J. Bertrand - Pattern of Wounds

“So he decides to take care of business.”

“Exactly.”

He weighs the idea. He slumps forward, elbows on the table. “In which case, Fauk’s been playing me right from the start.”

“That we already knew. And at the risk of repeating myself, the man confessed.”

“People make false confessions all the time.”

“Yeah,” I say, “but they don’t volunteer them.”

“All right, all right. So why are you coming to me with this?”

The million dollar question. “You owe Lauterbach a name. If you find out how Fauk made the connection between McGill and Sallier, you can help him out of the bind he’s gotten himself into. He’s so far out on a limb right now that without one, he’s gonna be picking up the sheriff’s dry cleaning for the foreseeable future.”

“Which would be icing on the cake for you.”

“You think so?” I shake my head. “You really don’t know me, then.”

He pauses. “Fair enough. But you may be overestimating my relationship. If Fauk’s gonna talk, it won’t be to me. Now you, on the other hand-”

“I don’t have any jurisdiction up at Huntsville,” I say, “and with the appeal going, I can’t exactly waltz into Fauk’s hospital room and start asking questions.”

“If you’re right and Fauk’s been selling me a bill of goods, I don’t see what I can do. Now, are we going to eat or what?”

“Bad news,” I say, checking my watch. “I’m going to have to take a rain check.”

“You’re not even buying me lunch.”

“With taxpayer’s money? You’d be picking up the tab either way.” I grab the book and slip it into my briefcase. “There is one more thing.” I withdraw a photo of the inscription Templeton wrote on the flyleaf of Bayard’s copy of The Kingwood Killing . “You remember this?”

He studies the image. “This is the reprint. They did a new one when The Girl Who Forgave Her Killer came out. I’m guessing I signed this at Murder by the Book when they hosted the reading. Or wait. .” He puts the photo down and leans back, checking the ceiling like his memories are kept up there. “You know what? I bet this was at your cousin’s shindig. The reprints were out then, and I was still using my old pen.” He pats the Mont Blanc through his coat. “I splurged on this one before the big night at MBTB.”

“So you remember signing it for him?”

“Not really, but that’s my best guess.”

“This guy,” I say, tapping the image with my finger. “He’s the one who killed Simone Walker and Agnieszka Oliszewski. I guess he’s a big fan of your work.”

It’s a low blow, but considering his unwillingness to right his own wrong, it’s more than justified. I’m halfway to the patio before he calls out.

“March, wait.”

I pause. He snatches the photo and comes after me. “Are you absolutely sure about this?”

“He’s in custody now,” I say. “The homicides are down.”

“And this is the guy who broke into your place and attacked Charlotte?”

I nod.

“You should have a chat with your cousin, then. If this guy is who I’m thinking, she seemed to know him. When I left, she was still there talking to him.”

“About what?” I ask.

He looks at the photo. “I’m not a hundred percent, but. .”

“But what?”

He has to drag the words out, each one a thick link on a heavy iron chain. They rattle down on me with the force of lead.

“ I’m pretty sure they were talking about you. ”

The last time I saw Tammy Putnam face-to-face, my uncle tried to weld us back together with his hand. After the last stroke, he’d lost the power of speech. All he had was one stiff and spotted appendage to nudge through the air.

His meaning was clear, but I just stood there.

My daughter, Jessica, was only a couple of years gone, and I still nursed a savage rage. Bridger once said about me that I was all or nothing, with no capacity for moderation. He said it through a cloud of cigarette smoke after I’d admonished him to quit. He was right. When I hate, I keep nothing in reserve.

Her house in Katy sits on a cul-de-sac lined with basketball hoops, molded plastic tricycles, and a couple of starter cars for teenage kids. In contrast to the lived-in look of the neighboring properties, Tammy’s staid two-story gives off the sterile vibe of a model home. On one side of the yard, a painted-wood Joseph and Mary flank a light-up manger, and on the other a winking, red-nosed Rudolph is poised for flight. But there’s no cheer to the decorations. No reverence, either. They’re just brightly colored surfaces with nothing behind them but emptiness.

I park in the driveway. The front door is slightly ajar, as if she expects me to let myself in. I ring the doorbell. Nothing. I push the door a few inches farther, peering inside.

Tammy stands there in a glittering red short-sleeved jacket, a cheap sequined wrapper for the squarish lump of her body. She holds her hands toward me, her knuckles concealed behind a row of mismatched cocktail rings.

“Roland,” she says. “You actually showed up. Come on in.”

I follow her through an arched doorway into the dining room, recognizing the table and chairs that used to belong to my uncle and aunt. On the table, lined up like soldiers on parade in four rows of three, a series of glossy red bags with rope handles, stuffed to the gills with green tissue.

“You caught me at a bad time,” she says. “I’m hosting a jewelry party tonight, and these are the favors.” She leans over the table to adjust the perfectly aligned bags. “It’s the perfect time of year with all the last-minute shoppers. I just hope I have enough treats here.”

“I have some questions for you,” I say.

“Questions?” She wheels on me. “Questions for me. I can hardly believe it. You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting. But I knew this day would come.”

“I want you to tell me about someone,” I say. “A man named Dave Bayard.”

“Bayard?” She touches her chin in thought. “ Bayard, Bayard, Bayard .”

“He was at your conference. The one where Brad Templeton spoke. Brad signed a book for him.”

She snaps her fingers. “Oh, Bayard . Right. I know exactly who you mean. What an interesting evening that was! You should have been there, Roland, you really should have. I’ve never witnessed anything like it. The conference was such a success. Everybody thought so.”

“I’d like you to tell me everything you talked about with him.”

“We talked about everything . We talked for hours . You can’t expect me to remember it all. And anyway, why are you suddenly interested in my work? You’ve done your best to ignore me up until now.”

She walks me through the kitchen, immaculate and bare, then into an open plan living room as tall as it is wide, where two tapestry-covered wingback chairs and a plush, overstuffed sofa squat below a pendulous brass chandelier. I reach into my breast pocket for my slim digital recorder, the one I use for interviews.

“Oh,” she says, slumping onto the couch. “You’re going to record this?”

“Start at the beginning and tell me everything about Bayard.”

“Everything?” She clears her throat. “Well.” She raises her voice for the tape. “As you know, I’m the founder of an organization devoted to the victims of murder here in Houston.”

“Talk in your normal voice,” I tell her.

“We hold regular meetings for our membership, but a couple of months ago we hosted our first event for the general public. It was an unqualified success, with so many new faces in the audience, so much fresh enthusiasm. I invited Mr. Templeton to talk about his books. We’ve been working together on his latest: a new history of the Dean Corll case. I’m an expert on Dean’s crimes, naturally, so Mr. Templeton thought-”