Three France Crime Thrillers In One Volume July 2023 E-Book

Alfred Bekker

• Herausgeber: Alfredbooks
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 394

Beschreibung

This volume includes the following thrillers: Marquanteur And The Foundation Marquanteur And The Strangler Of Marseille Marquanteur And The Revenge Clément Degresse is actually in the old factory building to close an illegal deal. But he quickly realizes that it is a trap. Someone wants to make him pay for a crime he was involved in years ago. Commissaire Marquanteur of the Marseille Criminal Investigation Department must stop an ice-cold vendetta, but every detail of this bloody revenge seems well planned. Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair, and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Jack Raymond, Jonas Herlin, Dave Branford, Chris Heller, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, and Janet Farell.

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Alfred Bekker

Three France Crime Thrillers In One Volume July 2023

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Inhaltsverzeichnis

Three France Crime Thrillers In One Volume July 2023

Copyright

​Marquanteur And The Foundation

​Marquanteur And The Strangler Of Marseille

​Marquanteur And The Revenge

Three France Crime Thrillers In One Volume July 2023

Alfred Bekker

This volume includes the following thrillers:

Marquanteur And The Foundation

Marquanteur And The Strangler Of Marseille

Marquanteur And The Revenge

Clément Degresse is actually in the old factory building to close an illegal deal. But he quickly realizes that it is a trap. Someone wants to make him pay for a crime he was involved in years ago. Commissaire Marquanteur of the Marseille Criminal Investigation Department must stop an ice-cold vendetta, but every detail of this bloody revenge seems well planned.

Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair, and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Jack Raymond, Jonas Herlin, Dave Branford, Chris Heller, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, and Janet Farell.

Copyright

A CassiopeiaPress book: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books, Alfred Bekker, Alfred Bekker presents, Casssiopeia-XXX-press, Alfredbooks, Uksak Special Edition, Cassiopeiapress Extra Edition, Cassiopeiapress/AlfredBooks and BEKKERpublishing are imprints of

Alfred Bekker

© Novels by Author

© of this issue 2023 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westphalia

The invented persons have nothing to do with actual living persons. Similarities in names are coincidental and not intended.

All rights reserved.

www.AlfredBekker.de

[email protected]

Follow on Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/alfred.bekker.758/

Follow on Twitter:

https://twitter.com/BekkerAlfred

Get the latest news here:

https://alfred-bekker-autor.business.site/

To the publisher's blog!

Be informed about new releases and backgrounds!

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Everything about fiction!

​Marquanteur And The Foundation

Alfred Bekker

: France Crime Thriller

by Alfred Bekker

Dr. Rouyer, a gynecologist who also performs abortions, is murdered. Suspected is a foundation that believes every abortion doctor is a murderer. But is the self-proclaimed warrior of the Lord, Father Charles Rameau, really the commissioner of a murder? The case is more convoluted than it first appears.

Commissaire Marquanteur and his colleagues from Marseille investigate...

Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair, and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Jack Raymond, Jonas Herlin, Dave Branford, Chris Heller, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, and Janet Farell.

Copyright

A CassiopeiaPress book: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books, Alfred Bekker, Alfred Bekker presents, Casssiopeia-XXX-press, Alfredbooks, Uksak Special Edition, Cassiopeiapress Extra Edition, Cassiopeiapress/AlfredBooks and BEKKERpublishing are imprints of

Alfred Bekker

© Roman by Author

© of this issue 2023 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westphalia

The invented persons have nothing to do with actual living persons. Similarities in names are coincidental and not intended.

All rights reserved.

www.AlfredBekker.de

[email protected]

Follow on Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/alfred.bekker.758/

Follow on Twitter:

https://twitter.com/BekkerAlfred

Get the latest news here:

https://alfred-bekker-autor.business.site/

To the publisher's blog!

Be informed about new releases and backgrounds!

https://cassiopeia.press

Everything about fiction!

1

"You can go already, Manon."

Doctor Mathéo Rouyer sat behind his desk and reviewed some lab results that had just been couriered into the office.

"See you tomorrow, Doctor Rouyer."

"I'm just going to take a quick look at the findings, then I'm going home, too!"

Mathéo Rouyer heard the footsteps of his physician's assistant fade away in the hallway. A short time later, the door slammed shut.

Rouyer skimmed the lab results. The phone rang. Rouyer took the receiver to his ear.

"Mathéo Rouyer?" a distorted voice croaked.

"Speaking."

"You child murderer!"

"Look, I ..."

"But this very night you yourself will be dead."

It clicked. The connection was broken.

Rouyer sighed audibly.

That nutcase is just what I need!, he thought.

As a gynecologist whose practice also performed abortions within legal limits, he was used to religious fanatics and so-called pro-lifers seeing him as a welcome target for their campaigns. This was also the reason why Rouyer had set up his practice in a building in Marseille-Le Blanc - a building with first-class security. Around the clock, armed security guards from a private security company ensured that no unauthorized person could enter the building. Corridors, the entrance hall and the elevators were equipped with a video surveillance system, as was the underground parking garage belonging to the building.

Since Rouyer was attacked with a knife by a fanatical pro-life activist at a medical conference three years ago, he has often carried a revolver.

Rouyer put the findings aside. He simply could not concentrate on the results now.

At least, you achieved that, croaker!, thought Rouyer.

Krächzer - that was the name he had given this caller for himself personally. Krächzer had been following him for a long time with his death announcements. Sometimes daily, then again only every four to five weeks. The police had not yet been able to find out the identity of the croaker. All that was known was that he had called at least three times from a certain phone booth near a metro station and otherwise used various prepaid cell phones. In addition, the croaker was among a good dozen callers who more or less regularly hurled abuse, insults or threats at Rouyer. The police had caught two of them.

Rouyer did not take most of them particularly seriously. Their rhetoric might sound martial, but Rouyer judged most of them to be harmless. People for whom there was only black or white, and who were not prepared to deal at all with the distress that might drive a woman to the decision to interrupt a pregnancy.

But Rouyer knew, at least since the knife attack at the medical convention, that there was a small minority in the ranks of abortion opponents who were willing to go further.

Once his car had been set on fire. The police had not yet been able to identify the perpetrators, nor the identity of the croaker and the other callers. Some of them had become something like good acquaintances for Rouyer over the course of time.

Rouyer tried to think as little as possible about the fact that someone might actually be lurking out there.

The doctor was convinced that his work was important and had to be done. So he continued it despite the dangers involved and otherwise simply tried to take every conceivable safety precaution.

Mathéo Rouyer stripped off his white coat, hung it on a hook on the wall of his treatment room, went into the anteroom and took his jacket and coat from the coat rack. Just before he was about to leave the practice, the phone rang again.

Rouyer hesitated. A woman in distress or the croaker - both were possible. Finally, Rouyer gave himself a jolt, went to the counter behind which Manon normally had her place, and took the call.

"Unknown caller" was on the display.

"This is Doctor Rouyer," he reported.

On the other side of the line, only heavy breathing could be heard. Then it clicked, and the connection was broken.

The silent one!, thought Rouyer. I haven't heard from you in a while!

2

Rouyer went to the elevators. On the way, he encountered mainly room attendants and members of the security staff. Only now and then did one of the lawyers and architects, whose offices were also to be found in this building, mingle with them.

He took the elevator down to the underground parking garage. Camera eyes followed him everywhere.

Rouyer drove a Porsche. A fixed seat was reserved for him.

He had approached within twenty meters of the car when suddenly the light went out. It was pitch black. Only blackness surrounded him. Mathéo Rouyer reached under his jacket where he carried his revolver. He pulled out the short-barreled .38 and was completely disoriented. His pulse was beating up to his neck. There was nothing he could aim at.

He could not see his hand in front of his eyes. He stood there as if blind.

He reached for his cell phone. Not because he hoped to get a connection. In these catacombs, any network contact was out of the question. But the display was a source of light - albeit not a particularly strong one.

He flipped open the device. A faint glow lit up.

Only fractions of a second after the display flashed up, a sound resembling a forceful sneeze rang out. Muzzle flashes lit up in blood red. This happened twice in quick succession.

Rouyer fell to the ground with a thud. The cell phone and the .38 revolver slipped from his hands and slid across the asphalt. For a moment, the display was still lit up, then it switched off automatically.

Footsteps echoed in the darkness.

A final, muffled shot was heard. But this time there was not even any muzzle flash to be seen, because the killer had held the muzzle directly on the temple of the victim, who was lying there motionless.

3

I picked up my colleague François Leroc at the familiar corner, as I do almost every day. He couldn't suppress a yawn. I was no different. My name is Chief Inspector Pierre Marquanteur. My colleague François Leroc and I belong to a special unit called Force spéciale de la police criminelle, or FoPoCri for short, in Marseille.

"I hope Mandy's coffee is about to make sure we don't fall asleep," François said.

I grinned.

"That's the drawback of the comfortable seating in Mr. Marteau's office."

We had a long night behind us. Together with a dozen other colleagues from the Marseille police department, we had had to fight for many hours to catch Ricky Fratella, the boss of a drug ring, red-handed in a deal. Fratella had believed he was making the deal of a lifetime. In reality, he had fallen into a trap. Months of very costly investigation were thus probably brought to a close.

Half an hour later, we found ourselves in the meeting room of Detective Director Jean-Claude Marteau, the head of our department. In addition to us, Commissaires Stéphane Caron and Boubou Ndonga were present, as well as colleagues Josephe Kronbourg and Léo Morell.

Monsieur Marteau waited until Melanie had served everyone a cup of coffee. Our boss's secretary was just about to leave the room when Maxime Valois, our internal sales representative, also arrived. "At least we're not the last ones, Pierre," François whispered to me, while I was already taking my first sip of coffee.

"Good morning," Mr. Marteau greeted us. "Since everyone present was involved in yesterday's operation against Ricky Fratella, I want to give you my express praise. That was good work! I've already spoken with Attorney General Thoreau on the phone this morning, and he's very confident that the prosecution is on firm footing with Ricky Fratella and his aides. And we owe that primarily to the diligent investigative work and conscientious evidence gathering that was done by the staff of this police department."

Monsieur Marteau paused for a moment. Without another transition, he now came to his main concern - the new case with which he would entrust at least some of the commissaires of our police headquarters. "I know that last night is still very much in your bones, but unfortunately we cannot afford to take a break. This morning we were officially entrusted with the investigation of a case that is already occupying the media like no other murder case in recent years. It is about the Mathéo Rouyer case. Any of you who listened to the early morning news while driving here should already know the essential facts."

I had also heard the news about the death of the doctor Mathéo Rouyer - but I was only half listening. According to the report, Rouyer had been shot in an underground car park the evening before, after he had been threatened for months by militant anti-abortionists and so-called pro-lifers. Naturally, emotions were running high among radio station listeners even before the circumstances of the crime were known. Listeners had been invited by the station to call in and express their opinions, and the people of Marseille made extensive use of this opportunity. While some saw Rouyer's death as a just punishment for a multiple child murderer, others were outraged by the brutal methods used by religious Christian groups to intimidate doctors who, in the end, did nothing other than comply with the existing laws.

Of course, almost nothing was known about the background of the crime. All that was on the table so far was conjecture.

Monsieur Marteau raised his eyebrows.

"Doctor Rouyer had his practice here in Le Blanc and you will rightly wonder what we have to do with the case. After all, this would normally be the responsibility of the police homicide squad. And if they were not trusted to do so because of the enormous public interest in the case, it would be the turn of our colleagues from police headquarters, after all. The circumstance that brought this case to our desk is Doctor Rouyer's residence. He lives in Marseille-Le Blanc. In addition, there are probably connections with a series of attacks on clinics and doctors' offices where legal abortions were performed, all of which are located on the territory of the city of Marseille. It therefore seemed reasonable to let us conduct the investigation." Mr. Marteau turned to Maxime Valois. "Please, you've already gathered quite a bit about Rouyer on the fly, and you've also found a few starting points for our investigation."

Maxime nodded. During Monsieur Marteau's remarks, he had been busy booting up the laptop and installing the beamer. A little later, the face of a gray-haired, energetic-looking man appeared. His eyes were bright blue, his chin was prominent, and his nose was long and straight.

"This photo is from the press," Maxime said. "You can find it on the Internet and it was taken on the occasion of a gynecological symposium at Paris University last year. Three years ago, Rouyer was the victim of a knife attack at a medical congress here in Marseille. He was only slightly injured. The perpetrator was a certain Alina Cresbon. As an activist of a radical group of so-called pro-lifers, she already had a criminal record for various relevant offenses, so she was no longer granted parole and spent a year and a half in prison before being released. Since then, she has not committed any more crimes. We have heard all the more about the group she belonged to at the time. It is called VIVRE EST DIVINE (Life is Divine) or VED for short, and is one of the most radical groups in the so-called pro-life scene. This organization is led by Charles Rameau, a charismatic preacher who claims to have been a missionary in the Amazon jungles in the past."

"Is there anything that makes a concrete connection between Doctor Rouyer and VED?" inquired Monsieur Marteau after sipping his coffee cup.

Maxime nodded.

"They actually exist! According to the police, Doctor Rouyer has been harassed by telephone for a long time and has been inundated with threatening letters, as is the case with many medical professionals who work in his field and have an enlightened attitude to the issue. Most of these anonymous tormentors could never be traced, but a fine and a court order were issued against two individuals, under which the perpetrators were not allowed to contact Doctor Rouyer by telephone or otherwise, or to approach his office or home, under threat of imprisonment."

"The only question is whether they have complied," interjected our colleague Boubou Ndonga.

"Their names are Georges Beaulieu and Martin Malvaise," Maxime continued. "Their addresses are known. The court requirements also include an obligation to report any move within the next two years. So we can assume the addresses are correct."

Monsieur Marteau turned to Josephe and Léo.

"You two take care of Malvaise and Beaulieu. We need their alibi and to know if they complied with court orders or continued to harass Doctor Rouyer."

"All right," Josephe nodded.

"There's another interesting detail," Maxime explained. "Both Malvaise and Beaulieu were working as stewards at the events of Charles Rameau and his organization at the time of their convictions."

"In any case, the connection is reason enough to take a closer look at this organization, especially since it is associated with a whole number of other relevant offenses," Maxime expressed his assessment. "For example, four weeks ago, a power outage was caused by VED activists at St. Marie Hospital, resulting in the cancellation of all operations - including two abortions."

"What about the perpetrators?" echoed Mr. Marteau.

"Guillaume Bouche and Tara Lafitte - both activists of VED. The two have gone into hiding, and the police are searching for them. There were probably other perpetrators involved in the attack, but from the surveillance camera footage, only these two could be identified without a doubt."

"Since that is our case now, we will start there as well," Monsieur Marteau explained. "Perhaps you could tell us a few more words about the goals that VIVRE EST DIVINE is pursuing."

Maxime nodded and flipped through a folder of computer printouts and notes.

"Gladly," he said. "The focal point is the preacher Charles Rameau. He was actually born Robert Rameau and now publicly performs under the name Charles Rameau after experiencing his so-called rebirth as a Christian. Since then, he has toured the country as a charismatic preacher, railing against abortion, homosexuality and moral decay in soccer stadiums and field hockey arenas. He also has a weekly show on God's Bible TV cable channel, which everyone here in Marseille should be able to receive."

"And who finances this Rameau?" asked Stéphane. He was the second man in the police headquarters hierarchy after Monsieur Marteau.

"Rameau generates a fortune in the millions from his performances and the books, videos, etc. that go with them, most of which goes to a foundation called VIVRE EST DIVINE FONDATION," Maxime reported. Turning his face to Monsieur Marteau, he continued, "I'll talk to Norbért Navalle later about taking a closer look at this foundation and the financial flows associated with it."

"Do that!" agreed Monsieur Marteau. "But you won't have a chance to do that until noon today at the earliest, because right now Norbért is at the dentist having a root treated."

Norbért Navalle was the business management specialist at our police headquarters. Often enough, it was precisely his insights that put us on the right track in our investigations by tracking down hidden money flows.

Monsieur Marteau turned to François and me.

"I would like the two of you, along with some colleagues from our recognition service, to go to the crime scene to investigate the conditions there in more detail and to get in touch with the police colleagues there."

"All right, Monsieur Marteau," I nodded.

"Stéphane, you take on this Charles Rameau."

"He will wash his hands of it," the colleague replied.

Monsieur Marteau shared this assessment.

"Of course. He's probably even innocent in a legal sense, even if the actual perpetrators were inspired by him. In any case, I don't suppose that this movement is so tightly run that he would have a direct command."

"Oh, I hate to contradict you, Monsieur Marteau," Maxime interjected. "What you say may be true for other charismatic revivalists in general, but as far as Rameau is concerned, to be honest, we don't know that much about the leadership structures of this organization yet. On the economic level, there is that foundation already mentioned, and otherwise he certainly has a large throng of followers who are rather loosely associated with him and his ideas. But apart from that, there certainly seem to be circles within this following that have adopted much stricter forms of organization and are strongly closed off to the outside world. The extent to which Rameau has direct command here and can perhaps even order more concrete actions is far from clear."

"Be that as it may, it is very probable that the murderers of Doctor Rouyer and the authors of some other criminal actions against abortion clinics and practices are to be found in the immediate environment of this preacher," Monsieur Marteau concluded.

"Right now we are trying to locate the current whereabouts of Alina Cresbon," Maxime explained.

"I think that would have covered everything for now," Monsieur Marteau stated. "That concludes the meeting."

"One more question," Stéphane spoke up.

Monsieur Marteau raised his eyebrows. "Please!"

"Where is the forensic medical examination conducted?"

"Since Rouyer is a citizen of the city of Marseille and, moreover, the case has now been transferred to us, the body has been transferred to the forensic medicine laboratory of the recognition service here in Marseille. As far as I know, Doctor Bernard Neuville is in charge of the autopsy." Monsieur Marteau glanced at his watch. "The dissection started half an hour ago and usually takes three hours. After that, we will be able to expect the first results."

4

François and I set off in the sports car. We drove along the expressway and then turned off at the exit onto a side road, where we headed east. I drove the sports car into the underground garage belonging to the building.

Officers of the local police as well as employees of the private security service, who normally provided security, were posted at the access road.

I rolled down the window of the sports car and showed my service ID.

The policeman waved us through.

"Commissaire Fernandez of Homicide is already expecting you," the uniformed man said.

"Thank you," I returned.

"The crime scene is on deck two. Other than that, it's business as usual here. However, we are checking who is going in and out and taking personal details."

"That's not usually the case?", I asked.

"Video surveillance should normally be enough," the security guard standing next to the officer now interjected into the conversation. "If anything is going on, we can see it from the control room and be here with a dozen men within moments. But for now, we just need to make visitors to the building feel safe, if you know what I mean."

"Perfectly," I nodded.

We drove on and finally arrived on deck 2, about a quarter of which had been cordoned off with flutter tape and marked as a crime scene. I parked the sports car between the other emergency vehicles.

Commissaires Pascal Montpierre and Jean-Luc Duprée - two recognition officers from our Special Branch - followed us in a blue Ford from our motor pool.

We got off at about the same time.

"Hello Pierre!", Pascal Montpierre greeted me. "Baptiste Cherdan is about to show up here as well. But first he's making a little detour through the labs of the recognition service to pick up the projectile that was stuck in Rouyer's head."

Baptiste was our chief ballistician. His name used to be Ochmer. But since he had married his gay friend, his name had changed. Two of the shots that had hit Rouyer had passed smoothly through his body and were now stuck in the gray concrete that surrounded us here. From the calculation of the trajectories of the shots using laser projections, it was possible to determine the point of view from which the perpetrator had fired.

François screwed up his face.

"What happened to the head, you may not imagine at all."

I let my eyes wander. White chalk markings indicated where Rouyer had died. Even now, the pool of blood on the asphalt was unmistakable, although the crime had occurred the previous evening.

A few passersby stood outside the flutter tape and watched their colleagues work the crime scene. Gray, three-piece suits and serious-looking business suits predominated. Most of these passersby stopped only briefly. Their schedules did not allow them to indulge their voyeurism.

A man with a stocky build, high forehead, and striking facial features that looked chiseled caught my eye. I estimated him to be in his mid-fifties. He wore a cashmere coat and had his hands deep in his pockets. Unlike the other passers-by, he didn't seem to be in any hurry.

"Commissaire Fernandez, Chief of Homicide," a raspy, hoarse voice brought me out of my thoughts.

The man to whom this voice belonged was in his mid-thirties. He wore a stained, scuffed leather jacket and jeans. Fernandez held out his ID to us, and we did the same.

"I am Commissaire François Leroc, and this is my colleague Pierre Marquanteur," François introduced us both. "Also with us are Commissaires Pascal Montpierre and Jean-Luc Duprée from our own detection service. A ballistics expert is still on the way."

"Frankly, I'm glad to be rid of this case," Fernandez confessed, making a throwaway gesture.

I frowned a little in surprise. "Like that?"

"The murder of Doctor Rouyer is going to raise a lot of dust. We have already received more than a dozen hateful calls during the morning, saying that Doctor Rouyer deserved to die, and that the act should be seen as the execution of a divine judgment. I can gladly do without such things."

"Were you able to trace some of those calls?"

"Yes. These people live within a thirty-kilometer radius of Marseille. Our colleagues on the ground are checking the alibis, but personally I don't think the perpetrator or perpetrators could be so stupid as to deliver themselves to the knife in this way. No, they're just people who desperately need to share their opinions with missionary zeal."

"Have you already reconstructed approximately what happened?" asked François.

Fernandez nodded.

"Yesterday around half past eight in the evening, Doctor Rouyer left his practice. His physician's assistant, Manon Deschamps, had already left the office about fifteen minutes earlier. Doctor Rouyer's other employees had already left two hours earlier."

"Where do we find Manon Deschamps?", I asked.

"At the doctor's office. She's busy referring patients to other doctors."

"I assume Doctor Rouyer's route to the parking garage can be seamlessly documented through video surveillance."

"That's right," Fernandez confirmed. "Commissaire Wittwer, together with his colleagues from Security, is busy in the control room picking out the important image sequences from the recordings and copying them onto data media so that you can get an idea."

"Thank you."

"So Rouyer reached the parking garage and walked toward his Porsche." Fernandez reached out toward the car, which was still in place. "Then the lights went out. And it was in the entire parking garage area. The exact cause is still under investigation."

"This probably means that all the surveillance cameras were blind in one fell swoop," François concluded.

"Exactly. The perpetrator, however, had no problems with the darkness. He shot Rouyer unerringly, then approached Rouyer and gave him a mounted shot to the head. Whether the doctor was already dead at that point will probably only be revealed by the autopsy."

"I suppose when the lights are completely off, you can't see anything here," I said.

"Not even the hand in front of the eyes," Fernandez confirmed. "We tried that this morning. We found a .38 revolver at the scene that must have belonged to Rouyer. But, of course, given the lighting conditions, the gun didn't help him."

"The perpetrator must have been wearing night vision," I opined. "There's no other way to explain why he was able to hit Rouyer in the first place."

"We've thought about that, too."

"How did the perpetrator leave the parking garage?" now François interfered again.

"That hasn't been resolved yet either," Fernandez said. "The simplest method would be to just leave the parking garage on foot via the exit ramp. It was total darkness everywhere there, and there are no cameras left in the small area that may have gotten some light from the streetlights outside. The other possibility would have been for him to take the elevator to the first floor and leave the building in the normal way through the main entrance. But that would have attracted attention, since most of the offices had long since closed for the day and were no longer receiving customers. Option three: He could have sat in his car and waited until the power outage was over. But then he probably would have been easily noticed. After all, the colleagues from the security service immediately tried to seal everything off and carry out checks. And even if he had slipped through their fingers, he would have to be seen in the video recordings. After all, the entire route up to the exit barrier is recorded almost without any gaps."

"What if he was already driving during the dark period?" asked François. "Assuming he actually had night vision equipment, surely he could just get behind the wheel and would not have been seen by the cameras as long as he turned on the lights. I don't suppose the cameras have microphones, too, so you could have heard the engine noise later."

Fernandez shook his head.

"No, they don't. After all, a little privacy has to remain. However, he would have had to either drive over the barrier or pass it. Since the barrier is undamaged and it can be proven that it was not passed at the time in question, this possibility is ruled out."

"The simplest is often also the most effective," Pascal Montpierre now interjected into the conversation. "I assume that the first possibility applies and that he left the parking garage on foot. He should have had enough time to do that."

"Quite possibly," Fernandez admitted.

"Then we will search the entrance area for footprints and other traces that we can later match with what we find at the crime scene," Pascal announced.

"I'm afraid it's already too late for that," Fernandez replied.

Pascal raised his eyebrows.

"What makes you think that, Commissaire Fernandez?"

"There's been plenty of foot traffic in the interim."

"That may be, but if our theory is correct, then there has certainly been only one pedestrian among them since last night - Doctor Rouyer's killer."

5

"He who takes the sword will perish by the sword, so says the Lord Jesus!" the deep voice of Charles Rameau boomed through the room.

Rameau was an imposing figure. A two meter tall man with full, very thick gray hair and a gray intertwined beard that reached down to chest level.

"What then does a so-called doctor, who has actually sworn to help people and heal them with God's help, do when he performs what is euphemistically called an abortion? Yes, my brothers and sisters, he takes a weapon and attacks a human being - a particularly helpless one at that! What difference does it make whether it is a sword or a medical instrument that cuts up the little human body? The Lord says that life is sacred! And that God sent it - this breath that He breathed into Adam and that has indwelt us all ever since. You shall not kill, it is already written in the law that God gave us at Sinai. And whoever violates it is a sinner who is himself of death ..."

"Thank you, out!" exclaimed a man with his shirt sleeves rolled up, his tie hanging around his neck like a rope. He took a glass of water, finished it, and put it back on his script table. "All right. Was the light okay?" he turned to one of the technicians.

"Yes!" it came back curtly.

Charles Rameau relaxed as clearly as the cameramen behind their equipment. Normally, Rameau was always spurred on by the audience. Preaching to imaginary spectators in front of empty stands was something he just couldn't get used to. On the other hand, his show was well received and was the all-time ratings leader on God's Bible TV. So there was no reason to question his abilities as a TV preacher.

"Everything perfectly in the box!" exclaimed the man with the shirtsleeves.

Two men approached him from behind - one flaxen-haired, the other with blue-black hair and a dark complexion.

"Stéphane Caron, FoPoCri. This is my colleague, Monsieur Ndonga. We have a few questions for Monsieur Charles Rameau."

The man in the shirtsleeves spun around. He stared for a moment at the badge Stéphane held out to him. Then he took a deep breath and wiped his face with a nervous movement of his hand.

"You've come at an inopportune time, Mr. Caron. We're recording a program here for God's Bible TV and we're behind schedule as it is."

"I'm sorry about that," Stéphane replied.

"We wouldn't do that unless it was absolutely necessary," Boubou Ndonga added. "May we know who you are?"

"Cavelle, Didier Cavelle, I'm the recording director and executive producer all rolled into one here." He sighed. "If it cost your money, you wouldn't be doing this. I'm pretty sure of that."

"I'm sure we'll be done quickly," promised Boubou Ndonga.

Didier Cavelle nodded. He signaled to his crew and shouted, "We'll take a twenty-minute break! But that everyone is on time for me afterwards!" He turned to the two commissaires and growled, "Come on!"

Stéphane and Boubou followed him on stage. A blue wall was used as the background, which could later be exchanged for any background.

"Monsieur Rameau?" asked Stéphane. "I am Stéphane Caron from the FoPoCri Marseille. My colleague Monsieur Ndonga and I would like to ask you a few questions in connection with the death of Doctor Mathéo Rouyer."

"Father Rameau - so much time must be, Messieurs!" interjected Cavelle.

"As far as we know, Monsieur Rameau has not studied theology, nor does he preside over a church congregation, nor has he otherwise qualified as a clergyman - by any confession whatsoever," Boubou countered him.

"Churches have become meeting places for lukewarm compromise Christians who no longer take the Word of God seriously," Rameau explained. "Those who have joined me usually call me pastor, but that need not apply to you."

"I suggest we go to a room where we can talk undisturbed," Stéphane said.

Rameau exchanged a somewhat puzzled look with Cavelle. The latter shrugged his shoulders and affirmed, "I have no idea what this is all about!"

"I have nothing to do with the death of this unfortunate, godless doctor, who regarded life as something that can be made to disappear in the privy because the state does not threaten him with punishment for it."

"We don't suspect you at all, either. Our questions are for informational purposes."

"What information? This is utterly ridiculous! You can have me subpoenaed if you think it will help your cause, but I refuse to even listen to your blather."

"Why so hostile?" asked Stephane. "We should try to cooperate as much as possible."

Rameau literally pierced Stéphane with his gaze and continued angrily: "Let your speech be yes, yes or no, no, so it says in the Bible, and I have always kept to that! Everything I have to say on the subject, I have said. And I have said it publicly! Every week I testify on my program on God's Bible TV, and more than two hundred events a year around the country would have given you the opportunity to learn about my views. Or you could have purchased one of my books. But no, of course you prefer to make a grand entrance and interfere with my work!"

"We'll be happy to leave the grand entrance to you, Father Rameau," Stéphane replied. "But I think it would be best for all sides if we could resolve the issues at hand in private."

"As far as I'm concerned, in private, if you think you need a lawyer to do it," Boubou added.

Rameau sighed.

"All right," he conceded.

Boubou and Stéphane followed him into an office room.

"I would like to bring the following to your attention," Rameau opened the conversation after everyone was seated. "As far as I can tell through the media, this killer doctor was shot last night. I preached in front of over a thousand people. There is a video recording of that, which will also be on God's Bible TV sometime in the near future and will be available as a DVD. Also ..."

"As I said, you personally are not accused of anything in this regard, although of course one could stand on the point that your sermons may have inspired the act ..."

"I do not preach violence. But neither do I conceal the fact that the Lord's judgment will strike sinners with all its severity! Hallelujah!"

"There have been a number of property damages and attacks on hospitals in Marseille recently. The peak was the provoked blackout at St. Marie Hospital, which could have cost some people their lives," Stéphane replied.

Rameau spread his arms.

"That's unfortunate. But I had nothing to do with it!"

"Two of the perpetrators were identified from the video surveillance: Guillaume Bouche and Tara Lafitte. Both were activists of VIVRE EST DIVINE."

"You cannot seriously hold me responsible for what people who listen to my sermons do afterwards. Murderers, whores and other depraved souls come to my services, and many a one has been purified there by the preaching of God's Word."

"Bouche and Lafitte were employees of your foundation - not just any supporters," Boubou indicated.

"What that has to do with the Rouyer case is frankly beyond me," Rameau countered.

Stéphane tried to explain it to him.

"Bouche and Lafitte are definitely in our extended circle of suspects. There is simply a disturbing overall picture of your organization's activities."

"Now don't get carried away!"

"Rouyer - like other doctors - was harassed with threatening phone calls and hate mail. Two of the perpetrators were convicted - Georges Beaulieu and Martin Malvaise. They work as stewards at your events. And then there is Alina Cresbon, who attacked Rouyer with a knife three years ago. Before that, she too was an activist of VIVRE EST DIVINE and was even entrusted with conducting preaching seminars."

"The fact that we are looking for Rouyer's murderer in the circle of your organization should hardly surprise you in view of these facts," Boubou added.

Rameau sat there as if petrified. His face looked like the chiseled statue of an Old Testament patriarch. His gaze was turned inward. Finally he murmured, "You will not hear from me a word of regret about Rouyer's inglorious end. He has reaped what he has sown: Death, that is!"

Stéphane raised his eyebrows.

"I was hoping you could help us clear your organization of any suspicion so we could focus on other suspects," he explained. "But I seem to be biting into granite with you on that one, unfortunately."

"You want me to give information about my fellow brothers? Who do you think I am? I am not a Judas!"

"There are said to be groups among your supporters who would prefer a more radical approach," Boubou noted. "Could it be that parts of VIVRE EST DIVINE have slipped out of your control?"

Charles Rameau rose with his head held high. He went to one of the office's wall shelves. Along with files of business reports and tax guides, there was a leather copy of the Bible. Rameau took it out and slammed it down on the table.

"Everything I say is based on the Word of God. I preach what my conscience commands me to preach, and what conclusions the individual draws from it, I have nothing to do with that."

"Aren't you making it a little too easy for yourself?" asked Boubou.

"I walk the straight path in following the Lord. Life is something sacred to me, and I find it a mockery that our laws punish murder on one hand, but just let it happen in other cases."

There was a knock at the door. Didier Cavelle opened.

"Can we move on, Father?"

"Now!"

"You know we have to record next month's shows today!"

Rameau turned to Stéphane. "I think there is nothing further to discuss, Commissaire Caron."

"If you think of anything related to the case, please let us know," Stéphane requested, handing him one of his business cards. Rameau hesitated at first. Then he took it and pocketed it.

"Come to my services and let God's Word into your hardened heart, Mr. Caron!"

6

I accompanied Pascal Montpierre on his way to the exit ramp while François spoke with the head of the security service. Pascal and I walked the route that we assumed the perpetrator had also taken. One of the security guards accompanied us and answered our questions. His name was Ronald Donner and he had been the shift leader the night before.

In the meantime, I tried to reach police headquarters to pass on that the perpetrator had probably used a night-vision device. But my cell phone didn't make contact until we reached the ramp. I got Maxime Valois on the line.

"It must have been a device that was infrared-based, which allowed it to work in total darkness."

"The origin of this device could be an investigative lead," Maxime believed. "After all, infrared devices are much rarer and more technically complex than those that work on the principle of residual light amplification."

"I hope you get something out of it."

"Night vision equipment is predominantly used in the military," Maxime noted. "Since the perpetrator was able to use it and even shoot, it's reasonable to conclude that we're dealing with someone who learned how to do that in the army."

"You might check to see if any of the devout pro-lifers on our list so far might have had a martial past life," I suggested.

I heard Maxime tapping away at his terminal.

"Bull's-eye!" he then groaned. "Guillaume Bouche was in the army. I'll see if I can find out more about that."

Maxime broke the connection.

We reached the barrier. Pascal looked around.

"Were your people here yesterday?" meanwhile, I asked Ronald Donner.

"No. Not on foot, anyway," the security guard explained. "I ordered a couple of guards to the end of the exit ramp after we realized what had happened."

"When was that?"

"Already immediately after the crime. We could see the muzzle flash of the gun - also another light."

"Do you have any idea what it might have been about?"

"Police think it came from Rouyer's cell phone display lighting up. When the power went out, I think he was using it to provide light."

"I found something," Pascal reported. "Someone walked through an oil stain here. I'm going to take pictures of the print, so we'll have the tread and the size of the shoe afterwards." Pascal looked at Donner for a moment. "We won't be able to avoid comparing it to your people's shoes. Even though supposedly none of them have been here on foot - you could be wrong."

"I would still like to know from you what your orders were after you became aware that a shot had been fired."

"It wasn't as clear-cut as you might think at first. The first priority was the power failure and securing the building. Then all entrances and exits were manned with guards, and I went into the parking deck with several men. We only had a flashlight. That's because we're not prepared for such operations."

"I see."

"The janitor was there, too. We went to the fuse box and turned the power back on. But why the fuse blew out, no one can explain."

"Couldn't the perpetrator have just taken them out?"

"The box is secured with an electronic lock. You need a chip card in conjunction with a numerical code to access the fuses. The janitor has such a card - and so do we, of course."

"Show me the box right now!", I demanded.

"With pleasure, Monsieur Marquanteur."

"First, though, I'd like to walk up the ramp with you to see where your people were posted."

"You mean the culprit might have slipped through the fingers of my men?" Donner shook his head. "Impossible!"

"The way you described it to me, the perpetrator was long gone by the time your people cordoned off the ramp," I countered.

We reached the end of the ramp. An asphalt track led back to the road. A park adjoined on the other side. A hot dog stand was located there and ensured that all the lawyers and doctors of the house, plagued by their deadline rush, could quickly get their fill.

A man was standing in the actual exit area on a piece that was striped white. No pedestrian had access there.

"Hey, you!" the security guard called gruffly, "get away from there!"

The man was about forty years old and lean. I estimated him at one meter eighty. He had his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket.

"All right!" said the gaunt man. Nevertheless, he seemed rooted to the spot.

"Are you hearing hard?" shouted Donner.

"Wait a minute, I want to talk to the man," I demanded.

With a quick decision, I walked up to him and pulled out my badge.

"Pierre Marquanteur, FoPoCri! May I ask who you are and what you are doing here?"

"Something is supposed to have happened here."

"You didn't answer my question."

He pulled out a press pass and held it under my nose. I looked at him. His name was Jeannot Delbos. "I'm just looking around, there's nothing forbidden about that."

"No. But I'm surprised you don't just drive your car into the garage and buy a parking ticket."

"You'll only get that if you can report to the security office upon entry and state who you have an appointment with. The employees have their own parking passes, of course. But otherwise, it's hard to get in there."

"You sure know your stuff!"

He swallowed. I wondered why Delbos kept avoiding my gaze. He really avoided looking at me. I noticed a gold cross dangling around his neck.

"I'm after the Rouyer story. Are you investigating the case, Monsieur Marquanteur?"

"Yes."

"Maybe you can help me out."

"I'm sorry, but first of all, we're still at the very beginning of our investigation, and secondly, I can't release information that is either relevant to the manhunt or could violate the rights of third parties without consulting the police headquarters."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"That's a shame," he confessed.

"What paper do you write for?"

"I ... am a freelance journalist. Sometimes for the one paper, also sometimes for the Marseilles news portal, sometimes they run something by me on a couple of local radio and TV stations. Why do you ask?"

"Because you don't have a camera or recording device with you!"

"I do background reporting, not photo stories. And you have to do thorough research first. By the way, I have the camera in the car ..." He looked at his watch. "Unfortunately, I have to leave now."

"You're there with the car?"

"Told you."

"Where did you park it?"

"You have to go through the park a little bit and then turn left."

"Let's go together, Mr. Delbos!"

He looked at me rather perplexed.

"I don't really understand what's going on now, Monsieur Marquanteur."

"Very simple. We assume that the perpetrator left the parking garage on foot. So he must have parked his car nearby. Possibly in the parking lot you mentioned."

I accompanied Delbos to the parking lot. The demand for parking here was just as high as in other parts of Marseille. Here, too, free asphalt spaces on which to park one's car are becoming increasingly scarce. Beyond the park were numerous stores. Accordingly, the parking fees were high.

"What good does it do you to know that the perpetrator probably parked his car here?" asked Delbos.

"He might have left traces!"

"You're not seriously suggesting that you expect to find tire treads here on a car that was parked last night?"

"All I know is that our recognition officers will make every effort." I handed him my card. "If you find out anything in your research that has to do with the case, let me know, Mr. Delbos!"

He pocketed the card.

"Don't think you'll hear anything from me without something in return."

"We could talk about that!"

I noticed for the first time the reddish fire mark on the outside of his right hand, which until then he had always buried in his jacket pocket. Jeannot Delbos paid his parking ticket at the machine, got into his car - a silver-gray Mitsubishi - and drove up to the barrier. After he put his ticket in the slot, the barrier opened and he drove away. I reached for my cell phone and called Pascal.

"What is it, Pierre?"

"I may have a fingerprint of the perpetrator here."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, not exactly on a silver platter. You're going to have to look for it a little bit."

"You speak in riddles, Pierre!"

7

I spent the next half hour trying to locate the company that operated the parking lot. The lot belonged to a hotel about sixty meters away. It was not difficult to convince the director to help us. Provided that the culprit had actually used the parking lot, he must have passed through the barrier and handed in his ticket.

If we ran last night's tickets for fingerprints and then ran them through the computer, we might come across someone who could be linked in some way to Doctor Rouyer.

I had the tickets in question handed to me. Commissaire Fernandez sent a few men to search the trash cans on the way to the parking lot. Maybe the perpetrator had thrown something away on the way.

I returned to the underground garage and had Ronald Donner show me the fuse box. It was located in an alcove about fifty meters from the actual crime scene. The cameras did not cover this area, and the perpetrator had probably taken advantage of this to switch off the fuse. At least, that was the most plausible theory so far, because Jean-Luc Duprée had examined the fuse box for identification purposes and was able to secure a large number of fingerprints, which still had to be matched with those of the janitor and the security guards.

A mystery remained as to how the killer had managed to overcome the electronic lock.

"Three weeks ago, a check was done on all the electronic locks in the house," Donner revealed to me.

"We need the name and address of the company that did this," I explained.

"I will make sure you get what you need."

In the meantime, our chief ballistician Baptiste Cherdan had also long since arrived on the scene and begun his investigation.

With the help of laser pointers, the shooting paths had to be determined exactly. The same applied to the location from which the shooter had fired. His height could be estimated at one meter eighty based on David's investigation results.

In the meantime, François, together with his colleagues from the security service and the local police, had taken another close look at the video recordings. However, this did not yield any findings that went significantly beyond the previous state of knowledge.

"We have already started to filter out from the video recordings all the people who were even present in the parking garage during the period in question," François said.

"Whereas the perpetrator could well have made his way here hours earlier and lingered unnoticed in the unobserved alcove," I mused.

François nodded.

"Wouldn't someone have noticed?"

"Apparently not."

Together with François, I finally went to the murdered doctor's office. Manon Deschamps was still holding the fort there. When François and I entered the practice, however, she was not alone.

A man with a square face and a high forehead was with her. I recognized him as that passerby who had very persistently observed the work at the scene.

"Pierre Marquanteur, FoPoCri. This is my colleague François Leroc," I introduced us, holding my ID first to Manon Deschamps and then to the man with the high forehead. "Madame Deschamps?"

"Commissaire Fernandez has already announced you to me," said Manon Deschamps.

"And who are you, if I may ask?" turned François to the man.

The latter smiled cautiously.

"My name is Mouson. Doctor Hervé Mouson, I am a gynecologist at the clinic in Marseille Center."

"Are you something of a stand-in for Doctor Rouyer?", I inquired.

Mouson shook his head.