J. Bertrand - Pattern of Wounds

“That’s it.”

I keep a USB hard drive on my keychain for moments like this. “Can you copy this stuff over for me?”

Once the transfer is made, we find our way back through the building quietly, saving the debrief for the privacy of the car. Light rain dimples the windshield.

“So what do you think?” I ask.

“I’d say it cuts in his favor. If we’re looking for a calculating, methodical planner, this behavior doesn’t really fit. Why would he go through all the trouble of orchestrating that scene if his next play was to tie one on and pick fights in a strip club?”

“Well, he could have been blowing off steam. After so much controlled activity, he needed some kind of break.”

“But the killing is the release, right? After that, how’s a stupid punch-up gonna give him a high? It don’t make sense to me.”

“No,” I say. “Me, either. But he was lying to us.”

“Everybody lies to the police, but that doesn’t make them murderers. If a guy like Young, who makes himself out to be so upstanding, saving money and going to church and even working for that reverend, is at the same time getting drunk and blowing money on strippers, maybe he’s not gonna come clean about it without some pushing.”

“All right, then. I guess we’d better push.”

Before he’ll talk to us, Reverend Curtis Blunt insists on a guided tour through his facility, an uninsulated steel-framed warehouse with corrugated walls and a warren of nicely appointed offices in back. His silver mane sits high on his head, shellacked in place and rendered stiff by a large volume of hair spray, and he dresses all in black-black Justin boots, black jeans, a black shirt open at the throat, a black leather sport coat-except for the shiny Western buckle at his waist.

Of the four businesses he’s successfully founded in his life, he tells us he sold two and passed the other two on to his sons, freeing himself up for full-time ministry. Then he shows us where this ministry occurs: an elaborate movie set made to appear like a book-lined study with a clear plastic lectern standing in the middle.

“We’re doing a two-camera shoot these days,” he says, indicating the tripods set up at opposite edges of the stage, “and we’re doing the cuts in real time back there behind that glass.” A window at the rear of the room reveals a darkened control center, much more elaborate than the bank of monitors at the Silk Cut.

Next, he takes us to the duplicating room, where stacks of DVD cases are lined up along a row of folding tables. On the wall hang a series of artful portraits showing Blunt in action against the blurred backdrop of the set we’ve just witnessed. Blunt with a raised finger in the air, an open Bible clutched in his other hand. Blunt with eyes closed, hands folded in prayer. Blunt waving the Bible above him, almost as if he’s a quarterback cocking his arm for a pass. He sees me looking at the photos and smiles.

“Take a couple of these,” he says, pulling some videos off the stack. “Just so you get a feel for what it is we do here.”

In his office, place of pride is reserved for a pair of massive Frederic Remington bronzes: a cowboy straddling a bucking bronco and a stampede of bison. Again, Blunt smiles as I take note of them, though he stops short of offering me one.

“As a man of God, I have an obligation to cooperate with your investigation, but I’ll tell you this right now: you’ve got the wrong end of this thing. A man of my experience doesn’t get where he is in life without being a good judge of character, so I can say this with absolute certainty. Jason Young did not harm his wife.”

“You can’t actually vouch for his whereabouts after you left here Saturday morning, is that correct? That would have been before noon.”

“Before noon, that’s right. I’m not saying I was with him, Officer, just that I know him. Believe me, I have looked into that young man’s heart on many an occasion, and what I’ve found there is a great deal of confusion and a great deal of misery but a complete absence of guile.”

Aguilar gives one of his impassive nods, which Blunt takes as encouragement.

“There were problems in that marriage, I can tell you. When a couple is unequally yoked like that, strife is inevitable, and naturally I’ve been called upon to counsel many young people in that predicament. In Jason’s case, though, the difficulties were particularly acute on account of the girl’s background and temperament.”

“How well did you know Simone Walker?” I ask.

“I only met Simone Young,” he says, emphasizing the last name, “a handful of times, and spiritually speaking she was very closed off, very hostile. Although Jason had his heart set on reconciliation, if I can be perfectly frank with you, there didn’t seem much hope of that, short of a miracle. I counseled him to reconsider divorce, since in my view there were biblical grounds.” Seeing another of Aguilar’s nods, his voice raises an octave. “I’m not one of those old-fashioned Bible thumpers who believes there are no biblical grounds, Officer. Maybe that surprises you.”

“What grounds are you talking about?” I ask.

“There’s infidelity, there’s abandonment.” He ticks them off with his fingers. “I believe both criteria were met in this case.”

“She was seeing someone else?” Templeton’s remarks about Dr. Hill spring to mind again. “You know that for a fact?”

“I don’t know it,” he says. “But I did discern it.”

“I see.”

“When I spoke to Jason, he told me you already knew about the seduction. That’s what it was, a seduction. She thought she could lure him back into her power-and frankly, the boy was weak. Who wouldn’t be, under the circumstances? He believed what he wanted to until she made her mercenary motives too obvious for him to ignore.”

“The woman you’re talking about is the victim of a vicious murder,” I say. “Isn’t there something in the Bible about not speaking ill of the dead?”

“Is there?” he says. “I don’t think so. And I’m not speaking ill, Officer, I’m speaking the truth. That’s what you want, isn’t it? The truth is, Jason was struggling to put back together something that was already rent asunder, and that’s enough to drag any of us down. It is not, however, a motive for murder. He truly loved her.”

“As far as you’re aware,” Aguilar says, “does Jason Young have a drinking problem? ’Cause when we picked him up at church yesterday morning, he looked like he’d spent the night with a bottle, if you know what I mean.”

The question checks Blunt for a moment. He moves behind his heavy mahogany desk, behind the red leather chair, nervously fingering the line of brass tacks along the seat back.

“Consuming alcohol is prohibited by his employment covenant.”

“So you’re not aware-?”

“Listen,” he says. “None of us is perfect. And while I do not condone such behavior, it’s not my place to interrogate the people who work for me about their practices outside these walls.”

“So you have kind of a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy in place?”

Blunt recoils at the term. “I wouldn’t say that at all. If Jason does partake, I’m not aware of it, and frankly, I would be surprised. But as I said, we are sinful by nature, meaning that when we are tempted, we sometimes succumb. I won’t get on a high horse and pretend otherwise.”

“What about violence?” I ask. “Did Jason ever confide in you about any abuse in the relationship?”

“There was some abuse in her past, I understand.”

“I’m talking about now. Did he ever hit her?”

“Absolutely not.”

In the silence that follows, Aguilar signals with a tilt of the head. We’re getting nowhere and it’s pointless to continue. Blunt can’t give us anything but a character reference. I’m half tempted to mention the Silk Cut to him, but I can’t help feeling it would give the reverend more satisfaction than it would me.