THE ALARM WENT OFF at 7 a.m. Burke groaned. He hadn’t been able to fall asleep until almost three, his brain overloaded by the images he and Antoine had spent the evening researching. The late-night coffee didn’t help either.
Burke struggled into the kitchen and turned on his coffee machine. He’d need caffeine to keep awake. He turned on the TV to watch the morning current affairs program. A few minutes into the program, he found himself studying an interview with the new head of FP Developments—a husky, moon-faced man around forty-five who was loaded with heartfelt comments about the late, much-missed Yves Vachon. Maintaining a serious demeanor but adding a few smiles, he launched into the corporation’s plans for the future and overwhelmed the interviewer with polished charm. After the interview, a business analyst told the program host how the new CEO was performing so well that share prices were rising.
After two cups of coffee, Burke walked down to Jean’s newsagent’s shop to pick up a couple of papers and maybe have a chat. When he got there, Jean was in conversation with a neighbor of Madame Marois—a retired government bureaucrat who was always eager to share his views.
“Bonjour, Jean. Bonjour, Monsieur Picard,” Burke said, adding a smile.
He shook hands with the two men.
Jean explained they’d been talking about the new developments west of the village.
“Monsieur Picard believes no amount of protest will stop the new resorts from being built,” Jean said. “He said it’s a fait accompli.”
When Burke turned to look at Monsieur Picard, Jean eased away, leaving Burke to handle the listening duties while he attended to other chores.
Picard didn’t need coaxing and immediately launched into a monologue about the onslaught of resort developments not just in their area but around the country. He wasn’t entirely opposed though, managing to say the new developments would increase the tax base for communities, which, in turn, would allow for more government projects.
It took a few minutes before Burke was able to gently turn the direction of the conversation.
“With all this new development, I expect noise pollution will become a greater issue,” Burke said.
“It already is becoming a problem,” Picard replied.
Before the older man could get going, Burke said, “We’re lucky to live in this quiet little village. Hardly any noise.”
“True,” Picard said, nodding, “but we are getting noisier. Those machines paving the new bike path can disturb a man’s lunch. And then there are neighbors who can no longer control their dogs.”
Picard had arrived at Burke’s goal.
“What do you mean?” Burke asked, hoping he wouldn’t sound too eager.
“My neighbor, Madame Marois, has a little dog who is normally very quiet, day or night, but he was howling one night this past week. It’s annoying when you’re getting ready for bed.”
“Did you talk to Madame Marois?”
“I did, but she was quite difficult,” Picard said, frowning. “She said her dog doesn’t howl, but when I told her that he had and when, she said she couldn’t believe it. She said she’d left home for a few minutes to run an errand and Plato would have slept while she was away. Then she turned and walked away. I felt quite foolish.”
“Did any other neighbors hear the dog?”
“Yes, Madame Lecocq told me yesterday she’d heard the dog howling on the same day,” Picard said. “She lives a little farther from Madame Marois, but she had her windows open and was reading when Plato howled so she heard it clearly enough.”
“Did she complain to Madame Marois?”
“She said she asked Madame Marois about the dog, hoping he wasn’t hurt or ill. Madame Marois said her dog was in perfect health and that there was no need for people to worry about him. Then Madame Marois left. Madame Lecocq said she seemed annoyed.”
Puzzled by Madame Marois’s behavior, Burke figured it was time to wind up the conversation. Five minutes later, he escaped with his newspapers and a sympathetic nod to Jean, who was being approached by Monsieur Picard, likely with more views to share.
As Burke walked back to his apartment, his phone rang. It was Jean-Pierre Fortin. The detective said he was nearby and wanted to talk with Burke. It was an order and not a request.
“I’ll be over in ten minutes,” Fortin said and then rang off.
The detective was again true to his word, showing up at Burke’s door—with Côté beside him—in precisely ten minutes.
“Your comments yesterday about the murder weapon used to kill Den Weent were a little strange,” Fortin said, standing in the living room. “We were in a rush, but now I want to pursue the matter a little more. What did you mean?”
Burke shrugged. “I was just thinking out loud,” he said.
“No, you weren’t,” Fortin said. “You were fishing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tell us what you know or think. No more games.”
Burke looked from Fortin to Côté and back. They were both leaning toward him.
“Did you find out where Karin Petit was when Den Weent was killed?” Burke asked.
“She wasn’t at work,” Fortin said.
“Where was she?”
Fortin’s aggressive posture eased. Then he smiled, almost coyly.
“You have an idea,” Fortin said. “You tell us.”
Burke glanced at Côté; she resembled a pit bull ready to be unleashed.
“I don’t know, but I’d be curious to learn if she was in the area where Den Weent was when he died,” Burke said.
Fortin nodded. “When you talked with Karin Petit, I think you saw something in her, something that made you wonder if she had somehow been involved.”
“Her hand,” Burke said.
“Please explain what you mean,” Fortin said.
Burke described Karin Petit’s bandaged wound in the palm of her right hand, as well as the couple of nicks he’d noticed—one at the base of the index finger and the other on the thumb. Since she was an experienced gardener, it seemed odd that she would hurt herself doing a job she’d done thousands of times before.
“I think she hurt her hand doing something other than her job,” Burke said.
“How do you think she got hurt?” Fortin asked.
“Using a knife, but in a different way from what she does at work.”
“Explain your thinking,” Fortin said.
It would sound foolish, but Burke went ahead, mentioning the TV detective show in which one of the investigators mentioned how a knife-wielding killer often nicks their own hand when stabbing someone.
“Yes, the power of television,” Fortin said. “I understand those CSI shows are very popular in North America. I’ve seen some dubbed episodes on our TV, and they make some fundamental errors from time to time, but that investigator was correct about knife wounds on the person doing the stabbing.”
Burke nodded and kept quiet. Fortin seemed to have a plan for their conversation.
“After our little talk yesterday, we went and did some further checking and learned that Karin was indeed in Carpentras on the day Den Weent was killed,” Fortin said.
Burke wondered how Fortin found that information, and he was puzzled why Fortin was telling him, an ex-pro cyclist who did a blog for a small newspaper operation.
“I can see you are wondering why we’re talking to you about this,” Fortin said. “You could say I’m repaying a debt. Some of your questions prompted us to go beyond what we were looking at, to the point where we got a result.”
“So did Karin kill Den Weent?” Burke asked.
“Patience, Monsieur Burke,” Fortin said. “I will get there. You deserve to know the latest information before it’s released, and as a blogger, you may want to use it ahead of your competition.”
Fortin looked at his watch.
“However,” he said, “you’ll have only one hour to post something since we’ll be having a news conference in one hour to announce the latest development in the Den Weent case.”
“Which is that Karin Petit killed Den Weent,” Burke said.
“No, you’re wrong,” Fortin said.
“Karin Petit did not kill Mark Den Weent,” interjected Côté.
“So who did?” Burke asked.
“Léon Petit did,” Fortin said.
Burke felt lost. Fortin was telling him there was a new development in Den Weent’s case, and yet the flic was saying Léon had murdered Den Weent, just as the bike mechanic had confessed he had. What the hell was new?
“It’s a little difficult to follow,” Fortin said. He checked his watch once more. “Less than one hour before the news conference—fifty-five minutes to be precise.”
Burke didn’t care about the soon-to-be-breaking news. He just wanted to understand what had happened with Den Weent.
“We’re keeping the charges of double murder against Léon Petit,” Fortin said, and then he paused for dramatic effect. “And we’re adding an attempted murder charge against Karin Petit, plus a couple of other charges.”
Then Burke saw what had happened.
“Do you have it?” Fortin asked.
“Karin Petit tried to kill Den Weent for some reason…” Burke began.
“Because Léon told her that Den Weent had noticed some unusual drugs in a corner of his tool chest and had started to develop suspicions about Léon’s involvement with Pierre McManus’s death,” Fortin added. “He told his mother the drugs were what he’d used to stop McManus’s heart so suddenly and what would link him to a murder charge.”
“And since Karin Petit was very protective of her son, she believed she had to do something to get Den Weent off the track,” Burke said.
“Correct,” Fortin said. “She went to Carpentras and met with Den Weent.”
“How did she get him into the alley?” Burke asked.
“Karin Petit told us that she—”
“She confessed?” Burke blurted.
Fortin checked his watch once more. Burke felt ready to explode.
“Interruptions will delay you in getting your blog out,” Fortin said. “Karin Petit did confess for reasons I’ll explain later, if you’ll allow me to continue.”
“OK, just tell me,” Burke said, almost pleading.
“Karin Petit told us she phoned Den Weent from one of the few public phones still in Carpentras and asked to meet him outside the hotel, away from anyone. For some reason, he went along with it. In the alley, she told him her son was innocent and if Den Weent persisted with his little investigation, Léon could lose his job. Den Weent said he still had questions. They argued. When he was about to leave, she pulled out a knife—one she used for her job—and stabbed him.”
“But she didn’t kill him,” Burke said, the scene playing out in his mind.
“No, she didn’t,” Fortin said, this time not admonishing Burke for the interruption. “She didn’t know how difficult it can be to kill someone with a knife. It takes a good degree of strength, which Karin Petit clearly has from her job, but it also requires good aim. You need to hit the right spots. She hurt Den Weent badly, but he was in excellent shape and started to fight her off. That’s when Léon showed up.”
“Where had he been?” Burke asked.
“Léon was staying in the same hotel with the team and was desperately looking for a chance to get Den Weent alone to talk to him. When he saw Den Weent go out late that evening, he followed. He saw Den Weent meet a woman in the darkened alley, heard the voice and recognized it was his mother. When she stabbed Den Weent, he ran toward them. He got there just as Den Weent was starting to get the upper hand, even though he was badly hurt.”
“And Léon took over, finishing off Den Weent,” Burke said.
“That’s right,” Fortin said. “Léon had the element of surprise and that little extra strength to kill Den Weent.”
Burke thought about the nicks he’d seen on Léon’s hands. He had been puzzled to see the hands of a gifted mechanic damaged in such a way. Now he knew why. And why Karin Petit had similar injuries.
“But why did you go looking into Karin’s whereabouts?” Burke asked.
“Because of your question to us yesterday, Monsieur Burke,” Fortin said. “I have learned that you sometimes have something useful to say.”
Burke was surprised to hear that.
“Once we considered her as someone involved in the case, we tracked her banking and credit card activity for the period and discovered she had taken out money in Carpentras just a few hours after Den Weent was murdered,” Fortin said.
“Then we traced her purchases to a nearby women’s clothing store,” Côté said. “Basic police work.”
“She had come just for the day, driving up on her own, and she expected she’d be going home the same day,” Fortin said. “She hadn’t planned to end up covered in blood and needing a new top.”
“But she had brought a knife,” Burke said. “Doesn’t that mean she thought about using it? So, if she was thinking about killing Den Weent, why wouldn’t she bring different clothes to change into, at least to avoid anyone noticing her?”
Fortin shook his head. “She had only thought through the part about protecting her son. Karin Petit is not a criminal, probably not even that bright. She just brought a knife in case. That’s it.”
“After they killed Den Weent, Karin and Léon figured it was safer for her to use her credit card than for him,” Côté said. “It might have been, but it didn’t matter. We interviewed her, did some DNA testing and discovered Mark Den Weent’s blood on her body. She thought she had washed off everything, but she hadn’t. It’s a tough task to eliminate all DNA residue.”
Fortin took over. “When we had that, she confessed, saying she had killed Den Weent all by herself and that Léon had taken the opportunity to save her.”
Burke was puzzled once more. “But you had Léon for the McManus murder,” he said. “Why would she confess to the Den Weent murder?”
“She wanted to protect him from a double murder conviction, which she thought would guarantee him an even worse situation in prison,” Fortin said. “But when Léon heard his mother had confessed to murdering Den Weent, he told us what really happened—to save her from a murder conviction.”
“A mother’s love and a son’s love,” Burke said, feeling some sadness for the plight of the two Petits. Then he thought about his friend Mark Den Weent and brushed aside any sympathy for Léon and Karin Petit. “And thanks to them, there are two dead people, one of them a good man.”
“Indeed,” Fortin said. “Now you have the story, although the news conference will convey most of that information in”—he glanced at his watch—“forty minutes.”
Fortin stood and headed toward the door, Côté on his heels.
“Better get to writing your blog,” Fortin said. “And by the way, this will only ever happen once.”