The First Fingerprint by Xavier-Marie Bonnot Read Free Book Online Page B

of old!”
    â€œYour mother-in-law isn’t a member of the M.L.A. by any chance?”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œNever mind, I’ll explain one of these days.”
    In the early afternoon, de Palma was alone in his office. He had nothing to do and intended to spend a few hours trying to discover the meaning of the negative hand found beside Hélène Weill’s body. It was the basic curiosity of a passionate investigator. A vague idea had occurred to him: he wanted to contact a specialist, someone at the university who would be able to explain the meaning of this drawing. He picked up the phone book and started to flick through it while whistling the opening of the overture of “Aida.”
    Commissaire Paulin walked in without knocking. He did that with everyone, to see if his squad was working conscientiously. He found de Palma going through the phone book.
    â€œYou know that we have the Internet now. You should try using it,” Paulin remarked reproachfully.
    â€œYou never find anything on the Internet, Commissaire. It takes hours just to find the right name, but only two minutes with the phone book. And no-one else knows what you’ve been up to.”
    Paulin was a shabby fifty-something who wore lousy suits and had a pot belly. A pair of small, twitching eyes were framed by specs placed at an acute angle over a hooked nose too big for his narrow skull. It all made him look as insincere as hell. But essentially de Palma did not like him because of his shoes: dated gray moccasins. He could not stand moccasins.
    The big boss did not dare ask him what he was up to, as he generally did with his younger officers. He was treating his best soldier well, because this man would help to push through his own future promotion. He just smiled, showing his horsy teeth in the gap between his puffy lips.
    â€œI’ve got a good customer for you, de Palma. A walker found her body some place—I can’t remember where exactly—in the creeks. A preliminary investigation says it was a murder. The prosecutor has appointed us, and I’m giving you the case. Go along to the morgue. Forensics are slicing her up now.”
    â€œI’m on my way,” de Palma said. He stood up slowly, hoping that this would annoy Commissaire Paulin even more. “But there’s something I have to point out to you.”
    â€œWhat?” said Paulin, irritated.
    â€œNormally, the presence of two police officers at an autopsy is obligatory.”
    â€œI know that, de Palma. It’s not my fault. There’s been a mix up with the municipality … We’re in Marseille, and that’s the way it goes! Everyone does whatever they want. Anyway, an officer is there to identify her, and the judge has already called by. You know Mattei. He starts work at 8:00 a.m., whether the police are there or not. Take Vidal with you!”
    â€œHe’s not available.”
    Paulin squinted a little, turned on his heel and left with a shrug.
    Whenever he had to pay a visit to forensics at Timone, de Palma always felt decidedly off. He did not like this kind of appointment, especially on a Wednesday after Dédé’s cooking.
    At 3:00 p.m., he walked into the vast Timone teaching hospital complex. In the changing room of the forensics department, as he put on his white coat, gloves, mask and over-shoes, he smelled the awful odor that hung all around.
    Despite all his years in the force, de Palma had never got used to the smell of dead flesh mixed with a bouquet of chemicals: phenol, ether, formalin, chloral hydrate … To make themselves understood by police officers, the forensic scientists often translated these strangely named fragrances into everyday terms such as pear, orange, rotten egg or caramel. To the specialists, each odor had its meaning.
    â€œYou start out by sniffing a stiff, like a vintage wine. You appreciate its bouquet, then you look at its color, finally you test it