“I’m sorry this takes so long,” he began. “As you can imagine, this is a very unusual crime. And a very disturbing one.”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “A good murder investigation takes time.”
He smiled. “Mademoiselle tells me you know a lot about murder investigations. In fact, I am somewhat familiar with your career. One of our big French newspapers, Le Monde, published a story about the Body Farm a few years ago. I still have it in my files. Very interesting work. Someday, if I visit the United States, I would like to see your research facility.”
“Certainly.” I took out my wallet and fished out a business card. “Just let us know when you’re coming.” He took the card and read the front, then flipped it over and studied the back. “What are these lines and markings? It looks like a small measuring scale.”
“Exactly,” I said. “If I’m taking pictures at a death scene and need to show the size of a bone, I’ve always got one of these, even if I don’t have a ruler or tape measure.”
He nodded. “Very useful. Very clever.” He flipped a page in the notebook, which was half filled now with notes from his interview of Miranda. “So, please, Dr. Brockton”—I took it as a good sign that he’d promoted me from “Mr.” to “Dr.”—“tell me about the events of this morning. Start at the beginning. Take all the time you need.”
He took copious notes as I talked, interrupting occasionally to ask me to slow down a bit, or to reword a phrase he didn’t fully understand, or to clarify a point.
He bore down on me when I told how Miranda and I had looked around Stefan’s apartment. “Why did you go there?”
“We were looking for him. He wasn’t at the palace; we hoped we’d find him at home.”
“Why didn’t you just call him?”
“We did. Many times. I’m surprised Miranda didn’t tell you that.” His eyes flickered almost imperceptibly, which I took to mean that she had told him, and that he was simply cross-checking our stories. “We also went to the police station, but we couldn’t get in. There’s probably a security-camera video of us knocking on the door, right?” He shrugged. “Anyhow, by that time, we were really worried about him. Looking at his apartment seemed like the only thing we could do.”
“But you went inside the apartment. I have to say, that was unfortunate. That looks suspicious. Why did you do that?”
“We were worried,” I repeated, “and the door was open. We were afraid he might be sick, or hurt.”
“Did he seem unhealthy to you, the last time you saw him?”
“No. But people get sick without warning; people die without warning. I had a friend who was forty-six—my friend Tim, a strong, athletic guy—who had a stroke one day out of the blue, dropped dead instantly. I knew a healthy young woman, a television reporter, who dropped dead in the middle of her nightly news broadcast. Another friend of mine slipped and hit her head on the bathroom floor; she lay there for two days before she came out of her coma and managed to call an ambulance.”
“Remind me not to become your friend,” he said. “It sounds very bad for the health.”
“Touché, Inspector.” I smiled. “The point is, unexpected things happen. If we’d known Stefan was dead, we wouldn’t have gone in. And if we were his killers, we certainly wouldn’t have left fingerprints on the doors and light switches and who knows where else. I know better than to contaminate a crime scene, Inspector. We just didn’t know it was a crime scene.”
He wasted no time pouncing on that. “What makes you say that the apartment is a crime scene?”
“Drawers were dumped out, Inspector. Furniture was cut open. If it’s not a crime scene, it’s the messiest apartment in France. Before we saw his apartment, I was just worried; after we saw it, I was sure something bad had happened. That’s when I thought to come here, to the chapel. If we hadn’t gone into his apartment, the murder wouldn’t even have been discovered yet.”
He was still frowning. “But why did you think to come here, to the Templar chapel? How did you know he would be here?”
“I didn’t know he’d be here. But I thought it was worth looking.”
“Why? What made you think that?”
“I’m not sure. For one thing, I suppose this was the only place that I knew Stefan had some sort of…connection to, besides his apartment and the Palace of the Popes. But that’s not all. This place seemed important to him for some reason. He brought me here one night last week—I couldn’t sleep, so I went out for a walk. It was very late—almost midnight—but I ran into Stefan on the street. We walked around for a while, and he brought me here, showed me the chapel, took me inside. He had a key; said he was friends with the owner. It was strange, though. Almost like he was letting me in on a secret.”