Pattern of Wounds

by J. Bertrand

  The lights inside Bascombe’s office are dim. The captain’s door is shut, the blinds drawn.

  I decide to go for it. I’ll swing by Bridger’s place to check on Charlotte, then get my head down for some much needed, hopefully dreamless sleep.

  Grabbing my jacket off the back of the chair, I remove my side arm from the desk drawer and holster it. I head for the exit with my chin tucked, not glancing around for fear of making eye contact with anyone who could fault me for leaving. I’m safely through the door and into the hallway before I hear my name called.

  “March!”

  Stephen Wilcox bounds toward me from the far end of the corridor, his pale cheeks flushed, his blond eyebrows knit together, one of them cockeyed from a childhood scar. I’m half tempted to slip through the doors of an arriving elevator. The look on his face promises nothing good. I stand my ground.

  “What’s the matter, Stephen?”

  “Can I have a word with you?” he hisses, taking my arm in his hand and pushing me across the elevator’s threshold. He waits for the doors to shut. “The days of me covering for you are long over, compadre. I’m not going to lie for you anymore.”

  “Okay. You wanna tell me what this is about?”

  “It’s about Fauk, what do you think? They’re gonna put it all together, March, and when they do, they’ll figure out you were there . . . even if I don’t volunteer the information. So there’s no upside for you if I don’t, and plenty of downside for me. I’m just warning you that it’s coming. Not that I owe you even that much.”

  “Stephen,” I say, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He pauses. The elevator doors open. I follow him into the ground floor lobby.

  “This morning,” he says, “somebody slipped a shiv into Donald Fauk.”

  I stop in my tracks. “You’re kidding.”

  “In the breakfast line,” he says. “Fauk’s standing there, and somebody comes up and starts stabbing him. Some kind of metal rod, sharp on one end and wrapped in tape. Six or seven wounds, I don’t know exactly. He was rushed to the hospital. They had to re-inflate one of his lungs.”

  “Is he gonna make it?”

  Wilcox throws his hands up. “How do I know? The point is, you went there. You go to Huntsville, and forty-eight hours later, somebody tries to rub him off the board. Do you have any idea how that looks? With your reputation?”

  “Calm down,” I say. “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “That’s not how it’ll look. And if I don’t come forward, if they find out I knew in advance what you were doing, do you know what they’ll do to me?”

  I can feel a twitch in my eye, which I try to smooth with my fingertips. He really believes this. He really thinks I’m capable of putting a hit on someone, of solving the problem of Fauk’s appeal by putting a word in someone’s ear, setting murder in motion with the snick of a homemade shank.

  “Get real,” I tell him. “If you think I had anything to do with this, you’re insane.”

  “Cause and effect,” he says. “You go there, he gets stabbed.”

  “Pure coincidence—”

  “Coincidence! Right. I’ve got to tell them, March. I have no choice. I hope you can see that. If I don’t, I’ll look just as bad as you.”

  I take a step back to let a uniformed sergeant slip by. He moves between us like a blind man, purposefully taking no notice.

  “You’re making a scene,” I tell Wilcox. “Look, do what you have to do. I’m not going to argue with you. I went to the pen to see an informant. There were corrections personnel in the room. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  I turn my back on him and head for the parking garage. I don’t check my six until I’ve cleared his field of vision. Wilcox is a lost cause. He can’t see past his own suspicions and I’m tired of taking responsibility for them.

  Down in the lot, I toss my briefcase onto the passenger seat and slide behind the wheel. I snap my seat belt into place, then turn the key. The engine roars to life.

  Fauk has been stabbed. He’s in critical condition.

  In my head I go over my conversation with Coleman, checking it for inconsistencies, for any line I might have uttered that could have been taken in the wrong way. Peter O’Toole asking his knights who’s gonna rid him of Richard Burton’s troublesome priest. But there was nothing like that. Besides, Coleman’s not the kind of inmate to shank someone, and he doesn’t have the juice to have it done by proxy.

  I put the car in drive. I put it back in park. I sigh.

  My eyes burn, the lids heavy with exhaustion. Eleven days. That’s how long I’ve been running on this thing, pulled from one break to the next, taking aim at suspect after suspect without much more than hunches to go on until now. There was a time when I cleared cases fast, when nothing slipped past me, when I could work the endless hours without them ever catching up. Not anymore.

  Twenty minutes ago all I wanted was a night off. Now I’m afraid to let up for even an hour, afraid my suspect, the first person I can link to the murders through concrete physical evidence, will slip through my fingers if I don’t keep them clenched.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket.

  It could be Wilcox ready for another. Bascombe wanting to grill me about Fauk. Charlotte ready to leave Ann’s and come home.

  I check the screen. None of the above.

  “Hello.”

  “I heard about Charlotte. I’m really sorry. And this new homicide . . . It looks like you were wrong about the serial killer.”

  “What do you want, Brad?”

  “I think we should talk.”

  “About?”

  “For one thing, I heard what happened today. Donald Fauk. The timing is pretty incriminating.”

  “Brad,” I say.

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Goodbye.”

  The phone buzzes again. I toss it next to my briefcase on the seat.

  That’s another conversation I need to play back in my head: the call from Templeton when he discovered Simone Walker had been murdered at Joy Hill’s house. If he’d cooked up his serial killer theory with Lauterbach long before, why lay on all the innuendo about Hill? He’d all but labeled her a suspect, and I was gullible enough to follow his lead.

  He’s right. We should talk. I need answers about his role in the investigation. And I want to know what was inside the fat envelopes Fauk mailed to him. He took so much trouble to avoid censorship. I need to know why.

  I pick up the phone and call him back.

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 15 — 8:00 P.M.

  Templeton chooses the rendezvous point, a window table at the Epicure Café on West Gray, a couple of blocks from his house. I arrive as a party of moviegoers push through the exit, heading a few doors down to the bright marquee of the River Oaks Theatre. Templeton waves. He licks some kind of pastry off his fingertips. As I approach, he extends his hand, which I ignore and not just for sanitary reasons. Maybe he’s ready to mend fences, but I’m not.

  At the table beside ours, a hirsute man in a brown cardigan flips through the newspaper, tortoiseshell reading glasses across the bridge of his nose. The paper isn’t the Chronicle; it’s the New York Times. Pretentious.

  “I didn’t order you anything,” Templeton says.

  He pushes his plate to one side, drawing a foamy cappuccino closer. He’s placed an open notepad on the table. I can’t make out the upside-down writing without leaning toward him, and I’m too proud to do that.

  “You lied to me, Brad. About Joy Hill.”

  He does a quick breathing exercise to show me how serene he is, releasing a long, cleansing breath. “Everything I told you about that woman was true.”

  “You said she was putting moves on Simone Walker, and that resisting those moves was probably what got Simone killed—” He starts to protest, but I cut him off with a swipe of the hand. “Maybe not in so many words, but you strongly implied as much. And all the while, you’d cooked up this alternate the
ory. You never believed for a moment in Hill’s guilt.”

  He smiles. “I’m not the detective.”

  “Here’s the thing. You knew—or thought you knew—that Walker’s killing was part of a larger series, and you didn’t say a word about it. Not only that, you intentionally put me on a false trail. I want to know why.”

  “When we met at the Black Lab, I had no idea your case would have anything to do with Fauk. You’re the one who told me, remember?”

  “You and Lauterbach have been working together for months.”

  “I only met him in September. At your cousin’s conference. I already told you this. When I tried talking to you about it, you wouldn’t answer my calls. You didn’t bother until you wanted something from me.”

  Everybody lies to the police. In interview rooms, I’ve gotten hardened murderers to open up by playing on their fear of losing control of how the facts will be spun. With the writer, there’s no technique required. He likes talking. He likes to nuance the details.

  “Here’s the thing, March. I don’t trust you. If I held information back, it’s because I wasn’t sure exactly what you’d do with it. I’m not interested in helping with a cover-up. I admitted already that I’ve been in touch with Donald off and on. When I was writing The Kingwood Killing, he must have thought I was going to prove his innocence. When that didn’t happen, he made sure I knew how disappointed he was. But he kept in contact, and eventually some of the things he said started to make sense.”

  “Like what?”

  “For one thing, he made me wonder if I’d gotten Detective Fitzpatrick’s involvement wrong. The way I presented him in the book, he’s basically a buffoon past his sell-by date, trying to unload the Fauk case so he can retire. But he and Donald were pretty close at that point, and Donald says the serial killer angle was solid. They just focused on the wrong villain. Fitzpatrick’s only mistake was fixating on the Railroad Killer.”

  “You really believe that?”

  He glances through the window at a passing couple. “It seems to fit.”

  “And what about Fauk’s confession?”

  “When I look at the transcript of the confession, it’s obvious the man’s not right. All that stuff about having to murder his wife so that he could meet someone new and father that little girl. Like it was destiny. That’s more than just a proud father talking.”

  “A proud father.”

  “They’ve stopped visiting him,” Templeton says. “The wife and daughter. He’s out of his mind with anxiety. Feels rejected. It’s no wonder he wants to get out.”

  I smirk. “Are you aware of the channels Fauk’s been using to communicate with you? He sends his letters via released inmates and pays them off for their trouble. Why do you think he’d go to all that trouble?”

  “Maybe he’s paranoid. You people have given him good reason to be.”

  “There’s something in those letters he wanted to make sure I never see. Not just me but anybody in law enforcement. He’s afraid the censors will be reading over his shoulder. Now what could possibly be in those documents, Brad? You’re the only person who can answer that.”

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “Then you won’t mind if I have a look.”

  “I would mind, March. Very much. I feel that you’d use the information to undermine the course of justice. For all I know, you’re the reason Donald’s in the hospital right now. Maybe getting the letters from me could be your next step. Cleaning up the loose ends.”

  “You sound like Wilcox,” I say. “If you honestly think I’m capable of any of that, then you haven’t read your own book.” I lean over the table. “Of course, I know something you don’t. I haven’t been getting all my information from one source.”

  He stares at me. He tries to wait me out. Finally he throws up his hands.

  “Are you going to tell me or what?”

  “You’ve read the appeal, I assume. One of the things they allege is that the crime lab has conveniently misplaced the DNA samples from the case, so that they can’t be retested. If he was framed, the logic goes, then a new set of tests would bring back a different result. Everybody knows what a joke the DNA section has been, but they’re alleging something worse: corruption.”

  “Makes sense. You can’t tell me the missing evidence isn’t suspicious.”

  “It’s very suspicious,” I say. “More than you realize. You see, lab results like that are often verified by independent labs. That’s what happened in Fauk’s case. And unlike the HPD crime lab, some of these independents have impeccable reputations.”

  “So the samples are in storage at an independent lab?”

  “No, Brad, they’re not. That’s what’s so strange. Two separate sets had to disappear, and there’s no one who has the power to make that happen, not officially.”

  “A police cover-up—”

  “You’re not listening. The whole point of an independent lab is to produce independent confirmation. The chief of police himself can get on the phone and tell these guys to make some evidence disappear, and it won’t make a bit of difference to them. Their reputation is based on that firewall between the police departments and their work.”

  For the first time, his confidence seems shaken. “So what are you suggesting?”

  “It’s simple. Fauk’s been campaigning for a while. You admitted as much. Maybe he decided that with his wife and daughter cutting him off, he couldn’t do the time anymore. Your mistake was in thinking you were the only person he’s been lobbying. Those envelopes I told you about? You’re not the only one receiving them. Donald Fauk has a lot of money. I think he’s used some of it to make that evidence go away.”

  “Did he pay off the psychiatrist to backdate a diagnosis? Did he pay Eugene Fontenot to rough him up in the holding cell?”

  “Fontenot’s under investigation now,” I say. “It wouldn’t surprise me if some of the allegations against him had come to light thanks to Fauk’s deep pockets. He’s not a spotless lamb by any stretch, but when Fontenot fell, I believe Fauk’s legal team was poised to take advantage.”

  “So he paid to suppress the evidence, he paid to make Fontenot look guilty, and I suppose you think he paid me, too?”

  “That’s the irony, Brad. He didn’t have to. He just put the worm in your ear and let it go to work, same as you did with Lauterbach.”

  He takes a sip of his cappuccino and looks surprised that it’s gone cold. Whether my words have struck deeply or not, I have no way of guessing. The most I can read in his guarded expression is a note of concern.

  “I made myself some notes,” he says, consulting his pad for the first time. “Since you insist on treating this as some kind of conspiracy, I figured there were a couple of facts you needed to know. Maybe I’m wasting my time, but here goes.”

  He takes another sip. Clears his throat.

  “This whole thing started after that conference your cousin organized. There were questions afterward, and somebody asked whether there were any serial killers currently operating. I had just received some information, one of those letters from Donald you’re so worked up about. He cited two murders with similar circumstances to his wife’s death: that housewife in the Woodlands, Tegan McGill, and another woman named Mary Sallier. So this guy in the audience asks about current killers, and I throw the names out there as an example of a possible connection that’s never been followed up.

  “When I do that, Lauterbach gets a funny look. The Mary Sallier case was his, he says, and he thinks there’s a link to a more recent homicide, too, a physical trainer who was discovered in a gymnasium pool. Everybody in the room is kind of stunned. Out of nowhere, it’s like this serial killer just took shape, and none of us could quite believe it. We got through the rest of the Q & A and afterward spent more than an hour comparing notes. Lauterbach got so excited . . . and meanwhile I felt sick to my stomach.

  “Your cousin Tammy, she was just glowing. Dean Corll is her thing, obviously, but that little club of
hers is equal opportunity. The idea of a new serial killer emerging from her Q & A session . . . she was ecstatic. And sharp, too. She knows the subject, and knows the kind of questions to ask. She drilled us both until we pretty much had to admit there was something to this thing.

  “Up to that moment, I never took Donald’s rambling seriously. All the sudden, I realized that what he was saying made sense. Now, you can sit there and say that Fauk hired himself a serial killer to commit crimes that would match the one he was convicted on, but even you have to admit that strains credibility to the breaking point.”

  I nod slowly. “There might be connections, I don’t know. But that doesn’t mean Fauk didn’t kill his wife.” Now I sound like Bascombe, conceding when I’d said I wouldn’t. “I went through Lauterbach’s case files and I can tell you this with absolute certainty: Nicole Fauk’s murder is different, and so are the two I’m working.”

  “You can tell yourself that.” He rises. “But who are you really trying to convince?”

  He throws a few dollars on the table and heads to the nearest door.

  “I want to see those letters,” I say.

  But he’s out on the sidewalk. The door swings shut.

  If Cavallo were here, she’d defend him. With an experience like the one he just described, how could Templeton have come to any other conclusion? Lauterbach, enthused by what he thought was a major breakthrough, would have pushed him over the edge. Whatever doubts he might harbor about Fauk, here was a cop with special training in serial murder independently validating the connections Fauk had handed him.

  I can imagine Fauk, sitting in his cell a couple of hours north, stunned beyond belief at how successful his gambit had been. There’s no way he could have predicted the two men meeting at the crime conference, or the catalyzing question from the audience. This was a perfect storm, and even Donald Fauk can’t control the weather.

  Now he lies in a hospital bed. Fated, perhaps, to be his deathbed. For all the strings he managed to pull on the outside, life behind bars outmaneuvered him. And now everything is out of his control, just as it’s out of mine.