(f) He's not part of the drug mafia or involved in arms trafficking or that kind of thing; if he was, Europol would be on to him. Contrary to what most such criminals believe, the only reason they haven't been caught is because it isn't yet the right time for them to be put behind bars. Their groups are regularly infiltrated by agents who are paid a fortune for their work.
(g) He doesn't want to be caught, and so he's very careful. On the other hand, he can't control his unconscious mind and is, unwittingly, following a set pattern.
(h) He appears to be completely normal and unlikely to arouse suspicion; he may even be kind and friendly, capable of gaining the confidence of the people he lures to their death. He spends some time with his victims, two of whom were women, who tend to be more trusting than men.
(i) He doesn't choose his victims. They could be men or women of any age or social class.
Morris pauses for a moment. There's something that doesn't fit with the rest.
He rereads the list two or three times. On the fourth reading, he spots the flaw.
(c) He doesn't leave any clear signature, so he obviously has no desire to be identified.
This murderer isn't trying to cleanse the world as Manson was, or, like Ridgway, to purify his hometown; he's not trying, like Dahmer, to satisfy the appetite of the gods. Most criminals don't want to be caught, but they do want to be identified, some in order to hit the headlines and gain fame and glory, like Zodiac or Jack the Ripper. Others perhaps think their grandchildren will be proud of what they did when, years later, they discover a dusty diary in the attic. Others have a mission to fulfill: for example, driving away prostitutes by making them too afraid to walk the streets. Psychoanalysts have concluded that when serial killers suddenly stop murdering from one moment to the next, it's because they feel that the message they've been trying to send has finally been received.
Of course, that's it! Why hadn't he thought of it before?
For one simple reason: because it would have sent the police hunt off in two different directions, in search of the murderer and the person to whom he was sending the messages. And this Cannes murderer is killing people very fast. Morris is almost sure that he will stop soon, once the message has been received. In two or three days at most. And as with other serial killers whose victims appear to have nothing in common, the message must be intended for one person, just one.
He goes back to the computer, turns it on, and sends a reassuring e-mail to the commissioner.
"Don't worry, the murders will stop soon, before the Festival is over."
Just for the hell of it, he copies the e-mail to a friend in Scotland Yard, as a way of letting him know that the French authorities respect him as a professional, have asked for his help and received it; that he's still capable of reaching conclusions which will, later on, prove correct; that he's not as old as they would like to think.
His reputation is at stake, but he's sure his conclusion is the right one.
10:19 P.M.
Hamid turns off his mobile phone. He isn't the slightest bit interested in what's going on in the rest of the world, and in the last half hour, his phone has been inundated with grim messages.
It's a sign that he should ditch the whole absurd idea of producing a film. He had clearly allowed himself to be carried away by vanity instead of listening to the advice of the sheikh and of his own wife. He's starting to lose touch with himself; the world of luxury and glamour is beginning to poison him, something he had always believed would never happen.
Tomorrow, when things have calmed down, he'll call a press conference for the world media present in Cannes and tell them that, despite having already invested a large amount of money in the project, he's decided to pull out because it was "a dream shared by all those involved, one of whom is no longer with us." A journalist is bound to ask if he has other projects in m
ind, and he'll reply that it's still too early to discuss such things and that "we need to respect the memory of the departed."
Like anyone with even a minimum of decency, he deeply regrets the fact that the actor who was going to appear in his first film should have died of poisoning and that his chosen director is still in hospital--although not now in danger of losing his life--but both these events carry a clear message: keep away from cinema. It isn't his world and he's bound to lose money and gain nothing in return.
Leave cinema to the filmmakers, music to the musicians, and literature to the writers. Ever since he first embarked on this adventure two months before, he has met with nothing but problems: wrestling with gigantic egos, rejecting outlandish budgets, editing a script that seemed to get worse with every new version, and putting up with condescending producers who treated him as if he knew absolutely nothing about films.
His intentions had been impeccable: to make a film about the culture of his home country, about the beauty of the desert and the Bedouins' ancient wisdom and code of honor. He felt he owed this to his tribe, although the sheikh had warned him not to stray from his original path.
"People get lost in the desert because they're taken in by mirages. You're doing an excellent job as a couturier; focus all your energies on that."
Hamid, however, wanted to go further, to show that he could still surprise people, go higher, take risks. He had committed the sin of pride, but that wouldn't happen again.
THE JOURNALISTS BOMBARD HIM WITH questions--news, it seems, is traveling even faster than usual. He says he doesn't yet know any details, but that he'll make a full statement tomorrow. He repeats the same answer over and over, until one of his own security guards comes to his aid and asks the press to leave the couple alone.
He summons an assistant and asks him to find Jasmine in the crowd of people in the garden and bring her to him. They need to have a few photos taken together, a new press release confirming the deal, and a good PR person to keep the issue alive until October and the Fashion Week in Paris. Later on, he'll try to persuade the Belgian designer to join him; he genuinely liked her work and is sure she would bring money and prestige to his group; however, he knows that, at the moment, she'll be thinking that he was only trying to buy her because he wanted her principal model. Approaching her now would not only up the price, it would seem inelegant. To everything its proper time; it would be best to wait for the right moment.
Ewa appears troubled by the journalists' questions. She says:
"I think we should leave."
"Absolutely not. I'm not hard-hearted, as you know, but I can't get upset over something that only confirms what you always told me, that I shouldn't get involved in cinema. Now, though, we're at a party, and we're going to stay here until the end."
His voice sounds sterner than he intended, but Ewa doesn't appear to notice, as if she were as indifferent to his love as to his hate. In a more equitable tone of voice, he adds: