They came quickly. Not entangled point questions. Disposèrent equipment, cameras. Immortalized the scene and its surroundings. Some men searched the nooks, gleaning and dropping crumbs of information in sealed bags. The medical examiner appeared as a TV series, leaned over the corpse, patted the body, auscultation cracks and holes, exchanged a coded vocabulary with his assistant, and then swiftly disappear was the unknown naked and black, in a long bag and disappeared as he had come, quietly and silently.
Tristan stood in a corner against the wall near the entrance. Head bent and feet crossed. Lost in gloomy thoughts. The view from the departure of the corpse does not relieve his embarrassment. He knew that the second wave was not delay. She came. As a woman, long and elegant. She ran so fast that Tristan could not restrain his name or surname. Irrelevant because the questions in the wake chattered, and he had to relinquish all the rear of his identity. He did so in a low voice and towed his hands in his pockets, while a man down, wrote down every word carefully, his eyes riveted to his notepad.
- I boring you?
- Pardon?
- I wonder if I bore you with my questions?
Tristan lifted his face and eyes met the commissioner. She did not smile, But his eyes were not aggressive, just careful.
- Yes. But you do your job, and since I have no choice ...
- You do not seem shocked by the discovery of the dead man, nor by its appearance, or by the fact that he is in your restaurant.
What could he answer? The smell of the Maccabees had distracted his thoughts dark morning, that curiosity had taken over the disgust? He chose silence.
- You know the victim?
- No. Ever seen. Finally, what I could sense beneath the layer of black smeared his face.
- What are the people who work with you in this restaurant?
- A friend. Bossons we been together for six years since we acquired these walls. He handles the room service and wine selection. I stay in the kitchen.
- His name.
- Anthony, Anthony ... Marrel.
The commissioner put his hand into one of the many outside pockets of a huge bag she carried on the shoulder, and pulled out a notebook covered with leather turquoise in which she scribbled a few quick words. Tristan had the thought that this color was not consistent with the transcript of facts related to an investigation criminal. The book seemed rather small for a fashion journalist. This accessory offense trifle, was teasing her male colleagues and often distract witnesses, suspects or innocent, she questioned. He found himself smiling.
it detects a change of mood, and sequence of a softer voice.
- Have you noticed a specific retailer arrived this morning? A sweeping gesture of his candid book colored the room, where the scientific team was busy.
Tristan was going to respond tit for tat, so your book, and knew as soon as he crossed his eyes, the trap that proffered.
- No.
No thrill of spite on his face. No tension. She put away her notebook blue foil in the pocket of his dark coat and turned away, suddenly focused on the surrounding scenery. Eyes alert, ears on the lookout for comments from various police officers trying to snoop. Tristan always smelled the smell of marmalade, but the commissioner did not seem to notice. She remained motionless for a moment before the closet where the body had been locked. She put on surgical gloves, squatted on his heels, and fingers, pushed in a corner fell to the ground floor, stained dried blood and ashes. She peered into the shadows a few more seconds, sighed, then rose and walked part of the eye. She then went quietly to the back of the room and crossed the threshold of the kitchen. Tristan heard his voice, distorted by distance.
- What was the menu last night?
- Veal stew with vanilla, coquille St. Jacques with mango, candied vegetables ...
- And the dessert? The t'-cut it.
- Soft praline, pineapple and honey roasted pink. You like cooking?
She left the office without giving him an answer, returned to the reduced Stained where she lingered again, then suddenly turned around and went out of restaurant. On the doorstep she invited him to go to the police late in the day to sign his deposition, and escaped without a word. Tristan stared at the tall figure disappear quickly at the corner of the street, the quiet man beside her.
In the room of his restaurant, the rest of the crew continued the painstaking work, rooting out all visible traces. Tristan noticed that none of the men interrogates fumes ephemeral, invisible traces that were finishing dissolve under the effect of continuing turmoil caused by the movement of bodies and objects, only attentive to the concrete evidence. It was probably his extreme sensitivity to odors, vision developed from an early age in order to fill the boredom, lorsqu'enfermé in the cupboard of the room, he languished until the departure of the visitor, who had helped identify this detail: the body had plucked a particular flavor. A signature familiar. Yet he never seemed to cross this type before. Zigzagging between a man kneeling in the process of collecting ashes and foot device Photo abandoned between two tables, he returned and stood before the open door of the closet, closed his eyes opened wide and his nostrils. The exhalation was less violent, but sweet and fine. He could then concentrate more on details, and dissect every nuance. He progressed in the odor-by-step analysis of each stratum to eliminate progressively the information it could mean: caramel, burnt, egg, vanilla, orange, bitter, pungent, sweet, sweet, shrill. Until, several times, he stumbles on the same detail that he had been able to appoint, when the corpse was collapsed on the tiled floor. He concentrated his attention on this particular corona, while he recreated in his mind, body image naked and tortured. Nothing. Eyes remained closed, he changed his position slightly to catch a few remnants that might have escaped him, seeking a stream of air with tiny elements. He flung back on the screen of his mind, body, and superimposed image fragments to new odors captured. Zoom to slightly floral bitterness. Tristan used what he dubbed his "nose brain," and slid along the limbs of the dead. A trace of tarragon, lavender? No. Something spicier, more soapy. Cardamom ... towards the lower body. It was finally a given starting point.
He opened his eyes and plunged his face into his jacket, and breathed a few seconds the coarse cloth to rinse his nose miasma harvested. However, his box of meninges continuing its analysis, and assembling the various information.
Where and on what occasion he had already crossed this fragrance? This unusual blend of spice and a little chemical cleanliness, a little dry. The remains of the victim. Completely naked. Except a piece of body which Tristan had not paid attention during the tsunami, tidal fragrant. The phenomenon of violence had muddled mind, boring and turning like a sock. Yes. That's it. He remembered now, the guy had kept a sock on his left foot. Singular vision. Absurd. Which one turns oddly with modesty. As if etiquette rule irrational, a human body can be found either clothed or unclothed, but is required to exhibit even passed away, feet shod properly or strictly bare. Nothing more ridiculous than a man naked, in socks! Thus exclaimed her mother. She was uncompromising on this point and the visitors still required that they pull their socks. Fabric scraps or carefully drawn corkscrews, son in Scotland or synthetic fibers, which then trailed a few times near the cupboard where Tristan was cloistered. Question
luxury, elegance, despite the circumstances.
Tristan stood in a corner against the wall near the entrance. Head bent and feet crossed. Lost in gloomy thoughts. The view from the departure of the corpse does not relieve his embarrassment. He knew that the second wave was not delay. She came. As a woman, long and elegant. She ran so fast that Tristan could not restrain his name or surname. Irrelevant because the questions in the wake chattered, and he had to relinquish all the rear of his identity. He did so in a low voice and towed his hands in his pockets, while a man down, wrote down every word carefully, his eyes riveted to his notepad.
- I boring you?
- Pardon?
- I wonder if I bore you with my questions?
Tristan lifted his face and eyes met the commissioner. She did not smile, But his eyes were not aggressive, just careful.
- Yes. But you do your job, and since I have no choice ...
- You do not seem shocked by the discovery of the dead man, nor by its appearance, or by the fact that he is in your restaurant.
What could he answer? The smell of the Maccabees had distracted his thoughts dark morning, that curiosity had taken over the disgust? He chose silence.
- You know the victim?
- No. Ever seen. Finally, what I could sense beneath the layer of black smeared his face.
- What are the people who work with you in this restaurant?
- A friend. Bossons we been together for six years since we acquired these walls. He handles the room service and wine selection. I stay in the kitchen.
- His name.
- Anthony, Anthony ... Marrel.
The commissioner put his hand into one of the many outside pockets of a huge bag she carried on the shoulder, and pulled out a notebook covered with leather turquoise in which she scribbled a few quick words. Tristan had the thought that this color was not consistent with the transcript of facts related to an investigation criminal. The book seemed rather small for a fashion journalist. This accessory offense trifle, was teasing her male colleagues and often distract witnesses, suspects or innocent, she questioned. He found himself smiling.
it detects a change of mood, and sequence of a softer voice.
- Have you noticed a specific retailer arrived this morning? A sweeping gesture of his candid book colored the room, where the scientific team was busy.
Tristan was going to respond tit for tat, so your book, and knew as soon as he crossed his eyes, the trap that proffered.
- No.
No thrill of spite on his face. No tension. She put away her notebook blue foil in the pocket of his dark coat and turned away, suddenly focused on the surrounding scenery. Eyes alert, ears on the lookout for comments from various police officers trying to snoop. Tristan always smelled the smell of marmalade, but the commissioner did not seem to notice. She remained motionless for a moment before the closet where the body had been locked. She put on surgical gloves, squatted on his heels, and fingers, pushed in a corner fell to the ground floor, stained dried blood and ashes. She peered into the shadows a few more seconds, sighed, then rose and walked part of the eye. She then went quietly to the back of the room and crossed the threshold of the kitchen. Tristan heard his voice, distorted by distance.
- What was the menu last night?
- Veal stew with vanilla, coquille St. Jacques with mango, candied vegetables ...
- And the dessert? The t'-cut it.
- Soft praline, pineapple and honey roasted pink. You like cooking?
She left the office without giving him an answer, returned to the reduced Stained where she lingered again, then suddenly turned around and went out of restaurant. On the doorstep she invited him to go to the police late in the day to sign his deposition, and escaped without a word. Tristan stared at the tall figure disappear quickly at the corner of the street, the quiet man beside her.
In the room of his restaurant, the rest of the crew continued the painstaking work, rooting out all visible traces. Tristan noticed that none of the men interrogates fumes ephemeral, invisible traces that were finishing dissolve under the effect of continuing turmoil caused by the movement of bodies and objects, only attentive to the concrete evidence. It was probably his extreme sensitivity to odors, vision developed from an early age in order to fill the boredom, lorsqu'enfermé in the cupboard of the room, he languished until the departure of the visitor, who had helped identify this detail: the body had plucked a particular flavor. A signature familiar. Yet he never seemed to cross this type before. Zigzagging between a man kneeling in the process of collecting ashes and foot device Photo abandoned between two tables, he returned and stood before the open door of the closet, closed his eyes opened wide and his nostrils. The exhalation was less violent, but sweet and fine. He could then concentrate more on details, and dissect every nuance. He progressed in the odor-by-step analysis of each stratum to eliminate progressively the information it could mean: caramel, burnt, egg, vanilla, orange, bitter, pungent, sweet, sweet, shrill. Until, several times, he stumbles on the same detail that he had been able to appoint, when the corpse was collapsed on the tiled floor. He concentrated his attention on this particular corona, while he recreated in his mind, body image naked and tortured. Nothing. Eyes remained closed, he changed his position slightly to catch a few remnants that might have escaped him, seeking a stream of air with tiny elements. He flung back on the screen of his mind, body, and superimposed image fragments to new odors captured. Zoom to slightly floral bitterness. Tristan used what he dubbed his "nose brain," and slid along the limbs of the dead. A trace of tarragon, lavender? No. Something spicier, more soapy. Cardamom ... towards the lower body. It was finally a given starting point.
He opened his eyes and plunged his face into his jacket, and breathed a few seconds the coarse cloth to rinse his nose miasma harvested. However, his box of meninges continuing its analysis, and assembling the various information.
Where and on what occasion he had already crossed this fragrance? This unusual blend of spice and a little chemical cleanliness, a little dry. The remains of the victim. Completely naked. Except a piece of body which Tristan had not paid attention during the tsunami, tidal fragrant. The phenomenon of violence had muddled mind, boring and turning like a sock. Yes. That's it. He remembered now, the guy had kept a sock on his left foot. Singular vision. Absurd. Which one turns oddly with modesty. As if etiquette rule irrational, a human body can be found either clothed or unclothed, but is required to exhibit even passed away, feet shod properly or strictly bare. Nothing more ridiculous than a man naked, in socks! Thus exclaimed her mother. She was uncompromising on this point and the visitors still required that they pull their socks. Fabric scraps or carefully drawn corkscrews, son in Scotland or synthetic fibers, which then trailed a few times near the cupboard where Tristan was cloistered. Question
luxury, elegance, despite the circumstances.
to follow ...
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