J. Bertrand - Pattern of Wounds

“I’ll take another run at him,” I say. “Confront him with the scene photos. Tell him we’ve matched the prints on the table to him.”

“Have we?”

I shrug. “I’ll follow up on it.”

He ponders my suggestion, or at least pretends to, then shakes his head. “You look beat, March. For real. Take a break and let me handle this. I’ll bring the clothes in, hit him with the photos, and if he talks, he talks. Meanwhile get some rest.”

“Sir, I’d rather interview my suspect.”

“I’m serious, March.”

“What exactly is the problem with me continuing the interview?”

He rises from the couch and looms over me. “Can we not get into this right now? Can you just listen to me for once without giving me lip? Most guys would be grateful for the help, you know that? But you wouldn’t know gratitude if it came up and bit you. Just back off and listen to me for two seconds, okay?”

“Fine.”

“Maybe he’ll roll over when he knows we’ve got the clothes.”

“I said fine. I’ll check back in after the autopsy.”

“You do that.”

Outside, the wind is bracing. Most days in Houston, you walk into a cloud of steam and want to retreat back inside. But the cold wakes me up, brings me to my senses a little. That’s twice the lieutenant has flared up on me suddenly, and over nothing. Something’s eating at him and I don’t know what. But he was right about one thing: most guys would be grateful for the assist. Bascombe’s a good cop. There are half a dozen detectives on my shift I wouldn’t trust to handle an interview like this. He’s not one of them.

But he was right about something else, too. My instincts are usually good, and what they tell me is that Jason Young is our man. He has books somewhere, maybe in storage, and when I find them, The Kingwood Killing will be there. The thing about instinct is, you follow without knowing where it’ll take you. You can’t explain why, and along the way nothing adds up, making you look like a fool. But working homicide, looking like a fool goes with the territory. That’s the job: getting it wrong until you finally get it right.

Back in the car, I scroll through the saved contacts on my phone until I reach Brad Templeton’s number. He picks up on the third ring.

“Roland March,” he says. “You’re finally returning my call.”

“Have you been calling?”

He laughs. “You’re so used to dodging me, you do it on autopilot now.”

“I didn’t catch you in church, did I?”

“Right. I hope you’re calling to buy me lunch. It’s your turn, if you remember.”

“I don’t, but lunch is fine.”

“How about the Black Lab? You like that place.”

I check my watch. “Fifteen minutes?”

“I’ll be there.”

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 6–1:47 P.M.

The prized spots up front are all taken, forcing me to park in the garage around back and walk through the breezeway past the closed bakery. Brad Templeton waits at an outdoor table, the only one occupied, bundled up in a corduroy sport coat and a tartan scarf. He spots me and raises a finger, like there’s a chance I might miss him.

“We could go inside like normal people,” I say.

“Are you normal? ’Cause I’m for sure not.”

I drop into the chair opposite. The ten years I’ve known Templeton have been no kinder to him than to me. He’s grown pudgy and soft, and his ginger hairline has receded far enough to expose a patch of freckled scalp. He clutches a plastic-coated menu with spotted, swollen fingers and makes a periodic sniffing sound.

“You have a cold or something? Or maybe swine flu?”

“You’d like that,” he says. “The crazy thing is, most people would thank me for making them famous, but not you.”

“Did you make me famous and I missed it?”

“I’ve written two books about you, anyway. But can I get you to return my calls? Not on your life. I swear it’s easier to get through to the chief than it is to you. And no, I haven’t been calling him, but if I did, he’d have the courtesy to pick up the phone.”

“This is the second time today I’ve been accused of ingratitude.”

He sniffs. “And yet you still don’t get the message.”

“Speaking of the chief,” I say, “you know the rumor is, he’s on the way out. He was Bill White’s guy, and whichever way the runoff election turns out, the new mayor will bring in somebody else.”

“That’s not a rumor; it’s a fact. The rumor is that the new chief will be promoted from within. This is the first time I’ve heard you talk politics, though, March. What’s the deal? Are you hoping to get the job?”

I laugh. “Not likely.”

“Anyway, I thought I’d bump into you last night, but I saw Charlotte and she said you’d ducked out early. I tuned into the news this morning and now I know why. Which call did you get?”

“West U.”

“The stabbing? Is it a juicy one?”

“No comment.”

One of the waitresses emerges from the Black Labrador’s front entrance dressed in a short khaki skirt and black knee-socks. She doesn’t look too happy with us for sitting outside. I order black coffee and Templeton gets the fish and chips. He cranes around to follow her with his eyes. All for show. He doesn’t swing that way.

“I have a question for you,” I say.

“Good.” He turns back to face me. “I have one for you, too. Which of us gets to go first?”

“Mine’s important.”

“Then go right ahead.”

I put my copy of The Kingwood Killing on the table. He snatches it up with a frown, inspecting the spine. “This doesn’t even look like it’s been read. Have you seen the reprints with the new cover? They did a much better job.”

“There’s a photo in there from the crime scene, remember? Here’s what I want to know. Has anyone ever written to you about that? Fan mail from readers, for example. Have you ever gotten a letter that seemed a little strange?”

“They all seem a little strange,” he says. “I was in the true crime section the other day, and there was this woman flipping through the latest book. At first I was kind of thrilled. I almost introduced myself. But then I actually looked at her, and March, this woman hadn’t brushed her hair for days. I mean, she was scary. I thought, I’ll be writing about you one of these days, sister, and I trucked on out of there.”

“I’m talking specifically about letters. Or emails. Somebody who seemed really obsessed with the details of the Fauk case, or maybe mentioned that crime scene photo specifically.”

He shakes his head.

“Are you sure?”

“I think I’d remember something like that.” He gazes at one of the nearby trees as it shifts in the wind. “The only person who fits that description is Fauk himself. You know Donald still writes to me?”

“You’re on a first name basis?”

“He sends me these long handwritten letters, trying to re-argue every aspect of the book. For a while, after he first read it, he wouldn’t talk to me anymore. During the interviews he thought I was leaning toward his version of events-”

“His version is, he confessed.”

He waves the book at me. “Hey, I wrote it. You don’t have to tell me what happened. The point is, he’s a self-justifying egomaniac with plenty of time on his hands. He writes a lot of letters. He’s frustrated that there aren’t any fan clubs on the outside trying to reverse his conviction. I actually have a letter where he says he’s the white Mumia Abu-Jamal. I should send you a copy sometime.”

“No thanks. But I’m serious about the question.”

My tone gets his attention. He narrows his eyes. “Why are you asking?”