“Munch,” Keyes said, catching her eye. “He actually did four different versions. It’s one of the more popular pieces with our students. Something about it seems to strike people.” Keyes looked as if he had once been solid and was now going slack. He was wearing a vaguely pink dress shirt, open at the collar, tan slacks, and brown shoes with tassels. Dupond and Cassie caught him on break in the teacher’s lounge and followed him back to his office, coffee in hand.
“I’ve seen that one a lot,” Cassie said, making conversation. “This other one I’ve seen before, too. Most of the other ones I don’t recognize.”
“I’ve got a good mix in here,” Keyes said. “That one over there is by an artist named Otto Dix, a German.” He pointed into a corner. A stern faced man, his face all angles, looked out over the room. “Next to it is a sketch by an artist named Beckman, another German.” Cassie got up for a closer look. This one was a black and white sketch, a man in a bowler hat with sad eyes , wearing an old fashioned dress shirt with a sharp pointed collar.
“I lean toward German Expressionists in my personal preference but in my freshman classes I try and give them a taste of everything.”
“Yes,” Dupond said, pushing past the chitchat. “I can see that. We’re trying to get a handle on some things, Professor. We’re talking to everyone on staff now. You’ve probably seen our people down in the office on the first floor.”
Keyes nodded. “Dean Burke talked to all of us a week or so ago. He says you think this guy has some connection to the school. What can I do for you?”
“Just any thoughts you might have. The idea has been thrown out that the murder is showing a certain…creativity, let’s say. That he’s more or less painting a picture. Putting the victims on display. What do you think of that idea?”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
“The murderer,” Cassie cut in, “isn’t killing these people and hiding them. He leaves them where they can be found, in public places. He’s taking risks to make sure that everyone knows what he’s doing.”
“It sounds like you should be talking to someone in the psychology department, or a psychiatrist at one of the medical schools if you want to know what his motivation is,” Keyes said. “I’m not seeing where I can be of much help.”
“Take a look at these,” Dupond said. He tossed a folder on the desk. Keyes opened it, closed it immediately. “Oh, shit,” he said. The top photo was Denise Burges, hanging from her rope, the CLV neatly stenciled underneath.
“Why are you showing me this?” Keyes asked, his face drained of blood. He half-turned at his desk, pulled a wastebasket over.
“You see the letters underneath the girl?” Cassie asked. “Those same letters appear at every scene. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Wait, wait,” Keyes said. He picked up his coffee, drained the cup, took a deep breath. “Jesus.”
Dupond opened the folder again, pushed it back in front of him. “Take a look, Professor. What does this say to you?”
Keyes reached out with one finger, slid the top photo off, went through them one by one the same way, reluctant to even touch them.
“It tells me you’ve got one sick individual running around out there.”
“Yes,” Cassie said, “But what we want to know is what you think. Off the top of your head
, what would you say about the letters? Do they mean anything to you?”
“No,” Keyes said. “Except for the obvious.”
“And what’s that?” Dupond asked.
“He wants you to know that it’s him,” Keyes said. “He’s….signing his work, I guess.”
“You ever go to the French Quarter, Professor?” Dupond asked.
“Well, yes. This is New Orleans. Everyone does sooner or later.”
“When was the last time you went?”
“I was there last night. I have a ..friend who works up there. I met him when he got off work and we went to a Jazz club.”
“This friend,” Dupond said, “What’s his name?”
“Phil,” Keyes said, “His name is Phil. He got off work at ten, I got to his work place about nine thirty or so and we went down the street. Stayed till maybe one o’clock or so. Jesus, you think I had something to do with this?”
“This the same Phil you live with?” Dupond asked.
“Yes.” Keyes looked at Dupond, then Cassie, settled on Cassie. “Listen, I can tell you already know something about Phil and I. We….we’ve been together a few years now. You probably already know that. The University, at least my boss, knows about it, too. Nobody says anything, it just doesn’t get talked about. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“We don’t care who you’re sleeping with,” Dupond said. He got up and took the folder. “If I get in touch with this Phil will he give me the same story about where you were last night?”
“Yes.” Keyes said.
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. Where is he right now?”
“He should be home. He works nights, sometimes until two. He works late tonight so he should be home. I can call him if you’d like.”
“No,” Dupond said. “Don’t talk to him. I’ll get someone over there to verify what you told us. I mean it, don’t call him.”
“Of course not.”
Cassie followed Dupond out the door, down the stairs, and over to the University Center where they bought another cup of watered down coffee and found a spot out of the way. “I’m not seeing Keyes as our guy at all,” Cassie said when they settled in.
“No,” Dupond said. He rubbed his eyes, drained half his coffee in a gulp. “I’ll get someone over to check out his story with his boyfriend but I think he’ll check out.”
“Which leaves us with Decker, Morris, and Watt.”
“Morris, he’s the short one?” Dupond asked.
“Yeah, seems like Schumaker would have said something about that. She said average and that doesn’t fit.”
“Okay, let’s talk to Decker and Watt first. Leave Morris for last.” Dupond checked his watch. “It’s past four now, let’s head over to the History building and see if we can find them.”
Decker and Watt turned out to be a dead end, at least for the day, Decker off on sabbatical, Watt gone immediately after classes finished.
“How long has Decker been gone?” Dupond asked. They were sitting in the office of Dean Burke, who wasn’t nearly as happy or cooperative as he had been a few days earlier.
“He left in January,” Burke said, “and he won’t be back until next January. He’s in Italy somewhere, working on a paper dealing with the impact of Christianity on the Roman Empire, from what I understand.”
“How can we get in touch with Watt?” Dupond was pushing, intent on eliminating the names on the list, or finding something that merited a closer look. “Do you have a phone number for him?”
“I’m sure it’s in his file,” Burke said, “But the office is closed for the day. I’ll put a note in his box and let him know that you wish to speak to him. He’ll be here in the morning.”
Stymied, Dupond was in a foul mood when they reached the office where they found Adan cleaning up for the day.
“Your boy Keyes looks like he’s in the clear,” Adan said, “His friend backs him up. I went down to the restaurant and the girl there says she served Keyes a drink while he was waiting. The Burges girl disappeared about dusk. I don’t think he would have had time to get back and forth across the lake.”
“So, that leaves Morris and Watt. Decker’s out of the country according to Dean Burke. We can confirm that but I don’t have high hopes on it leading anywhere.”
“I’m sorry,” Cassie said. “I thought I had something, looking at the staff. Maybe I just wasted our time.”
“No, it was a good idea and something we should have thought of from the beginning,” Adan said. “Besides, we still have two more to look at.”
“Yeah, but Morris is a short guy, too short to fit Schumaker’s description,” Dupond said. “Take the passport photos to Schumaker tomorrow, along with a half dozen other random pictures and see if she picks anyone out.”
“So that would leave Watt,” Cassie said. “I can talk to him tomorrow afternoon after I go see my people.” Along with the reports, Wesling had sent a message telling Cassie to report in the following morning. She had things to discuss.
“I’ll get Watt first thing in the morning,” Dupond said, waving her off. “Go do what you have to do and catch up with me later.”
It was cold, colder that it should be. Black clouds billowed against the Eiffel Tower. Cassie shivered, tramping down the stairs to the Champ de Mars Metro station. The place was empty, but for a solitary figure huddled in the corner of the landing. A poster on the wall advertised a film festival, black and white shots of a girl in a doorway, eyes wide with terror.
It was all black and white, the tower, the station, the figure on the floor, everything grained and shadowed, color drained from the world. Overhead, the sky exploded with hail. Round white stones bounced down the stairs, spilling out over the floor of the station, a wave of pellets. Cassie stepped back, looked around. The hail kept coming. The roar overhead grew, deepened. The rails began to hum, a train coming. The figure in the corner stirred.
Cassie turned to make her way back up the stairs, hailstones crunched under her feet. Another wave rolled down the steps, piled around her ankles, lightning flashed from above, followed by a tremendous boom that shook the station. The figure in the corner stood. Cassie pushed, willing her legs to move, hailstones piled to her knees now. She could move neither up the stairs nor back to the landing.
The figure, unhampered by the ice, moved closer, face shrouded by a blanket. She didn’t want to look, couldn’t take her eyes away. The blanket began to fall as the figure moved in closer, fell away completely and Cassie was staring into the eyes of the restaurant waiter. The friendliness was gone. Blood, scarlet red against a black and white background, ran in rivulets down the laugh wrinkles around his eyes. A toothless mouth opened. A bony hand, covered in sores, reached.
“Tout est bon. La connexion est la vie, Mon Cheri. La connexion est la vie.” The words came from somewhere inside the mouth, now dripping blood onto the blanket. Fat drops spattered on the floor.
“Cest le vie, Madame, cest la vie. No?”
A great spouting wave of hailstones crashed down the steps. Thunder rattled the ceiling.
Cassie Reynold woke up in her bed, drenched in sweat. Dupond snored beside her. Outside, the wind rattled the windows. Rain pounded the side of the apartment.
Cest la vie. Such is Life.
“A dream?” Dupond said. He was shoveling eggs into his mouth at Cassie’s table. The rain had stopped but there was still water dripping from the eaves outside the window. “It came to you in a dream? The CLV signature means “Such is life?”
“I’m telling you it fits,” Cassie said. “It’s been rattling around in the back of my head for weeks now, since I came back from Paris. It fits.”
“How?”
“We know he’s got some connection to Europe right? At least it looks that way because of the “To Let” thing Schumaker told us. The CLV part of it is “Cest la Vie”, a French phrase. They guy has been to both England and France, and he’s spent enough time there to pick up on phrases. Granted, the French thing is pretty well known but the English thing isn’t something you’d say if you were a native born American. Now look at the background. Why wouldn’t he come to New Orleans? It’s as French as it gets in the Unites States. The French Quarter, where he would feel comfortable? ”
She tossed the report from Wesling on the table. “We’ve got one guy who spent years in both places. That’s Watt. It’s him. I’m telling you.”
Dupond put his fork down, picked up the report. “I see your point but it still doesn’t give us a lot to work with. Anyway, I’m going to go see him this morning. I’ll hit him with the whole thing and see how he reacts.”
“No,” Cassie said. “Don’t let him know anything. If we tip him off that we’re this close, he’ll pack it in and we don’t have any real evidence.”
“So, what are you suggesting?” Dupond was interested now. Through the whole investigation, Cassie had been willing to let him take the lead. Now, she was chomping at the bit, pacing back and forth in the small kitchen. It was like watching an animal, a hunting animal. It was interesting, yet at the same time, carried a kind of horrible beauty. She caught the look.
“What?” she said.
“What do you mean, what?”
“Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t you see it?”
“Yes, I see your point and I think it’s well worth taking a closer look at Watt. I just haven’t ever seen you this worked up.”
“Goddamn it,” Cassie said. “We’ve got him now, one way or another.”
“We need evidence, Cassie. We can’t walk in and arrest him because he spent time in England and in France.”
“What do we need? What do
you
need to convince yourself that he’s the one?”
Dupond pushed his plate aside, breakfast forgotten. “One, we need to get more background on him. We need some kind of motive. It’s not evidence, but it helps when you go to trial. Juries like to have a reason. Two, we need to get at least some physical evidence or we can’t go to trial at all. Or… we can start a surveillance on him, maybe catch him trying to do another one. But that’s not likely to happen.”