’s sophomoric use of grammar-school Latin, but played along. “Nihil habemus.”
“What?”
“We have nothing, yet.”
“Any word from the coroner?”
“We have his prelim, which only gives us time and cause of death. We can’t do much until we have his final.”
“How long?”
“If we’re lucky, a week.”
“Then let the Swiss carry the ball.”
“Meaning?”
“Get back to Paris both of you. There’s been a new development. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Chapter 5
That Thursday morning announced another dreary winter day in Paris. A day when the fog paints its limestone buildings a dirty monochrome beige, and everyone’s mood a dirty monochrome black.
“A what?” asked Lescop, his air a mixture of amusement and contempt.
“An animal mythologist.” Dulac looked away from Lescop and signaled to the tall waiter carrying a tray full of coffees.
“What do they eat for breakfast?” asked Lescop, making no effort to hide his disdain.
“Her name is Karen Dawson. Doctor Karen Dawson. She’s American. She teaches at the Sorbonne.”
“Ham and eggs, with lots of ketchup.”
“Very funny. Non ,mais, what will they think of next at that damn human robot factory to keep themselves busy and burn up my tax money?”
“Careful, I’m a graduate of the Sorbonne,” said Lescop.
“I know.”
“So whose idea was that?”
“Harris’s. Who else? He’s read some book of hers, and thinks she’ll look at the plaque and, presto! Instant killers.” Dulac snapped his fingers, magician-like. As Dulac looked in the mirrored wall across the table, he caught sight of the gangly waiter hovering behind him, his head swinging back and forth like an ostrich.
“Monsieur?”
Dulac turned, “Croissant and café au lait. And hot, this time.”
“The same,” said Lescop.
“Evidemment,” replied the waiter haughtily. He spun around and ordered to someone invisible behind the high counter. “Deux réguliers.”
Dulac looked distractedly outside at the already busy street. The stationary morning traffic on rue De Castries was spewing its usual dose of oil and gasoline fumes under, over, and around the habitués sipping their espressos on the terrace. Moments later, the waiter arrived with their orders, swinging the tray deftly onto the table in one smooth, fluid motion.
“She sounds smart,” said Lescop, trying to brighten his boss’s day.
“Frankly, I don’t care if she’s goddamm Einstein. I’m not into brain-heavy female intellectuals these days. Give me a good lay, that’s all.”
“Perhaps that too.”
After gulping down the remainder of his tepid café au lait, Dulac got up. “Come, let’s see what we can find on Doctor Karen Dawson.”
Chapter 6
The day after the murder, Karen had tried to ski, but images of the dead man kept haunting her. Sullen, tired, and depressed, she’d left Saas Fee that evening and was back in her office at The Sorbonne the following morning. Among the many messages on her answering machine, her landlady had left three of diminishing degrees of civility. The rent was long overdue and if she didn’t pay up, the heat would go off first.
Sitting down before her cluttered desk, Karen glanced at the calendar. March 8th. Five years. Already five years since she’d received news that Joseph Campbell, Sarah Lawrence College’s professor emeritus, had accepted her Ph.D. thesis in animal mythology. It seemed like only yesterday. At thirty-four, unmarried and between men in her life, lost within the labyrinthine Parisian social structure, Karen Dawson lived for her work. Her recent book, Myths and the Hunt, had increased her notoriety within the narrow confines of the world’s mythologists, renowned and otherwise.
At ten a.m., Karen’s phone rang and a dry, clipped voice said, “Dr. Dawson?”
“Yes?”
“Chief Inspector Thierry Dulac. I’m with Interpol. Could we meet at your office this afternoon?”
By the tone of his voice, Karen sensed that the man was not asking, but merely conforming to protocol. “What is this about?”
“I’ll tell you when we meet. Shall we say 1 p.m.?”
“Ah, my schedule is quite full. Although I guess…How long will this take?” Karen’s anxiety level grew rapidly, as the function of the persona at the other end began to sink in.
“About an hour. See you then, Ms. Dawson.”
The line went dead.
She hung up slowly, her mind racing as she felt pangs of bottomless, pervasive, catholic guilt invade her. An Interpol inspector..Why? What could I have possibly done to trigger this? Is it my taxes? My status in France? Could it be the murder in Saas Fee? No, I was just a passerby. She racked her brain, to no avail. She couldn’t eat lunch.
* * *
Dulac didn’t appreciate being told by Harris to seek outside help. Even less in the guise of a female. Dulac had, up until now, been in exclusive control of his investigations, and prided himself in resolving them internally. His record spoke for itself: four murder investigations in his five years as chief murder investigator, and four successful resolutions.
Dulac approached the transparent door leading to Karen Dawson’s office, and her silhouette came into focus. Having equated mythologists, female, to retirement-age, lab-rat technicians, he smiled. Almond-shaped eyes behind oval black nacre rims; a pair of taut, curled lips; the dark blue, impeccably cut blazer contrasting with the honey blonde ponytail. She looks like that model in the KPMG ad in The Economist. The one every man in Paris wants to see naked in his bed.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Dawson. Oh, I’m sorry, Doctor Dawson.” He leaned over the messy desk and thrust out his left hand.
“Ms. is fine.” She rose, smiled, and awkwardly shook it. “Please sit down.” She offered him the wooden chair, while she tried to rearrange some of the desk’s clutter.
“Thanks.” Dulac sat down slowly, all the while observing the svelte, studious-looking woman. He paused for a moment, savoring her noticeable unease. He pulled out his pack of Gitanes. “Mind if I smoke?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Fine.” As Dulac put back the cigarettes in his pocket, he said: “You’re obviously wondering what all this is about.”
“Frankly, yes.”
“Well, Ms. Dawson, this isn’t my idea, but someone at Interpol seems to think you can help us.”
* * *
A wave of relief surged, crested, and broke over her anxiety. At first blush, she wasn’t at the center of this visit. Her thoughts slowly turned from fear to curiosity. “Help doing what?”
“A man has been murdered, You may have read about it. Archbishop Salvador was murdered in Saas Fee last Sunday.”
“I was in Saas Fee last week.”
“Then you’re aware of this grisly business?”
“I saw him being taken down from the cable-car.” She cleared her throat as she recalled the unforgettable scene of the naked man slowly being lowered from his modern-day crucifixion.
“We believe you could help us in our murder investigation.”
“Really?”
“We think a mythologist might find the meaning of this.” Dulac thrust the plaque onto her desk. “It was around his neck.”
Puzzled, Karen looked at it for a moment then picked it up. It was heavier than she thought. Like a small tombstone around the dead man’s neck, bearing an inscrutable epitaph. A shiver ran up her spine. She felt drawn into a shapeless abyss. Her mind raced in a thousand directions. Why the connection between an archbishop and a lion, other than the too obvious connection with the city? Why the mention of a dragon? What was the connection between dragons and lions? Her brain raced. The enormity of the possibilities was overwhelming.
Lions and dragons appeared in mythical cultures all over the world. Lions, the perennial symbol of force and supremacy, royalty, tyranny, rarely democracy. Dragons, sometimes benign, sometimes evil. The various references to allegories of dragons and lions spanned centuries. How could one draw any inference to this crime with such scarcity of information? Besides, the plaque inscription could be making astronomical references to the Leo and Draco constellations. Something bothered her, but didn’t register consciously.
Dulac continued. “We can arrange for a leave of absence, 400 Euros per day plus expenses. You would report directly to me.”
“I, I don’t know…” Karen sat dumbfounded. Here was a policeman, blustering into her office and on a day’s notice, requiring a major professional shift and a commitment. She enjoyed the comfort of the teaching world, its predictability and its set hours. The exchanges with students and alumni were intellectually satisfying, yet remained shrouded with the protective veil of history. He offered the present, action, applying her knowledge to the struggle of life and death. The thought frightened yet fascinated her. “I’ll have to think about this. First, I’d have to check with my department head.”
“I already have his authorization.”
“You certainly don’t waste time.”
“Murderers usually don’t give us much. So we can count on you?”
Karen hesitated for a moment, and then retreated behind the safety of her academic walls. “No, I really don’t think so. I’ve never been involved in something like this. I wouldn’t know where to begin. Besides, I have my classes, my students. Believe me, Mr. Dulac, that’s plenty challenge enough. In any case, this plaque has maybe hundreds of interpretations.”
“I see. I know this is all rather sudden but perhaps you could give the matter a little more thought before deciding. With your knowledge and experience, you could save us a lot of time. Besides, an opportunity like this must be quite rare for a university professor. Call me if you change your mind. Here is my card.” He rose to leave. “Oh, by the way, Ms. Dawson, don’t forget to renew your residency visa. It expires next month.”
Karen felt she’d been kicked in the stomach. The French often reminded one of one’s non-Frenchness, sometimes subtly, sometimes not. She didn’t need to be told that she was barely a guest in France. Residency visas were like condoms: necessary, but humiliating to obtain. The visa people had godlike authority and always let you know it. Among the ex-pats at The Sorbonne, horror stories animated many a lunch conversation at the cafeteria. The slightest character slur could complicate matters enormously. Behind this thinly veiled threat stood the specter of numerous delays, even a refusal to renew her visa. Dulac had done his homework. I’ve got to placate this jerk.
“How long would this take, that is, if I accepted?” she said, trying desperately to regain control.
The Howitzer had scored a hit. He had the tortuous, unpredictable French bureaucracy to thank for it. “I don’t know. Perhaps a couple of weeks.”
“I might be able to manage that. Let me speak to my department head and get back to you.”
“Perfect. Glad to see we understand each other, Ms. Dawson.”
You arrogant French frog, she thought, barely conscious of the generalization. There will be payback.
“By the way, if you accept, I’ll want a study plan of the permutations and combinations of lions and dragons in cultures and societies past and present, with your assessment of their applications and meaning to our case. You will be informed of any new facts coming through our department. You will be given an encrypted cell phone only for use in this context. Any questions?”
Karen suppressed a smile at Dulac’s requirements. This jerk has no idea of mythology’s processes. “I must keep my undergrad classes. My post grad supervision can be postponed.”
“I’m sure we can work around that.” Dulac replied.
“I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
“In case you don’t catch me, leave a message. I’ll be in Lyon tomorrow.”
Chapter 7
Dulac got off the TGV train, went to the taxi stand and entered the first cab in the long line of morning taxis.
“Cathédrale Saint Jean. Actually, the presbytery,” he instructed the cabbie.
Twenty minutes later, the shape of the late- roman, early- gothic cathedral came into view. Next to it, Dulac recognized the small presbytery, dwarfed by the cathedral’s imposing and austere mass.
Dulac didn’t like presbyteries. They reminded him of his school days at Lycée Saint Stanislas in Montpellier, and Saint Jude’s presbytery. The memory of that sweet smell of incense permeating Father L’Ecuyer’s worn, dirty cassock came back to him as he walked up the presbytery’s steps. In retrospect, he had spent far too much time confessing sins, real or imaginary, to father L’Ecuyer, a short man with the vivacity, odor, and color of a corpse. Dulac remembered waiting patiently for absolution, as L’Ecuyer would ponder interminably on the severity of Dulac’s penance. At last, Dulac would hear, “Four Hail Mary’s, morning and afternoon for the next two weeks.” The sentence didn’t vary, regardless of the magnitude and variety of Dulac’s sins.
Dulac rapped the massive bronze knocker three times on the oak door and waited. After a moment the door opened.
“Mr. Hudak, I presume,” said the bent, wiry little man behind a warm smile and bird-like eyes.
“Thierry Dulac. Monsignor Dorlot?”
“Yes, please come in.”
Dulac entered the parlor, and the smell—that smell—invaded his nose again. Must be the unspent testosterone, he thought.
“Please,” said a convivial Dorlot, inviting Dulac to sit beside him on the worn leather couch facing the large, now empty, oak desk. “Who could have done this? Why?”
“Monsignor, if we knew—”
“Yes, yes of course. Forgive me.” Dorlot wrung his hands nervously.
“Monsignor, I have a few questions concerning the archbishop, some of which you may not like but that I have to ask. Are you sure you’re up to this? I can come back if you wish.”
“No, please go ahead. I’ll try to help in any way I can.”
The telephone rang.
“Sister Emilie, please take my calls,” shouted Dorlot impatiently to the nun somewhere in the adjoining room.
Dulac spoke. “Tell me about Salvador, sorry, Monsignor Salvador. Did he have any enemies, anyone you can think of?”
“Enemies is perhaps too strong a word. Not enemies, but detractors, yes. Quite a few.”
“Detractors?”
“He had a brilliant mind, but he tolerated no unsubstantiated opinions. He could turn you into intellectual jelly if you didn’t back your opinions solidly. I saw it happen more than once with the younger curés.”
“So tact wasn’t his strong suit?”
“Correct.”
“Was he insulting? Insulting enough for a humiliated person to strike back?”
“No. He always did it so that the injured party would laugh at his own stupidity.”
“Someone didn’t have quite that sense of humor.”
“Yes, you’re right,” said Dorlot, looking suddenly morose.
“Did he have any potential rivals, someone who could aspire to his position?”
“Impossible. That’s not the way it works. The Vatican will send a pontifical nuncio, a legate, to oversee his replacement. It’s the bishops and priests of the parishes who suggest a replacement, but the Vatican has veto power. The Holy See ultimately decides.”
Dulac paused for a moment and took a deep breath.
“Monsignor Dorlot, did Salvador have a sex life?”
“Inspector, I—”
“I have to know.”
“I wasn’t aware of any.”
Dulac looked intently into Dorlot’s sullen face for a trace.
“I, I guess I was quite close to him. He was a friend and mentor.”
“I see.” Dulac paused.
“Don’t even think of it, Mr. Dulac. It wasn’t so.”
“I didn’t say a word.”
“Your silence was enough.”
“What about his correspondence?”
“I’ve gone through it and found nothing unusual.”
“Did you see all his mail, incoming and outgoing?”
“Most of it. Although he would write the occasional memo longhand and send it himself.”
“Any hate mail?”
“None I’m aware of.”
“What about meetings, groups, or what you call them, synods?”
“Yes, synods. But I’m not the person to ask. You’ll have to see the other archbishops. He was a member of committees at the Vatican. The legate will know more.”
“Monsignor, how do you think the assassins knew of Salvador’s whereabouts and vacation plans?”
“I’ve been racking my brain. It was I who sent him to Saas Fee. Someone must have overheard, but whom? There’s only Sister Emilie and myself here. She’s been here for over thirty years.”
“They must have used a wiretap, but there’s none now. We checked. Monsignor, does the plaque we found on him mean anything to you?”
“It’s the final insult to a brilliant man.”
