Bred to Kill by Franck Thilliez Page A

the two symptoms had been increasing in the same proportion. They might well be related. The brain is a complex machine and there’s still a lot about it we don’t know.”
    Resigned, he lifted a thick sheaf of paper and released it like a brick.
    â€œIt’s all here in black and white. Carnot was suffering from
something
, which was getting worse every day, sort of like a cancer. If this had happened on the outside we probably would have had more clues, more sources of information. No doubt Carnot would have been given an MRI and a complete diagnostic workup a long time ago. But you know, in the prison system, everything gets slowed down by this damned paperwork and a crippling shortage of equipment. And now my patient is dead.”
    Lucie leaned firmly over the desk.
    â€œLet me ask you straight: do you think Grégory Carnot could have committed such horrors under the influence of some kind of mental disturbance? Do you think, a year after he went to prison, that we can question his responsibility? Do you believe the twelve jurors who judged him responsible for his actions were wrong?”
    The man cleared his throat. His eyes left Lucie’s for a moment, then returned and held her gaze.
    â€œNo. At the time, he was fully aware of what he was doing.”
    Lucie sat back a little in her chair, a hand to her lips. His answer didn’t satisfy her. Limp tone. No conviction. He was lying to avoid challenging the verdict and so that she’d leave mollified—she was sure of it.
    â€œâ€˜At the time’ . . . Are you just saying that to make me feel better? Is that really what you believe?”
    He began moving stacks of papers, as if arranging his desk. He was doing everything he could to not meet her gaze.
    â€œAbsolutely. I’m telling you exactly what I told the cop who was here this morning. Carnot was responsible.”
    Lucie knit her brow.
    â€œA cop was here this morning? When?”
    â€œNot two hours ago. Some cop from the Homicide bureau in Paris. He looked like he hadn’t slept in ages. I’ve got his card here—well, if you can call it a card. More like a piece of cardboard.”
    He pulled open his drawer and took out a white rectangle, which he handed to Lucie.
    It felt like a kick to the stomach.
    On the card, written diagonally in ballpoint across the blank surface, was a name: Franck Sharko.
    â€œAre you all right, Miss Henebelle?”
    Lucie handed back the card with trembling fingers. She no longer had Sharko’s number in her cell phone. She had erased it a long time ago, along with any feelings she’d had for the detective. Or so she’d thought. Seeing that name again, here, now, so abruptly, under such circumstances . . .
    â€œHomicide? Are you sure?”
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    A pause. Lucie couldn’t believe it.
    â€œWhat did he want? What was Franck Sharko doing here?”
    â€œDo you know him?”
    â€œI used to.”
    A curt answer that left no room for further comment. The psychiatrist let it drop and returned to the subject at hand.
    â€œHe asked me questions about Eva Louts, a student who had come to visit Grégory Carnot about ten days ago. From what the inspector told me, she’d been murdered.”
    Everything was spinning too fast in Lucie’s head. Carnot was dead, but his ghost was still prowling around her. She thought of Franck Sharko. So he was still on the job but had left his position at the Violent Crimes unit and gone back to Homicide . . . Why hadn’t he just quit the whole damn thing, the way he’d promised before the twins were kidnapped? Why this return to the streets, guts, blood, starting over at point zero?
    Shaken by the abrupt revelations, Lucie took a deep breath. She had to proceed calmly, methodically, like the cop she once had been.
    First she asked questions about the circumstances of the crime. The psychiatrist passed along what