Pattern of Wounds

by J. Bertrand

  “Did you report this to the police?” I ask, hoping there might be a paper trail.

  “I should have,” she says. “I did tell some of the guys in the building, and they had a ‘talk’ with David, which I think was more than a talk.”

  “And that’s why he moved out.”

  “I guess.”

  I thank her for the help.

  “There’s one more thing,” she says. “And maybe I shouldn’t say. It might have nothing to do with him.”

  “I think you’d better tell me.”

  “Somebody tried to set my car on fire. Some guys in the apartment saw him doing it, pouring something over the car. They chased him off and came and got me. The car had gasoline all over it.”

  “Was it David who did this?” I ask, remembering the Molotov cocktail.

  “They couldn’t say. But I think it must have been him.”

  After the call, I let out a long breath.

  When Agnieszka spotted a watcher in the neighbor’s attic, she had assumed it was the man of the house, David Bayard Sr., but she was wrong. From Kristie’s story, it sounds like he was showing all the warning signs back in College Station: watching the sunbathers by the pool, taking illicit photos like the ones recovered in the Bayard attic, perhaps even stalking the girl he’d culled from the herd. And that pushing thing. Pressing his scarred hand against her skin. I can imagine him doing it, spreading the fingers out, eyes fixed on the gaps of flesh between his fingers.

  One, two, three. Four, five, six.

  I’ve been had. While I was tracking the father’s movements, I took the son’s on faith. I assumed he was a student, assumed his schedule would correspond with the academic calendar. The fact is, I don’t know where he lives. I don’t know his comings and goings. I brought him in not as a suspect but a witness, and let him walk right out without a charge.

  I flip through my notes back to my first contact with Kim Bayard. She’d told me her husband was out of the country, but made no mention of her stepson, even though he clearly had access to the house. Either she didn’t know about the nest up in the attic, or she was intentionally concealing the fact. When we took her husband away, she could have protested, could have put the blame on David, but she didn’t. I can understand a father—even an abusive one—covering for his son. But why would she?

  I didn’t get Kim Bayard on tape that first day, but she sent me to Emmet Mainz. I fast-forward through the Mainz talk, listening for any mention of the Bayards’ son. There’s nothing.

  I reach for the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Mainz,” I say. “This is Roland March. If you have a minute, I’d like to talk.”

  “A minute?” He chuckles over the line. “Detective, I have all night.”

  “Good. I’ll see you in a quarter of an hour.”

  In the car, I call Charlotte to let her know I’ll be home late.

  She accepts the news with a sigh. “The lot in life for the policeman’s wife.”

  “That rhymes,” I say. “And I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m used to it.”

  “I’m not apologizing for being late. There’s something else I want you to do for me. You’ll think I’m crazy and overcautious, but I’d feel better if you’d pack a bag and go to Ann’s again tonight.”

  “But, Roland,” she says. “The guy’s behind bars. Did he get out on bail already? Even if he has, the locksmiths were here today, and I took the initiative and called the security alarm company, too.”

  Things I should have done. Things I meant to.

  “He’s not out yet,” I say. “But between you and me, I think I screwed this one up. I arrested the father, and I should have bagged the son.”

  “And he’s not in custody?”

  “No, he’s not.”

  She sighs again, resigned. “All right, then. But I don’t feel right leaving Carter and Gina here. They could be in danger, right? I’m going to see if Ann can put them up. Otherwise, I’m going to put them in a hotel.”

  “Carter’s a big boy,” I say.

  “And Gina’s pregnant. So either I get my way, or I stay put.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  I start to hang up, but she stops me. “Oh, Roland, we got another message from the tailor, too. You need to go pick up the rest of Daddy’s suits. They’re done.”

  “Good,” I say, “because one of them’s going in the trash bin.”

  “What?”

  “My cousin Tammy ripped the sleeve off.”

  “Really,” she says. “You saw Tammy.”

  “And I didn’t use my pepper spray. In therapy they’d call that a breakthrough.”

  In the corridor outside Emmet Mainz’s conservatory, I notice a new letter to the editor framed on the wall. Pausing, I see the printed copy side by side with his signed original. This time he made it into the Times Literary Supplement, disputing the facts in some fifty-year-old literary controversy.

  “Congratulations,” I say.

  His rheumy eyes sparkle behind the heavy round glasses. He gives me a coy smile.

  The baby grand gleams in the lamplight. He resumes his customary seat at the piano, leaving me to choose which of the chairs I prefer. I decide to stand, leaning into the crook of the piano, running my hand over the cool black wood.

  “When I was here before, I didn’t know what I was looking for. Which means I didn’t know the right questions to ask.”

  “And now you do?”

  “I hope so. It was Kim Bayard who first mentioned you. I assume you know that family at least as well as you do the Hills.”

  His long fingers glide over the ivory keys without applying any pressure. He pulls them away, setting his hand in his lap.

  “Not particularly,” he sniffs. “The husband, I’m afraid, is a bit of a Philistine, one of those boy-men who makes a lot of money and spends it on the same things he wanted when he was fifteen. Cars. Gadgets. Stuff. For all I know, women, too. The temporal delights, and by no means the most delightful of them.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “Really?” He laughs. “I am speaking English, aren’t I?”

  “Are you?”

  He laughs again, clearly considering this kind of banter more of a delight than cars, gadgets, and women.

  “The Bayard I’m interested in is the son. David Junior. What do you know about him?”

  “Ah,” he says. “David Junior. I know that you wouldn’t want him feeding your dog while you’re out of town. I tried that once, and it was a disaster.”

  I glance over my shoulder. “You have a dog?”

  “Not anymore.” He notes my expression. “It’s not his fault, though. He didn’t kill the dog. But he did something. That poor creature was miserable when I got back, and that was the last time I left a key for David Junior.”

  Animal torture. Check.

  “How old was he when this happened?”

  Mainz touches his forehead. “How old? A teenager, I suppose. Maybe fifteen, but don’t quote me on that. Before he went away to school. They sent him to boarding school, did you know that? Who sends children to boarding school anymore?”

  People whose child has a behavior problem. People raising a sociopath.

  “Do you know why he was sent away?”

  He shakes his head. “What I do know is that Bayard père used to travel a lot, even more than he does now. Maybe he was too much of a handful for Kim on her own. He’s not her son, you know? But that is pure speculation. You’d have to ask her about that.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  He pauses. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I’d like you to give her a call and invite her over. Preferably without mentioning my being here.”

  The significance of my suggestion dawns on him. To his credit, Mainz agrees to help.

  “I don’t know if it’ll do any good,” he says, “but I’ll give it a try.”

  He rises from his bench and
moves lightly across the room, bending down behind the corner of the couch. He straightens with an old-fashioned phone in hand, a long cord unspooling as he returns. The black plastic gives a little ring when he sets it on the piano.

  “Do you have the number, or should I look it up?”

  I dig through my notes, sliding the number in front of him. He dials with a slender digit, punching the numbers with crisp precision. “It’s ringing.”

  The conversation takes thirty seconds, and when he hangs up, there’s a grin on his lips.

  “She’ll be right over.”

  Mainz goes to the door alone, greeting her in a high-pitched, stagey voice, tut-tutting at her inaudible remarks. As they come down the hallway, he pauses to prepare her for the shock.

  “Now, don’t be angry with me,” he says. “I have a little surprise.”

  When Kim Bayard sees me on the sofa, she stops in her tracks.

  “You’re the one who searched the house and took Dave away.”

  “Roland March,” I say, rising to extend my hand.

  “I shouldn’t be talking to you.”

  “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s just that I have some questions and you’re the only person who can answer them.”

  Mainz guides her to a chair, easing her down, then positions himself to one side. “If he tries anything fresh, don’t worry. I’ll be right here.”

  I hadn’t expected him to stay. It’s a little unorthodox, conducting an interview with an audience. But it’s his house and I can hardly ask him to leave. His presence might go a long way to helping her open up. So I smile at the little man. I smile at Kim. I take the recorder from my breast pocket, then open the Filofax on my lap to consult my notes. She shakes her head.

  “I don’t want you writing anything down,” she says. “I’ll answer your questions, assuming I can, but only off the record. I won’t testify against my husband, but if I can help him by clearing up your confusion, I’m willing to do that. Off the record.”

  I close the Filofax, sandwiching the running recorder between the pages. I set it on the couch beside me, hoping either that she didn’t notice the little device or, seeing me remove it from inside my jacket, mistook the shiny metal case for a pen.

  “We were just talking about your son,” I say. “Where exactly does he live?”

  “You know that big high-rise on Kirby? He has a little place there. His father pays the rent. His father pays for everything.”

  “I see. And he’s not a student at A & M anymore, is he?”

  She shrugs. “He’s supposed to be working on a dissertation, but he had some kind of trouble over there and came back.”

  “David has a problem with his hand. An injury. He told me his father did that to him.”

  “He did?” She shakes her head in mock admiration. “You know, he told one of the counselors at St. Thomas that he had a little sister who wasn’t allowed to go out. He said we kept her in an upstairs closet because she was deformed. They obviously didn’t believe that, but in this day and age, you have to be sure, don’t you? It was humiliating.”

  “What happened to his hand, then?”

  “He did that himself,” she says. “My husband collects knives. When David was in high school, I heard a scream from upstairs, and when I found him I thought he’d chopped his finger off. There were all these little holes in his father’s desk, and blood everywhere, and I couldn’t get him to hold still long enough to see what was wrong.

  “What happened was, he was stabbing the knife between his fingers, seeing how fast he could do it. He’d seen Dave showing off in front of some guests. But the knife turned in his grip and cut into him. It took a big chunk out of one finger and sliced up the other. I wanted to get rid of all the knives, but Dave wouldn’t listen. That’s when he had the glass cases installed, to keep David away from the weapons.”

  “Mrs. Bayard,” I say. “Are you aware that the knife used to kill Simone Walker and Agnieszka Oliszewski was one of your husband’s?”

  She blinks. Freezes.

  “What I can’t figure out is, if your husband didn’t kill them, how did the killer get the knife?”

  Silence.

  “Can you think of an explanation?”

  “Well,” she says. “David sold some of his collection recently.”

  “This wasn’t one of those knives. But now that you mention it, I was wondering why he sold them? Did he need the money, or did you put your foot down again and this time he listened?”

  “I’m not sure,” she says to the floor. “I don’t know why he did it.”

  “I think you do.”

  She covers her mouth with her hand.

  “It’s essential that you tell me the truth.”

  The hand drops. “I think . . . I think one of the knives went missing.”

  “Missing.”

  She nods. “But that was long before the murders. That was more than a month ago.”

  “David took the knife,” I say. “And his father responded by selling off some more. Like he was trying to cover it up. Like he thought David would do something bad with that knife.”

  “No,” she says, shaking her head. “You don’t understand at all. My husband is the only person who can get through to him. If he was going to do anything—anything serious—Dave would’ve stopped it from happening. He’s always . . .”

  “Always what? Always stopped things from happening?”

  She nods.

  “Only he couldn’t this time. He was leaving for Africa. His job was in jeopardy. He had other things on this mind. David comes and goes as he pleases, doesn’t he? The things we found in the attic, they belong to him.”

  She sinks into the chair, nodding wanly. Surrender. Mainz, sensing the shift, pulls a chair up beside her, putting his hand over hers.

  “He has a room in the attic,” Kim says. “He used to live up there, and when he came back from College Station, he moved back in. But I made Dave tell him to go. He moved everything to the high-rise.”

  “Not everything,” I say. “This was recent, wasn’t it? You’re making it sound like your stepson has been living in the high-rise a long time, but that was a recent development.”

  “Afterward,” she says.

  “After what?”

  “After Dave came back from Lagos.”

  “After the first murder, you mean.”

  Nothing.

  “Why, then? Why kick him out after Simone’s death? You knew, didn’t you?”

  She crosses one leg over the other, bouncing it nervously at the knee. She gnaws at her fingernails, staring off to her left.

  “Let go of it,” I say. “This isn’t yours to carry.”

  Her eyes dart toward me, then away.

  “Kim, it’s time to tell the truth. I’ve brought more people through this than you can ever imagine, and I know all the signs. You can’t live with what you’re holding, believe me. If you don’t get clear of him, he’ll drag you down, too.”

  “I don’t know anything,” she says. “I can’t prove anything.”

  “You don’t have to. Just tell me what you do know.”

  “Unwanted touching,” she says.

  “Come again?”

  “That’s why he was asked to leave the first school. He was only nine. He didn’t mean anything by it. But the others, they all acted so shocked, like nothing had ever happened like this before. Like there was something wrong with us, with me and Dave. I told them he was a normal boy. I told them he was just . . . curious.”

  She covers her mouth again, closes her eyes. The tears come. I expect Mainz to lean over and comfort her, but instead he shrinks back, his mouth curled downward in disgust. He strokes the fabric of his trousers, wiping his hand up and down the crease.

  “There were doctors,” she says. “There were diagnoses and prescriptions. It got so complicated that I couldn’t remember what the problem was supposed to be in the first place. He grew so docile. So withdrawn. But it never seeme
d to stop. All we were doing was masking the symptoms. Underneath it all, he was so bad. He would do things to himself. Hurt himself. And if it wasn’t knives, it was fire. I always had to watch him. I was afraid of what would happen the moment I looked away.”

  “Did he ever hurt anyone else?”

  “No,” she says. “Not that I know of. Not really. When he left home for college, I thought, finally we can start living our lives again. Finally I could start living. Dave was gone so much, he expected me to be the one to . . .”

  She glances at Mainz, noticing the distance between them for the first time. Her cheeks flush.

  “It’s easy to assign blame,” she says, “but I did the best I could. He wasn’t mine.”

  I give her a nod of encouragement.

  When a witness opens up against her better judgment, against her own self-interest, I’m the most understanding person in the world. But Mainz can’t help himself. The deeper into my world he’s drawn, the more uncomfortable he grows, all his urbanity and wit evaporating on the hot skillet of reality. The recognition dawning that all these years, he’s lived a few doors down from an unfathomable evil, a darkness beyond his comprehension.

  As his sympathy fades, mine burns brighter and brighter.

  Talk to me, it says. Open your heart to me. Confide all your secrets and sins. I am your confessor. You don’t need to hide anything from me. There is nothing I have not heard, nothing I have not seen.

  “Mrs. Bayard,” I say. “Your stepson was stalking a woman in College Station a year ago. I’ve talked to her. He followed exactly the same pattern then as now. Watching her. Taking photographs of her. He even got her alone and started touching her. He did it like this.” I hold my hand up, fingers spread. “He just pushed. Gently at first, with his fingers wide like that.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “The man who killed Simone Walker, he did the same thing. He put his hands on her, and he stabbed her like this.” I grasp an imaginary ice pick in my free hand, bringing it down like a piston, again and again. “The same six wounds, over and over. In a half-moon pattern. That’s what he did to Agnieszka, too. That’s how he treated them.”