Pattern of Wounds drm-2

by J. Mark Bertrand

  Standing at his window, looking at his photos, I’ve seen Simone the way he saw her. And I can’t help feeling guilty about that. Tainted. Sharing in something so dark, trying to understand it even for a moment, to stand in those shoes. See through those eyes.

  The fragrance of flowers fills the car, making my nose itch. Making me want to sneeze. When I get to the house, Carter and Gina are just leaving. Dinner with Murray Abernathy, they say. After tucking Gina into the passenger seat, Carter pulls me aside.

  “I’m staying at the outreach center,” he says. “I think you were right. I’ve got to make the best of the situation.”

  I say goodbye and go in. Up the stairs, bearing my coming-home present in both hands, I pause at the battered bathroom door, reproaching myself for not having had it fixed already. Over the threshold, she sits glistening in the tub, a hand on her shoulder, her hair pinned up. She smiles at the sight of me.

  “Roland,” she says. “You brought me flowers.”

  CHAPTER 26

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 17–10:00 A.M.

  Another case goes into the black. Two bodies accounted for and a killer behind bars. But the work doesn’t stop there. The ADA takes another run through the evidence, frowning at the gaping hole where Bayard’s confession goes as if she’s never heard of a conviction without one, then with the usual admonition to dot and cross, pronounces her tentative satisfaction. I exit the meeting with a checklist of things to follow up on, mostly aimed at covering unlikely challenges from the defense. There’s plenty of forensics still out too, so it falls to me to make the inevitable series of badgering phone calls.

  Bascombe checks out as soon as the meeting breaks up, but the ADA lingers, rearranging the paper in her legal briefcase.

  “We have a friend in common.” She smiles. “Charlie Bodeen.”

  “You know Charlie,” I say, stating the obvious.

  “He took me under his wing from day one, pretty much taught me everything I know about prosecuting a case-all the stuff they don’t cover in law school. He told me about your situation. The Fauk appeal, I mean. There’s been a lot of talk about it in my shop, I’ll tell you that. Especially now. With Fauk in the hospital.”

  “I see.” I shift in my chair, trying to remember whether she was in on the district attorney’s confab, whether she saw Roger Lauterbach’s slide show. “And does this talk include the fact that I went up to Huntsville last Sunday morning?”

  She nods. “But Charlie says you’re not involved.”

  “That’s nice to hear. Last time I saw him, he didn’t look too happy with me.”

  “Well,” she says, “his exact words were, ‘Even March wouldn’t be that stupid.’ But he was very emphatic.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  She’s working up to something, only I can’t tell what. A couple of detectives flash by the conference room door on their way to the coffee concession. She glances over her shoulder, waiting for them to get clear.

  “Look, March, I don’t know whether you’ve been keeping with the Sheriff Department’s serial killer investigation-”

  So she was there.

  “-but there’s been an interesting development. Remember Raúl Guzman, the original suspect in the Fauk murder? The Sheriff’s Department was looking at him for their serial killings, they told this story about him taking a construction crew to Lake Charles and getting rousted by the local police for trespassing.”

  “The girl by the swimming pool. I remember.”

  “It turns out there’s a little problem with the identification. The Raúl Guzman who got mixed up with the Louisiana police is not the same Raúl Guzman interviewed in the Fauk case. They’re both in construction, they’re both around the same age, but only one of them has a record-and guess what? The original Guzman? He’s doing federal time at the pen in Beaumont on a smuggling beef. He’s three years into a ten-year jolt, which lets him off the hook for at least a couple of those murders.”

  “And Lauterbach knows this? He said he’d interviewed the man personally, so I don’t see how a mistake like that would slip past him.”

  “It did,” she says, “and now the sun’s not shining as bright on his theory as it was a week ago. Bringing in a serial killer case with a suspect pretty much in cuffs is one thing. But putting the public on notice, announcing a Swimming Pool Killer and then not being able to catch the guy? That’s another story. Not to mention, the number of victims keeps getting whittled down. You heard about Tegan McGill’s parents? No? Well, they got wind of what the Sheriff’s Department is up to, and they’ve had a civil case going against her husband forever. Now they’re threatening to sue the county for helping him get away with murder. It’s a regular circus back at our place.”

  I’m tempted to open up to this woman, to tell her what I know from Templeton about the origin of the serial killer hypothesis in Fauk’s letters, to clue her in about the independent lab’s missing samples. But I can’t substantiate the first claim and the second is already in good hands. And whatever else he might be, Lauterbach is still a cop. As much as I want his house of cards to fall, it won’t be me who does the demolition. Not behind his back, anyway.

  “What’s on your mind, Detective? You look like you’re about to say something.”

  “No,” I say. “It’s nothing. I was just thinking. .” My voice trails off.

  “Thinking what-?”

  I hold my hand up for silence.

  The idea snuck up on me while I wasn’t looking. A connection so obvious I should have seen it right off. Am I missing something? I check the fittings and touch the wires together. And they spark.

  Of course, of course, of course.

  “I think. .”

  “Yes?” she says.

  “I think I know what happened to Donald Fauk.”

  Her face lights up. “Lay it on me, then.”

  “I’m sorry.” I give her a bashful smile, scooting my chair back. “I’m not going to say anything until I’m sure. Nothing to a prosecutor, anyway.”

  The Mitsubishi rolls across the gravel parking lot. Brad Templeton slides out of the driver’s seat. He casts a nervous eye over the sweaty Mexicans enjoying Tecate and enchiladas for lunch. He frowns at the ice house’s corrugated facade, perhaps a little too authentic for his liking. Passing through the diffused sunlight into the shade of the open patio, he pauses to let his vision adjust. Tejano music blares from a stereo atop a stack of milk crates. He winces visibly at the sound.

  I motion him to the table, patting its knife-scarred surface to entice him over.

  “How do you even find places like this?” he asks.

  “When I was in uniform, I used to live in places like this.” My weathered briefcase slouches against the table leg. I reach under the flap and produce my newly purchased copy of The Girl Who Forgave Her Killer. I slide the book across the table. “You never did sign one of these for me.”

  “Are you serious?”

  I reach into my jacket-a gray Donegal tweed, according to Charlotte, whose father seems to have had a thing for tweed-and produce a metal ballpoint. He rolls his eyes a little, then reaches into his own coat pocket for a fat Mont Blanc fountain pen, which makes a scratching sound across the page. I inspect the inscription, then close the book with a smile.

  “I’m going to give you something,” I say. “A chance to redeem yourself.”

  He frowns. “I’m listening.”

  “I told you about the way Fauk was smuggling those letters out. But I may have been wrong about the reason why. I thought he was trying to avoid the censors. Maybe corrections was the least of his worries. Prisons leak like a sieve, and I think he had a secret that needed keeping. That secret’s what put him in the hospital.”

  “Go on.”

  “It was one of Fauk’s letters that connected Tegan McGill and Mary Sallier, right? And when you mentioned this, Lauterbach added Ramona Sanchez to the list. Here’s my question: how did Fauk put those names together?”

&nbs
p; He shrugs. “Maybe he hired a private investigator.”

  “There are easier ways when you’re in the penitentiary. People talk.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Think about it. Did somebody talk to Fauk? Or did somebody talk to somebody who then spilled everything to Fauk? Assuming Lauterbach is correct about the Sanchez murder tying in, then you’d be looking for an inmate who went inside sometime between her death in April and whenever Fauk posted that letter in September.”

  “Wait a second,” he says. “You’re telling me the real killer is already in jail, and he decided to open up to Fauk about it?”

  “Last Sunday I went up to Huntsville to have a talk with Coleman, a guy who’s helped me out in the past. He put me onto the smuggled letters, but apart from that, he didn’t have much to trade with. So I asked him to come up with more. The thing is, he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed. I think he must’ve asked the wrong person some questions, or tipped off somebody who could put the pieces together.”

  “But even you didn’t know about Fauk connecting the cases, not until I told you.”

  “No,” I say, “but all an interested party would have to do is check up on the details of Fauk’s appeal. My visit to Coleman must have been the catalyst. The bad guy got wind of it, and as far as he was concerned, Fauk was shopping him in exchange for some kind of prosecutorial consideration.”

  “So he decides to take care of business.”

  “Exactly.”

  He weighs the idea. He slumps forward, elbows on the table. “In which case, Fauk’s been playing me right from the start.”

  “That we already knew. And at the risk of repeating myself, the man confessed.”

  “People make false confessions all the time.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “but they don’t volunteer them.”

  “All right, all right. So why are you coming to me with this?”

  The million dollar question. “You owe Lauterbach a name. If you find out how Fauk made the connection between McGill and Sallier, you can help him out of the bind he’s gotten himself into. He’s so far out on a limb right now that without one, he’s gonna be picking up the sheriff’s dry cleaning for the foreseeable future.”

  “Which would be icing on the cake for you.”

  “You think so?” I shake my head. “You really don’t know me, then.”

  He pauses. “Fair enough. But you may be overestimating my relationship. If Fauk’s gonna talk, it won’t be to me. Now you, on the other hand-”

  “I don’t have any jurisdiction up at Huntsville,” I say, “and with the appeal going, I can’t exactly waltz into Fauk’s hospital room and start asking questions.”

  “If you’re right and Fauk’s been selling me a bill of goods, I don’t see what I can do. Now, are we going to eat or what?”

  “Bad news,” I say, checking my watch. “I’m going to have to take a rain check.”

  “You’re not even buying me lunch.”

  “With taxpayer’s money? You’d be picking up the tab either way.” I grab the book and slip it into my briefcase. “There is one more thing.” I withdraw a photo of the inscription Templeton wrote on the flyleaf of Bayard’s copy of The Kingwood Killing. “You remember this?”

  He studies the image. “This is the reprint. They did a new one when The Girl Who Forgave Her Killer came out. I’m guessing I signed this at Murder by the Book when they hosted the reading. Or wait. .” He puts the photo down and leans back, checking the ceiling like his memories are kept up there. “You know what? I bet this was at your cousin’s shindig. The reprints were out then, and I was still using my old pen.” He pats the Mont Blanc through his coat. “I splurged on this one before the big night at MBTB.”

  “So you remember signing it for him?”

  “Not really, but that’s my best guess.”

  “This guy,” I say, tapping the image with my finger. “He’s the one who killed Simone Walker and Agnieszka Oliszewski. I guess he’s a big fan of your work.”

  It’s a low blow, but considering his unwillingness to right his own wrong, it’s more than justified. I’m halfway to the patio before he calls out.

  “March, wait.”

  I pause. He snatches the photo and comes after me. “Are you absolutely sure about this?”

  “He’s in custody now,” I say. “The homicides are down.”

  “And this is the guy who broke into your place and attacked Charlotte?”

  I nod.

  “You should have a chat with your cousin, then. If this guy is who I’m thinking, she seemed to know him. When I left, she was still there talking to him.”

  “About what?” I ask.

  He looks at the photo. “I’m not a hundred percent, but. .”

  “But what?”

  He has to drag the words out, each one a thick link on a heavy iron chain. They rattle down on me with the force of lead.

  “I’m pretty sure they were talking about you.”

  The last time I saw Tammy Putnam face-to-face, my uncle tried to weld us back together with his hand. After the last stroke, he’d lost the power of speech. All he had was one stiff and spotted appendage to nudge through the air.

  His meaning was clear, but I just stood there.

  My daughter, Jessica, was only a couple of years gone, and I still nursed a savage rage. Bridger once said about me that I was all or nothing, with no capacity for moderation. He said it through a cloud of cigarette smoke after I’d admonished him to quit. He was right. When I hate, I keep nothing in reserve.

  Her house in Katy sits on a cul-de-sac lined with basketball hoops, molded plastic tricycles, and a couple of starter cars for teenage kids. In contrast to the lived-in look of the neighboring properties, Tammy’s staid two-story gives off the sterile vibe of a model home. On one side of the yard, a painted-wood Joseph and Mary flank a light-up manger, and on the other a winking, red-nosed Rudolph is poised for flight. But there’s no cheer to the decorations. No reverence, either. They’re just brightly colored surfaces with nothing behind them but emptiness.

  I park in the driveway. The front door is slightly ajar, as if she expects me to let myself in. I ring the doorbell. Nothing. I push the door a few inches farther, peering inside.

  Tammy stands there in a glittering red short-sleeved jacket, a cheap sequined wrapper for the squarish lump of her body. She holds her hands toward me, her knuckles concealed behind a row of mismatched cocktail rings.

  “Roland,” she says. “You actually showed up. Come on in.”

  I follow her through an arched doorway into the dining room, recognizing the table and chairs that used to belong to my uncle and aunt. On the table, lined up like soldiers on parade in four rows of three, a series of glossy red bags with rope handles, stuffed to the gills with green tissue.

  “You caught me at a bad time,” she says. “I’m hosting a jewelry party tonight, and these are the favors.” She leans over the table to adjust the perfectly aligned bags. “It’s the perfect time of year with all the last-minute shoppers. I just hope I have enough treats here.”

  “I have some questions for you,” I say.

  “Questions?” She wheels on me. “Questions for me. I can hardly believe it. You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting. But I knew this day would come.”

  “I want you to tell me about someone,” I say. “A man named Dave Bayard.”

  “Bayard?” She touches her chin in thought. “Bayard, Bayard, Bayard.”

  “He was at your conference. The one where Brad Templeton spoke. Brad signed a book for him.”

  She snaps her fingers. “Oh, Bayard. Right. I know exactly who you mean. What an interesting evening that was! You should have been there, Roland, you really should have. I’ve never witnessed anything like it. The conference was such a success. Everybody thought so.”

  “I’d like you to tell me everything you talked about with him.”

  “We talked about everything. We talked for hours. You can’t expect
me to remember it all. And anyway, why are you suddenly interested in my work? You’ve done your best to ignore me up until now.”

  She walks me through the kitchen, immaculate and bare, then into an open plan living room as tall as it is wide, where two tapestry-covered wingback chairs and a plush, overstuffed sofa squat below a pendulous brass chandelier. I reach into my breast pocket for my slim digital recorder, the one I use for interviews.

  “Oh,” she says, slumping onto the couch. “You’re going to record this?”

  “Start at the beginning and tell me everything about Bayard.”

  “Everything?” She clears her throat. “Well.” She raises her voice for the tape. “As you know, I’m the founder of an organization devoted to the victims of murder here in Houston.”

  “Talk in your normal voice,” I tell her.

  “We hold regular meetings for our membership, but a couple of months ago we hosted our first event for the general public. It was an unqualified success, with so many new faces in the audience, so much fresh enthusiasm. I invited Mr. Templeton to talk about his books. We’ve been working together on his latest: a new history of the Dean Corll case. I’m an expert on Dean’s crimes, naturally, so Mr. Templeton thought-”

  “Dean,” I say. “You’re on a first name basis?”

  “Mr. Templeton thought it would be a good idea to pick my brain. You might have a hard time believing this, Roland, but there are people out there who take what I do very seriously, and he’s one of them. One of the many, Roland. My website has an international audience.”

  “So Bayard showed up at your conference? Had you ever seen him before?”

  She shakes her head. “He must have seen one of the flyers we put up, or maybe read about it online. He sat in the back through all the sessions, but I could tell he was riveted. Hanging on every word. And he wrote a lot of things down. At first I thought maybe he was a reporter. But no.” She frowns at the memory of disappointment. “Still, he’s the one who made the Q amp;A session such a success. He asked so many good questions.”