J. Bertrand - Pattern of Wounds

He’s holding back on me. I can tell.

“About what?” I ask.

“I thought it would be about writing,” he says, “but instead he had a lot of questions about the Fauk case.”

He’s holding back all right.

“And this was when?”

“A couple of months ago. I can check if you want.” He opens a web browser on the computer and starts typing an address, which the software finishes for him. A lurid banner loads first: FOR THE VICTIMS, in red lettering, with a hack-job montage of black-and-white photos underneath, teenage boys from more than thirty years ago, some with buzz cuts, some with long hair. Underneath, in white on a black background, a column of text headed with THE HOUSTON CANDY MAN TERRORIZES THE YOUTH, a grainy photo of Dean Corll floating in the middle.

“What is this?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

Templeton scrolls down, revealing my cousin Moody’s school photo circa 1972. He looks like such a kid, even though I remember him as much older, practically grown-up. The text is littered with blue hyperlinks, so much information packed onto the page, so many old pictures, giving the material an almost psychotic intensity. Conspiracy theory sites always look like this, the form itself a stinging refutation.

At the bottom of the page is a contemporary photo of Tammy, Moody’s older sister, and a schedule of events listing bimonthly meetings at the public library branch in Katy. The meetings are news to me.

“There,” he says, clicking on the link for September’s meeting.

A photo of Lauterbach, innocuously smiling, pops up along with a blurb about a multimedia presentation titled Catching Corll: Lessons for Law Enforcement . According to his bio, Lauterbach has “a special certification in the investigation of serial crimes,” which probably means he sat through an in-service training with a bunch of other bored cops.

“This morning I endured one of his multimedia presentations, and let me tell you, I did not enjoy it. For one thing, I couldn’t help thinking you’ve been keeping things from me.”

“It’s not like that,” he says.

“I showed him your book, Brad. I gave him the link between Fauk and the case I’m working on. And I find he knew about it all along. You could’ve warned me what this guy was up to-and don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

“You’re right, I did. And I would have said something, but. . you’re hard to talk to, you know that? You don’t listen.”

“I’m listening now.”

“Roger was working on a case,” he says, “and the details reminded him of another murder from a couple of years ago. When he read The Kingwood Killing , there were some similarities there, too. But obviously Donald Fauk had already been convicted, so how could there be a connection? I put some questions to Fauk-”

“You what?”

“In a letter. I asked him to clarify some things. He sent me back some newspaper clippings from the trial in New Orleans, the one where Gene Fontenot is supposed to have threatened that kid into confessing. He said that’s what happened to him, too. There was no point in telling anyone because they wouldn’t have believed him.”

“So how come I didn’t hear about Fontenot until today?” I ask. “That was three months ago, right? And you never said a word to me. You didn’t mention it Sunday, either. I asked you to check for strange correspondence and you didn’t say a word.”

His face reddens and he rotates his chair away from me.

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” I say.

“I did some checking, March, and there were more cases. A lot more. Women stabbed to death, their bodies left in swimming pools, bathtubs. . One of them, this girl in San Antonio, she was decapitated, March. Her head was left floating in a fish tank.” His voice trembles with emotion. “Always the same pattern: the woman alone, the knife, the water. And I started to realize what it meant. I started to realize the mistake I’d made.”

“You made a mistake all right-”

“No, you made it. You made it and you sucked me in. You used me, March. You told me your stories and I believed them.”

His wet eyes bore into me, the accusation sharp enough to cut. I take a step back. I can’t help it. The pure rage of an idealist betrayed. I hadn’t realized until now what a façade Templeton’s world-weary act really is.

“Brad,” I say, softening my voice. “You don’t understand. There’s no connection between these murders. The DA said it himself. There’s a lot of women, a lot of knives, and a lot of water in this state, and having the three of them together. . it’s a coincidence.”

“There aren’t any, though, March. You said it yourself. Everything’s connected. And anyway, one or two or three of these cases, that could be coincidence. Four, five, whatever, but twenty? Twenty-five? That’s straining credibility, don’t you think?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Trust me. The guy who killed Simone Walker, he has a certain signature, a certain style, that is worlds away from cutting heads off and putting them in aquariums.” Just saying it, I’m tempted to laugh. “Lauterbach is obsessed, so he sees the links he wants to see. You’ve given him a gift, you know that? I’m guessing before he met you, he spent a lot of time daydreaming about a case like this, wishing he was hunting the great white whale instead of one sad domestic call after another. Now he’s giving PowerPoints to the district attorney and his boss is seeing nothing but dollar signs and headlines.”

He listens with sullen resignation, crossing his arms almost like he’s hugging himself. I can tell I’m not getting through, but I can’t stop arguing. Until now, I had no idea the scale of the disaster. This isn’t one rogue deputy throwing a roadblock into my path. Templeton did all the legwork, making Lauterbach’s serial killer fantasy come true, and he handed everything over to Fauk’s legal counsel, too. Which can only mean one thing.

“Brad,” I say. “You do know Fauk’s guilty?”

“ How can you even say that? ” he shouts, coming right out of his chair. “Did you hear a word I just said to you? Fauk was in jail when most of these murders were committed. You put him there, and I made you a hero for doing it.”

“Calm down, Brad.”

“Just get out of here, all right? I’m done with your questions.”

“I still need more-”

“If you want more, make sure your Texas Monthly subscription is up-to-date. You can read about it with everybody else!”

“You said before I used you, but you got it wrong. Fauk’s the one using you. So is Lauterbach. And you’re letting them do it.”

“Get. Out. Now .”

This time I use the front door, crossing through a pair of cacti and giving the rocks a good kick, sending one of them along the concrete and into my car door. Serves me right. I toss it back and get behind the wheel, conscious of Templeton’s face in the front window. Part of me wants to go back inside and shake him until he sees reason. But if his raw show of unaccustomed emotion tells me anything, it’s that he’s a true believer.

He was stringing me along before, telling me what he thought I wanted to hear. Not leveling with me because, in his eyes, I’m tainted. He really thinks Fauk is innocent.

And that I’m responsible for putting away the wrong man.

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 11 — 4:30 P.M.

Back in October, the city clocked a streak of days without a single homicide. Every morning we’d sit hunkered by the phones waiting for the inevitable call, only to have it not come. Two, three days. Four. Five. We kept ourselves busy with open cases, knowing the respite wouldn’t last.