Free Killer Critique by Alexander Campion Page B

projected straight up from Monteil’s right ear.
    Capucine was vaguely aware that Lacombe was asking her something, but she was too captivated by Monteil’s body to be able to focus on his question.
    The left flap of Monteil’s jacket hung limply. Capucine squatted on the balls of her feet and peered, careful to touch nothing. The tailor’s label, CHARLES TOLUB, 7 RUE DE THORIGNY, was clearly visible under the inside pocket. Monteil had had his clothes made by the same tailor as Alexandre. The clips of two plastic pens were visible, the words HOTELS COSTES conspicuous on one of them.
    â€œYou know him?” Lacombe was asking.
    Capucine nodded. “Jean Monteil. He was one of the journalists on Le Figaro’ s restaurant page. He wasn’t a close friend, but I definitely knew him.”
    There was a moment of awkward silence.
    â€œAnd that metal thing sticking in his ear? Any idea what that is?”
    Capucine’s mood broke.
    â€œI have two of them in my kitchen. It’s a basting needle. They’re used to inject stock or sauce or whatever into meat while it’s cooking. See, the plunger’s been completely depressed.” If this one was anything like Alexandre’s, Capucine thought to herself, the needle would be over three inches long and would easily have killed the victim without the need to inject anything.
    There was a loud crashing and clanging of metallic tubing from the top of the stairwell. The forensics team had arrived and was having problems getting its gurney down the stairs. Momo appeared, holding the front of the folded aluminum contraption.
    In a high-pitched complaint Isabelle’s voice could be heard from the top of the stairs. “Merde, David, stop pushing me!”
    Ajudant Dechery came up to Lacombe and Capucine. “Luckily, we ran into your brigadiers. The big one was a godsend with the gurney. Whatever you do, Commissaire , don’t let him go. Without him, we’ll never get the stiff out of here.”
    Dechery’s professional enthusiasm took over as he looked at the body and almost rubbed his hands in glee. “A basting needle stuck in the ear. Now, that’s something I’ve never seen before. Good! If you two will give me a little room, I need to get to work.” He waved his assistants over joyfully.
    The two commissaires stood back and watched as the forensics experts opened their cases, slipped into white plastic jumpsuits, snapped on rubber gloves, and began their grisly work.
    Capucine’s three officers had joined Lacombe’s team, which had herded the fifty or so customers into a corner of the room and were busy taking names and meticulously checking identification papers, an act as sacred to a French policeman as receiving the wafer at mass was to Catholics. The customers hovered patiently but apprehensively in their corner like a small drove of steers who were about to be driven into a chute.
    David came over to report. “They’ve completed the list of the customers, and Isabelle and Momo are starting on the serving staff. The cook staff is waiting in the kitchen. Can I let the customers go home?”
    Isabelle rushed up, her pupils black with anger. “Nobody’s going home!” she said. “Commissaire , you’ll never guess who’s here.”
    Capucine looked at her levelly.
    â€œOur favorite movie star and her sugar granddaddy.”
    Following Isabelle’s gaze, Capucine saw Sybille Charbonnier and Guy Voisin talking to Momo quietly on the far side of the restaurant.
    â€œCommissaire , you need to talk to the maître d’ right away. I’m going to get him to tell you what he just told me. You won’t believe it.”
    Capucine exhaled noisily in irritation. Good as she was at her job, sometimes Isabelle was just too much.
    Behind her Lacombe was chuckling happily. “Capu, you really should talk to him. It’ll make your evening.” His protuberant