J. Bertrand - Pattern of Wounds

“It’s about Donald Fauk. Remember him? The guy we put away for butchering his wife and running to Florida with his new girlfriend?”

“I remember, Charlie.”

“What do you know about Donald Fauk filing an appeal?”

My mental gears make a grinding sound. Did I wake up this morning in an alternate universe? First my homicide is reclassified as the work of a serial killer by some boondock detective who can’t say well without putting a p at the end. And now Donald Fauk, who dictated a free and uncoerced confession of his crimes into my recorder, is filing an appeal?

“Is this some kind of joke?” I ask.

“Not in the slightest. It’ll be officially filed this afternoon. Now, tell me everything you know about the case. New developments, everything.”

“What new developments? There’s nothing. What could there be? Over the weekend I had lunch with Brad Templeton and he had a few things to say about Fauk. They’ve kept in contact apparently, and he claims Fauk is trying to start some kind of fan club on the outside.” The pulse in my temple starts to throb. “Look, I’m no lawyer, but you’re gonna have to explain to me how a guy who confesses on tape to the crime in excruciating detail turns around and appeals. On what grounds?”

He consults a legal pad on the desk in front of him, where a page of illegible notes has been scribbled down. “Number one, there’s some evidence that’s gone missing. They wanted to retest the DNA samples from the scene, saying your match came out of the same crime lab that self-destructed a couple of years later. They requested the samples, and according to HPD that evidence is no longer available.”

“DNA testing can be destructive-”

“No,” he says. “There were samples left, only now nobody can find them. Defense theory? You guys destroyed the evidence to make sure it couldn’t be retested.”

“That’s not true, and it’s also not enough for an appeal-is it?”

“Here’s the second thing. Apparently, Nicole Fauk’s murder is being looked at as part of a serial killer investigation.”

Lauterbach. I showed him The Kingwood Killing to dissuade him from making an impossible leap, and all he did was insert another link into his serial killer theory. But the story in the Chronicle said nothing about the Walker case, let alone Nicole Fauk. Where would Donald Fauk’s attorneys have gotten hold of this?

“Since when?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I found out ten minutes before I called you. All I know is, they had paper down at the courthouse and it’s about to be filed.”

“There’s this detective, this Sheriff’s Department guy,” I say, and then I tell him about my visit from Lauterbach, which requires an explanation of the Walker case and how it supposedly links up with the killing back in April.

“So you gave him the Fauk connection.”

“I gave him nothing,” I say. “And besides, this guy may be an idiot and a snake, but I don’t see him getting on the phone to Fauk’s lawyers and letting them in on the good news. He’s still a cop at the end of the day.”

“All I know is, they’re alleging Nicole Fauk’s murder is part of a larger series and that they have a list of open homicides with identical modus operandi . Since Fauk was in jail when some of these were committed-including the one you’re working on now-he couldn’t have committed them, which means-”

“Which means absolutely nothing because the man confessed. Besides, my open homicide wasn’t committed by the same person who killed Nicole Fauk. The killer imitated the crime scene photo reprinted in Templeton’s book.”

“It does mean something. . because of Number Three.”

“Go ahead,” I say. “Lay it on me.”

“March, that confession you keep talking about?” He looks me square in the eye. “They’re saying they have solid evidence that the confession you obtained was coerced.”

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 11–10:01 A.M.

The district attorney and an entourage of pinstriped ADAs anchor one end of the conference table with an extra rung of associates lined like gargoyles along the window ledge, obscuring the glass-and-steel view of downtown. On the other end of the table, the HPD contingent consisting of myself, Bascombe, Wilcox, and a newly appointed crime lab supervisor crowds one side, elbows touching, leaving plenty of room opposite for Roger Lauterbach and his boss from the Harris County Sheriff’s Department to spread out. Just inside the door, Charlie Bodeen, the last to arrive, sits in a chair he dragged in with him, a wheeled accordion case at his feet. There are no water glasses on the table, and the thermal pitchers of coffee down the middle remain untouched. Most of us are keeping our heads down, pretending to reread bits from the Fauk appeal, even though the details should all be familiar by now.

The DA clears his throat. “Does anyone in this room have something to say?”

Oh, I have something to say, but a preemptive glare from Bascombe shuts me down. You’re not here to talk, he told me. You’re here to listen. Open your mouth once and see if I don’t shove something down your throat.

“Anybody?”

“The conviction is solid,” Bodeen says, waving his copy of the appeal. “And they’re not going to get a hearing based on this.”

“You don’t think so? I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Not having the DNA available for retesting looks bad, but it’s par for the course. If that’s all they had, you’d be right.”

“That is all they have. The rest is speculation.”

The DA turns to one of the lawyers blocking the window, a round-faced woman clutching a stack of papers to her chest, signaling her to commence with some prearranged briefing. She starts talking without looking up from her notes.

“An attempted homicide case went to Orleans Parish Criminal Court twelve weeks ago with the defense arguing that the investigating officer, Detective Eugene Fontenot, had extracted a false confession from the accused. During testimony, several past complaints about Fontenot’s interrogation techniques were entered into evidence, and the jury came back with a not-guilty verdict. I’ve been in touch already with the Orleans DA and NOPD’s Public Integrity Bureau, and there is definitely an ongoing investigation of Fontenot. They’re taking this very seriously.”

Bodeen interrupts with a sarcastic laugh. “So what you’re saying is, if a detective who had nothing to do with my case is accused-not convicted, just accused-of applying the thumbscrews in the here and now, the fact that eight years ago he helped with prisoner transport calls my conviction into question?”

“ I’m not saying it,” the DA replies. “Fauk’s counsel is. And it’s no use arguing your case to me, Charlie. If it was my call, I’d obviously deny the appeal. When we argue this thing, though, my people need to be ready. Either we take this seriously or Donald Fauk will get his shot at overturning the verdict.”

Across the table from me, Lauterbach strokes his mustache. His boss-older, fatter, and grayer than him, but cut from the same cloth-throws his hands up in theatrical exasperation.

“Don’t y’all think maybe we’re jumping the gun here a little? Don’t you want to hear what my people have come up with before going on the warpath? ’Cause I’ll tell you one thing right now: this conviction ain’t worth defending, not from where I’m sittin’. I know y’all got your pride invested in this, but I’ve been through the whole case backwards and forwards and the one thing this isn’t is an isolated incident. This Fauk killing, it’s just one of a whole series of homicides, and if we don’t wake up to that fact, if we start going on TV saying otherwise, then the egg’ll be all over our faces.”