For the next two days, The Forever Pilot and Maxim were seldom out of Janvier’s sight.  Her task, so the examining magistrate informed her, was to brief them on all the information relating to the Fleischer killings.  To make matters worse, the examining magistrate had taken a personal interest in the case.  She had even made a visit to the Metropole, and had thoroughly disrupted investigations in the process.

Meanwhile, mountains of files had been dumped on Janvier’s desk.  Snowdrifts of reports had been waded through.  Lakes of tea and coffee had been consumed.  After the first few hours, it soon became clear that The Pilot was only listening out of politeness.  Nevertheless, when Janvier angrily slammed down the fiftieth file of the morning, The Pilot insisted they continue.

It was three in the morning when they closed the last file, and the building seemed drugged with darkness and silence. Janvier sat back in her chair and lit a cheroot with a grateful sigh.  Across from her, The Pilot was slumped in an easy chair.  He clasped a battered tin mug filled with watery tea and seemed to be staring off into space.  A reading lamp, perched on the bookcase next to him, made a halo of his hair. Sheets of white foolscap lay everywhere, making the office seem like an arctic wasteland.

For once they were alone; Maxim had been dispatched to the Hall of Records and was busy pestering the night clerk at that very moment. 

Janvier got up and tried to smooth out some of the creases in her long skirt.  It was no good; she was too rumpled by days of solid work.  Her jacket lay under a pile of papers somewhere.  The collar of her blouse was undone and her skirt was stained with splashes of coffee and smears of cigarette ash.  Her usually well-disciplined hair was a tousled mess, strands hanging limply around her exhaustion-bloated face.

“So Pilot, was there any point to all this?” she waved her hand at the mess of papers. “Or is it you just fancied being bored for a change?”

She framed it like a joke, but there was an undeniable quiver of tension in Janvier’s voice.  Just let him say it was all a waste of time…

“No Inspector, not a waste of time,” replied The Pilot.  “I found it a very useful exercise.  Naturally, I have my own information, most of which your files corroborate.  That in itself is reassuring.  But I must confess, there is little new to be learned. Or rather there is nothing new to me, “though I must say there are clear indications of the identity of the criminal, not to mention a clear link between the victims. I’m surprised no one has noticed it before.”

Anger turned to astonishment.  Janvier stared anxiously at the piles of papers and files.  She even went as far as turning some of them over, as if the answer that The Pilot had just hinted at lay somewhere in the room, buried like a seam of gold in the white, shifting mountain.

Astonishment turned to suspicion.

“Wait a minute clever-dick,” Janvier growled. “You know there’s no single connection between any of the victims. Old or young, rich or poor, male or female; no section of society has been spared.  The only thing that’s the same is the M.O.  A body part, usually a hand or foot; though occasionally something more unpleasant, is discovered in some unlikely place. Then the corpse itself is found somewhere nearby.  That’s it.  We only have the name ‘Dr. Fleischer’ because he, or at least someone posing as him, signed it on a letter to the papers.”

“You’re quite right in a sense,” The Pilot explained.  “There is no material connection between the victims as in an ordinary series of murders.  But this Fleischer is no ordinary murderer.  I believe his crimes are linked to what one might almost call a higher purpose, a spiritual one if you will. To establish a link between the victims, we perhaps should begin by looking for who is not amongst them.  For instance, are there any doctors on the list of victims?”

“No, none,” Janvier growled wearily. 

“Any teachers, professors, artists, electricians, plumbers, musicians, soldiers, nurses…?”

“No, no, no, no, NO!  What the hell do you mean?  It’s late, I’m tired…”

“If you look at the lists of victims you will notice there are rich aristocrats with nothing to do.  Overpaid actors, overpaid lawyers, overpaid accountants, and estate agents.  Mannequins, sportsmen, journalists, tax inspectors, marketing executives, stockbrokers, lunatics, and criminals.  Men and women from every stratum of society who have only one thing in common; they might easily be perceived by a cynical and warped mind as useless to society.”

“Alright, say I buy it.  You said you could tell me who the killer was.  Who is it then?”

The Pilot smiled. “To be precise I cannot tell you who Fleischer is.  I can, however, tell you what he is. From my brief encounter the other night I can tell you he is of medium height and build.  He has no obvious physical deformities and appears to be right-handed. From these small details, as well as certain patterns in his method, and studies of similar crimes, I can build up a very good psychological profile of the man.”

“A what?”

“Psychological profile, the pathology of the criminal mind.  Ah but I’m forgetting, in your world psychology has yet to be acknowledged as having any real value.  I suppose the closest reference I can think of is ‘alienism’.  Do you understand that term Inspector?”

 Janvier gave a noncommittal shrug.

“The brain behind all this is an intelligent one, hence the elaborate and daring nature of his crimes.  There is also the use of a German term in his name.  In German, ‘fleischer’ means butcher, a rather macabre connection with the medical profession I think you’ll agree, and an indication of dark and subtle wit. Intelligence or at least a high degree of ingenuity is also indicated by the placing of clues.  Look where the severed limbs appeared: your porter’s desk, a display case in the Musee-des-Beaux-Art in Orleans, Pierrot the magician's prop box, and so on."  

“Why does he play such macabre tricks?  The answer must be because a buried part of him perceives the terrible nature of his crimes and wants to pay for such wrongdoing.  By placing them in such daring places he also creates a higher likelihood of being discovered, almost as if he wants this to occur. I also believe that his ‘crimes’ as we see them, are in fact the result of a misguided social conscience.  That he has not been able to bring about the social change he desires by more orthodox methods suggests he has become frustrated and embittered, which in turn has warped his mind.  It is also highly probable that he is socially frustrated.  Possibly this is due to a quiet, academic nature.  It may be that his own considerable intelligence has isolated him from the ordinary, everyday people he is forced to mix with." 

“He is a quiet, unassuming man who is easily overlooked in any average group.  He will have trained to be a doctor at some point in his life but gave it up for another academic, probably science-related career, in which he has become stagnant and bored.  He is probably middle-aged. I also propose that he is unhappily married to a woman of stronger personality and has no children.”

Suspicion and wonder struggled for dominance of Janvier’s face.  How was such a precise portrait possible unless…?

“I can assure you I do not know the man Inspector.  It is all a matter of my making a detailed study of the criminal mind, just as a doctor is trained to spot a malady.  The symptoms indicate the disease.  Many of Fleischer’s symptoms you already know, some of them I have explained, but if it would put your mind at ease… Very well then, I will elaborate.”  The Pilot folded his arms and settled comfortably into his chair.

“That he is a quiet, unassuming man is as easy to deduce as his intelligence.  For the man to remain undetected for so long, to pass on parcels containing severed limbs and depositing corpses in unlikely places, the man must easily be able to pass unnoticed amongst the majority of society." 

“The chief pathologist deduced the man’s medical background.  Possibly he is still a doctor or surgeon.  But I suggest a frustration of desires, say the inability to follow what he perceives as the true path to serving mankind, is behind his warped attempts to serve humanity through mass murder. Besides, if he really did write that infamous letter, would a man of his intelligence have advertised his true profession?  He may very well have chosen his nome-de-guerre because he sees himself as continuing his healing role, by ridding mankind of the diseases spread by the useless and idle: literally butchering the ills of society."

“I think it quite probable to suppose he gave up the medical profession or was forced to.  As to his reasons for giving up, well the natural assumption is that the fellow had a poor ability.  However, the chief pathologist spoke of great skill in his incisions.  Therefore if he wasn’t forced to leave the profession through lack of skill, it follows he had to give up the profession for some other reason.  The next most likely cause is poverty.

“It takes a long time to train as a doctor.  If you are not rich it also means a long time living in penury.  Of course, this would not be enough to deter an ambitious man, but say that man had a wife or fiancée who did not want a life of poverty, well then it is very likely that she put pressure on him to leave.  If she was successful it naturally follows that she is the dominant partner in the relationship. This also leads us back to the supposition that our friend is of a quiet, unassuming nature. As to this being a happy state of affairs, well I grant you some people are happy to be dominated by others.  But it is not usual for a happy man to commit so many murders.  For the same reason, I think it unlikely that he has any children.  In an unhappy marriage children often become the sole emotional outlet.  Once again, a man who is devoted to his children has less inclination to travel.  Remember, Fleischer has been – ahem - operating all through Europe.  Also, a happy father has little impetus to slaughter innocents in his spare time."

“As to his age, well the vigour with which he has committed the crimes and successfully evaded capture show that he is still fit and active.  However, such embittering circumstances as I have already described usually evolve slowly and are not felt until middle-age. That the man’s career has become stagnant is again obvious.  If he is middle-aged, then it is a more likely occurrence.  Also, once again I propose, a successful man does not turn to mass murder unless of course, this is the basis of his success."

“As to his profession, well what is more natural than a man trained in the science of medicine to turn to a scientific career?  The most lucrative employment is not the academic sphere but rather the commercial.  And once again if I am correct in my theories then his wife would certainly have pushed him toward the job that pays the most. Are you satisfied now Superintendent?”

Janvier wasn’t sure she understood half of it, and anyway it all sounded like a lot of fancy guesswork tied up in ribbons of clever language.  She decided to change the subject.

“Alright, if you’re so clever, what about the second murder?  Was it done by Fleischer?”

“I most strongly doubt it.”

“Then who did it, or what kind of person?”

“Ah that is a much more difficult question.  We do however have several suspects, however distasteful it may seem.”

Janvier gritted her teeth and narrowed her eyes.  She didn’t like the sound of that.

“First of all there is Vernet,” continued The Pilot, ignoring a yelp of protest that had burst Janvier.  “I know it is unpleasant, but at this stage, we must consider all possibilities.  And Vernet does indeed seem a very good possibility. For instance, are you aware that Vernet’s son was killed in a hit-and-run?”

Janvier winced at the memory.  She had still been a humble Inspector at the time, and still fairly sensitive.  She had seen the look on Vernet’s face when he had been told of the accident, heard the animal-like howls that had poured out from the depth of his soul, and had been chilled to the marrow by them.  If anybody deserved vengeance that night then it was Jean Vernet.

“But the killer of his son wasn’t Robichaux,” countered Janvier angrily.  “It was a drunken Businessman down from Paris.  He crashed his car later that night.  Died on the spot.  So it’s pretty unlikely that he killed Robichaux, if it even is Robichaux!”

The Pilot nodded sagaciously.  “You are of course right about certain particulars.  Although, if he was cheated of his own vengeance and was aware that another hit-and-run driver had escaped justice, it might haunt him for the rest of his career.  And then on the night of his retirement…”

Uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking, Janvier tried to divert it.  “Ok, what about the other suspects?”

The Pilot frowned.  “There is Baldon I suppose; he was Vernet’s closest friend.  He may have acted for the same reasons. But if it were to prove Benjamin is our second victim, I would favour someone with a former connection to be our murderer.”

Now Janvier was on the edge of her seat with astonishment.  “You don’t mean to say…”

“The examining magistrate?  Why not?  Benjamin had been implicated in a murder and yet was eventually convicted of a far lesser charge.  Is it not therefore possible that someone in the judiciary may have received a bribe to quash the more serious charge?  I am sure even in Ombreville these things happen.”

Janvier rubbed her forehead wearily.  “So you’re saying, the Firm bribed Madame Delouche and Benjamin knew.  Then years later he started blackmailing her and she decided to get rid of him?”

“It is possible.”

“But we’ve got no proof, no connection.  How come he started blackmailing her now?  How did she meet him again?” 

“Having examined her files,” replied The Pilot, “I can only find one item that might lead us to an answer: her membership of the Philanthropist’s Action Committee.  The guest list for the fateful evening doesn’t contain her name, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t there.”

Janvier felt something akin to fear as she listened to The Pilot slowly implicating her immediate superior.  He seemed more interested in the files of the judiciary than those of ordinary criminals.  Janvier began to wonder what The Pilot had made of her own file.

Once again she shook her tired and aching head.  “No, I’m sorry, it just doesn’t add up.”

The Pilot gave a shrug of unconcern.  “Then we will have no rest until we find the sum that does make it add up.”

Janvier looked at The Pilot, her bloodshot eyes full of desperate pleading.  “But can’t you just give me a straight answer?”

The Pilot shook his head.  “Regretfully not Superintendent.  At this stage, I merely prefer to say: someone you know very well undoubtedly committed the second murder”.

∞