Murder on the Down Low

by Pamela Samuels Young

  Again, Vernetta gave her a moment to connect the dots. The incredulous expression on Special’s face showed the exact moment that she made the connection.

  “Yes,” Vernetta said, “they’re trying to pin his death on you, too.”

  “What reason would I have for wanting to kill him? Or that doctor? I don’t know them.”

  Vernetta decided not to bring up the engineer. “I don’t know, but the prosecutor believes you had a motive. He just hasn’t told us what it is yet.”

  Special and Nichelle appeared ready to keel over. Then Special’s left hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God. He was on the down low, too!”

  “What?” Vernetta asked. “Who are you talking about?”

  “That football player. He was messing around with this dude Donte. Shwanta, my braider, saw a picture of the two of them together naked. Maybe that doctor was gay, too. The police think I’m running around killing men on the down low!”

  Vernetta thought about what Special had just said. That had to be the motive Martinez refused to reveal. Now, Vernetta was about to have trouble holding it together.

  She was afraid to ask her next question, but somehow found the courage to proceed. “Special, what time did you leave Eddie’s place?”

  “I don’t know. It didn’t take us that long,” she whimpered. “I think I left about ten minutes before nine.”

  “Where did you go after you left?”

  “Home.”

  “Special, I want you to think real hard. Are you sure you went straight home? This is very, very important.”

  She stared up at the ceiling. “Oh, I remember, now. After I left Eddie’s, I drove over to the Starbucks in the shopping center across the street.”

  Nichelle looked at Vernetta. “What time was that football player shot?”

  “Nine-forty-seven,” Vernetta replied. “Several students heard the gunshots.” Her eyes met Special’s. “Don’t tell me. You don’t have an alibi for your whereabouts after you left the Starbucks.”

  “I don’t need an alibi.” Special’s fear had converted to anger. “I was probably in my car driving home. Anyway, there’s no way that Starbucks clerk would remember me considering how many people go in and out of that place.”

  Vernetta recalled what the Starbucks clerk told the police. “What kind of drink did you buy at Starbucks?”

  “What? What do you wanna know that for?”

  Vernetta had less than an ounce of patience left. “I just do. So tell me.”

  “I don’t understand what this has to do with anything,” Special complained. “I usually get a hot drink, but I decided to try something new. SoI bought one of those cold ones. A Java Chip Frappuccino.”

  Chapter 80

  Reverend Sims stood near the window of his office, staring out into the empty church parking lot. He was still coping with the death of his neighbor and friend James Hill when he learned of Eugene’s murder. As a minister, he was usually the one offering comfort to others. Now, he needed a shoulder to lean on. But he didn’t have a soul he could confide in. Not about this.

  The reverend knew he should go to the police and tell them that he had been with Eugene the night before his murder. The police needed to know about Eugene’s suspicions that Special Moore was stalking him and that he planned to get a restraining order.

  But going to the police would require him to do a whole lot of explaining. For one, why was he, a respected minister, having dinner with and visiting the home of a gay man? No, he could not allow himself to get tangled up in this mess.

  According to Belynda, Special Moore claimed she had a picture of Eugene with another man in his kitchen Friday night. He was the other man in that picture. He prayed that picture never surfaced.

  The reverend returned to his desk and checked his leather datebook. He had three counseling sessions, but the first one wasn’t for another hour. Just as he was about to open his email, he heard a knock.

  “Reverend,” said Bettie, the church secretary, “there’s a very troubled woman outside who would like to speak with a minister. She wanted to see Bishop Berry, but he’s not here. Do you have time to meet with her?”

  He nodded. Handling someone else’s problems might help him forget his own.

  Moments later, when Bettie escorted Special Moore into his office, the reverend became so flustered, he knocked over his coffee.

  Bettie rushed over to help him clean up the spill.

  “Excuse my clumsiness.” Reverend Sims pulled a wad of napkins from his desk and blotted the coffee. He extended his hand to the woman.

  Special reached out to shake it. “I’m Special Moore. I’m not a member here, but my friend Nichelle Ayers urged me to come.” She studied the reverend’s face. “You look very familiar. Have we met before?”

  Reverend Sims hid his growing angst behind a smile. “I preach here every few weeks.”

  “No,” Special said. “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t here. But I know I’ve seen you someplace.”

  “I also preach at other churches from time to time. Why don’t you have a seat and tell me why you’re here.”

  Special took a chair in front of the reverend’s desk and set her purse in her lap. He could tell that the woman was a mere shell of what she used to be. Stress had a way of wearing the body down. That videotape of her running up to Eugene and attacking him with pepper spray played over and over again in the reverend’s mind.

  “Well, I can’t put my finger on where I’ve seen you before, but I’m sure you recognize me.” She fumbled with the strap of her purse. “My face has been plastered on TV stations and newspapers from here to the moon. And for the record, most of what you’ve been reading about me isn’t true. I’ve been falsely accused of killing a man.” She stifled a whimper.

  “I’m here because I need prayer. Lots of it. I don’t have a church home right now. Nichelle told me Bishop Berry counseled her a couple years ago. She said it was very helpful.” She broke down into a full sob. “I feel like I’m falling apart.”

  Reverend Sims reached for the tissue box on the corner of his desk and offered it to her. The reverend patted her on the back and waited as she dried her eyes.

  “I’m glad you came,” he said. “God’s never failed me yet, and he’s not going to fail you either.”

  Reverend Sims began by asking her several questions about her spiritual life.

  “I’m embarrassed to say that I haven’t attended church in quite a while,” Special said. “After Maya became ill, I was so mad at God, I refused to set foot in a church.”

  “Sometimes difficult things happen, and we don’t understand their purpose,” Reverend Sims said empathetically. “But God’s power is tremendous. All you have to do is call on Him and He’ll see you through.”

  “My predicament might be even more than God can handle,” Special said with a sad chuckle. “As my daddy would say, I’m in a whole heap of trouble.”

  “I don’t need to know all the specifics,” Reverend Sims said. “God knows.” He pulled open a side drawer of his desk, took out a brown leather Bible and handed it to her.

  A larger Bible lay open on his desk and he pulled it closer to him and put on his reading glasses. “I’d like us to read a few verses together.”

  Reverend Sims recited a short prayer, then directed Special to the Twenty-Third Psalm. When they were done reading together, he took off his glasses. “I’ve turned to that verse over and over again during my own difficulties. And when you’re feeling at wit’s end, that’s exactly what I want you to do.”

  Special nodded as she dabbed at the steady stream of tears falling from her eyes.

  They read a few more verses together and when they were done, Reverend Sims wrote down some additional verses for her to read at home and handed her two pamphlets.

  After another short prayer, Reverend Sims escorted her out.

  “Thank you so much,” Special said. “I do feel a lot better.”

  “Good. Spending time in prayer
can do that for you.”

  She started to leave, then turned back to him. “I’m probably going to remember where I know you from as soon I get home.”

  Reverend Sims scratched his cheek. “When you do, you be sure to let me know.”

  He remained in the doorway of the church until Special drove off. The reverend was now in a state of complete panic.

  Special apparently hadn’t gotten a good look at him when she took that picture. He just prayed that she never made the connection. No one would ever believe his story about pushing Eugene away. His family would be devastated and he would be disgraced.

  The reverend rushed back to his office. He only had fifteen minutes before his next counseling session. Now, it was his turn to ask God not to forsake him.

  Chapter 81

  Vernetta tiptoed into their darkened bedroom and tried to undress without waking Jefferson. She was almost out of her clothes when she heard him stir.

  “Sorry I’m so late,” she whispered as she hung up her clothes. “I was with Special.”

  Jefferson yawned, then sat up and turned on the lamp on the nightstand. “How’s she doing?”

  “Better. She spoke with a minister today, and I think it helped. Too bad he couldn’t work a miracle on her legal problems.”

  “What’s going on with the case?”

  “As it turns out, the prosecutor has some pretty damaging circumstantial evidence against her.”

  “Enough to convict her of killing Eugene?”

  “Him and possibly four other guys, too.”

  Jefferson’s brow furrowed. “What other guys?”

  Vernetta slipped into a nightgown, then stood in front of the mirror brushing her hair. “I know you’ve heard all the talk about a killer who’s been gunning down prominent African-American men.”

  “Yeah,” Jefferson said. “One of ’em was that running back at Fox Hills Junior College”

  “Well, believe it or not, the prosecutor thinks Special is the serial killer who shot every one of them.”

  Jefferson’s silence caused Vernetta to glance over her shoulder. She couldn’t remember her husband ever being speechless.

  “I understand why Special might’ve wanted to off Eugene,” he said finally, “but what motive could she possibly have for killing those other guys?”

  “I’m not sure you’re ready for this, but I think they were on the down low, too.”

  Jefferson smacked his lips and slid back under the covers. “Ain’t no way in hell I’d believe that running back was gay.”

  “That’s the word on the street.”

  Jefferson fluffed up his pillow, then plopped back down. “That’s some bullshit. If they’re not calling us criminals, then they’re saying we’re lazy and irresponsible. And now they’re pinning this homo crap on us. A brother can’t get a break.”

  “Sounds like you think this down low stuff is some kind of conspiracy against black men.”

  “That’s what it feels like. I don’t even get the whole gay thing.”

  “What’s there to get? Some people are gay, some people are straight.”

  “I will never, in a million years, understand how a brother couldn’t like pussy.”

  Vernetta shook her head in dismay. “I can always count on you to break down any issue to the crudest possible level.”

  “I’m serious.” He rested his back against the headboard. “Why would a brother wanna be rubbing up against some ashy, hard ass dude, when he could be with a nice, soft woman? It just don’t make sense to me.”

  “So you don’t believe people are born gay?”

  “Hell, nah! They’re making a choice to do that shit. And anyway, these dudes claim they’re not gay, just freaks. If I wanted to be a freak, there’s a whole lot of freaky shit I could think of doing before getting with a dude ever crossed my mind.”

  “Being gay is not about sex. And it’s certainly not easy being gay. So I doubt anyone would make that choice considering the way our society treats them.”

  “Why in the hell are you defending ’em?” Jefferson asked. “Black women are the ones they’re hurting. I was in the drugstore yesterday and overheard two women discussing this crap. They were intentionally talking loud enough for me to hear. One of ’em was saying there’s no way for a woman to tell if a brother is straight or gay anymore. She had the nerve to roll her eyes at me. I was about to tell her to kiss my ass, but she looked like a real ghetto girl. I didn’t wanna have to call you from the county jail.”

  “Thanks for showing such restraint.”

  “Well, I ain’t got too much of it left. Everybody’s trying to act like half the brothers in America are punks.”

  “What a lot of people refuse to accept,” Vernetta said, “is that being homosexual is as natural for some people as being heterosexual is for you and me.”

  “I don’t care if it is natural for them, that don’t make it right. It ain’t natural for a man to be monogamous, but we still do it. They need to just suck that shit up and act like a man.”

  This time Vernetta put down her brush and gave Jefferson her full attention. “What do you mean it’s not natural for a man to be monogamous? What kind of sexist crap is that? So you want another wife now?”

  “Hold on, don’t start trippin’. I wasn’t talkin’ about me. I’m talking about most men. We . . . I mean they . . . see women every day who they’re attracted to and wanna get with. But if you’re a man, a real man, you have to ignore those feelings because you made a commitment to your girlfriend or your wife, or whatever. These dudes are with women but claim they’re attracted to men. They need to man up just like we . . . just like other men do and handle their responsibilities.”

  Vernetta thought about responding, but it was useless to get into a debate with him on this issue. Jefferson, however, refused to let it go.

  “A big part of the reason these dudes are the way they are is because they were raised by single women. A woman can’t teach no boy to be a man.”

  Vernetta picked up the brush from the dresser and threw it at him. Jefferson ducked just before it clacked against the headboard.

  “Hey! You coulda put my eye out.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I was aiming for your forehead, not your eye. Sometimes the most ridiculous things come out of your mouth. So now you’re saying these guys are on the down low because they were raised by single mothers?”

  “I’m saying it’s part of the problem,” Jefferson insisted. “I know a dude whose mama taught him to take a piss sitting down. That’s crazy. Black women are teaching their sons to be too soft. They do everything for ’em and give ’em everything and then wonder why they can’t stand up and be men. Black mothers need to stop raising their sons to be punks and force ’em to man up.”

  “You’re actually serious?”

  “Yeah, I am. Nobody wants to speak the truth because it’s not politically correct. Well, I ain’t with the gay thing. Johnny ain’t supposed to have two fathers.”

  Jefferson was growing more and more animated as he spoke, stabbing the air with his finger for emphasis. “And a lot of these dudes have major self-esteem issues. Their mamas chose men who were no good, and all they heard growing up was how much of an asshole their daddy was. So when they look in the mirror, that’s exactly what they see. An asshole.”

  Vernetta was surprised at how impassioned Jefferson was about this topic. She tied her hair with a scarf, then went to the bathroom and turned on the faucet, partly to drown out her husband’s ranting. Jefferson was still in the midst of his tirade when she reentered the bedroom.

  “I had no idea you were so homophobic,” she said.

  “I’m not homophobic,” he said defensively. “As long as those dudes ain’t trying to rock my way or undress near me at the gym, I couldn’t care less what they do.” He grinned. “Now, I’m cool with the lesbian thing. I could watch two fine lesbians do their thing all day long.”

  Vernetta picked up a paperback book from the corner of th
e dresser and hurled it across the room. This time she hit her mark.

  “Ow!” Jefferson rubbed the side of his head. “I’m reporting you for spousal abuse.”

  “You’re a man, aren’t you?” Vernetta laughed and slid next to him in bed. “Just suck it up and act like a man.”

  Chapter 82

  Detective Jessup inspected Lamont Wiley’s roomy, West Hollywood apartment as if he were Alice and had just stepped into Wonderland. “So this guy is actually gay?”

  “Could you please lower your voice,” J.C. warned through clenched teeth.

  They were standing just inside the doorway, waiting for Eugene’s ex-lover to conclude a telephone call.

  When J.C. learned that Detective Jessup planned to interview Lamont, she begged him to let her tag along. He consented, knowing it was against the lieutenant’s order. J.C. figured he wanted something to hold over her head. She would deal with that when it came up.

  Detective Jessup’s eyes scanned the apartment. “This place looks macho enough for me to be living here.”

  The living room was decorated in basic bachelor. Black leather couch, off-white walls, a couple of abstract paintings, a 42-inch flat screen and end tables that didn’t match.

  “What did you expect,” J.C. said, “pink walls?” Before she could caution Jessup to stop acting like an idiot, Lamont walked back into the room. He had answered the door shirtless. Now his muscular upper torso was covered by a wrinkled white T-shirt.

  Lamont motioned toward the couch. “Have a seat.” He took the armchair on the other side of a glass coffee table, facing them.

  “I’m sure you heard about Eugene Nelson’s murder,” Detective Jessup began.

  Lamont nodded.

  “I understand you were . . . involved with Eugene.”

  Lamont nodded again, but didn’t follow up with an explanation.

  J.C. saw the pain of loss in the man’s eyes. “When was the last time you saw or talked to Eugene?”

  Detective Jessup gave her an annoyed look. She knew what he was thinking. This was his interview. She wasn’t even supposed to be there.