J. Bertrand - Pattern of Wounds

“So he’s in the hospital?” she asks, struggling to take in the news. “And you’re certain he didn’t hurt her?”

“The last I heard he was out of surgery, but he hasn’t regained consciousness. And I’m fairly confident he was not involved in your daughter’s death.”

“Should I. . should I wait, then? For the funeral? He’d want to be there.”

“I’m not sure what to tell you, ma’am. I believe his injuries were quite serious. From what I gather, he might never wake up.”

“All right, then. I just want to do whatever’s right.”

“Of course.” I listen to the sound of her breathing. “Candace, tell me something. Did Simone ever say anything about being watched? Did she think someone might be observing her, a peeping Tom or something like that?”

“Not that she ever told me. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow, all right? Unless something comes up, I’ll make a point of being there. And I will keep you informed if we have any developments.”

Saying so makes me feel better, but Candace Walker gives no sign of being reassured by the words. She rings off with the same uncertain tone she had at the beginning. Lost in a world of the familiar where nothing makes sense anymore. I’ve been there. I know.

With some help from the computer I track down an address and telephone number for David Bayard Jr., who has an apartment in College Station, about ninety miles northwest of Houston. I leave a message for him to call me, giving him my cell number. If the semester at the University of Houston, where Dr. Hill teaches, is winding down, then A amp;M is probably in the same situation, meaning David Jr. might already be back in Houston for the Christmas break. I’d like to get his story before approaching his stepmother or his father.

Aguilar calls in from Dearborn’s with an interesting tidbit.

“I got a list of everything Bayard tried to move through the consignment dealer,” he says, “and the dealer told me why the collection was being liquidated. According to him, Bayard’s wife put her foot down. She wanted all the knives out of the house, or she’d walk. That was his story, anyway.”

“From what I’m hearing about the wife, I don’t see her issuing ultimatums. Any sign of Knife 29 on the list?”

“Nope. The dealer said he’d remember one of the bowies. March, these things sell for over two grand, you realize that? For a knife?”

I thank him for the effort and promise to return the favor sometime.

Glancing at the clock, I see it’s past six. Apart from my early morning field trips to Dearborn’s and the offices of ESG, I’ve spent the better part of the day in the office. Easing out of my chair, I shake the numbness from my legs. I could clock out, head home, and go straight to bed. Eight hours of sleep would do me a world of good right now, and I’ve pushed the ball far enough forward that I could steal them without guilt.

The lights inside Bascombe’s office are dim. The captain’s door is shut, the blinds drawn.

I decide to go for it. I’ll swing by Bridger’s place to check on Charlotte, then get my head down for some much needed, hopefully dreamless sleep.

Grabbing my jacket off the back of the chair, I remove my side arm from the desk drawer and holster it. I head for the exit with my chin tucked, not glancing around for fear of making eye contact with anyone who could fault me for leaving. I’m safely through the door and into the hallway before I hear my name called.

“March!”

Stephen Wilcox bounds toward me from the far end of the corridor, his pale cheeks flushed, his blond eyebrows knit together, one of them cockeyed from a childhood scar. I’m half tempted to slip through the doors of an arriving elevator. The look on his face promises nothing good. I stand my ground.

“What’s the matter, Stephen?”

“Can I have a word with you?” he hisses, taking my arm in his hand and pushing me across the elevator’s threshold. He waits for the doors to shut. “The days of me covering for you are long over, compadre. I’m not going to lie for you anymore.”

“Okay. You wanna tell me what this is about?”

“It’s about Fauk, what do you think? They’re gonna put it all together, March, and when they do, they’ll figure out you were there. . even if I don’t volunteer the information. So there’s no upside for you if I don’t, and plenty of downside for me. I’m just warning you that it’s coming. Not that I owe you even that much.”

“Stephen,” I say, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He pauses. The elevator doors open. I follow him into the ground floor lobby.

“This morning,” he says, “somebody slipped a shiv into Donald Fauk.”

I stop in my tracks. “You’re kidding.”

“In the breakfast line,” he says. “Fauk’s standing there, and somebody comes up and starts stabbing him. Some kind of metal rod, sharp on one end and wrapped in tape. Six or seven wounds, I don’t know exactly. He was rushed to the hospital. They had to re-inflate one of his lungs.”

“Is he gonna make it?”

Wilcox throws his hands up. “How do I know? The point is, you went there. You go to Huntsville, and forty-eight hours later, somebody tries to rub him off the board. Do you have any idea how that looks? With your reputation?”

“Calm down,” I say. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“That’s not how it’ll look. And if I don’t come forward, if they find out I knew in advance what you were doing, do you know what they’ll do to me?”

I can feel a twitch in my eye, which I try to smooth with my fingertips. He really believes this. He really thinks I’m capable of putting a hit on someone, of solving the problem of Fauk’s appeal by putting a word in someone’s ear, setting murder in motion with the snick of a homemade shank.

“Get real,” I tell him. “If you think I had anything to do with this, you’re insane.”

“Cause and effect,” he says. “You go there, he gets stabbed.”

“Pure coincidence-”

“ Coincidence! Right. I’ve got to tell them, March. I have no choice. I hope you can see that. If I don’t, I’ll look just as bad as you.”

I take a step back to let a uniformed sergeant slip by. He moves between us like a blind man, purposefully taking no notice.

“You’re making a scene,” I tell Wilcox. “Look, do what you have to do. I’m not going to argue with you. I went to the pen to see an informant. There were corrections personnel in the room. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

I turn my back on him and head for the parking garage. I don’t check my six until I’ve cleared his field of vision. Wilcox is a lost cause. He can’t see past his own suspicions and I’m tired of taking responsibility for them.

Down in the lot, I toss my briefcase onto the passenger seat and slide behind the wheel. I snap my seat belt into place, then turn the key. The engine roars to life.

Fauk has been stabbed. He’s in critical condition.

In my head I go over my conversation with Coleman, checking it for inconsistencies, for any line I might have uttered that could have been taken in the wrong way. Peter O’Toole asking his knights who’s gonna rid him of Richard Burton’s troublesome priest. But there was nothing like that. Besides, Coleman’s not the kind of inmate to shank someone, and he doesn’t have the juice to have it done by proxy.

I put the car in drive. I put it back in park. I sigh.

My eyes burn, the lids heavy with exhaustion. Eleven days. That’s how long I’ve been running on this thing, pulled from one break to the next, taking aim at suspect after suspect without much more than hunches to go on until now. There was a time when I cleared cases fast, when nothing slipped past me, when I could work the endless hours without them ever catching up. Not anymore.