Bruno used to joke that the seeds of my career were sewn in
a garden. It’s true, in fact. My first case—as an apprentice before
the Academy—involved Le Jardin des Plantes.
It was 21 April 1978. I know the exact date because it was
the day after Bruno arrested me for swiping money from a table at one of the little tourist traps in Place du Tertre—which was the same day he took me off the streets. You don't forget the moment that changed your life.
I was just a pup, and Bruno had brought me home to live with him and his family. He neglected to run the plan by his wife, Matilde. As she examined the filthy street tough in her living room, the look in her eyes said it all: shock, terror, disgust, rage—but duly restrained, as her
lady’s breeding dictated, and offset by a tight smile of forced politeness.
That smile was wasted on me. I felt much more welcomed by her
eyes, which mirrored my sentiments exactly. What the hell was I doing there?
But while I passed the night in foreign territory, in the morning when Bruno and I stood over the body of a man in front of the
Hotel de France near Gare de Lyon, I felt I'd come home. Blood and death? Now that
I could understand.
It was still dark, about 5:45 a.m., and there was a small group assembled at the scene by the time Bruno and I got there. Bruno was the lead investigator. He presented me as his protege, and let me have first crack at it. I didn't understand how monumental this moment was, but Bruno knew; he stood beaming at me. "Go to it," he said, giving me a nudge. Go to it, as if I already knew what I was doing.
I remember it perfectly: the body was face down but twisted, with one arm tucked underneath and one across his back. His legs were flopped every which way. He'd been stabbed, but there wasn't as much blood as you'd expect. I had seen boys stabbed before and blood usually gushed everywhere, even from small wounds. I wanted to touch the body right away, but Bruno coached me to observe first—to consider the victim's expression, the way he was lying, his age, mode of dress, etc. "You know how to read people, Luc. A dead man can tell you as much as a living one, if you know what questions to ask."
Bruno had me call out every detail as I noticed it, then encouraged me to ask the victim questions. "Where's your blood?" I asked the corpse. "Why is there fresh mud on your clothes, but dry dirt under your fingernails?" There were other odd things, too. For example, there was a trail of blood from the body to the curb, but the trail grew weaker as it neared the body. And there were two distinct sets of footprints in the blood, but they went toward the body, not away in escape.
It felt incredible, this exploration; every one of my senses was cranked up. I gave over to it completely, my mind filling with questions and a deep desire to know. Bruno just stood there, smiling. He understood I was meant for this work, that my life on the streets had prepared me for it—and I was validating him. At one point, I sniffed at the mud on the victim's clothes then followed the trail of blood, like a hound, to the curb. I didn't know why I was doing this; it was the need to know driving me. Sure enough, the same mud was curbside, too. It was fresh and earthy, a rare thing in the middle of this neighborhood. I lived on the streets and knew my dirt—the Champs de Mars smelled like rock; the parks along the Seine: piss; the cemeteries: moss and mold. There were only a few places in Paris where the earth smelled fresh: les bois and les jardins.
What was this mud doing here on Rue de Lyon and why this strange, bloodless corpse? I had all these pieces; now, I just had to put them together. It occurred to me, if I could ask a dead man questions, why not an invisible one—the killer?
"I know," I said.
I told them the lack of blood meant the victim was killed somewhere else and transported to the hotel site. I pointed out the fresh muddy tire marks. "It's the same mud that's on the dead guy." The body had been wrapped in something then carried from the vehicle and spun out of its wrapper onto the pavement. I pantomimed the act. "Comme ça." It explained the twisted condition of the body. It was a hasty job, bold but sloppy. "Someone is making a point," I said. I'd seen it before.
Bruno was so proud, he looked like he might pop.
The other cops just smiled politely. They were all seasoned, and had quickly assessed the same thing. But now, I was game to impress, so I told them I knew where the murder took place. "The mud," I said. "I know where it came from."
At that, even Bruno's eyes bugged out.
I didn't really know exactly, but I'd stuck my neck out, so I quickly ran through the short list of places with real earth, somewhere you could access with a vehicle. Bois de Boulogne? Too far, I thought. Bois de Vincennes? Maybe. Then I thought of the Jardin des Plantes. It was just across the river. I don't know why I felt the place had to be close; there was no real reason. It was just a lucky guess. Or fate.
When we arrived at the Jardins, we found the scene of a struggle in a garden bed, dirt and mud kicked up everywhere. No attempt was made to hide the crime. This was a heated act. A tarp had been pulled off a nearby bed; we could still see its imprint in the damp soil. This was used to wrap the body, which accounted for the mud on the victim's clothes. There were muddy tire marks leading out of the site in the direction of Pont d'Austerlitz and Gare de Lyon. Turned out, the murderer used the victim's own truck to transport him.
The interview with the hotel staff led to a female tenant who knew the victim. She told us the tale of two men—one, her ex-boyfriend from Rouen, and the other, her new lover, a horticulturalist at the Jardin, which explained the dry dirt under his nails. Jealousy, passion—et voilà—my first murder case.
Word of my auspicious debut traveled through the force on wings. Soon, everyone started to take me on their cases. By the time I entered the Academy, I'd logged in more hard hours than some of my instructors. Those were some of my most cherished months, the only time I would work with Bruno, side by side.
My life started in the gutter; my career, in a
garden. Seems I’m formed from the very dirt of Paris.
