The Last Precinct - Cornwell Patricia (читаем книги онлайн TXT) 📗

He just fixes those black glasses on Berger.

"You know what DNA is, don't you?"

"I would expect my DNA to come up."

"Because you bit her."

"I never bit her. But I am very oral. I…" He stops.

"You what? What did you do that might explain your saliva being on bite marks you say you didn't inflict?"

"I'm very oral" he says again. "I suck and lick. All over the body."

"Where specifically? Do you literally mean every inch of the body?"

"Yes. All of it. I love a woman's body. Every inch of it. Perhaps because I don't have… Perhaps because it is so beautiful, and beauty is something I can never have for myself, you see. So I worship them. My women. Their flesh."

"You lick and kiss their feet, for example?"

"Yes."

"The bottoms of their feet?"

"Everywhere."

"Have you ever bitten a woman's breasts?"

"No. She had very beautiful breasts."

"But you sucked them, licked them?"

"Obsessively."

"Are breasts important to you?"

"Oh yes. Very much_I am honest about it."

"You seek out big-breasted women?"

"I have a type I like."

"What exactly is your type?"

"Very full." He cups his hands at his chest and sexual tension shines in his face as he describes the type of woman who arouses him. Maybe it is my imagination, but his eyes gleam behind the black Solar Shields. "But not fat. I don't like fat women, no, no. Slender through the waist and hips, but very full." He cups his hands again, as if he is gripping volleyballs, and veins rope through his arms and his muscles flex.

"And Susan was your type?" Berger is completely unflappable.

"The instant I spotted her in the restaurant, I was attracted," he replies.

"In Lumi?"

"Yes."

"Hairs were also found on her body," Berger then says. "Are you aware that unusual long, baby-fine hair consistent with your unusual baby-fine hair was found on her body? How can that be if you'd shaved? Didn't you just tell me you shaved your entire body?"

"They plant things. I'm sure of it."

"These same people who are out to get you?"

"Yes."

"And where would they get your hair?"

'There was a period, in Paris some five years ago, when I started getting the sense someone was after me," he says. "I had a feeling I was being watched, being followed. I had no idea why. But when I was younger I didn't shave my body always. My back, you can imagine. It is very hard to reach, hard to shave my back, impossible really, so sometimes many, many months would go by, and you see, when I was younger, I was more shy with women and rarely approached them. So I didn't think about shaving as much, would just hide beneath long pants and sleeves and only shave my hands and neck and face." He touches his cheek. "One day I came home to the apartment where my foster parents lived…"

"Your foster parents are still alive at this point? The couple you've mentioned? Who lived near the prison?" she adds with a trace of irony.

"No. But I still was able to live there for a while. It was not expensive and I had work, odd jobs. I come home and I can tell someone has been inside. It was strange. Nothing was missing except the covers on my bed. I think, well, that's not so bad. At least whoever it was took only that. Then it happened again several more times. I realize now it was them. They wanted my hair. That's why they took my bedcovers. Because I lose a lot of hair, you see?" He touches tangles of hair on top of his head. "It is always falling out if I don't shave. It gets caught on things when it's so long." He holds out an arm to show her, and long hair wafts weightlessly on the air.

"Then you're saying you didn't have long hair when you met Susan? Not even on your back?"

"Not at all. If you found long hairs on her body, then they were put there, you see what I am saying? All the same, I accept that her murder is my fault."

Chapter 15

WHY IS IT YOUR FAULT?" BERGER ASKS CHAN-donne. "Why would you say that Susan's murder is your fault?"

"Because they followed me," he answers her. "They must have come in just after I left, and then they did that to her."

"And did they follow you to Richmond, too, sir? Why did you come here?"

"I came because of my brother."

"Explain that to me," Berger replies.

"I heard about the body at the port, and I was convinced it was my brother, Thomas."

"What did your brother do for a living?"

"He was in the shipping business with my father. He was a few years older. Thomas was good to me. I didn't see him much, but he would give me his clothes when he no longer wanted them, and other things, as I've told you. And money. I know the last time I saw him, maybe two months ago in Paris, he was frightened something bad was going to happen to him."

"Where in Paris was this meeting with Thomas?"

"Faubourg Saint Antoine. He loved to go where the young artists and nightclubs are, and we met in a stone alleyway. Cour des Trois Freres, where the artisans are, you know, not too far from Sans Sanz and the Balanjo and, of course, the Bar Americain, where girls can be paid to keep you company. He gave me money and said he was going to Belgium, to Antwerp, and then on to this country. I never heard from him again, and next the news came out about the body."

"And where did you hear this news?"

"I told you I get many newspapers. I pick up what people throw away. And many tourists who don't speak French read the international version of USA Today. There was a small story in it about the body found here, and I knew right away it was my brother. I was sure. For this reason, I came to Richmond. I had to know."

"How did you get here?"

Chandonne sighs. He looks fatigued again. He touches the inflamed, raw skin around his nose. "I don't want to say," he replies.

"Why don't you want to say?"

"I'm afraid you'll use it against me."

"Sir, I need you to be truthful with me."

"I'm a pickpocket. I took a wallet from a man who had his coat draped over a monument in Pere-Lachaise, the most famous cemetery in Paris, where some of my family is buried. A concession a perpetuite" he says proudly. "Stupid man. An American. It was a big wallet, the sort people keep passports and plane tickets in. I've done this many times, I regret to tell you. It's part of living on the street, and I've lived on the street more and more since they started after me."

"These same people again. Federal agents."

"Yes, yes. Agents, magistrates, everyone. I immediately took the plane because I didn't want to give the man time to report his wallet missing and then have someone stop me at the gate in the airport. It was a return ticket, coach, to New York."

"You flew out of what airport and when?"

"De Gaulle. That would have been last Thursday."

"December sixteenth?"

"Yes. I got in early that morning and took a train to Richmond. I had seven hundred dollars because of what I took from the man."

"Do you still have the wallet and passport?"

"No, never. That would be stupid. I threw them in the trash."

"Where in the trash?"

"At the train station in New York. I can't tell you exactly where. I got on the train…"

"And during your travels, nobody looked at you? You weren't shaven, sir? No one stared at you or reacted to you?"

"I had my hair in a net under a hat. I wore long sleeves and a high collar." He hesitates. "I have another thing I do when I look like this, when I have not cleaned off the hair. I wear a mask. The type of mask people put over their nose and mouth if they have severe allergies. And I wear black cotton gloves and large tinted glasses."

'This is what you wore on the plane and the train?"

"Yes. It works very well. People move away from me and I, in this instance, had an entire row of seats to myself. So I slept."