by Jerome Wilde
“You seem rather upset,” I said.
“Frankie was a student at our school,” he replied, not looking at me.
“Was being the operative word,” I pointed out, perhaps a bit cruelly.
“But surely there’s some mistake.”
“We found fingerprints at the scene, evidence that Brother Boniface may have participated in the boy’s killing.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t strike me as a stupid man,” I said.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “I don’t understand.”
“We’d like to conduct our search.”
“You’re saying he killed Frankie?”
“You’re as sharp as a tack,” I said.
“But this is very serious.”
“Oh, indeed it is, Father. Now would you show us to the cloister, please?”
He wiped at his face, seeming to have trouble remembering where he was or what he was doing. He was completely flustered. He took us into the porter’s office, then led us through the cloister door and into their inner sanctum.
“Where do you want to start?” he asked.
“We’ll start with this floor,” I said.
The cloister area, where the brothers and priests lived, was off-limits to lay people, which I knew since I had spent many years in one.
I nodded to Daniel and Grubbs, urging them to get started. They split up, each leading a group of deputies, Daniel going to the left side of the hall to look into the rooms on that side, Grubbs going to the right. I walked with Father Alexius, keeping an eye on all of them and on our own backs.
There was a string of rooms that appeared to be cells where the brothers and priests lived. There were two beds in each. All the doors were open in a way that suggested they were rarely closed. We walked down the hall, passed occasionally by brothers in their cassocks, who gave us odd looks but did not ask what we were doing.
At the end of the hall, we came to a set of double doors.
“Lead the way,” I suggested, motioning Father Alexius ahead.
He pushed through the doors, and we found a small infirmary and chapel, and two more rooms that housed elderly brothers or priests, who looked up at us from their beds and chairs in surprise. There were double doors farther down, leading outside. Daniel went through them, had a look around, and came back inside.
“I told you, he’s not here,” Father Alexius said, his voice shaky.
“We’d like to establish that fact for ourselves, if you don’t mind,” I said.
We walked back down the hall, then up the marble staircase to the second floor, where we found a similar set of cells, and down at the end, another set of double doors leading into a large chapel on one side, and a library and recreation room on the other.
Grubbs, who had his service weapon in hand, went through the doors to the chapel.
“Please don’t take your gun in there,” Father Alexius said, alarmed. He turned to me, his eyes wide.
“We have to look everywhere,” I said.
Daniel followed Grubbs into the chapel. There were places to hide in there, like in the confessional or behind the altar up in front or even beneath one of the pews.
We waited outside until they returned.
We checked the library together.
Nothing.
I couldn’t help but remember other cloisters, other monasteries, other recreation rooms, and what it was like to live with a group of men. It was not an altogether unpleasant experience. It had made me feel safe. It had made me feel part of something, as if there was point and purpose to my life, and while I liked that feeling, I certainly paid a price for it.
We went up to the third floor, then the fourth, but there was no sign of Earl Whitehead. Instead, there was a military sort of cleanliness and order everywhere we looked, from beds with the sheets pulled so tight you could bounce a quarter off them to bathrooms that were ancient and yet immaculately clean, as if no one dared use them. St. Konrad’s was certainly running a tight ship.
We went back down to the ground floor and met up with the rest of the officers, who had searched the other wing housing the boy’s school, classrooms, and dormitory, as well as the main chapel and the refectory, kitchen, the showers, and the janitor’s closet. They had come up empty-handed.
Earl Whitehead was not to be found.
VI
FOR about two hours, Daniel and I conducted interviews with the brothers, not one of whom seemed to know anything about anything. An altogether amazing display of collective ignorance.
“It’s a start,” Daniel said as we drove back to Kansas City. It was getting dark and it had been a long day.
“All we’ve got is a fingerprint on a statue,” I reminded him.
“We’ve also got Alan Dobsen,” he pointed out. “The kid who was crucified and then hung himself in the choir loft. The crucifixion thing—just too much of a coincidence.”
“True,” I replied. “But that doesn’t mean Whitehead is our killer. They sell statues of saints—Whitehead could have touched one. That’s all. Whitehead may have given it to the kid, for all we know.”
“But he also went to Kansas City on Friday,” Qo pointed out, “which puts him at the scene of the crime during the time frame of the murder.”
“That may be,” I said, “but Whitehead is gone now.”
“He’s a fugitive.”
“Exactly.”
“What’s your point? I don’t get it.”
“With Whitehead having gone to ground, St. Konrad’s is off the hook.”
Qo made a plane motion over his head and said, “Whoosh.”
“Who’s ultimately responsible?” I asked.
“I don’t get you.”
“I’ve seen it before,” I said rather angrily. “Right-wing nutters, militia types, spewing their rhetoric, protected by freedom of speech. And when one of their followers goes a bit too far… well, what then? They’re off the hook. Freedom of speech. They have the right to say what they want, but they’re not about to be held responsible for the consequences.”
“And that bothers you.”
“Of course it does. I get tired of treating the symptoms rather than the disease.”
“Disease?”
“Never mind.”
“I’m just trying to understand.”
“Waco,” I said. “Think about it. It’ll come to you eventually.”
“That crucifixion punishment thing,” Daniel said, “wasn’t exactly a big deal. They didn’t actually nail the kid to the cross.”
“I know,” I said.
They had tied the boy to the cross after putting a crown of thorns on his head and giving him a good lashing. Then they had raised the cross in the sanctuary of the church and left him to hang for an hour as punishment for breaking the rules. The boy had willingly submitted; failure to do so would have resulted in his expulsion from the school.
“It’s still child abuse,” Daniel said.
“Perhaps.”
“But it is.”
“There’s a thin line between religious practices and child abuse. Christian Scientists don’t believe in medical treatment. If their child shares their religious beliefs and doesn’t get medical treatment, well, the child hasn’t committed a crime.”
“Some of those parents have been sued.”
“Yes. But it’s tricky. Freedom of religion gives you a broad scope to do a lot of things that might be considered abusive. Catholics go to Jerusalem and do the Way of the Cross on their knees—they walk the whole distance down on their knees, which must be horribly painful. If their kids want to do it too….”
“That’s a lot of hooey.”
“That’s freedom of religion.”
We drove in silence for long minutes.
Darkness had fallen completely now. The headlights made a swath of bright light on the interstate.
It was hard to sit in the same vehicle with Daniel Qo and not glance at him from time to time, wishing he
would take his shirt off, wishing we could get naked and do the hokey pokey.
Juvenile thoughts. But he had roused something in me I had thought was long dead. Lust? Perhaps. Or was it just the need to be close to someone, to touch someone, to be loved, to kiss, to feel the warmth of human skin, to give in to attraction and desire and wistful abandonment?
I was glancing at him when he glanced at me. I took my eyes away quickly.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said.
“About what?”
“About you.”
Oh.
The general down below throbbed to life.
“The other night,” he went on, “I did what I did because I wanted to. I wanted you to know that. I wasn’t just playing.”
Oh.
“You liked it, yeah?”
I could not bring myself to admit it.
“You old queens are such prudes.”
“It was different when we grew up,” I said in my defense.
“The love that dare not speak its name,” he said. “Get married, have some kids, stop at a public bathroom and stick your tallywacker in a glory hole. The good old days!”
“It was different,” I said. “We didn’t just go around advertising. Besides, I’m not that old. I grew up in the seventies, and the sexual revolution was well underway.”
“This is the nineties, baby. Things have changed.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“So… what do you think? Should we do it again?”
“Do what?” I asked rather needlessly.
“You know,” he said.
I said nothing.
We drove in silence. Daniel grinned to himself and fiddled with the radio. A mile down the road, he pulled into a rest stop and parked some distance away from the other cars.
“I’m horny,” he said, switching off the ignition.
“And?”
He smiled.
“Here?” I asked. “In a parking lot?”
“No time like the present.”
There were three other cars in the parking lot next to the restrooms. In the darkness and shadows, no one would see us unless they came right up to the car.
“We could go inside,” Daniel suggested.
I had never had sex in a public restroom. The thought of it first offended me, then intrigued me. It was risky. It was a little scary. It was… exciting.
“You’re not serious,” I said, frowning at him.
“Live a little,” he replied with a smile.
He got out of the car. I followed him to the bathroom, stood next to him at the urinals while we waited for the man inside to leave. When he did, Daniel took me into one of the stalls. He sat himself on the toilet, facing me, pulled at my belt and undid my pants.
I was nervous, but also highly aroused. It was so unlike me to be doing such a thing.
He pulled my underwear down and grasped my cock in his hand while smiling up at me. Without a word, he began to lick at it.
“You brought condoms?” I asked.
He nodded. The breath caught in my throat. I was being reckless, foolish. I could be fired for such activity. I wanted to pull away, zip up my pants, but instead I moaned and pushed my cock deeper into his mouth.
Oh Christ!
He undid his shirt, removed it hastily, then pulled off his undershirt and piled his clothes in his lap. He was such a gorgeous man: Beautiful, strong, lightly muscled. His jet-black hair had a silky feeling to it. I buried my hands in it while thrusting my hips forward.
Why did this guy make me so horny?
He put a hand on my belly, which made me even hornier. He rubbed at it, let his finger draw circles around my belly button. I buried myself in his warm mouth, trying not to groan too loudly as ripples of pleasure drifted up my belly and into my chest.
God, but he was good.
My pants began to fall down around my knees. I didn’t care. Didn’t care at all. Let them fall to the floor and be visible to anyone who might walk in. All I wanted, at that moment, was the feeling of my sperm squirting inside his mouth while he drank it down like a good boy. With a practiced hand, he slipped a condom on my cock. He then put his hands on my hips, encouraging me, pulling me close so my dick could penetrate increasingly deeper into his open jaws. As I started to cum, I grabbed his head and held it fast.
Afterward, I stood there for long moments, breathing heavily. I became aware, suddenly, of where I was, of what we were doing. I bent down to pull my pants up. He kissed me. Then I was kneeling on the floor, kissing him, holding him.
He stood, pulling me with him.
“Don’t get too crazy,” he cautioned.
I pulled my pants up. I put my arms around him, pulling that warm body close to my own. He sniffed at my neck, wrapped his arms around me. He suddenly seemed small, fragile, vulnerable, reminding me that I was the older one, the “man,” the one in charge.
I shuffled us around so I could sit on the toilet while he stood in front of me. I fumbled with the belt to his pants. He helped. A delicious golden-brown surprise popped out of his shorts.
Cock. God, I had missed it. There was nothing I liked more than cock, especially fat, generous ones like this one. I looked at it for a long moment, mesmerized by its primal, primordial beauty. It was like a talisman, a totem pole, a summing up of my whole life in one symbol: cock. Glorious cock. Maleness, manhood, muscles, moist mouths, the spurting of semen, the drinking it down, the joy of gay sex.
I stuck my tongue out, tasting that dick. I put my lips around it, then used my tongue to rub against the lower tip. He waited patiently for me, standing at attention like a private before his sergeant.
I went down on him slowly, taking his whole length into my mouth, opening wide. Like riding a bicycle—you never forget. Open wide, watch the teeth, breathe through your nose.
It was wonderful. He pushed his hips forward slightly. I took all of him. I reached my right hand around behind him to feel at the smooth, silky skin of his ass. That would be next, I thought—that plump, brown ass. I’d dribble a little K-Y between those ass cheeks and go to town. But that was for another day.
At the moment, I had my hands—and my mouth—full.
Daniel let himself be serviced. This was obviously not his first time. He knew how to stand, how to hold himself, how to steady himself, how to keep his dick in my mouth while thrusting his hips back and forth. His fingers eased themselves into my hair, gripping it, holding my head in just the right place as his hips moved in a hypnotic rhythm. Then one of his hands slipped underneath the back of my shirt and down my back. He curved his body over me, reaching down as far as he could.
His cock was a good six inches, very fat, very hearty. It was ramrod straight and tasted like autumn. He pushed until it was at the back of my throat, then pushed some more. I swallowed it down. He pulled back, letting me suck at the entire length of it before renewing his thrust.
I wanted to taste his cum. Crude, but the truth. I wanted to feel that hot assault on the back of my throat as the jizz sprang from his cock. There’s nothing quite like that feeling—to know you’ve been successful, you’ve pleased your partner, you’ve swallowed down his essence, that he’s completely at your mercy, that you could, if you wanted, bite down and chew his dick off. It’s a level of trust that’s hard to duplicate in the real world. It requires you to stick your most intimate parts into the jaws of another man and hope for the best.
“Do you want me to wear a condom?” he asked. “I’ve just been tested. I’m negative.”
I ignored him. I wanted cock. I wanted cum. I wanted all the messiness of sex.
He became suddenly more intent, more insistent, thrusting himself forward, caught up in the stirrings of an orgasm about to burst loose. I responded by opening my mouth wider to accommodate him and his rapid, urgent thrusts. He groaned rather too loudly. He rubbed at his belly with his free hand. His other was on the back of my head, holding me in place.
Come on, I thought. Come to papa!
And, with a gasp and a shudder, he did. I fought the gag reflex as semen suddenly shot out of his pecker. It was warm, gooey, delightful, a little salty, a little tangy. Both his hands were now gripping my head. His body was trembling. I squeezed his balls gently—I wanted him to empty them completely and let me drink down every last drop.
Reluctantly, I allowed him to pull himself away.
He stood there, completely unembarrassed.
“God, you’re good,” I said.
“I know.”
VII
I TOOK a shower that evening and went straight to bed. I was not hungry, certainly not hungry for conversation or interaction with my mother. I locked the door to my bedroom and put my service revolver under my pillow. Just in case.
I tossed and turned for a long time, thinking about my mother, about Daniel Qo, about the taste of his semen in my mouth, the taste of his skin, his cock, the smell of his pubic hair. It made me horny and randy all over again.
No good would come of it, I thought. Homicide detectives having sex, working the same cases—no, no good would come of it. It was too distracting. And if the relationship went south….
What relationship? I asked myself. Sex is not a relationship. Sex is sex. But, being the romantic, old-fashioned kind of guy I was, sex always meant love was possible too. I had never been able to divorce myself from that way of thinking. It was hard for me to have sex with someone I didn’t love, or didn’t believe I could come to love, in time. Sex for its own sake had never been of much interest to me, certainly not the way it was to my gay compadres out there in the bathhouses of the world. Sex with someone you loved—that was magic. Sex with someone you hardly knew—that was animal. It felt good, but afterward it felt bad, as if it punctuated your loneliness and aloneness.
Sex, sex, sex. Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. What was I getting myself into now?
It seemed I had only just fallen asleep when the phone rang and Daniel Qo said he was standing outside my house.
“There’s been another murder,” Qo said excitedly.
“What?”
“Come on, man. Get a move on. I’m parked in front of your house. We’re going back to Chillicothe.”
