The Bar Watcher

by Dorien Grey

  Comfortable. Why did that word always keep cropping up when I thought of Terry or tried to describe our time together?

  Anyway, it was a “comfortable” evening in the very best sense of the word, and it reminded me of the best days of my relationship with Chris. Though he didn’t talk much about it, Terry had mentioned he’d been in a long-term relationship with a guy he adored, who had come home one night after four years to tell Terry he’d found another lover. That had been two or three years before, but I sensed he still hadn’t gotten over it, and sometimes in the dark, I thought I could see the flicker of flame from a torch Terry still carried for the guy reflected in his eyes.

  I talked him into spending the night, and we even slept, when we finally got to sleep, in my favorite together-position that Chris liked to call “spoons.”

  Comfortable. And very, very nice.

  *

  Sure enough, when I checked with my answering service upon arriving at the office Monday morning there was a call from Lieutenant Richman, which I returned immediately. This time it wasn’t a request to meet him privately at Sandler’s for breakfast. This was a summons to his office—politely phrased, but unmistakably a summons. I told him I would come right down.

  I was reminded, as I walked into police headquarters in the City Annex building next to City Hall, of how one of the reasons I’d joined the navy was because I thought sailors looked hot in their blue uniforms. That was before I was put on a carrier with three thousand other guys and learned that three thousand sailors all in one place are just so much blue. I was revising my cop fantasies on the same basis as I wove my way through a lobby full of police.

  I gave my name to the officer at the desk in front of the elevators and told him Lt. Richman was expecting me. To my considerable surprise, he merely waved me toward the elevators.

  Richman’s office was on the 17th floor, and I wandered down the hallways until I found a door marked “Lt. M. Richman” and knocked.

  “Come.” Under the circumstances, I would have preferred him to say “Enter.”

  I walked in to find Richman seated in one of two chairs flanking and facing the desk respectively. Behind the desk sat a very large, very once-blond, very once-handsome man who, for some odd reason, I thought looked like he might, in his younger days, have been a poster boy for the Hitler Jungend.

  Richman got up to shake my hand then turned to the man behind the desk, who also rose.

  “Dick Hardesty, Captain Karl Offermans,” Richman said by way of introduction, and Offermans leaned slightly forward to shake hands. He must have been about 6′ 5″, and I felt like a member of the Lollipop Guild. I’d seen his name in the papers on numerous occasions but didn’t think I’d ever seen a photo of him.

  Richman motioned me to the other chair, and the three of us sat down.

  “Captain Offermans is head of our homicide division,” Richman said, as though I hadn’t already guessed. I didn’t imagine he would have given up his desk for someone who did not considerably outrank him.

  After a rather awkward moment of silence, Richman said, “In light of the most recent…incident…Captain Offermans feels it is time Homicide stepped in to take over the entire investigation, but I asked him to listen to you first. We need to know everything you know before we can determine how to proceed. I’ve kept him apprised of our…understanding, and he has been supportive of it. However, things seem to be getting out of control. So why don’t you start from the beginning?”

  I’d known this moment was inevitable, so I’d prepared for it as best I could.

  “All right, gentlemen,” I said. “But since I have more theories and speculations than hard facts, I ask that you bear with me.”

  I then told them everything, from my first meeting with Comstock to Jared’s arrest, leaving out anything not directly related to the case. They listened impassively.

  When I’d finished, Richman looked at Offermans, who in turn looked at me and said, “You and this Martinson, are…close?”

  Gee, that was subtle, I thought, and wondered if he’d heard a word I’d said.

  “We’re friends, yes,” I said, “but not in the way I think you’re implying. As I told you, Jared’s been very helpful in providing me with information I might otherwise not have come by. His job gives him access to a very wide circle of contacts in the bar scene.”

  “And you think these deaths are directly linked to what goes on in homosexual bars?” he half asked, half stated.

  Excuse me? Where in the hell did that come from? What have I just been saying these past twenty minutes?

  I wasn’t quite sure yet whether Offermans’ decidedly homophobic implications meant he was definitely anti-gay or just playing his Head-of-the-Homicide-Division role. Either way, I wasn’t going to have any misunderstandings as to where my loyalties lay.

  “I don’t think this has anything to do with ‘what goes on in homosexual bars,’” I said. “There aren’t any generalizations involved. These are isolated, specific incidents that are not typical of anything or anyone. It would be grossly unfair to try to paint the entire gay bar scene with the same brush. We’re talking here of one individual who, when he observes someone being callously or deliberately cruel, takes it upon himself to makes sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  Offermans gave me a very small Mona Lisa smile.

  “You almost sound like you approve.”

  I shook my head. “No, I do not. Gratuitous cruelty is inexcusable, but it doesn’t warrant a death sentence.”

  “You’ve linked each of the deaths to a specific incident in a bar,” Offermans said, watching me closely, “except for Comstock. Was he involved in one of these bar incidents?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” I said. “But I’m convinced he was the trigger for everything that’s followed. I’m positive it was Comstock’s arbitrary exclusionary membership policy for Rage that led to his death. He was a first-class asshole who had absolutely no regard for anything or anyone other than himself. That his refusal to let anyone become a member who didn’t fit his standards of physical attractiveness was humiliating to them didn’t faze him in the least.

  “I think that, having killed Comstock, the murderer felt empowered to take on others he perceives as being in Comstock’s mold. As I’ve indicated, every single subsequent victim, from everything I have been able to learn about them, seems to have been, like Comstock, a thoroughly rotten excuse for a human being.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Hardesty,” Offermans said, “but I really don’t think ‘gratuitous cruelty’ is much of a motive for one murder, let alone—how many do you say there have been so far?—seven? Human beings are notoriously cruel to one another. If they weren’t, I wouldn’t have a job. Why is this individual only killing homosexuals—especially if he’s homosexual himself?”

  “It isn’t so hard to understand,” I said. “The killer is undoubtedly used to being a target for bigotry, hatred and intolerance from straights. That’s just the way life is when you’re gay. But I suspect he can’t stand the idea of gays acting that way toward one another. It may not be logical, but I’m sure you’ve noticed that murderers often have their own logic.”

  Offermans sat quietly for a moment.

  “So, why are you convinced your friend Martinson is not the one doing the killing?”

  I shrugged, and avoided bringing up the obvious fact that if they had a shred of solid evidence against Jared, he’d be in jail now.

  “I admit Jared’s being my friend might be an influencing factor,” I said, “but it’s not a major one. If I were to guess—and I’m not trying to play armchair psychologist here—I would say the killer is someone far less sure of himself than Jared; someone who has probably been exposed to a lot more intolerance and hatred than I can imagine Jared ever having experienced.

  “He’s quite likely someone who is or considers himself to be physically unattractive. He may very well have been refused a membership to Rage, whi
ch could have lit the fuse to this whole thing.”

  Offermans sat back in his—Richman’s—chair and pursed his lips. He hadn’t taken his eyes off me for more than an instant since I’d started talking. Finally, his lips unpursed and he said, “And if we were to…request…that you back away from the case and let the police handle it from here?”

  I’d been expecting that one, too.

  “With all due respect, Captain, I think that would be a very bad idea. I will, of course, if you make it more than a request, and I might consider it if your police force included some openly gay officers who could pick it up from here. But right now, I’m the only one in this building who not only knows what’s going on, but who knows his way around the gay community.

  “I’ve done nothing to impede your investigation, and I assume from my being here that you haven’t gotten any closer to finding the murderer than I have. The difference between us is that I can go places and find out things you can’t, and that I sense I’m getting close. When I find him, I promise you—he’s all yours.”

  Richman and Offermans looked at one another again, and Offermans stood up. Richman and I followed suit.

  “Well thank you for coming in, Mr. Hardesty,” Offermans said. “We’ll be in touch with you shortly.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” I said, taking his extended hand. “And thank you, Lieutenant, for your support.”

  Richman and I shook hands, and I turned and left the office without looking back.

  *

  Actually, it had gone rather well, I thought. No rubber hoses or brass knuckles were brought out, and I was able to keep from telling more than I wanted to. I’d tried to diffuse the implication of Jared’s presence at so many of the scenes with the fact I myself had witnessed two of them. And they had not asked who had hired me. I assumed it hadn’t been difficult for Richman to figure out, since it was O’Banyon who had put me in touch with him in the first place. He had undoubtedly told Offermans, so O’Banyon’s name never came up.

  Still, as soon as I got back to the office, I called O’Banyon’s office and was lucky to find him in. I told him everything that had happened from Friday night on. And before we hung up, I asked him to remember to bring up the question of the mysterious deaths at the Businessmen’s League meeting. He said it was at the top of his agenda, and I felt a little guilty about pushing him on it. But I knew it was important that someone start taking action on this thing.

  I next called Jared and left a message on his machine asking him to call me later at home. Then I called the Civic Arts Center for tickets for Toby and me for the Chicago Symphony. I managed to get two in the front mezzanine for Saturday night. I was really pleased, for Toby’s sake as well as my own.

  I also noticed that the minute I thought that last sentence I thought of Terry, and felt the slightest twinge of…guilt?

  Jeezus, Hardesty! my mind said contemptuously.

  I realized I was juggling three—what did Blanche DuBois call them? “Gentlemen callers?”—at the same time. And I was a lousy juggler.

  *

  I’d just returned from the kitchen after smelling the meatloaf burning—an indication it was done—and removing it from the oven to the counter to cool for a moment when the phone rang. It was Terry, calling to thank me again for the weekend and to say goodbye until he returned from his business trip the following Sunday evening. I told him to take care of himself and to have a good time, and that I’d look forward to hearing from him when he returned. I did not tell him that I would miss him, but I knew I would.

  Hardesty, you’re hopeless! my mind said. It was right.

  Dinner over, I was stacking the dishes in the sink and trying to find a convenient excuse for not washing them right then when the phone rang again, providing the perfect out.

  “Dick Hardesty.” I wiped my hands on the dishtowel I’d grabbed before moving into the living room.

  “Dick, it’s Jared.”

  “Jared! Glad you called.”

  I then told him of my meeting with Richman and Offermans, and my feeling he was probably more a token suspect than a real one. I was sure by this time they had done a fingerprint check of the steering wheel of the car involved in Hinson’s death, and Jared’s couldn’t be there or they’d have yanked him in immediately. He seemed relieved.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday,” I said. “I really should have come over to help you straighten the place out, but I was with someone.”

  “Toby?”

  I was surprised to feel my face get warm.

  “No, Terry. Terry Stone. I don’t think you’ve met him.”

  “No grass growing under your feet,” Jared said. “But I sort of thought you and Toby were an item.”

  Again, the warm face.

  “Not really,” I said. “He’s a great guy, but…”

  “Yeah, I’ve been there. Not with Toby, of course, but…”

  “So, tell me,” I said, switching subjects with my usual whiplash speed, “did you notice anything unusual in Ramón’s, anybody paying particular attention to what was going on? Anybody different, or…”

  “Hell.” He laughed. “Everybody was paying attention. And as for who was there, the usual mix of regulars and guys I’d never seen before. And Toby.”

  “Toby?”

  “Yeah. I wasn’t going to mention him if I thought you might be unhappy to know he was there, but since you’ve got a new one on the line… But I think he might already have left by the time the fun started. I don’t remember seeing him during or afterwards. Of course, I didn’t see anything during, just that asshole’s face.”

  I heard the sound of a doorbell in the background.

  “Pizza’s here,” Jared said.

  “Okay, I’ll let you go. Let’s get together next week sometime.”

  “Sure. I’ll give you a call.”

  We hung up, and I felt oddly queasy. Then I realized why. Jared had been right—I was unhappy to hear that Toby had been at Ramón’s Friday night. I just didn’t think it had anything to do with jealousy.

  Chapter 13

  Hardesty, you need a vacation, I told myself. A little healthy paranoia is good for the soul, but… So Toby was at Ramón’s. Are you sure what you’re feeling isn’t just good old Scorpio jealousy? Just a little bit? I mean, here you are, alpha stud, and one of your harem is off straying.

  Oh, God, even I couldn’t buy that one. But Toby as a murder suspect? No way. Anyway, Jared said he’d left by the time the tussle started. And how about Terry, while I was at it? What did I know of him? He could very well have been in every single one of those bars—maybe wearing a fright wig and a false nose. But Terry not being allowed into Rage? Or Toby? Hardly.

  And exactly what was there about me that insisted I had to already know the killer? Umpteen gazillion gays in this town, and I personally know the murderer? More than a tad unlikely. How about O’Banyon? How about Bart Giacomino? How about Jared’s pizza delivery boy? No, he wouldn’t count—I didn’t know him.

  No, I told myself, the murderer is some sad, strange little man no one ever notices, standing quietly against the wall, in the shadows, watching and dreaming.

  Shit! I did feel sorry for the guy.

  And even as I felt sorry for him, I knew that one night I would be in a bar, and some asshole would be honing his craft, and I would see the sad little man, see him watching, and I would follow him when he left the bar, and…

  There are times—rare times—when I really don’t like my job.

  *

  Tuesday morning, I did my now-dreaded going through the paper routine, hoping I wouldn’t find anything and noting three new listings in the obituary column of young, single men dead much, much too soon of “complications” and “lengthy illness,” and not a single banner headline screaming: “Something’s KILLING These Men!”

  Just before leaving the office for lunch, I got a phone call from Lieutenant Richman. He’d had a long talk with Captain Offermans after I’d left (Surprise!),
and Offermans had decided they’d let me continue on the case, on condition I did nothing to jeopardize the police investigation. I’d seen very little evidence that there was a police investigation, but I didn’t bring that point up.

  I, of course, agreed, having already done so when he and I had our first conversation. I also redundantly agreed to keep him posted on anything I found out. Whew! Off the hook! I thought as I hung up.

  I next called Bob to ask him for Jimmy’s home phone number. I wanted Jimmy, if he could, to give me the names of everyone he could remember having been in the bar Friday night at the time of the ruckus. I was determined to contact every single one of them to see if any of them might have noticed anyone acting strangely, or if they remembered anyone following Hinson’s two friends out of the bar. While I was at it, I asked him to ask Mario if he could do the same thing for the night Lynn Barnseth did his little number with George at Venture.

  Of course, I realized how difficult this would be. I was in Venture with Toby, standing about four feet from George, when that particular incident took place, and I couldn’t remember anyone I knew being there. Other than Mario, of course…and Jared. I’d have to remember to ask Jared, too.

  I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of this approach before. It would involve a hell of a lot of time and undoubtedly take me on four hundred wild goose chases, but by this point, I was willing to try anything, no matter how much effort it took.

  *

  That night, at around 9:00, I was home going over the list of names I’d picked up from Jimmy looking up phone numbers when the phone rang.

  “Dick, hi!”

  I recognized Toby’s voice immediately and realized I’d forgotten completely he was going to call about the symphony tickets.

  “I just got out of the gym and thought I’d give you a call before I headed home.”

  “Glad you did, Toby. I was able to get two pretty good tickets for Saturday.”

  “That’s great!” He sounded genuinely pleased. “I’m really looking forward to it! I’ve been listening to my new records nearly every night since I got them.”