The Castro '76

by G.P. Field

heard about this character going around killing us all? You know, the one they call the Doodler?’

  ‘Yes, I have heard of this man. Harvey told me about him this afternoon. He attacked someone just recently did he not?’

  ‘Yes… very recently as it happens.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Almost an hour ago.’

  ‘Are you saying that you witnessed an assault?’

  ‘You could say that…’ The man closed his eyes and scratched the back of his head in gesture Israel found eerily familiar. ‘Let me start at the beginning. I’m in town shooting a TV series. You probably know it… anyway… This evening, after we finished up on set, I decided to go out to a little place called the Alley Cat over on Mason.’ He looked up and saw Israel pursing his lips with a frown. ‘Oh, I assumed – being a friend of Harvey’s that you would…’ He leaned in closer and whispered under his breath: ‘It’s a gay bar… I do a bit of cruising every now and then. But I’ll never work in Hollywood again if a scandal rag gets a whiff.’

  Israel raised his chin proudly. ‘You can have confidence in my silence. Please proceed.’

  ‘Well I was over at the Alley Cat, and I was on a bender, God help me.’ He reached for another smoke. ‘There were simply mountains of gorgeous young men on display and I was having myself a good old time.’

  The words just sounded wrong. They were such a contrast to the cultivated public image and the rich, refined voice.

  ‘Anyway, this young man approached me. He wasn’t anything special to look at but he was rather charming. He told me he had been sitting in the corner sketching me. He showed me the picture. It was very good. It showed real talent. He asked me if I would pose for another. I told him sure, as long as I could keep drinking.’ That famous wolfish smile flashed across the living room at Israel. ‘Well, to cut a long story short, he impressed me so much that I accompanied him outside for some air. Just as we approached a nearby park I saw something flicker in the streetlight. It was a knife.’

  ‘So it was him; this Doodler?’

  ‘Yes. When I saw the knife, it all came rushing back to me. I knew the stories of course, so it wasn’t like I hadn’t been warned. I made a break for it.’ The hand holding the cigarette started to tremble.

  Israel suddenly thought he saw a glimpse of the real man beneath all the stardom and the artifice. His heart went out to him. ‘Please, it is fine, you are safe… and there are millions of people who will be thankful for it. Do you think he knew who you were?’

  ‘Please, darling. Everyone knows who I am.’

  ‘Yes, of course… Can you remember what he looked like?’

  ‘Not really, I’m still in shock I think. All I remember is that he was quite plain, quite ordinary looking, not a hippy or a freak or anything, just kind of square.’

  ‘Did he have a moustache?’

  That wolfish grin again. ‘Everyone except you and me has a moustache, babe. No, I, I can’t really remember anything else about him. I couldn’t tell you if his eyes were brown or blue, or whether he was wearing denim or a suit. Only that he looked kind of straight.’ The lightly hooded eyelids dipped towards a heavy gold wristwatch and he unfolded his long frame. He stood, smoothed down his grey suit jacket and patted the top inside pocket. ‘Gotta run young man. Thanks for the friendly ear. It’s been real… therapeutic.’

  Israel walked with him to the top of the stairs. ‘You know you should report this to the police don’t you?’

  The man gave him a charismatic sideways glance and grinned again. ‘You think so? I don’t think you know our police force very well.’

  ‘You are welcome to stay and talk longer,’ added Israel desperately. ‘In fact I would very much enjoy it.’

  ‘Thanks kid, but I got places I need to be. You’ve been a sport though.’ The man’s eyes crinkled and he threw a slow motion play punch towards Israel’s chin. ‘No need to come down, I’ll lock the door on the way out.’

  Israel stood at the top of the stairs and listened to the back door close. He didn’t move a muscle for a full two minutes. Eventually he shook himself and went down to check the shop was secure.

  Back upstairs he picked up his small brown case and warily made his way to the bedroom. He looked around the room, half expecting someone to jump out at him. There was nothing but the big bed. He sighed, placed his case by his ankles and plonked his butt down on the bed.

  ‘Whoa… !’ He threw his arm out as the bed gave way under him. Then it surged back and almost sent him to the floor. He stood and eyed the mattress off with a glare. Carefully, he leaned forward and pushed down. He watched wide-eyed as a ripple of fluid moved out across the bed. ‘Hmm,’ a deep guttural sound vibrated from him. ‘Right you are,’ he said aloud as he moved towards the cupboard. He found spare sheets and a blanket and tucked them under his arm. Then he picked up his suitcase and went out to the lounge. He tucked the sheets into the sofa, moved Roy’s dirty ashtray to the kitchen and unpacked his pyjamas on the coffee table. He sighed as he smoothed out the blankets on the sofa and lay down. Sleep would not come easily tonight, but he had to try.

  The Westin St Francis Hotel stood solid and proud above Union Square downtown. Israel entered and breathed in the old-world art deco ambience of the lobby. He hunted around and found a wood-panelled sign indicating that the American division of the International Criminological Association was meeting in the Oxford Room on the second floor. He ascended via an elegant lift and then followed a stucco-walled passageway to the conference room. Once kitted out with an obligatory name badge and conference pack he entered and began the awkward social ritual of the mingle. The majority of delegates were pasty-looking academics but studded in amongst them he found battle-hardened street cops and their superiors.

  One man stood out above all the rest like an oak tree in a field of corn and Israel felt drawn to him. Not just because of his physical presence, his booming laugh or the way people milled about him like water around a rock, but also because he was the only other person of colour in the room apart from the young lady serving the coffee.

  He read the big man’s nametag. ‘Hello, Don. Pleased to meet you.’ Israel’s hand disappeared into the cool, dark grip of the giant.

  ‘Israel, huh?’ boomed the policeman, squinting down at Israel’s own tag. ‘That the name your momma gave you?’

  ‘Indeed it is. What about you, Don?’

  ‘Don’t you be talkin about my momma Iz-ray-ell, not if you know what’s good for you. What are you anyway, some kind of egg head?’

  ‘Well, yes, you could say that. I work at the University of London studying multicultural policing methodologies.’

  ‘Oh that is fly, my man. Tell me something – you get out on the street much? You know what I’m saying? Cruise the hood, hang with the brothers?’

  ‘I do as it happens. I spend a lot of time with West Indian people on the streets of South London. I’m fairly sure they picked me out of the undergraduates to work on this project because of my skin colour.’

  The big man’s face relaxed a little and he laughed with his eyes. ‘Yeah, I know where that’s at.’

  ‘Don, do you know about this killer, the one they call the Doodler?’

  Don pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow. ‘Yeah… I heard about that cat. What about him?’

  The static of a microphone cut into their conversation: ‘Attention everyone, please take your seats…’

  ‘You got a card or something?’

  Israel shook his head.

  ‘Here, take one of mine.’ The card read Detective Don Sharpe, San Francisco P.D., Homicide Division. It looked like tram ticket in the policeman’s huge hand.

  An usher wearing hotel uniform approached them: ‘Gentlemen, would you care to take your seats?’

  Sharpe moved to the back of the room and took a seat next to a grizzled-looking man in a stained suit. Israel sat down where he was; empty chairs either side of him.

  There were one or two interesting speakers during the morni
ng, including a psychologist and an expert in handling physical evidence. Israel studiously took notes and tried to focus on what was being said, but every now and then he found his focus wandering back to the Castro and the strange killer that haunted the bars at night. At lunch Israel stood next to a man with the name badge that read: Captain James Barnes.

  ‘Hello Captain, I was talking earlier with Detective Sharpe about this serial killer, the one called the Doodler.’ He nodded towards the big detective.

  ‘Huh,’ grunted the senior officer. ‘Don’s not your guy for that. He ain’t got time for pansies. No, I’ll get you the guy you want.’ He looked around the room and fixed on a slender clean-shaven man in a well-fitted three-piece suit. ‘Hey Bart,’ he called out across the room, ‘come over here a minute.’

  Lieutenant Hobart Nelson was an easy-going type and he was happy to chat with Israel about the case. According to Lieutenant Nelson, the SFPD had linked an astonishing fourteen deaths to the same method of killing so far. The man’s eyes darted nervously as he leaned a little closer to Israel.

  ‘But we got a couple of different problems on this one, my friend. First of all, most of the cops in San Francisco consider gays to be worse than the hippies when it comes to bringing our fair city into disrepute. And second, we have witnesses that can finger the killer but none of them wants to admit where they were when this guy sprung a knife on them.’ He crumpled