The Bastard is Dead

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  When he got back to his room, he had two visitors.

  Fortin and Côté.

  Two nurses helped Burke onto his bed. He was barely stretched out when Fortin, sitting close to him, began.

  “We have examined Madame Marois’s car and discovered some interesting things,” he said.

  Burke waited, still trying to recover from the therapy session.

  “For example, Madame’s car appears to have been in two accidents, not just one,” Fortin said. “The original damage was in almost the exact spot that was damaged when Madame drove into that stone wall you mentioned.”

  Burke nodded. He wasn’t surprised.

  “We also discovered some blood below the bumper,” Fortin said. “The car was otherwise extremely clean, but a couple of drops were missed.”

  The flic left those words hanging in the air.

  The blood wasn’t Burke’s. He’d veered off the road before the car could touch him.

  “Do you know whose blood it is?” Burke asked.

  “Yes, we do,” Fortin said.

  “Yves Vachon’s?”

  “Close enough,” Fortin said. “It belonged to his minder.”

  That was it. Madame Marois had been the hit-and-run driver, and she’d gone after him for asking questions and maybe getting too close to the truth. She was totally ruthless.

  Fortin said they also discovered something else that was interesting.

  “Madame’s car is nine years old and has almost 300,000 kilometers on it,” Côté said. “And in case you are wondering, she has been the only owner.”

  The numbers seemed strange to Burke.

  “That’s more than thirty thousand kilometers a year,” he said. “That’s a lot of driving.”

  “More than thirty-three thousand a year,” Fortin said, “and you’re right—it is a lot of driving. Not just for an elderly woman, but for anyone.”

  Burke wondered what Madame had been doing to rack up all those kilometers.

  “And forgetting the damage to the hood from her crashes, Madame’s car is not in very good shape,” Fortin said. “In fact, our experts believe she’ll soon need to put in a lot of money to keep the vehicle roadworthy.”

  That surprised Burke. Her personal attire was immaculate, if a little out of style. Her home had the same austere elegance. And yet her car was in rough shape.

  “I see you find that intriguing as well, Monsieur Burke,” Fortin said. “Maybe she didn’t want anyone to know how much she was driving, so she kept the car away from the attention of a regular mechanic.”

  That made sense to Burke.

  “Now, I have a question for you,” Fortin said. “Have you ever seen her drive with anyone else in her car?”

  “No, just Plato,” Burke said.

  “Yes, Plato, the dog who knows his mistress’s moods,” Fortin said.

  Burke studied Fortin’s face to see if the detective was being sarcastic. He didn’t think so. Fortin’s tone and his face actually seemed to suggest he believed Plato had some powerful connection to Madame Marois. As a dog owner himself, maybe Fortin could understand the bond between dog and owner.

  Burke had his own question. “Have you arrested Madame Marois?”

  “We’re in the process of conducting an interview with her,” Fortin said. “Her lawyer is anxious that our interviewing process be shortened, but that remains to be seen.”

  Once again, Burke wondered why he was getting all this behind-the-scenes information from Fortin. He kept that thought to himself, though.

  Fortin leaned over the edge of Burke’s bed.

  “I know you’re tired, but I need you to do something,” Fortin said.

  Stretched out in a hospital bed with virtually no mobility, Burke figured he was useless, but he nodded anyway.

  “I need you to go back in your mind to the day of your accident, to just before you went off the road,” Fortin said.

  “OK.”

  “I need you to recreate the scene in your mind,” Fortin said. “I’ve asked you to do this before, but I need you to go deeper this time.”

  “Why?”

  “Never mind. Just close your eyes and think back to what happened,” Fortin said. “Go second by second, meter by meter. And I want you to focus on the front windshield. Nothing else.”

  “The windshield?” Burke asked.

  “Go back to the split second when you first looked over your shoulder and saw the car speeding toward you,” Fortin said. “Relax and try to look at the windshield. Meter by meter…”

  Burke felt like he was about to be hypnotized and went along with the request, closing his eyes, trying to remember…

  “Do you see two body shapes in the front seat—not one, but two?” Fortin asked.

  Burke focused on clearing his mind. Then he was back at the accident scene, when he first glanced back and saw the car speeding toward him.

  “Just the windshield, nothing else,” Fortin said.

  Burke cleared away all the distractions in the scene: the road, the hills, the sky. He saw only the windshield.

  He had originally seen only one shape—the driver—but now, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe he was thinking more clearly now, or maybe it was because Fortin was putting an idea into his mind, but Burke had a strange sense that maybe there were two shapes.

  A large one and a small one.

  The large one was behind the wheel.

  Burke wondered if he was just imagining it. He recalled the second time he looked back at the car, right before he decided he needed to ride off the road.

  Fortin started to speak again, but Burke, with his eyes still closed, shut him up with a wave of his non-pinioned hand.

  The car was ten meters back, maybe even closer. The sun was overhead. No shadows.

  Yes, it seemed there were two figures. He couldn’t see faces or clothing, just body outlines—one large and one small. Burke was now convinced there had been two people in the front of the vehicle. Why had he thought he had seen only one? Because he’d believed Madame Marois had been behind the wheel. It had fit into his theory.

  Opening his eyes, he told Fortin what he thought. The policeman seemed satisfied, almost like he had always suspected there’d been two persons in the automobile.

  “Good, Monsieur Burke, very good,” Fortin said.

  “But can you use what I just said in a courtroom?” Burke asked. “I’m still a little vague.”

  Fortin waved away the objection. “I have other plans for what you just told me,” he said.

  Then he excused himself and, with Côté behind him, marched out of the room.

  THE NEXT THREE DAYS passed slowly and painfully for Burke. He slept fitfully, with the pain meds sending him to sleep and bizarre dreams awakening him. He was starting to eat better, but he was a long way from finishing a plate of hospital food. He tried to make the hours go by faster by watching some television, but he couldn’t maintain his focus on the tiny screen by his bedside.

  The physiotherapist was working him a little harder each time, once commenting that Burke was progressing so well that they might try walking a couple of days ahead of schedule. Burke almost laughed at that suggestion. He felt as ready for walking as a newborn baby.

  The two doctors who visited him twice daily also seemed pleased with his progress. They agreed Burke was getting stronger by the day, although the healing process would be lengthy and might involve some minor follow-up surgery.

  He had visitors, most notably Hélène, who came at least once every day and chatted to him about the café, the weather and how much better Burke was looking. Her spirits seemed much improved, but she still looked tired.

  When he was alone, he thought mostly about Madame Marois. And Fortin and Côté. And what could be happening outside the hospital.

  He waited for any news at all.

  Then one morning, Jean bounced into the room, holding a few newspapers. He sat by Burke’s bedside.

  “Have you been watching the news or read a p
aper today?”

  “No,” Burke said.

  Jean held out the front page of a local newspaper. The headline across the top said:

  “MOTHER AND SON CHARGED IN VACHON DEATH”

  There was a photo of Madame Marois with a tall, husky, middle-aged man beside her. They were being escorted up the stairs of a building and both looked miserable. Police surrounded them.

  “Damn!” Burke’s jaw dropped.

  “Absolutely!” Jean said. “The story is everywhere. But Madame Marois?”

  Burke could only shake his head.

  Jean studied Burke. “Did you know this was going to happen?”

  “The police asked me some questions on a couple of occasions, but that was it. I didn’t know what would happen.”

  Burke, shocked by the involvement of Madame Marois’s son, asked Jean to give him the gist of the story, and his friend was more than happy to comply.

  It seemed Madame and her son Gabriel had worked together for the last few months to target Vachon. The old woman had made several trips out of country to connect with her son, who, in recent weeks, had traveled back to the Côte d’Azur and was living quietly in a studio in Antibes. As for the motive, the police said it involved a family matter “going back years.” Burke was left with plenty of unanswered questions.

  “You know more than you’re saying, Paul,” Jean said. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  Burke managed the mildest of shrugs.

  “I didn’t anticipate anything involving the son,” Burke admitted. “I thought Madame wasn’t close to him.”

  “I did as well,” Jean said. “I’ve never seen him in all the years Madame has lived in the village.”

  “Maybe she and her son mended fences years ago but chose to let everyone think they were still estranged,” Burke said.

  “Why do that?”

  “Because she and her son shared one overwhelming desire—to get revenge against Vachon for something he had done to their family. I bet their estrangement was just a ruse to keep people from linking them while they plotted away. Do the news reports get specific at all about their motive?”

  Jean told him the information was a little thin due to the case going to court. Burke asked for the charges. Jean checked one newspaper and said they were both charged with murder, attempted murder and conspiracy to commit murder.

  “You said attempted murder—of whom?” Burke asked.

  Jean fingered a column of the news story. “It isn’t specific. It just says it involves an attempt to run someone off the road,” he said.

  Burke watched the light bulb go off.

  “You’re the one they tried to run off the road!” Jean said, pointing at Burke. “They tried to kill you. You’re in here because of them.”

  “I suspect you’re right, Jean,” Burke said, convinced Gabriel had been behind the wheel when the car had forced him off the road and into the trees. The driver had been aggressive and skilled, able to handle the road’s challenges with ease while dealing with Burke on his bicycle. Burke guessed the son had also been driving when the car struck Vachon and his minder. To handle the sharp curve in the road at speed and then drive away quickly after striking the two men had required talent, more than Madame Marois had displayed in recent years.

  Burke could see Jean was reviewing recent conversations they’d had. Then Jean nodded to himself. He was connecting the dots.

  “But what had Vachon done years ago that was so bad that they wanted him dead? And why did they try to kill you?” Jean asked.

  “They tried to eliminate me because I was asking questions that needed to stay unasked,” Burke said. “As for why they killed Vachon, I expect we’ll have to wait to find out.”

  “Our little village will never be the same,” Jean said.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Fortin and Côté stood there.

  “We need to talk to you privately, Monsieur Burke,” Fortin said.

  Jean looked at Fortin and Côté, then back to Burke. Understanding crossed his face, and he got out of his chair.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” Jean said.

  Burke knew his curiosity would drive him to return soon—probably later that day—to find out what the two flics wanted.

  Once Jean was gone, Côté closed the door, and Fortin took up his customary seat by Burke’s bedside.

  “You heard what’s happened?” Fortin said.

  Burke nodded.

  “There’s a chance you’ll have to testify after all,” Fortin said.

  Burke nodded again, although he wasn’t sure what he could contribute to the case against Madame Marois and her son.

  “If you do, it will likely be about Madame Marois’s strength of mind and what you have observed, not about your accident in the hills,” Fortin said. He must have noticed Burke’s puzzled expression, because he added, “The old lady’s lawyer is already arguing diminished capacity on her part.”

  “That she’s senile and didn’t really know what she was doing?”

  “That’s it. The lawyer has listed a number of recent events that indicate her diminished capacity. He might be able to persuade the presiding judge to consider other options besides serious charges.”

  “Other options? What does that mean?” Burke asked.

  “Hospitalization on a long-term basis,” Fortin said.

  Burke shook his head. A weak mind? Madame Marois was as sharp as a tack. The more he thought about it, the more sure he was that Madame Marois had plotted well in advance to look like she was suffering from dementia in case she was arrested for what happened to Vachon.

  “I believe she’s extremely clever, but it will be difficult to prove she had all this worked out weeks, or maybe even months, before Vachon’s death,” Fortin said. “As for your observations that her dog is able to identify Madame’s true moods, that will never stand up in court. Not a chance. So her lawyer’s got a good case.”

  “But aren’t there tests to determine if she has dementia?”

  “There is some diagnostic testing that can help, but there is also some vagueness with the results, at least as far as legal responsibility is concerned. A psychiatrist attached to the police told us about the causes for memory loss. It can be a result of dementia, but it can also be because of stress, depression, vitamin deficiencies or a brain tumor. So we’re looking deeper into our case against her.”

  Burke had a sudden thought.

  “What happened to Madame’s dog Plato?” he asked.

  “As soon as we took Madame into custody—she’s been placed in a hospital for further testing—her dog was put into an animal shelter,” Fortin said.

  “If she never returns to her home, will they put Plato down or give him up for adoption?”

  “I don’t know,” Fortin said.

  “Did Madame Marois ask about him once she was in custody?” Burke asked.

  Fortin nodded. “About every fourth sentence, she asked. I think she’s petrified he’ll be euthanized.”

  So the old woman was clear-thinking enough to be worried about her best companion.

  Burke asked about Madame’s son.

  “That is a very interesting story,” Fortin said.

  Burke settled in to hear it.

  “But I can’t tell it to you until later,” Fortin continued. “For now, let’s just say it’s about a mother and son seeking revenge.”

  Burke had an instant sense of déjà vu.

  “The Petits and now Madame Marois and her son,” Burke said. “Same story.”

  “Indeed,” Fortin said.

  AS BURKE EXPECTED, JEAN was back that afternoon, asking about Fortin and Côté. Burke told him they’d stopped by to ask him some questions involving the case against Madame Marois and her son.

  “I can see you aren’t telling me everything, my friend,” Jean said, waving an admonishing finger.

  “For the moment, I can’t tell you everything,” Burke said. “Now, I have a question for you.”

&
nbsp; Jean sat back and waited.

  “Would you and your wife be willing to take in a dog?” Burke asked.

  “Ah, you mean our little friend Plato?”

  Burke nodded.

  “As it happens, we’ve already spoken at home, and I’ll be picking him up tomorrow morning,” Jean said. “We had to clear it with Madame’s lawyer. Like you, we were concerned Plato might get the chop.”

  Burke was relieved. Plato was a fine animal.

  They talked a few more minutes, and then Burke got a new visitor—François Lemaire, with big Antoine in tow, who was carrying an oversized camera bag. Satisfied he wouldn’t get any more new information, Jean excused himself and left.

  “We came once before, but you were sleeping like a baby,” Lemaire said.

  “You’re not such a good-looking baby, though,” Antoine added.

  The two newcomers made idle chat with Burke about his injuries, but he sensed they were there for other reasons.

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Lemaire said. Then he motioned to Antoine.

  The big man hauled out a video camera from the bag, turned it on and approached Burke.

  “When we were here the other day, we took a couple of photos of you and some video, too,” Antoine said. “We were probably not supposed to do that, but no one was around, so we did.”

  “Why?” Burke asked.

  Lemaire jumped in, saying the newspaper had to explain what had happened to their top blogger, adding that photos and video would help emphasize the seriousness of the situation.

  “We ran the photo on the website,” Lemaire said, showing Burke his smartphone, which had the website pulled up for viewing. There Burke lay, stretched out sleeping. He was not a pretty sight, and with all the machines hooked up to him, he looked like his next breath could be his last. “We put up a little video, too. If the hospital authorities ever see it, we might hear from them, but I’ll worry about that later.”

  Burke was too tired to care one way or the other about what Lemaire had done.

  “We had a lot of response, a lot of hits,” Lemaire said. “So here we are hoping you can give us a few comments, which we’ll post as a video blog.”

  Burke smiled to himself. Lemaire was always thinking news and seeking an angle. Burke relented and said he’d cooperate.