Closet

by R. D. Zimmerman

  Oh, shit.

  Lewis pressed on, dialing up the feigned concern and saying, “Here, let me take a look at that. You might need a bandage.”

  “I know what the fuck you two are trying to do,” said Todd, sitting firm.

  “I beg your pardon?” replied Lewis, feigning naïveté.

  “I need my lawyer. Her name is Janice Gray.”

  “Really?” said Lewis.

  “Yes, really. I won't say anything further until I've spoken to her.” He repeated, “Her name is Janice Gray.”

  Rawlins shrugged and glanced over at Lewis, and said, “I guess that takes us into the next phase.”

  “Guess so,” replied Lewis. “Would you care to do the duties?”

  “Sure.”

  Then Rawlins took a sip of coffee, cleared his throat, and read Todd his Miranda rights. There were no more questions after that. They pressed him no further, of course. They only conferred with one another, whispering a few words, then nodding in agreement.

  Detective Lewis rose and said, “I'm sorry, Mr. Mills, but we're going to have to hold you overnight for further questioning.”

  6

  “What the fuck's this all about?” barked Roger Locker, the managing director of Channel 7, as he stormed into the conference room. “Our own Todd Mills in shit up to his neck? This is too fucking unbelievable. I mean, I just can't believe it.”

  Cindy Wilson couldn't either. Not even this morning. There she'd been, just doing her job, taking a hot tip and reporting on a murder. It was going to be the perfect CrimeEye segment. Live too. Right on the late news. And then Todd comes darting in, screaming this and that, making it perfectly clear to the entire universe that he was gay. And the police haul him off and keep him for questioning. Way, way weird, she thought, lifting a paper cup of coffee to her lips.

  She glanced across the broad table and saw the two others—Mark Buchanan, who'd caught it all on camera, and Brad Lewis, who'd taken the original call—looking equally lost, equally worried. And with good reason. Shit was going to be flying over this one for a long, long time.

  Locker, who was overweight and bald, always shouting about something, always angry at someone, now dropped into a chair and threw the morning's paper onto the table. “I mean, look at this!”

  Of course they'd all seen today's Tribune. Right there on the front page. It wasn't the main headline—this week's turmoil in Russia continued to be top news—but it was still plenty big: Award-winning Reporter Arrested in Gay Murder. As if that weren't enough to ruin anyone's career, there was the photo. No longer the hunk smiling down from the freeway billboards, this morning the Twin Cities were greeted with a big front-and-center photo of the Twin Cities' own favorite guy, Todd Mills, being dragged toward a cop car. And the quote. Dear God, the quote: “Michael Carter was my lover!” That certainly was enough to derail Todd's stellar career, everyone understood that automatically, and the fallout was definitely enough to damage all of Channel 7.

  “What I want to know is, where the hell did the paper get this picture?” demanded Locker, surveying the group gathered around the table. “Well?” When he failed to receive the desired confession, he prompted, “Did one of you give it to them?”

  There was a grumbling, some shifting. But no reply.

  Cindy looked right at him. “I really doubt that anyone here at Channel Seven would do something like that.”

  But the others were looking down, each in his own way looking guilty as hell. Or, she wondered, ashamed? Could someone have sold the photo to the Tribune? Sure, she thought, either to spite Channel 7 or as an affront to Todd.

  “Well, I suppose it doesn't make any difference,” began Locker, shaking his head. “But it's a disaster for Todd. As some of you are aware, we were just concluding negotiations with his agent regarding the anchor position on the evening news. At this point, however, that's obviously on hold. My main concern at this point is damage control for Channel Seven.”

  Locker took a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled loudly. Then he started laughing. He quickly ran his right hand over his bald head.

  “What the hell am I saying?” he continued. “This is already a catastrophe. An incredible one. Oh, my God, I wish I could say I've never heard of anything like this, but it's almost as good as O.J. Except, of course, Todd isn't as famous.” He shook his head. “I've been talking with our lawyer this morning, and he's been talking with Todd's lawyer. As of this morning Todd Mills has been suspended with pay. I don't understand what happened, who did what, or what any of this is about, but our official position is that we're a hundred percent behind Todd. Depending on what the police and their investigation turn up, however, that could change any minute. Is there anything else any of you can add?”

  Cindy cleared her throat, volunteered, “It happened just as I told you on the phone last night. Brad got a call in the control room and came charging into the CrimeEye office, but the caller had already hung up. After calling the police— that part's on tape, by the way—and paging Todd, Mark and I headed out at once. Todd didn't answer his page and didn't show up, so I started the segment. The rest is pretty much all there on videotape.”

  “Right. I was at home, watching the news like everyone else. I saw it.” Locker shook his head. “It was pretty incredible. In fact, if this had happened to Channel Five, I'd be laughing my ass off.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice, and asked, “So Todd's really a homo, is that right? What about him and that lawyer, the one he always brings to the Christmas party? What was her name? Janice … Janice Something. I thought those two were an item. So did anyone know about this; I mean, did he tell any of you? Was I the only one in the dark?”

  The room was painfully quiet, and Cindy sat back. No way did she want to get into this one.

  Locker turned to her and demanded, “Didn't he ever talk to you about who he was dating?”

  “No. Actually he never said anything to me about his personal life,” she replied. “And I never asked.”

  “Mark, did he ever say anything to you?”

  “Nope.”

  “But you worked the most with him. Hell, you were probably the closest to him of anyone here. Didn't you just have him look at that house you put a bid on?”

  “Yeah, but … but …”

  “Come on, Mark, you must have known he was gay.”

  “Frankly, it never crossed my mind. There were always women after him.”

  “Brad?”

  “I … I just work the control panel and switch the cameras. I don't think about those things.” He was quick to add “Sir.”

  Locker pounded the table. “Well, his agent is in deep shit. His private life is his own, but this is the kind of thing management has to know about. A scandal like this can sink a station.”

  He was silent for much too long, and Cindy thought, here it comes. The other shoe. Dear Lord, she wondered, why hadn't she just been a nice weather girl on that station in Detroit?

  “Well, I met with the president of the station this morning, and for now the CrimeEye segment is postponed. All of you will be assigned to different projects for the time being,” said Locker bluntly. “Depending on what happens with Todd, depending on what kind of publicity there is, well … well, we'll just have to see where we go from here. If you think of anything else, know anything else, come to me right away. And remember, no talking to any of the other media. Clear?”

  “Gotcha, chief,” replied Mark Buchanan.

  “Brad?”

  “Not a word, sir.”

  “Cindy?”

  “Sure.” Cindy cleared her throat and ventured, “But you know, we could have record viewership tonight.”

  He looked at her. “What?”

  “This is pretty juicy stuff, isn't it?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Well, you were the one who said this was like O. J.'s case, so …” She looked at the others, tried to ascertain if they were behind her too. “A lot of people are going to be turning on the
evening news for the latest. Either they're going to get it from us or—”

  “The other guys,” added Mark Buchanan with a grin.

  “Exactly,” said Cindy, nodding. “I mean, we're all curious as hell as to what this is all about.”

  Locker rolled his eyes. “I know I am.”

  “People want dirt and they're going to get it somewhere, so they might as well get it from us.”

  “I hear what you're saying, Cindy,” said Locker, nodding slowly. “And you're absolutely right. Any ideas?”

  “A few,” Cindy replied, even though she had none.

  “Okay, then. You were in on this whole thing right from the start. Meet me in my office in thirty minutes.”

  With that decree, Roger Locker blew out of the room. Well, shit, thought Cindy, as she and the others began to get up. Todd Mills might have sunk his own career, but she certainly wasn't going down with him.

  7

  “This is good, very good,” she said.

  Todd looked up, stared at her as she sat across from him in some dingy room, jotting everything and anything he managed to blurt out on a legal pad. None of this made any sense. Janice Gray was really his friend, not his attorney. Tall, attractive, with dark hair and a slim face that tapered to a narrow chin, Janice had been his beard. With this striking, beautifully dressed woman on his arm at two or three official functions throughout the year, no one ever suspected he was gay and he didn't have to fend off any interested women, of whom there tended to be a fair number. He performed a similar function for her as well. Although Janice was out as a lesbian to everyone in her firm, there were times when a fortyish woman needed an escort, be it female or male, in the corporate world. Which was to say that ever since Janice's partner had died of breast cancer eight years earlier, she'd been single.

  “You believe me, don't you?” Todd asked.

  Janice, wearing a navy suit and white blouse, stopped writing. “Never a doubt.”

  “I loved him.”

  “I know.”

  “I mean, I can't say I never lost my temper. And I can't say we never fought, but I'd never … never …” Todd, who hadn't slept—just tossed and turned in that dank cell—bit his lip. “I can't believe it. I can't believe he's dead.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “They're not going to charge me with murder, are they?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Oh, God.”

  Janice looked nearly as exhausted and distraught as Todd, for she'd come down last night and spent several hours arguing with the police. She hadn't been able to get him out, just as she hadn't been able to stop Rawlins and Lewis from getting a search warrant. So there Todd was at two in the morning, standing naked in a cell while he was inspected for bruises, cuts, and/or blood. None of which they had found.

  Janice rubbed her dark eyes and returned to the task of the morning, saying, “Let's keep in focus here. Now, you've admitted to arguing with Michael the night before his death. The upstairs neighbors have already substantiated that. Actually, they did so last night when the police first arrived. When Michael didn't answer the door, the police rang upstairs, asked if they'd heard any commotion and so on. They replied yes, they'd heard a horrible fight the previous night and seen you leaving. That's when the police decided to break into Michael's.”

  “But he was alive when I left that night.”

  “Of course he was. He was alive all day yesterday too. Don't forget he was at work first thing yesterday morning. About two hundred people can substantiate that fact.” Janice looked up and asked, “When did he usually get home?”

  Theirs was a typical life. Michael left for work about eight, worked all day as an accountant, was usually home by dinner. Dinner. Todd had gotten to be a pretty good cook. With his varied work schedule, he usually had a meal at least under way by the time Michael returned home. A pasta dish loaded with vegetables was a favorite of theirs. Then Michael would clean up, Todd would often head back to the station, and—

  “Todd?”

  He turned to her. “What?”

  “When did Michael usually return home?”

  “About six.”

  “We'll have to check with his office, see if anyone saw him leave, but if that's right it means he was killed somewhere between six and ten last night. The coroner's report isn't back yet, but they'll be able to be more specific. They're doing the autopsy this morning and the report should be in by noon. So the period of interest, obviously, is yesterday, specifically the evening. We just have to prove where you were during that time.”

  “Christ, I don't know.”

  “Yes, you do. You already told me,” said Janice, calm and direct.

  Always so steady, he thought, gazing at Janice. He'd always been a bit in awe of her, even when they'd first met in college at Northwestern University. She was just so attractive, so assured, so intelligent. They'd actually dated back in those days, then had totally lost touch until three years ago. They bumped into each other while walking around Lake of the Isles—Janice had been on a date with a doctor, Todd had been with Michael—and suddenly Todd and Janice started roaring with laughter, because for the first time it was perfectly clear just what they did and did not have in common. The following night Todd and Janice had a long, emotional conversation over an expensive dinner that neither of them noticed. And ever since they'd been best friends.

  “Yoo-hoo, Todd, are you listening? Let's just go back over it one more time. I want to make sure I've got everything before I go to the judge and ask for your release. Try to be a little more concrete. We're only talking about a few hours last night.”

  Yes, but just yesterday Michael was alive. A mere twelve or fourteen or sixteen hours ago he was still here, still on this planet.

  Todd bowed his head, ran his hands through his hair, and said, ”I left the station sometime after six. I wanted to talk to Michael, but I remember thinking I wanted to let him get home first. I usually was home before him and I hated that, being there alone and turning the lights on and starting dinner. I don't know why, but I wanted him to walk into a dark house instead. Plus, I was still so confused. I just wasn't sure what I was going to do.”

  “Did anyone see you leave work?”

  “I … I don't know.”

  “Think, Todd. Go back over every step.”

  He shut his eyes, studied that memory. Looked at it as if it were a photo. His life had seemed a mess. He'd been depressed all day, really hadn't gotten much of anything done. All he wanted was to sort things out. Where had he been as the day faded and it had gotten dark? His office? No, getting another cup of coffee. That was right. He remembered pouring himself a cup, then checking the huge wall clock. He'd seen what time it was, dumped the coffee down the drain, returned to his office, and headed out the back door. He'd passed someone. But who?

  “It was about ten after six when I left,” began Todd, picturing the clock in his mind. “I went out the back door to the parking lot. The janitor was there. What's his name? He's Hmong. Xhua. I think that's it. He said hi.”

  “Good. And then?”

  “I got in my car, started it up. And then I just sat there. It was dark and I just sat there with the engine running.”

  “Why?”

  Todd shrugged. “I don't know. I didn't know what to do, where to go. I just sat there and then finally I picked up my car phone and called Michael. It just rang and rang.”

  “But he wasn't home?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. So by then it was about six-fifteen and Michael wasn't back yet. Either that or he was already …”

  Already dead, thought Todd. Already knifed.

  “Did they find the weapon?”

  “No, I don't think so.”

  “But they're sure he was cut?”

  “Apparently. I'm sure they're checking for drugs. There were no bullet wounds though. I do know that.”

  Todd volunteered, “They won't find any drugs in him. Michael was much too straight for t
hat.”

  “Did he ever use anything?”

  “Maybe he smoked a joint or two in college, but he didn't like to be out of control.” In his mind Todd saw the image of Michael tasting a sampling from a local microbrewery. “He liked beer, that was about it.”

  “Okay.” Janice jotted all this down, then steered the conversation back, saying, “So you went out to your car and called Michael, but he wasn't there. Then what?”

  “His answering machine picked up. I was going to leave a message, just say hi or something, but … but I didn't know what to say, so I just hung up.”

  “But you listened to the message, maybe even got all the way to the beep?”

  “Yeah, right. I didn't hang up until after the beep.”

  “Excellent.”

  “But I didn't say anything.”

  “That's okay. If you listened to the message then the connection was completed. For billing purposes the cellular phone company should have a record of your call. And if we can prove Michael was still at work, that's good.” Janice said, “Okay, what did you do then? Did you go somewhere?”

  “I didn't want to go home. Home to Michael's, I mean. So I just started driving.”

  “Where?” she asked.

  “I don't know. I got on the freeway and—”

  “Which freeway?”

  “Thirty-five W.”

  “Going which way?”

  “South.”

  “Good. You were heading south on Thirty-five W. How far did you go?”