by Elaine Viets
“I need to ask you questions about an autopsy you did last month,” I said. “It’s okay, there are no traps. It’s not a high-profile case. In fact, that’s why I’m getting in touch with you. This death hardly made the Gazette at all. All I want is information that’s on the public record.”
“No problem,” said Katie. “My work is stacked up to the ceiling, but I can meet you for lunch.”
I hoped it was paperwork Katie had stacked to the ceiling, but I was afraid to ask.
“I’ll eat lunch with you,” I said, “but not in your office. Tina said her last lunch with you there was disgusting.”
“It was good,” said Katie. “I had the daily special sent in from the lunchroom around the corner, and they have terrific spaghetti.”
“Too bad you didn’t change for lunch. She said those smears on your lab coat looked a lot like the daily special. She lost her appetite.”
“I’m sorry,” said Katie, and she sounded contrite. “I’m so used to my job, sometimes I forget how it affects people. Listen, if we go to lunch today, I’ll trade my lab coat for a nice suit jacket.”
“In that case, the City Gazette will take you to Kemoll’s if you’ll tell me all about the autopsy you did on a female impersonator named Michael Delmer.”
“All right,” said Katie, with enthusiasm. “A great lunch spot. An unusual case, too. I’ll meet you at Kemoll’s about one o’clock.”
She didn’t get there until one twenty, but I didn’t mind waiting. Kemoll’s is an old St. Louis restaurant that successfully survived a transplant to a new upscale location downtown. Now it was a favorite with the business lunch crowd. I sat in a comfortable chair and raided the bread basket while I waited.
I knew it was Katie coming across the room, even without Tina’s description. She looked the way she talked: smart and sensible. She had a no-nonsense brown suit and shoes, short brown hair, and brown eyes. She was about thirty-five, and as they say in her trade, she had “the body of a well-nourished well-muscled Caucasian female.” These weren’t gym-rat muscles. Katie played softball and pool. She drove a pickup truck, kept a big old dog, went deer hunting, and made her own gourmet deer jerky, which was so good the city kids in her office lost their reservations about eating Bambi. I’d never guess she was a doctor until she revealed her guilty secret: she loved golf with a passion that bordered on, well…the pathological.
We didn’t discuss the autopsy until after we finished lunch. Katie held back out of courtesy so her shoptalk wouldn’t spoil my grilled swordfish. It wasn’t until the coffee came that Katie pulled the autopsy report out of her black briefcase. I looked at it curiously.
“Never seen one before?” she said.
Never. The report was fairly thick. The front page said it was “an autopsy on the body of Michael Delmer by medical examiner Kathryn Granito.”
It also said, “In my opinion the cause of death was anoxic injury secondary to strangulation.”
The manner of death was homicide. There was one more piece of page one news: The body had “an absence of genitalia, mutilated after death.” At that bit of information, my swordfish did a flip-flop. The rest of the report explained how Katie reached those conclusions. She gave me the highlights.
“A homicide detective was present for the autopsy, but he was an old hand, so I didn’t have to worry about him passing out. He told me the victim had one arrest for prostitution and one for loitering, but nothing in the last two years.
“The victim was strangled and the genital area was mutilated after death. Both are usually signs that it was a sex killing. But I’ll get into that later. On the gross examination I noticed gynecomastia,” Katie said, turning the pages in her report.
“What’s that?”
“The guy was starting to grow tits. That’s not such a big deal, no pun intended. Some textbooks say up to forty percent of normal men have palpable breast tissue…”
“What’s that mean?” I interrupted again.
“You can feel it,” Katie said.
“I think those same figures are true for women,” I said.
“Certainly true for me,” she said. “Anyway, a number of things can cause enlarged breasts in men. It can be a deficiency in testosterone. An increase in estrogen. A number of drugs, legal or illegal. Marijuana can give men bazooms, did you know that? I like to tell guys that little side effect of the weed.”
“That’s a reason for men to just say no. Might get women to say yes, though,” I said.
“The other causes aren’t as much fun. Tumors, like some lung cancers, and hyperthyroid problems can give men tits. Alcoholism can do it, too.
“Anyway, I did some checking on this guy to find out why he had breasts. The lungs, adrenals, and thyroid were normal. There was no evidence of marijuana use. The liver looked normal—no sign of cirrhosis.”
“He wasn’t an alcoholic,” I said, brightly, like the A-student I used to be.
“Nope. When I did a tox screen I didn’t find any drugs, but there were estrogen metabolites in the urine. Since there were no liver problems, adrenal disease, or tumors, and since the victim was dressed in women’s clothes, it’s real possible the guy was a transsexual, taking estrogen in preparation for a sex change operation. Which is what the cops guessed when they found the body. But we aren’t allowed to guess until we rule out the other possibilities first.
“I couldn’t examine the penis and testicles because there wasn’t much left of them. The victim had been stabbed in the genitals seventy-eight times—at least I think so. There were so many cuts, they were hard to count. That’s what we call overkill.”
I nodded and watched the waiter pouring more coffee. I thought his hands shook. But maybe not.
“When someone is stabbed multiple times, it’s either drugs, money, or sex. The assailant is frustrated: he can’t get his drugs, he can’t get sex, he can’t get his money. There was no bruising or blood around the stabbing area, so the mutilation was done after death. There were no defense wounds on the victim’s hands and arms, which is another sign it was done after death. I guarantee if you go after a live guy’s gonads, there will be defense wounds.”
“What was he stabbed with?”
“A small knife. A few of the marks seem to have been up to the hilt and running parallel to the blade marks. There are indentations of three millimeters on one side and seven on the other.”
Katie caught my blank look. “That means it was probably a pocket knife. I can tell you that, but I couldn’t swear to it on the witness stand. It could also be a kitchen knife or a small hunting knife, but I did notice those two ridges on either side, where the other blades would come out on a pocket knife. So my educated guess is a pocket knife.
“There was no sperm on the victim, so it’s probably not some weirdo getting his jollies—unless he used a condom. Because of the overkill, I’d say the mutilation was done in anger.
“The victim was strangled, and that often has a sexual motive, too. He was strangled with his own chiffon scarf.
“The assailant fractured the hyoid bone. That’s the horseshoe-shaped bone in front of the larynx that protects it. There was hemorrhage and some bad bruises.
“Strangulation is not a way you want to go. The cop told me the victim was a pretty little blonde, but not when I saw him. His head turned purple, his throat was bruised, and there were fingernail marks on his neck.”
“The killer scratched him?”
“The victim did that to himself, trying to claw the scarf off. I checked the fingernails for hairs and stuff, but I didn’t come up with anything.”
“Could a small person strangle the victim?” I asked. At least I’d have some idea of the size of the killer.
“Easy. The guy only weighed a hundred pounds or so. Besides, if you get really mad—and whoever killed this guy was raging—you can strangle almost anyone. If you got mad enough, you could strangle a big guy like him,” Katie said, pointing to our waiter. He backed away from the table.
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“I think that’s the end of the coffee,” I said.
“Just as well, I have to get back to work,” said Katie.
“One last question. Who claimed the body?”
“His mother. Now there’s a piece of work. I’d like to carve her up—and she’s still alive. You wouldn’t believe the scene she made when she identified the body. The whole place was talking about it. Kept yelling, ‘The shame! The shame!’ At first everyone thought she was saying what a shame that her son died so young. Turns out she was ashamed of the way he died. He embarrassed his mother by getting strangled and thrown in a Dumpster.”
The mother of Michael Delmer, also known as Maria Callous, the Ass with Class, lived in the suburb of Florissant, which was the end of the earth, as far as I was concerned. It took me forty-five minutes to drive to her house, and that’s about the outer limit for a St. Louisan. I didn’t have an appointment. I was pretty sure she wouldn’t see me if I tried to make one. Maybe I’d get lucky and find her at home. Maybe I’d get luckier and find her gone.
The North County suburb started as an eighteenth-century French settlement. I liked the Old Town, with its ancient brick houses in mellowed soft shades of red. But most of Florissant was a sprawl of much newer ranch houses and split-levels, built in the sixties and seventies. Florissant had one other distinction: It was also the home of one of the newest Catholic saints, Philippine Duchesne.
Michael/Maria’s mother lived in a newish ranch house off Shackelford Road. But she had plenty of old-time religion, too, and she proudly displayed it. The small front yard had a concrete statue of the Virgin Mary by the carport. The birdbath had a smaller St. Francis, with a concrete bird on his finger. A couple of pint-sized concrete angels perched in the gutters. I wasn’t sure I’d want any angels of mine in the gutter.
The pale gray house with the black shutters had a wrought-iron eagle over the red front door, so I knew Mrs. Delmer was patriotic as well as devout. I rang the doorbell, and she answered. At least, I thought it was her. She was a small, trim, fiftyish woman in red stretch pants, a white turtleneck, and a red cardigan sweater. She wore enameled flag earrings and a red-white-and-blue belt to complete the ensemble. Her hair was set in a Jackie Kennedy pouf.
“Mrs. Delmer?” I asked.
“Yes?” she said, inspecting me like the dubious package I was.
“I’m with the City Gazette. I wanted to ask you a few questions about your son.”
“Son?” she said, her voice shrill and hard. “I have no son.”
“Michael Delmer?”
“He was no son of mine,” she said. “I cast him out. He was an abomination.”
“Please, Mrs. Delmer. Could I come in for just a few minutes?”
She opened the door. I wasn’t surprised. I figured she’d be one of those people who liked to complain about how much they suffered.
The door opened straight into a living room. The place was so clean you could have performed surgery on the coffee table. The white ruffled Priscilla curtains were starched till they crackled. The blue braided rug looked like it had never been walked on. The milk-glass lamps with the ruffled shades were dusted and gleaming. I sat down on a blue Early American couch. She took the Early American recliner.
“You are quite a collector,” I said, surveying the knickknacks on every surface. I’d never seen so many dust collectors in my life, and they didn’t have a speck on them. She must spend hours dusting them. Mrs. Delmer proudly showed me her bronze, crystal, and china eagles. We stopped at a hutch full of Precious Moments figures. I also couldn’t help noticing all the religious statues. Mrs. Delmer’s religion was red-blooded: The statue of Christ had a squishy-looking bleeding heart, crowned with thorns. The picture of the Virgin Mary had swords run through her heart. The Christ on the cross had blood running down his arms from the nails, and deep gashes on his forehead and side. Her religion didn’t offer much comfort, but what comfort was there for a woman whose son wanted to change his gender?
I figured it was time to get to the point. “When did you first notice Michael was different?” I asked.
“When he was six. I caught him dressing up in my clothes and hats. He even wore my lipstick. I knew it was unnatural. I beat him with a belt. I never caught him at it again, but I suspected he still did it. I would find a dress hanging inside out or a sweater folded wrong. I tried to reform him, but it didn’t work. I made him play manly sports. I forced him to join the Scouts. I even sent him to the seminary, hoping the priests would straighten him out. Instead of finding God, he committed mortal sins with his fellow men. The seminary asked Michael to leave, you know. Because of his…his…because he was…”
“Because he was gay?”
“Those deviants have perverted everything, even that perfectly innocent word,” she said. She sighed, then continued bravely. “But I guess it’s the modern way to excuse sick and diseased individuals. Yes, Michael was a homosexual. And he dressed like a woman. What did I do to have such a perverted child? I gave him a good Catholic education. Why did God punish me with this unnatural son? I always obeyed the Church. I didn’t use birth control, you know, because the Church forbade it. When I married, I promised at the altar I would do my wifely duty and care for any children God gave me.”
Wifely duty? Mrs. Delmer made it sound like she made a deal with God and he delivered defective goods.
“I didn’t see Michael for several years. I heard he was living with a roommate and dancing in those filthy clubs as a woman, Maria Callous. I was ashamed, but at least if he went by a woman’s name, the neighbors would never find out. I’d always hoped he’d reform. Like St. Augustine’s mother, I prayed and prayed for him to abandon his sinful life. Then one night, about two years ago, he called me. It was after midnight. He said, ‘Mama, I’m in trouble. I’ve been arrested.’
“I asked what he’d been arrested for, and he said, ‘Prostitution.’
“My son! A common prostitute. I was mortified. And he wanted bail money. He said he was scared because he could get raped in jail. I told him he was a disgusting creature and deserved what happened to him. If he dressed like a man he wouldn’t make himself a magnet for carnal desires. People who are raped bring it on themselves by the way they dress,” she said firmly. “Besides, you can’t rape a moving target.”
Oh, my god. I didn’t think anyone still thought that way about rape. Especially women.
“I disowned him then and there. I told him never to call me again. Then I hung up on him. God was with me. The arrest didn’t get into the paper.”
More likely, the devil got into the night police reporter, and he missed the item. Or it was cut for space.
I wondered if Mrs. Delmer knew she’d lost her chance in the maternal saintly sweepstakes when she locked her son out of her life. St. Augustine’s mom didn’t give a hoot what the neighbors thought—and she certainly wouldn’t have let her wayward son get jumped on in a jail cell.
“For two years, I had peace. Then two police officers came to the door, fortunately in an unmarked car, and told me Michael was dead. They wanted me to identify the body. It was horrible. Horrible. I was so ashamed that any son of mine would die like that.”
“Like how?” I didn’t mean to interrupt her, but I couldn’t figure out why being strangled was shameful.
“Wearing makeup and women’s clothes! I had to ride all the way downtown with those policemen, and they knew what he was! What must they think of me! And then the story got in the Gazette. How much more could a mother bear? At least your paper never printed his name. I talked with your nice managing editor, Mr. Harris, and he agreed not to do another story about Michael. There’s some decency in this world. I just thank God his father was dead when it happened.”
I bet Mr. Delmer was glad he was dead, too. Anything was better than a life sentence with this woman.
“I gather you’ve never accepted your son’s lifestyle?”
“It’s not a lifestyle. It’s a defilement of the body,
which is a temple of the Holy Spirit. The Church says sex should only be used for procreation. He shall be cast into a pit of fire.”
What an understanding mom. “Do you know who your son was dating at the end of his life?”
“I know nothing about that filth. I don’t want to. I know he was living in a flat in South St. Louis. His roommate packed up his things for me. I had them burned.”
“Cast into a pit of fire?” I said. I couldn’t resist.
“I was afraid of disease,” she shot back. Mrs. Delmer looked at me shrewdly. After that smart remark, I was no longer welcome, no matter how much I admired her eagle collection. “It is time for you to go. I am confident you’ll never write about this. Mr. Harris assured me there would be no further stories on such a revolting subject in his family newspaper. I know nothing about Michael’s life. I don’t want to. I only buried him to save myself public embarrassment, and because burying the dead is one of the Corporal Acts of Mercy.”
She walked me to the red door. Just before she shut it, Mrs. Delmer made one last effort to get my sympathy. Her lips quivering, she said, “You must understand. Michael was my cross to bear.”
Mother and son were even, then. I was sure she was Michael’s cross.
Back in the car, I was so angry I was shaking. I speeded through the side streets to the highway, anxious to get away from that house. What an awful person. What a waste of time. I’d sure learned a lot from that visit: poor Michael/Maria had a real ball-breaking bitch for a mother.
Why the heck was I throwing my time away on this wild-goose chase? It wasn’t getting me any closer to who murdered Ralph and Burt. I couldn’t even write about what I’d discovered. Mrs. Delmer had my number: That nice Mr. Harris would never permit a story about Michael Delmer/Maria Callous in his paper.
But Ralph thought it was important, and Ralph was dead. Did he die because he knew something? What was it? Maybe there was a connection between this female impersonator and Ralph’s death, but for the life of me, I didn’t know what it was. I’d at least talk with Michael’s roommate and manager. I owed Ralph that much. Then I’d put the whole thing aside. I had a column to write.
