J. Bertrand - Pattern of Wounds

After shaving I pull one of my old suits out of the closet, a plain navy one that means business, perfect for the interview I’m planning for sometime today, and a stiff white shirt fresh from the cleaners. Downstairs, Charlotte frowns at my choice while handing me a mug of steaming coffee.

“You should wear one of your new ones, Roland.”

“It feels strange wearing somebody else’s clothes.”

She ignores me. “Say what you want about my dad, but the man had classic taste. Those suits will never go out of style, and they probably cost a fortune to make.”

“I’m sure. What does it mean, though, psychologically, that you’re dressing me in his clothes? Does it mean you have issues?”

“Oh, I have issues.” She pulls her unruly slept-on hair into a ponytail, then climbs onto a barstool to nurse her coffee. “But not those kinds of issues.”

Leaving my cup on the island next to her, I go into the living room and dig behind the books on the shelf next to the television until my hand grazes a dusty paperback. I bring it into the kitchen, wiping the cover on a dishrag.

“What’s that?” she asks.

I tilt the front toward her. Brad Templeton’s The Kingwood Killin g, the mass market edition with the shiny lurid cover featuring the Houston skyline-though the murder of Nicole Fauk didn’t happen downtown-and a kitchen knife dripping with blood, even though the actual weapon was never found. The insert halfway through the book features eight pages of black-and-white photography: Nicole with Donald on their wedding day, Donald posing in front of the Enron building sometime in the mid-1990s, the house in Kingwood they shared. There’s a photo of me, as well, looking grave but eager as I perch on the edge of my newly assigned cubicle in the Homicide Division with the Fauk case file under my arm.

She takes the book from my hands. “You looked good. You still do.”

“I looked young then. Now I look my age. I feel it, too.”

“You’re very handsome and you know it. I would’ve shown you just how much last night, but you stood me up. I had to hitch a ride with some unsavory BigLaw types.” She smiles as she says it, letting me know she was just fine. My sudden exits are part of the job, something she’s learned to take in stride. “Anyway, why the trip down memory lane?”

“See this one?”

I flip the page and show her the crime scene shot, taken from the far side of the Fauks’ swimming pool. Unlike the lap pool from last night, the Fauks had an expansive swath of blue complete with a decorative rock-walled alcove doubling as a waterfall. In the background, the redbrick house looms, the outdoor furniture roughly centered. Nicole’s body floated facedown just under the left-hand lip of the pool, in the same vicinity as where Simone Walker was pulled up over the rim.

Charlotte frowns. “What about it?”

“I took this one at the scene last night.” I grab my camera and pull up the fresh photo. “Maybe you don’t want to see this, though.”

She sighs. “Give it here.”

Charlotte inspects the two pictures minutely, giving no sign that she finds the sight distressing, though of course she must. She has the gift of appearing untouched by shocks, even when they touch her deeply. The things I push to the surface, the things that weather and mark me, she somehow conceals deep down, showing the world a radiant mask, never conceding that it has any power to wound her. I love this about my wife-I envy it-but her control worries me, too. Because sometimes she loses it.

“They look the same, don’t they?” I ask.

“Similar, yes.”

“Not just similar. The scene last night was arranged. The guy who did it, he wanted to make an impression, wanted everything to look a certain way. This is what he was after.” I tap the photo in the book. “He’s seen it. He’s read the book. That picture’s part of his sick fantasy. I’m convinced of it.”

Sighing, she hands the camera back. “A copycat, you mean?”

“I’m not saying he copied the crime, just that it somehow inspired him.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Isn’t it a stretch?”

Now it’s my turn to sigh. “If you ever get tired of corporate law, you’d make a great homicide lieutenant.”

“Ah, it’s like that.”

“Yes it is. Bascombe blew a fuse when I brought it up. Right in front of Sheila Green, who just lapped it up. He’s been testy recently. Butting in where he never used to. I had to keep my mouth zipped the rest of the night, even after he left the scene. But now I look at them and it’s obvious I’m right-”

“Is it?” She rests a hand on my shoulder. “I think you’re forgetting you had the Fauk case on your brain last night. As soon as we got to the party, you disappeared on me, and then I saw you in the corner with Charlie Bodeen. He was the ADA who prosecuted Fauk, wasn’t he? Before he went into private practice?”

She’s right and wrong at the same time. I did hole up with Bodeen, grateful to see a familiar face in that sea of reptiles. He’d been happy to see me, too. Over the past few years he might have gained a lot of weight and lost a lot of hair, but he was the same wisecracking cynic who had put a bruise between my shoulder blades after the Fauk jury came back with its verdict, saying this could be the start of a beautiful friendship. Him and me, putting the bad guys behind bars. Only it didn’t turn out like that. Our first case together was also our last.

“We weren’t reliving the past. In fact, we were actually talking about you.”

Her eyebrows rise. “What about me?”

“I forgot all about it until just now. According to him, your firm is in some kind of financial trouble. It’s common knowledge, he said. There are even people blogging about it.” As I speak, she takes a sudden interest in her coffee. “I told him that couldn’t be right or I’d have heard about it.”

She winces. “You said that?”

“Not really, no. I thought it, though. But I acted like I knew what he was talking about. It would have been embarrassing otherwise.”

“Oh, Roland, I’m sorry,” she says, taking my hand. “The only reason I haven’t said anything is that I didn’t want you to worry.”

“So things must be pretty bad.”

“Bad enough. I’m glad I left when I did.”

“But what about your contract work? Is that in danger now? I mean, I guess you don’t need the money, but still-”

“Nothing’s in danger. And don’t talk like that about money. I love what I do. It’s not about the money.”

“It’s always about the money,” I say.

“You don’t believe in my idealism, is that it? Then why don’t we both chuck the jobs and sell the house. That’s what I’ve been trying to get you to do for forever. We could retire. We could live on what we have and we could travel. Enjoy ourselves.”

“Our twilight years? No, thanks. I’m not ready for the scrap heap yet.”

“Like you said, we don’t need the money.”

That’s not what I said. I said she doesn’t. I never think of her money as mine and probably never will.

“It’s not. .” My voice trails off.

She jabs a finger into my arm, laughing triumphantly. “Exactly! It’s not about the money. That’s what you were going to say. You don’t work like you do for the money, and neither do I.”

“It’s different, though.”

“Why?”

“What I do,” I say, “it doesn’t require an idealist. This job won’t let you be one.”

“Don’t kid yourself, baby. You are one.” She hops off the stool and kisses my neck, slipping past me toward the stairs. “I’ve gotta get ready, too. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re breaking all our plans for the weekend.”