<p>A s an avid fan of detective fiction and being a crime writer myself, I was ecstatic to learn that Paris houses a historical museum of crime — Police Prefecture Museum. I wasted no time in reaching the venue, with my reluctant wife in tow.<br /><br /></p>.<p>Located at 4, Rue de la Montagne Sante Genevieve, the museum offers a peek into the annals of policing and crime in France from the 17th to the 20th century. The exhibit that immediately mesmerised me was a huge guillotine blade from the French Revolution. Looking cruelly formidable even today, it certainly must’ve chopped off innumerable heads with bloodthirsty efficiency. Its poor victims have long passed, but the glinting blade has survived two centuries.<br /><br />Cut straight to two landmark exhibits of the late 19th and early 20th century. A section is devoted to the contribution of Alphonse Bertillon, considered to be the pioneer of modern forensics. The father of standard investigation procedures like crime scene photography, police descriptions, the invaluable mug shot and the controversial techniques of anthropometry, Bertillon was arguably the first criminologist to introduce systematic and scientific methods of maintenance and classification of records of habitual offenders, which improved detection rates dramatically.<br /><br />While his cumbersome system of anthropometrical measurements was soon replaced by fingerprinting as the most infallible method of criminal identification, it is fascinating to see Bertillon’s instruments and the life-like exhibits that demonstrate his painstaking work in measuring different physical characteristics of criminals like dimensions of face and head, size of limbs etc.<br /><br />Another section depicts the nightmarish careers of infamous French killers like Landru and Petiot. The case of Henri Landru is especially disconcerting. This notorious serial killer murdered several middle-aged widows from 1914-1918. He would usually put a classified advertisement in the newspapers seeking companionship and marriage with middle-aged widows and then lure the hapless victims to their deaths — all for their pitiably small fortunes. He met his nemesis in 1921. Looking at the photo of this bald, bearded and shady-looking man, I couldn’t help wondering what fatal charm he exercised on all those lonely hearts who allowed themselves to be ensnared and eventually done to death.<br /><br />From these grisly stories, one turns to the sample exhibits of changing police uniforms and head-gear across different eras. It provides interesting insights about how functionality and the need to project a certain image of the police shaped the designs of what policemen wore.<br /><br />There are several other fascinating exhibits detailing case notes, prison records and items of evidence pertaining to important French cases — from the exploits of the murderess Marquise de Brinvilliers (1673), who poisoned her whole family to the staggering swindle of the Queen’s necklace, perpetrated by Comtesse de la Motte (1786), which is considered one of the contributory factors to the French Queen, Marie Antoniette’s immense unpopularity leading up to the French Revolution. <br /><br />It is also sobering to see the poignant miscarriage of justice in the Lyons Mail Coach Case (1796) that led to the execution of an innocent man, Joseph Lesqueres, on flimsy evidence as well as the sordid debauchery of Michel Eyraud and Gabrielle Bompard in the sensational Gouffe Murder Case (1889). <br /><br />What also sent shivers down my spine was a bullet-riddled firing post standing in a corner, against which cadres of French resistance were strapped and shot during Nazi occupation.<br /><br />There was so much to see that I could’ve spent the entire day there indulging my macabre taste. But since my wife quietly threatened to murder me after two hours at the museum, I reluctantly left the place to see the more conventional sights of Paris, rather than become the latest exhibit in the Police Prefecture Museum.<br /><br /></p>
<p>A s an avid fan of detective fiction and being a crime writer myself, I was ecstatic to learn that Paris houses a historical museum of crime — Police Prefecture Museum. I wasted no time in reaching the venue, with my reluctant wife in tow.<br /><br /></p>.<p>Located at 4, Rue de la Montagne Sante Genevieve, the museum offers a peek into the annals of policing and crime in France from the 17th to the 20th century. The exhibit that immediately mesmerised me was a huge guillotine blade from the French Revolution. Looking cruelly formidable even today, it certainly must’ve chopped off innumerable heads with bloodthirsty efficiency. Its poor victims have long passed, but the glinting blade has survived two centuries.<br /><br />Cut straight to two landmark exhibits of the late 19th and early 20th century. A section is devoted to the contribution of Alphonse Bertillon, considered to be the pioneer of modern forensics. The father of standard investigation procedures like crime scene photography, police descriptions, the invaluable mug shot and the controversial techniques of anthropometry, Bertillon was arguably the first criminologist to introduce systematic and scientific methods of maintenance and classification of records of habitual offenders, which improved detection rates dramatically.<br /><br />While his cumbersome system of anthropometrical measurements was soon replaced by fingerprinting as the most infallible method of criminal identification, it is fascinating to see Bertillon’s instruments and the life-like exhibits that demonstrate his painstaking work in measuring different physical characteristics of criminals like dimensions of face and head, size of limbs etc.<br /><br />Another section depicts the nightmarish careers of infamous French killers like Landru and Petiot. The case of Henri Landru is especially disconcerting. This notorious serial killer murdered several middle-aged widows from 1914-1918. He would usually put a classified advertisement in the newspapers seeking companionship and marriage with middle-aged widows and then lure the hapless victims to their deaths — all for their pitiably small fortunes. He met his nemesis in 1921. Looking at the photo of this bald, bearded and shady-looking man, I couldn’t help wondering what fatal charm he exercised on all those lonely hearts who allowed themselves to be ensnared and eventually done to death.<br /><br />From these grisly stories, one turns to the sample exhibits of changing police uniforms and head-gear across different eras. It provides interesting insights about how functionality and the need to project a certain image of the police shaped the designs of what policemen wore.<br /><br />There are several other fascinating exhibits detailing case notes, prison records and items of evidence pertaining to important French cases — from the exploits of the murderess Marquise de Brinvilliers (1673), who poisoned her whole family to the staggering swindle of the Queen’s necklace, perpetrated by Comtesse de la Motte (1786), which is considered one of the contributory factors to the French Queen, Marie Antoniette’s immense unpopularity leading up to the French Revolution. <br /><br />It is also sobering to see the poignant miscarriage of justice in the Lyons Mail Coach Case (1796) that led to the execution of an innocent man, Joseph Lesqueres, on flimsy evidence as well as the sordid debauchery of Michel Eyraud and Gabrielle Bompard in the sensational Gouffe Murder Case (1889). <br /><br />What also sent shivers down my spine was a bullet-riddled firing post standing in a corner, against which cadres of French resistance were strapped and shot during Nazi occupation.<br /><br />There was so much to see that I could’ve spent the entire day there indulging my macabre taste. But since my wife quietly threatened to murder me after two hours at the museum, I reluctantly left the place to see the more conventional sights of Paris, rather than become the latest exhibit in the Police Prefecture Museum.<br /><br /></p>
