The Magician's Tale

by William Bayer

  Pat Chu reminds the court that this is a capital case, describes the brutality of the crime, the overwhelming evidence and the fact that no citizen, no matter his station, is entitled to special privilege.

  Judge Lesser agrees, remands Marcus Crane to the custody of the Sheriff's Department, to be held in jail pending a preliminary hearing.

  Outside we're swarmed. TV and print reporters, photographers and videotape cameramen press close. Even though I'm wearing shades, I hold up my hand to protect my eyes.

  The questions fly at me:

  "Is it true Tim Lovsey was a hustler?"

  "You took photos of Crane soliciting kids, right?"

  "Why'd they want to kill you, Kay?"

  Keeping silent, I try to work my way through, Joel gently pushing his press colleagues aside to create a path.

  Suddenly the crowd parts, then deserts us. A far bigger attraction has appeared.

  "Mrs. Lashaw—is it true your husband's part of a ring of chicken hawks?"

  "Sarah! Did you know Mark Crane was gay?"

  "How's your tennis coach involved?"

  "Did you put him up to it?"

  "How's it feel to be married to a child molester?" The questions resound as Joel and I escape the crush.

  Out on Bryant Street, Joel turns to me, winks.

  "You'll be on TV tonight, kiddo."

  Sasha is on duty, so I go over to Dad's on Cherry Street to watch the evening news. Since I'm more interested in his reactions than in seeing myself, I study him as he waits for my appearance. He's nervous but also rooting for me, I can tell, actually looks proud when I come on.

  "Oh, boy!" he says. "That's it, darlin'! Give it to 'em, give it to 'em good!"

  Since, in the film clip, I speak not a word, it must be my silence that he likes.

  "No, it's you, darlin'—your dignity, the way you move. Class! They recognize it. Now that Lashaw lady—she comes off like a tart."

  I have to smile. His vocabulary's so quaint. Tarts, fairies, tootsie-babies—such archetypes populate his mind. But if he's an old-fashioned guy, his heart is big and his integrity intact. When the news segment is over, he flicks the set off.

  "So what's next, darlin'? When're you planning on digging up Billy's stuff?"

  "Joel thinks we should give it a month."

  Dad nods. "Good idea. Wait till after the holidays at least."

  Hilly, Joel, Ice Goddess Kirstin, Sasha and I meet to celebrate the publication of Joel's front-page story in the Bay Area News. We assemble at the bar at Zuni, my favorite San Francisco haunt because of its food, conviviality and eccentric triangular flatiron space. When our table is ready we ascend to the balcony. Conversation and laughter bubble up to us as we eat. This, I think, is San Francisco at its best—happy, youthful, still a little wild.

  Sasha's great. Everyone likes him. But as dinner progresses, Hilly slips into a funk. When Joel asks what's the matter, she says being without a date makes her feel odd-man-out.

  "Jeez, Hilly," Joel says, "now that you're famous you'll get hit on all the time."

  "Yeah," she says, brightening. Then just as quickly she deflates: "But then how'll I know it's me she likes and not just the true-blue image?"

  A few days of euphoria, then the letdown. It's all wrapped up . . . except it's not. Exposures, I think, will work. I'll have a book, a coherent story with beginning, middle and end. But still there's something missing. In my anger and the passion of the chase, I forgot about my loss. Now I miss Tim terribly. His smile, eyes, beauty, the perfect planes of his face, the way he used to touch me when we talked. I long for closure, cannot find it. His twin, carrying at least some portion of his spirit, somewhere roams the earth. I know I must find her, that until I do I cannot rest.

  Early December days are clear this year, the light oblique and sharp. Hard to imagine winter rains are coming soon. In daytime it's balmy, people walk around in jogging clothes. I spot a Santa Claus standing on the corner of Mason and Sutter ringing a bell in shorts. At night the air is crisp; the city sparkles beneath the moon. I study various neighborhoods through my telescope, recalling David deGeoffroy's certainty that Ariane must be nearby. Why hasn't she come forward? Surely she knows of the arrests. She also knows who I am and how to find me, but I have no notion of where to look for her.

  Joel's call awakens me from a dream. I answer groggily, brain fogged with sleep.

  "Crane's dead, killed himself."

  "What?" My head clears fast. "When? Where?"

  "Last night. In jail. He wasn't on suicide watch. He was acting so cocky the jailers left him alone. Somehow he got hold of a belt, used it to make a noose, got up on a stool, secured the belt to the window bars, kicked the stool away. They're pissing blood downtown. Hackford's yelling the cops railroaded an innocent man, hounded him unto death. Lashaw was just on the air fuming with indignation. It's all the fault, she says, of a sick, obsessed girl. That's you, kiddo. And a scummy journalist, me. She named us both."

  "Jesus!"

  "Don't worry. She and Hackford'll be sorry. I just got off the phone with Pat Chu. The D.A.'s office believes in the public's right to know. They'll release details of their case this afternoon."

  At five I turn on my TV, watch the press conference live. Pat Chu is terrific, smooth, even-tempered, precise, and she presents a devastating brief. She's got it all, chapter and verse, even the gun used to shoot Tim, registered to Crane and found in Knob's hooch. She shows the knives Knob used to do the cutting, the wad of money he received from Crane, Crane's lease on the Washington Street pied-a-terre where he engaged in sexual acts with underage boys. Best of all, she offers serology reports showing that traces of Tim's blood were found in the love nest, on the carpet where he fell after he was shot and in the drain of the bathtub where the butchering was carried out.

  "The evidence," she says, "'is overwhelming, as Mr. Crane surely recognized. Naturally we deplore his suicide. We'd have much preferred to take our case to a jury. Still, we must surmise that Marcus Crane took his own life to spare himself and his family a blistering defeat at trial."

  Joel wants me to attend Crane's funeral, to be held in Grace Cathedral. I decline. I have no wish to stand outside in a vulture's pack of photographers ready to pounce when Sarah Lashaw appears.

  I've had more than enough of that doomed, demented couple. Like specimen insects, they'll be pinned forever in my memory. Instead I spend those hours working quietly in my darkroom, where the safety light gives off a comforting glow.

  An image emerging slowly from a sheet of photographic paper immersed in developer—the magic of it stirs me still. It's the same feeling I get when I look out at the city at night. I smile at the wonder of it, the mystery.

  Two weeks before Christmas, Dad again asks me to join him, Phyllis Sorenson and her daughters on their holiday trip to Honolulu. But he doesn't demur when I remind him we agreed a joint vacation wouldn't work.

  "I'll miss you, darlin'."

  I tell him I'll miss him too.

  "Just hate to think of you all alone."

  "I won't be alone. I'll be with Sasha."

  "That's right." A pause. "You know, I really like that boy!"

  I thank him, but haven't the heart to respond that I wish I liked Phyllis as well.

  In fact, Sasha, having learned his lesson at Thanksgiving, has reserved a room for us at Treetops in Big Sur. Our stay, he promises, will be "sybaritic." Needless to say, I can't wait.

  December 16. Hilly stops by to return my Contax G and Zeiss 28mm lens, discovered in Knob's hooch in the Tenderloin, the little room he rented at the corner of Turk and Jones. Both are in as good shape as they were the night Knob grabbed them. I'm thrilled. I love this little camera which has served me so well, and am mystified Knob didn't try to sell it.

  In fact, Hilly tells me, Knob kept everything—the pistol Crane told him to get rid of, the butcher knives he used, even Tim's clothing, wallet and keys. She thinks it's because, during the time he served in Pelican, Knob ac
quired convict traits—compulsive neatness, covetousness, an inability to throw anything away.

  Just before she goes she slips me a transcript copy of his amended confession.

  "It's got a few more details," she says.

  I place it on my bedside table, then, uncomfortable with the notion of sleeping so close to it, hide it away in a drawer.

  Still it oppresses me. Why, I wonder, can't I just sit down and read the damn thing? After all, it's an essential part of the story. If Exposures is to be a proper account, I must know everything that happened.

  After three days I give in, take it to the living room, lie down on my couch and start to read.

  Soon I'm enveloped. Then I come to the part where my life intersected with the described events. The night Tim was killed, when I went out to meet him on the Gulch, I spotted Crane—whom I dubbed Baldy at the time—speaking with Knob, then handing him a package I was sure contained drugs. A few seconds later, passing Crane, I noticed he was upset, but when I asked Knob what their conversation had been about, he shrugged the encounter off.

  In fact, I now learn from Knob's amended confession, it was during that brief exchange that Crane paid him to get rid of Tim's body. A few minutes after receiving the money and the key, Knob went over to Crane's Washington Street pied-a-terre, hauled Tim's body into the bathroom, placed it in the tub and commenced his grisly work.

  There is fascination in madness. Crane, according to Knob, was truly mad:

  ". . . I'm in the bathroom cutting. Suddenly he comes in, this weird look on his face, says he wants to keep Rain's head. I ask him, 'What're you going to do with it, man? Make love to it, put it on the wall like a fuckin' trophy?' 'I want it!' he says. He tries to grab it out of the tub. I slap him down. 'Look,' I tell him, 'I got work to do, I don't need this kinda shit.' Vasquez comes in, pulls him into the other room, so I get on with the job. . . ."

  Yeah, the job.

  The next day, the Friday before Christmas, I deliver my important gifts: a carry-on bag for Dad, not too imaginative but he'll need it for his trip; a handmade craftswoman's kaleidoscope for Maddy ("May you always see beauty, Maddy!"); the shell of a chambered nautilus for Rita ("For you, you hard-assed softy! "); a pad of play money for Caroline Gifford at Zeitgeist ("Next time, I promise, it'll be real!"); and a bottle of Courvoisier Extra for Rob Mathews ("With special thanks for your very special help!").

  The day Sasha and I are to drive south, I prepare a holiday package for Drake: an assortment of the organic health foods he likes, plus Christmas cookies and a bottle of Italian egg liqueur. I wrap the whole thing up in foiled paper, tie it with a mix of ribbons, slip a couple of poinsettias beneath the bow, then place it on our bench.

  I wait awhile, hoping he'll show himself. I want to tell him how things worked out and that now I'm out of danger. He doesn't appear. He's been so elusive the last couple of weeks, I wonder if something's wrong. I take a brief walk around the park, but find no trace of him. When I return to the bench the box is gone. He's here all right; he simply chooses not to show himself. That's fine. I call out, "Best wishes for the holidays, Drake," then return to my apartment to pack.

  Treetops is a dream. Our suite is a detached house set up on stilts among the redwoods to protect their roots. We have a fireplace, hot tub, porch furnished with wicker chairs, huge bed made up with incredibly luxurious sheets arranged for perfect viewing of the Pacific.

  At night we watch a cruise ship pass, lit up like a city. Then a thick fog hugs us in. In the morning we arise to find whales cavorting in the waves, blowing off fountains of spray. There's nothing to do here except eat, sleep, read, make love and receive deep Swedish-style massages from the staff.

  On Christmas morning after breakfast, we take a long hike through the woods. At lunch we exchange gifts: a black silk dressing gown for Sasha, a small framed Indian tantric painting of a female warrior for me.

  I'm overwhelmed. The drawing is exquisite. Sasha tells me it's colored, but he thinks the effect is more powerful in black and white.

  "How do you know?" I ask.

  "I photographed it first to see."

  What a fabulous man!

  "I'm crazy about you, Sasha. I chose a black robe for you because you wear white all day."

  He kisses me. We repair to our tree house to make love. After that a long soak in our hot tub, then a double massage as we lie side by side while a pair of tender-fingered masseuses knead our flesh. This, I think, must be what "sybaritic" means.

  Before sleep, I look closely at the painting. It's less than a foot square, yet filled with energy. The woman warrior holds a sword in one hand, a shield in the other. At her feet lies a half-clad male.

  I ask Sasha if there's a story to go with it. He says there're a hundred possible stories, and, to demonstrate, he'll tell me one.

  "The warrior is you, Kay—powerful, indomitable, a woman of convictions, never to be trifled with. The man is your lover, me, 'slain' by your fierce beauty. We've made love all night. Now we recline declaring our love—you in your warrior's crouch, female power enhanced, I at your feet drained but in bliss."

  "Sasha," I tell him, "that's just wonderful."

  January 8: foggy, wintry. Hilly, "based on information received from a confidential source," has secured a search warrant from Judge Henry Beck to dig up the area behind Billy Hayes's widow's garage.

  Debbie Hayes doesn't act surprised when we show up—Hilly, Joel and me, a van carrying two cops and three criminalists with shovels, trailed by a backhoe and driver from Public Works.

  Debbie's a big blowsy middle-aged woman with a Texas twang. Hard to imagine her with Billy, the lean, fast-talking welterweight. But she doesn't object or squawk or carry on. I get the impression she's cried lots of tears in her life and more or less expects disasters.

  When I ask if I can take her picture, she invites me into the house. There's a display of family photos on the spinet, no sign in them of kids. I pose her holding a photo of young Billy to her chest, in which, in head-guard and trunks, he receives his Golden Gloves trophy. There's an expression of longing on her face that seems to deepen as I shoot. Afterwards she stands by the window staring out at the men.

  "It's s nice to have a bunch of guys around again. Billy used to bring his cop friends home. I miss those days."

  She asks me if I think it'll be all right if she takes a case of beer out to the crew, or whether she should wait until they find whatever it is they're looking for.

  Dusk comes early in January. It's dark and cold by the time the trench is dug, fifteen feet wide running along the rear of the garage. The backhoe operator had to take special care not to break into the foundation.

  I shiver in my jacket as the criminalists start sifting dirt. They wear miners' lights on their helmets; the beams crisscross as they work the pit. A train passes behind the house, hissing its way south to San Jose. Neighborhood kids cluster around to watch. Not much conversation, just steady work by men anxious to finish a tough job and go home.

  I keep my eyes on Hilly, wondering what she thinks, why she supposes Billy buried this stuff and to what degree she suspects Dad's involvement. We've tipped her off without telling her the entire story. In return for our tip, she's promised not to delve too deeply. As Joel puts it, she's chosen personal glory at the price of never understanding Billy's motivation. In this matter each of us has used the other: Hilly to greatly advance her career; Joel to break a terrific story; I, as best I understand myself, to preserve the symmetries; all of us to uncover the dead T killer's identity.

  Photographing the scene, I try to capture its starkness, the sense I have that we're digging up a grave. A couple of times people call Hilly over, but in each instance the find turns out to be a stone.

  Shortly after seven, a cop near the corner of the garage holds up a black polyethylene bag knotted at the top. Hilly takes it to the van, hands it to the chief criminalist. Miraculously, the plastic hasn't torn.

  During the opening I fire off r
apid frames. Behind me the men light cigarettes while herding against the chill.

  Once the bag is opened an odor is released, earthy and, perhaps in my imagination, faintly tinged with licorice. I catch my breath as the criminalist pulls out a set of mildewed clothes, then the hypodermic, the tattooing gear, finally the awful ominous hood slippery with mold.

  Hilly turns to me: "Do you believe this, Kay? Fifteen years in the ground?" She turns to the others. "Yes! Yes!" She whoops. They cheer, hug, congratulate. I photograph their faces, the pride, the gloat.

  Joel sidles over. "Big moment."

  "Absolutely," I agree.

  "How do you feel?"

  "Nervous. Afraid it'll backfire on Dad."

  "Don't worry, kiddo. Hilly'll see he isn't hurt."

  "How does she explain it then?"

  "An old dead cop's perversity, something like that."

  "What'll Hale think when he hears?"

  Joel smiles. "That he's been screwed. You know, by the powers that be, the forces of darkness, the conspirators. He was methodical, did everything right, more or less figured out what happened. Only trouble was . . . he didn't know where to dig."

  "Any regrets about not telling him?"

  Joel shakes his head. "I like Hilly." His smile is sly. "I'm going to have the best cop source in town for years to come, I think."

  I'm spending the better part of my days in the darkroom now, marking up proof sheets, printing my selections out. Twice a week, late in the afternoon, I drop by Maddy's to show her my work. She confirms some of my decisions, questions others, but never challenges my premise. Often she'll point out a new direction, a route into the story via an alternate set of images. Guided by her counsel, I make final choices, then return to the darkroom to work up exhibition-quality prints.