J. Bertrand - Pattern of Wounds

Hedges sits back in his chair. “Exactly.”

“So I’ll be free next Monday to investigate one of my suspects?”

“You said yourself she didn’t rise to that level.”

“In the meantime, is it all right if I take another look at Young?”

The captain slides my report across the table. “Be my guest. It wouldn’t hurt if you’d take a page out of Lorenz’s book and close this thing.”

“Assuming the prominent lesbian didn’t do it.”

“You said yourself she wasn’t that, either,” he says. “Now get out of here and show me some police work for a change.”

“Yes, sir.”

I rise to go, but Hedges motions me back into my chair.

“One more thing,” the captain says. “You might have handled that Sheriff’s Department detective a little better.”

“I thought I handled him pretty good.”

“You don’t read the paper at all, do you?” He takes a rolled section of the Chronicle off the credenza and hands it over. “Read the underlined part.”

My eye goes to the headline: SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT HUNTS SERIAL KILLER. According to the article, the murder of a young woman in northwest Harris County in April was the work of a serial killer known to have struck at least once more in the area. I scan the piece for any mention of Simone Walker, but thankfully Lauterbach at least had the good grace not to link the cases publicly. But the implication is clear. A killer’s been operating with impunity in the Houston area with HPD none the wiser, and if he hadn’t made the mistake of striking on Sheriff’s Department turf, law enforcement wouldn’t be on his trail.

“This takes the cake,” I say. “Not that they haven’t pulled this kind of thing before. Seriously, I saw the guy’s case. There’s no connection.”

“That’s not what the ME is saying.”

“You’re kidding, right? Since when does the ME saying so make something true? When they send back your accidentals as homicides, you don’t roll over and take it, so why would this be any different?”

Hedges frowns deeply, shaking his head just enough to suggest pity. “Here’s what I want you to do, March. Listen carefully. I want you to go back to your desk and take a good, long look at this case. I want you to be absolutely sure you’re not missing something here-”

“I am absolutely sure. Lauterbach’s either desperate to unload his case or he’s delusional. Maybe he thinks a cock-and-bull serial killer story will make his name.”

“March, you’re not listening. That’s a problem with you. If it keeps up, I have ways of making myself heard.”

“Fine.”

I reach for the report and head out, sensing Bascombe on my heels. I’m tempted to shut the door on him, but petty little things like that get petty little guys like me in all kinds of trouble. Back in my cubicle, I ball the Chronicle section up and dunk it into the trash bin. Bascombe rests his hands on each side of the gap in the cubicle wall, effectively bottling me up.

“Take it easy,” he says. “I don’t care what some peckerwood from out in the sticks thinks about your case. That’s all coming from the captain, and you’re missing the real issue.”

“What’s the real issue?”

He glances around, then lowers his voice. “The issue is, there are rumors going around about the new mayor promoting from within. And they are more than just rumors. There’s been some back-channel talk, and one of the possibilities floating out there is that if she wins, she might reach deeper than the assistant chiefs to find new leadership.”

“But not. . I mean, she’s not gonna reach that deep.”

“Do you want to tell him or should I?”

“You can’t be serious. Hedges chasing after rank? That’s not him.”

“It’s more than rank,” he says. “But you’re right: it’s not him. At least it wasn’t until now. I don’t know who exactly, but somebody poured the poison in his ear. The campaign maybe, or somebody with connections to it. And now he’s going out of his way to make a fool of himself, which is what that charade yesterday was all about. He thinks he needs to give them a pretext, so they can justify his jump to the front of the line.”

“Are you sure about this?” I say. “We’re talking about Hedges here.”

“He’s making a mistake not keeping ambition like this to himself. People are noticing, March, and that’s gonna cost him. It’s gonna cost us. ’Cause I’ll tell you one thing right now. Homicide can’t do any better than Drew Hedges, but we could do a lot worse.”

I don’t know what to say, so all I do is nod.

“This conversation is between the two of us, understood? I wouldn’t be telling you this in the first place except that if I don’t, you’re gonna keep running afoul of him and I’m not running interference for you anymore.”

He heads back to his office leaving me dazed, feeling the same way I did the first time I realized my mother wasn’t coming home anymore. One of life’s supposedly unshakable foundations breaking open just under my feet.

A phone rings and after a while I realize it’s mine.

“This is March.”

“We need to talk.” The voice is vaguely familiar. “Something big is about to break, and if we don’t get out in front of it, you and me both are gonna get fried.”

“Who is this?”

“March, my feelings are hurt. It’s Charlie Bodeen. Make whatever excuses you have to and get over here. Now would be nice.”

At the party Saturday night, all Bodeen could talk about was the impending doom of Charlotte’s firm. She resigned her partnership years ago, after Jessica was born, and took on contract work for a variety of legal types, but the majority of her hours are still billed to the old firm. According to Bodeen, they’ve lost some bread-and-butter clients during the recession and are now facing serious cutbacks.

“But the cutbacks won’t be enough,” he confided. “That thing’s headed for implosion and you better make sure Charlotte’s aware of that fact.”

Since my mention Sunday morning, when Charlotte dismissed the subject out of hand, it hasn’t come up. I’ve had my hands full, after all.

I decide to humor the man with a visit. Not because I’m overly worried about Charlotte’s employment prospects, but the fact is, I could use the break. Bodeen’s office is in a glass mid-rise on San Felipe not far outside the 610 Loop, and all I can think about during the drive is the change in Hedges over the past few weeks, coming to a head during this case. The lieutenant’s edginess starts making sense. He’s known all along what the captain’s up to, and he’s been doing his best to screen it from everyone on the shift, picking up the slack.

Inside, I consult the board between the elevator doors, finding Bodeen’s practice listed on the fourth. It turns out to be a small suite of offices, just a reception area, a conference room, and three private offices. The secretary tells me I’m expected and leads me straight to the door at the end of the hall.

“Have a seat,” Bodeen says. And then to the secretary: “Close that door behind you.”

One of the walls is glass and the other three are bare apart from some framed degrees and a shelf overflowing with matched legal volumes. The room still has the bare unfurnished feel of his bolt hole in the district attorney’s office.

“I said something to Charlotte,” I tell him, “but she didn’t seem too concerned.”

He stares at me, then blinks. “That’s not what I called you about. I just got wind of something big and what I need from you right now is some reassurance. Because frankly, I’m blindsided by this thing and what I’m hearing makes absolutely no sense.”

“Are you going to fill me in or what?”