J. Bertrand - Pattern of Wounds

Bascombe checks out as soon as the meeting breaks up, but the ADA lingers, rearranging the paper in her legal briefcase.

“We have a friend in common.” She smiles. “Charlie Bodeen.”

“You know Charlie,” I say, stating the obvious.

“He took me under his wing from day one, pretty much taught me everything I know about prosecuting a case-all the stuff they don’t cover in law school. He told me about your situation. The Fauk appeal, I mean. There’s been a lot of talk about it in my shop, I’ll tell you that. Especially now. With Fauk in the hospital.”

“I see.” I shift in my chair, trying to remember whether she was in on the district attorney’s confab, whether she saw Roger Lauterbach’s slide show. “And does this talk include the fact that I went up to Huntsville last Sunday morning?”

She nods. “But Charlie says you’re not involved.”

“That’s nice to hear. Last time I saw him, he didn’t look too happy with me.”

“Well,” she says, “his exact words were, ‘Even March wouldn’t be that stupid.’ But he was very emphatic.”

“That’s more like it.”

She’s working up to something, only I can’t tell what. A couple of detectives flash by the conference room door on their way to the coffee concession. She glances over her shoulder, waiting for them to get clear.

“Look, March, I don’t know whether you’ve been keeping with the Sheriff Department’s serial killer investigation-”

So she was there.

“-but there’s been an interesting development. Remember Raúl Guzman, the original suspect in the Fauk murder? The Sheriff’s Department was looking at him for their serial killings, they told this story about him taking a construction crew to Lake Charles and getting rousted by the local police for trespassing.”

“The girl by the swimming pool. I remember.”

“It turns out there’s a little problem with the identification. The Raúl Guzman who got mixed up with the Louisiana police is not the same Raúl Guzman interviewed in the Fauk case. They’re both in construction, they’re both around the same age, but only one of them has a record-and guess what? The original Guzman? He’s doing federal time at the pen in Beaumont on a smuggling beef. He’s three years into a ten-year jolt, which lets him off the hook for at least a couple of those murders.”

“And Lauterbach knows this? He said he’d interviewed the man personally, so I don’t see how a mistake like that would slip past him.”

“It did,” she says, “and now the sun’s not shining as bright on his theory as it was a week ago. Bringing in a serial killer case with a suspect pretty much in cuffs is one thing. But putting the public on notice, announcing a Swimming Pool Killer and then not being able to catch the guy? That’s another story. Not to mention, the number of victims keeps getting whittled down. You heard about Tegan McGill’s parents? No? Well, they got wind of what the Sheriff’s Department is up to, and they’ve had a civil case going against her husband forever. Now they’re threatening to sue the county for helping him get away with murder. It’s a regular circus back at our place.”

I’m tempted to open up to this woman, to tell her what I know from Templeton about the origin of the serial killer hypothesis in Fauk’s letters, to clue her in about the independent lab’s missing samples. But I can’t substantiate the first claim and the second is already in good hands. And whatever else he might be, Lauterbach is still a cop. As much as I want his house of cards to fall, it won’t be me who does the demolition. Not behind his back, anyway.

“What’s on your mind, Detective? You look like you’re about to say something.”

“No,” I say. “It’s nothing. I was just thinking. .” My voice trails off.

“Thinking what-?”

I hold my hand up for silence.

The idea snuck up on me while I wasn’t looking. A connection so obvious I should have seen it right off. Am I missing something? I check the fittings and touch the wires together. And they spark.

Of course, of course, of course.

“I think. .”

“Yes?” she says.

“I think I know what happened to Donald Fauk.”

Her face lights up. “Lay it on me, then.”

“I’m sorry.” I give her a bashful smile, scooting my chair back. “I’m not going to say anything until I’m sure. Nothing to a prosecutor, anyway.”

The Mitsubishi rolls across the gravel parking lot. Brad Templeton slides out of the driver’s seat. He casts a nervous eye over the sweaty Mexicans enjoying Tecate and enchiladas for lunch. He frowns at the ice house’s corrugated facade, perhaps a little too authentic for his liking. Passing through the diffused sunlight into the shade of the open patio, he pauses to let his vision adjust. Tejano music blares from a stereo atop a stack of milk crates. He winces visibly at the sound.

I motion him to the table, patting its knife-scarred surface to entice him over.

“How do you even find places like this?” he asks.

“When I was in uniform, I used to live in places like this.” My weathered briefcase slouches against the table leg. I reach under the flap and produce my newly purchased copy of The Girl Who Forgave Her Killer . I slide the book across the table. “You never did sign one of these for me.”

“Are you serious?”

I reach into my jacket-a gray Donegal tweed, according to Charlotte, whose father seems to have had a thing for tweed-and produce a metal ballpoint. He rolls his eyes a little, then reaches into his own coat pocket for a fat Mont Blanc fountain pen, which makes a scratching sound across the page. I inspect the inscription, then close the book with a smile.

“I’m going to give you something,” I say. “A chance to redeem yourself.”

He frowns. “I’m listening.”

“I told you about the way Fauk was smuggling those letters out. But I may have been wrong about the reason why. I thought he was trying to avoid the censors. Maybe corrections was the least of his worries. Prisons leak like a sieve, and I think he had a secret that needed keeping. That secret’s what put him in the hospital.”

“Go on.”

“It was one of Fauk’s letters that connected Tegan McGill and Mary Sallier, right? And when you mentioned this, Lauterbach added Ramona Sanchez to the list. Here’s my question: how did Fauk put those names together?”

He shrugs. “Maybe he hired a private investigator.”

“There are easier ways when you’re in the penitentiary. People talk.”

“Meaning?”

“Think about it. Did somebody talk to Fauk? Or did somebody talk to somebody who then spilled everything to Fauk? Assuming Lauterbach is correct about the Sanchez murder tying in, then you’d be looking for an inmate who went inside sometime between her death in April and whenever Fauk posted that letter in September.”

“Wait a second,” he says. “You’re telling me the real killer is already in jail, and he decided to open up to Fauk about it?”

“Last Sunday I went up to Huntsville to have a talk with Coleman, a guy who’s helped me out in the past. He put me onto the smuggled letters, but apart from that, he didn’t have much to trade with. So I asked him to come up with more. The thing is, he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed. I think he must’ve asked the wrong person some questions, or tipped off somebody who could put the pieces together.”

“But even you didn’t know about Fauk connecting the cases, not until I told you.”

“No,” I say, “but all an interested party would have to do is check up on the details of Fauk’s appeal. My visit to Coleman must have been the catalyst. The bad guy got wind of it, and as far as he was concerned, Fauk was shopping him in exchange for some kind of prosecutorial consideration.”