The Madonna of Notre Dame by Alexis Ragougneau, Katherine Gregor Page A

murmured, “Sin has penetrated these walls. It didn’t have to come in through the keyhole because it simply had the key.” And then he murmured again, “This is the meaning of Your sign, O Lord. You have plunged me into darkness in order to push me to find the path of light again. You’ve put the key to the sin into the palm of my hand in order to test my faith. It’s up to me to find out which door it opens. It’s up to me to discover the identity of the killer.”
    Looking at the small priest absorbed in his Low Mass, the Polish vagrant, wrapped up in his grimy padded jacket, wondered what all that gibberish was about.

    “Luna Hamache. Twenty-one years old, born in Paris, in the eighteenth arrondissement. Studying history at the Villetaneuse university. Living with her parents in Rue Guy-Môquet. Father of Algerian origin, unemployed, mother a care worker in Beaujon. Does that ring any bells, Thibault?”
    “No. Who is it?”
    “It’s the girl who was strangled on Sunday night right in the middle of Rejoice, Mary. Her father recognized her picture in yesterday’s Le Parisien. Not easy finding out about your daughter’s death by opening a paper on the counter of a café, right, Thibault?
    “Yes, it’s terrible.”
    “Terrible? Do you know where her parents are right now? They’re at Forensics, in the process of identifying a corpse pulled out of a drawer. Don’t you think it’s time you started being a bit more talkative, Thibault?”
    “But I told you, I didn’t do anything to that poor girl.”
    “Didn’t do anything? You’re kidding, right? We’ve got about fifty witnesses who saw you hitting that poor girl, as you say, during the procession. And less than five hours later, while the movie session was in full swing in Notre Dame, someone squeezed her neck so tight, she jumped so far out of her skin she landed in heaven. You’ll excuse me if we have good reason to believe that the sicko who did her in is you, Thibault.”
    “You have no proof.”
    “We’ll have proof enough in less than two hours. And you know why, Thibault? Because in less than two hours, the medical examiner will have finished his postmortem report. In your opinion, whose DNA are we going to find on the poor girl’s clothes? As far as I’m concerned, I’m not too bothered about proof, especially given the porn drawings we found at your place. What I would like to know, however, is why. Why and how?”
    “Ask the murderer. It’s got nothing to do with me.”
    “I’m going to tell you what happened. I’m going to tell you exactly. On Sunday, you went to the cathedral like you always do on the day of the Assumption. Like every year, you had your crucifix in one hand and your dick in the other, if you’ll excuse the expression, so to speak.”
    “Honestly, inspector, do you have to use that kind of language?”
    “The Day of the Assumption is a bit like New Year’s Day for fetishists of the Virgin Mary. Right, Thibault? It’s the only day of the year when they get the silver statue out. Wipe it off a bit and off we go on a little tour of Paris. Knights, priests, the old piousfolks, everyone follows. And among all that crowd, there’s also degenerates like you who take pictures while waiting to go back home and jerk off all night. Right, Thibault?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Right, now wait, I haven’t finished my story. Imagine that in the middle of the procession, you come across a second Virgin Mary who looks like the twin of your statue, except that this one isn’t made of silver but flesh and blood, all dressed in white, like the one at Lourdes, except that she’s a bit of a streetwalker type, miniskirt and nice tits, you know who I mean?”
    “I think so, yes.”
    “And the girl has the right, after all, to air her little ass— after all, shit, this is France, not Saudi Arabia!—and so she excites you so much that you suddenly think in that disgusting little head of yours: fuck, she’d better stop