The story went on to recapitulate the strange events of the prior week, noting that Christopher Kenney's release was prompted when the initial report from the medical examiner was found to be faulty. The reporter went into detail about the drunk medical examiner, who had been relieved of his duties without pay pending an investigation, and added a quote from Kenney's attorney, Joan Ryan, who regretted the entire tragedy. The story concluded with a few words about and from Ron Ravell.
This leaves Ron Ravell, age 28, just sixteen months younger than his brother Dave, to deal with the family tragedy. Nine years earlier his father, Thomas Ravell, was killed in an automobile accident.
“As far as I'm concerned,” said Ron Ravell, “Chris Kenney killed not only my brother, but also robbed my mother of her life. Her stroke was massive and she will only partially recover. The doctors say she will need fulltime care from now on, the cost of which, hopefully, will be covered by the settlement from Dave's life insurance. As far as my brother, I know he didn't kill himself over questions of sexuality. I'm gay, and Dave had virtually no issues with that. Besides, this is California, these are the nineties. Being gay is just not enough of a reason to blow your brains out. And now my mother's life is ruined all because of this. It's horrible, senseless.”
And that, thought Todd, reading and rereading the last few sentences, was an extremely valid point. Not only was Sergeant Dave Ravell apparently close to his brother, who was openly gay, but surely he knew numerous gay people. Undoubtedly he came across them on a daily basis. After all, he lived in L.A. There were millions of queers out there. Hollywood was swarming with them. All you had to do was drive down Santa Monica Boulevard at night to see scores of gay men strolling along holding hands. So what could possibly have been the big deal? What could he have been so upset about?
The sad truth was that perhaps now there would never be any knowing.
While right then and there it seemed impossible to Todd that a California man could commit suicide over sexuality issues, Todd could in fact empathize. Not so very long ago there had been a time in his own life when it seemed as if the world hinged on Todd's sexuality. His own homophobia had led him down some path into a dark cave where his fears had grown to nightmarish proportions. He'd been terrified what his friends and family would think if they knew the truth about him, how they would react, how they would reject him, how hurt and supposedly disappointed his father would have been. Later he'd been fearful not only of losing his job but ending his career in broadcast. And he'd been upset that if he didn't marry and have kids the family would die out. It had all seemed so monumental, so insurmountable.
Yet now all that was gone, disappeared as if it had been that and only that, a hideous nightmare, vanquished by some kind of light.
So, Dave Ravell, who were you? And what were you doing there with Christopher Louis Kenney?
Staring at this, the last article, Todd knew there was only one place to dig and that he had in fact found it: the younger brother who not only knew Sergeant Dave Ravell better than anyone else, but who was also quite sure of Kenney's guilt.
And maybe, just maybe, Ron Ravell would finally prove to be right.
28
Just as he did nearly every morning on his way to work, Douglas Simms stopped for breakfast at a small skyway deli overlooking Third Avenue. It was just past eight.
“A glazed doughnut,” he requested as he pushed his glasses up.
“Yes, yes, of course,” said the short, gray-haired woman behind the counter. “And a Coke.”
“A jumbo.”
“Sure, just like always. That'll be—”
“I know,” interrupted Simms, slapping down the exact amount.
He carried his doughnut and towering drink to a white Formica booth by the window, glanced down at the street, and sat down. Forgoing a straw as he always did, he took a long gulp of the soda, letting the cool beverage twirl down to his gut. Work was going to be a madhouse this morning, and Judge Hawkins was sure to be on a tirade, probably the worst one yet. But then again, the good judge should be scared as hell, shouldn't he?
Simms took a bite of the doughnut, which was fresh and sweet and sticky, and shook his head. He knew what to expect. He knew how the litany would go. Do this. Get that. Look that up. Call so-and-so. Make sure I have this. Write that up by noon. And change the fucking world, goddamn it all! Hawkins was always the worst in the morning, the crabbiest and bossiest. On top of that, for the past few days everyone had been so uptight over the cop-killing.
But—a small grin on Simms's lips—they'd already caught some guy, hadn't they? Well? Yes, he'd seen it last night on the late news, and then it was the cover story in this morning's paper. Thank God. Life was going to be ever so much easier now.
He took another long slug of Coke, closing his eyes as he sucked on the rim of the paper cup. Putting the beverage down, he quickly gobbled up the rest of the doughnut, then licked the sugary glaze off his fingertips. At the next table two corporate types drinking coffee got up, leaving behind the paper, which Simms quickly snatched. He'd read the paper at home, stared and stared at it with immense amusement, but still he couldn't get enough.
Now spreading the wrinkled pages on the Formica before him, Simms burst into a grin. There, staring up at him from the front page, was a police photo of the accused, the guy who'd been picked up for the murder of Officer Mark Forrest. It was a thin, young face, the hair blond and disheveled. A face Simms most surely knew. And then there was the clincher, the caption that read: Disguised as woman, suspect arrested in cop-killing.
Oh, Christ, laughed Simms out loud. This really was too perfect. Too fucking perfect. Could things possibly be working out any better?
29
Todd was at the station by eight-thirty that morning. Grabbing a cup of coffee, he disappeared into his office and closed the mini blinds on the glass wall, then sat in his chair and yawned. He'd slept alone and slept horribly, for Rawlins had reverted to Lieutenant Holbrook's orders and had stayed at his duplex last night.
But now, presuming that the threat against Rawlins was allayed by the arrest of Kenney, Todd had to focus on his story and just where it was going. No doubt about it, he needed more for tonight. More precisely, he needed something different and fresh. And so naturally he turned to what he had been working on yesterday evening.
It never happened this easily though.
When you were backgrounding someone you weren't supposed to just call up directory information and get his phone number in a flash. Usually you had to refer to the Department of Motor Vehicles or, if the person lived in another city, one of the on-line data bases like Autotrak that listed all the public information on a person, from phone number to street address, social-security number to neighbors. And it was supposed to take one of WLAK's researchers days to accomplish.
Instead, Todd simply dialed Los Angeles information, asked for and got the telephone number for the only Ronald Ravell listed. Wasting not a moment, Todd dialed that number; Ron Ravell's phone rang four times before his Voice Mail picked up. It was only then that Todd realized how early it was in Los Angeles, just after six-thirty.
“Hi, my name is Todd Mills,” he said, deciding that brevity—i.e., leaving out that he was a reporter—was perhaps the best way to catch this guy's interest. “I'm sorry for calling so early, but I'm trying to reach Ron Ravell, whose brother was Dave Ravell. I'm assuming that's you, and I'm hoping that we can talk regarding Christopher Kenney. Would you please call me collect?”
Todd left his cell-phone number, then hung up. Perhaps the guy was in the shower. Perhaps he'd already gone to work. Or perhaps the poor bastard was still asleep. So should Todd wait around, say a half hour or so, to see if he called back? No, he couldn't afford to waste the time.
He slammed down the last of his coffee, then took off. As always, no one inquired where he was going, what he was doing. For all management knew, Todd was going to the gym.
As it was, he drove back into town,
heading directly to south Minneapolis. Pulling up to the house where Mark Forrest had lived on Young Avenue, Todd hoped he'd find Forrest's landlady, Anna Johnson, at home. It was only last night that Todd realized how slanted he'd been thus far in his thinking, namely, how focused he'd been on one thing and one thing alone when he'd come here before.
His realization started last night not with the arrest of Christopher Kenney, but with his phone conversation with Janice. Like other times before, he'd been looking for more than an answer to a specific question. No doubt about it, he often called her wanting one thing and one thing only: her nurturing.
Not just gay men but all men were shit at it. At soothing. At stroking. At giving.
If Todd had a specific problem, a complex question of any sort, he turned to Rawlins for his opinions. But when his confidence was waning he turned to Janice, not simply for her schooling, but for her mothering. Increasingly, Todd was realizing that guys, including himself, just didn't get it, didn't know how to do it. Giving selflessly wasn't a natural, an automatic.
And that was what he'd come here this morning to ask Anna Johnson. Todd had been so focused on Mark Forrest's sex life, so preoccupied with the guy he might have been sleeping with, that he'd overlooked the other possibility altogether. Namely, if Anna Johnson didn't know if Mark Forrest had a boyfriend, what about a close, close female friend? A close female friend to whom he might spill all?
In other words, did he have a fag hag?
He climbed out of his truck and headed up to the tall clapboard house, the warmth of the day quickly embracing him. Squinting, he peered up at the Palladian window right below the peak of the house and tried to imagine Forrest's life up there. No, regardless of how out he was, Todd didn't think he'd bring anyone home either, not with a landlady sleeping right beneath you.
Opening the screen door, he crossed the porch and rang the doorbell. A few moments later she again came to the door, pulled aside the lace curtain covering the glass. This time, recognizing Todd, she opened the door right away.
“Hi, Mrs. Johnson,” began Todd. “I'm sorry for bothering you, but—”
“I saw you on TV last night. Saw the whole thing live,” she said, interrupting. “So they got the guy who did it, did they? Arrested him, huh? My, my, my. Poor Mark, what a shame.”
“Well, the police do have a suspect, but they're still trying to decide if—”
“And dressed up all like a girl—heavens!”
Todd said, “Did you ever see her here?”
“Heavens no! Never saw anyone like that thing, that's for sure. I mean, I'd remember her, no doubt in my mind about that.”
“Certainly.” Todd glanced to his left at the assemblage of old porch furniture, then looked back at her. “Last time I was here I asked if you remembered any guys coming around to see Mark.”
“That's right, and I still can't recall a one.”
“I'm sure of that. But what about any women? And I'm not talking about her, the one you saw on TV last night.”
“Well, like I said, she wasn't here, that's for sure. But, no, I can't really recall any other girls coming over.” She put her hand to her chin, thought a moment, then shook her head. “Nope. Like I was telling you, nobody really came over. I mean, it's a nice little apartment, but it's just one room. One room, that's all. Not much for entertaining.”
Oh, crap, thought Todd. Why hadn't he just called? Why had he come all the way over here?
Out of desperation he asked one last time, “So you don't remember seeing him with anyone? You don't even know who his friends were?”
“No, Mark wasn't here much except to sleep. He worked a lot, you know. And he was always going to the gym. And he did stay out late. I mean, when he wasn't working he usually didn't come home until the bars closed, you know, after one.”
“I see.”
So, thought Todd, she knew of what she spoke. More of a snoop than she actually let on to, she really did keep tabs on Forrest's comings and goings. What else did she know, and how could Todd get it out of her?
“Didn't anyone help him move in?”
“Say now,” she said, her eyes widening, “there was this young girl. Cute thing. Dark hair, big smile. He came to look at the apartment twice, and she was with him the second time.”
Bingo, thought Todd. He'd brought her along for her approval.
He asked, “Do you remember her name?”
“Well, no. I mean, that was so long ago, last fall, and …” Stumbling into thought, she stopped, put her hand to her mouth. “Wait a minute. I think he put her down on his application. Come on.”
For the first time she swung the front door wide, then turned and bustled through the house. Todd followed, passing from the small entry, past the oak staircase, through the living room with its dark-oak built-ins and fireplace, around and through the dining room, and finally into the kitchen. It wasn't that large a space, with an electric range, a large porcelain sink, and cabinets painted a pale yellow. Looking at the linoleum and the countertops, both of which had been cleaned so many times that their patterns had been scrubbed away, Todd guessed that the kitchen hadn't been remodeled since the early sixties.
“I've got it all over here,” she said as much to Todd as to herself.
Anna Johnson went directly to a brown accordion-type file that sat on a shelf beneath an old wall phone, a rotary one. Licking her right index finger, she thumbed through the file, came to one pocket, reached in, and pulled out a piece of paper. Through her plain glasses, she squinted at the writing, flipped it over, then smiled.
“Yes, Mark did put her down as a reference. He wrote her name right here—Maureen Shea. Of course that's it, I remember now. See? This is his handwriting, and here's her name, Maureen Shea. He wrote that she's a friend. And look, here's her telephone number.”
Shea? Why the hell was that name familiar? He couldn't place it, not right offhand, but he was sure he'd heard of her before. In any case, he was thrilled. He didn't know where it would lead, but, grinning, he was sure that Rawlins and his crew hadn't come up with this.
“I wish I were as organized as you,” said Todd.
“All you have to do is file things, that's all.”
“Can I see it?”
Anna Johnson proudly handed it to him. “Sure.”
He took the rental application, ran his eyes over it, and found an odd sensation running up his spine. This was Mark Forrest's handwriting, small and neat and tight. Recalling the handsome young man he'd so briefly met on the Stone Arch Bridge, Todd realized that while Mark projected a bold, broad image, this writing indicated someone who was inwardly careful, perhaps even meticulous, which meshed of course with Anna Johnson's description of him and the apartment he kept here.
Todd took a pen and paper from his shirt pocket, jotting down not only Maureen Shea's phone number, but also the address of the apartment where Forrest had lived for, he claimed, two years. Scanning the application, he saw nothing else of interest.
“This is very, very helpful,” said Todd, handing it back to her. “Thank you.”
“Oh, you bet.”
As she escorted him out, Todd ran through it all in his head. He'd start with Maureen Shea and see what he could learn from her. If his crude theory was even partly correct, she'd definitely have some insights into Forrest's personal life. And then after he spoke with her, he'd swing by the apartment where Forrest used to live. So why had he left there—perhaps to save money by moving into a smaller place? Or could he possibly have been living with some guy and walked out on him? A guy who might be consumed with anger?
“Say now, Mr. Mills,” said Anna Johnson, just as Todd was heading out the front door. “There is just one more thing. Actually, I was talking with my neighbor friend and she mentioned it.”
“What's that?” asked Todd, turning around on the threshold.
“Well, I think there's another fellow down the street. On the corner, you know.”
“Another fellow?”
Another gay man down the block? Todd didn't know whether to be interested or offended that someone's sexuality was neighborhood gossip.
He asked, “Do you know if Mark ever went down to see him?”
“No, I don't, but my friend thinks she saw them talking once.” She thought for a second. “You don't suppose they knew each other, Mark and this fellow?”
“I don't know, but I'll keep that in mind.” Todd held up the piece of paper. “Thanks for Maureen's name and number.”
She leaned toward Todd and half whispered, “Just don't tell her you got it from me, okay?”
“Right.”
Walking down the concrete walk, Todd glanced at the billowing clouds in the sky, saw one huge puff atop another. He headed straight for his car, got in, and immediately reached for his cellular phone. Glancing at the number, he dialed it immediately.
After four rings her answering machine picked up, and her voice, bright and energetic, said, “Hi, this is Maureen Shea. I'm away from the phone, but leave a message and I'll get back to you, hopefully within the hour. Thanks, and have a great day!”
Todd cleared his throat and after the beep said, “Hi, this is Todd Mills from WLAK TV. I was wondering if I could speak to you about Mark Forrest. Would you please call me at your earliest convenience?”
Todd left his cell number, folded up the compact phone, then started up his Jeep. At this point there wasn't much else he could do but return to the station. And then? With any luck he'd get calls from both Maureen Shea and Ron Ravell.
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