Free Bred to Kill by Franck Thilliez

various ages. A lean, agile body that seemed to leap off the mat. About five foot seven, the physique of a panther: forest-green eyes; long, arched eyebrows; a lithe, well-proportioned silhouette. Silently, and also with gloved hands, the inspector carefully examined the rest of the room. In a corner were a rowing machine, an exercise bike, and several barbells. Facing the bed, a large colored fresco depicted the family tree of the hominids, from
Australopithecus africanus
to Cro-Magnon. It was as if Louts studied the mysteries of life even in her sleep.
    Sharko kept rummaging. He riffled through closets and drawers. He was about to leave the room when something clicked in his head. He went back to the framed picture of two dueling fencers. He knitted his brow, placed his finger on Louts’s foils and those of her adversary.
    â€œNow that’s very curious.”
    Intrigued by his discovery, he removed the picture from the wall, tucked it under his arm, and continued his inspection. Bathroom, hall, kitchen, all nicely furnished. Mom and Dad, both white-collar professionals according to the initial reports, must have been helping out financially. The cupboards and refrigerator contained various dietetic products, powdered protein, energy drinks, fruit. An iron will when it came to food. The young woman seemed to have everything going for her, mind and body.
    Sharko returned to the living room, near the desk, and cast an eye over the surroundings. No television, as Jaspar had said. He checked the books in her library and the ones stacked on the floor, which presumably were the ones she’d consulted last. Biology, essays on evolution, genetics, paleoanthropology: a primitive world about which he knew almost nothing. There were also dozens of science periodicals, to which Louts probably had subscriptions. A calendar of training courses and conferences was tacked to the wall, printed on recycled paper. Full days, unenticing topics: paleogenetics, microbiology, taxonomy, biophysics.
    For his part, Lieutenant Levallois was ignoring the universe of paper around him. Absorbed in his task, he was navigating through the computer’s programs. Sharko watched him while snapping the latex of his gloves.
    â€œSo?”
    â€œShe’s got a left-handed keyboard. It’s a pain, but I was still able to do a full-disc search of her computer by date. The most recent document goes back a year.”
    â€œAnything having to do with hand dominance?”
    â€œNothing. Not a blessed thing. Someone’s apparently been here and erased it all. Including her thesis.”
    â€œCan we recover the data?”
    â€œDepends on how thoroughly they wiped it. We might only be able to get fragments, or nothing at all.”
    Sharko glanced toward the entrance.
    â€œWe didn’t find any house keys on the victim or among her effects at the office, but the entry door was locked. After getting rid of Louts, the killer came here, calmly, to clean up, then locked up after himself. Clearly not the panicky type.”
    Levallois pointed to the frame under his partner’s arm.
    â€œHow come you’re walking around with that? You like fencing?”
    Sharko went up to him.
    â€œHere, look at this. You see anything odd?”
    â€œApart from two masked girls who look like giant mosquitoes? No, not really.”
    â€œAnd yet it’s clear as day. Both opponents are left-handed. When you consider the odds—one lefty out of ten—you can admit it’s curious, to say the least.”
    Jacques Levallois took the frame with aroused interest.
    â€œYou’re right. And that’s exactly what her thesis was about.”
    â€œHer thesis which has disappeared.”
    Sharko left him to mull it over and opened the drawers. Inside were office supplies, reams of paper, and more science magazines. One of the cover headlines caught his eye: “Violence.” It was on the American magazine
Science
, an issue from