Thibault Kerjean

Thibault Kerjean is 46 and for twelve years has looked after the cathedral's wiring, alarm and sound system. Born in Lorient, the son of a ship mechanic, he trained in electrical work at technical school because his father said a man with steady hands is never out of work. He married young, has a teenage son and an old service car in which he drives around the diocese's churches. He talks about circuit breakers the way others talk about people: he knows which is stubborn, which is timid and which trips for nothing.

He lives in a low-ceilinged suburban house, with a backyard where he built a plank workshop himself, a bench full of little drawers of screws and a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. He has an old radio he repairs every spring and a thermos that is always full of coffee. His son plays handball for the neighborhood team, and that is the only thing that gets him to leave work on time. He says people who love what they do don't need holidays.

He is stocky and broad-shouldered, with a round face, a short brown beard and hair shaved at the sides. He wears a navy blue work coverall with the zipper open over a gray T-shirt, a tool belt and a flashlight clipped to the chest pocket, and there is soot on his thick hands no matter how often he washes them. He is practical and direct, and looks the other person in the eye, wary of anyone who looks away.

About the morning of the fire, his account is technical: when the firefighters let him in, the panel was intact, the breakers had tripped from the heat and there was no arc mark. He says that in twelve years there has never been a short circuit in that church and that if anyone wants to accuse him, they should bring a report, not a supposition. He complains about the chapter's overdue invoices but says that is another conversation. With the cathedral locked and the lights out, nobody can say for certain where each person was before dawn.

Thibault knows the electrician is the first suspect in any fire in an old building. When the detective suggests he burned the cathedral to hide shoddy work, his steady voice rises a notch, and he asks for the report the way one asks for identification. It could be the pride of a professional who never left a short circuit behind. It could be someone defending himself with technique because the rest of the conversation bothers him. The detective will have to decide which.