Baltimore Blues

by Laura Lippman

  “The sound you just heard,” she told him, “was the sound of Rock’s case going straight to hell.”

  Chapter 26

  Tess had been to the state prison just once, under unusual circumstances. Were there usual circumstances for a fourteen-year-old girl to visit the Maryland Penitentiary for Men? In Tess’s case, it all began when she decided to dance. Her determination was born of a desire not to be a dancer, merely to look like one: to be small, one of those tiny, curveless adolescents, all ribs, eyes, and pelvic bones. Tess realized most dancers began small and starved their bodies to keep them in perpetual preadolescence, but she thought she might be able to work backward.

  After 12 weeks of classes, even though she still had a convex stomach, the teacher insisted Tess join her dance troupe, which performed throughout the community. Flattered, Tess jumped at the opportunity, assuming the instructor had glimpsed something not even Tess could see. She had—a pair of promising biceps. Tess was recruited to dance only one part, a Comet can in the instructor’s own modern-day version of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. “It’s a big part,” the instructor promised. This was literally true. The Comet costume, more than six feet at full extension, was made of heavy painted canvas, strung on three Hula Hoops, so Tess could collapse and expand throughout the twelve-minute dance. For long stretches of time she had to hold her arms straight over her head, elbows locked, to give the Comet can its full shape. Only a strapping girl with a lot of upper body strength could have survived in that costume.

  Their first performance was at the jail. The smaller girls, the real dancers, got to be 409 bottles and Brillo pads and Lemon Joy, pointing their painted Capezios and twirling lightly across the dingy linoleum. Tess rose and fell, rose and fell, creeping across the floor in bare feet, which were black afterward. Still, it was not the dirty floor, jealousy of the daintier girls, fear of the prison, or even the anonymity of her costume that convinced her to give up dancing after one performance. It was the sudden catcalls of the inmates, when she emerged from her Comet can, a lush Botticelli among the less sturdy dancers, the sweat on her leotard an obscene blueprint of the erogenous zones of her precocious body. The futility of her plan clear, fourteen-year-old Tess hung up her Comet can.

  All this came back to her as she circled the complex of prisons and jails east of downtown, trying to find the right entrance. By the time she reached Super Max, home to the state’s most dangerous prisoners, she was sweating heavily.

  “Death Row?” she asked the guard, as she had asked at two other entrances, only to be turned away wordlessly.

  “Ain’t no Death Row in Maryland, miss. Some of the guys are here, some over at the state penitentiary. Who you here to see? What’s your name?”

  He checked his clipboard and sent her to yet another door, where a state officially waited eagerly to escort her to Tucker Fauquier.

  “The guard at the other gate told me there was no Death Row,” Tess said, perplexed.

  “No, there isn’t. Not like in other states,” the official agreed. “The guys are scattered around. If they’re a danger to themselves or—more likely—in danger from the other inmates, they go to Super Max. Otherwise they’re here in A-block. Tucker used to be over in Super Max in the beginning. But he’s a model prisoner now. Besides, so few of the others remember why he’s here. In prison time it was a generation ago.”

  The official—Garfield Lardner, according to the photo ID clipped to his polyester jacket—was a breathless, pink-cheeked little man with a shiny bald head on which Tess could almost see her reflection. He searched her purse, apologizing for the intrusion, and barely passed the metal detector wand over her, apologizing again as he did so. She was touched by his concern and solicitous attention—until she remembered it was meant for someone else, the granddaughter of a politically connected seafood king.

  The concern for security seemed to end once they passed through the various checkpoints and a series of anterooms. Lardner led her to a room with a long conference table surrounded by leather chairs. No bulletproof glass, no phone—nothing she would have expected from the prison movies she had seen. Just an ordinary, if slightly shabby, meeting room.

  “The parole board usually meets here,” Lardner said. “On the first and third Wednesdays. No one should disturb you today. But Tucker can’t see you for much more than forty-five minutes. He has a meeting.”

  “A meeting? With someone else from outside?”

  “Oh no, it’s the leadership counsel. Just an in-house thing. He’s the secretary. Let me go get Tucker.”

  As he scurried out, Tess called to him: “Will the guard be in here with us? Or will you post him at the door?”

  Lardner stopped, as if this had not occurred to him. “We don’t usually have a guard at all. Do you want someone, though? I’m sure I could arrange it.”

  “No, no, that’s fine.” At least no one will be around to eavesdrop on my “sociology project.”

  She sat in the chair at the head of the table, then decided this would seem faintly authoritarian. She moved to the far side, to a chair in the middle. Should she stand when he entered? Offer her hand? Engrossed in the etiquette of the moment, Tess did not realize it had already passed her by. Tucker Fauquier was in the doorway, waiting for her to acknowledge him.

  He was a small man, clean shaven, his hair slicked back with water. Tess had carried in her mind a picture of a younger man, the man in the photograph with Abramowitz. Even scrubbed and cleaned up for the trial, that man, with his longer hair and bad skin, had lived up to expectations of a serial killer-pervert. This man had the pale, blue-veined look of someone who had not seen the sun for a long time. Yet it wasn’t creepy or unhealthy looking. In fact his skin was lovely, almost creamy, an advertisement for sunscreen and broad-brimmed hats. He had to be almost forty now, yet looked younger. Involuntarily, Tess brushed a hand against her own sun-coarsened cheek.

  He smiled, and she tried but failed to find anything especially chilling in his face. The canine teeth, while unusually sharp, giving him a feral look, were straight and white. A dozen years ago news accounts had made much of this smile, suggesting it had been the reason he could so easily entice his victims. It was a pleasant smile, Tess decided, but not hypnotic. You couldn’t charm a bird out of a tree with it, or a young boy into a car. In fact Tess didn’t think anyone would ever notice Tucker Fauquier, not under normal circumstances. Perhaps that had been the problem.

  “Mr. Fauquier, I’m Tess Monaghan.”

  “Yes, they told me you were coming. They said you’re working on a school project.” His voice was soft and whispery, which only magnified the slight lisp Fauquier was trying to downplay.

  “There must have been some confusion, Mr. Fauquier. I’m not sure why they told you that.” Aside from Uncle Donald’s gossip along the phone lines. “I’m working for a lawyer who thinks you may know something about Michael Abramowitz. Could you answer some questions for me?”

  “About his murder.” It wasn’t a question. He seemed amused—by her manners, or by her deceit, which he seemed to grasp instantly.

  “Something that might shed light on his murder, actually. Although, if you’d like to confess to arranging the whole thing, it would make my job easier, I admit.”

  Fauquier smiled again. “I think I’ve made enough confessions in my day. They’ll have to solve this one on their own.”

  He was in the chair across from her, almost preternaturally poised, rocking slightly. He had drawn one foot under him, which seemed an odd, uncomfortable way to sit, but it also had the effect of making him look taller. Tess could tell he was enjoying himself, enjoying the attention.

  “I thought there was something you wanted to talk about, Mr. Fauquier. Something you promised to tell Jonathan Ross. Only you reneged.”

  She had surprised him. Fauquier leaned back in his chair, pressing the heels of his hands against the table, showing off his forearms. They were slender, but the veins stood out against them, bright blue bas-rel
ief. A weight lifter, Tess judged, one who lifted for strength and tone, not bulk.

  “Well, then Jonathan reneged, too, didn’t he? He told me our interviews were off-the-record. Then he turned around and told you what I said. That’s a lot worse, what he did.”

  He reminded her of a little boy, rationalizing away a petty infraction by blaming his older brother for a larger one.

  “Not exactly, Mr. Fauquier. Jonathan told me he had been meeting with someone condemned to die, someone ‘twisted,’ who got in touch with him after Abramowitz died. That gave me a one-in-thirteen chance to guess. Someone else, a woman who worked with Michael Abramowitz, said he complained about one of his clients, also a ‘twisted’ gentleman convicted of a capital crime. The odds fell to one in three. Both men called you a twisted fucker. You liked to call yourself a twisted fucker. Mr. Ross and Mr. Abramowitz are dead. Is it all a coincidence?”

  “Stranger things have happened.” He grinned. “I happened, didn’t I?”

  “Tell me the story you were going to tell Jonathan, the one you wanted to tell before you die. It’s no good if you’re dead, is it? You need the story to be told while you’re alive. You want something, attention or time. Maybe both. I can give you one of those things.”

  “I don’t care that much about attention, and I’m not worrying too much about dying right now.”

  “You should. Maryland is losing patience. People want to see you guys executed—especially you. Ever since Thanos went, there’s been a lot more momentum. You could be dead by next summer.”

  “Fuckin’ Thanos,” Fauquier said, as if commenting on the weather or the Orioles’ season. “Fuckin’ crazy Greek motherfucker. Just because he wants to die doesn’t mean the rest of us have to.”

  She tried a different tack. Perhaps if she mixed up her questions, flitting from subject to subject, she could surprise Fauquier into telling her something, anything.

  “Why were you angry with Abramowitz?”

  “Hey, he did a shitty job. I’m here, aren’t I? Then he dropped me, foisted me off on some other public defender to handle my appeals. He fucked me. I’m not sorry he’s dead, but I can’t kill anyone from here. Even if I could I don’t think Abramowitz would be my first choice.”

  “Really? Who would you kill?”

  “Ben.” The name of the boy who had watched him kill, the only one who had escaped. “I loved him, and he ratted me out.”

  “Really? I thought you were going to kill him, too.”

  “Oh, I was. But I was going to love him first. I loved all of my boys, but Ben was the handsomest. You know, Jonathan looked liked my Ben. I almost thought he was Ben, the first time I saw him. Of course, they tell me Ben’s in a mental hospital somewhere, but they won’t tell me where, which is a shame. I’d love to write him a letter sometime.”

  Fauquier smiled, waiting for Tess’s reaction. She tried not to show how sickened she was, which she assumed was the point of his dreamy recitation. In a copse of trees almost within sight of Governor Ritchie Highway, Fauquier had strangled his last victim with a piece of red and white bunting from a roadside produce stand, then dismembered the body and buried it. Tess suddenly remembered a strange, stray detail from the trial. Ben had testified that Fauquier sang as he shoveled. Cole Porter’s “You’d Be So Nice to Come Home To.”

  She shook off the ugly memory. This was her only chance. Someone was going to figure out that Ed Monahan, seafood king, did not have a granddaughter. “There was a time when you thought Abramowitz was your best buddy. You told reporters you were lucky to have him. What changed?”

  Fauquier, his arms still braced against the table, looked at his fingernails. He had a French manicure, Tess noticed, and there were no nicotine stains on his fingers.

  “Suppose you did something?” he asked, his voice still dreamy. “Something wonderful. Your life’s work. And no one appreciated it, no one knew?”

  She stifled a sigh. “Do you really think what you did was wonderful?”

  “It was ingenious.” He leaned across the table toward her, eyes glowing happily. “A lot of people thought I started because of John Wayne Gacy, but I started way before that. I had killed my first one before anyone ever heard of that clown. I was careful. I was going to kill a boy in every county. Then I realized I needed verification, or how would anyone know? I was going to make Ben watch, then sign a little paper about what he had seen. Repeat, county after county, from the mountains to the sea. In the amber waves of grain. God bless America.”

  “‘America the Beautiful’ is the one with the amber waves and the purple mountains’ majesties above the fruited plain. You’re mixing the two songs up.”

  His eyes flickered. “What do you mean, ‘fruited’? You saying I’m queer?”

  “Of course not.”

  “’Cuz I’m not, you know. I was an artist. I shoulda been in Guinness, that’s what I was aiming for. You gotta have proof to get into Guinness.”

  “I don’t think Guinness keeps tabs on serial killers. Besides, you topped out at, what, twelve or thirteen? You’re not even a contender any more.”

  “Well, I certainly expected some movie producers to come around, or someone who wanted to write a book. But no ever did. At least that’s what my Jew lawyer told me during the trial. I wonder now. You know, your lawyer controls who gets in to see you. My new lawyer, he doesn’t interfere. He doesn’t do shit. But Abramowitz could have kept all those people away from me, and I never would have known.”

  A decade ago no one had wanted to read the details of his story. Of course, today there would have been two paperbacks on the shelves within weeks of Fauquier’s arrest, a television movie, and a horde of tabloid television reporters, ready to pay anyone for the tiniest piece of his story. Maybe Tucker Fauquier’s frustration was justified. He had been ahead of his time.

  “What would you do with money anyway, assuming state laws allowed you to keep it? You’re never leaving here.” Even as she spoke she heard Jonathan’s voice, answering her question, prodding her. “The money is leverage.”

  “How do you know what something’s worth if no one ever pays you for it? I told Abramowitz to find a buyer for my story. The best he could do was find someone to pay me $50,000 a year not to talk.”

  “Why would someone pay you to shut up?”

  “They paid me to talk, but only once. Then they paid me, every year, not to talk about something I didn’t do. Not bad, huh? It’s like a double negative. If I don’t talk about what I didn’t do, I must’ve done it.”

  “So this guy comes forward with a story about a crime someone else committed but got away with because he was rich and connected.” Jonathan again, coaching her, coaxing her through. Rich enough to pay someone to confess to a crime he didn’t commit? What was another murder to someone sentenced to die, a sheaf of confessions in his file?

  “But you did talk. You talked to Jonathan. You’re not very good at keeping promises, are you?”

  “Promises!” He spat the word back at her. “Ask Abramowitz about promises. That kike set up the deal, then took all my money. A year ago I asked to see my bank statement. I knew the money had to go through him—the people who were paying me didn’t want me to know who they were. He told me he invested it. But when I asked to see the statements, to see my nest egg, he hems and haws, then tells me: ‘Oh, I gave it away to some good causes.’ Can you believe that shit? He didn’t give it away. He stole it. How do you think he started that private practice of his? He was the good cause. He took my money. My money!”

  When he was agitated Fauquier’s voice did not get louder but raspier, and his lisp became more pronounced. He was hissing wetly now, spit flying from his mouth with each liquid word. It took all Tess’s resolve not to recoil or duck.

  “You told Jonathan all this.”

  “Eventually. I drew it out more. I liked talking to Jonathan. He was pretty.” Fauquier looked at her slyly. “Didn’t you think he was pretty?”

  “Did you tell him wh
ich was the fake confession?”

  “I was going to, if he paid me. But he said he wouldn’t pay me. And you know what happened to him.”

  Yes, I was there, you schmuck.

  “Do you think Jonathan was killed because of what you told him?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care. They can’t get me. That’s the funny thing. The hardest person to kill in Maryland is someone who’s condemned to die. I’m just holding out for the best offer. How much money do you have?”

  Fauquier leaned closer, until his face was only inches away. Tess rolled her chair back, trying to keep her distance. There was something wrong with Fauquier’s story. Something was missing. Even if Jonathan had been able to pick out the false confession, he would have to know who had been shielded. That was the sexy part. Somewhere out there the parents of a young boy had the scant comfort of thinking his killer was in prison and scheduled to die, even if it was for another boy’s death. You wouldn’t want to take that away from them unless you could advance the story, tell them who really did it and why. Fauquier lied, so what? He was still a killer. Who benefited?

  “I wouldn’t pay you anything,” she told Fauquier. “You don’t know the most important part. You don’t know who you took the fall for. Without that your story’s just a fairy tale.”

  The pun had been unintentional, but it enraged Fauquier. “Who’re you calling a fairy, you cow? You whore. You think you’re so smart. Well, you try to figure out which one I didn’t do, much less who really did it. Jonathan thought he could. Maybe that’s why he’s dead right now. I hope it is.”

  He was standing now, his voice a hoarse scream, spit flying at her. Tess stood up, too, glad to see she was at least five inches taller.

  “I’m going to call for Mr. Lardner now. I want you to stay on your side of the table.”

  It was eerie how quickly Fauquier calmed down. He wasn’t scared of the prison official, Tess realized, or of her. He wanted to be in control. The “model prisoner” probably tried to hide his rage as much as possible. By the time Lardner arrived he looked angelic.