by Jack Wallen
Unfortunately, this morning, I was instructed to give up my morning privacy in order to meet with the chief and hear his unwanted, hot-headed opinion.
“So, you have a little problem working around my opinions, eh?” The chief wasted no time getting to the point. As soon as my foot warmed the floor of his office, his mouth billowed out enough heat to permanently curl my perfectly straight hair. He was spewing fire, and I knew better than to interrupt his discharge.
“I’ve been on this force for eighteen years. I’ve worked with everything from young punks to men on their death beds, and I’ve never had a subordinate as insubordinate as you were on that scene.” He stood up from behind his desk; this was not a good sign. “When you joined this precinct, I was against it. I don’t like the idea of women cops. But my hands were tied. The truth is, you were nothing more than a quota for affirmative action. Everyone on the force thought you were going to be a good cop. You worked hard; you stood for everything a good cop should be. You rose to every occasion, knew every trick in the book, and everyone on the force wanted you as their partner. I assumed it was because you had tits. When I finally cave in to everyone and offer you a case, you come to the scene, and in front of fellow officers, you degrade my authority, insult my intelligence, and push an issue you shouldn’t be pushing.”
Okay, things were bordering on the “huh?” line. All that had happened at the scene was a question of judgment. Nowhere during the initial investigation of that scene had I degraded, insulted, or pushed. The chief was losing what was left of his mind, and I was getting caught in the aftermath.
“I suggest you watch your step, Davenport, before you wind up pushing a broom or cleaning my john after I take a long, painful shit. Now, get out of my office, and don’t ever question my authority again! And before you or anyone says anything, I don’t give a rat’s ass if you are a woman, because in my eyes, the minute you don that badge, you’re no longer male or female, your gender is ‘police.’ You got that?”
The chief’s face was blister-red as I stood to leave. I’m not typically intimidated or frightened by others, but I was quickly making an exception to my long-standing rule. For some odd reason, the chief had me backed into a corner, and I had nowhere to turn except out the yes, sir double door.
“Also, that case is closed. Suicide. Do you hear me?” The chief hammered the last nail in my coffin.
“Yes, sir,” I said, as I slowly backed out his office. I was afraid to turn my eyes away from him. In his current state, he’d either breathe fire down my back or shoot me. I wasn’t sure which, and I didn’t want to find out.
As soon as I felt the cooler air of the world outside the chief’s office, I turned and power-walked back to my own. I picked up the phone and told Skip to meet me at The Usual Coffee.
*****
The Usual Coffee wasn’t your typical coffee house. For one thing, it was a hangout for the majority of intellectual gay men and women in the city. Also, it had the best damned coffee this side of the Ohio River. I liked it because of the coffee, and the clientele made both Skip and me happy. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how lonely I was feeling, this straight and narrow girl was one of the few heteros to discover the taste of this little gem. So, it remained a nice fashionable hideaway for fags and their hags.
With my Fog of War extra-caffeinated black coffee and orange scone in hand, I dropped into the bench seat across from Skip, whose eyes were as big as onions.
“Well, what’s the ‘T’?” Skip couldn’t help speaking in gay when we were in TUC.
“The T is, the boss is out for my ass, and keep your mind out of the trash, Jezebel.” Skip certainly had a way of communicating via facial expression. “He’s laid down his brass on that case. He’s officially ruled it a suicide, and I haven’t even seen any reports or had a chance to look over the evidence.”
“And you’re probably not going to get the chance.” Skip could be so blunt, sometimes.
“No, I’ll get the chance. I’ll just make sure the chief has no idea.”
“Puhlease! That fat bitch has his nose up every ass on the force. And let me tell ya, I ain’t gettin’ nothin’ out of it!”
“Skip, I need your help. I have to know what happened to that man. I can manage to worm my way into the computer lab and see if anything was on the victim’s computer, but I can’t find out if the coroner found anything in the autopsy.” I probably sounded desperate. Of course, I was desperate.
“Let me get this straight, or gaily forward, as it were. You need me to grease the palm of the corner’s hand with whatever will do the trick, so you can see a few sheets of paper and maybe listen to a monotonous tape recording of inane facts about a man’s liver? Is that where this is going?”
“That is where this is going, my friend.” My Fog of War had grown a bit tepid. But it was still morning, and I hated mornings enough to allow myself cold Fog.
“I like your style, Detective.”
We laughed for a moment. I had a funny feeling it could be my last laugh for a while. What was that saying about having the last laugh? I finished off my scone and let out a deep sigh.
“Well, just so’s ya know, the coroner’s palm is way greased, and I already have everything your pretty little heart desires.” With that, Skip pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and slipped it under the table. He loved to play up the drama. His next words came in a hissy whisper. “Just don’t tell ‘em where ya got da goods, or you’ll be wearin’ cement shoes.” He tried to rhyme ‘goods’ and ‘shoes,’ but it came off far too gay for the desired effect.
“My Skipper. Always one with the scene.” The envelope contained a tape. My smile lit up the entire coffee shop. “You scoundrel! One step ahead of moi? I oughtta kiss you right here.” I leaned forward as if I actually might lay a big wet one on his lips, but then quickly settled back into my chair. “But I won’t, ‘cause you’re not my type.” Skip huffed and tossed his best pout at me.
“So, what’s the next move, Lone Ranger?” Skip was playing sidekick for the moment, a rare occasion.
“Well, I’m heading to the computer lab right now to see what I can find out from the victim’s computer. Then, I’ll take a listen to this tape to see if anything out of the ordinary came up during the autopsy.” My day was far from full, but I knew something mundane would come up. Something mundane always came up.
“What about me? What kinda super-sleuthing can I do?” Skip was surprisingly into this schtick.
“Well, I could certainly use as much information on Walter Jameson as you can get. Anything. Talk with his wife and find out if she had any reason to call a hit. Take a look at the libraries; find out what books he read. Hit the clubs; find out where he hung out and who he hung out with. And find out who that mystery person is in that photo.” I knew the last two tasks would spark a fire under Skip’s ass, or his groin; either one was fine.
“Oooooh, I think I can handle that assignment!” Skip’s eyes were alight.
“Remember, the chief has closed the case, so put yourself in stealth mode. No one knows anything. Don’t drop names; don’t ask the wrong people the right questions.”
Downing my last gulp of cold Fog, I stood to leave. There was a ton of work to do, and I wasn’t about to waste any more time.
“Keep your cell on, and your ears open. The chief isn’t going to win this one.” I dropped a buck for a tip and walked out the door. I didn’t typically leave Skip, or anyone for that matter, so abruptly, but I had a determination under my heels that I didn’t normally have. I felt as if I was fighting a war for someone I had never even known. Always the underdog, it seemed. But then, someone had to fight this fight. But whose fight was it? Was it good versus evil, or me versus the chief? It was hard to tell at the moment. I had always liked to think that I was fighting the good fight but, like all other humans, my pride could get in the way at times.
My car was hot. I had left the windows up, and the Kentucky humidity had taken its toll on
the air inside the metal box. I didn’t like to run the AC too much because I had these funny environmental issues. I cranked down the windows and let the hot breeze stir the stagnant air. On the way back to the precinct, I dialed the computer lab to find out if they were ready for me. Saul informed me that his second-in-command, Jason Roberts, would be helping me. I was surprised this was going so smoothly. Maybe there were more members of the force who shared my opinion of the chief? Hell, maybe a coup was about ready to come to the fore.
FOUR
The computer lab was empty, as usual. There was rarely anything that brought these guys to DefCon1. I was actually surprised that getting a server running the geek-treat Linux didn’t bring these guys drooling like snakes in a rat’s nest. But the hacker-boys were nowhere to be found, except for Jason Roberts. I was surprised that Saul had assigned Jason to me for this case. I was used to Saul, and Saul was used to me. We each knew how the other worked, and we had several understandings that would always remain under the table.
But if Saul trusted Jason, then I trusted Jason. He was tallish, nicely built, wore blue-tinted glasses, and had a very warm demeanor. He wasn’t ugly by any stretch of the imagination, and his personality sure didn’t hurt.
I had only worked with Jason directly one other time. I wasn’t sure if it was because I had been working with Skip for so long or what, but during that previous case, Jason came out to me. I have no idea why it happened, but we had been working on digging information out of a machine from a convicted local hacker named warZboi. It had been a long, drawn-out hunt, but it was well worth it.
Late one night, Jason and I were scouring warZboi’s hard drive, and we started chatting about life. The next thing I knew, we were talking about the local club scene. When the conversation turned to our latest dates, his turned out to be an old buddy of mine who happened to be named Mike. It didn’t take too many brain cells to put that puzzle together. Anyway, that little conversation got me in good with the computer lab. I guess Jason felt like he had to dole out the favors to keep me from dishing the dish. Of course, what Jason didn’t know was that I would never tell. After that one night, we never got the chance to work together again, until now.
“Here’s the machine. It’s nothing really special. Dual core processor, gig of RAM, 120-gig hard drive running Ubuntu Linux, and a nicely hacked kernel. I managed to hack the root password, so we can get in and see whatever we want.” Jason had a glisten to him. He tended to work up a sheen when he talked shop. I had found that most geeks were like that. It was endearing. Of course, he was such a nice guy, I just couldn’t help but like him.
“I haven’t really looked at anything other than system log files. Other than that, I figured it’d be best to wait for you.” He flashed a big old smile at me. His teeth were nice.
“Let’s take a look at his email, first.” Fortunately, I knew a thing or two about Linux. I ran the startx command, and the graphical desktop appeared. The first thing I noticed was the wallpaper on the screen. Staring me dead in the eyes was a picture of our Walter Jameson in full femme. I had to admit, the man made a damn pretty woman. His face was lean, with a delicate nose and very sculpted eyebrows. The red bob of his wig was almost too convincing.
The picture looked like the typical Glamour Shot: too posed and too gauzy. Bu the overall effect was inviting.
There were no icons on the desktop. Obviously, Mr. Jameson wanted nothing in the way of his en femme image. I clicked the main menu and saw that he had recently opened his email client. Excitedly, I clicked the application to open it. As soon as the application opened, it landed on the last read email to Walter Jameson.
The email wasn’t addressed to Mr. Jameson, however. Instead, this email was addressed to Jamee Walters and was from Kellee Lee Winter. A part of me wanted to know why the cross-dressing community had appropriated my name. But then, I realized how stupid that very thought sounded and got back to the email. The second name, Kellee Lee Winter, made me feel like I was reading a conversation straight out of the annals of the Grand Ole Opry. Cross-dressers really needed a lesson in naming their feminine selves. I was certain Jamee Walters was the alternate personality for Walter Jameson.
I skipped through all the computer language to get to the meat of the missive. The contents were pretty straightforward:
From: Kellee Lee Winter
To: Jamee Walters
Subject: PLEASE READ ME NOW!
Date: 29 May 2002 22:28:24 -0500
jamee,
please honey, call me. i don’t care how late it is. i’m worried about you sweetie! i miss you and i love you like the sister you are. i know everything seems like it’s a horrible nightmare but you have to understand that this will blow over. you can’t let this get to you. please jamee…call me! I’m going to get off line now honey. if you can’t reach my home phone call my cell. if the phone doesn’t ring in the next fifteen minutes i’m coming over.
your darling en femme,
kellee.
I looked at Jason. We stared at each other for a very long moment. Had we been in a club, it would have been a pickup. “What do you think?” I asked the geek boy before he could ask me. I was still trying to form my own thoughts and didn’t want to seem like I was drawing blanks.
“Well, the first thing I see is a domain that, I’m guessing, is local to Louisville. You see that line that says Received: from there and then says kycrossdressers.net? I’d bet that ky is for our dear home state, and not the lubrication. And, I’d bet Louisville has the only transgendered population in the state large enough to support a group like this. ‘Course there’s only one way to dress a queen…” Jason moved over to his own keyboard and fired up a Web browser. He typed in kycrossdressers.net and sat back to wait for the show.
The show came pretty quickly in the form of a cross-dressers support group. Bingo! The page was pretty typical and had all the trimmings one would expect on a site dedicated to cross-dressing: animated pinup girls, high heels, lace, ruffles—everything necessary for a ladies’ boudoir.
“Here. I’d start here.” Jason pointed to a name. “S’Fonda Heels is the president of this little club.”
“And I guess you think I should just head on upstairs and ask someone to track down one S’Fonda Heels? I’m sure just about anyone up there would love to tackle that job, seeing as how I’m pretty sure S’Fonda Heels doesn’t actually exist.”
“On the net, everyone exists. Just click on her name, and we’ll send her an email. What would you like to say to our good Miss Heels?”
“How’s this?” I typed:
S’Fonda, I need to meet with you regarding the murder of one of the members of the kycrossdressers group. I can’t go into too much detail but your cooperation is critical. Please call my cell at 555-4265.
Thank you
Officer Jamie Davenport
“Looks good to me.” I gave him the go, and he sent the message off into the ether-cloud. “So, what else can we find on this computer?”
Jason went back to the email. Obviously, we had struck gold there once… “It seems that all of these emails came from this kycrossdressers mailing list.” Jason was scrolling through the mail way too fast.
“Hold on a minute. Back it up a few.” As Jason was scrolling, I had noticed something different. It seemed that there was one email that didn’t have the same address line. Jason scrolled up to reveal that I was correct. One email was addressed directly to [email protected]. Unfortunately, the ‘From’ line was blank. “How do we know who it was from?”
“We can trace the line of addresses back to the point of origin. More than likely, though, the sender will have used a re-mailer addy.” Jason was back in his zone.
“A who?” My computer skills only went so far.
“Many people using the network for less-than-ethical means will use a dummy address to make it difficult to track. I’d bet this person did the same thing.” Jason had starte
d to go into the details of re-mailers when my cell rang. It came as such a surprise that it nearly sent us both out of our chairs. I pulled out my phone; the number registered as ‘unknown.’ I hit send and put the phone to my ear. “Davenport speaking.”
The voice was somewhere in that nebulous zone between feminine and masculine.
“Detective Davenport? This is S’Fonda Heels. I heard about Jamee. How horrible is that!”
“Yes…” I had no idea if I should say ma’am or sir. I looked over at Jason and gave him my best what should I say? look. He had no idea what I was asking, so he just shrugged. Fat lot of good he was. I took a stab in the dark and finished my sentence: “…ma’am, it is a terrible thing.”
“I would gladly meet and speak with you if you think it would do any good.” S’Fonda didn’t object to the pronoun, so I must have nailed it on the head.
“Yes, I need to try to understand as much about Jamee as I can. Where are you most comfortable meeting?” I asked.
We agreed to meet at the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church at seven that evening. I would recognize S’Fonda as the only six-foot-five man wearing a black A-line dress, stilettos, and a blond wig. That was good enough for me.
I hung up and breathed a huge sigh. “I’m heading upstairs. I have a few things to do before I meet Miss Heels.” Jason laughed. “Shut up, bitch, or you’ll be going with me.” Jason’s eyes lit up.
“Oh can I?”
“Are you serious?” I couldn’t believe my ears.
“Hell yeah, I’m serious! This is as good as it gets for me.” Jason gestured around the lab. I got his point.
