Thibault Facing violence (The Child Who Speaks with Animals Book 3) (English Edition)

Chapter 3 – Fabric of Police Lies

Before he had time to take precautions or slip away, as he had on the esplanade of the “Rotonde du Lac” at the Vichy lakefront, the journalists rushed in with their cameras.
The flash of one of them went off, dazzling, and the image of the officer was captured—but not that of the adolescent, who had his back to the reporter and was smaller in size.

“Say nothing of me, Officer, agreed? Between dog handlers we understand each other,
don’t we?”

Thibault gave a conspiratorial wink, which the policeman returned. Prince was lying a little farther away, and Thibault had sent him a message to hide and not bark. Awakened by the ultrasonic waves, the dog went behind some ferns. The policeman slipped his large coat over the child, who furtively pivoted behind his back, his legs hidden by those of the officer, and managed to slip away.

The journalist, so excited at the thought of his scoop, had not even noticed there was a child and was not to know that it was a “teen rescuer” of little Clara. Other policemen, the parents of the young victim, were swarming around. The officer had not even realized that Thibault had slipped away, zigzagging among those present, and had rejoined Prince.

“Shh, Prince.”

For a moment, the adolescent thought the dog handler would betray him, but he preferred to wait for the course of events. Usually journalists are pushed back, but the policeman welcomed them as if they were expected.

The cop wanted to amuse himself for once in his work of tracking fugitives, bandits, and dealing with his dissatisfied superiors, and he spoke:
“Ah! Gentlemen, you always arrive after the show. Too bad for you!”

The photographer then asked:                     “What happened, Officer?”

“A little girl was found by a young man, her skull pierced by a bullet. But thanks to the incredible initiative of this young man, who gave her first aid like a highly trained rescuer, the girl, still alive, whom he carried on his back, was saved. He sent his Doberman to find us and show us the way, and the doctor affirmed that, thanks to him, the girl would be operated on as quickly as possible and would survive.”

“It was a hunting accident, and the hunter who fired blindly fled. My men are pursuing him and an investigation has been opened. The dogs will find the place where the seven‑and‑a‑half‑year‑old girl was lying and will discover traces or torn pieces of clothing. They will find him. Our men are excellent police dog handlers; the reckless hunter will be tracked and caught, trust me.”

The photographer noted every word. Thibault, silent, stared at the officer. Everything he said was true, and yet… he felt a trap closing in. Better to listen and let him continue.

“But it was only an accident…”
replied the reporter.

“An accident? Yes, perhaps! But do not forget that failure to assist a person in danger, the absence of a call for help and of a declaration—that is to say, a hit‑and‑run offense, Mr. Special Correspondent.

A hit‑and‑run added to failure to assist…
Do you know what that means? Moreover,
he fired under circumstances that the investigation will reveal, but clearly without being certain he was shooting at game.
Or else it was a crime, and we will know in any case. Our inspectors will take care of it.”

“But the parents of the child…
What do you call her again?” asked the cunning reporter, expecting the policeman to slip.

“As the saying goes, ‘Outsmarted by the smarter.’” The cop pretended something had escaped him.

“Joëlle? Uh… well, I mean:
these statements are top secret, I will say
no more.”

“Are Joëlle’s parents here, Officer?”

The officer pivoted to the side, hiding them, and raised his voice:

“Well then, if it were your daughter, what would you ask? Were they with the ambulance? The mother, yes. And the little girl’s father took his car to join her at the hospital. He could not leave his car here.”

It was all nonsense and lies, but the words of the police dog handler held together logically, and he played his role like a movie star.

Thibault nearly burst out laughing in his hiding place and put his hands on Prince’s muzzle, who seemed to sense the scene and was about to bark. Had he understood what was happening?

“What bad luck!”

“Yes, indeed… but as I shouted when you arrived, you always come after the show.”

“But the parents of… what do you call her already?”

The journalist tried once again to trap the police officer, who put on the same act, playing the scatterbrain who had made a slip.

“Ah… Bruno?”
Then he corrected himself and added:

“You know nothing, I told you nothing.
It is secret, and we risk suspension for having revealed the name of a child. He feared your arrival and wanted to remain incognito. You must surely have crossed paths with him as you rushed in with your cameras.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the journalist, on the verge of anger. Then, regaining composure:
“But by the way, you spoke of his Doberman… His Doberman?”

“Yes… well, I am not certain.”

The officer nearly made a blunder and thought: “I am an expert, he will discover the deception.”

Recovering and keeping his composure, he exclaimed before his interlocutor could react:

“Yes, but I cannot guarantee it was a purebred dog. I have no time to waste on that. Ah! Here are my men returning with the hunter… or the criminal. Time will tell.”

“But who are these people around us?” shouted the reporter.

“Onlookers who arrived, like you, after the incidents. There will be chatter everywhere, and I can already hear the gossip,” replied the policeman.

“If you’ll excuse me, I will do my job and pay a visit to my client.”

“Your client, you say?” exclaimed the photographer.

“Yes, it is a figure of speech! Are not the outlaws the ones who keep us policemen, us dog handlers, in work? If there were none, no fugitives, we would be unemployed or forced to learn another trade. So they are somewhat like our clients. An expression in our police world.”

Resolution and burst of laughter.
“Ah, I see!”
exclaimed the journalist with contempt.
“Aha, my rascal, so it is you who shoots at walkers and flees? You nearly killed a seven‑year‑old girl.”

The journalist tried his last chance and wanted to take a photo, but the hunter hid his face and lowered his head.
Discouraged, he muttered:
_ “Come on, let’s go, the whole team.
There is nothing interesting to see here.
Pack up the equipment. Into the car!
What a tough break!”

The cars had started, the journalists had gone, and laughter burst forth. Thibault and Prince emerged from their hiding place among the ferns. Prince barked with all his energy, and even Clara’s parents allowed themselves a faint smile.