Free Bred to Kill by Franck Thilliez Page A

2009. Sharko glanced through the table of contents. The articles were about Nazis, high school shootings, the aggressive behaviors of certain animals, serial murderers. The editorial was very short: Where should we look for the causes of violence? In society? Historical context? Education? Or in our genes?
    Sharko shut the magazine and sighed. He might have been able to furnish an answer, after all the horrors he’d uncovered during his investigation the previous year. He finished looking around and nodded toward the computer.
    â€œWhat about in her Internet bookmarks? Did you check?”
    Levallois put down the framed photo and shook his head.
    â€œNo bookmarks, no history, no cookies. I didn’t find anything of note in her e-mail, either. We’ll have to check with her service provider.”
    Sharko noticed traces of glue scattered over the large blotter that depicted a map of the world. No doubt Post-it notes that had been torn off. The killer might have taken them.
    His gaze stopped at the tower of CDs, which he pointed to.
    â€œI’d be very surprised if Louts didn’t make backup copies of her hard drive.”
    â€œI’ve already had a quick look around. If she burned any discs, they aren’t here now.”
    â€œLet’s bring in a full team for a complete search and take the computer with us.”
    A phone rang and Levallois answered his cell. Two minutes of conversation, after which he returned to Sharko.
    â€œTwo bits of news. The first has nothing to do with us, it’s about the body in the Vincennes woods, Hurault. The boss asked me to give you this message: your former chief wants to see you in his office, pronto.”
    â€œSee me? Fine . . . and the other news?”
    â€œRobillard started by checking through the police files. Apparently, less than a month ago, Louts requested her police record—which is clean, by the way—to obtain authorization to visit penitentiaries.”
    â€œPenitentiaries?”
    â€œAt least a dozen of them. It’s as if our victim was out to meet the great jailbirds of France. So I can’t help wondering: what was a student who spends her time watching monkeys hoping to find in those hellholes?”

8
    O nce the door of the Homicide office had closed behind him, the inspector found himself opposite two men, Bertrand Manien and his right arm, Marc Leblond. One was seated, stiff as a rod, the other casually leaning against the rear window that looked out on the Seine. The atmosphere was tense, the furniture from another era.
    â€œHave a seat, Franck.”
    Sharko took a seat. Rudimentary wooden chair: his ass hurt and his bones ached. Too thin, way too thin. Normally that room, arranged as an open space, held an average of five or six officers working at their computers. Now, either the men were in the field or they’d been told to vacate the premises long enough for the “interview.” Marc Leblond walked toward Manien and sat down in turn. Tall guy, also thin, about forty, never seen without his cowboy boots or pack of generic cigarettes. Face like a reptile, narrow eyes that shone with malice. Before Homicide, he’d pulled five years in Vice, cuffing prostitutes and sometimes helping himself to the fringe benefits. Sharko had never liked him, and the feeling was mutual.
    The blond reptile fired first. Hoarse voice that brooked no argument: the guy was enjoying the situation.
    â€œTell us about Frédéric Hurault.”
    Frédéric Hurault. The murder victim found in his car in Vincennes. Facing the two cops, Sharko adopted a falsely relaxed posture. Arms folded, slouching a bit in his chair: he was in his former office, no more, no less.
    â€œWhat do you want to know?”
    â€œHow you nabbed him, and when.”
    The inspector knit his brow. He tried to stand up, but Bertrand Manien leaned over the desk and pressed down on his shoulder.
    â€œSit a while,
Chief Inspector
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