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of narcissistic weakness,’ ‘primitive structure of the superego.’ I can spit out dozens of phrases like these. Just a bunch of hot air! All I know is this: my men and I, we get stuck with the dirty work—mangled bodies, decomposing cadavers, stench. And we want just one thing: to catch the swine by the balls. So I leave all the theories to the psychobabblers, and they can shove it!”
    “There must be something worthwhile in all that. I don’t see how those guys can be totally useless.”
    The inspector took another tissue from his pocket and noisily blew his nose.
    “Tell me, Inspector. There’s something that intrigues me about you,” Benjamin said, smiling.
    “What’s that?”
    “Why do you go to such lengths to appear stupid, when you understand and retain everything people tell you?”
    “What I remember most of all is that they send me lazy bums who’ve spent their careers in the corridors of the prosecutor’s office, kissing up to the bigwigs, and treating me like an idiot. ‘Barbaroux, he’s just a traffic cop! Nothing more than a hillbilly!’”
    “You wouldn’t happen to have a grudge against Parisians, by any chance?”
    “Just a little.”

 
     
     
     
     
    5
    Benjamin burst into his office, and his first sight was that of Virgile idly stirring the swirls of cabbage in his soup. The assistant leaped up and flashed a worried smile as the winemaker heaved his frame into a chair. Virgile rushed to the end of the hall to heat more soup in the microwave. He returned with a steaming bowl. Without even a thank-you, Benjamin began to chew his little bits of vegetables with mild disgust.
    “You look like you’re off your feed, sir.”
    “You’re always there with a clever remark, Virgile.”
    “No, I just meant that—”
    “Your comments are often insightful, but you really hit the nail on the head just now.”
    Benjamin put his spoon back in the bowl, shoved aside the cabbage, and gulped down more broth. This second day of the diet allowed for no deviation. No fruit to sweeten the regimen, no drink other than unsweetened tea, no corn, peas, or beans. And yet this austere and miraculous soup so lovingly prepared by Elisabeth, with its unbearable odors of old kitchen vegetables, would have seemed delicious had he not been forced to consume it in such great quantities. In order to burn the fat accumulated in a year’s worth of rich meals, tastings, and dinners with friends, he knew very well that he had to comply with the discipline. He managed to finish the soup. He put his spoon down with a sigh and frowned at Virgile, who was sitting upright in his chair. He supposed that his assistant was afraid of committing a gaff. In his present mood, he wasn’t the most pleasant company.
    “Honestly, Virgile, you do not have to join me in this adventure.”
    “But you don’t really need to worry about it.”
    “Well then, let’s just call it a change of routine.”
    “You could do without it, all the same.”
    “Wait a minute, what are you talking about, sir?”
    “This damned soup, what else?”
    “Uh, okay. I thought you wanted to spare me the nasty business of the murders in the Saint Pierre neighborhood.”
    “Oh no, not at all. You know as well as I do that I never intended to leave you out. I went to the Libourne cemetery after I stopped to see my friend Franck Dubourdieu, and I can assure you that the case is far from resolved.”
    Benjamin related the latest developments, including the seemingly minor details. He repeated word for word his conversation with Inspector Barbaroux. Benjamin was excited, but he wanted to control his delivery. He likened the process to assessing a military strategy, coming at it from all sides and assiduously evaluating doubts, suppositions, and intuitions.
    “As I understand it, sir, we are dealing with someone who is targeting both the living and the dead. There doesn’t seem to be anything spontaneous. Everything appears to be premeditated. This