Pattern of Wounds

by J. Bertrand

  I can think of a few reasons. “So you came home at what time?”

  “After dark, maybe seven? I parked in the garage and used the door into the backyard. The pool light was on, and then I saw her. I froze.” Her eyes get an unfocused, faraway look. “I kept willing her to move. But she was dead, I could see that. So I went back the way I came and I called 9-1-1.”

  “From the garage?”

  “No,” she says. “I went all the way around to the front door, let myself in, and then went to the kitchen where I could see her. I don’t know why, but that’s where I called from. To keep an eye on her, I guess.”

  “All right, ma’am.” I tuck my pen away and drop the Filofax into my briefcase. “I’m going to ask you to show me where Ms. Walker’s bedroom is, and then we’ll have you wait with the officer awhile. I’m sure we’ll have more questions in a little bit.”

  She beats me to the door, only too happy to be up and moving again. We pass the grand stairway and I get an earful of chatter from downstairs, signifying the arrival of more personnel. I recognize one of the voices: Lieutenant Bascombe, my boss. Dr. Hill continues down a white-paneled hallway, pausing at an open door.

  “This is her bedroom.”

  Inside is a double bed, the covers hanging off the side, two tall dressers, and an overflowing laundry hamper. A stack of cardboard boxes in one corner. A vanity with stickers around the mirror, a blow drier and curling iron with their cords intertwined.

  “Her mother lives in town,” she says. “Somewhere around Piney Point, I think. Someone will have to call her. Is that something you’ll do?”

  “We can do that.”

  In the closet, a score of tightly packed clothing bags hang in disarray. The floor is lined with rope-handled shopping bags of every size and color. On the shelf over the rod, shoe boxes are packed three or four high.

  “It might be better coming from you,” she says. “I only met the woman once, but we didn’t get on too well. I’d say she’s a hard woman to like, which is probably why she and Simone weren’t very close.”

  The room smells of perfume. On the vanity I see half a dozen designer scents to choose from. I bend down to inspect a low bookcase, empty apart from some grocery store paperbacks. There’s a framed photo on the top shelf.

  “Is this Simone?”

  Dr. Hill peers at the photo and nods. Her eyes cloud and she clamps a hand over her mouth. Her shoulders shake. “She was sweet. She really was. I felt very . . . fond of her. I can’t believe this is happening.”

  She retreats into the hallway, leaving me alone to study the photo.

  Simone Walker is pretty in the snapshot, with high cheekbones and a toothy smile, her complexion washed out by the flash. She’s dressed in a tank top and jeans, holding a red plastic cup in one hand, and the darkness behind her seems to conceal a party, though no faces are visible, just limbs. She gazes at the camera in a coy way, making me wonder who was taking the picture. It’s an innocent look. A young woman enjoying herself. At ease in her surroundings. The expression pensive, but not melancholy.

  This is who I’m here for. This is her. The body out there, whatever was done to her—

  I’m going to make it right. Not that I can save her. I’m too late for that.

  I’m always too late for that.

  Dr. Hill reappears, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “There’s something I should tell you. About her husband, Jason. Something happened you need to hear about. Remember the money she asked for? The loan? Well, she asked him and he said yes. On one condition. She had to go to bed with him first.”

  “And did she?”

  She nods. “The next morning there was some kind of argument and she left empty-handed. He kept calling her cell phone, and she’d send it to voicemail. When I asked her what was going on, she told me about the deal. Pretty sick. Whether it had anything to do with this, I don’t know.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “We’ll check it out.”

  José Aguilar waits for me at the bottom of the stairs, hands buried in the pockets of his whiskered jeans, his muscled bulk hidden under a leather bomber. His impassive, pockmarked face is so red he looks freshly boiled, but that’s normal for Aguilar.

  “I heard you got pulled in,” he says. “Figured you could use a hand.”

  “Nice jeans,” I say.

  “You’re one to talk. What’s with the getup? Prom night?”

  “Charlotte’s firm hosted a party and she dragged me along.”

  “Lawyers and liquor. And you’re missing all the fun.” He nods toward the kitchen. “The lieutenant’s out there having a look at the scene, by the way.”

  “I heard his voice.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Go upstairs and see if you can get anything more out of the woman who found the body. She’s giving me an odd vibe.”

  “I’m on it,” he says, slipping past me.

  In the kitchen, Sergeant Nixon’s not on the door, but I spot him outside shadowing my supervisor, Lt. Marcus Bascombe. Black. Six foot four. A glare that could put a hole in the ozone layer, assuming there wasn’t one already. The lieutenant is my kind of police apart from the fact he doesn’t like me. He tried to get me booted from the squad once, but that didn’t work out. Now he treats me with grudging respect. All it would take to get back on his bad side is for me to stop closing cases. I’m not planning to start now.

  I plant my briefcase on the island again, throwing the flap open and digging around for my flashlight, a little Fenix that puts out plenty of light. I grab my camera, too, then head through the door. Under the pergola, the crime scene technicians are just getting started running extensions and setting up lights. Bascombe crouches near the corpse, studying the wounds to her back, while Nixon whispers some commentary.

  One of the crime scene techs motions me to the table, pointing to a cloud of black dust on the metal edge. “We’ve got some prints here, a few different sets it looks like.”

  “Good. Keep dusting.”

  As I approach, Nix heaves a sigh and detaches himself from the lieutenant’s orbit, grateful to get away. We exchange a glance in passing.

  “I’ve talked to the witness who found the body,” I tell Bascombe. “According to her, the victim was meeting a friend for lunch, but didn’t say who. I need to get a canvass started, and it wouldn’t hurt if the ME would show up and give me an approximate time of death.”

  He straightens and steps away from the body. “I’ll make a call and see what the holdup is. Not that I can’t guess. That shooting on Antoine dropped three bodies, and I just came from South Central where a man drowned his seventy-three-year-old father in a bathtub and called it in as an accident.” He shakes his head. “You could see the handprints on the old man’s back where he was held down.”

  “Everybody’s gone crazy,” I say.

  “Just like always.”

  I give him everything I have so far about Simone Walker, including Dr. Hill’s story about the sex-for-money trade with her estranged husband. Then I flick on the flashlight and do a closer exam of the body. The way she’s placed is so precise and unnatural: right-angled to the pool, bent at the waist, arms fully extended and perfectly parallel, hands resting side by side. Clean hands, too, nothing visible under the nails.

  “It’s almost like . . .”

  “Almost like what?” Bascombe says.

  I line myself up with her hands, then pantomime the motions. “Like he held her by the wrists. Like he dipped her into the water after he killed her.”

  “Or fished her out.”

  The big lights switch on, bathing the yard in white, glazing the mist overhead. The surrounding houses are mostly obscured by the tall fence and the screen of vegetation, reinforcing the sense of privacy. A few rooflines, a few attic windows. The lieutenant heads toward the edge of the slate, making room as the crime scene techs close in. I check the bushes for any sign of entry. Nobody scaling the fence could get down without breaking a b
ranch. But there’s nothing.

  “You see the chair down at the bottom?” I ask him. “What do you make of that?”

  He goes to the end of the pool opposite the house, taking a knee next to the water.

  “Okay,” he says, rising to the challenge. “How about this? She’s over by the table when he attacks. She’s sitting in the chair. He kills her, then drags the chair over with her in it, dumping them both into the pool. After she’s been in the water awhile, he pulls her out and poses her. But he leaves the chair where it fell, ’cause he doesn’t want to go in after it.”

  I nod. The scenario makes sense as far as the chair goes. If it was dragged from the table to the pool and chucked in, where it’s lying is exactly what I’d expect. But what’s the point?

  “Why not drag the body and leave the chair?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Find the guy and ask him. How’s that for a plan? If I was you, I’d get the canvass going, and then I’d find out where this girl’s husband lives and reel him in. The quicker you get him in an interview room, the less time he’ll have to start believing he got away with it.”

  The glass door slides open and Sheila Green from the ME’s office steps through, another charter member of my fan club. Dr. Green’s boss, Alan Bridger, married my wife’s sister a few years back. They have a house in West U. Considering this scene is practically in his backyard, I’d hoped to see Bridger here. No luck.

  Gazing down the length of the pool, a tingle creeps up my spine. A ping of recognition. Something’s been bothering me. And now I know what.

  With the lieutenant looking on, Dr. Green takes one of the victim’s wrists, lifting the arm, carefully turning the body to expose a breast and another network of punctures and a jagged, seeping gash in the chest.

  I throw out my hand. “Wait.”

  The medical examiner freezes. After a pause, she lowers the body back. Bascombe stares at me, palms raised. Without explaining I switch my camera on and snap a photo. The preview on the LCD screen isn’t exactly right. I realign the camera and take another shot.

  “Everybody go inside,” I say. “Except for you, Lieutenant. I need you over here.”

  The work stops, but nobody moves. Bascombe makes the call, signaling the crime scene techs to indulge my whim. He comes over, bringing Dr. Green with him. With the scene clear I take another shot.

  I hand him the camera, displaying the photo. “Does that remind you of anything?”

  “Yeah,” he says, “it reminds me of what I can see with my own eyes.” He squints at the screen, then shows it to the ME. “You gonna tell me or what?”

  “The Fauk scene.”

  He looks again.

  “Why does that name ring a bell?” Dr. Green says. “Wasn’t that your big case, March? The one they wrote the book about?”

  I ignore her. “You were there, Lieutenant, I wasn’t. I inherited that case, if you remember. But ever since I got to the scene tonight, I’ve had this weird feeling. I couldn’t put my finger on it until now.”

  He hands the camera back. “You’ve lost me, March.”

  “You were there.”

  “It’s similar, I guess. But the Fauk woman had her clothes on and she was only stabbed once. She was floating in the swimming pool, too, not halfway out. Not to mention the guy who did it is doing time in Huntsville thanks to the confession you wrung out of him—”

  “I’m not saying the crimes are the same. But look at that picture. I studied the Fauk photos so hard they’re burned into my memory, and I swear there’s one that looks exactly the same. The pool, the way the body’s located off to the side, even the placement of the furniture. It’s all the same.”

  “A lot of crime scene photos are gonna look alike,” Dr. Green says. “They all have dead people in them for one thing.”

  Her voice trails off and it all comes back to me, that ten-year-old case, all the frustrations and roadblocks, all the drama. Donald Fauk murdered his wife and thought he’d gotten away with it. He had, as far as the investigation was concerned. But I was new on the squad, trying to prove myself, and the case was high profile enough to pass along once the lead detective retired. My old partner and I had gone to Florida, arresting Fauk as he planned his next wedding.

  We flew him back on the morning of September 11, 2001, and after the Towers were hit in New York, our flight was grounded in New Orleans. After spending a few hours as guests of NOPD, we gave up on another flight out and rented a car. Somewhere along the Atchafalaya River Basin, Donald Fauk started talking and never stopped.

  “The book,” I say. “The Kingwood Killing. There are pictures in the middle, including this one.” I point to the camera screen. “If you read that book and got inspired, this is what you’d do.”

  “March,” Bascombe says, “this case here, it has nothing to do with the Fauk murder.”

  “When you see the picture in the book, you’ll change your mind.”

  Dr. Green shakes her head. The lieutenant catches her gesture and frowns. Then he turns that high wattage glare of his on me, and just like that, all the respect I’ve won back over the last year is gone. All he sees is the screw-up he was trying to bounce out of Homicide twelve months back. I start to say something, but he cuts me off.

  “Listen to me, you tuxedo-wearing dimwit,” he says, moving closer so I get the full effect of his height. “I want you to get that canvass going, and then you find this girl’s husband and bring him downtown. If I have to hold your hand on this, March, I will. But believe me, you don’t want that. Are we clear?”

  I can feel my cheeks burning, my body starting to squirm. He outstares me and suddenly I’m looking away and nodding obediently. Behind him, Dr. Green is nodding, too, a faint smile of triumph on her lips.

  “Everything’s fine here,” he tells her. “We’re on top of this thing. Now, what we could use from you is an approximate time of death. . . .”

  They circle back to the corpse, leaving me to stew. The crime scene techs file back to resume their work. Bascombe calls one over and starts explaining about his chair theory, pointing out the probable path they should fluoresce for signs of blood.

  After a moment I collect myself and get busy. There are doors to knock, interviews to conduct, and still a chance that some physical evidence will be found. And there’s a suspect to run down: Jason Young.

  And when I find him, whatever else happens and no matter what Bascombe does in response, there is one question I am going to ask. Does he have a copy of The Kingwood Killing? Because whoever murdered Simone Walker had a picture in his head, and he rearranged his crime to fit the fantasy. I’m convinced of that.

  Find the book and I’ll find the killer.

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 6 — 6:29 A.M.

  As I pull up the driveway, the dashboard clock reads half past six and gray light is already breaking through the corners of the sky. I push through the back door, dropping my briefcase just inside and my keys on the breakfast table, and try to make as little noise as possible on the creaky stairs. In the bedroom, Charlotte sleeps under the slowly revolving fan, her gray satin dress over a chair, the newly bought lingerie from La Mode discarded in a sad heap at the foot of the bed, a symbol of the wreck of our evening.

  I sit at the edge of the bed, inhaling the scent of the room. She’s turned during the night, letting the sheets pull away to expose her back. Her skin is warm to the touch. The angle is different, but I think of Simone Walker anyway and shudder.

  “You’re home,” she says, rolling toward me without opening her eyes, the hint of a smile on her pale lips.

  “Not for long. I’ve got to change clothes and go back in.”

  “Already? And when are you supposed to sleep?”

  “You can sleep for both of us. I’ve got Aguilar sitting on a suspect’s front door, but I need to get back over there before the guy comes home.”

  “A suspect already.” She sits up reluctantly, stifling a yawn. “You work fast.”

  “We’ll
see.”

  Her eyes focus on my rumpled tuxedo. “You look nice, too.”

  “Yeah. This was a real hit with the boys. I think everybody’s gonna start wearing them from now on.”

  She rolls out of bed and puts on one of my old T-shirts, heading downstairs to brew some coffee. In the bathroom I run the tap until the mirror fogs, then strip out of the tux, careful to put it back on the hanger. Charlotte might toss her dress over a chair, but if I show the same disregard, she won’t be happy. This tux along with the contents of a dozen more garment bags stuffed into my overcrowded closet used to belong to her father, a beloved eccentric who kept his tall, trim figure well into his seventies. Apparently neither of the sons could fit into them—they’d tried, taking turns in his Austin mansion the week after he died—so Charlotte came back with the lot. The ways of the rich never cease to amaze me. With money like theirs, I’d just buy new clothes.

  There’s more of it, too, still at her Galleria alterations tailor waiting for my return visit.

  After shaving I pull one of my old suits out of the closet, a plain navy one that means business, perfect for the interview I’m planning for sometime today, and a stiff white shirt fresh from the cleaners. Downstairs, Charlotte frowns at my choice while handing me a mug of steaming coffee.

  “You should wear one of your new ones, Roland.”

  “It feels strange wearing somebody else’s clothes.”

  She ignores me. “Say what you want about my dad, but the man had classic taste. Those suits will never go out of style, and they probably cost a fortune to make.”

  “I’m sure. What does it mean, though, psychologically, that you’re dressing me in his clothes? Does it mean you have issues?”

  “Oh, I have issues.” She pulls her unruly slept-on hair into a ponytail, then climbs onto a barstool to nurse her coffee. “But not those kinds of issues.”

  Leaving my cup on the island next to her, I go into the living room and dig behind the books on the shelf next to the television until my hand grazes a dusty paperback. I bring it into the kitchen, wiping the cover on a dishrag.