I am Luc of the Street

Case Closed, Door Opened

My murder case is closed. The guy barely gave chase. Amateur. Except that the crime happened in my jurisdiction, it could just have easily been handled by the local guys. Still, it gave me a gift: my boy.

While following a lead, I found Jean-Paul in the Anvers Metro station, hanging out with a couple of kids. Not sure if they were picking pockets or dodging raindrops, but there JP was. When he saw me, he looked as if he might bolt so I rushed up to him and held him tight against me. It wasn't so much an embrace as a command. Stay, dammit. He pushed back at first, as he often does, but I wouldn't let him keep up that old argument for long. "I'm sorry," I said, "for what happened that day." I kissed him on both cheeks and with that, he finally relented—and I finally let myself exhale a little.

We walked along toward Boulevard de Clichy together—not arm-in-arm like we had done, but side-by-side, at least. I cherished every step and JP warmed to me after a little while. We talked about small things at first, then when I had the courage, I asked if he might come back home again. He turned to me and smiled. "Sure, Pa," he said. "Don't I always?" Then he embraced me and walked off toward Rue Lepic.

I knew enough not to press Jean-Paul about when he would come back exactly, or for how long this time; it was enough that he said yes and that he called me, "Pa." He'd opened the door to the possibility and that's enough for me. For now. 

Il Pleut

I'm deep into my case but still no solid leads. Now the rain is here and it's supposed to last through Saturday. Damn rain washes away evidence. I hate rain for that reason. Little Luc hates the rain, too. Rain means he better find shelter quick.

I suppose I haven't told you about Little Luc. Well, you can meet him right now. He's the scrawny kid tugging at my gut and screaming in my ear—especially now that the rain and cold are starting to grip the city. Little Luc has me on edge. No matter how much I tell him we're safe, that we no longer need to scrounge for a warm place to camp out, he never seems to stop fretting. You should see him when the snow starts falling. He chews my nails right down to nothing.

Still, Little Luc is the stronger of the two of us. He fears no one. And that nose of his comes in handy. He can help me sniff out a liar, but he'll also tell me what kind of dirt is embedded in a muddy footprint, whether it's from the Bois de Vincennes or the gutter. He knows all the best hiding places and where to dig up the scum of the earth. It's Little Luc who keeps me fierce and in top form, keeps me from getting too comfortable. He knows once you get too comfortable, you lose your grip on life. You become the hunted instead of the hunter. We'll never let that happen, Little Luc and me. We'll stay sharp because we got a case to solve, rain or no.

The Hunt

Ah, Paris, City of Light (and dark). With over 2 million people—12 million with the suburbs—you can always count on her to produce at least one psycho, and this one just showed his hand in my jurisdiction. The hunt is on and I'm in my element again. Damn, I love this town.

People ask me what it's like to stalk a killer. All I can say is that it's like becoming one with him, making peace with that same darkness in me—a handshake with the side of myself that would otherwise have no place in decent society. I surrender to the killer mind completely. Does this horrify you? It shouldn't. You have a killer inside, too. We all do. We're animals, after all. Maybe I have fewer filters in place between me and my animal instincts, given my background, but we all have the same primal urges built into us. Don't kid yourself you're different.

It's only when you understand the killer without judgment that you can begin to anticipate him. The sooner you strike an accord with him and the way he thinks, the sooner you'll catch him. You can't hide behind your badge; you have to get right up in there, up to your elbows in it. It's no time to be squeamish, no time for righteousness. This isn't about you vs. him; this isn't a war. You can't make it personal because the moment you do, you lose the advantage. I like to think of it as a football match—each side thinks he is right, each is poised to win, but only one can: the one who is relentless in his focus, who keeps his emotions out of the game. And that's going to be me. 

I Don’t Know Who I Am

I was maybe four years old when my mother died. I say “maybe,” not because I don’t remember exactly when it happened, but because I don’t know exactly how old I am. That’s what comes of being an orphan.

I was born in a bordel and there was no birth certificate. In fact, the first official documentation of my existence was created on 20 April 1978—my juvenile arrest report. I don’t know my date of birth, my surname, or what kind of blood flows in me. Is it even French blood? Who knows? My father would, but who’s he? The only father I ever had was Bruno, and he told me I have cop blood in my veins.

From time to time, I try to remember my mother just to keep some bit of memory alive. But the truth is, I really don’t know what’s memory and what’s memory remembered. At times I see her as small and dark, other times, tall and fair—it’s all soft and shifting and covered over by years and years. Sometimes in the quiet of the morning, just as I’m waking, I hear her calling to me. Odd thing is, she’s calling me by another name only I can’t make it out. Or maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I want to be a mystery.

Not knowing who I am or how old I am—there’s a strange feeling of power in that, like I’ve escaped time and space. It’s total freedom. I could be anyone, or no one. I am only defined by what I do, not who I am. That’s how it should be, yes? Maybe it’s no accident that my life officially began the day I met Bruno. Maybe I was born for this life, a blank slate to be filled in case by case. If that's true, then maybe there will be one case that will prove to be my defining moment. The reason I was born.

They Hate Us

It is a simple fact that we police are not well liked. Hated is really the word for it. It's pretty universal—criminals and law-abiding citizens alike. Poulets, they call us. Chickens. A basic mistrust of authority is in the French genes, I suppose, or the water, maybe, and if I weren't a cop, I'd probably hate us, too.

This kind of mistrust makes it hard to get a witness to cooperate, for example. One minute they're crying, "Help! Thief!" and the next, they're calling for justice for the very same thief because he was "mistreated" while in custody. We can't win. It doesn't help that we've been sited for human rights violations against certain ethnic minorities. A few bad seeds and we all sow shit.

Today, Moudie and I walked right into a hostile group of students as we were leaving HQ. They were hurling rocks and words like, "racist" and "fascist." Nice, huh? In the next instant, it was a mad scene; riot cops rushed out of the building and tried to create a barrier with their bulletproof shields, pushing the crowd of protesters back. Moudie and I ducked down the quay to safety but the damage was done; Moudie had been hit. I was furious, but Moudie was not. In fact, he was laughing. He stood there, blood running down his cheek, and laughed—first, at the students for throwing rocks at an Algerian while protesting racism, then at me for being so fired up about it.

"Take it easy, boss," he said. "We got bigger problems than those misguided assholes." He recommended we get a drink, then he turned to me and said something I'll never forget: "Listen, boss, when your skin is dark, it better be thick, too. You have to learn to pick your battles. I refuse to spend my whole life pissed off. Hating."

Point taken. Surely, I can try to rise above the hate in my life if Moudie can. But damn, I felt the sting of that rock as if it had hit me. I felt it deep—the lack of respect, the hatred. Still, I should do like Moudie did: wipe away the blood and move on.