THREE HOURS LATER, BURKE made his request to a police officer at the front desk. She frowned and asked that he provide identification. He pulled out his beaten-up press pass from Lemaire. The police officer studied it. Then, without a word, she turned and disappeared behind a door. The power of the press.
As he waited, Burke wondered if he wasn’t being profoundly stupid.
A minute later, the desk cop was back, accompanied by a fifty-something man wearing a gray suit that was more than slightly wrinkled. The desk cop introduced the man as Inspector Jean-Pierre Fortin.
Burke went through his routine again for the new man.
“We had a news conference just the other day,” Fortin said. “Weren’t you there?”
Burke nodded sheepishly. “I was there, but I’ve been wondering ever since if there have been more findings about the autopsy.”
“There aren’t,” the cop said.
Burke didn’t know what to say. Neither officer volunteered anything. The three of them just stood there, not moving, not saying anything.
“Can you tell me if the doctor who did the autopsy tested for any specific medications that might have contributed to McManus’s death?” Burke said.
He figured he’d try to make an impression, so he tossed out some of Henderson’s drug terms—erythromycin and clarithromycin—that he had practiced on the way over. To his surprise, Fortin told Burke to follow him and then led him through the heavy door into a restricted area.
Burke followed Fortin down a windowless, institutional hallway to an office at the end. The office was airless and hot. There was nothing in the room that suggested a personal touch. Fortin sat behind a desk and motioned for Burke to take the metal chair facing him.
“I’ve been looking into the McManus matter,” Fortin said.
Burke nodded. He didn’t know what to say next, so he said nothing.
“Why are you wondering about specialized medications like erythromycin and clarithromycin?” Fortin asked, his hands clasped across his stomach.
Fortin seemed familiar with the medical terms. Burke explained he was struggling to accept that McManus had suddenly died and added that he understood there were a variety of drugs that could be legally ingested but lethal.
Fortin stared at Burke. “You heard what we told you press people at the news conference?” he finally said.
“Yes.”
“And you somehow suspect something else?”
“I’m not sure what I suspect,” Burke said.
“Are you suggesting the autopsy was flawed?” Fortin asked, sounding slightly belligerent to Burke.
“No. I’m just wondering how detailed the autopsy was,” Burke replied.
“You’re a former pro cyclist, aren’t you? And aren’t you the guy who fucked up on TV, too?”
There it was again, his television screwup. It was like everyone wanted to remind him of it. As if he could ever forget it.
“That’s me,” he said.
“And now you’re some kind of journalist or blogger or something, and you think we’re doing something wrong in how we’re handling the McManus death,” Fortin said.
Fortin was making a statement, not asking a question. Burke was ready to leave.
“No, I’m just a blogger for a website, and I’m only doing some follow-up,” he said, starting to stand. He’d had enough. “No insult intended.”
“Your accent is Québec, right?” Fortin asked.
That stopped Burke mid-movement. “Yes. I’m from Montréal.”
“I know it,” Fortin said. “I’ve been there twice on holidays.”
Burke sat back down. He didn’t have a clue what to do next.
“Anyway, I can only tell you we’re still examining McManus’s death,” Fortin said.
Fortin had just given him a hint that something was amiss with McManus’s death. What were the police checking up on? Burke wondered.
“For what?”
Fortin sighed. “It’s just standard practice,” he added.
But Burke sensed it wasn’t “standard practice” in this case.
He tried to go a step further. “Do you suspect someone was involved in McManus’s death?” he asked.
Fortin shook his head. “As I said, it’s a procedural matter. We want to ensure we have examined everything we need to,” he said.
Somehow, Burke didn’t think this was the way an interview was usually conducted. He sensed that Fortin was leading him somewhere.
“Have you found any links between McManus’s death and the murder of Den Weent in Avignon?” Burke asked.
Fortin stared at Burke, as if evaluating him somehow. “We’re working with investigators there. I believe the media have been told we have nothing definite yet.”
“But you suspect something, don’t you?” Burke said, figuring he had nothing to lose by getting a little more aggressive.
“As I said, we’re examining the evidence,” Fortin said. “Right now, we have a man who died when his heart suddenly stopped and another who was killed by an unknown assailant. Did you know either man personally?”
Burke nodded. “I knew McManus a little and Den Weent better. I hope you catch his killer. He was a good man.”
“Tell me about him,” Fortin said.
It was more a demand than a request. Burke figured a journalist wouldn’t comply, but he wasn’t a journalist, so he related how Den Weent had been a smart, strong rider who understood cycling tactics and, as a result, had become a good strategist in races. Burke paused. It felt odd to talk about Den Weent in the past tense.
“He wasn’t married,” Fortin said.
Once again, it wasn’t a question, just a statement to probe for a response. Fortin’s interviewing strategy made Burke feel uncomfortable, but maybe that was his intent.
“He was married several years ago, but he got divorced,” Burke said after a short pause.
“Was he one for the ladies?”
“I don’t know,” Burke said. “Why are you asking me about his love life?”
“Just curious,” Fortin said. He pointed at Burke. “There’s a lot of doping in the sport, isn’t there?”
Burke bristled. “It’s gotten a lot better with the biological passport,” he said. “It’s a lot cleaner. Other sports should pay attention to what’s happening in cycling.”
“But it’s a fair bet that some staff on pro cycling teams would know their way around a needle,” Fortin said.
“Most of those individuals have been weeded out these last few years,” Burke told him.
“Did you dope?”
“Why do you care?” Burke was getting annoyed.
“I take that as a yes.”
Burke had doped for a small part of a single season and hated how he felt emotionally, so he stopped. Instead, he became fanatical about diet, although he certainly didn’t practice good eating habits anymore.
“You take it whatever way you want,” Burke said. “I think I’m done here.”
He stood, and Fortin did, too.
As Burke was about to step into the hallway, Fortin added, “If you think of any connection between McManus and Den Weent beyond the obvious ones, let me know.”
He handed Burke his card.
Burke walked down the hallway with Fortin trailing behind him. He had the feeling the police in Nice and Avignon suspected the deaths of McManus and Den Weent were both murders—and were connected.
Burke tried to decide if there was a blog there. Screw it, he told himself. His brain was on overload. He’d decide later if he would blog about McManus and Den Weent.