J. Bertrand - Pattern of Wounds

Twenty minutes ago all I wanted was a night off. Now I’m afraid to let up for even an hour, afraid my suspect, the first person I can link to the murders through concrete physical evidence, will slip through my fingers if I don’t keep them clenched.

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

It could be Wilcox ready for another. Bascombe wanting to grill me about Fauk. Charlotte ready to leave Ann’s and come home.

I check the screen. None of the above.

“Hello.”

“I heard about Charlotte. I’m really sorry. And this new homicide. . It looks like you were wrong about the serial killer.”

“What do you want, Brad?”

“I think we should talk.”

“About?”

“For one thing, I heard what happened today. Donald Fauk. The timing is pretty incriminating.”

“Brad,” I say.

“Yes?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Goodbye.”

The phone buzzes again. I toss it next to my briefcase on the seat.

That’s another conversation I need to play back in my head: the call from Templeton when he discovered Simone Walker had been murdered at Joy Hill’s house. If he’d cooked up his serial killer theory with Lauterbach long before, why lay on all the innuendo about Hill? He’d all but labeled her a suspect, and I was gullible enough to follow his lead.

He’s right. We should talk. I need answers about his role in the investigation. And I want to know what was inside the fat envelopes Fauk mailed to him. He took so much trouble to avoid censorship. I need to know why.

I pick up the phone and call him back.

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 15 — 8:00 P.M.

Templeton chooses the rendezvous point, a window table at the Epicure Café on West Gray, a couple of blocks from his house. I arrive as a party of moviegoers push through the exit, heading a few doors down to the bright marquee of the River Oaks Theatre. Templeton waves. He licks some kind of pastry off his fingertips. As I approach, he extends his hand, which I ignore and not just for sanitary reasons. Maybe he’s ready to mend fences, but I’m not.

At the table beside ours, a hirsute man in a brown cardigan flips through the newspaper, tortoiseshell reading glasses across the bridge of his nose. The paper isn’t the Chronicle ; it’s the New York Times . Pretentious.

“I didn’t order you anything,” Templeton says.

He pushes his plate to one side, drawing a foamy cappuccino closer. He’s placed an open notepad on the table. I can’t make out the upside-down writing without leaning toward him, and I’m too proud to do that.

“You lied to me, Brad. About Joy Hill.”

He does a quick breathing exercise to show me how serene he is, releasing a long, cleansing breath. “Everything I told you about that woman was true.”

“You said she was putting moves on Simone Walker, and that resisting those moves was probably what got Simone killed-” He starts to protest, but I cut him off with a swipe of the hand. “Maybe not in so many words, but you strongly implied as much. And all the while, you’d cooked up this alternate theory. You never believed for a moment in Hill’s guilt.”

He smiles. “I’m not the detective.”

“Here’s the thing. You knew-or thought you knew-that Walker’s killing was part of a larger series, and you didn’t say a word about it. Not only that, you intentionally put me on a false trail. I want to know why.”

“When we met at the Black Lab, I had no idea your case would have anything to do with Fauk. You’re the one who told me, remember?”

“You and Lauterbach have been working together for months.”

“I only met him in September. At your cousin’s conference. I already told you this. When I tried talking to you about it, you wouldn’t answer my calls. You didn’t bother until you wanted something from me.”

Everybody lies to the police. In interview rooms, I’ve gotten hardened murderers to open up by playing on their fear of losing control of how the facts will be spun. With the writer, there’s no technique required. He likes talking. He likes to nuance the details.

“Here’s the thing, March. I don’t trust you. If I held information back, it’s because I wasn’t sure exactly what you’d do with it. I’m not interested in helping with a cover-up. I admitted already that I’ve been in touch with Donald off and on. When I was writing The Kingwood Killing , he must have thought I was going to prove his innocence. When that didn’t happen, he made sure I knew how disappointed he was. But he kept in contact, and eventually some of the things he said started to make sense.”

“Like what?”

“For one thing, he made me wonder if I’d gotten Detective Fitzpatrick’s involvement wrong. The way I presented him in the book, he’s basically a buffoon past his sell-by date, trying to unload the Fauk case so he can retire. But he and Donald were pretty close at that point, and Donald says the serial killer angle was solid. They just focused on the wrong villain. Fitzpatrick’s only mistake was fixating on the Railroad Killer.”

“You really believe that?”

He glances through the window at a passing couple. “It seems to fit.”

“And what about Fauk’s confession?”

“When I look at the transcript of the confession, it’s obvious the man’s not right. All that stuff about having to murder his wife so that he could meet someone new and father that little girl. Like it was destiny. That’s more than just a proud father talking.”

“A proud father.”

“They’ve stopped visiting him,” Templeton says. “The wife and daughter. He’s out of his mind with anxiety. Feels rejected. It’s no wonder he wants to get out.”

I smirk. “Are you aware of the channels Fauk’s been using to communicate with you? He sends his letters via released inmates and pays them off for their trouble. Why do you think he’d go to all that trouble?”

“Maybe he’s paranoid. You people have given him good reason to be.”

“There’s something in those letters he wanted to make sure I never see. Not just me but anybody in law enforcement. He’s afraid the censors will be reading over his shoulder. Now what could possibly be in those documents, Brad? You’re the only person who can answer that.”

“Nothing,” he says.

“Then you won’t mind if I have a look.”

“I would mind, March. Very much. I feel that you’d use the information to undermine the course of justice. For all I know, you’re the reason Donald’s in the hospital right now. Maybe getting the letters from me could be your next step. Cleaning up the loose ends.”

“You sound like Wilcox,” I say. “If you honestly think I’m capable of any of that, then you haven’t read your own book.” I lean over the table. “Of course, I know something you don’t. I haven’t been getting all my information from one source.”

He stares at me. He tries to wait me out. Finally he throws up his hands.

“Are you going to tell me or what?”

“You’ve read the appeal, I assume. One of the things they allege is that the crime lab has conveniently misplaced the DNA samples from the case, so that they can’t be retested. If he was framed, the logic goes, then a new set of tests would bring back a different result. Everybody knows what a joke the DNA section has been, but they’re alleging something worse: corruption.”

“Makes sense. You can’t tell me the missing evidence isn’t suspicious.”

“It’s very suspicious,” I say. “More than you realize. You see, lab results like that are often verified by independent labs. That’s what happened in Fauk’s case. And unlike the HPD crime lab, some of these independents have impeccable reputations.”