A Caduceus is for Killing

by Diana Kirk

  Krastowitcz hung back. The man was a living skeleton, only will kept him alive. So this was AIDS. He'd seen a few cases. Gay inmates had threatened to spit at him. He'd told them not to touch him or he'd make sure they'd never spit again.

  "Mr. Randolph has volunteered to be one of our first vaccine trials. This will be Phase I, doctors, in which the safety of the vaccine and antibody response will be tested. While it appears the vaccine is safe, there is still concern about antibody response, especially since the disease progresses in the face of high anti-body levels. The greatest fear is that the disease will mutate as the different vaccines are injected.

  "This mutated version becomes resistant to the vaccine and causes new forms of secondary life-threatening infections. We have to find a vaccine that will kill the virus before it mutates within the cell. Thank you, Mr. Randolph. You've been wonderful today. I'll be back this afternoon to see how you feel."

  "Thank you, Doctor Pearson," Randolph said weakly.

  The entourage left the room and Andrea shook her head. Angrily stripping off her gloves, she slammed them into the receptacle and led the group down the hallway, then stopped and addressed them.

  "As you can see, Mr. Randolph is in the final stages of the course of this disease. Although he hopes to survive until we can administer Dr. Grafton's Phase I Vaccine, it's unlikely he will. Now, he'll succumb to the pneumonia." She jammed her balled fists into her lab coat. "He's battled it for the last four months, but as the parasites increase in his lungs, he must rely more and more on oxygen. Damn it! Only a few scientists care to work on these castaways."

  She sucked in a deep breath and stopped in front of the next door and prepared to re-gown. "Michael is a seventeen-year-old IV drug user. He's had active AIDS for six months. It progresses more rapidly in younger patients." She pointed to three medical students. "Go on in and get his history. He's expecting you."

  The students filed into the room, and Andrea pulled Krastowitcz aside. "Medicine's most depressing field, wouldn't you agree? And a major researcher and vaccine developer has been slaughtered. For what?"

  "Yeah, but this researcher did some slaughtering of his own." She glared at him like he was supposed to have answers. Hell, he didn't even have the questions. She was right about one thing. There had to be a reason why Grafton had killed and been killed in such gruesome ways.

  There was always a reason. And Krastowitcz loved being the one to find it.

  The morning progressed with the same scene repeated so many times, Krastowitcz lost count. He hadn't realized there were so many AIDS patients in Omaha. The ward seemed as lonely and emaciated as the bodies it contained. Tucked away in the back of the hospital, no one could see these pathetic souls waiting out the final days of their lives.

  He'd always believed AIDS was a product of a decadent lifestyle and fags always got what they deserved. But no one deserved to die this way--shunned and alone. Some of these people hadn't seen their families for months. Some were too afraid to see them and Krastowitcz couldn't blame them. They looked horrible, worse than holocaust survivors, if that was possible.

  And these people were afraid of their horrible end, too. Krastowitcz could understand their fear of death. A healthy fear made for a cautious cop; a queasy sensation accompanied him during rounds. Andrea was a doctor, and if there was danger she wouldn't expose him to it, no matter how big a sexist she thought he was. At least, he hoped she wouldn't.

  Patients probably didn't know anything about Grafton's strange appetites or his lab assistant, but Krastowitcz had a few other sources he intended to check out. He and Trent had a couple of gay snitches. They could at least find out if the suspects were known gays in the community. What suspects? Even that was pretty slim. It was time to call in a few favors.

  ROUNDS TOOK four hours. By eleven-thirty, Krastowitcz was back at his desk and still puzzled by the box of pictures from Grafton's apartment. He held the mutilation photos up and matched them to the ones on his bulletin board. Strange. They were identical, except for one thing: Grafton's views were fresh. No decay or dried up remains. Somewhere in there was the key to Grafton's murder. Slowly extracting each picture, he placed it either in the growing pile on his desk or on his bulletin board, next to the unsolved mutilations. Amid the snapshots of Milton Grafton, Krastowitcz placed slips of papers with names becoming all too familiar.

  So far in this investigation, he had a bunch of pictures and some names; no real suspects. Not even circumstantial evidence. But if he could find Grafton's murderer, he'd be able to close old cases and clear his board. Dammit, there had to be some answers in the photographs.

  But what?

  He glanced over his list.

  Andrea Pearson's name jumped out at him.

  At first, he'd thought her guilty of something. He'd actually disliked her. Now. . . now he wasn't so sure. Probably the only thing she could be guilty of was being vulnerable. Sometimes she was two different people. One, angry and defensive; the other, the woman he'd seen today, compassionate, self-confident, and authoritative. Yep. She'd surprised him this morning. She'd been a different person. One he hadn't expected to find.

  One he liked. Oh, yeah. He really liked the woman-doctor.

  He picked up a picture of Dwight Hardwyn. The man was much younger, but the eyes still flashed anger and cruelty. He hadn't liked this guy at first, but he was certainly clean, and Andrea seemed to like him a lot. Maybe, there was something between them?

  No. She'd said Hardwyn was married. Of course, that didn't mean anything, especially if someone was prone to fooling around. But, this time Krastowitcz hoped he was wrong and, like any other good investigator, he trusted his hunches. Yeah, some-times they were wrong, but more often than not they were right.

  There were other pictures to sort through. A whole box filled with a man's life and he planned to check them out one by one. Andrea had identified most people still in Omaha. Peter Mueller, the lab assistant, had been with him for years, since Grafton's Ohio days. From what Andrea said, Mueller hadn't been getting along with Grafton, especially weeks before his death. Seemed they were always arguing about something. Grafton continually used himself as a guinea pig and it angered Peter. Maybe Peter knew something about Grafton's mutilation parties? Had helped him?

  What a great bunch of people!

  Andrea also said she and Peter were constantly arguing and the assistant seemed overly possessive of Grafton and his research project.

  The picture of Father Jamison, however, puzzled Krastowitcz. A priest in the middle of serial mutilations, murder, and death? No. Probably a close friend of Grafton's, the spiritual advisor for the dying at Dorlynd, teacher to Andrea's roommate.

  The group photo with Tom McNaughton looked like it had been taken at some sort of dinner or banquet.

  What was McNaughton's connection in all this?

  Maybe he was closer to Andrea than she let on. She'd said they were friends. But, now, no more? There had to be more to it. Just how close was their friendship? He'd forgotten to ask her about McNaughton at dinner.

  There was something else--

  Grafton had accused McNaughton of cocaine usage and the disgruntled resident had threatened him after being suspended from residency. The punk sounded like a poor-little-rich-boy from California or upscale New York. Andrea said he was a Corvette driving son-of-a-surgeon who wore fancy clothes and some-times a little white powder around his nostrils. She'd seen him snort at parties.

  Krastowitcz got up and headed toward the booking room. Did McNaughton do more than just an occasional toot?

  "Sarge, have you seen Trent?" Krastowitcz addressed the crusty old booking room superior. He'd been a tough street-cop in his day, but now he coordinated headquarters, making sure everything went smooth. He also gave out assignments. Plus, he knew everything.

  "Gone on another body run." Krastowitcz's heart sank. "Homicide on the north side. Gang related. The hotter it gets, the more they love to fight. Some Bloods invaded Crip territo
ry and you know the rest. The gang war is on. Several of the Bloods became targets and Trent is in charge of scraping them up now."

  "Know how long it'll take?" Krastowitcz pulled out his unsmoked Marlboro and rolled it between his fingers. He'd sworn off the weed, but nervous habits were hard to break. He kept one lone cigarette in his pocket at all times. For emergencies.

  "Probably another hour or so. Has to get witness statements, like he could find anybody to talk to him. Amazing how many folks get blind when something like that happens."

  "They're scared."

  "Yeah, but they sure know how to bitch to the brass about how we're not cleaning up their neighborhoods fast enough. Glad I'm not on the street anymore. Times have changed, boy, they really have."

  The Sergeant pulled out a flask and took a long pull. He offered the bottle to Krastowitcz, who shook his head.

  "Used to be a cop was respected. Now, the gangs have better artillery than the military. Yeah, times have really changed." The sergeant droned on and Krastowitcz rolled the cigarette between his fingers, occasionally putting the cylinder under his nose. "How can we arrest anybody when we don't have any witnesses?"

  "Hey, Sarge," Krastowitcz interrupted, "get hold of Shimokowa and tell him I need to know if he has some sources who can tell me about the clientele at Joey's."

  The Sergeant grimaced. "That fag dive? I'll call, but you know how he is. What you want him for? Help you find you a date for Saturday?"

  "Y'know, if there's one thing worse than dragging the queer club it's dealing with a smart ass supervisor. But if you must know, your home phone number was discovered in the john there."

  "Oh, funny, Sasquatch. You're a friggin' comedian. Too bad you're so ugly, you gotta look for phone numbers in the john."

  "Just get Shimokowa. Okay, Sarge?"

  "Sure, sure, big-guy, darlin'." The Sergeant bussed a kiss in the air. "I didn't hire on as your private secretary, y'know. Shimokowa's downstairs in the locker-room gettin' ready for the street."

  Krastowitcz gazed at the Marlboro long and hard. He'd tried to stop smoking so many times he'd lost count. This attempt had lasted three months.

  He ran his fingers along the soft white shaft. There was something incredibly sensual about a fresh cigarette. The filter tip's roughness on his lips, scraped against his tongue. Trouble was, this one wasn't fresh. It was three months old. Some of the lure was gone, but it still felt good against his tongue.

  He pulled out his lighter and flicked it on, staring at the blue-yellow flame. He wanted that cigarette--God! How he wanted it--but he couldn't throw three months away... not now. He could hold out a while longer.

  Jim Shimokowa, long-time buddy, worked vice, spending his days and nights rubbing shoulders with pimps, whores, and fags. Krastowitcz admired the hell out of the guy's guts, what with the cross-dressing required several times a week.

  Krastowitcz lumbered down three flights of stairs onto a long hallway opening onto a large room filled with metal lockers and benches. He entered the locker room just as Shimokowa was pulling up his panty-hose.

  "Ooh-la-la, Jimbo. That's one set of sexy gams. What'cha doin' Saturday night? My sister-in-law could use some pointers."

  "Up your ass, Krastowitcz." Jim shot him a good-natured grin.

  "You're more than slightly nuts to pimp around a pimp." Krastowitcz patted Shimokowa's rear.

  The other man immediately straightened. "Hey, man. It takes a special brand of humor and a helluva lot of taste to dress up like a hooker. Not like you serious snobs in homicide. You guys need to lighten up--get some gaiety in your miserable lives."

  "You better mean happiness." Krastowitcz plopped down next to his friend and pulled out the Marlboro. "Besides, I've been meaning to tell you, change mascara. What you've got runs down your face."

  Shimokowa smiled. "You ought to try it. These panty-hose kinda' grow on you, and there are differences in mascara. The cheap stuff just doesn't stay on, especially when somebody slams you in the headlights."

  Krastowitcz laughed and slapped his friend on the back.

  "You're something else, Shimokowa. I'm beginning to wonder if Vice isn't wearing off on you, Sweetheart."

  "Well, don't worry your pretty little head about it. What do you want? You never look me up unless you want something. What? Or did you just come down here to watch me get dressed, Big Boy?" He hefted a broad shoulder in a Mae West style. "Well, wipe those nasty thoughts right out of your mind. You don't have what it takes to get close to this bitch."

  Not in the mood for many more jokes, Krastowitcz ignored the remark. "Actually, I've got a tough one, Jim. The murder over at Dorlynd looks like there might be a homosexual connection. Know anything about an M.O. where the perp cuts the victim's wanger off and shoves it in his mouth?"

  Shimokowa crossed his wrists in front of him and cringed. "Ouch! Not a whole lot. Most homo crimes involve some S & M carried way too far. You know: beatings, stuff getting stuck up the rectum, mutilations, suffocations, that shit."

  Krastowitcz placed the cigarette shaft between his lips and rolled it around with his tongue. Much more of this conversation and he'd smoke his friggin' brains out. "This one might be right up your alley. A long metal staff shoved up the victim's butt causing death."

  "My alley? Hmm, might be." Shimokowa looked blatantly pensive. "So what can I do?"

  "Get me some snitches. I need to know who is and who isn't gay in Omaha's professional community."

  "Hold it, Gary. It's damned hard to get a good reliable snitch in Omaha. This town isn't New York or Chicago, where there are thousands of cops and snitches. I want to help you, but I don't know–"

  "--Hey, man, you owe me from the Chief's party."

  "God, Krastowitcz, we were rookies. You still rubbing my face in it?"

  Krastowitcz smiled. They'd been rookies and flat ass drunk. Shimokowa had no idea the gal he was banging at the party was the chief's daughter until Krastowitcz literally pulled him out of her. He would've been charged with rape for sure.

  She'd been so drunk, she'd passed out. Krastowitcz picked her up with one hand and placed her in the bedroom, then left in a hurry. She reported an assault, but couldn't identify her assailant. It hadn't been mentioned between them until now, fifteen years later. Shimokowa's eyes flashed anger, then instantly cooled.

  "Everybody owes everybody," he said. "If I turn you on to this guy, you're gonna owe me big time. But I'm going along and I'm doing the talking. Understand?"

  "Sure, sure. Sorry, Jim, really, but this is too important to let slide. We'll do it any way you want."

  "Okay. A guy named Jackie is my best informant. Works the streets for runaway boys to pimp, but he's not into S & M. He's considered the "godmother" of queers and knows everything and everyone that's happening. If he comes on to the violent type, he lets me know. We've solved quite a few autoerotics and homo-sexual love triangles with his help. If your suspects have any connections with the gay community, Jackie'll know. But he's flighty and scared as shit, so I've got to do the talking."

  "It's a deal, buddy. Is tonight all right?"

  "Meet me at Joey's around eleven and dress the part."

  "W--what?"

  "You know, wear some "closet-tight" jeans and a muscle shirt."

  Krastowitcz's mouth hung open, but damned if he could close it.

  "Understand?"

  "A little dangerous, isn't it, me dressing like that? I might take some of your boyfriends away."

  Shimokowa slapped the back of his head. "Typical cheap date. Always complaining." His friend's humor had returned. "You'll be popular at Joey's, Krastowitcz. They like big ones and the place is hot, if you get my drift."

  Krastowitcz stood towering over his friend. "I can't wait."

  "Don't worry, Krastowitcz, you'll blend in. Your normal cheap polyester suit and wrinkled Columbo-overcoat would tip everyone off, even the fags. This way, you won't have to do anything, just follow my lead, okay?"

  "Thanks,
Jim, I really appreciate this."

  "Yeah, don't appreciate it too much. You used coercion to get me to do this."

  "I know." Krastowitcz hoped he'd used Shimokowa wisely. He hadn't wanted to use the fifteen-year favor. He'd filed it away, never wanting, never dreaming to use it.

  He had to find something, anything that'd help in the case. It'd be a shame to waste it on a dead-end.

  Chapter X

  .. . .AND ABSTAIN FROM WHATEVER IS DELETERIOUS AND MISCHIEVOUS. . . .

  The day had been too long already and Krastowitcz was too tired to play macho dress-up all evening in some gay bar, but here he was at Joey's. His jeans were too tight and he never wore sleeveless shirts.

  He had to be here, especially after he'd forced Shimokowa's hand. And Krastowitcz knew how cops were about their snitches. He had his own and recognized their worth. He'd play out the scenario, get the information he needed, and get the hell out. He hoped it was worth jeopardizing a good friendship for the slim possibility of information. He prayed his hunches were right.

  Picking the darkest corner he could find, Krastowitcz hunkered down in the booth and cursed the tight jeans. To add to the night's discomfort was the worry of being recognized.

  He didn't work undercover. His size and too-easily recognizable features made it impossible to blend into the surroundings. He looked like he belonged in Joey's about as much as E. Gordon Liddy would, and was just as red-necked. He glanced around the room trying to understand the type of person who frequented this scene. Joey's wasn't much different than any other bar: stools, tables, booths, rows of bottles stacked in layers behind the bartender. Only, here, it was darker.

  Even Krastowitcz's trained night-duty eyes had trouble seeing, but slowly, shapes materialized. The customers seemed ordinary, nothing unusual: business suits, jeans, work uniforms. Several men sat around a sunken bar. Unnaturally quiet, heads down, they concentrated on their drinking.

  Shimokowa, interrupting his daydream, slid into the booth next to him and punched his arm. Following Shimokowa was a small, well-built, black man dressed in skin-tight leather. He perched at the end of the booth on a cane-back chair.