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It’ll be okay.

  I’d hear the sound of the explosion and begin to tremble all over. Then came the fraction of a second.

  When I wasn’t reliving this nightmare, a happy memory returned to me, and I watched it like a film sequence played in slow motion. There were so many images of him to choose from, but my memory fixated on these brief moments of joy.

  A few weeks before, we had gone to the cinema, the three of us. The film had made us laugh. My mother had hummed to herself. Papa was in a good mood. As we left the theater, he picked me up and set me on his shoulders.

  It was the first time he’d ever done this. I had goose bumps. I was caught between a diffuse fear, like a fog, and a sense of invincibility. After a few minutes, I understood that there was no danger, and my fear faded away.

  Perched on his shoulders, I was a princess. I looked in people’s eyes with arrogance and condescension.

  On Thursday, I attended the funeral.

  At the moment when he disappeared into the grave, I dropped a white rose on his coffin and swore to him that I would find his murderers.

  Six weeks later, on November 9, the Mad Killers of Brabant struck again. The Aalst massacre was the last attack, and the bloodiest. Eight people were slain.

  In total, the assassins had left behind twenty-eight dead and forty wounded.

  After this final massacre, they vanished.

  * * *

  I know he’s there, somewhere in the bowels of the old building. I’ve studied his schedule. They woke him at six thirty this morning and brought him his personal effects. If his family hadn’t provided him with fresh clothes, then he must have put on the ones he was wearing at the time of his arrest.

  He got up, shaved, and combed his hair in order to look respectable, as his lawyer had surely advised him.

  At seven thirty, they came to collect him. They handcuffed him, marched him out to the courtyard and into the Black Maria.

  A police car led the way, siren blaring, and another brought up the rear. The convoy arrived at its destination around eight. The police vehicle entrance is at the back of the building, on rue de Wynants.

  The officers escorted him out of the van and delivered him to the security guards, who led him to the jail cells in the basement. The eighty cells, spread over four floors, are often all occupied. Sometimes two or three detainees cohabitate for several hours in a space scarcely larger than a telephone booth.

  The inmates are constantly agitated, especially if there are women in the neighboring cells. They call out to one another, send messages by tapping on the wall, provoke and insult each other, the atmosphere quickly breaking down into cacophony.

  For him, this will not be the case. He will be put in solitary confinement. Perhaps he might eventually be able to earn a few basic privileges.

  * * *

  I woke up in an unfamiliar world, gray and cold.

  In the space of a few days, I passed from childhood to adulthood. I never experienced that period they call “adolescence.” My carefree years had come to an end one autumn evening, in the aisles of a supermarket. A fraction of a second was all it took for me to be propelled into another life.

  My silence worried my mother.

  She brought me to see psychoanalysts, healers of the soul, ecclesiastics, prophets. Some put forward a diagnosis. They spoke of the disturbed mourning process, of internalization, of selective mutism, of social anxiety, of God’s will. According to them, my father’s death had brought me to the edge of sanity.

  No one understood that my father’s death had made me sad, only sad, desperately sad.

  My grades at school became mediocre. When I came home, I would neglect my homework and turn on the TV, switching from one channel to another, completely absorbed by the news.

  Belgium was undergoing its worst years of violence, a decade that will long be remembered as a cursed moment in its history.

  After the Heysel Stadium disaster, in which hooliganism caused the death of thirty-nine people and wounded more than six hundred, the curse continued to plague the kingdom.

  In addition to the blind attacks perpetrated by my father’s murderers, the country had seen a wave of bombings incited by the CCC, the Communist Combatant Cells. At the same time, it came to light that an extreme right-wing group was recruiting soldiers to prepare a coup d’état, and that several organs of law enforcement had been infiltrated by the CIA.

  During the summer of 1991, a former minister was killed in Liège, and there were rumors of a possible political conspiracy.

  The horror would reach its height five years later, when the country, mute with disbelief, would learn of the kidnapping, torture, rape, and murder of several young girls by a deranged monster.

  I stayed glued to the screen for hours. For nothing in the world would I let a political program or a headline escape my attention. I took notes, recorded programs. When I wasn’t in front of the TV, I was listening to the radio. My allowance went to buying daily newspapers and magazines.

  Gradually, I formed my convictions. I was sure that certain links existed between these incidents, and that I would be the one to uncover them.

  When I celebrated my eighteenth birthday, the hunt began.

  * * *

  The couple rise to their feet.

  It seems they’ve reached the semblance of an agreement. They hesitate, hold out their hands, hesitate again, take each other in their arms. Tears come to their eyes.

  In the center of the hall, Maarten’s show nears its end. The working-class Marolles was substantially demolished to make space for the Palais. Furious at the architect, the townsfolk opened a café at the corner of place des Renards and named it De Skieven Architek, “the crooked architect.”

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. I check the time.

  If the roll is respected, the case will be heard in thirty-three minutes. Starting at nine o’clock, the defendants will go before the court one by one, in the order chosen by the presiding judge. Each case is given approximately eight minutes.

  I close my eyes, count the seconds.

  These preliminary hearings are closed to the public. In general, they do not exceed the allotted time, but for one reason or another, a case might take up to two hours.

  The knot in my throat tightens. I draw in a long breath and slowly let it out. I glance at my watch again. Barely three minutes have passed.

  * * *

  To my mother’s surprise, my first decision as an adult was to bring forward a civil suit.

  I knew that the process would allow me to meet the examining magistrate, to ask her permission to consult the dossier, and, if necessary, to suggest further investigative action.

  She seemed disconcerted when I first stepped into her office, and only more so once she’d interviewed me to evaluate my knowledge of the case.

  From that day forward, I set myself the task of going through the thousands of pages that made up the dossier. It was a tome, but my father’s murderers remained at large.

  Ten years after the incidents, the press continued to mention the case from time to time—whenever new evidence emerged, new witnesses came forth, or new suspects were apprehended.

  Over the years, I had the occasion to explore the various hypotheses that were put forward.

  The left-wing press accused the extreme right; this type of militant operation was its signature. Others were convinced that the robberies and random killings had been used as a smokescreen for the deliberate assassination of a few targets.

  A third theory alluded to a Mafia racket. The fact that the majority of victims were attacked in supermarkets belonging to the same chain was cited as evidence. Finally, there were those who clung to the idea of the petty criminal motive.

  As the months passed, a wave of vague speculations would arise, such as the one that cast the killers as shooting enthusiasts, thrill-seekers who had decided to leave their gun clubs and go after live targets, killing for amusement.

  In ten years, several associatio
ns for victims’ families were created, but they always grew frustrated with the investigation’s lack of progress. I came to understand that I could only rely on myself.

  I became a regular at the Palais de Justice and its many annexes. The people I met there didn’t take me seriously at first, even if they were impressed by my confidence and my determination.

  One day at a time, I built my network of allies: victims, police, witnesses, journalists, attorneys, judges. In two years, this turned me into a phenomenon. I was the girl who never gave up, the Joan of Arc of the case of the Mad Killers of Brabant. We forged lasting connections among ourselves.

  I owe them all so much.

  One of them in particular.

  * * *

  I stand and walk across the hall, waving to Maarten as I pass.

  He smiles at me.

  I glance at the wall clock and rush through the double doors, then down the large marble staircase that leads to the first basement. When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I quickly take in my surroundings.

  A man is standing in the middle of the hallway, a telephone pressed to his ear. He speaks loudly, in a language I don’t know, and paces like a caged lion. A sign points the way to the restrooms. I turn right and walk a few meters, then step into the ladies’ room.

  It’s deserted. I lock myself in one of the stalls, take off my raincoat, and get undressed.

  The first idea was to disguise myself as an officer of the security forces. The service employs twenty-five thousand people throughout the country, including many women, and the rate of turnover is very high.

  Another option was to try to pass for a cleaning woman.

  After much consideration, I decided to dress as a lawyer instead. Dozens of members of the bar roam the hallways all day long. They hail from every corner of the country, and a good number of them have never met.

  I emerge from the stall and look myself over in the mirror. Under different circumstances, I might find myself comical, with my long black robe and white band.

  * * *

  In September 2005, I stepped back and took stock of the twenty-year investigation. I knew the dossier inside out.

  When a journalist wanted details on some aspect of the case, I was the first person he or she would contact. I had spoken on several radio programs, and had more than once been the guest on a television show.

  I met regularly with the examining magistrate assigned to the case. We would talk at length, and I would pass on the information I had gathered since our last visit.

  After two decades, my heart would still skip a beat when a new witness came forth following years of silence, or an unexplored hypothesis emerged.

  In two decades, I’ve seen several suspects arrested.

  Each time, the press was enthusiastic about the developments. Newspaper headlines were promising. Journalists referred to formal evidence, devastating witness statements, imminent confessions.

  In two decades, I’ve seen just as many suspects released.

  By September 2005 I had to face the facts: the investigation wasn’t going anywhere.

  Many of my close friends advised me to let it go, to turn the page, to finally think of myself, to begin to live.

  If I hadn’t met Jean-Pierre, I probably would have followed their advice.

  * * *

  I leave the restroom and keep moving down the corridor.

  The entrance to the council chamber is some twenty meters away. In addition to the steel-reinforced door and employee badge reader, a sign discourages the curious: Restricted area—authorized employees only.

  I climb a few stairs and approach the end of the corridor, passing two out-of-service elevators. A narrow hallway leads to a metal escalator; I walk down it, taking care not to step on the pleats of my robe.

  I reach the second basement. The air is heavy.

  To my left, a door opens into a control room that looks like a cemetery for discarded safe-deposit boxes. To my right, another long corridor disappears into darkness. Thick silver heating pipes run up the walls and along the ceiling; large blue and red circular valves jut out from all sides.

  I lower my head and pick up my pace for another twenty meters, feeling as if I’m descending into the depths in a submarine. I make my way in the complete darkness. The farther I walk, the more unbearable the heat becomes.

  I feel a switchboard on my left, and stop in front of a metal door. A strip of light filters through the gap, weakly illuminating my shoes.

  I turn the handle, my heart beating quickly. The door is open. I go into the boiler room. The air is suffocating.

  My phone vibrates, startling me. I check the screen: Four minutes. I love you.

  * * *

  I met Jean-Pierre in 2007. I had just turned thirty. He was thirty-two.

  My romantic life had been uneventful for some time. I’d had a few relationships over the years, but none had passed the fateful six-month milestone.

  He was a lawyer, fascinated by the Brabant case, in particular the lapses in the investigation, the errors committed by the police, the overlooked leads, and the witness statements forgotten at the bottom of a drawer.

  I had heard about him. He had heard about me.

  A journalist invited us to discuss the case, hoping to elicit our opinion on the recruitment of an FBI-trained profiler.

  By analyzing the killers’ mode of operation, the scene of the crime, and the clues left behind, the journalist aimed to put the police on the right track. She was committed to providing them with information as specific as the killers ages, marital and social statuses, living environments and psychological makeup.

  Jean-Pierre and I agreed on one thing: whether a profiler, a psychic, a crime novelist, or a voodoo sorcerer, anyone who might be of use to the investigation was a welcome ally.

  That same night, he asked me to have dinner with him. We fell passionately in love.

  Jean-Pierre was a whiz with computers. He saw in the Internet a way to expand research beyond geographical confines. In 2008, he developed an online forum that would address the case and investigation.

  In less than three months, over two hundred people had joined the community. Every aspect of the case was meticulously examined. The smallest detail was analyzed, dissected. Some nights, more than one hundred messages were posted. In a few weeks’ time, the site had become a meeting place for the most fervent truth-seekers.

  Among the members, we counted witnesses, victims, police, mobsters, but also paranoiacs, compulsive liars, and the inevitable conspiracy theorists.

  Jean-Pierre played his role of administrator to perfection. He facilitated the conversations with complete objectivity, privileging no particular theory, nor rejecting any of them.

  As for me, I stayed in the shadows.

  I studied the members’ reactions. I noted the subjects on which each of them commented, the nature of their remarks, the names they cited, the frequency of their participation.

  It was a Herculean task, but I was guided by the theory that a murderer always returns to the scene of the crime.

  I had to suffer in silence for six years.

  Finally, the day arrived.

  * * *

  I hike up my robe and climb the narrow ladder that leads to the control room.

  We had only a short time to prepare the operation.

  Appearances before the court must be made, at the latest, five days after a suspect is served with an arrest warrant. For four days, I have drifted through this labyrinth of corridors, staircases, galleries, and landings. And yet I can still hardly manage to find my bearings in this place.

  Fortunately, we found a few people who were willing to help us: former police officers, some colleagues of Jean-Pierre’s, my friend Maarten, and a reformed burglar who agreed to take up his tools again in order to open a few doors for us.

  I arrive at the top of the stairs.

  I position myself behind the door, my ear pressed to the metal.

  Normally, there
is the incessant sound of footsteps coming and going.

  Normally.

  * * *

  He called himself Ghost.

  It was the screen name he’d used to register, but he changed it regularly, as if he were afraid of being identified. He logged in frequently, but seldom commented. When he did, it was on subjects related to the killers’ mode of operation and the weapons used.

  I took a closer interest in him.

  Occasionally, he seemed to find a perverse pleasure in refuting certain statements without offering explanations or alternate versions of the story. Rumors, inaccuracies, and haphazard guesses seemed to unnerve him. More than once, his comments became malicious.

  At the beginning of the year, I visited the examining magistrate and spoke to her about this member. I suggested she try to identify the person who was hiding behind these different pseudonyms.

  She accepted.

  Afterward, she would not speak to me of the matter, responding to my questions only with an enigmatic phrase: “Things are taking their course.”

  Until five days ago.

  * * *

  Each court chamber has two entrances.

  The first is a padded double door designated for magistrates and defense lawyers. These men and women stand around in a vast hallway, waiting their turn. Jean-Pierre slipped in among them today.

  The second entrance is situated at the back of the room. It is assigned to defendants and prisoners. They reach it by way of a network of staircases and windowless corridors. From the jail cells, they have to walk some hundred meters to arrive at their destination. Handcuffed and surrounded by security officers, the journey takes one to two minutes, depending on the case.

  Shortly before entering the chamber, they pass in front of the control room’s double-locked door.

  Only a few people have the key.

  Now.

  * * *

  That afternoon, I received nearly fifty text messages and just as many phone calls.

  The police had arrested a man. All the radio stations were talking about it. Journalists anticipated a confession.

  I began to shake as if seized by a sudden fever. I didn’t know if I should weep, scream, or rejoice. I called the examining magistrate. It took me an hour to finally reach her.