The Bastard is Dead

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  “A third of your followers come from France. Another third come from elsewhere in Europe, especially Italy and Spain. About one-sixth come from the United States, and the rest come from around the world, including your homeland and a bunch in South America. A lot of people like what you’re doing.”

  Burke was now interested. Besides the French, people in other European countries, the U.S. and even South America were interested in his viewpoints? He wondered who was reading him back home in Canada.

  “And when they check out your blogs, both written and video, they’re staying on several minutes, long enough to go through all of your material,” Lemaire added.

  “Good,” Burke said, finally meaning it.

  “But don’t let it go to your head, and don’t expect a raise,” Lemaire added quickly.

  Burke laughed. “OK, I won’t. At least for the moment.”

  “Good. Talk to you when you’re back here,” Lemaire said and then hung up.

  Burke ran the numbers through his head again. There were indeed a lot of people checking out his work. He’d have to polish his writing with that many following every word he wrote or said.

  And down the line, he would talk to Lemaire about a raise. If taxes went up, as it looked like they would, he’d need extra money.

  Burke went to bed, but it took a couple of hours before he slipped into sleep. Too many thoughts, starting with Lemaire’s information and then going back to Claude and Hélène—and even Inspector Fortin.

  On Sunday, Burke got up early, had a quick breakfast, checked out and then headed to the Champs-Elysées, his small overnight bag slung over his shoulder. He figured he’d mingle with people and then find a good spot close to the finish.

  He eschewed the metro to walk there and was soon glad that he did. Even though the racers wouldn’t be showing up for another four or five hours, the party atmosphere had already settled in as people of all ages and in all kinds of garb made their way toward the loop the riders would be doing. The good feelings were infectious, and Burke found himself putting aside thoughts of Nice, Claude and Hélène to eagerly chat with other spectators. It felt good to escape reality, if only for a while.

  The day was perfect for racing. Warm, generally sunny and only a slight breeze. When he had ridden his final stage in the TDF, it had been unseasonably cool and wet.

  He found a spot about two hundred meters from the finish line. He wouldn’t be in the front row, or even the third or fourth, but he could still manage to see because he had a small mound to stand on.

  When the riders finally flew onto the Champs, the spectators, who probably totaled more than a million, erupted into a deafening cheer that rumbled along the route. Burke wondered if it was like that every year. When he raced, he hadn’t noticed much noise. He’d been focused on getting through the laps without crashing or getting left behind by the peloton.

  Even though they were racing uphill and over cobblestones, the racers had to be pushing sixty kilometers per hour. Surely exhausted in every bone and muscle, they were feeling the adrenaline rush that came from riding in the finale of the biggest bike race in the world.

  Burke found himself cheering and clapping along with everyone else as the peloton charged by.

  Burke wished everything back home was different and that Hélène could be there with him, drinking in the energy of a million people and the pageantry of the final kilometers.

  It was magnificent.

  And then it was over, with a stocky Brit winning the stage and a whip-thin Spaniard winning the overall event.

  Burke scribbled some notes and shot some video of the final ceremonies, and then it was time to leave. He had a plane leaving for Nice in two hours.

  He considered himself fortunate to catch a cab two blocks away. If he’d had more time, he would have gone by the metro and then the RER to the airport, but he was in a rush, and besides, Lemaire would cover the expense.

  When his plane landed, Burke sped to his car and drove quickly to the Nice TV station where he was going to be on the panel. He looked rumpled and tired, but he didn’t care. Maybe the makeup people would freshen him up.

  But they didn’t. One woman crooked an eyebrow in disdain when he arrived, asking if this appearance was his usual state of affairs.

  “I know,” Burke said with a shrug. “I just got in from Paris and haven’t had time to clean up.”

  That didn’t seem to placate her.

  The panel was made up of the TV sports anchor, the veteran sportswriter Burke had met at the forum, a long-retired former racer in his sixties and Burke.

  They rehashed the day’s final stage and then went through the surprises of the race. Burke contributed his share of comments but was a long way from being engaging. A couple of times, he found his thoughts drifting to what was happening with Claude.

  “After all this discussion, though, the real reason that this race will linger in many people’s memories long after today are the deaths of Pierre McManus and Mark Den Weent,” the sports anchor said. “The Tour de France went from the sports pages to the front pages, from race results to murder.”

  Burke was back to paying attention.

  “It was not the kind of publicity the Tour needed,” the sports anchor added.

  “It wasn’t good for McManus or Den Weent either,” interjected the sportswriter in a frosty tone.

  Clearly not happy with the interruption, the anchor glared at the sportswriter, who glared right back. Burke remained silent as he waited to see what would happen next. The program was virtually live, with only a delay of a few seconds, partly due to his own shenanigans a few years back.

  “Well, there has never been a doubt about that,” the anchor replied. He turned to Burke. “Paul, my understanding is you’ve been close to the investigation of the two murders. In fact, a source told me you had some information that proved useful to the police.”

  Burke wondered how the anchor could have learned that.

  “Not really, Pierre,” he told the anchor. “I attended a news conference, talked to some police, but that was about it.”

  “You’re being modest,” the anchor continued, seemingly glad to have eliminated the sportswriter from the discussion. “I believe you uncovered some connections no one else knew about.”

  Who could have leaked the information? Fortin? Hardly. Côté? She seemed like she’d rather cut off her tongue than talk to the media. Someone else? Maybe another cop?

  “I did learn a little bit about the case that didn’t come out in the media,” Burke admitted. “But it wasn’t much, and the police didn’t really seem to care much.”

  He wasn’t sure if the last part was really true, but he had to distance himself from the investigation.

  “I understand, but do you think the case against Léon Petit is strong, given your inside knowledge?” the anchor asked.

  Everyone’s eyes burned into him.

  “Well, my ‘inside knowledge’ isn’t much, and since I’m not a lawyer, I can’t say if the case is strong or not,” said Burke. “However, I don’t think the police would have arrested him if they didn’t believe they had a good case against him.”

  “Ah, Paul, now you sound like a politician,” the anchor said with a smirk. “Come now, take on the detective’s role as you apparently did over the last two weeks and give us something more.”

  “I’m not a detective, and I’m not a politician,” Burke said, his anger threatening to ignite. “I’m just an ex-racer who didn’t do well and now writes a blog. I only know what you know.”

  “Why do the police think Petit murdered Pierre McManus and Mark Den Weent?” the anchor continued.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Or won’t say?”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  The anchor finally backed off, and the panel wrapped up with a few predictions for the following year’s race.

  When the show ended, the anchor and the director thanked Burke and the other participants.

&nb
sp; The anchor then pulled Burke aside.

  “You know why Petit murdered McManus, and I think you have some idea why he killed Den Weent as well,” the anchor told Burke. “You could have shared that with the audience. It would have made for good TV.”

  “As I told you on air, I don’t know. I might have some ideas, but I’m not sure about any of them,” Burke said.

  The anchor smiled. “No matter,” he said, clapping Burke on the arm. “It was a good show. A lot more people know about you now. I expect you’ll get noticed on the street from now on.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Really? Oh well, fame isn’t for everyone,” the anchor said. “Today’s show is part of a new weekly segment I’m producing. It has a panel format and deals with the week’s issues in sports. I’d like you to be on it.”

  “Every week?” Burke asked, stunned at the offer.

  “Every week,” the anchor said. “I’ve taken the liberty to talk to your editor, François Lemaire, and he has no issue with you appearing on the program in the future.”

  Burke wondered when Lemaire had known about the offer—and why he hadn’t said anything to Burke.

  “I’ll think about it,” Burke said.

  The anchor smiled. “It would not be for free,” he said. “You would be paid—and paid quite well.”

  A moment earlier, Burke had been ready to reject the offer. He wasn’t interested in being on a regular panel; he didn’t know a lot about other sports. Plus, he wasn’t comfortable in front of a camera. He also wasn’t sure about being tied down to a Sunday telecast every week. But the offer of being “paid quite well” changed his attitude; he could use the money.

  “I’ll think about it,” Burke repeated, although he would probably accept. He just didn’t want to seem too eager for the extra income.

  The anchor could obviously see a change in Burke’s thinking, because he smiled. “That’s fine,” he said. “I’ll contact you tomorrow to talk about it. I think you’ll find it’s good for you, good for us and good for the viewers.”

  Burke wasn’t entirely sure who would profit from his regular participation in the show, but he agreed to provide the anchor with an answer the next day. In return, the anchor told Burke what the pay would be. It was a nice amount—more than Burke expected.

  And that’s when he knew he’d definitely say yes.

  On his way home, feeling tired and yet exhilarated from this latest development, Burke wondered what would happen next.

  The old, slow days were long gone.

  IN THE MORNING, AFTER breakfast, Burke phoned Hélène, but she didn’t answer. He had planned to call her the night before or to drop by the café, but once home, he’d collapsed on his bed and slept right through the night.

  A few minutes later, Burke’s phone rang.

  It was Inspector Fortin.

  “I want to talk with you this morning,” the detective said. “Can you come to the station in the next hour or so?”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t say on the phone, but I think you might find it very interesting,” Fortin said.

  With no other commitments, Burke agreed. He promised to be at Fortin’s office in an hour. Then he took the initiative and called the anchor at the TV station. Burke said he would participate in the panel. He got some instructions for the following week’s show and rang off.

  After a quick shower and another coffee, Burke tried Hélène again. No luck. He texted her to let her know that he was back and trying to contact her, then left for Nice and Fortin.

  A half hour later, he was sitting in Fortin’s austere office. Côté, as usual, was nearby, this time sitting in a chair in the corner.

  “If you were a regular member of the media, this would never happen,” Fortin began. “But since you’re not and since you provided us with some information that proved quite useful and since you will likely have to appear in court—”

  “Court?” Burke interrupted. “What are you talking about?”

  “Relax,” Fortin said. “When I say, ‘appear in court,’ I mean to testify.”

  “Testify?” Burke said.

  “The information you provided will need to be heard in court as part of a sentencing report,” Fortin said.

  “I don’t understand,” Burke said.

  “Léon Petit has confessed to the McManus and Den Weent murders,” Côté interjected.

  “He has?” It was the last thing Burke had expected to hear.

  “Monsieur Petit confessed last night,” Fortin said. “He admitted to providing doctored nutritional pills that led to Pierre McManus’s sudden cardiac arrest.”

  “Really? I wondered if he had,” Burke said.

  “I know you did. In fact, your questions prompted a re-examination of McManus’s body by the pathologist. A new toxicology screen was done, and some new evidence was found. When we told Petit about that new finding and linked his background to the crimes—again thanks to some information from you—he gave himself up. Just told us the entire story.”

  “That surprises me,” Burke said.

  “Why?” Fortin asked.

  “Because Léon Petit is a hard case and doesn’t seem the type to confess,” Burke said.

  “Maybe, but he was definitely willing to talk and it’s quite a story,” Fortin said. “He told us that McManus planned to dump him from the organization and replace him with the son of a major supporter of the team. The son had some good skills, though not as good as his, and McManus figured getting him on board would ensure the dad was indebted to him. McManus told Léon it was the nature of the business to have a job one day and be gone the next, but Petit didn’t agree, saying he’d been loyal and deserved to keep his job. McManus said he wasn’t going to change his mind.”

  Fortin explained that when Karin Petit heard from her son what McManus was intending, she went out of her way to confront McManus for the first time in decades. She told him it was wrong to get rid of Léon, and besides, McManus would be firing his own son if he did so.

  “Apparently, McManus didn’t react well,” Fortin said. “He told her he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about and wouldn’t accept the notion that Léon was his offspring. He said he didn’t remember Karin, and then he called her some unpleasant names and threatened to sue her if she proceeded with any of her wild allegations.”

  Fortin said Léon hadn’t known McManus was his father, but Karin finally relented and explained everything to him as a result of her meeting with McManus.

  “Léon confronted McManus and argued with him again about his future with the team but got nowhere,” Fortin said. “In fact, according to Léon, McManus promised to get him off the team even earlier if he could. And then McManus did something he shouldn’t have—he called Karin Petit a whore and a blackmailer and a psycho.

  “That’s when Léon decided he would eliminate McManus by substituting drugs for nutritional pills.”

  “Did Léon tell his mother what he had done?” Burke asked.

  Fortin shook his head. “He says he didn’t, and everything suggests that’s the truth. He’s very close to her and very protective. Almost a clinical case, if you ask me.”

  Burke asked what had led to Den Weent’s murder.

  “Léon says Den Weent was a nosy guy. Soon after McManus’s death, Den Weent asked Léon about all the pills he carried about, saying it was highly unusual for a mechanic to have such a haul of nutritional aides.

  “And then over in Avignon, Léon found Den Weent poking through his stash. He told Den Weent to bugger off. That evening, when he saw Den Weent go out for a late-evening walk, he caught up to him and stabbed him with a knife he had. He said he had no other choice; Den Weent could’ve easily connected the dots. So, he killed Den Weent, although he says he didn’t really want to. Then he took Den Weent’s wallet and watch to make it look like a robbery.”

  “Den Weent was a good guy,” Burke said.

  “Léon told us he thought he’d be arrested the next mornin
g, and when nothing happened, he started to believe he had gotten away with it.”

  “But why did Léon confess?” Burke asked. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  Côté jumped in. “He didn’t want his mother involved, and when we showed up to talk to her—thanks to you—he heard about it and got very nervous. And when she told him the types of questions we were asking, he was ready to tell the truth. This is one screwed-up guy who really only has feelings for one person in the world—his mother.”

  “Two people are dead because of his devotion,” Burke said.

  “That’s about it,” Fortin said. “This is a guy who’s probably needed serious therapy since he was a kid. He just needed a trigger to set him off. McManus was it.”

  “What will happen to him?”

  “He’ll go to prison for a very long time,” Fortin said. “As for his mother, she’s devastated by all this and has been hospitalized since late last night. A total collapse.”

  “What a waste,” Burke said, mostly to himself.

  “We deal with that a lot,” Côté said, surprising Burke with her gentle tone of voice.

  Burke had a brainwave.

  “So, since I’m here, what’s happening with Claude Brière?” he asked. “He’s a friend, and I know what you’re going after him for.”

  Fortin looked down and shook his head.

  “That’s a different matter, and we are not at liberty to say much,” he said. Then he paused. “But it might not end up as bad as you think. It won’t be good, but it won’t be the worst.”

  Burke asked what Fortin meant, but the detective wouldn’t elaborate. He ended the conversation, saying it was time for Burke to leave.

  Outside police headquarters, Burke phoned Hélène again. This time, she answered. She seemed relieved to hear his voice.

  Then she told him why she had been difficult to contact.

  She’d managed a visit with her uncle in the company of Olivier Richard and found him in decent spirits, if a little quieter than usual. She also learned that he’d be pleading guilty, but not to the worst charges. Instead, he was pleading guilty to conspiracy to commit willful damage. It seemed her uncle had been busy emailing a variety of options to other activists protesting the project by FP Developments, and some of those ideas involved destruction of company property. In fact, Claude’s suggestions, if enacted, could have resulted in maybe millions of euros in damages.