They rang off, and Burke opened the door.
Fortin and Côté entered. Fortin smiled slyly, while Côté’s face showed little expression.
“We need to ask you some questions about an incident at the Antibes marina five days ago,” he said.
“What incident?” Burke asked, deciding to play as if he didn’t know.
“May we sit?” Fortin asked.
Burke shrugged and waved them to the couch. He took a chair opposite.
“It seems you may know why we’re here,” Fortin said.
Burke was surprised by the statement. But then, cops are trained to know when a person is lying or disguising the truth.
“I might,” Burke admitted. “I expect you mean the incident when Yves Vachon’s minder attacked two members of the Antibes press.”
“Let us make that determination,” Fortin said. “For the moment, we just want facts from you, Monsieur Burke.”
Fortin launched into a series of questions about the incident. He wanted both an overview and details. Côté asked a couple of follow-up questions and took notes. She also stared with an intensity that made Burke feel like he was prey.
The questions weren’t difficult, and Burke answered only what they asked. He had a sense that Côté, on occasion, was annoyed with his answers, but Fortin remained placid throughout the half-hour interview.
When it seemed the interview was over, Burke asked his own question.
“Why did you lie to me back at the Nice station when I asked if you could provide some information about Vachon’s death?”
Fortin offered his sly smile once more. “I did not lie,” he said. “I told you I wasn’t the investigating officer, and that’s true. I am not in charge.”
“So you’re here to ask questions for someone else,” Burke suggested.
“That would be correct,” Fortin said.
It seemed to Burke that Fortin was splitting hairs.
The two officers stood.
“If we have more questions, we’ll contact you,” Fortin added, nodding at Côté.
“What about Claude Brière? Is he going to be released? You may not be the investigating officer, but you probably know,” said Burke, standing and following the two to the front door.
“Once again, I’m not in charge,” Fortin said. He paused. “If you know of anything that might help us with this hit-and-run, please contact us.”
He gave Burke his card.
After they were gone, Burke made himself a coffee and sat down. Fortin seemed to suggest he was just a flic following orders, but Burke had a strong sense the detective missed nothing and had a ruthless streak to him.
And if he was right about Fortin, he hoped he, nor anyone he cared about, ever ended up on his bad side.
BURKE WAS A FEW minutes late for sound check. He told the organizers he had been helping a friend and couldn’t leave her in a difficult situation. They didn’t seem amused, but he didn’t care.
After the sound check, Burke sat offstage with the other participants and listened to the forum moderator, who was host of a Nice TV talk show, explain how it was going to play out. The event would start with introductions, and then the moderator would make some opening remarks. After that, the moderator would initiate discussion by introducing a series of subjects. After an hour, the forum would open up to questions from the audience. If there were enough questions, the forum would extend to three hours.
The other panelists seemed familiar with the plan, nodding confidently as they received their directions and making small remarks that suggested they knew exactly what to do or, as one panelist joked, how to perform. As he’d been told on the phone a few days earlier, the panelists were a mixed bag: a sociology professor, an old-time sportswriter, a sports physician, an Olympic official dealing with drug use, a former cabinet minister who once ruled over French sports, and Burke.
Then it was showtime.
While waiting to be introduced, Burke peeked at the audience through the curtain. He had expected a few dozen. Instead, he saw a crowd of at least five hundred. He also spotted several TV cameras. He groaned.
“Our next panelist is a former professional racer, a former TV commentator and a current blogger about the sport with a wide following—Paul Burke,” intoned the moderator.
Burke smiled at the remark about “a wide following” and walked onto the stage to polite applause. He took his spot beside the sportswriter.
After the introductions, the moderator embarked on a lengthy preamble. It seemed the TV host would have liked nothing better than to be the only speaker; he was clearly in love with the sound of his own voice and his own importance. But eventually, he had to share the spotlight.
As he had for most of the day, Burke struggled to concentrate. His mind wandered when he wasn’t speaking, and twice, he got caught not listening and was forced to ask for the question to be repeated. He joked once that he was struggling with his hearing, which drew a few chuckles from the audience.
The professor didn’t contribute much except long-winded, lecture-like statements about the changing culture of cycling and sports in general. The Olympic official wasn’t much better, providing all kinds of dry info about testing methods. The ex-politician spent most of his time promising the audience that the current government was ensuring due diligence was being taken by all sports bodies when dealing with amateur sports.
The veteran sportswriter was another matter, making wisecracks and offering remarks as if he was writing snappy headlines. When he suggested the moderator was interrupting the panelists too much, Burke almost burst into laughter. The other panelist—the sports physician—was the best and had all kinds of stats, which she delivered with conviction. She was particularly effective when describing how the pressure from the media, sponsors and fans was creating an “atmosphere of great risk for great financial rewards—but only for a few.”
As for his own initial efforts, Burke gave himself a C minus. He should have done more homework before attending the forum. His answers lacked depth. But he did get a couple of good laughs from the crowd when he shared some of his stories.
The session opened to the audience. Within seconds, a dozen people were lined up at the various microphones set up in the theater.
The people asking the questions were looking for blood.
The first questioner, who identified himself as a university student, went after the Olympics official, asking why the Games organizers seemed to struggle with consistency when “everyone knows the Chinese and Americans dope the most.” The Olympics official denied that those two nations were worse than others and said the Games’ drug scientists and technicians were the world’s best. That prompted the student to reply in a sarcastic voice, “That’s reassuring.” The crowd applauded.
The next person said the government’s sports budget included hundreds of thousands of euros for politicians and bureaucrats to travel around the world to attend various sporting functions. He then related how some youth groups had had their budgets slashed so significantly that the groups ended up shutting down operations. He asked the politician to respond. When the politician said the numbers were misleading and added that the government was being vigilant by sending representatives to various events, the crowd booed.
Burke was surprised by the crowd’s increasing hostility. The opening hour had been placid, even boring. The audience had sat back and listened. Now, they were angry and edgy, almost like they’d been given a collective shot of adrenaline.
Someone questioned why the sports doctor couldn’t speak in everyday language and explain why cheats seemed to be winning the drug battle. Another blasted the sportswriter for both the media’s lack of attention to drug use and its sensationalism in a few cases.
Burke thanked his stars he hadn’t been asked anything.
Until the next person stepped up to the mic. Burke looked at her. She was middle-aged—and familiar, but he couldn’t place her.
“I want to ask Monsieur Burke a qu
estion,” she said. She seemed nervous, grasping the standing mic in a death grip with oversized hands.
Burke leaned forward toward the mic before him on the table.
“Why does pro cycling not tell the world about the terrible people within its ranks?” she asked.
Burke didn’t have a clue what she was talking about and asked if she could be more specific.
“Everyone is saying Pierre McManus was a successful sportsman who died tragically of a heart attack,” she said.
And then Burke recognized her. She was the woman who’d been with Léon Petit at McManus’s funeral in Saint-Raphäel. His mother.
“But he was not a good man,” she said. “He was mean and cruel and a liar.”
The moderator tried to interrupt her, but she wasn’t having any of that.
“…and everyone like you who knew him, knew him for what he was. He helped no one but himself. If I’m wrong, you tell me now.”
Burke felt his face flush. He had never expected such an outburst.
“Pierre McManus could be a difficult man,” he began.
“He was a bastard,” she said. “And all of you allowed him to do what he wanted.”
“I was just a rider, madame,” Burke offered feebly. “Every sport—every business, every government department—probably has people who can be difficult, who anger others. It’s part of a working life.”
“A working life?” the woman said, her voice still high. “Do not patronize me. All of you—you riders and management and you in the media—do little to protect the victims of such people.”
Burke said nothing. He was still perplexed by her explosion.
“Do you have a legitimate question, madame?” the moderator asked, his voice booming in the suddenly silent theater.
The woman glared at him and then shifted her attention back to Burke. She spoke deliberately.
“Do you believe Pierre McManus should have been a role model for anyone?”
Burke took a moment. The crowd was leaning forward in anticipation. It was like they were watching a chess match.
“I don’t believe sports figures—or actors or other performers—should be role models just because of what they do for a living,” he said, his brain racing to find the right words. “I believe role models should be a parent or a friend or someone who has sacrificed to help others. A sportsman is just someone who plays a game or does some kind of race.”
Burke thought he sounded pious and pompous, and was probably echoing what others had said in the past, but he also believed what he was saying.
“We’re here today because of the pressures that the media and the public put on athletes,” he continued. “We’re discussing how sports has been corrupted, but why do sports get corrupted? Because we put too great a value on what happens in sports, on who wins and who loses. I’ve made a living from professional sports for many years, but I have often wondered if that’s because I haven’t grown up.”
He was starting to sound like the professor on the panel, but the urge to continue was overwhelming—and surprising. He felt like some alien had taken over his brain.
“Paying athletes millions is ridiculous; although in my sport, most riders get little money or just enough to pay the bills. We also need to stop hero-worshipping riders and footballers and golfers. Pro athletes are just people, which means they’re flawed. We have to expect them to mess up. But it’s the media—and it’s the fans—who want to make them so godlike. That makes those athletes willing to do anything to succeed, to live up to the public’s expectations. There’s so much at stake. It’s insane. We need to find some balance.”
He figured he’d get off his soapbox at that moment. Besides, he wasn’t saying anything that was new.
“And what about Pierre McManus?” the woman persisted.
Burke figured what the hell and said, “You’re right, he was a bastard—but he didn’t become a bastard on his own. He got lots of help from lots of people.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear—finally,” said the woman, looking satisfied. “It’s about time someone in the media told the truth about some of the terrible people in sports.”
She left the mic and walked right out of the theater. Many in the audience turned to watch her departure.
“Is the Tour de France doomed?” asked the next speaker. “There have been so many scandals, and now there’s even been a murder.”
“Who do you want to answer this question?” asked the moderator.
“Monsieur Burke,” said the young man. “He’s the only one who has said anything that’s real.”
There was a small round of applause.
Burke cursed under his breath and leaned back toward the mic.
“No, it’s not,” he said. “The Tour remains a wonderful event despite its troubles. It’s a race for the people. Everyone can attend. You don’t need money or influence to see it. You just go and watch.
“But it’s more than that. Most people have ridden a bicycle, so they know what’s involved. I believe they also understand how difficult it is to ride such distances at such speeds, possibly over such tremendous mountains. We riders talk about ‘suffering,’ and that’s the essence of the Tour. We suffer on roads in the world’s most beautiful country because we love the challenge, and we embrace the obstacles. And we love that people come out in the millions and applaud our efforts. It’s almost as if we’re all working together to get to the end. That’s why we can still forgive the people who cheat and drug.”
Burke figured he was now sounding like a philosopher, so he shrugged and stopped talking.
To his surprise, there was more applause. The French usually embraced cynicism and not idealism. Of course, the nation had exploded in revolutions due to idealism. Maybe one day, he’d give that observation some in-depth thought.
For the next hour, the bulk of the questions focused on the Tour, its intricacies and its history. There were also requests for predictions on who would win. Virtually every one of the queries was directed at Burke.
When the forum ended, Burke felt exhilarated and yet exhausted. He had talked more that afternoon than he had in a very long time.
“Lucky for the forum, you were there,” the old sportswriter said to Burke as they strolled off the stage together. “The rest of us weren’t doing shit. We were just filling the room with words. You provided a small dose of passion.”
Burke thanked him.
“I didn’t know ex-riders could be so profound,” the sportswriter said, grinning. “You’re a veritable Descartes or Sartre.”
Burke didn’t know the names, but assumed they had to be famous French thinkers.
He was about to leave the theater when a TV reporter approached him and asked for a short interview.
“Why me?” Burke asked.
The reporter—a young blonde with fashionable clothes—smiled at him.
“You were the one who said the most,” she said.
So he did the interview, repeating a little of what he’d said before about athletes being unwisely venerated and about the values of the Tour de France.
“That was excellent,” she said, thanking him. “It will probably be on the news tonight and maybe again tomorrow.”
Outside, Burke noticed people looking at him. He nodded a couple of times and received smiles and waves in return. It was strange.
Léon Petit’s mother, Karin, whose question about McManus had prompted the fireworks, was sitting on a bench nearby. She stared at him. Burke wasn’t entirely sure, but it looked like she had been crying.
Beside her was Léon Petit, holding her hand.
Burke thought about going over, then opted to stay away. Petit seemed to be comforting her and oblivious to Burke.
He turned and walked toward his car. This was one of the strangest days he’d had in a long time.
RELAXING ON HIS COUCH and feeling more than a little tired, Burke phoned Hélène.
“How is Claude?” he began.
“They
’ve released him again,” Hélène said, relief evident in her voice. “The police cautioned him against getting involved in any more trouble.”
“So they obviously think he had nothing to do with Vachon’s death,” Burke said.
“How could they?” Hélène said. “He can be loud and a pain, but he wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
Burke remembered the photos of Claude he’d seen in the news. He wasn’t so sure Claude was opposed to some degree of violence if he thought the matter warranted it.
“He told me he thought the police were full of shit, but I believe he was truly frightened this time,” Hélène continued. “I don’t think he’ll get into any more trouble.”
“Did you get him a lawyer?”
“I did. He helped Uncle get out. I think they’re meeting right now.”
Burke asked if anyone had been charged with the hit-and-run deaths.
“Uncle said he hadn’t heard anything,” Hélène answered. “He said the police mostly talked to him about his car and searched it.”
“Probably for damage from the accident, but since he didn’t do it, they wouldn’t find anything,” Burke said.
“Yes, exactly.”
“What is Claude doing after he meets with his lawyer?” Burke asked.
“He wanted to work at the café tonight, but I persuaded him not to. Bad timing. The staff and I will make sure the café is fine.”
Burke told her he might come down to the café later.
“But, Paul, I won’t be able to be with you,” Hélène said. “I’ll have to close up, and then I want to see how Uncle is doing, even if it’s late.”
“I understand.”
They talked a little more and then rang off.
Paul remembered the news on TV and turned on his set. He watched a short item on a mysterious cougar once again being spotted in the hills above Vence, and then came the story about the forum he’d participated in.
It wasn’t a long spot, maybe forty-five seconds or a minute, but Burke was surprised at how much he was featured in the piece. There was a clip of him discussing the value of the Tour de France, and then, at the end, there was part of the exchange between him and Petit’s mother.
The Bastard is Dead Page 14
