Murder on the Down Low

by Pamela Samuels Young

  “He’s part of it, but I don’t think the down low problem is nearly as widespread as black women fear. We know there’s a high incarceration rate among African-American men, and that they’re contracting HIV through homosexual sex in prison, then spreading it to women upon their release. Intravenous drug use is another factor. And straight men are also spreading it to straight women and vice versa.”

  Nichelle crossed, then uncrossed her legs. “I suspect most women believe they can only contract HIV from a gay man.”

  “That’s unfortunate. Many women also believe that all gay men are effeminate. That’s why they never suspect that their strong, virile boyfriends and husbands are on the down low. The so-called homo thug certainly contradicts that stereotype.”

  Nichelle’s face contorted. “Excuse me, but what’s a homo thug?”

  He pulled a thick book from the shelf to his left. “This is an urban dictionary,” he said, as he flipped the pages. “I’ll read the definition.”

  “Homo thug is actually in the dictionary?”

  “Right here in black and white.” The professor tapped his finger on the page. “A black or Latino homosexual who dresses hip-hop and does not act ‘gay’. Sometimes a homo thug has relationships with women and keeps his gay sex on the D-L.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Nichelle rose from her seat to take a look for herself. She read the definition, then slumped back into her chair.

  “Sounds to me like you’re saying black women are in this situation, at least in part, because we’re being fooled by macho-looking men on the down low?”

  The professor fervently shook his head. “That’s certainly not the entire message I meant to convey.” He picked up the remote from his desk and pointed it at the small TV in the corner of his office. He flipped past three channels, then stopped at a burger commercial which showed enough cleavage to garner an R rating. Then he switched to a music video. Three bone thin, semi-nude girls were grinding and humping the air.

  “What’s happening to black women with regard to HIV is a by-product of what you see on that screen. Our kids grow up with these images. Yet, we’re surprised that they’re having sex at the age of twelve and thirteen.”

  “So you’re blaming television for the HIV epidemic?” Nichelle asked.

  “In part, yes. I also blame the lack of sex education in schools, poor parenting, an absence of proper moral teachings, and of course, the Internet.” He turned away and began punching keys on his computer. “Come take a look at this.”

  Nichelle stood over the professor’s shoulder as he pulled up the Casual Encounters listings on the Craig’s List website.

  “These days a man or woman looking for sex can find a willing partner without ever leaving the comforts of home. You can search by city, state and even country. Let’s try L.A. He slowly scrolled down the screen. Nichelle stared at the listings, dumfounded.

  Athletic white male looking for a threesome.

  In town for a few days and need some company.

  Nice girl needs a bad guy to blow.

  When a photo of a penis popped up, Nichelle yelped and covered her mouth with both hands. “Oh, my God.”

  “Sorry about that. It can get pretty graphic. And this isn’t just happening in the major metropolitan areas.” He switched over to Indiana and clicked on Muncie. The listings were much the same. “And you can find any kind of sex you want.”

  He moved over to Men Seeking Men and scrolled down the Atlanta listings.

  DL guy looking for sex with other buddies.

  Married man needs a quick release.

  Any DL guys need head tonight?

  He clicked open a listing entitled Married, but wanna play while the wife’s away.

  I’m a good-looking, muscular, successful, 42-year-old black male from Buckhead. Looking for a married guy like myself who wants M2M sex when the mood hits. Weekend afternoons are the best time for a hookup. Must be in good shape, masculine and very discreet.

  Nichelle frowned. “What’s M2M sex?”

  “Man to man,” the professor explained.

  “This is frightening.”

  “Hold on, I’m not done yet.” He switched over to Women Seeking Men. Nichelle was relieved to find that the listings weren’t nearly as sexually explicit. The professor opened a New York listing with the title Single white female looking for a sugar daddy.

  Attractive, 30-ish, single woman looking for some discreet sex on the side. You must be married, well-endowed and able to help me out financially. Race not important. I won’t respond without a picture.

  Nichelle shuddered. “What in the hell is going on with our society?”

  The professor smiled up at her. “Great. That’s exactly the point I was trying to make. The guy on the down low is just one small part of a much bigger problem. We live in a culture of sexual promiscuity and HIV is happily thriving in it. The biggest problem for the black community is that we’re the perfect hiding place for the disease.”

  Nichelle returned to her seat. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re less likely to get tested so we unknowingly spread the disease to others. We have less access to medical care, so we don’t get the early treatment that could save our lives. Many of our young black men view themselves as invincible, so they don’t feel the need to use protection. And our women don’t feel empowered enough to demand that they do. And just like everybody else, we’re out there engaging in casual sex simply because it feels good.”

  Professor Michaels paused and when he spoke again, Nichelle saw a spark of anger in her eyes. “And the most influential body in our community, the black church, has its head buried in the sand while the disease ravages our community.”

  Nichelle inhaled. The professor was causing her to see a much bigger and much scarier picture.

  “If you really want to make a difference when you speak about this subject,” the professor said, “help women understand that HIV doesn’t pick you because you’re gay or because you’re a bad person. It picks you because you’re available.”

  Chapter 76

  The news conference in the City Hall Press Room was about to start and J.C. was nervous enough to barf. Thank God she had skipped breakfast.

  She stood near the podium, next to Los Angeles Mayor Pete Caranza. The mayor’s chief of staff and press aide were on the opposite side.

  “I’m here to discuss the rumors of a serial killer at work on the streets of our great city.” The mayor gripped both sides of the podium. “At this point, we have no conclusive evidence of that, but because of a spate of recent shootings, the LAPD felt that we needed to take the extra precaution of advising the public about these murders.”

  “A little late for that, isn’t it?” The voice came from the back of the room. “Five men, five African-American men, are already dead.” It was Leon Webber, the community activist and publisher of a community newspaper. “Why didn’t you hold this press conference sooner? Before all these men were murdered.”

  “It was only recently determined that these murders might have even a tenuous connection.”

  “I knew weeks ago,” Webber challenged. “Exactly when did you find out?”

  Mayor Caranza turned to J.C. “Maybe the LAPD can answer that question.”

  In a classic politician-like move, Caranza placed J.C. directly in the hot seat. “This is Detective J.C. Sparks with the LAPD. She’s one of many law enforcement officers who’ve been investigating these shootings. Detective, perhaps you’d like to address Mr. Webber’s question.” He stepped away from the podium.

  No, thanks, Mr. Mayor. J.C. took her time taking the mayor’s place at the podium. The talking points prepared for her by Media Affairs did not specifically address this particular question. But they did include a standard line that would be appropriate for almost any question she was asked.

  J.C. leaned closer to the microphone. “I’m not at liberty to give you many specifics,” she said. “Not with a dangerous killer on the loose. We c
an’t risk doing anything that might jeopardize our investigation.”

  “So what can you tell us?” asked a radio reporter who was standing along the wall.

  “I can only tell you that we’re looking into each of these shootings and our investigation is ongoing.”

  “The L.A. Times claims the Department has some pretty clear evidence that the murders are the work of a single killer. Is that true?”

  J.C. swallowed. “We aren’t at liberty to disclose any information about our investigation at this time. As for that L.A. Times story, you have to discuss that with the Times.”

  A few heads turned toward the Times reporter at the back of the room. He knew about the homosexual connection, but wasn’t about to announce it and lose his exclusive, not to mention get his paper sued.

  J.C. was poised to repeat her line about not jeopardizing the investigation when a reporter friendly to the Department stepped in to save the day. The Department often used a handful of long-time reporters as public relations tools. In exchange, they were given tips that other reporters weren’t.

  “We’ve heard rumors of white supremacists targeting black men,” said John Stole, a reporter from a small paper in the Inland Empire. “Is that true?”

  “No, not to our knowledge.” J.C. felt good telling the truth.

  Another question came from the far right. “So, what’s the purpose of this press conference? You want black men to stay off the streets until the killer’s caught?”

  The mayor stepped forward again. “What we want is for all citizens of L.A., but especially African-American men, to be extremely cautious and careful of their surroundings. If you see anything suspicious, you should call the police right away.”

  For the next ten minutes, J.C. listened to the mayor straight-out lie. She wished she could put an end to this farce and shout out the truth.

  “Is Special Moore going to be charged with the murder of Eugene Nelson, and is she a suspect in the other shootings?” asked a reporter from KNBC.

  The mayor started to speak, but before he could, J.C. leaned over the mike. “As I’ve already said, the Nelson murder is still under investigation. Just like the others. We don’t have a suspect in his death yet and—”

  “Is she at least a person of interest?” the reporter challenged. “You have the woman on tape screaming that the man deserved to die. And she clearly had a motive because of her cousin’s death. What else do you need?”

  “Something we don’t have,” J.C. said. “Solid evidence linking her to Mr. Nelson’s murder. And as to your other question, we also don’t have any evidence that she had anything to do with the other shootings.”

  The mayor fielded the last few questions, then his chief of staff stepped forward and ended the press conference. Reporters yelled out more questions, but they ignored them and exited through a private entrance that led to a meeting room reserved only for the mayor.

  “Nice job, Detective,” the mayor said before being whisked away. J.C. thanked him and made her way into a private hallway. She was surprised to find Lieutenant Wilson waiting for her.

  “You did good.”

  J.C. didn’t respond. If this is what being part of the big brass required, she would prefer to remain with the peons. They walked silently to the mayor’s private elevator, which would take them directly to the underground parking garage, bypassing the reporters. The lieutenant pushed the button for the garage.

  “I know you don’t agree with our approach here, but I think it’s the right thing to do.”

  “You made your point very clear. You don’t care how many gay men are killed.”

  “I do care,” the lieutenant said defensively. “But I also care about maligning these men and further destroying their families by announcing that they were gay. And you should, too.”

  “So you finally believe it?”

  He lowered his head. “I took a closer look at all the evidence, including your case file. Yeah, I think you’re right.”

  As they exited the elevator, Lieutenant Wilson put a hand on her shoulder. “This press conference wasn’t the only reason I came over here. I wanted to give you a heads up about something. Your friend’s going to be arrested for the murder of Eugene Nelson.”

  “When?”

  “They’re on the way to her place now. So, this means you’re off the case.”

  J.C. wanted to protest, but knew it wouldn’t do any good. “Lieutenant, I want to be there when they arrest her.”

  She saw the reluctance in his eyes.

  “I won’t get in the way,” J.C. pleaded. “I just want to be there. Please, Lieutenant.”

  He took a while before answering. “Okay, but stay out of the way. She’s your friend, but she’s also a suspect. Don’t forget who you work for.”

  “I won’t,” she said, darting off.

  He called after her. “Hold on a minute.”

  J.C. stopped, anxious to get going. It seemed to take forever for the lieutenant to catch up to her.

  “You need to know that both the mayor and the D.A. want somebody behind bars for Nelson’s murder as of yesterday. The word I’m hearing is that they’re both hoping to gain some political leverage with the gay community by getting a conviction before the election. And right now, your friend is the only suspect they’ve got.”

  “What are you saying, Lieutenant? That they’re going to railroad her?”

  The lieutenant shrugged. “Let’s just say I’ve seen it happen.”

  Chapter 77

  Special had been receiving so many crank calls lately that her nerves were shattered. So, when she heard a knock at the door of her apartment, her heart leapt to her throat. Had one of the crazies come after her?

  She tiptoed to the door and peered through the peephole. She let out a loud yelp when she saw four uniformed officers.

  “Open up! LAPD!” they shouted.

  “Oh, my God! What do you want?”

  “We have a warrant for the arrest of Special Sharlene Moore as well as a warrant to search the premises. Please open the door.”

  “Oh, my God!” Special scurried into the bedroom, dug her cell phone out of her purse and dialed Vernetta’s number.

  She wanted to scream when Vernetta’s voicemail came on. She hung up and called Nichelle. “The police are here to arrest me!” she blubbered when Nichelle picked up. “I don’t wanna go to jail. I didn’t kill nobody!”

  The officers were pounding on the door now.

  “First,” Nichelle said, “I want you to calm down.”

  “I can’t. I’m scared!”

  “Special, you’ll have to open the door and let them in.”

  “Why? I don’t want them to come in!”

  “If you don’t open the door, they can lawfully break it down.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “Special, I’m only a few minutes away. I’ll call Vernetta and J.C. on my way over. If you don’t open the door, they’ll think you’re in there destroying evidence. Let them in, then tell them your attorneys are on the way. And don’t say anything else. You got that?”

  “Yeah,” Special whined. “But what if they ask me—”

  “What if nothing,” Nichelle said forcefully. “I don’t care what they ask you. Just tell them you don’t want to talk without an attorney present.”

  Special hung up and tiptoed to the front door. Just as she was about to unlock it, she heard a voice that cut her stress level in half.

  “Special, this is J.C. Open the door. Right now.”

  When she finally did, the police officers charged into her living room. A young white cop with a crew cut roughly snatched Special’s arms behind her back and locked her wrists in plastic handcuffs.

  “Owww! You’re hurting me!”

  “When the police tell you to do something, that’s what you’re supposed to do,” he snorted. “You’re going to be facing additional charges for obstruction of justice.”

  “Not so rough,” J.C. said to the cop. He ignored her,
dragged Special over to the living room couch and forced her into a sitting position.

  Two officers barged into her bedroom. “What the hell are you doing? You can’t go in there!”

  “They can go wherever they want and do whatever they want,” Crew Cut said. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Eugene Nelson.”

  “You’re crazy! I didn’t kill that man!”

  Nichelle stepped into the room and ran over to Special. Crew Cut blocked her path. “Get outta here!”

  “I’m Ms. Moore’s attorney. I’d like to see the warrants, please.”

  Crew Cut pulled some papers from his back pocket and slapped them into Nichelle’s hand.

  “You don’t need to handcuff her.”

  “Get real. This woman is a murder suspect,” Crew Cut growled.

  Special was crying and sniveling and wiping her cheeks with her upper shoulder. “I don’t wanna go to jail! ”

  An officer who was ransacking the kitchen pulled out a drawer and dumped utensils onto the floor with a loud crash. He opened the cabinets and tossed plates and saucers around like Frisbees.

  “Those are Calvin Klein dishes!” Special yelled. “You can’t be destroying my stuff like that!” She tried to get up, but the officer gripped her shoulder and held her down.

  “Let’s be reasonable,” Nichelle said to Crew Cut. “I’d be glad to bring her down to the station.”

  He gave her an astonished look, then laughed. “What in the hell have you been smoking? This woman is a cold-blooded killer. She’s not getting any special treatment.”

  Nichelle whirled around to face J.C., who stood back, observing. “Can’t you do anything?”

  “Sorry, Nichelle. This is standard procedure.”

  “Please, please, please, do something,” Special begged. “I can’t go to jail. Somebody might attack me.”

  Nichelle kneeled down before Special. “Sam and Vernetta are going to meet us downtown. I need you to get it together for me. You’re going to get through this, but you can’t start wigging out.”