The Confessor

By Louis Shalako

Investigating the bow and arrow murder of Marko Dubzek at a naturist park just south of town presents Inspector Gilles Maintenon with a pretty pickle indeed. There are no suspects, no one saw or heard a thing and Dubzek has a bit of a past with the police. Death is a many-splendored thing, and in the end, it’s always the one you least suspect. The eighth in Louis Shalako’s The Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery Series, this intriguing noir mystery will not disappoint.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Louis Shalako
• Release date: Nov 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781988621012

Louis Shalako

Louis Shalako is the founder of Long Cool One Books and the author of twenty-two novels, numerous novellas and other short stories. Louis studied Radio, Television and Journalism Arts at Lambton College of Applied Arts and Technology, later going on to study fine art. He began writing for community newspapers and industrial magazines over thirty years ago. His stories appear in publications including Perihelion Science Fiction, Bewildering Stories, Aurora Wolf, Ennea, Wonderwaan, Algernon, Nova Fantasia, and Danse Macabre. He lives in southern Ontario and writes full time. Louis enjoys cycling, swimming and good books.

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The Confessor

Louis Shalako

Copyright 2016 Louis Shalako and Long Cool One Books

Design: J. Thornton

ISBN 978-1-988621-01-2

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or deceased, or to any places or events, is purely coincidental. Names, places, settings, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

About Louis Shalako

The Confessor

Louis Shalako

Chapter One

The day began well enough.

Gilles, having risen before six as was his habit, arrived at work as fresh as a daisy. The Boss was whistling some nameless tune, barely audible, and wearing his best suit. Arriving in good time, no rush and on a beautiful summer’s day, the coffee was fresh in the pot. His favourite cup was right there, and someone had thought to bring in some cream. There were the usual greetings. Other members of the unit were in uniformly good spirits.

As he sat down, the phone was ringing. He took a minute to light one of his thin black cheroots before picking up.

Ah. Maintenon. Chiappe.

Yes, sir. That would be me—

He cast his eyes across the faces of Hubert, Levain and Tailler, the latter being new to the unit but not exactly the force. Everyone else was out.

Levain shrugged, meaning the really big boss hadn’t already called. His own load was heavy enough.

They were busy as always and didn’t need to intrude where they weren’t wanted just yet.

Gilles. An old school friend of mine has a bit of a pickle on his hands.

Sir?

It’s out of town but he’s asking for help. I would appreciate it if you would do us the honour.

Well, it wasn’t exactly unheard-of.

Er, of course, sir. We’re busy, but not too busy. Who, what, where and when, ah, Jean-Baptiste?

He jotted the details in his notebook, beckoning to Tailler to pick up on the line and listen in.

"It’s about twenty kilometres from town, Gilles. They’ve got a homicide. They’re lucky to get one about every two or three years, the usual thing. The circumstances this time are a bit different. La Foret de Verrieres Camp de Naturisme." Chiappe was a pro, and he therefore had no problem in telling it in twenty-five words or less.

There was more, of course. There always was.

The Big Boss went on for a while.

Maintenon snorted.

Sounds lovely.

Yes. Inspector Bernard and I go way back, Gilles, even before the Academy—hell, we were in short pants together. If you can believe it. There was breathing on the line, (mostly Tailler). If he’s asking for help, it must be a real winner. Anyways, take a man and a car. Take a day or two if you need it. Let’s see if we can help the inspector out.

Ah, yes, sir.

Tailler was waving his notebook. He had it all down, although Gilles had stopped writing halfway through. The boss had a mind like a steel trap, and it was likely he didn’t need too much prompting once he had a name, an address and a phone number.

Tailler.

Sir? Tailler was already clicking the button and dialing down for a set of wheels.

Do you feel like going for a drive in the country?

Tailler grinned. He’d worn the dark grey suit and the new shoes, and it felt pretty good, having wound up a sordid little domestic stabbing only yesterday. He was doing pretty well so far—

Outstanding, sir.

Levain raised his eyebrows as if to ask, hey, why not me, and Hubert was listening intently on his own line, making noises and taking copious notes. With the two of them going on, there was a bit of a babble as Maintenon waited.

Tailler hung up after thirty seconds.

Uh-huh…uh-huh…hmn. Hubert had come to the end of it. Okay. Let me just read that back to you real quick.

He proceeded to do so in pretty short order.

They all looked at one another.

Well. I guess we’re ready to go. We’ll have lunch on the road. See you boys later.

***

Argh. Tailler had the car stopped at an intersection, all four corners bounded by trees and with not a house or another person in sight. Left or right. That is but the question.

They had a map, but once off the main roads, the maps weren’t very good. There didn’t appear to be any signs. This particular stretch seemed very remote from the city, the crowds, and possibly even crime—although both men knew better, Gilles from hard experience and Tailler from the textbooks.

Shall we flip a coin, sir?

Just then a farm tractor, red and faded, appeared around the bend to the right.

No. Just hold on. Opening the door, Gilles got out to flag the fellow down for some directions.

***

Tailler’s jaw dropped.

Sir…is this a nudist colony?

The neatly-trimmed grass lined a white gravel road, winding in S-turns through tall trees and quiet grassy glades. There was the seclusion. The sign over the gate was also a clue.

The tone was priceless and Maintenon laughed out loud.

Yes, it is, Tailler.

"Ha. At least now I know what naturisme means."

After turning the final corner, a line of chalet-style cabins was revealed on the right-hand side of the road, just under the trees. Across the road was a flat, open field with volleyball nets, tennis courts, picnic tables, scattered tall trees, a few naked people running around, and off on the far side, rows of brightly coloured tents, each with its attendant picnic table. There was a section for colourful caravans. It all seemed very thorough and well-planned.

There was a sign for the pool, which was not immediately in sight. Generally, that should be fenced in (or off), but it might also have a windbreak of trees or a hedge.

The door on the second chalet opened and an incredibly fat woman came out bearing a basket of laundry. Perhaps fat wasn’t the right word. It looked like she had lost a lot of weight, maybe even in a hurry.

Oh, my, God. She had a body like an accordion, all flaps and lines and folds of flesh hanging straight down in rows. What in the hell is she wearing?

His brain couldn’t quite comprehend what he was seeing…

Nothing, Emile.

Jesus, H. Christ.

Sorry, Tailler. Stop, please. Gilles rolled down the window. Madame.

Yes, sir? Eyebrows lifting, she took in the two neatly-dressed males and the big black car.

Can you tell us where we might find a Monsieur Jules Delorme?

She nodded.

If he’s not out and about somewhere, skimming the pool or whatever, then he’s probably in the office. She pointed to a solitary building standing on the left side, which they had missed somehow, probably due to rubber-necking like crazy all over the place.

Thank you, Madame.

With a curt nod, she turned and headed around to the back of the chalet, where presumably there was a clothesline.

Don’t these places have a back door?

Ah, but there’s been a murder, Emile. She was just taking a look, having heard something from the neighbours presumably.

Right, Boss. Tailler craned his neck and put it in reverse, although, as it turned out, they could have followed the circuit, which led around the big clearing and back to a small parking lot with more of the ubiquitous smoothly-rounded river gravel underfoot.

***

Monsieur Delorme was a florid-faced man with a big red nose. He was naked from the waist down, his upper body covered in a knit fisherman’s sweater in soft white yarn. The cool interior was a relief compared to outside. It might even have been air-conditioned, if so, it wasn’t working very well.

Tailler flashed a badge, averting his eyes in some discomfort whereas Gilles just nodded and engaged the clear eyes of penetrating hazel.

Good morning, sir. We’re looking for Inspector Bernard, or the senior officer on the scene.

Ah. That would be Number Eighteen, about halfway down the row.

Thank you.

His face hard and bitter, the gentleman nodded and they turned away again. However, the place appeared to have a soda fountain, groceries and shelves laden with crisps, candy and treats. The décor was typically rustic, built just so for the tourists. On their right side, there were a few tables. There was the smell of something cooking in the back room, partly visible through a serving hatch and with a bearded young man busily grilling something unknown in there, hopefully not frying bacon in the nude.

This was good news as it was just about break time.

***

There was a car out front, unmarked, covered in dust and looking just like any other black sedan.

The Inspector was not there, but a Detective Larue was in attendance, with a uniformed officer guarding the door. Larue was a dark, slight man with a bristling mustache that had been recently trimmed, pretty much standard issue at departments all over the country and possibly the world.

There was nothing flamboyant about it. There might have been something indeterminate about his sexuality.

How Gilles knew that was a very good question.

Ah. Inspector Maintenon—it’s an honour, a real honour. The hand was surprisingly strong, the palm dry and hard.

Er, thank you. This is Detective Tailler. The two younger men exchanged a quick handshake as Maintenon took in the scene which was pretty blank so far. So. What have we got.

He’s in the kitchen, sir.

They followed him through the luxuriously-appointed front room, all Scandinavian and very modern, past the two bedroom doors and the bathroom, the door of which was open. That was done floor to ceiling in marble flooring and colourful blue and yellow ceramic tiles on the walls.

Even the hallway was nice, with outdoors and seaside prints hanging in bronze and oaken frames.

There was the usual, hard to define smell.

Oh, dear. Tailler, trying to be funny—

There, dead on the linoleum, lay a naked man with a face that seemed vaguely familiar.

He was flat on his back.

There was an arrow sticking out of his chest, a pool of blood, one clog on the left foot, and another clog a short distance away. Presumably it had fallen off when he hit the floor. Other than that, he was naked, with a big belly, narrow shoulders and a shining, dead bald head.

Gilles studied him. There was something about the victim.

Any identification? It was Tailler.

The other fellow nodded.

Yes. According to his driver’s license and some other documents, the name is Marko Dubzek. This is confirmed by the registration. He’s out from town for a few days of fresh air, sunshine, and a fair bit of champagne judging by the empties.

Of course.

Marko Dubzek. Hmn. There was something in Maintenon’s tone. What actions have you taken?

Well, we sealed the crime scene pending your arrival. We’ve photographed the body and the scene, relatively thoroughly. We’re still waiting on fingerprints. We’ve taken a few, but we don’t have a dedicated technician. There’s a gun in the drawer of the bedside table. It doesn’t appear to have been fired recently, or even cleaned. Just the one clip, which was in the weapon. There’s a camera, and several rolls of film…some of it exposed, some still in the wrapper.

Maintenon nodded. So, they’d been all over the place.

…we’ve got some dried mud from just inside the front and rear doors. No major objects appear to be displaced. The manager, Monsieur Delorme, would have to confirm that for us. Maybe the maid could help us as well. His wallet is here and there was a substantial sum of money in it. That’s not to say there weren’t other valuables as well…

And the other guests?

Huh. Yes, sir. We have all of their names from the register. We’ve recorded their details and checked their ID when they had it. Most of the kids and about half the women don’t, in other words. It’s an eclectic list. Naturism is supposedly a wholesome family activity, although one has to wonder when you see young men in the pool with some of these sweet young girls. Yeah, all of them tanned, fit and healthy. Some of the guests have left, and some of the people are due to leave in the next day or two. A few people come out on weekends, and a few stay all summer long. Some people leave the families here and work in the city. We have a big stack of signed statements. No one saw or heard a damned thing, sir.

How many people?

Right now? Eighty-seven, but it’s a weekday. A Monday, in fact.

Larue thought for second.

We have a list of everyone who left Sunday night. There were a good dozen or so.

Gilles nodded as Tailler cast his eyes around what was a small, but clean and functional kitchen.

Did the victim have a car?

Yes, sir. It’s been impounded for further examination. Quite frankly, it might be best to ship that to your lab. At a quick glance, there’s nothing special about it, except for the fact that it’s a brand-new Peugeot. According to the neighbours and Monsieur Delorme, the victim had arrived, alone, Friday evening, just after dinner-time. My impression, is that it’s about as clean as a whistle.

Hmn.

All the fittings and furnishings appeared to be high-end. Tailler especially like the beaten-copper sink and taps, gleaming dully in contrast to the grey slate countertop.

What about the screens?

Larue nodded.

Yes, I thought you’d spot that. There was a single hole in the fine metal mesh on the outer door at the back of the kitchen. There’s a flat spot in the weeds—just along in the brush-line, and we’ve got that taped off, although there are no really obvious footprints. According to him, the distance was about eighteen metres. It’s kind of surprising, but the feathers stayed with the arrow.

Anything else? Tailler kept on, as Gilles was standing over the body, lost in some extraneous thoughts possibly.

Yes. The park has a number of cheap archery sets and a target range. They set the targets up on Sundays and have a bit of a competition. They have classes for adults and children. They’ve got everything from yoga to basic ceramics for young and old. None of the archery equipment appears to be missing. The trouble is, no one can say for certain, just exactly how many bows and arrows they should have. Sometimes arrows miss the target and end up in the bushes. They get lost under the grass when they hit on the level. This would appear to be a match for at least some of the arrows. They weren’t all purchased at the same time and it probably wouldn’t be all that hard to abscond with a bow and arrow if a person was sneaky about it. With a bit of luck, the killer might have returned a bow to the cabinet where they were kept, although there was a cheap combination lock.

Such locks were notoriously easy to pick if a person knew what they were doing. All one had to do was wear gloves—admittedly an odd sight in such a setting.

That would appear to be about it.

"And how many people have been through here?

A member of the cleaning staff, Madame Roux discovered the body. The officer who originally attended, the Inspector, myself and one of our senior gendarmes. That’s about it. We’re a small detachment and the Inspector decided pretty quickly to call you guys for some outside help.

Larue handed over some papers, most prominent among them being the list of the park guests.

Tailler took it, skimming quickly through but seeing nothing remarkable. One or two names seemed familiar, but there were plenty of people with the same name. This would take some examination…

Maintenon was silent for a moment. It was about what one could expect, and there was nothing to be done about it.

No one else had the slightest idea, and so they tapped me on the shoulder.

Very well. Thank you.

Still, Maintenon just stood there, looking down at the shock and surprise on Dubzek’s face, the blood on the hands where he had scrabbled at the projectile in his chest. Judging by the length of yellow-painted shaft sticking out, it must have gone right through him, possibly snapping off the pointed end when he fell. Finally he spoke.

Tailler?

Tailler turned.

What about the fingerprints?

There are plenty on the front door handle, prints all over the place in here. Nothing on the outer rear door handle, which may be suggestive, or maybe not. There are prints on the inner handle which I expect will probably turn out to be the victim’s. He went and opened the door.

Letting it go, it took its sweet time in swinging closed against the piston.

You could take out the garbage and get back before it even closed. That might explain no prints, no usable ones anyways, on the outer handle.

Hmn.

What about the time of death?

Yesterday, after lunch and before supper—judging by rigor, or the lack of it. We expect stomach contents will confirm that. People saw him at lunch, basically, but he wasn’t seen out and around after that. Guests can do their own cooking, but according to what we’re being told, the gentleman either ate in town or just got a quick snack here in the park. The food’s not all that imaginative, but he may not have been real fussy. The other thing was the charcoal grille—if he’d used it recently, no one had seen him. We were called first thing, this morning around eight-forty-five.

The nice thing about a bow was that it was quiet.

The kitchen was on the back of the chalet, and the grille was just outside the back door in a small, flag-stoned area.

There’s nothing in the garbage to suggest any recent home-cooked meals. People who stay for long periods can get the mail diverted, but he was just here for the weekend. He seems to have lived mostly on take-away foods. There were receipts and colourful bags and paper plates