J. Bertrand - Pattern of Wounds

“She wanted to move out of the house where she was staying. She said the old lady who lived there was crowding her.”

The old lady. Dr. Hill would be pleased to hear that.

“And did you give her the additional cash?”

“I pulled two grand out of the bank and said I’d have some more for her when I could. It’s not like I’m totally liquid, but I have an account where I keep some fun money. Bonuses, that kind of thing.”

In my stack of paperwork, I have the bank balances for Simone Walker’s checking account, retrieved along with the bills she kept in one of her dresser drawers. There are no big deposits from the last couple of weeks, and during the search of her rooms, we recovered no large sums of cash. Her purse was in the bedroom, the wallet inside containing less than a hundred dollars. The money went somewhere. I can’t help remembering all those bags in the closet, all those names of expensive boutiques.

“Did Simone ever talk to you about her husband?” I ask.

“I didn’t know she had one until the old lady told me. She said it was him that killed her, is that right?”

“Simone never said anything to you about him? What about her past?”

He laughs. “Like I said, we didn’t talk all that much. When she quit her job at the kitchen store, we talked about that. She would tell these funny stories about people, imitating the way they talked and everything. She cracked me up with that stuff. But she wasn’t real serious. She was all about having a good time. Even when she was making fun of people, it wasn’t spiteful or anything. She was just being entertaining, you know? Eager to please. Although. .”

“Although what?”

“She was fun on the surface,” he says thoughtfully, like he’s only just working this out, “but underneath she had that damaged-goods, self-destructive thing, you know? And it’s no good hooking up with someone who’s only with you to punish herself.”

“Mr. Epps,” I say, “where were you on Saturday from noon until midnight?”

“Me?”

I wait him out again.

“I was. . My wife and me, we went to Herman Park on Saturday morning. Rode our bikes and everything. I stopped and threw the Frisbee around with some kids. Around two, I had to go into work. I had an open house from two to six. A few people showed up, but no offers. When I got home, she made us dinner and we watched a movie I recorded off the cable.”

“You didn’t see Simone Walker at all?”

He shakes his head. “I tried calling her earlier in the week, but she didn’t answer. To be honest, the last time I saw her was when I pulled the money out of the bank. She met me in the parking lot and didn’t even get out of the car. I passed the money through and leaned in to kiss her, then she was gone.”

“And you’re saying that the only person who can verify your whereabouts on Saturday is your wife?”

He starts to nod, then stops himself. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. You don’t need her to verify anything. Like I said, from two to six I was at the open house. I can give you the sign-up list if you want, and you can ask everybody on it.”

“But after that?”

“After that I went home. I can’t help that, can I? And anyway, what does it matter where I was? I didn’t do this. It was the husband, right? Me, I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ve suffered enough just losing the baby.”

I could tell him there was no baby. I could tell him it was a story Simone manufactured so that he’d cough up the money. Either she’d intuited his weakness somehow, or made a lucky guess. Regardless, she’d gotten what she wanted from him and then stopped returning his calls. Maybe it would comfort him a little to know this. Maybe it would wound him to realize his fertility doctor was right. But it’s not my place to comfort or wound. I get his statement typed up and have him sign it before cutting him loose, leaving Sean Epps none the wiser as he walks out the door.

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 8 — 11:01 A.M.

After flipping his way through my report, his reading glasses low on his nose, Hedges gives me a steely-eyed, penetrating once-over. Bascombe perches on the credenza behind him, arms crossed, glaring for once not at me but the back of the captain’s head.

“I’m a little surprised,” Hedges says.

I shift my weight in one of his cantilevered guest chairs, wishing I was positioned a little more securely-in the case, not the seat.

“There are three possible suspects in there,” I say, nodding toward the report. “The case on Young was shaping up pretty good, but we just don’t have enough. And he’s pretty convincing in the interviews, too. The other guy, Epps, is relying on his wife for an alibi, but I’m guessing she’ll back him up. There’s no physical evidence tying him to the scene, and from what Dr. Hill says, he seemed genuinely shocked to learn of the victim’s death, just like Young was.”

“Maybe you’re giving up too easily on Young,” he says. “The strip club fight puts him somewhere later in the evening, but he doesn’t have an alibi for the murder itself.”

Bascombe’s lip curls downward, but he doesn’t speak.

“There are some lines I can follow up,” I say. “For one thing, I still think it’s strange there were no books in that apartment. Maybe he has a storage unit from when he moved out of the house-?”

“Can I be honest with you?” Hedges says. “I think you’re straining with the Fauk connection, reading too much into the similarities. Maybe if you’d focus more on the concrete facts of the investigation.”

“The facts.” I shift again. “I’ll make a note of that, sir. Thank you very much.”

“Don’t be smart with me, March. If you could charge a suspect on this, I wouldn’t have to sit here and spoon-feed you advice. What I’m particularly concerned about is your third possible suspect.”

“You mean Dr. Hill.”

He adjusts his glasses. “That’s right. I’m a little worried about what we might call the political aspects. If you let the press get hold of the idea that we’re looking at Dr. Hill as a murder suspect, that’s going to look a little dubious, don’t you think?”

“How so?”

He turns to Bascombe, expecting him to weigh in, but the lieutenant keeps his counsel. With a sigh, Hedges struggles for a compassionate tone. “Look, March. This is sensitive stuff at the moment. With the runoff election this coming weekend, you need to be reasonable. We’ve got a candidate in the race who’s positioned to become the city’s first, ah, lesbian mayor.” He glances at Bascombe again like he’s worried he got the term wrong. “And the other side is really playing up that angle in a negative way.”

“I see.”

“You’re looking at me like a deer in the headlights. Marcus, help me out here.”

Bascombe clears his throat. “Here’s the concern, March. The captain doesn’t want a headline in the papers saying ‘HPD Names Prominent Lesbian as Homicide Suspect.’ That would look political.”

“I don’t plan on going to the Chronicle with anything.” The words come slowly, which is how you talk when picking your way through a minefield. “And I’m not naming Dr. Hill as a suspect, not at this point. We have her prints outside, but it would be stranger if we didn’t. There’s no indication that a sexual relationship existed between Dr. Hill and the victim, and for that matter, Dr. Hill says the rumors about her orientation are groundless. So even if we found the bloody knife hidden in her nightstand, I would hardly call her a ‘prominent lesbian.’ ”

“ That’s not the point ,” Hedges snaps.

“It’s what the media would call it, March. Not you.” Bascombe stares at the drawn blinds, looking as disgusted with the conversation as I feel. “I think what the captain is asking is for any inquiry into Dr. Hill’s involvement to wait. After the election, she’ll be fair game.”