Closet

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “Funny, and here all these years I thought you just didn't want to look like a diesel dyke.” Todd steered the conversation back down his intended path, asking, “You've loved me too, haven't you? I mean, ever since then?”

  “Of course.”

  “There was so much that was right about us,” he continued. “Everything … everything except, of course, the sexual part. It all makes such sense when I look back. It was always awkward when we kissed and fooled around.”

  With a short laugh Janice said, “Somehow we both knew that we were queer, didn't we?”

  “Probably. But you accepted it a lot sooner than me. Like decades sooner. When did you come out, that next fall?”

  “Right. I went to Europe that spring and summer, which is when I had my first big affair with another woman.”

  “It scared me, you know,” volunteered Todd, looking at her over his shoulder. “Your honesty, I mean. When you came out I was afraid what it might mean about me. I knew, of course, that I had same-sex feelings, but I was doing my damnedest not to admit it.” For a moment Todd was carried away by their shared history. “And that's one of the things I've loved most about you—your honesty, your integrity.”

  “Todd, have you flipped or what? Why the hell are you talking about this now?”

  “Because I've been trying to learn from you.” He turned from the window and said, “Just look at me, Janice.”

  Seated at her desk, she looked up, staring at him with reddened eyes. He crossed to her, pushed aside a few papers, and sat down on the edge of the desk. Reaching out, he took both her hands in his.

  Clearing his throat, Todd said, “We've been through a lot together. All these years, all these problems. You've always told me the truth, even when it hurt. And I've been trying to do the same. Hell, you were the first person I told about Michael and me.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, you've always been so hard on yourself.”

  “So ask.”

  “Ask what?”

  “Go on, ask me what you're worried about. Ask me what I did or didn't do. You've got to know.”

  “But …”

  “No buts. Be a big old bull-dyke lawyer and walk all over me. Be as direct as possible.”

  Janice blotted her right eye, asked meekly, “Did you kill Michael?”

  “Absolutely not.” Todd waited, then added, “Go on.”

  “Did you kill Brian Fisher?”

  “No, I don't even know who he was.”

  “Were you cruising down at Lake Calhoun last night?”

  “No. I've never even done that, gone down there and had sex. It scares me too much.”

  Todd watched as she closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip. Then she let out a huge sigh, sat back in her office chair. The next moment, she was leaning forward, wrapping her arms around him. He bent over, hugged her back, clutched her, and held on.

  “I'm sorry,” said Janice. “I was just so worried. I was just—”

  “Sh. It's okay.”

  “God, this is a mess.” She pushed back, wiped her eyes.

  “No shit. This has turned into a pig roast, I'm the pig, and the media is swarming in for the feast.”

  “Channel Seven was down at the murder site this morning. It was on the early news.”

  “Oh, great. What did they say? Was my name brought up?”

  He listened as she related the entire story. When Janice mentioned that Channel 7 claimed to have received the initial call, Todd took special note.

  He shook his head and said, “Janice, I have to tell you all about last night.”

  “Of course you do.”

  He got up, went around, and sat down in front of her desk. “I went down to the Gay Times.”

  “Oh, that was smart. I'm sure a jury would find that very interesting. I mean, it doesn't sound very good, you going

  out to the bars right after Michael's funeral. You weren't trying to pick up someone, were you?”

  “No.”

  “Thank God for miracles.”

  “I just wanted to talk to Jeff.” Todd studied Janice as he said, “I … I don't know, I just wanted to know if Michael was seeing someone else.”

  “What? Michael? You two didn't have an open relationship, did you?”

  “No. It was just a thought, a worry.” A worry with no resolution, he realized, looking away. “Jeff wasn't particularly happy to see me though.”

  “I bet not.” She lit her second cigarette, then reached into a drawer and took out a fresh yellow legal pad. “What else? Did you just leave then? Did you have a drink or anything?”

  “Yeah, one. Two maybe, I can't remember. I watched part of the drag show.” He added the most important aspect of the night, saying, “And I ran into Rawlins.”

  “What? Detective Rawlins?”

  “Yeah, he's gay.”

  “Of course he is.”

  “You knew?”

  “Absolutely. And you didn't?”

  “I was, well, surprised.”

  “Todd, sometimes you are so dense.” She eyed him suspiciously. “What was Rawlins doing down there, following you?”

  “I … I don't know. And that's what scares me.”

  “Okay, pal, out with it.”

  “What?”

  “What's going on with you two? I'm no dummy. I can tell by the way your voice is all tight.”

  Todd knew, of course, that he had to tell her. “Janice, I—”

  “Did you talk to him last night?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Well, what did he say?”

  “He … he …”

  “Come on, out with it, Mr. Honesty and Integrity.”

  “Give me a break, I'm trying.” Todd looked away and blurted, “He came over to my apartment. We had sex.”

  “Oh, shit, Todd.”

  “It just happened. I don't know. I was depressed, I was tired.”

  “You screwed Rawlins?” She dropped her pen and smacked her forehead with her palm. “God, but you're getting good at complicating your life. I think maybe I was wrong all these years. You should have stayed in the closet after all. At least then you weren't a danger to yourself.”

  He started at the beginning, telling her everything. How Rawlins had offered him a drink and seemed to hit on him down at the bar. How Todd had gone over and slipped into Michael's house.

  “You did what?” she asked.

  “I went in through the basement.”

  “Not good, Todd. His place is still a sealed crime scene,” moaned Janice. “That's sure to come up if this goes to trial. Or, I should say, when.”

  Todd went on, explaining how he'd gone home, peacefully, quietly. He'd been totally exhausted, and then there was a knock on his door. Rawlins had come in,

  and … and …

  Janice cut to the chase, asking, “Did he stay the whole night?”

  “No.”

  “Slam, bam … and there goes your perfect alibi.”

  “I think it was about three-thirty when he left. Maybe four,” added Todd, recalling how quickly Rawlins had departed.

  “We'll have to wait until the coroner's report, but they think this Fisher guy was killed even later than that.”

  Todd slumped back in the leather chair. He understood the evening, how one thing had led to the next and the next, from bumping into Rawlins to Jeff to going to Michael's. There'd been an odd rhythm to the evening, a natural progression of events, and in its own weird way it made sense that Rawlins had come over to Todd's and that they'd ended up in bed.

  “The only thing I don't get about any of this,” said Todd, “is my hat. I mean, this morning Rawlins brought over the one they found. But if it's really mine, how the hell did it wind up at Lake Calhoun?”

  “That's what we're going to be up against.” Janice jotted something down on her pad, circled it twice. “I mean, strictly between us, what do you think? Was or wasn't that your hat?”

  “Actually, I'd … I'd say it probably was.”

  “Oka
y, so there's not much sense in disputing that.”

  “But I thought I left it at Michael's. I don't know. I can't remember.” He paused. “Did the police find anything? Did they report any evidence like that?”

  “Not that I'm aware of. But if you left it at Michael's, then whoever killed Michael could easily have taken it.”

  Todd sat back in the chair and disappeared into thought, then said, “This really has all been premeditated, hasn't it?”

  “It's beginning to look that way.” Janice shook her head. “Either someone's trying to cover their tracks by making you look guilty as hell, or …”

  “Or someone's trying to frame me for some other reason.” He stared at her, suddenly afraid. “But who? And why?”

  “You got any enemies? Anyone in that wonderful world of television who might want to sink your career?”

  “I … I … don't know. I sure as hell didn't think so.”

  “Well, you better think twice, toots,” advised Janice. “You're about to be charged with first-degree murder.”

  26

  It was almost noon when Todd neared his towering condominium building, a monolithic structure that shot through the trees and over the neighborhood, and he began to slow, wondering what or who might be awaiting him. As he drove around the northern edge of Lake Calhoun, he stared up at the beige structure, tried to pinpoint the exact location of his apartment. Rawlins and Lewis could have received a second search warrant and might be tearing apart his place yet another time. Or, he realized, they might simply be waiting downstairs, ready to arrest him and take him into custody. On the other hand, in a very real way the media could be worse. Would the likes of Channel 7 and other stations be swarming around his building again, hoping to catch a glimpse of the marauding Todd Mills and paint him as the next homo killer à la Jeffrey Dahmer?

  Turning right onto Dean Parkway, Todd expected to see television crews and newspaper reporters lingering outside his building, not to mention that religious fanatic and the Radical Faeries. As he approached he scanned the boulevard, knowing that if he'd been working this he'd be camped out front. But as far as he could tell there wasn't anyone. Not even one of the Channel 7 vans with the antenna perched on top. He turned left into the drive, and with a bit of surprise and a lot of relief he drove slowly past the entrance and up the ramp to the second-floor garage. Perhaps there were no reporters here, not yet anyway. Or maybe they'd been here and missed him. Maybe they'd all rushed downtown, assuming they'd catch a glimpse of Todd under arrest. Whatever, but there'd be a mess of them later, and Todd knew what he should do: pack a suitcase and leave. But where would he go? He couldn't leave town, obviously. Not only would that rile the police to no end, it would make him look guilty as hell. He could go to a downtown hotel for a week or so, but he'd probably be recognized by the staff. Word would eventually get out. What about Janice's place?

  Todd opened his window, leaned out to a keypad, and pressed in the code. The doors automatically eased open, and he proceeded into the dimly lit garage and to his space, which was at the far end of this level. Shutting off the engine and climbing out, he considered how perfect hiding at Janice's would be. The police could be apprised of his whereabouts, and Janice could shield him at least until things began to die down. But how long would that be? And then, as he locked his car door, it came at him yet again, that wave of fear that slapped him: They weren't really going to arrest him, were they? They wouldn't, couldn't, could they?

  He shuffled across the garage, a broad, concrete space that was only half full. It was amazing to Todd that his life could be so quickly and totally ruined, that everything he had worked for could fall apart so quickly. He took a deep breath, choked, wanted to cry. He just wanted to hear Michael's laugh again, that burst of life that said no matter what, everything would be okay. If only Todd had given it all up and the two of them had taken off, disappeared into the Greek islands, as they had often fantasized. Michael had wanted to escape the daily grind and have Todd completely to himself, while Todd had merely wanted to find a place where he could disappoint no one, where his sexuality was of no consequence. Yet it had only been big dreaming, big talk. The escape, of course, had never taken place. And Todd had never been able to bring the two—his public life and his sexual one—into harmony. Now this disaster was the apparent punishment. Actually, wasn't it something just like this that he'd feared all along?

  A sound somewhere behind quickly drew him out of his self-pity. Midway through the garage, Todd hesitated and turned around. He glanced toward the garage doors, saw them still closed tightly. He then scanned the vast chamber. There was no car coming or going, and there was no one walking about, at least not that he could see. A second later he heard it again, a long, slow noise, like the sound of a shoe moving slowly over cement. He tensed inside. Someone was in here. And just as soon as he realized that, he understood that someone was watching him.

  As he quickly made his way to the steel door that led into the elevator lobby, Todd pulled out his key. When he went to slip it into the lock, however, it would only go in about halfway. He pulled the key out, rammed it in again. Shit. He checked, saw that it was definitely the right one.

  He bent over and in a flash realized that someone had jammed the lock with a broken match or toothpick. There was a short, quick sound off to the left, and Todd glanced over, saw nothing but a row of cars. He hurried to the right, passed around the rear of a small van, and broke into a run. When he finally reached a second door, he rammed the key into the lock, pushed down on the handle, and bolted into a stairway. He shoved the door shut behind him, then turned and realized there was no elevator here. He checked the cool, concrete-block room and saw only a steel staircase that led down.

  Todd quickly started for the steps, then paused. He could now clearly hear steps in the garage, for whoever was trailing him was no longer making an effort at concealment. Someone was running toward the door, hoping to catch him. And as he stood on the first step, Todd stared at the door handle and watched as someone pushed it down. The door was locked though, and the lever caught. All appeared fine—until there was the jingling of keys.

  His heart quivering, Todd spun, ready to bolt down the steps. Just as quickly he stopped himself. All his life he'd been running; all his life he'd been hiding. He just couldn't do it anymore. That meant standing up to the truth, including this one.

  Todd spotted a light switch on the wall, rushed toward it, and flicked off the lights. In an instant the stairwell was so deeply black that it took Todd's breath away. He groped for the wall and positioned himself behind the door. Seconds later he heard a key turning and then sensed the door slowly opening.

  “Shit, it's pitch black,” said a deep male voice.

  “Well, go on, we can't let him get away. He's in there somewhere.”

  Recognizing the voices, Todd became so angry that he couldn't stop himself. He yanked the door back and lunged forward. Just as he suspected, he saw the black device cradled in the guy's arm. Not wasting a second, Todd grabbed for it. Someone screamed, a struggle ensued, and as soon as Todd had what he wanted he rushed back across the small space and flicked on the lights.

  Holding up a videocassette, Todd said, “Gee, Mark, I hope you got my good side.”

  “Shit, Todd,” replied Mark Buchanan, huffing and clutching his camera. “I'm just doing my job.”

  Cindy Wilson flicked back her blond hair as she moved into the space and demanded, “Give it back, Todd.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “You do know you're a suspect for this new murder, don't you?”

  “Cut the crap, Cindy.”

  “They found your hat by the body. I was there. I was the one who found the body, and—”

  “Shit, Cindy, we worked side by side. You know me. There's no way in hell I killed anyone.”

  “We all thought we knew you, Todd, but none of us even guessed you were gay.” She let the words hang, then asked, “So what have you told the officials?”
/>
  “Stop it. I know the routine. I taught it to you.”

  “Todd, give me the tape or—”

  “Or what?”

  “I'll do a piece on tonight's news on how you attacked us and stole a videotape. I really had no idea you were so violent.”

  Todd's entire body tightened and he stared at her. At first he wanted to tell her to fuck off, but then he looked into her eyes and saw a reflection. His own.

  “Cindy, they've made you as desperate as I was.”

  “What?”

  “I'm out of the loop and I can see it now. But you can't, can you? You're in it so deep you don't even realize it.”

  “Todd, just answer a few—”

  “You want to succeed every bit as much as I did, don't you?” He hesitated, but then couldn't stop himself from saying, “What the hell are you trying to prove?”

  Clearly perturbed, she hesitated before asking, “Come on, Todd, what about a five-minute interview? You can tell us your side, the pain of being closeted, how much you cared for Michael Carter. And you can keep that tape. Mark, you've got another one, don't you?”

  “Right here,” he said, patting a shoulder pack.

  “Forget it,” replied Todd, shaking his head. “How did you two get in here anyway?”

  It flashed through Todd's mind that someone in the building had given them keys. Maybe Bob, the security guard, had sold them a set. But then he looked at the steel door, saw the keys still dangling from the lock.

  “Oh, shit,” muttered Todd, recognizing the round key ring and yanking it from the door.

  “Sorry, buddy,” said Mark Buchanan. “I meant to return 'em to you last week.”

  It was a complete set of Todd's own keys, which he'd given Mark Buchanan several weeks ago so he could pick up a videotape. So how many other times had they gotten in?

  Todd said, “Were you two just up in my apartment?”

  Cindy said, “What about—”

  “Fuck, you were, weren't you?”

  Mark urged, “Todd, come on, let's not—”