The Corpse Under the Pear Tree

December 4, 1951 France- The car pulled up alongside a field flanking a long stretch of road. The usually green expanse of crops was now dusted with a thin layer of snow. Detective Lebeau peered out the windshield at the small conglomerate of figures crowded around the base of an old, wizened pear tree. He pulled his collar up over his ears and stepped out into the cold morning air.

It was early, so early that the traces of stars lingered in the upper reaches of the atmosphere. Lebeau kept his eyes on the ground in front of him, watching for any uneven ground that could trip him up. As he approached the tree, one of the figures--Inspector Monroe--looked up.

"Detective," Monroe said with a slight nod of his head. Lebeau nodded back and looked into the gaggle of people. Lying on the ground, surrounded by the coroners and various police personnel, was the form of an older gentleman. His clothes were tattered and covered in ice crystals, indicating that the body had been wet prior to his discovery. Lebeau glanced quickly at the river a few yards away, then back at the man. Stepping closer, Lebeau stooped down next to Dr. Riechen, the head coroner on this case.

"What are we looking at?" Lebeau asked. Dr. Riechen, the head coroner on the case, looked up from his examination.

"Older male, aged seventy to eighty years old. Given the state of the ice crystals that have formed along his jacket and in his bears, my guess is that his body has been out here for two, maybe three days."

"Frozen to death?" Lebeau asked, scanning the corpse up and down.

"Actually, no. You can see the bruises on his neck, indicating some form of strangulation. Of course," Riechen said, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, "we won't know the real cause of death until I conduct a full autopsy." Riechen stood up and Lebeau followed suit. Though the sun was beginning to crest the treetops, if anything the air around them felt colder than before. Lebeau blew into his cupped hands, hoping to return some warmth to his numbed fingers.

"This is the third murder this week," Lebeau mumbled as Inspector Monroe walked up beside him. "What the bloody hell is going on here?"

The other two cases this week had been ruled as coincidence due to their differing natures: one, a young woman who was shot and the other a middle aged businessman traveling from Switzerland whose throat had been slit completely opened. And now this older gentleman, strangled to death. Three murders, seemingly unconnected, committed within the span of only a few days. And yet, Lebeau couldn't shake the feeling that they were all connected somehow. Like a spiderweb, made up of hundreds of individual strands, there was something about these cases that made him think it was the same spider spinning it.

Lebeau could hear tires crunching on the gravel road, and he glanced back to see two gentlemen carrying a stretcher towards them. Lebeau stepped back to give them room and stuck his hands in his pockets. The body was stiff, and the two men struggled to move it. As they lifted the corpse, a small piece of paper drifted out of his pocket and fluttered to the snowy ground. Lebeau looked at Monroe, who stared back at him with the same look of confusion. None of the other bodies had been discovered with a note before. Slowly, Monroe bent down and picked it up. Lebeau stepped closer as Monroe unfolded the slip.

Do you like my handiwork? the note read in crude chicken scratch. Three down. Two to go. Have you figured me out yet, or will it take another murder to really understand me? There was no signature, and Lebeau doubted that they would be able to get any sort of scent off of it. A sick sensation began to spread in his gut. Monroe crumpled the note angrily in his hand.

"You were right Lebeau," he said quietly, as if willing it not to be true. "We have a serial killer in our midst."

The sick feeling continued to spread throughout Lebeau's body. There hadn't been a murder in over five years here, let alone a serial killer. Lebeau had seen much in his ten years with the agency, but never had he encountered anything like this. He closed his eyes and sighed a deep breath out. The vapors billowed out in front of him like a cloud that dissipated into the cold morning air.

"We'll need to get everyone involved on this case. I want shifts of roving police officers doubled and all detectives back at the station when we arrive." Monroe turned on his heel and began to make his way back towards his car. The crowd began to disperse, leaving Lebeau alone with his thoughts. Absentmindedly, his gaze returned to the river. His brow furrowed. Down by the river bed was a small placard. Lebeau crossed the snowy expanse and gazed at the sign. The sign was worn, but he could make out the words Historical Site # 354: Location of Nazi Base 1943-1944. Lebeau cast his mind back to the other two murders and nearly retched in horror. He turned around and rushed towards the dwindling grouping of vehicles.

"Riechen! Wait!" Lebeau shouted as he picked his way across the open field. The doctor, hunched over the corpse, looked up and helped the detective into the ambulance.

Unsure of what he was looking for, Lebeau began to pat down the corpse, turning over pockets and undoing buttons. As he fiddled with the buttons on the corpse's jacket, a flash of silver caught his eye. He reached into the shirt collar and pulled out a necklace. There, dangling from a small silver chain, was a star of David.

"Dear God," Riechen said, rushing over. "You don't think..."

"All of the murders took place near a site where the Nazi regime had established bases of command in the French countryside. And, I would guess that if we dug into the family of our other two victims, we would discover ties to Judaism." Lebeau's face went white.

"The Nazi regime fell years ago. How could we still be dealing with a sympathizer?"

"While the regime fell, unfortunately the hate still lingers," Lebeau said, coiling his fingers around the pendant.

"How big is the Jewish community here?" Riechen questioned.

"I only know of two other people in town who openly identify as Jewish. Mr. Johanson who runs the bakery down on Fourth Street and..."

"Who?" Riechen was leaned so close that Lebeau could hear his shallow breaths.

With wide eyes, Lebeau looked up at the coroner. "Me."