Outburst

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “I just wanted your phone number. I just wanted some way of reaching you when—”

  “No! You can never call me at home! Never!”

  “But—”

  And that's when he'd struck him.

  He'd always wanted guys, always liked them. The first time he sensed something, though he didn't know what, was when he'd been utterly fascinated by one of his teachers, Mr. Lawson. He couldn't wait to see him every day, made sure that he was in the front row of his science class, was amazed by his strong arms, his warmth. It was a crush, of course, his very first one and totally innocent, though he didn't understand what it was until years later. And later on that thing, that same feeling, stirred within him a lot, particularly in the locker room.

  And finally in his junior year of high school he'd consummated that desire with Steve, another kid on the baseball team. After everyone had left they'd done it, right there in the showers, and he'd never experienced something so whole, so complete, a total fusion of his lust and desire, body and mind. After the fact, though, he was horribly confused, for he'd been dating one girl, Teri, and now he felt nothing for her and everything for Steve. A mere six days later, however, it all became perfectly clear just what he should feel, for that was when he and five other guys from the team discovered Steve doing it with some other guy in the shower. The guy—some kid from another school—had fled, but Steve had stood up for himself, which was a mistake, for all of them had descended upon Steve and beat the crap out of him.

  They'd all but killed him.

  Picturing it all as he now sat in his hotel room, he realized he'd never forget it, would never forget how Steve, naked and bleeding on the floor, had looked up at him, started to say something, and how he, terrified of just what that would be, had kicked Steve so hard that he threw up blood. Steve had spent two weeks in the hospital and was then expelled; all six guys were questioned by school authorities but, as if they were justified, never reprimanded.

  The man now closed his eyes, blocked out everything, this pisser of a world around him, and went back to the last time he'd been with Mark Forrest. Yes, handsome. Yes, young. Always half smiling. They'd been in bed, the two of them, right here, right in this very hotel room, right in this fucking bed, making love not thirty minutes before Mark went to meet that stupid reporter. And then he'd ridden with Forrest down to the Stone Arch Bridge. They'd kissed briefly in Forrest's car; Mark had gotten out. And then …

  That storm.

  There'd been so much rain. And, God, the wind. In his mind's eye he saw him, beautiful Mark Forrest, walking down the Stone Arch Bridge. Alive and so very, very vibrant one moment. So dead the next.

  Afterward, after the storm had passed and Mark Forrest was gone, he'd run all the way back to his hotel, making it just in time for her phone call too. So no one could possibly suspect him. He'd gotten away.

  Or had he?

  Maybe, maybe not, for his singular error, so glaring now, was that he'd left one thing behind. Not a piece of clothing. Not a slip of paper with a telephone number on it. No, what he'd left behind was something far worse: his fingerprints. Shit, he'd forgotten to wipe down the interior of Mark Forrest's car.

  24

  As much as he wanted to call it off, at least for a while, there was no stopping it. As much as Todd wanted to brush away all the television nonsense, then rush to Rawlins and tell him the wound was nothing, no one had been endangered, there was no way Todd could. They were all caught in a rockslide—one that Todd had helped let loose—and both Rawlins and he were swept away, overwhelmed as much by the arrest of Christopher Kenney as by their jobs.

  The six o'clock show was well under way, and, in the world of television at least, breaking stories like this were the gifts of the gods.

  “We're all set,” called Bradley from behind.

  Todd was turned the other way, focused on Rawlins, who was filling out some paperwork and conversing with several police officers. As if an artery had been cut instead of his neck being merely scratched, Rawlins continued to keep the handkerchief firmly pressed against his neck.

  “Hey, man, come on,” pressed Bradley. “We don't want to lose this.”

  “What?” said Todd, turning around.

  “We're ready. Let's do it.”

  From Bradley's camera a long cable snaked across the green lawn, down between two identical houses, and to the ENG van down on the street. So this was it, thought Todd. They were going to get what they'd come for, a live shot from the scene. Later they'd edit the tape of Christopher Kenney fleeing and resisting the police, perhaps use it on the 10@10 broadcast, but for now they were going to show the police stuffing Kenney into a squad car.

  Todd took a deep breath, for this was happening way too fast. He wanted to tell the police to slow down, to wait just a few more seconds, to hold that pose and that suspect right there. But of course that was impossible. Any news that was worth its weight could never wait.

  “Here,” said Bradley, thrusting out both a stick mike and an earpiece.

  Todd took them, grasping the mike and jabbing the small clear plastic device into his ear without even thinking. Just as he was positioning the wire behind his neck and out of sight, a voice started bleating into his ear.

  “God, this is so great!”

  Todd lifted the mike to his mouth, looked at the camera now trained on him, and said, “Nan?”

  “Todd,” replied the producer from the station in the distant suburb, “you're the best. I mean, this is so hot. I can't believe it. This guy's a drag queen, isn't he? Isn't that what he is?”

  “I … I …”

  “Do you really think he killed that cop? I mean, like, wow! I mean, this is the first gay drag-queen killer I've ever heard of!”

  Todd flinched, and all he could say was, “Who said he's gay?”

  “Well, he's a drag queen, isn't he?”

  “Nan, technically I think a drag queen means someone who's a performer, but the politically correct word for this guy—”

  “Oh, come on, Todd.”

  “—is transgendered.”

  “Look at him, for Christ's sake! Just look!” she demanded, unable to hide the joy in her voice. “You know, I bet the nationals are going to pick this up.”

  Nan's words made it all so clear, and suddenly Todd was terrified. Whatever he spit out in the next few minutes would stick. Whatever he said about Chris Kenney, whatever they soon showed on TV, would be how viewers would judge him for weeks, if not forever. And judge him they would, no doubt about it. In particular, if the public now saw Kenney as something different from them, as someone from beyond their world and understanding, they would take his deviance as definitive proof, pronouncing him guilty for the murder of Officer Mark Forrest.

  Shit, Todd wanted to pull the plug on Bradley's camera, for he couldn't think, couldn't figure how to come at this.

  “Todd!” called Bradley. “We're going to lose him!”

  “Don't you dare!” hollered Nan in Todd's earpiece.

  Todd turned around, saw them leading the handcuffed Kenney to one of the squad cars.

  “Listen,” she barked from the control room of the station, “Tom Rivers is going to do a quick lead-in and toss it to you, Todd. We're five seconds away.”

  It was happening. The producer was doing a countdown, Todd could hear Rivers's voice in his earpiece. And then Todd was live. He opened his mouth, but for a terrifying split second his mind went blank. Nothing. Empty. What the hell was he supposed to say? He stared at the lens.

  “Go, Todd! You're on! For Christ's sake, you're live!” screamed Nan via IFB transmission.

  They weren't there. The words—they weren't forming. This had never happened before, and all of a sudden his heart took off in a panic. Shit! A second of silence on television was equal to an hour.

  “Todd!” Nan shouted.

  Todd opened his mouth but … but nothing. Then he looked to the side, saw what the camera was also seeing, and then amazingly everything k
icked in and his mouth went on autopilot.

  “There's been a dramatic breakthrough in the murder of Minneapolis Park Police Officer Mark Forrest,” began Todd, his voice somehow smooth, somehow belying his racing heart. “And what you're seeing is a live shot of the arrest of a suspect by the name of Christopher Kenney, who was apprehended not more than five minutes ago by a barrage of Minneapolis police. As you can see, officers are leading Mr. Kenney away as I speak. In a few moments he'll be taken by squad car to the main Minneapolis police department in City Hall, where he will be formally booked for the murder of Mark Forrest. And while Mr. Kenney is now cooperating and everything appears to be going smoothly,” continued Todd, as Kenney was placed in a car, “that most definitely was not the case just a few minutes ago.”

  As the squad car took off, its lights twirling but its sirens silent, Bradley brought the camera back over, now completely focusing on Todd, who went on to explain how an anonymous caller had telephoned the WLAK station late this afternoon. The caller, reported Todd, claimed to have seen a strange car by the Mississippi the night Mark Forrest was gunned down. Todd went on about how the license-plate number, provided by the tip caller, had led him and the police here. What started out as simple questioning, however, turned quite dramatic when Kenney fled and then battled the police. Todd relayed nearly everything in a crisp, sharp manner, but failed, for some reason even he didn't understand, to mention one important thing. No, he didn't want to unleash that. Perhaps later. Perhaps on the 10:00 P.M., once he had more information. But not now.

  “I'm sure there'll be more information coming within the next few hours,” concluded Todd, getting ready to toss it back to Tom Rivers, “but for now—”

  “He's in drag!” shrieked Nan into his earpiece. “Jesus Christ, you gotta tell them that! That's the best part! The juiciest! Todd! Todd, you couldn't tell from the visual that Kenney was in drag!”

  “—that's the latest information. Tune in to the Ten at Ten report for the very latest. For WLAK, this is Investigative Reporter Todd Mills.”

  He heard it, her screaming. Via the microwave connection, Nan Miller's voice was perfectly clear, cursing Todd for what he'd left out. Todd, however, just stood there, staring at the camera in silence, waiting for the signal that he was off-air. And eventually they had no choice, for Todd just stood there motionless and quiet, forcing them to cut him. As soon as the red light atop Bradley's camera ceased burning, Todd plucked the earpiece from his ear and tossed that and the mike at Bradley.

  “Hey,” said the photographer, catching them both in his left hand, “you all right?”

  Todd shrugged and turned away. Off to the side were two cops, shaking their heads and trying to make sense of all this. One of the other squad cars was now backing up into the alley, turning, and heading slowly away. But where was he? Where was Rawlins? Todd scanned the small backyards, searched for him, yet Rawlins was not to be seen.

  Of course. Todd must have missed it, but Rawlins, as the arresting officer, had certainly taken off in the same squad car as Kenney. Shit.

  And then Todd just stood there, his mind shifting. Looking around, running it all through his head yet again, from the phone call to the moment of the arrest of Christopher Kenney, he should have been pleased, even thrilled. Any reporter would kill for something so hot. Yes, once again, he'd witnessed virtually every critical step in this bizarre story, from the murder on the Stone Arch Bridge, to the discovery of the body in the Mississippi, and now the arrest of a suspect—a guy in drag, no less—who'd already been once arrested and charged in a cop-killing.

  So what felt so wrong?

  He couldn't tell, not yet, but every part of Todd's body began to flood with dread. He might be a good investigative reporter, even a great one. But he knew this was way too easy.

  Way too insanely easy.

  25

  So what was so wrong about all this?

  All the way back to the suburban station of WLAK, Todd couldn't shake it, not just the sense that something was off, but that it was flat-out wrong. Nor could he ignore those thoughts even when Nan berated him as soon as he walked into the bunker-like, satellite-dish-enshrined building, where she demanded to know what the hell he'd been doing. Hadn't he heard her? Hadn't he realized how hot this whole thing was? And why, why, why the hell had he ignored her?

  “I mean, what were you doing, cutting off early like that?” the producer had screamed. “We're talking about a goddamn drag queen gunning down a cop, for Christ's sake! These are some hot buttons, and that's what you're paid to do: Hit those buttons as hard as you can!”

  His voice even and deep and hotly restrained, all Todd could say was, “I'm working on something.”

  “Yeah, so are the rest of us, and it's called news, big news!” She shook her head. “You realize you blew it, don't you, Todd? You could have scooped this whole thing, been the first to tell the world that this guy is a drag queen, but now you're going to be last. I mean, I'm sure all the other stations are going to feature that on their ten o'clocks. I bet you dollars to doughnuts even that fool Cindy Wilson at Channel Seven is going to beat your ass on this one. And now you know what you're going to have to do? Run like hell just to keep up with her and everyone else, when you could have won this whole thing hands down!”

  As he reached his office with her yelling and trailing after him, he stopped at his door and said, “Lay off, Nan. Trust me, something's wrong here, and I want to proceed with just a bit of caution.”

  “No shit something's wrong! And I know what it—”

  Todd put a finger to his lips and said, “Shh.”

  “Todd—”

  Ignoring her, he slipped into his small, glass-walled office just off the main newsroom, closed the door, turned the wand of the white miniblinds so that they shut completely, and stood there rubbing his brow. Stories like this didn't just come your way. No one just gave them away either. And yet … yet he couldn't stem the sense that he was being given all this. He witnessed the murder. He found the body. He not only helped find a suspect, but he reported live from the scene of the arrest. As a matter of fact, he'd captured two out of the three major events of this case on film, which was unbelievable.

  Exactly: unbelievable.

  And, no, it didn't just happen like this.

  Todd would have liked to think he was that great, but events over the past few years had left him permanently humble. And wise enough to know that there were two types of truths: the spoken one versus the real. Just last week, Marcia, an old friend from Northwestern University, had shattered yet another one of those supposed truths, this one held not simply by Todd, but by billions around the world. While she'd once been an aspiring actress at Northwestern, she'd eventually abandoned that dream, pursuing something more practical, namely a career as an accountant in suburban Chicago. An instructor of hers from the drama program had finally made it, however, going on to become not a superstar, but certainly a major star in his own right, and this past Tuesday the two of them had reconnected and gone out for a lengthy and gossipy lunch. When the star started talking about one of his more recent films, an action-adventure movie where he'd played the bad guy opposite an actor who was one of the top hunks and biggest superstars in America, Marcia couldn't help but ask.

  “I know Tim Chase is married—and, God, his wife's so utterly beautiful—but every now and then you hear those rumors,” Marcia began. “I mean, forgive me my ‘idol’ curiosity, but tell me, is he or isn't he gay?”

  The star looked up from his poached-chicken sandwich, shrugged, and said, “I spent something like two months on a set with Tim. And you wouldn't believe what a wonderful person he is—smart, kind, caring. His wife, Gwen Owens, came for a while too—she brought their son for a couple of weeks, and, man, those are the two most devoted parents I've ever seen. They love that little boy and they really love each other, but …”

  “But?”

  “Tim had a same-sex lover, a guy by the name of Rob. A nice guy too
. He was on the set for a good chunk of the filming, and Tim and he shared a trailer and were completely open about it on the set. Everyone from the gaffer on up knew.”

  “But … but …” Marcia's mouth dropped open. “But what about Gwen Owens?”

  “She must know that he likes guys, there's no way she couldn't. There was some kind of big blow-up though. She came down, Tim and Rob had a huge fight, and then Rob left. I think it went like that anyway.”

  “Yeah, but, I mean, just last week there was a big article in the National Enquirer—okay, I didn't buy it, I just read it in line at the grocery store—with Tim Chase on the cover. They said he wasn't gay, and then they had a long quote from his wife, who said he was the straightest man she'd ever met.”

  “That's Hollywood.” The star had smiled. “I'm sure his public-relations person wrote the whole thing, her quote and all, and just fed it to them. That's the way these things go.”

  That afternoon Marcia had called Todd, giggling and saying, “Oh, Todd, I got somethin' real hot here.”

  When Todd had first heard that story he'd been titillated, as every person—gay and straight, male and female—in the world would be. But now, days later, Todd was pissed. No, his anger had nothing to do with a judgmental belief that since he was out the entire world should be. Rather, now that Todd was out he saw the crime of the closet all the more, a crime he himself had committed until recently by broadcasting an image of someone he was not.

  No, Tim the megastar was not nice. He was not caring. Nor was he smart. In fact, he was anything but, for he was perpetuating a lie. And that lie wasn't simply that you couldn't be gay and make it in the movies, nor that Middle America didn't want its movie stars anything less than “perfect,” nor even as simple as being gay meant you couldn't be a good parent. Rather, via the silver screen it telegraphed to both straight and queer people this larger-than-life hateful message: You won't be loved if people find out you're gay.