Death in the City of Light: The Serial Killer of Nazi-Occupied Paris by David King Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David King
a patient and observant detective with a mastery of police procedure. He was praised for his psychological insight into the criminal mind. As he gained more responsibilities, rising to secretary in August 1921 and eventually commissaire of police in January 1933, Massu would also earn a reputation for his ability to recognize the strengths and weaknesses of the men who served on his team. Some superb interrogators, Massu said, could not catch a pickpocket, and many detectives, veritable bloodhounds in the hunt for a criminal, would be lost in the interrogation room. His job was to delegate the tasks of an investigation accordingly.
Massu’s own specialty was interrogation. He placed an enormous value on its importance to an investigation. Evidence at a crime scene was often complicated, subject to a variety of interpretations; witnesses may lie, mislead, or make mistakes, and science, even in the best of circumstances, was not infallible. But an interrogation could produce a detailed confession—and this, when corroborated by outside verification, represented the most certain way to determine if someone was guilty and, what’s more, ensure that justice was in fact being served.
Success in the interrogation room meant tailoring his strategy to suit the suspect sitting in the green velvet chair in his office. Whether dealing with a thug or a sophisticated swindler, it was always essential to create a calm environment for questioning. A glass of beer or a dry white wine, the commissaire said, was more productive than screaming in the suspect’s face, threatening reprisals, or resorting to blows. Massu prided himself not only on gaining the most confessions at the Quai des Orfèvres, but, more important, on the fact that he had achieved these results “without raising the voice or the hand.”
In 1937, when the International Exposition had returned to Paris, Massu established the “Brigade Volante,” a mobile police squad to fight crime, which had risen dramatically at the 185-day World’s Fair that drew some 31.5 million registered visitors. Massu tried to make sure thatthis “ritual of Peace and Progress” would not be scarred by murder or tragedy. He averaged about three hundred arrests per month, but in one key respect, Massu and all his colleagues had not succeeded.
A German drifter named Eugen Weidmann had been luring tourists away to a small villa west of Paris, at St. Cloud, where he killed and robbed his six victims and then buried most of them in his basement. Weidmann was eventually caught, sentenced to death, and guillotined in June 1939.The massive, unruly crowd outside St. Pierre’s prison at Versailles that day would prompt the French president LeBrun, nine days later, to abolish public executions.
Now, four and a half years after Weidmann, there was another serial killer in Paris, this one more prolific and far more disturbing.
W ITH the order from the German authorities in hand, Commissaire Massu hurriedly drafted a warrant for the arrest of Marcel Petiot and his wife, Georgette. The latter was described as “about forty years old, small stature, light complexion, thin face.” Dr. Petiot, age forty-seven, was presented as being “about 180 cm [just under 5′11″], rather corpulent, dark chestnut brown hair, thrown back, slight frontal baldness, clean-shaven, strong jaw, chin slightly prominent, and wearing a large overcoat.” Petiot is, the notice warned, “considered dangerous.”
“The steps of an investigation,” Massu said, “are always the same: statements, interrogations of witnesses, picking up clues and fingerprints at the scene of the crime and everywhere it seems necessary.” All of this would be “compared and examined scientifically,” looking for “anything that can be useful to the demonstration of the truth.” As for finding the suspect, Massu was confident. No matter how clever a murderer had been, how perfect his plan, or flawless its execution, a murderer was
Massu’s own specialty was interrogation. He placed an enormous value on its importance to an investigation. Evidence at a crime scene was often complicated, subject to a variety of interpretations; witnesses may lie, mislead, or make mistakes, and science, even in the best of circumstances, was not infallible. But an interrogation could produce a detailed confession—and this, when corroborated by outside verification, represented the most certain way to determine if someone was guilty and, what’s more, ensure that justice was in fact being served.
Success in the interrogation room meant tailoring his strategy to suit the suspect sitting in the green velvet chair in his office. Whether dealing with a thug or a sophisticated swindler, it was always essential to create a calm environment for questioning. A glass of beer or a dry white wine, the commissaire said, was more productive than screaming in the suspect’s face, threatening reprisals, or resorting to blows. Massu prided himself not only on gaining the most confessions at the Quai des Orfèvres, but, more important, on the fact that he had achieved these results “without raising the voice or the hand.”
In 1937, when the International Exposition had returned to Paris, Massu established the “Brigade Volante,” a mobile police squad to fight crime, which had risen dramatically at the 185-day World’s Fair that drew some 31.5 million registered visitors. Massu tried to make sure thatthis “ritual of Peace and Progress” would not be scarred by murder or tragedy. He averaged about three hundred arrests per month, but in one key respect, Massu and all his colleagues had not succeeded.
A German drifter named Eugen Weidmann had been luring tourists away to a small villa west of Paris, at St. Cloud, where he killed and robbed his six victims and then buried most of them in his basement. Weidmann was eventually caught, sentenced to death, and guillotined in June 1939.The massive, unruly crowd outside St. Pierre’s prison at Versailles that day would prompt the French president LeBrun, nine days later, to abolish public executions.
Now, four and a half years after Weidmann, there was another serial killer in Paris, this one more prolific and far more disturbing.
W ITH the order from the German authorities in hand, Commissaire Massu hurriedly drafted a warrant for the arrest of Marcel Petiot and his wife, Georgette. The latter was described as “about forty years old, small stature, light complexion, thin face.” Dr. Petiot, age forty-seven, was presented as being “about 180 cm [just under 5′11″], rather corpulent, dark chestnut brown hair, thrown back, slight frontal baldness, clean-shaven, strong jaw, chin slightly prominent, and wearing a large overcoat.” Petiot is, the notice warned, “considered dangerous.”
“The steps of an investigation,” Massu said, “are always the same: statements, interrogations of witnesses, picking up clues and fingerprints at the scene of the crime and everywhere it seems necessary.” All of this would be “compared and examined scientifically,” looking for “anything that can be useful to the demonstration of the truth.” As for finding the suspect, Massu was confident. No matter how clever a murderer had been, how perfect his plan, or flawless its execution, a murderer was