I am Luc of the Street

No Rest for the Wicked

"Give it a rest," Henri told me today. "You'll kill yourself if you keep at it like this." He was referring to my relentless search for the killer. But I can't rest now. I have to keep searching, even without my badge. If I can get a good lead, catch a break, maybe I can get my badge back.

Truth is, I don't know how to rest, never have. That's what the streets of Paris did to me. On the street, rest equals death, and restlessness is in my DNA. I don't sleep more than a few hours at a time; never sit still for long. Even when I am sitting still, my mind is working; my eyes are watching. It's how the streets formed me: wiry and ready.

"Sit. Relax," Henri said, pouring me a whisky. Relax? Just the sound of the word makes me angry. How can I relax when there is so much to do? Is the killer relaxing? The families of his victims?

The police shrink says my restlessness is related to my inability to make peace with my past. She says I haven’t forgiven myself, or some such crap. I dunno, maybe she’s right. I did do some pretty bad things, I suppose, in the name of survival. I have to live with that, but I don’t know if I’ll ever really be at peace with it, or even deserve to be.

Like the killer. He shouldn’t be allowed to rest, either. Even if I have to run myself into the ground. No rest for the wicked.

He's Due

Here I am in the New Year, still suspended, still caught in the political web. While my chief dukes it out with the brass over my status, I’m still twiddling my thumbs.

Well, okay, I’m not exactly doing nothing. But you knew that, didn’t you?

Looks like the killer took a holiday, but I have a feeling he’s getting itchy. I’m getting itchy, too, so I know what he’s thinking: it’s time.

In case you’ve lost count, we’re up to three victims now: the first in the 1st district; the second in the 2nd district; the third…well, you get where I’m going with this. Each body has been left in plain sight, in the middle of the night, near very public buildings—no mean feat: police headquarters; treasury building; Place de la Republique. Each location is a place belonging to the citizens of Paris. This guy’s making a point, no? Or maybe he’s just showing off.

Can you guess the public place in the 4th district? I’ll give you a hint: if he can pull this one off, he’s got to have superpowers.

Let’s have some fun, my junior detectives, shall we? Get yourself a map of Paris and mark the public places in each district. Shoot me your answers in the comment box, either here, or under this post on my Facebook page (I am Luc of the Street). Tell me where you think the next victim will be found. Let’s see how sharp you are.

And while you’re working that out, I’m going to see what I can do to prevent number four from happening at all. You game? On y va ! We don’t need no stinkin’ badges.

 

Pregnant Pause

Four months on suspension. I wonder if that's some kind of a record. Or even legal. "It's not right, boss," Moudie complained to me today at Girard's. He told me to call my union rep. I suppose I should, but I dunno...I'm starting to get used to being off the grid. It's nice to be free of the relentless eyes of the brass—and to spend time with my kid.

But Moudie's impatient for my return. "We need you," he said. "The longer the killer waits to do the next one, the worse we look." I know what he means. We have all this time to track the killer, to stop him from killing again, but we got nothing. The press, our bosses, the citizens will all wonder what the hell we've been doing all this time. They'll cry failure when number four shows up. Maybe that's another reason I'm happy to be out of it officially. Although I can't let my team bear the brunt of it alone.

Moudie and I were about to order another round of drinks to mope in, when he perked up, suddenly. He pointed out that the killer's time-out coincided with my suspension. "What if he's waiting for you to get your badge back before he does another?"

That does give one pause. Is the killer playing a game of cat and mouse? It's common for serial killers to attach themselves to the lead detective in the case. Usually, he reaches out with a phone call or a note. This one might be doing it with silence. 

Being Useful

Henri and I got into a bit of a tiff today. He thinks since I’m suspended I should spend time with Jean-Paul instead of "running off" after the killer. But he doesn’t understand what it’s like to be out of work. He runs his own business; easy for him to say.

“What drives you?” he shouted at me. “Ego?”

Fear of being useless, but I didn’t tell him that. "I want the kid to have someone to look up to," I said. Henri shook his head at me like I was a lost cause. “JP looks up to you because of who you are, Luc, not what you do.” Then he asked me what I was really afraid of. “Is the devil gonna claim your soul without that piece of metal?"

He pegged me pretty good, didn't he? So, of course, I had to tell him to fuck off. Loudly. Yeah, I know...but I hate when he lectures me. He doesn't know what it's like to come from nothing, and I told him so. "You don't get it!" I barked. "Without the badge, I’m nothing! A bum!”

Henri’s eyes bugged out; he jerked back as if I’d called him the bum. Yeah, “holy shit” is right. Do I really feel like a bum?

I watched Henri’s face morph from shock to sadness. Before it could shift into pity, I was outta there. I know he's right; I should invest in JP, but right now, I have to save myself.

When Bruno took me off the streets, he told me being a cop would make me somebody. A man who is useful can never be cast aside. His words keep ringing in my head. Well, Bruno, I'm going to make myself useful.  

The Trail to Me

You might think I’m a sucker, but I can’t help myself; I’m hunting this killer down—badge or not. It has to be done. And it has to be done by me.

In these past weeks, I’ve gone through a polarizing identity crisis—finding myself on the street, but losing my life as a cop. So I’ve decided: instead of being torn in half, instead of having to choose, I’m going to live fully in both halves and use all of me to get this thing done. 

My suspension may have been a gift, because without it, I may never have gone back to the street. However misguided you (and JP) may have thought that time was, it brought me back in touch with my darker side. You don’t have to be a killer to think like one. You just have to embrace the orphaned killer in you.

I’ve said it before: when I’m on the hunt, I’m at peace. Everything works together—bright and dark. It’s the one time I don’t question or doubt myself; I just know.

If I can find this killer, I can get my badge back, my life back. But not like before. I'll be more whole this time. 

He Strikes Again

THIRD BODY FOUND. DE LA RUE SUSPENDED. That headline shouted at me from a press kiosk today. Large block letters splattered across the front page. My humiliation is complete.

I was starting to get used to the idea of life without my badge, enjoying the freedom. That didn't last long.

I want my badge more than ever.

Add to this the latest drama with JP. Writing in my blog—jeezus. Had to change my password. But he's right; I was losing sight of myself. I can thank the press for reminding me—and all of Paris— of my shirked responsibilities.

So, should I do something about that headline? I can't change my suspension but I can solve this case. Should I? Or should I tell those befrigged idiots in HQ to go screw? Which would give me more pleasure I wonder? De La Rue Catches Killer Despite Suspension. Reinstated with Apologies from the Brass. Yeah, that's a headline I could live with.

Unplugged

Been without my badge for over a month now. Haddad checks in from time to time, but otherwise, I'm completely out of touch. It's the strangest feeling, being disconnected like this. At first, I was frantic and angry. I finally get the case of my career and they shut me down. But now, a month in, I'm feeling...apathetic.

I'm surprise how easily I've slipped into this mode. I should be fighting for my career, but I can't muster the desire anymore. I spend my days walking the streets, retracing the steps of my childhood, revisiting old haunts—and old ghosts. I let the day take me where it will. No plans. No schedules. Like old times. I'm starting to like being nobody again. Being invisible. There's power in that.

Maybe I like being off the grid. Maybe it's my true nature.

No Comment

Dear Monsieur le Commissaire:

I was just minding my own business, heading home after a fourteen-hour shift, exhausted from working hard for you, when all of a sudden—wham!—I was ambushed by three journalists, two photographers and a TV cameraman. Bright lights, mics in my face, a flurry of questions. It was just awful, Mister Commissioner. Really, I’m still shaking. They had me cornered. What could I do?

And I swear, dear Mister Commissioner, I really didn’t mean to say you were to blame for halting the investigation of the first victim because you concurred with that ass of a coroner who ruled his death accidental. It was those bright lights in my eyes confusing me. And even though it was your fault, I wasn’t trying to insinuate your interference prevented us from getting the jump on the guy before he killed again. But wouldn’t you know it? Those reporters are so darn smart; they deduced it all on their own.

Mister Commissioner, you see, it’s just this thing I have, when a reporter is calling me stupid and blaming me for someone else’s mistake, I can’t nod along and say, “No comment.” I tried, I really did, but that reporter, she was a sly one. She pushed all my buttons. I was helpless in her clutches.

The thing is, Commissioner, Sir, I told you we had a serial killer on our hands, but you were afraid of bad press. Ironic, huh? But I understand; I mean, they can be ruthless, those press people. And now, it seems, they’re interested in talking to you. But don’t worry; you’re so polished, so PR-savvy—so much better equipped to handle them than I. Better you than me.

And I promise, from now on, when they ask me how I managed to save this case in spite of your tragic short-sightedness, I’ll tell them: “No comment.”

Press Darling

REBEL COP ASSIGNED TO RIVER MURDER. That’s the headline in today's paper. In case you’re wondering—yes, that would be me. Luc de la Rue of the Criminal Brigade, whose promotion to captain was met with some controversy, is heading up the investigation.

Yeah, not good.

“Do us all a favor and stay clear of the press,” my chief said. “You’re a walking PR disaster.” Normally, I’d take offense to such an insult, but the man is right. I’m not tactful, not diplomatic. Not exactly the clean-scrubbed face of the National Police.

Let’s just say, that interview with Paris Match is right out of the question.

And that’s fine with me. The bright light of attention makes me break into a sweat. I didn’t ask to be the headline of that article, and thankfully, it was only a little blurb in the back of the paper. But as this case builds, and more bodies show up, the headlines will creep toward the front page, taking me with them.

I’ll do what I can to stay clear of the press, but will the press stay clear of me?

A Battle of Won'ts

I won’t back down.

You won’t intimidate me.

They won’t see me sweating.

I got the case of my career. And a case of nerves. All of a sudden, I feel ill equipped. It’s like my brain is waging war against me, sabotaging my confidence.

You won't solve this case.

I don’t have a single lead. No hard evidence, no witnesses, not even a peep on the street. My gut isn’t even twitching. And there's going to be another one, soon. He's due.

Normally, I like a challenge. The tougher, the better. But for some reason, I feel stymied, cut off from myself. I'm shutting down; something is shutting me down. I don't know if it's the pressure from the brass, the high-profile case, or something else—like maybe I'm afraid I'm out of my depth. 

You won't solve this case.

Then again, maybe I need to get out of my way and get to work. Because no matter what, I won't go down without a fight. Even if I have to do battle with my own will.

A Losing Game

The divisional commissioner's breathing down my neck. "Get this thing solved!" he yelled at me today. Sure, I'll get right on it. There are only about two million people to sort through. Ten million if you count the suburbs. It took ten years to catch the last serial killer. Do they expect me to do it in a day? I guess they do. Maybe I should be flattered they think I can.

I've been waiting for a case like this my whole career—a chance to shine, to make a mark. But there's something I didn't count on: failure is built into the DNA of a serial killing case. Every new body that turns up cries failure. Think about it: it wouldn't even be a serial killing if I'd caught him after the first one. And if I can't catch him before he strikes again? Failure. Again.

My job has always been about solving murders, not preventing them, yet that's just what I'm expected to do. I'm playing a losing game. When I finally catch him—and I will catch him—will I be the hero, or will it be too little, too late?

Can't Get Anything Done

Now that the World Cup is on, most of France is out to lunch. No one is working, except us cops. Normally, I'd be sneaking out to watch the matches, too, but as much as I love football, we're trying to catch a serial killer. That's a wee bit more important, don't you think?

But I might as well put the investigation on hold until 11 July; I can't get anything done. Lab results are taking forever, no one is answering my calls. Can't seem to get anyone to care. I can only hope the killer is preoccupied by the Cup, too. But somehow I doubt it.

Truth is, I'm not really sure there's much I can do. I have precious little to go on. We're just sitting and waiting like idiots for him to strike again, when he'll hopefully leave better clues. I hear the Bruno in my head telling me not to take it personally, but I can't help it; I feel like this guy's out-playing me. Like Mexico did to France. Killer: 2; Luc: 0.

Another One

4 a.m. The killer made another point, with another victim. This time, in front of the treasury building. It takes nerves of steel to leave a body in plain sight in a public place, albeit in the middle of the night. So far, he's outplaying me and I don't like it.

This one got to me. I don't know why. When I saw the victim—female—I came unglued. I can't explain it; I've seen female victims before. I don't know what happened to me. But when I held her tiny hand to examine it, I felt a wall tumbling down on me. My chest tightened. I couldn't breathe.

Of course, wouldn't you know, the one person who saw it happen was Franck Poliveau. Of all people—him. When the wall hit me, I stood up and spun around, and careened right into him. We locked eyes for an instant. He saw inside me. He saw too much. Now he looks at me funny.

Anyway, I was right about this being the case of my career. Looks like we have a serial killer.

Ripping Good Times

I got a feeling about this case. I think it’s going to be the case of my career—the one I’ve been waiting for, the one I was born for. Oh, Bruno, I wish you were alive to see this!

I can’t say much, but I think this killer may strike again. It’s no more than a hunch based on a tiny piece of evidence, but my gut tells me he’s just getting started.

I know what you’re thinking: I sound too excited about that. Henri said the same thing. He got all red-faced as he does when he scolds me. “People are going to die, Luc! Do you care about that?” Okay, sure. But hey, I’m not the one killing them. Why yell at me? I’m just saying—if it’s going to happen, better I'm the guy on the case. I’ll catch the killer faster than anyone, which means fewer victims. And that’s good, right? Right? Come on, you have to be a little happy for me.

I'm dedicating this case to Bruno. The last time Paris had a serial killer was in the ‘80s—in Montmartre, which was Bruno’s turf. Sadly, he’d just retired and missed out on the action. He did some investigating on his own, tried to share his insights, but they dismissed him. It broke his heart. “My time is over,” he said. “But you, kid—your day will come.”

Bruno was right. The "kid" finally has his day.

Death as a Cure for Boredom

The last three weeks have been like crawling through a desert, parched and desperate. JP hasn't been around, and I haven't had a case in weeks and weeks. Endless days droning on. Clocking in, clocking out. Coming home to an empty house. I've been dying of boredom, and feeling useless.

Then someone left a gift on my doorstep.

I got the call around 3:30 in the morning. The body of a middle-aged male was found on the embankment near Pont St. Michel—right below police headquarters. Balls, huh? No sign of struggle. No blood. The site was completely undisturbed. Someone had laid him out all nice and neat, right at our feet. And laid down a challenge with him.

Yeah, this was going to be a good one.

Unfortunately, it was chaos when I got to the scene. There were two groups of investigators: my team, and some first responders headed up by a green-gilled pretty boy. He wouldn't yield the investigation and people were trampling all over, potentially destroying what little evidence there was. I ran down to the embankment like a madman and demanded the site be cleared. You should have seen the look this uptight kid gave me—all smug in his jacket and tie, with his shiny loafers. You know the type: two years out of the academy and he thinks he knows more than a twenty-year veteran. "Poliveau, Franck, Lieutenant," was how junior announced himself, holding his badge in my face. Sure, I took a look at his badge. Then I sent Lieutenant Shiny Shoes and his team promptly to the sidelines to watch the experts work.

The site was immaculate, really. Not much to bag or tag. The victim's wallet was missing, but his expensive watch and jewelry were intact. I found a scrap of paper in his vest pocket, and half a fresh cigarette he was saving for later. Poor guy. Later never came.

The real evidence was the man himself. No obvious sign of foul play—yet there he was. Someone is using him to make a point. My job is figuring out what the point is.

Looks like I won't be bored anymore.