by Brian Haig
“Rape’s rape, regardless of the sexual mix. I’m saying that in over half of hetero rapes, the victim and the attacker are at least acquainted with each other. That’s also nearly unheard of in homosexual rape cases. Except in prison, that is. There, all the rules are upended.”
“So what? You never believed Moran raped Lee?”
“You actually want my opinion?” she asked, with only the barest hint of sarcasm or skepticism.
“Why else would I be here?” I asked, failing to mention, of course, the sweet joy of waking her up in the middle of the night.
“Okay. Here’s what I suspect. Moran and Thomas willingly swapped partners.”
“And you believe the partners were willing, too?”
“These are grown men. It would’ve been almost physically impossible without their consent.”
“But why would Whitehall swap a partner he claims he loved?”
“I’m only guessing, okay? I think, though, that you might’ve elicited a motive from Thomas this evening. He and Lee, they both knew their love was doomed. Thomas had only four weeks remaining on his tour. Lee wasn’t going to join him in the States, and maybe Thomas – or Lee – decided the time had come to orchestrate a separation.”
“So you think maybe this partner-swapping thing was an effort to separate? Like some kinky kind of divorce?”
“Maybe, yes. Remember, you’re talking about gays. They were seeking a clean way to emotionally disentangle. Maybe they decided to start by physically disentangling.”
“And they did this by engaging in some kind of switch-hitting orgy?”
“No, Drummond. I’d guess they tried to handle it in a very gentle, discreet way. They probably drank a great deal to deaden their nerves and fortify themselves for something that was emotionally trying. And I’d guess that at some point in the evening, they paired off and went to separate bedrooms.”
“So this was how they chose to separate?”
“It’s possible.”
“Is that common? Is that how gays handle it?”
“Is there a common way heteros handle breakups and divorces?”
“Of course not.”
“Don’t assume there’s a universal way gays handle it, either. Every relationship’s different; every ending’s different.”
“Okay,” I said, “then see if you can figure this out. There was about a thirty-minute gap between the time Lee’s corpse was discovered and the arrival of the police. What did they do during that gap?”
She said, “Who called the police?”
“Moran.”
“Really? And why’d he do that?”
“Huh?”
“Why’d he call the police? Think about it. He awakens to find a corpse in the apartment. Now if he was the murderer, or was implicated in the murder, why would he call the police? Wouldn’t he and Thomas try to work out some way to dispose of the body? Wouldn’t they put their heads together and try to figure out how to sneak the corpse out of the building so they can dump it in the woods someplace where it would never be found? Wouldn’t they?”
“I suppose, yeah.”
“But instead, Moran called the police, right?”
“But was Whitehall aware he was calling the police?”
“Almost certainly, yes.”
“Then let me try a different tack. Whitehall’s upset at Lee. The love of his life has just refused to run off and join him back in the States. He feels jilted, rebuffed.”
“Okay…”
“They agree to try this partner-swapping merry-go-round, only instead of helping Whitehall get over it, it makes him insanely jealous. He gets incensed. They retire to the bedroom together. They start having sex, only Whitehall’s emotions fly out of control. He gets rough. First he punches him silly. Maybe he hits him in the solar plexus and knocks the wind out of him. Then he slings a belt around Lee’s neck, and before he knows it, he’s killed him. Maybe it was deliberate. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was subterranean rage boiling to the surface. He lies awake the rest of the night and tries to sort through what to do next. Act one is to seem like he’s sound asleep when Moran opens his door at five-thirty.”
“Then why would he let Moran call the police? Why wouldn’t he try to talk him out of it?”
“Because that’s act two. He’s smart. If he resists, that would be tantamount to admitting he killed Lee. Instead he says, ‘Geez, gosh, oh my God, look at this! Somebody killed my boyfriend. Quick! Someone call the police!’ ”
“Unless Thomas really was surprised.”
“No. Don’t you see it? By feigning innocence, he’s able to get Moran and Jackson to trust him, to go along with him, to conspire in his alibi. Nobody witnessed him killing Lee. The other two are completely confused, but they’ve got things to hide, too. They give him the benefit of the doubt, and he’s hoping he can at least get them to tell a few fibs to help him with his story. He knows they’ve got things to hide. He decides to exploit their trust and their fears and take his chances.”
“That’s not exactly what I’d call a perfect plan.”
“Yeah, well, you got a guy who just flew into a rage and killed his lover. He’s distraught. He was drunk. He acted impetuously. There are no perfect plans available. He knows he can’t get the body out of the apartment without maybe waking Moran or Jackson. Or without maybe being seen by some Korean as he’s standing in the elevator with a corpse slung over his shoulder. He’s forced to ad-lib.”
She said, “You know what? I’ll bet that’s exactly the case the prosecutor is going to present.”
“It’s sure as hell the case I’d present,” I admitted, without confiding that was exactly what I’d hoped to accomplish that night: to get a handle on what Eddie would argue, so I could figure out a strategy to block him.
Katherine gave me a fairly friendly smile. “You know, Drummond, I hate admitting this, but you’re a pretty good attorney.”
I said, “Me? You’re the one who figured it out,” which actually was true. In fact, she’d had it figured out long before I came to her room, which made me suddenly suspicious about how much else she’d already figured out that she wasn’t sharing with me.
She peered at me over the covers. “Is that a compliment?”
I smiled. “That’s a compliment.”
She stared at the far wall a moment. “I never thought I’d say this, but we make a pretty fair team.”
I reluctantly said, “In some ways, I guess we do.”
Katherine then dropped her covers and climbed out of bed. She pitter-pattered to the bathroom. A moment passed, then I heard water running. She came back in sipping from a tumbler. Maybe I was imagining things, but I could swear she’d brushed her hair, too, because it was no longer disheveled and mussed. It hung down like a long, captivating robe past her waist. She grabbed another chair, dragged it over in front of me, and fell into it. Swinging those delicately shaped legs up, she propped her feet right next to mine.
It was what you might call a very stimulating gesture. I mean, lesbian or not, she really had great legs. And I’m a guy, and even though I knew she was untouchable fruit, there are parts of my body that don’t know the difference between fruit and cannoli. This was also the moment when I noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra under that thin, tiny T-shirt. These two cute little things jiggled about a bit, and the bottom of her T-shirt was hiked up all the way to the tippy-top of her thighs. I guess because she was gay, she was unconscious of the effect all this was having on me.
I began fighting a chivalrous battle to keep my eyeballs pasted on the floor, on the table, on the wall – anywhere but on her. I wasn’t winning, but I swear I put up a hell of a fight.
“All right,” she said, apparently unconscious that Ol’ Humungo really couldn’t care less if she was a raging bull dyke, so long as she had all the right plumbing and equipment. And she did. Believe me, she did.
She asked, “You’re still convinced Whitehall did it?”
“Uh-huh. Very con
vinced,” I said, rubbing my forehead, so I could shield my eyes, so she couldn’t catch me staring at her cute little feet.
“Do you buy my premise they were trading partners?”
“Uh, yeah, sure. Why not? I mean, it’s not exactly how I’d break off an affair, but I guess it’s plausible.”
She took a sip of water and I could sense, but not see, her studying my face, because my own eyes were busy sliding from her shapely little feet up her velvety smooth shins.
“Humor me some more,” she said. “Go back to what you asked Thomas tonight, about who else might’ve killed Lee. Start with Moran. He’s Whitehall’s friend, right? He knows what Whitehall intends. He obliges him by bringing a consenting partner.”
“A true friend,” I caustically agreed.
Katherine had marvelous kneecaps, too, I’d just noticed. Not too big, not too small, not too bony, not too fleshy. My mother always used to say the only true way to judge a woman is by her kneecaps. Sounds odd, but in a funny way, she’s got a point.
Suddenly Katherine said, “Drummond, you’ve got to stop that.”
“Huh?” I said, thinking I’d just been caught peeping.
“Stop making your hetero judgments. Gays live in a different world with different standards. Particularly gays in the military.”
“Okay, so Moran’s a great guy,” I said, forgetting about her knees and feasting on her thighs. “The kind of noble buddy every man wishes he had. So who’s Jackson? Is he Moran’s steady? Or is he just some willing toady?”
“My guess is he’s nothing more than a compliant partner. Maybe Moran’s slept with him a few times. There’s physical involvement, but they’re emotionally detached.”
In a valiant display of strength, I jerked my eyes up from her legs and looked at her face. Her eyes, I suddenly noticed, were the greenest things I ever saw, utterly infinite pools of grass and forest and shimmering light. There was something odd about the way she was looking at me. But that was all wrong. She’s a lesbian. And we obviously disliked each other intensely. Otherwise, I might’ve sworn she was giving me what we men call the come-hither look.
I mean, we’re in this hotel room, it’s late at night, there’s this big, comfy bed right next to us, she’s damned close to naked, and she’s so close to me I can smell her hair. Smelled damned great, too.
But this was idiotic. Hell, we didn’t even like each other.
Idiotic or not, I decided I’d better leave, and damn quick, too. I mean, there’s something about having a gorgeous, half-naked woman perched within arm’s reach that’s very corrosive to your self-discipline.
I quickly stood up and gave her a lopsided grin. “Hey, I gotta go.”
She seemed momentarily stunned. Then she shot me a look that, had I not known better, seemed ever so slightly peeved. “You’re leaving? But you woke me.”
“I know. Sorry, really. It’s just that… uh, my brain’s fried. I’m, uh, exhausted,” I said, making a brisk retreat.
I got the door open and was halfway out when I heard Katherine grumble, “God, you can be such an ass, Drummond.”
Now where in the hell did that come from? She should’ve been thanking me for letting her get back to sleep. I closed the door and muttered to myself the whole way back to my room.
It took me a while, but I finally got hold of it. Most folks would guess I’d just made a rollicking blunder, that she’d just offered me a ticket to ride, that I’d been a damn fool and walked away. Maybe she wasn’t a purebred lesbian. Maybe she was AC/DC, and I just happened to blunder in on a night when she was in one of those enchanting DC moods.
But then, most folks don’t know Katherine Carlson the way I do. What I guessed was that maybe she wanted to teach me a lesson for waking her in the middle of the night. Or maybe she just wanted to put me in my place on generic principle. Some women can act that way: Please believe me about this. It’s all about power, and the quickest, most surefire way to get it is to flash a little leg, smile a crooked smile, and then act terrifically outraged when the randy bull starts snorting and scratching the ground.
She’d pulled down those covers, and climbed out of that bed, and I nearly fell for it, too. I’d almost made a damned fool out of myself. I didn’t, though. I didn’t give her the chance to mortify me, to coldly order me to stop pawing her and get the hell out of her room. In the battle of the sexes, I’d notched up a victory.
If it was anybody but Katherine Carlson, this would sound too contrived and Machiavellian by half. Only I knew her. I knew her well, too. She was the most vindictive, conniving lawyer I’d ever met. Nobody can build leakproof firewalls; some of that chilling guile has to seep over the edge into her personal life.
At any rate, the shower water was so frigid it was like being scalded by ice cubes. I nearly got frostbite, but I got over it.
CHAPTER 12
The alarm went off at four. I almost heaved it against the wall and yanked the covers back over my head. But I mumbled to myself that the early bird gets the worm, and all that shit, as I rolled out of bed and knocked off fifty quick push-ups to get my blood circulating.
The particular worm I wanted was to force Katherine off that bankrupt defense she was planning. To do that, I needed leverage. Unbeknownst to himself, Whitehall was going to give me that leverage. He was going to be my ace in the hole.
I groggily lifted up the phone and told room service to send up a freshly brewed pot of coffee. I stressed that freshly brewed thing quite adamantly. I wasn’t in any mood for the dregs of midnight’s pot.
Then I jumped into my second cold shower inside four hours. When I emerged, my eyes were so popped open that to the nice kid who brought my coffee I must’ve looked like I’d just stuck my finger into an electrical socket. I tipped him handsomely, then positioned the pot by the window. I opened the blinds and stared at the lights in the distance.
Koreans are hungry, industrious, hardworking folks, and the city was already popping to life. Little scooters piled high with textiles and other goods were careening around the streets, making their early-morning deliveries to shops and warehouses. The drivers had to have gotten up at three to be out this early. Some life.
I lifted up the phone and asked the operator to put me through to the office of the registrar at the United States Military Academy at West Point. A high, timid female voice answered. I said I wanted to speak with the registrar.
The receptionist politely inquired, “You mean Colonel Hal Menkle?” and I politely said yes, and she politely asked me to wait a moment.
This being West Point, some inspiring martial marching music came on the line. I marched gently in place, until a gruff voice said, “How can I help you?”
“Colonel Menkle?”
“That’s who you asked for, wasn’t it?”
Sometimes you just know, right away, you’re not going to like somebody.
I said, “I’m Sean Drummond, defense counsel for one of the less stellar graduates of that great institution of yours. Thomas Whitehall? Class of ’91? Ever hear of him?”
There was a brief pause before he said, “I wasn’t here back in ’91. I know who Whitehall is, though. Everybody does.”
“I’ll bet.”
“We’ve been flooded with press inquiries on that bastard for weeks. You wanta talk to his physics professor? His priest? We’ve even got one of his former roommates on the faculty. We gotta whole list. Who you wanta start with?”
“How about the roommate? That sounds good.”
“Captain Ernest Walters. He teaches mechanical engineering. Just a second, I’ll transfer you.”
After a moment, then three rings, a clipped, perfunctory voice said, “Department of Mechanical Engineering. Captain Walters.”
“Hello, Ernie,” I said, as though we were the best of friends, “my name’s Major Sean Drummond. I’m a lawyer and I’m on the defense team for your old roomie Thomas Whitehall.”
“How can I help you, sir?” he asked, so starchly that it sou
nded much more like, Hey, you and me, we ain’t buddies, and why don’t you go screw yourself.
“Heh-heh,” I chuckled, like I hadn’t even noticed. “Must’ve been a tough coupla weeks for you I guess, huh, Ernie?”
“I guess,” he coldly replied, still not cozying up to my bonfire of friendliness. This couldn’t last, though. I mean, I’m a pretty charming guy when I put a little elbow grease into it.
“I sure as hell don’t envy you,” I plugged away. “I’ll bet you’ve taken a lot of grief, huh?”
“If that’s what you’d call getting seven bogus appointment slips to report to the dispensary to take an AIDS test, I guess so.”
“Aw, come on, that’s not so bad,” I said.
“Yeah? That’s this afternoon. Yesterday, some asshole stuffed my desk drawers full of pink underpants. Last week, some cadets broke into my classroom at night, painted my desk flaming pink, and changed my name placard to ‘Mrs. Whitehall.’ ”
“Hey, Ernie, tell me about it. Been there. You know, the other day, some bastard even painted the word ‘homos’ above my office entrance.”
“Yeah?” he said, suddenly sounding much more receptive. “I guess I saw that on CNN. That was you, huh?”
“That was me,” I said. “You can only guess how I got my butt reamed over that one.”
“Pretty bad, huh?”
“Shit, generals were standing in line to call me. You’d think I knocked up the President’s daughter. I’ll tell ya, Ernie, I’ve been catching some royal hell.”
“Yeah?” he asked, sounding suddenly much more chummy, proving once again that misery really does love company. “Try this one for size. I been married to my wife eight years, right? We date all through high school, all through my time as a cadet. I mean, hell, we got three kids, right? So, the other night, we’re layin ’in bed, and she turns to me and she gives me this real quirky look, and she says, ‘Hey honey, is there anything at all you want to tell me about? I mean, anything?’ You believe that crap? I almost jackslapped her.”
“Wow. Your own wife. That’s one for the books.”
“ ’Course I didn’t. Jackslap her, I mean. I just jumped on her ass and gave her a taste of the old power drill till three in the morning. Lady walked bowlegged for two days, no shit. She won’t be questioning my damned manhood again.”
