The Mentor (9 page)

CHAPTER 8

“Oh, please, Dad!” Brian’s face had turned red. “You can’t ask me that.” He went back to playing with his french fries, spreading them all over the plate.

“I was just asking if there’s a girl at school who’s more than a friend to you,” Eric said with a laugh, even though his heart was filled with very real fatherly pride. He understood from the boy’s reaction that he’d hit the mark. “They’re reasonable questions between
men
.” He wanted to make the boy feel proud, make him feel older than his fifteen years, despite Eric’s hopes that he’d remain a boy for quite some time to come.

Brian scrutinized his father, apparently unconvinced. Maybe he didn’t believe him, but Eric was ready to bet that Brian would like to have that kind of relationship with his father.

Ever since Eric had moved out, the way he interacted with his son had changed. He’d always been an affectionate father, but one who stood firm when needed. Though recently, he’d felt a change in his son’s attitude. Brian was an adolescent now, and it seemed like the boy blamed his dad for bringing his parents’ marriage to an end. To be honest, Eric blamed himself a little too, even though he continued to tell himself that his ex-wife knew full well what she was getting into—that she knew he was a man dedicated to his work, and all the more so once his career took off and he quickly became head of the scientific investigations department. Despite this, he didn’t blame her for feeling abandoned, and he couldn’t bring himself to be critical of his son, who was the only real victim in the situation. The problems in his relationship with Crystal had been there from the start and had gotten more acute as time went on, but Brian was the only one who couldn’t possibly be to blame. With these feelings lingering, Eric had recently begun to try to change the way he approached his son, driven by the fear that the boy would merely grow further away from him.

So far he thought he was doing a good job. The positive thing was that, in a certain sense, right from the moment he and Crystal had separated, they’d begun spending more quality time together as father and son.

Of course, before, they’d lived in the same house, but that meant each took the other’s company for granted a little. Now the time they spent together had become special. At least, it was for Eric, but he could feel that somehow it was for his son too, even though it was all but impossible to get the boy to admit it.

“Let’s just say there might be a girl like that,” said Brian, abandoning his fork altogether. Apparently he needed all his strength just to concentrate on this conversation.

“And does this
potential
girl have a name too?” asked Eric, leaning forward like somebody ready to share a secret.

“Nicole.” The boy’s voice trembled just a little pronouncing her name.

“Nicole,” repeated his father, nodding in approval. “Let’s talk about her for a moment. What’s she like?”

“Blond. Tall.” Brian gesticulated, practically daydreaming. “With two . . .” Here he hesitated. His hands were open, eloquent, mimicking two particularly large somethings. “Beautiful eyes,” he concluded. His face flushed red.

Eric couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh yes. I’ve always been fascinated by women’s eyes too!”

Brian laughed too. In the end, they’d managed to create a nice rapport. “It’s not like that, Dad. She’s . . . intelligent. Very intelligent.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Eric, careful to look serious and thoughtful.

“She always sits at the desk next to mine during our French lessons. Sometimes she explains stuff to me that I don’t understand.”

Something in the tone of Brian’s voice told Eric that schoolwork wasn’t really the reason he was so interested in talking to this Nicole, but he preferred hearing that from Brian himself.

“You should hear the way she speaks French. It’s so sexy.”

Eric coughed. He’d almost inhaled his food. He wanted to be a hip, modern father, but hearing the word
sexy
come out of his son’s mouth was surprising nonetheless.

“I suck at it,” continued the young man, the corners of his mouth turning down in an expression that was more shame than sadness. “French might as well be Arabic for me!”

So that’s why he was so frustrated. He was afraid that this girl, whom he clearly liked very much, might think he wasn’t that smart.

The thought that this girl might be making his son feel this way on purpose just to get the upper hand crossed Eric’s mind for a moment, but he decided to ignore it as best he could. But the idea did lead him to think of something that was supposed to be absolutely off-limits for the evening, an evening he had decided to dedicate entirely to his son by taking the boy out for dinner the way he’d been promising to do for some time now.

“Wait just a second,” Eric said, another idea clicking into place. “Did you ask Miriam to help you with your French so that you could make a good impression on this girl?”

“No . . . Did she tell you? I made her promise she wouldn’t tell you about that!”

They both laughed.

“How are the private lessons going?”

“I don’t know.” Brian picked his fork back up and grabbed a mouthful of french fries. Now that his secret was out, his appetite had come back with a vengeance. “Tomorrow I have another lesson,” he said between bites. “Hopefully I’ll do better than I did last time.”

“I’m sure you’ll surprise her.”

Brian nodded. “I’m giving it all I’ve got!”

Pride swelled in Eric’s chest. This boy, with a mouth full of fries and a daydream of a pretty girl glinting in his eyes, was the most important thing in Eric’s life.

“So,” said Eric, drawing everyone’s attention and putting an end to the hubbub in the meeting room. “Let’s try and sum everything up for a moment and focus on the facts. Then we’ll worry about speculation.”

He was standing beside a large screen that showed the details of the two investigations, preparing to organize the team so they could deal with what the media had already baptized the “Black Death Killings.” Not exactly the world’s most original name, but it stuck. Journalists were advancing a variety of different theories, including that of a serial killer, which was always a magnet for public attention, even though in this case the victims weren’t exactly attracting widespread compassion.

“We have two murders, apparently different from one another.” He pointed to the two photographs displayed at the top of the screen. Each showed the victim’s body as it was found on the murder scene, flanked by a portrait of the victim from when he was still alive. “Nicholas Thompson, killed at home almost two weeks ago. Two shots from a nine-millimeter equipped with a silencer. One bullet to the groin, another to the neck. Both very precise shots. The bullets hit here and here, one stopping in his pelvis, the other at a vertebra. Both tore open major arteries. He died from loss of blood. The victim was a previous offender but appeared to have lived an honest life for the past fifteen years. When he was younger he was charged with a number of robberies, but none of them were particularly violent.”

A few of the people in the room nodded here and there during Shaw’s speech.

“Here, on the other hand, we have Gerald McKinsey. He was killed in City less than forty-eight hours ago, just before dawn, with a single shot to the back. Again, the weapon used was a nine-millimeter. The bullet entered here, perforated his lung, and entered his heart. The victim was dead just a few seconds after he hit the ground. McKinsey was a previous offender as well. He’d been in and out of prison ever since he was seventeen years old. He was last released twenty-one months ago. He too was charged with a number of robberies, including some at gunpoint.” Eric paused to look around the room and let it all sink in.

“The same pistol was used for both killings,” he continued. “In both cases, the victims were forced to assume a very precise position before they were killed. The first was forced to lie down, supine.” He used a little laser pointer to indicate this on the screen. “The second to turn around but remain standing.” The red laser dot moved to the other image. “The first body was moved, presumably because the victim was thrashing around before he died. This suggests that our assassin wanted the body to be in a certain position when it was found.”

Eric stood a little to one side in order to make sure everyone could see clearly.

“Thompson let his killer in, apparently of his own free will, since he made the killer a cup of tea before he was shot. McKinsey, however, was followed. He passed through that neighborhood every day after he was done with work, though not on that street. He may have changed his route because he was attempting to escape his killer.”

The laser dot moved to a black silhouette located at the middle of the screen.

“In both cases, our assassin was picked up by surveillance cameras. In the first case, while he was going into the building, and then again when he came out roughly twenty minutes later. In the second case, while he was killing his victim. He was wearing a black tunic and veil, like the kind Muslim women wear—the kind that cover the nose and mouth. However, we can’t be sure both crimes were committed by the same person. Stern . . .” He turned to Martin. “What can you tell us about the two videos?”

“Ahem. Well . . .” Martin seemed surprised he’d been called on so early in the meeting. He stood up and went over to the computer connected to the big screen, opening a new image in an empty corner of the monitor. “In the first video, shot in full daylight, I analyzed the suspect’s gait and body. The color of the tunic flattens the form a little, but the computer can help show us what the eye can’t see. First of all, the killer is walking clumsily and seems to have a hard time with high heels. An analysis of the shadows in the image shows us that his pelvis is narrower than his shoulders. I believe we’re dealing with a man. Now, in the second video”—Martin took a deep breath while he called up the next video, where the black figure could be seen coming into view in the lower left-hand corner—“the shot is really dark, and the camera angle doesn’t help us much. All I can really say is that this time the assassin moves more comfortably. But as you can see here”—he froze the footage—“he’s wearing sneakers. As far as the height is concerned, even taking into account the shoes, there’s not much difference. We calculated everything based on the footage, and we couldn’t find more than a one- or two-inch difference at most, well within the error margin for the measuring software.”

“That said, how tall is our killer?” asked Eric.

“Between five foot eight and five foot nine. Taking into account some additional error due to the soles of his shoes or the way the veil is placed on his head, there might be another one-inch or one-and-a-half-inch margin. Not particularly tall for a man, but quite tall for a woman.”

Jane and Miriam, both that tall, glanced at each other with a smile.

Stern seemed to have caught their expressions, because he cleared his voice and quickly added, “Well, of course there are lots of women that tall, even some taller . . .”

At that very moment, Adele walked into the meeting room and waded through her colleagues, finally sitting down toward the back.

“What a pleasure,” said Eric out loud, “to have Miss Pennington grace us with her presence today.”

The generally playful atmosphere that had developed around Stern’s presentation turned cold in a heartbeat. Everyone’s eyes turned to Adele.

“Sorry I’m late,” murmured Adele, avoiding Shaw’s severe frown. She shrunk a little in her seat, willing their eyes away.

“Stern,” continued Eric, “what do you think? Could it be the same person?”

He nodded. “It might be, but of course we can’t say for certain.”

“Thank you, Stern.”

The man went straight back to his seat, without hesitating a moment.

“Any relationship between the two victims?” Eric turned to Detective Leroux, who was leaning back against a wall to one side of the room. “Aside from the fact that they were both thieves?”

“Not directly.” Her voice was firm. “They were never arrested together, and we don’t have any proof that the two knew one another. However . . .” She paused, taking her smartphone out of her pocket. “Both were arrested at different times with a man named Christopher Garnish.” She showed Eric an image of a fortysomething man.

“Garnish is a bit younger than they were,” Shaw noted. The victims were both in their sixties.

Miriam nodded. “Back when he was busted with the victims he was around twenty, just getting started.”

“Old news,” interjected Jane. She was sitting in the front row, holding her tablet in her lap, her legs crossed. Eric’s gaze was involuntarily drawn to her right ankle sticking out from the cuff of her long white slacks. She was wearing an anklet that jingled when it hit the side of her sandals as she bounced her leg up and down slightly.

“Yes, except he got a lot better,” continued Detective Leroux. “So much so that he’s a suspect in a number of high-profile robberies: museums, art galleries, villas . . . These have always been rumors, of course, and we’ve never been able to prove anything. Some people say he’s just lucky. But I think most of them are made up . . . Nobody has had a confirmed sighting of him in years. He likes to stick to the shadows.”

“Do we have any idea where he is right now?” asked Eric.

“We don’t have any home address,” said Miriam, frowning. “But I don’t think he’s really out-and-out hiding. After avoiding the law for this long, he must feel a little untouchable. I think we can scare him out of whatever hole he’s crawled into.”

“Good,” Eric said, pleased. “Track him down and get him in here. It’s time we had a nice little chat with Mr. Garnish. So far he’s the only element that might help us shed a little more light on the motives behind these crimes.”

Miriam nodded.

“Any progress with the physical evidence?” asked Eric, looking out at everyone in the room.

“Nothing noteworthy, unfortunately,” said Jane. “Thompson’s house was even dirtier than the street where McKinsey was killed, if you can believe that. We found a little bit of everything, but so far nothing that we can connect with the assassin. No fingerprints on the table or the door. The killer took the teacup, plate, and spoon with him when he left, so no DNA there . . . We have a partial print on the victim’s shoe, but we couldn’t find any fibers or anything else distinguishable from the rest of the garbage lying around that place on the clothing. As far as the other crime scene is concerned”—she ran her finger around the tablet—“we have the data the City Police provided.” She nodded to Agent Lennox, who had spent the entire time sitting apart from the others, silently watching the meeting unfold. “Two bullets. One in the wall and another in the pavement, both from the same weapon. No shoe prints distinguishable from the thousands of others present there in the alley.”