Bascombe sits at his right hand-or to be more precise, on the credenza over his right shoulder. The lieutenant looks happy, which is to say he looks mean. Satisfied to be playing bad cop to the captain’s good. Back to normal. God in his heaven and the earth in its proper orbit.
“The DA’s office just got a proffer from Bayard’s attorney,” Hedges says. “Apparently the father is ready to go on record against the son.”
“That’s convenient.”
He nods. “Be that as it may, they want our input. Given the trajectory of your investigation, I assume you now consider the arrest of Bayard Sr. premature? It was the son who killed those girls, not the father.”
“As far as I can tell, that’s true. But the father bears some responsibility. At minimum he tried to cover up the son’s tracks. He can’t just walk free by pointing the finger.”
“No,” he says, “but if he’s willing to plead on that, you’re not going to lose sleep, right?”
“That’s your question or the DA’s?” I ask. Then: “Never mind. I don’t care whose it is. I’ll do whatever you want. It’s not my call. Either it goes to the jury or they work out a deal. My bit is done. The real killer sentenced himself.”
“You don’t sound happy about that. Most people around here feel otherwise. Saved us the trouble of going to court.”
Fontenot’s sentiment exactly, talking about Wayne Bourgeois.
I glance down, feeling the weight of both pairs of eyes on me. I went home before coming in, changed out of my reeking clothes. But I still smell the scent of fuel on me.
Whether it’s really there or not.
“He saved us the trouble,” I say. “But I wish I could have interrogated him. Found out what made him tick. For a while there, he was going back and forth with me. I think I could’ve gotten him to talk.”
Hedges sighs. He leans forward, elbows on his desk.
“It’s not knowing that gets you, right? I understand where you’re coming from. But there’s one thing you’re missing. Maybe you can’t put a label on him. Maybe it’s not enough to say he was insane or evil or a product of a bad environment. But in this case, there’s one thing you do know. He’s guilty. There’s no doubt about that. And if you have that much, March, I’m not sure any of the rest really matters. To the sociologists maybe, but not to cops.”
“You’re right about that,” I say. Hoping to believe it one day.
I’m outside the office, listening as the closed blinds rattle against the door, and it occurs to me I made it through the whole meeting without the lieutenant interjecting once. He must be thrilled to have the old boss back. So satisfied he didn’t feel the need to add a single word.
I park near Rice Stadium and walk the rest of the way to the Medical Center. It’s good to be outside, good to be walking, good to be alone. A few joggers dodge around me on the path that runs along University. A few cars zip by on the street, slowing down for the traffic stacked up at the intersection with Main.
Notes to self: Get a Christmas tree. Buy some gifts. Rejoin the normal world.
I pick my way through the Medical Center maze, approaching Ben Taub from the wrong direction. I pause in front of the Baylor College of Medicine, sit on the lip of the fountain, wondering if this is such a good idea after all.
According to my watch, it’s half past six. Charlotte will be waiting, full of news to share, ready to catch up, to have her husband back. It’s less than a week since Bayard broke into the house and nearly killed her, but she’s coping better than me. Not that I’d have any way of knowing, since my solution to the trauma has been to pack her up to Ann’s.
Note to self: Spend a day with Charlotte. Do whatever she wants. Remember what it’s like to be a couple again.
I get up, brush my pants off, and continue the journey, taking the long way round. Inside the hospital, I search for the gift shop, not sure that I’ve ever actually seen it before. It’s closed. I check my watch again. Now or never. Put up or shut up.
“What are you doing here?”
I turn. Kim Bayard stands there, clutching her purse like she’s afraid I’ll snatch it. Her husband, out on bail, comes up behind her, puts a restraining hand on each of her shoulders. He sees me and stops.
“Is something wrong?” he asks. “Is there a problem?”
Fear in his eyes. Fear of what I could do to him. Fear of what I have done.
“It’s probably better if we don’t talk,” I say. “Your lawyer would tell you the same thing.”
“What right do you have coming here? ” She spits the words out, shocking her husband as much as she does me. “What you people did to him is monstrous! It’s inhuman!”
He grips her tight, afraid she’ll slip the leash.
I step back, palms up, too tired to argue who did what to whom.
When I’m far enough off that the curious bystanders start to lose interest, I wheel around in search of an elevator. Monstrous and inhuman. She uses the words like they mean something, like she’d recognize the things they describe. There’s a recording I could play back for her. . but there’s no point now. She knows what she’s been harboring. She knows where the guilt lies. Her guilt is what’s crying out, and not at me.
I know a little something about guilt. I can cut her some slack.
I ride the elevator. I get off. I find a nurses’ station and get some much-needed guidance, then ride the elevator again. The room I’m looking for is at the end of a long corridor. I pass one half-open door after another, names written on whiteboards, the glow of televisions over rumpled bed sheets. I pause at one of the doors and knock.
Reverend Blunt pulls the door open, his finger jammed between the pages of a book to mark the place he left off.
“Detective?” he says.
“Do you mind if I-?”
“No, no,” he says, moving back.
The room is lit by a table lamp. Pinpoint lights blink on the machinery that flanks the bed. Blunt returns to his chair, setting the book down. He stands awkwardly by the rail, leaning forward slightly, hand knotted, as if he’s presenting the patient for my approval.
“Still unconscious,” I say.
“He could wake up anytime according to the doctors. Or not. The family’s been in and out, his mother especially. I told them I’d stay tonight so they could make some long-term arrangements. They’re hoping to remain in town until he’s better, but his dad has to go back to work Monday morning.”
I approach as far as the foot of the bed, pausing there, letting my eyes travel up the immobile form of Jason Young.
“He’s in a coma, but not on life support. Like I said, he could wake up at any time. There could be. . paralysis.” He lowers his voice in case Young can hear. “That’s something they don’t seem sure about, the extent of the damage.”
I listen to all this and nod. Not sure why I’ve come.
“We got him,” I say.
He tilts his head in confusion.
“We got the guy who killed Simone. He’s right here, in this hospital. He burnt himself to a crisp.”
“Where is he?” he asks. “What floor? Maybe I should pay a visit. In a pastoral capacity.”
“I’m not sure you’d be allowed to,” I say, which seems to satisfy his sense of duty. “Anyway, I guess it won’t make a difference to Jason one way or the other.”
“You’re wrong about that. He’ll be glad.”
“Well. .”
“Speaking of which, have you heard? The man who did this to Jason, he turned himself in. Called the police department and confessed. It wasn’t a bar fight at all-you were wrong about that. He was attacked by the man who’d been having an affair with his wife. I guess his conscience got the better of him. Though it’s hard to imagine a man like that having one.”
“It’s not that hard,” I say.
He goes silent, maybe sensing I know more than I’m letting on.