No Good Deed

by Michael Rupured

  “I’m Terrence Bottom. Daniel Bradbury was my best friend.”

  Philip walked over to the sofa and sat beside him. “I’m so sorry, Terrence. I recently lost my best friend too.”

  Terrence studied him with hazel eyes and an earnest expression on a face Philip could only describe as pretty, with delicate features. And that hair. “Anthony is going to find the man who killed him. I’m helping with the investigation. I’m hoping maybe you can help.”

  “Of course, I’m happy to help, and I’m sure Anthony appreciates your assistance.” Wondering if Terrence had eaten yet, Philip asked, “Hungry?”

  “Sure,” he said with a grin. “I can always eat.”

  “Let me put on some clothes and then we’ll see what we can find in the refrigerator.”

  “You do that,” Terrence said, delivering a solid whack across Philip’s backside as he passed.

  He stopped dead in his tracks and pointed his finger at Terrence. “Young man, you just crossed a line.” He paused, noting the surprise on Terrence’s impertinent face, and placed his hands on his hips. “Step over it again, and I will knock you into next week. Do I make myself clear?”

  His stony glare didn’t seem to intimidate Terrence at all. The lamp on the coffee table transformed Terrence’s hair into a golden halo around his head. Philip waited for wings to sprout from the boy’s back, but instead, Terrence thrust out his lower lip.

  “Awww, come on.” Terrence cast his eyes downward, the very picture of humility. “I was only playing.” Then he dialed his angelic smile all the way up and gave Philip a wink. “And you do have a cute butt.”

  Philip went into his bedroom and closed the door, hoping Terrence hadn’t seen the involuntary grin he’d tried to conceal. As he pulled on clothes, he could hear Terrence wandering around the apartment. Once Philip was dressed and had raided the refrigerator for anything edible, he stood before the stove, stirring pans of collard greens and black-eyed peas, wondering why Terrence had sought him out.

  “Hey!” Terrence’s voice came from his bedroom. He walked into the kitchen holding James’s senior picture. “How do you know Rudy?”

  Philip wondered if Terrence was talking about Beau’s friend. “You must have him confused with somebody else.”

  Terrence studied the picture. “Nope. That’s Rudy all right. I’d know him anywhere.”

  “Oh?” Philip decided to play along. “How do you know Rudy?”

  “I know all the hustlers in DC. Rudy works the lunch crowd around the bus station because he studies ballet at night.”

  A wave of dizziness caused Philip to hold on to the stove. The truth nearly knocked him to the floor. Fifty dollars every few months from George wouldn’t pay for half the clothes James brought home. Never mind the expensive jewelry. “I see,” Philip said, his voice barely a whisper.

  He wondered how long James had been deceiving him. Had he ever stopped prostituting himself?

  “Are you okay? You look kinda gray.” Terrence stood beside him, still holding the picture of James/Rudy. Even the name made sense. Rudy, like his idol, Rudolph Nureyev.

  “I’m fine.” The truth of James’s life sat like a fly on his nose. No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, there it was. Philip forced a smile. “Tell me how the investigation is coming along.”

  Terrence set the picture down on the counter and his face lit up. “We know who the killer is, but we can’t connect him to any of the missing boys.”

  “That’s certainly good news. Who is it?”

  “Casper,” Terrence said, his voice certain.

  “Casper?” Philip pushed thoughts about James from his mind and tried to focus on what Terrence was saying. “Casper who?”

  Terrence gave him an exasperated look. “Casper’s a nickname. We don’t know his real name, only that he drives a yellow Continental.”

  Philip’s heart jumped into his throat. Beau drove a yellow Continental.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Terrence asked. “Maybe you need to sit down.” He grasped Philip’s elbow and steered him toward the chair.

  Philip fell into the seat with a thud. “A friend of mine—a high school English teacher—drives a yellow Continental.” Philip thought about Beau’s fear of being found out, his controlling ways, and how he’d run out after seeing the article about Daniel Bradbury. A knot formed in his stomach, and he thought he might throw up.

  “Mr. Carter?” Terrence laughed. “He’s not Casper, trust me.”

  Philip stared at him, hoping he was right. “That’s a relief, considering we’ve spent practically every waking moment together since Christmas. What makes you so sure?”

  Terrence paused. “You and Mr. Carter are dating?”

  Oh God. Are we? “I’d say we were more like friends.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been spending an awful lot of time together.” Terrence scrutinized Philip’s face and seemed to make a decision. “None of the guys know Casper. Everybody knows Mr. Carter.”

  Philip raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, everybody knows Mr. Carter?”

  Terrence blushed and gave him an exasperated eye roll. “Me and Daniel had him for English last year, and we both worked on the Trumpeter with him. That’s our school paper. Mr. Carter is the adviser.”

  Relieved, Philip thought for a minute as some triggered memory struggled to enter his consciousness. What was it? Where had he been when the conversation had turned to the yellow Continental?

  Then he remembered. It was the Mattachine Society meeting. That’s the kind of car Warren said Tripp Clarkson owned.

  “I know someone else who drives a yellow Continental,” Philip said. “A Bible salesman.” For Clarkson to be responsible made sense to Philip. The crazed man was murdering innocent men for his pathetic antihomosexual crusade. “I mean, I don’t actually know him. One afternoon I heard him ranting from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial about ridding DC of homosexuals. The man is obsessed.”

  “He who screams the loudest, that’s what I always say.” Terrence hopped onto the kitchen table and crossed his legs. “Do you know his name?”

  “Tripp Clarkson,” Philip said. “Friends of mine say he instigates police raids and sting operations and then carries the names of the men who were arrested to the Washington Post.”

  “What an asshole!” Terrence exclaimed. “I’d like to grab him by the balls and twist until he sings soprano.”

  Philip nodded his head. “I couldn’t agree more. Still hungry? There’s sweet potato pie in the refrigerator.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ANTHONY PULLED his Triumph Herald up to the curb, grateful he didn’t need to parallel park. His being the only car parked on the quiet residential neighborhood street that evening wouldn’t have concerned him quite so much were it any color but turquoise. If he had to come back again, he’d see about renting a car—a car nobody would notice, some kind of Ford, like a Falcon or a Fairlane.

  While many of the houses were dark, the occupants presumably in bed, lights were on at 971 Hampton Avenue—a Craftsman bungalow in Chevy Chase that was the focus of his investigation. The yellow Continental in Terrence’s photographs—the same car he’d seen outside of Potter’s apartment—was parked in the driveway. From his vantage point a block away, he saw shapes passing in front of windows, but he couldn’t tell much about them.

  He wished he’d let Terrence come along. Resisting his begging and pleading had been a challenge. He was good company and was as determined to catch the killer as Anthony. Surveillance work was boring, and he worried what Terrence might get into, left to fend for himself. But he’d made the right decision. Terrence’s incessant but always interesting chatter would prevent him from focusing on the task at hand. Besides, he was a minor. Though Anthony doubted they’d be in any real danger, he was, after all, spying on a possible serial killer. Better safe than sorry.

  Thanks to Terrence and his little surprise meeting with Potter, Anthony knew the Continental belonged to Simon Pete
r Clarkson, a sanctimonious Bible salesman with a wife and two kids. He grinned. Sanctimonious had to be his biggest word yet. The wife was a bit slim for his taste, but an attractive woman in a prim and proper way that made him suspect that Clarkson had something in common with the john Terrence had told him about whose wife wouldn’t suck his dick.

  The thought reminded him of his lunch date with the woman he’d be seeing again, soon. His grin widened and he chuckled. Life without a good blowjob now and then hardly seemed worth living. Fortunately, that was something he no longer had to worry about.

  The more he found out about Clarkson, the more certain Anthony was that Clarkson was up to something scurrilous, if not nefarious—and nefarious wasn’t even one of today’s words. At this rate, he’d be talking like Mr. Walker in no time.

  Terrence had agreed about Clarkson. Anthony hated to admit it because of the boy’s age, but Terrence had become his best friend. In fact, except for his mother, he was closer to Terrence than to anyone he’d ever known. Ironic, he thought, that his two closest friends were homosexuals.

  Maybe when Hank got out of prison he’d introduce them. In an odd way, Anthony thought they were ideally suited for each other. Hank would need his brawn to keep Terrence from rolling over him like a steamroller. The more he thought about the two of them together, the more certain he became.

  Hank wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Terrence was a force of nature. The kid was smart and wise beyond his seventeen years. Early conversations had revolved around Anthony’s investigation. Then talk had turned to abusive stepfathers, powerless mothers, life on the streets, life in prison, and hopes and dreams for the future.

  From that first time Anthony had picked him up after school, Terrence had been very affectionate, hugging him often and cuddling up beside him on the sofa when they watched television. Initially, Anthony had objected, but now he didn’t mind. Nothing would happen between them—even though Terrence hit on him at least once every time they were together. Given the opportunity, Terrence would happily slip into his bed for more than cuddling and hand him a bill in the morning for services rendered.

  The bigger thrill for Terrence came from watching Anthony squirm, which… now, with all the time they’d spent together, wasn’t that much. Perhaps if he was still in prison and Terrence was his cellmate, things would be different. But they weren’t in prison, and if Anthony had anything to do with it, Terrence would never find out what life was like in lockup.

  They’d talked a lot about Lanny and Daniel, the boys they didn’t know anything about, and the man who had killed them. Anthony’s case was Terrence’s case too. They’d spent every spare minute seeing what they could learn about their primary suspect.

  Clarkson was well liked by everyone Anthony had interviewed. The mailman talked about the generous tips Clarkson gave at Christmas and on his birthday. Pastors at half a dozen churches were grateful for the man’s generosity at various and sundry fundraisers. Women raved about Harriet Clarkson’s angel food divinity cake, a bestseller at bake sales, and talked about how lucky she was to have married such a fine, upstanding man.

  Terrence had donned a trench coat and hidden his hair beneath a hat to check on Clarkson’s two sons. He’d given the boys code names—Jock and Girlene. Both boys were quiet and reserved, and neither of them had many friends at school. Anthony agreed with Terrence’s assessment that this was odd, especially for Jock, the older boy, who was a star on his high school football team. Girlene, according to Terrence, was a card-carrying member of the FFA. Anthony had asked how someone in the DC area came to be interested in farming and had laughed like he hadn’t laughed in years when Terrence explained he was referring to the Future Fags of America.

  The organist at the First Baptist Church, who happened to be married to the DC Chief of Police, said of Clarkson, “The man is gorgeous, sings like an angel, and is the perfect husband and father. Every woman I know would trade places with Harriet in a heartbeat.”

  He’d followed up on Potter’s tip that Clarkson was the source of the names published in the Washington Post. Betty Quinn, a receptionist with chestnut hair and the reddest lips he’d ever seen, said, “The handsome devil brings me flowers on my birthday and for Valentine’s Day.” Over dinner that evening, she told Anthony about the envelopes Clarkson dropped off every few weeks with names and addresses of men who’d been arrested during raids and stings. They sipped a brandy Alexander through separate straws for dessert and left the restaurant holding hands. Later still, on her back with her legs wrapped around his hips, she’d called Anthony a god, and by breakfast that very morning, he’d dumped his imaginary redhead for a real-life brunette with whom he’d shared a memorable and enjoyable lunch.

  He reached into the backseat for a bag of Bugles and forced his mind back to the contents of the thick file on his desk at home. Although everyone applauded Clarkson’s efforts, Anthony and Terrence believed that, other than the police, Clarkson was alone in his crusade against homosexuals.

  “I admire his focus and support his cause when I can, but my congregation is more concerned about poverty and disease than any threat from the Communists,” one of Clarkson’s customers, a preacher, had confessed.

  The man was a paradox all right. Anthony breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t thought he’d ever find a way to work paradox into a sentence. He grabbed another handful of Bugles from the bag and popped half into his mouth as he scanned the bungalow for signs of life. The lights were on, but the curtains had been drawn.

  He couldn’t figure out why a man like Clarkson cruised the bus station. Terrence had been right. They all knew who Terrence was talking about, but none of the other hustlers could recall ever meeting him. The boys weren’t buying Bibles, that’s for sure. If he wasn’t preaching at them, what was he doing? Window-shopping? Terrence believed the man was merely shy. He wanted to pay a hustler for sex, but he didn’t have the nerve. Anthony’s gut told him Terrence might be onto something.

  He focused his attention on the house again, but the heat of his body in the closed-up car had fogged up the windshield, preventing him from seeing anything. He rolled down the windows so the fog would clear. Save for a dim glow coming from what he figured was the kitchen, the lights had gone out in the bungalow. He polished off the Bugles, tossed the empty bag onto the floorboard, and settled down into his seat to keep an eye on the yellow car.

  The question echoed through his head: Why did he cruise the bus station? Like a vocabulary word he couldn’t remember, the answer eluded him. What he’d give to be able to talk to one of those dead boys.

  Then it hit him. He couldn’t talk to them because the killer didn’t want anyone to know his dirty little secret. That was the answer. He sat up straight. “Dead boys don’t talk.”

  Cold steel pressed against Anthony’s left temple. “You’re right. They don’t.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  SERGEANT SHIRLEY White was in a mood. Unexpected wake-up calls at four in the morning had that effect on her. She’d rushed through her morning ablutions to get to the crime scene and was tired, hungry, and more than a little bloated.

  She pulled up to the abandoned parachute factory. Across the parking lot, police surrounded a turquoise sports car beneath a bridge near the river. She saw Robinson walking toward her. With flashlight in hand, she headed toward him and the scene, grumbling under her breath about the tightness of her uniform.

  “Fill me in, Robinson.”

  He fell in beside her. “Guy, thirtyish, shot in the right temple from close range, in his birthday suit. Blood everywhere. Whoever offed him was in the passenger seat.”

  She stopped. “Nude?”

  “Naked as a jaybird. And get this—except for his shoes, his clothes are gone.”

  “Any idea who he is?”

  Robinson checked his notepad. “Car’s registered to Anthony Vincent, an ex-con who did time for armed robbery. Worked as a PI for a DC law firm.”

  She stopped him.
“I want to talk to someone from that office. Any sign of another car?”

  “Nope. Only the Triumph.”

  “Check with the cab companies. See if anyone got picked up anywhere near here last night.”

  She walked past him to the car. The victim’s head was slumped against the steering wheel, a pool of congealed blood in the floorboard. When she pressed her fingers into the corpse’s discolored arm, the flesh blanched, telling her he hadn’t been dead long—no more than a few hours.

  The beam of her flashlight slid across the passenger seat. No blood. Spattered blood covered the rest of the interior. She opened the door, shining the light along the edge and under the seat. She stooped down to see better, pushing empty Bugle bags aside with her pen. “There’s a roll of duct tape under the seat we’ll need to process.” Slowly, she moved the beam of her flashlight around the car. A glint from between the passenger seat and the console got her attention. She leaned in and focused her flashlight on the metallic object. Several links of gold chain gleamed in the light. She speared a link with her pen and then carefully pulled a bracelet from beneath the seat.

  It was an identification bracelet—a nice one too, from the weight of it. She raised the pen up to bring the bracelet to eye level. The nameplate twirled slowly, making the ornate letters engraved on it hard to read. She placed the bracelet across her coat sleeve to make it stop moving so she could read the words.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” she said. “Robinson, find Philip Potter and bring him to the station. I’ll get warrants for his arrest and to search his apartment.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  ANSWERING EVERY question Sergeant White asked him with “not without my attorney” worked the way George said it would. After getting nowhere with him for more than an hour, she’d allowed Philip to make his one telephone call. Now he was back in her office, rubbing his wrists where the handcuffs had been only moments before, with George by his side.