"What in your opinion? Is she asked, without slowing down or turning around to see if he had understood his question.
- Man is closed, no talking. This story bores him visibly. Must we not love the shit! Commissioner Gomez
France sniffed quietly. A signal. A couple of old habit, to convey to his assistant that the summary was a bit short. Gaëtan norec followed, swinging arm, shortness of breath. Feel like a cigarette, but impossible to grill when a FG was going to run like this. To think, she replied. He accompanied him everywhere, waiting for the morning outside her home, left the office after his departure. We laughed, we called him a puppy to his Lady, but he did not care. It was the only person in this whole damn building, where he vegetated past fifteen years, after a circular about a percentage rate to meet the disabled had catapulted into the offices of the criminal to have always spoken to him properly. On the first day of her arrival when she took office, dropped his huge bag on a chair and placed his notebook on his desk, egg yolk at the time, she had contacted him looking him straight in the eye. Without ever making a mistake. Always the same, the left slate color, which did not move, or so little in his face. Since then, a good eight years now, he followed her like a shadow, reflecting, summarizing, ordering the chaos of her thoughts she uttered aloud or transcribe it in his book, which changed color each season. Sometimes she handed him the little book in silence, with a half smile. He accepted it as an offering, takes it home and logs all night on it. He wrote cards, which he highlights in pencil (the same color as the book) the key passages. He added the arrows to where he thought there was a link, a correlation. He surrounded by a large circle nodes remarks, incomprehensible or court of skinning. He even invented a code to designate the case closed, one pregnant, short or long term, which could be completed as soon as an additional signal arises, or that totally abandoned for lack of evidence. The next day, exhausted, but happy, looking more elusive than usual (the right eye, a blue agapanthus, disappeared into the ear, while slate usually stable s'alanguissait down side nose), he handed him the book and a shoe box Kickers red cards which contained carefully drafted and completed. Gaëtan did not like computers. He counted on his own analysis and classification, storage and cupboards, and especially his infallible memory, nobody in the office had thought to ask. Until a chance conversation with FG at the beginning of their cohabitation, when they shared a tiny room, placed in front of toilets for men.
-How you say ... He has not given me the impression we've taken for a ride. I do not think he knows our victim.
- And you? You've found?
- Yep. Michel is Drommel, nicknamed "Voltaire" in the neighborhood where he had his habits.
- Settlement of account? Yet it is outside its area, right?
- That ... I do not understand how it landed in the closet. And in what state, fucking mess of cum ...
- norec!
-Oops, sorry, I was escaped. But I must admit it was not pretty. Never seen such a thing.
- Exactly. I try to understand why this man, lizard, has not budged more than that. He was neither shocked nor pale. Nothing. Any, as jaded.
- Well, at this point, I do not agree with you.
- Explain.
-It seemed rather curious. He kept watch you while you stroll through the restaurant. The air of someone who did not touch. It looked like he was waiting for you to fall on the details, like when we play hide and seek.
- It we hide something, you think?
- Nah, that's another thing ... "he said in a mysterious tone, savoring its effect.
FG became immediately thought she was still falling on a guy who could not help but watch a cop, as a strange beast. The proof in the dictionary "cop" is masculine. Commissioner all the same. Moreover, a nice cop. It verged on caricature. He watched me? ... Pfff, well, let's see. Then she stopped thinking about it and concentrated on the vital topic that led her steps on a Wednesday morning in this neighborhood noisy and popular Paris.
Without slowing their pace, they left the Rue d'Enghien, crosses the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle and is now heading towards the Grand Rex, they overtook, without giving a glance at the posters headlines in recent cinema releases. Absorbed in these thoughts, she does not realize the numbers of streets she swallowed his assistant on the heels.
In recent years in Paris, the settling of scores were close to zero, and if they occurred, they involved only the small fry. Without a squeak. Time to oil the hinges, to play the fist, and discard the clumsy caught by its foot in the door. Voltaire was something else. A regular district of the Gare du Nord, from Clichy to Jaures. Pimp in his spare time, quietly fiddling luxury perfume and watches Rolex types. No intellectual ability, despite his nickname given by his family since his mother had given birth on the subway platform Voltaire, a day of bombardment of the Allied forces. No shitting on Voltaire. Carefully distributing information on all fronts, just to be fair with everyone, rogue cops like to be left alone, he and his traffic. A few years of jail, to here and there. Brief. Nothing, in short. Unless have offended a relative newcomer. A young wolf, who would no longer accept the old rules. Voltaire, but why? Known to all, but by no means a celebrity in the middle of the influence and power. And why such cruelty? Such a signature? Sophisticated, delicate and twisted.
She thought of the corpse. Epil or burned? It should quickly consult the pathologist's report on this subject.
- Both Captain
- What do you say? She had not realized that, as usual when she reflected, she had spoken aloud. Well, not so high, but at Gaëtan Failing to have eyes in front of the holes, had an excellent hearing.
- Both: plucked and burned. In fact the victim was shaved by burning hair. Morflé and flesh in places. Total waxing, full leg and bikini with matches or lighters.
- How about a torch?
- Would there more damage.
to follow ....
- Man is closed, no talking. This story bores him visibly. Must we not love the shit! Commissioner Gomez
France sniffed quietly. A signal. A couple of old habit, to convey to his assistant that the summary was a bit short. Gaëtan norec followed, swinging arm, shortness of breath. Feel like a cigarette, but impossible to grill when a FG was going to run like this. To think, she replied. He accompanied him everywhere, waiting for the morning outside her home, left the office after his departure. We laughed, we called him a puppy to his Lady, but he did not care. It was the only person in this whole damn building, where he vegetated past fifteen years, after a circular about a percentage rate to meet the disabled had catapulted into the offices of the criminal to have always spoken to him properly. On the first day of her arrival when she took office, dropped his huge bag on a chair and placed his notebook on his desk, egg yolk at the time, she had contacted him looking him straight in the eye. Without ever making a mistake. Always the same, the left slate color, which did not move, or so little in his face. Since then, a good eight years now, he followed her like a shadow, reflecting, summarizing, ordering the chaos of her thoughts she uttered aloud or transcribe it in his book, which changed color each season. Sometimes she handed him the little book in silence, with a half smile. He accepted it as an offering, takes it home and logs all night on it. He wrote cards, which he highlights in pencil (the same color as the book) the key passages. He added the arrows to where he thought there was a link, a correlation. He surrounded by a large circle nodes remarks, incomprehensible or court of skinning. He even invented a code to designate the case closed, one pregnant, short or long term, which could be completed as soon as an additional signal arises, or that totally abandoned for lack of evidence. The next day, exhausted, but happy, looking more elusive than usual (the right eye, a blue agapanthus, disappeared into the ear, while slate usually stable s'alanguissait down side nose), he handed him the book and a shoe box Kickers red cards which contained carefully drafted and completed. Gaëtan did not like computers. He counted on his own analysis and classification, storage and cupboards, and especially his infallible memory, nobody in the office had thought to ask. Until a chance conversation with FG at the beginning of their cohabitation, when they shared a tiny room, placed in front of toilets for men.
-How you say ... He has not given me the impression we've taken for a ride. I do not think he knows our victim.
- And you? You've found?
- Yep. Michel is Drommel, nicknamed "Voltaire" in the neighborhood where he had his habits.
- Settlement of account? Yet it is outside its area, right?
- That ... I do not understand how it landed in the closet. And in what state, fucking mess of cum ...
- norec!
-Oops, sorry, I was escaped. But I must admit it was not pretty. Never seen such a thing.
- Exactly. I try to understand why this man, lizard, has not budged more than that. He was neither shocked nor pale. Nothing. Any, as jaded.
- Well, at this point, I do not agree with you.
- Explain.
-It seemed rather curious. He kept watch you while you stroll through the restaurant. The air of someone who did not touch. It looked like he was waiting for you to fall on the details, like when we play hide and seek.
- It we hide something, you think?
- Nah, that's another thing ... "he said in a mysterious tone, savoring its effect.
FG became immediately thought she was still falling on a guy who could not help but watch a cop, as a strange beast. The proof in the dictionary "cop" is masculine. Commissioner all the same. Moreover, a nice cop. It verged on caricature. He watched me? ... Pfff, well, let's see. Then she stopped thinking about it and concentrated on the vital topic that led her steps on a Wednesday morning in this neighborhood noisy and popular Paris.
Without slowing their pace, they left the Rue d'Enghien, crosses the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle and is now heading towards the Grand Rex, they overtook, without giving a glance at the posters headlines in recent cinema releases. Absorbed in these thoughts, she does not realize the numbers of streets she swallowed his assistant on the heels.
In recent years in Paris, the settling of scores were close to zero, and if they occurred, they involved only the small fry. Without a squeak. Time to oil the hinges, to play the fist, and discard the clumsy caught by its foot in the door. Voltaire was something else. A regular district of the Gare du Nord, from Clichy to Jaures. Pimp in his spare time, quietly fiddling luxury perfume and watches Rolex types. No intellectual ability, despite his nickname given by his family since his mother had given birth on the subway platform Voltaire, a day of bombardment of the Allied forces. No shitting on Voltaire. Carefully distributing information on all fronts, just to be fair with everyone, rogue cops like to be left alone, he and his traffic. A few years of jail, to here and there. Brief. Nothing, in short. Unless have offended a relative newcomer. A young wolf, who would no longer accept the old rules. Voltaire, but why? Known to all, but by no means a celebrity in the middle of the influence and power. And why such cruelty? Such a signature? Sophisticated, delicate and twisted.
She thought of the corpse. Epil or burned? It should quickly consult the pathologist's report on this subject.
- Both Captain
- What do you say? She had not realized that, as usual when she reflected, she had spoken aloud. Well, not so high, but at Gaëtan Failing to have eyes in front of the holes, had an excellent hearing.
- Both: plucked and burned. In fact the victim was shaved by burning hair. Morflé and flesh in places. Total waxing, full leg and bikini with matches or lighters.
- How about a torch?
- Would there more damage.
to follow ....
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