Strachey's folly ds-7

by Richard Stevenson

  Timmy said, "I think you should."

  Maynard crossed his living room full of primitive and modern art and artifacts paintings, carved-wood fertility totems, village-life-narrative wall hangings in brilliant primary colors- and walked out the front door.

  "I wonder," Timmy said, "whether Maynard should tell the quilt official that the pages ripped off Jim Suter's quilt panel were from Jim's Krumfutz campaign biography and that he saw the actual Betty Krumfutz down on her hands and knees at the quilt this afternoon. I really don't see, Don, how you can sneer at the possibility of a conspiracy when-"

  From outside the open front door came three loud pops. Then we heard the revving engine of a car speeding away down E Street, followed by silence.

  Seconds later, when we reached Maynard-sprawled on the brick sidewalk next to his car, his blood pumping out of his body-he was still breathing, but only faintly. Timmy knelt by Maynard and began to speak softly to him as he searched for the correct pressure points to push against, and I raced back into the house.

  Chapter 3

  The George Washington University Hospital trauma center was where the Secret Service had rushed Ronald Reagan after John Hinckley Jr. shot him, along with James Brady, a Secret Service agent, and a D.C. policeman on the sidewalk alongside the Washington Hilton in 1981. Nancy Reagan later told reporters that as the Gipper was wheeled into the emergency room, he had cheerfully quoted W. C. Fields to the effect that, given a choice, he'd rather be in Philadelphia. But in fact, Reagan was lucky he had been shot in the District of Columbia, just blocks from GW. This hospital's emergency staff specialized in treating the thousands of gruesome gunshot wounds arriving each year from various points, mainly in the Northeast section, of one of the world's bloodiest capitals outside the Balkans.

  Maynard was not jocular on his arrival at GW, he was unconscious. Timmy had been allowed to ride with him in the ambulance, and I followed soon in a cab.

  Maynard's wounds, one abdominal and one to the head, were so serious that he was quickly evaluated and moved directly to an operating room.

  Timmy and I settled into a lounge outside the recovery unit where Maynard would end up if he lived. "He's in tough shape" was all we'd been told by an ER resident, and we both understood what that meant.

  "It's just too ironic," Timmy said miserably. Even though we were both charged and alert from having drunk too much Ethiopian coffee, Timmy looked exhausted, haunted, suddenly older. It was an indication of how wounded he was that he seemed only dimly aware that his shirt and khakis were stained-caked in some places-with Maynard's blood. I had held Timmy's hand for some minutes but automatically let go when two elderly black women entered the waiting room and seated themselves.

  "What's ironic?" I asked.

  "You know."

  "That Maynard survived Africa and Asia, but he might not survive Washington?"

  Timmy grunted. Mounted on the wall across from us was a television set tuned to what looked like a self-esteem-industry in-fomercial. A muscular man rapturous with self-confidence was pumping up an audience whose faces were full of yearning for an end to self-doubt. The man's tapes, they wanted to believe, would bring clarity into their lives, and perhaps belief. The pitchman had a good thing going and he looked as if he knew it.

  I said, "Maybe Maynard will make it. It's not over yet. You've been telling me for years how resilient he is."

  Timmy sat slumped to one side of his chair, slating into space, his Irish eyes vacant and ringed, his ordinarily silky blond wave-he was the only man I knew with a kind of naturally art deco hairstyle-wet with sweat against his skull. He grunted again and shook his head hopelessly.

  A gaunt, hollow-eyed man with both eyes and hair the color of lead and a sport coat of nearly the same shade entered the room and peered around. The two DC Metropolitan PD patrolmen who had responded to my 911 call had not asked many questions about the shooting, and something told me that this was the detective assigned to the case tracking us down. He walked over to Timmy and me.

  "Are you the two that came in with Maynard T. Sudbury?" the man asked tonelessly.

  "Yes," Timmy said. "How is he?"

  "That I couldn't tell you." He continued to gaze at us with eyes that were cold and unrevealing.

  "Are you a police officer?" I said.

  The man produced his wallet, flipped it open and shut, put it back in his jacket pocket, and said, "Ray Craig, Detective Lieutenant, MPD." He looked at me, then at Timmy, then back at me. He made no move to extend his hand, and unsure of how to react to Craig's chilliness, or just rudeness, neither of us offered ours.

  Timmy said, "We're really worried about Maynard. The resident said he was in tough shape. 'Tough shape' were the words he used."

  Ray Craig did not reply. He studied Timmy and me for a moment longer. Then he turned and dragged a molded-plastic chair up to us, its metal legs snagging bits of carpet as it moved, and seated himself in front of us, his knees nearly touching ours. He leaned forward, and now I was within range of his powerful odor, stale nicotine and tar. Had I once smelled like this? I knew I had.

  "Which one of you is Callahan?" Craig said dully.

  Timmy said, "I am."

  Then Craig looked over at me and said, "You're Starch?"

  "Starch? No."

  Craig got out a small notepad and read, "S-T-A-R-C-H, Donald."

  "It's Strachey. S-T-R-A-C-H-E-Y. As in Lytton."

  "Lyndon?"

  "Lytton. L-Y-T-T-O-N. Lytton Strachey, the brilliant English biographer and fey eccentric. There was a so-so flick about him and his sort-of wife last year called Carrington. Maybe you caught it."

  I felt Timmy tense up beside me, but Craig just colored a little, which suited him.

  He stared at me appraisingly for several seconds. Then he said, "Tell me exactly what happened on E Street tonight." He leaned back a little-a mercy-and continued to look at me as if I were the one who needed airing out.

  I explained to Craig that Timmy, Maynard, and I had dined at an Ethiopian restaurant in Adams-Morgan and that from around ten on we had been hanging around Maynard's house watching television news and talking. I said Maynard had left something in his car, he had gone out to get it, and seconds after he went out the front door, Timmy and I heard sounds that could have been gunshots. We also heard a car speed away. We ran outside and discovered Maynard bleeding and unconscious on the sidewalk alongside his car. I said I immediately went inside and telephoned the police while Timmy tried to stanch the flow of blood from Maynard's body.

  Craig continued examining me in a way that felt both hostile and somehow prurient. I was not touching Timmy, but I was aware that his respiration had increased.

  Craig said, "So, what'd Sudbury go out to his car to get?"

  "Maynard went out to bring in a name written on a piece of paper," I said. "We had all gone to the AIDS quilt display during the afternoon. We ran into an acquaintance and wrote her phone number on a Names Project brochure Maynard was carrying. He had left the phone number in his car and had gone out to retrieve it when he was shot."

  Craig seemed to roll this information around in his mind. Then he shifted, shot Timmy a surly look, and said, "What's your connection with Sudbury? You don't live around here. You live in New York State." His tone suggested that anybody residing outside the District of Columbia might be of a different species from those residing within the District and whose associations with Washingtonians went against nature.

  Timmy croaked out, "Maynard and I are old Peace Corps friends. We were in the Peace Corps together in the sixties. Donald and I stay with Maynard whenever we come to Washington. We're-we're just old Peace Corps buddies."

  Timmy might as well have announced to Craig that he and Maynard had been members of the corps de ballet of the 1965 Fonteyn-Nureyev Giselle tour. Craig sniffed once, then looked Timmy up and down in the way he had just looked at me. He said, "Talk to me about your… buddy." He gave buddy a pronunciation that was somewhere between a sneer and
a leer. "Does Sudbury have enemies?" Craig asked. "If so, who?"

  Timmy went through the motions of mulling this over. "I can't think of any enemies Maynard has. He's generally well-liked. Of course, Maynard has been PNGed out of a number of countries. But I assume you mean domestic enemies. Personal."

  Craig's eyes narrowed. "What's PNG?"

  "Declared persona non grata. Maynard is a foreign reporter and travel writer.

  Some officials in some countries didn't like what he wrote about their governments. But I doubt any of them tracked him down to E Street in Washington and shot him."

  "Skip the opinions," Craig snapped. "If I want your opinions, I'll ask for them. Just tell me what you know." He had his pen and notebook out but he wasn't writing any of this down. "Married?"

  "Maynard?"

  Craig's eyes flashed for a brief second. "Yes, Maynard. Maynard T. Sudbury.

  That's who we're talking about here, isn't it? Maynard T. Sudbury, the shooting victim."

  "Not married," Timmy said, jaw clenched.

  "Sudbury is gay," I added. "His lover died in 1993"

  Craig's face tightened. "I'll bet you two are that way inclined also. Am I right?"

  "Are we gay? You bet."

  He snorted dismissively. He looked at me and at Timmy, then shook his head, as if our being gay was the most preposterous thing he had ever heard. "I want the names of family, friends, and associates. Start with family." Now his pen was poised.

  Before I left for the hospital, I had grabbed Maynard's address book off his desk.

  If he died, I knew it was possible Timmy or I would have to notify his family. I had glanced through the address book quickly to make sure it included some Sudburys in Southern Illinois-it listed six-but I didn't take it out of my pocket for Craig. Timmy and I fumbled through our memories and named a number of people, in Illinois and in Washington, whom we thought the police would be duty-bound to notify and/or question. Neither of us mentioned Jim Suter.

  A surgical intern walked into the lounge we were waiting in, and our eyes went immediately to him. But he did not approach Timmy and me. He went instead to the two elderly black women, looked down as they looked up, and shook his head sorrowfully. The women said nothing, just stood quickly and walked with the doctor out into the corridor as he spoke to them in a low voice.

  Craig looked up from his notebook and said, "Did Sud-bury have any recent arguments or disputes with any of these people?"

  Timmy said, "Not that he mentioned to us."

  "That's a no?"

  "Yes, that's a no."

  "What about you, Starchey?" Craig stared at me and didn't blink.

  I said, "I had no argument with Maynard, no. It's Strachey. S-T-R-A-C-H-E-Y."

  "You weren't the asshole who shot your buddy Sudbury?"

  "No, I wasn't."

  "What about you, Callahan?"

  His face radiating heat, Timmy said, "Of course not."

  Craig's eyes came briefly to life again, and he said, "Did you suck his dick?"

  Neither of us answered. Craig's gaze flicked back and forth between us. Finally, I said, "Neither of us has a sexual relationship with Maynard. He's a friend. In New York State, friends don't normally suck each other's dicks. Maybe the customs are different south of the Mason-Dixon line, and that's why you asked the question. If so, I'm happy to be able to clear up any misconception about sexual customs in the North."

  Craig's mouth tightened and he stared at me hard. One of his loafers had begun to jiggle at high speed. It was apparent that he was making mental notes, and he was looking at me as if he wanted me to know it. After a moment, Craig lifted his pen again and said, "Sudbury's a travel writer. Where's he been to recently?"

  After seeming to consider this carefully, Timmy said, "Maynard has been to Swaziland, Botswana, and Zimbabwe in the past year, I know."

  Craig noted this with no apparent interest and said, "Where else?"

  "Mexico," I said, "within the last couple of months."

  "Mexico?" Craig's nose twitched and a light went on in his eyes and stayed on in a way it had not stayed on before.

  I said, "Maynard was in the Yucatan researching a travel piece for the Los Angeles Times. He talked about enjoying the trip and he didn't mention any incident there-or any incident anywhere else-that might have led to his being shot tonight on a Washington street."

  "Uh-huh." Craig waited, and when no one spoke, he said, "Did Sudbury go to Mexico frequently?"

  "Not frequently, no," Timmy said.

  "I think you know," Craig said, "this shooting doesn't look anything like a robbery."

  "I know," I said.

  "The shooter never stopped. Sudbury's wallet wasn't taken."

  "No."

  "The perp apparently had no interest in robbery," Craig said. "Somebody drove by, popped Sudbury, and drove away. Drive-by shootings in the District are seldom random. Normally that's something gangs do to members of other gangs. That's drug gangs, to be specific. Do you have any reason to believe that Sudbury is part of a drug operation?"

  Timmy flushed. "I think not."

  Craig said, "Yeah, I think not, too. Not some street-punk operation anyway. So you don't know who might have wanted to shoot your buddy in the head and in the gut?"

  His face purple with anger now, Timmy said, "No. I do not."

  "When did you say Sudbury was in Mexico the last time?" Craig asked.

  "Two weeks ago."

  Now Craig gave me the beady eye. "You said Sudbury was down in Mexico in the last couple of months. Which is it? Two weeks ago or the last couple of months?"

  "Two weeks ago is within the last couple of months," I said. "Neither of us is telling you anything that's remotely contradictory to what the other is saying. So, what's the problem, Lieutenant?"

  "The problem is that I think you two faggot assholes are telling me lie after lie after lie. The problem is, I think your buddy Maynard T. Sudbury doesn't just write about Mexico when he goes back and forth down there. And the problem is, I think when he goes down there, he may be involved in the type of illegal activities that can get a man shot in the gut on E Street when there's no other reason for that to happen. And the other problem is, I think you two pathetic queers know it."

  Timmy shook his head in disgust.

  I said, "That's a lot of problems you've got to contend with there, Lieutenant."

  "That's what I say."

  I said, "The biggest problem of all, as far as I can make out, Lieutenant, is you.

  With police work like this, in fact, it's no wonder Washington has one of the highest murder rates in North America. Up in Albany, New York, where we come from, police investigations aren't always handled as skillfully as a lot of us would like. But I've rarely encountered police presumption and speculation as wildly prejudiced and inaccurate and harmful to an investigation as I've witnessed tonight. This city obviously is not only the murder capital of the Eastern seaboard, it's also looking more and more like the capital of police fecklessness. You strike me as a blithering incompetent, Lieutenant, a disgrace to your department and to your profession."

  This was not calculated, just sincere. It was reckless, too, although with hospital staff often passing by in the corridor, there seemed little chance an inflamed Craig would pistol-whip us or attempt to arrest us on a trumped-up charge.

  Craig did not, in fact, explode. He just colored again, looked at me dully, and said, "The murder rate in D.C. isn't all that high if you don't calculate in the niggers. The niggers distort the stats. It's easy to get a misleading impression.

  But Sudbury is no nigger. Even though it sounds to me like he sucks nigger dick."

  I gazed at Craig and said nothing. Timmy was looking at his own lap and slowly shaking his head.

  "So you two cocksuckers are sure you don't want to tell me about some trouble your buddy Sudbury said he was in? Some trouble down in Mexico?"

  Timmy muttered, "There's nothing to tell."

  Craig studied us
with his dead eyes, then said, "Listen to what I say to you.

  Don't leave the District without checking with me. Have you got that straight?"

  Neither of us had a copy of the Constitution to wave in Craig's face, but I knew it wouldn't have helped. For Craig stood up without another word, turned, and quickly walked out.

  After a moment, Timmy said, "Is he just a rotten human being and one of the worst cops in the United States, or was there a lot more going on just now than was apparent on the surface? Why, for God's sake, did he keep harping on Mexico, for instance, over and over and over again?"

  Before I could think about what might have been paranoid imaginings and what was well-founded fear, a doctor in OR gear walked into the lounge and came over to us. He didn't look happy, but he wasn't averting his eyes either.

  Chapter 4

  Maynard's chances of surviving were better than even. The surgeon told us that the head wound was messy but superficial, and the much more serious abdominal injuries had required major replumbing-just short of a colostomy and if Maynard lived through the next twelve hours, full recovery was a good possibility. The surgeon said Maynard's sturdy constitution and overall good health were a big help, but that infection was a danger and Maynard would have to be closely watched over the next day.

  Timmy said, "He's already got a stomach infection."

  "He does? What's that?" A small, soft-eyed man with a cleft chin, the surgeon looked interested in this.

  Timmy explained how Maynard had apparently picked up a parasite that wouldn't let go in Zambia, Burkina Faso, or Kyr-gyzstan. "He's had it for going on a year," Timmy said.

  "That'll be the least of Mr. Sudbury's problems," the doctor said. "Infections like that are a month in the country compared to the kinds that urban North American hospitals have to worry about."