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| Well. How was that for a story. |
Louis Shalako
Roger stood at a beautiful molded-wood lectern, Art Deco
at its best, which had been brought in for the occasion. There were a handful
of microphones clamped to the opposite side, with the station call-letters
prominently displayed, not so much for Roger as for the cameras, the
competition and the dignitaries.
“First of all, ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for
coming out today.”
A flashbulb popped and he waited.
“Ladies and gentlemen, members of the press and the radio
news services, members of the public and the citizens of France, welcome to the
new home of the Special Homicide Unit here in Paris. Which, in keeping with the
times, is being thoroughly modernized as well as expanded. You all know their
reputation, which lies in the past as well as the future. This will be a kinder,
gentler kind of policing, not so much for the criminals, who have earned their
fates, as for the fine officers who have to deal with them. And deal with them
they will. These facilities are all new, well-designed and well-appointed. We
have new methods, new procedures, and new systems. It’s a whole new organization,
building on the foundations of the old. We’ll be taking a little tour
presently. You will all be welcome to take photographs and to ask any questions.
In the meantime, please allow me to introduce the newest members of this Unit,
and also to indulge us in a little ceremony—or two.”
Roger stepped forward, with Gilles on his left and
Hermione on the right. Beside her, the Deputy Minister—
He brandished an outsized set of golden scissors, fake
of course but shiny even in a black and white photo…which would be on all the
front pages later this day.
Pop.
Pop. Pop.
He cut the red, crepe-paper ribbon strung across a
couple of small pedestals, not unlike the ones that supported the velvet ropes
in a museum, or even the average bank line-up. He stepped back.
The flashbulbs popped again, and Roger went back to
the microphone as Gilles and Hermione gathered the ribbon and stepped back into
their line of officers. Monsieur Étienne,
beaming from the immediate sidelines, represented the very Republique itself.
“Okay. First, I’d like to welcome Acting Sergeant Édouard Pelletier. Édouard, as you know
from your own coverage, was very much instrumental in helping to solve the
Boitard case, a case which was originally considered, er, rather impenetrable.”
He held up a certificate. “We congratulate you on your success, and your
promotion to Sergeant is now official.”
There was polite
applause and muttering from the people.
Pelletier was in a new
suit, charcoal grey with a pale yellow shirt and an electric blue tie. Those
shoes were brand new, and he dare not walk too much or they would squeak. Not
being in uniform, he didn’t salute but raised a friendly wave in the general
direction of the attendees.
His mother, his father
and two sisters were in the audience. It was a proud moment, and why not.
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| Good old Bill... |
“Next, Sergeant Janine
Lacorse, also instrumental in the investigation, which, as I am sure you know,
is still ongoing in regards to the details. I am afraid I cannot comment on
certain matters before the courts, however bear in mind we have laid dozens of
charges, detained numerous suspects and also, recovered four-point-seven
million francs, virtually all of it in gold, although there were a handful of
other assets involved, this including two-hundred-fifty-thousand in bearer
bonds. These would have been negotiable at any major bank, by virtually any
person. They are, shall we say, extremely portable wealth and that is probably
why they were stolen in the first place.” A well-known reporter from an
American radio news service, bent at the waist, scuttled forward and gently
tapped the wire going into the back of his own mic and then got out the hell of
there.
This was Bill, as he insisted on being called
whenever he wasn’t on-air.
Good old Bill.
Going by the look on
his face, whatever the problem had been, it had been resolved, as the
technicians, wearing headphones, broadcasting to the outside world, and all
lined up in a row at their own long table off to one side, nodded, looked right
and left to see who was who and what was what, and decided the problem had
probably been resolved. This type of world-wide, live broadcast was a new
thing, only having been instituted in March, (and with some fanfare), and
naturally some occasional technical problems might be expected.
“While I cannot comment
on matters before a court, I can state as a matter of public record that
Monsieurs Jardine and Boitard have been charged with homicide, in regards to
the deaths of all three victims. And, as professional journalists you
understand that police and the courts do hope that we all respect the privacy
of the victims and the families of all involved…”
Hmn. Like that was
going to do any good, thought Gilles…
Roger took a quick
drink of water from a green glass bottle and the reporters scribbled and one or
two more flashbulbs went off.
“I would also like to welcome to the Unit, Constable
Hermione, a graduate of the Academy and on her first assignment since
completing her probationary period.”
In uniform, she stepped forward and gave a snappy
salute as more flashbulbs went off, admittedly mostly the male photographers.
There were one or two women among them, and there were a few officers from
other units there as well. As for the civilian audience, they were lined up in
a couple of rows of chairs and included wives, husbands, children, proud
parents and maybe even one or two folks who had shown up just for the free
coffee and doughnuts.
They were welcome enough and it takes all kinds to
make a crowd. Andre Levain, introduced as the deputy head of the unit, Firmin,
Archambault, they were all there. Hubert, Garnier, Margot. The new guy, Bazin,
looking a little shy, but what the hell.
There was a smattering of applause when LeBeau was
introduced. They knew all about him all right, what with the rather sensational
news coverage in the Smirnov case. He nodded gravely, with a slight wave and a
short bow from the waist…
“And now, we come to a very special moment. But first,
I would like to introduce Monsieur Étienne,
our very own Deputy Minister of Justice.”
More applause, almost
as if on cue, the police taking it up first and then the others following
along.
Roger stepped aside,
lifted an arm and the gentleman himself took the lectern, and the microphones.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Ahem. It is a very special
privilege and an honour to be here this day, with the opening of this new room
and this Unit, having been reborn as it were. And I know they will be very
successful. But that is not why I am here. No, ladies and gentlemen, we are
here today to honour a very special person…”
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| Maintenon, bored stiff. |
Gilles, standing there with hands casually crossed in
front of him, was fighting back a yawn—
Fuck, there had to be forty people, not including
Roger and the Minister, and his own Unit, which was getting up to twelve or
thirteen people all of a sudden, and with plenty of room for more whenever they
came along…this shit could only go on for so long.
“…and, in recognition of his courage under fire, his
willingness to risk his own life in order to protect the lives of others…”
His mind had been wandering, but it seemed that
someone, probably LeBeau, was getting a commendation, and good for him, too.
“…having been struck on the head with a very large rock, having slid down the riverbank and into the water, not only did he survive drowning and hypothermia, concussion and shock, but also temporary amnesia, and then this man came back from the dead, ladies and gentlemen, and not only that, took on, with Detective LeBeau, a gang of criminals and perverts…”
And then there was the part about the shoot-out…
Merde.
Fuck.
God
damn it—
This wasn’t for LeBeau. This one was for him—
A fucking medal, and for crying out loud. A useless
chunk of bronze on a ribbon, and it would gather dust in the top drawer of the
dresser. He was very angry all of a sudden. All of this, and the fucking butler had done it after all.
Just like he’d said in the first place.
He turned and glared at Roger.
This was fucking revenge,
all right.
END
Previous Episodes.
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| The butler did it after all... |
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