Cold Serial Murder

by Abramson, Mark

  “Arturo still hasn’t been able to track down Jorge’s family. He doesn’t seem to think it will matter to them much, except that there’s a small life insurance policy. I imagine his mother will be happy to get that. I take it she wasn’t much of a mother while he was alive. It reminds me of the situation with Jason’s mother, although Jorge wasn’t gay. It seems strange that these people should profit from the deaths of their children.”

  “Tim, we don’t know what circumstances Jorge’s mother found herself in,” Ruth said. “Let’s not criticize people we don’t even know.”

  “You’re right,” Tim said with a sneer. “I guess I was just thinking of my own parents. Since Jorge wasn’t even gay, it’s kind of comforting to know that parents can abandon their children for other reasons. I hate to be cynical, but if it makes me feel better I will.”

  Ruth knew better than anyone how her own sister had treated the fact of Tim’s sexual orientation. Ruth loved her nephew no matter what, but Betty was her only sister and Ruth hated to get in the middle of such a sensitive family issue. She tried to bring the conversation back to the present. “So the killer isn’t necessarily targeting gay men. That’s interesting. I thought maybe he had something against—”

  “He might have thought that since Jorge worked on Castro Street he must be gay.”

  “That’s a good point, of course. I hadn’t thought of that. How about you, dear? This is all so shocking. How are you holding up? Do you need to go in to work again tonight?”

  “No, they won’t need me tonight. They’re trying something new this month, since weekday business has been so slow. They close the kitchen and do comedy night on Mondays and karaoke on Tuesdays. At least Arturo gets some time off this way. They’ll have to hire another bartender soon, but Artie’s been training Patrick. One of the comics lined up tonight’s schedule and Patrick and Jake can take care of the cocktails.”

  “Yes, I saw the schedule on that bulletin board we used for Jason’s pictures. Did you put all that back the way it was? No wonder you were there so late.”

  “Yeah, I did,” Tim answered. “I put all those pictures of Jason back in the envelopes in the desk drawer in the office… well, all but one. Artie will never know I took one of my favorites.”

  Ruth wasn’t sure whether she should console him and condone Tim’s petty theft, but she thought instead it might be better to keep his mind from wandering down the path of missing Jason. “Maybe we could get away somewhere today then, just the two of us.”

  “Hey, that’s a good idea. Let’s get out of the neighborhood. Where would you like to go?”

  “I’d like an escape. I haven’t been to San Francisco in years, you know. Do you want to go somewhere touristy, maybe? How about the Haight/ Ashbury? Coit Tower? Alcatraz? What would you suggest?”

  “Well, if you want someplace touristy there’s no place like Fisherman’s Wharf! You haven’t seen the Ferry Building since they refurbished it, have you? I know… let’s take the F-Line all the way from one end to the other - from Castro Street to the squawking seagulls. We could walk around Chinatown too, if you like - stop in for an espresso at one of those old coffeehouses in North Beach. The neighborhoods in that part of town all run together.”

  “That sounds like fun. We can see how long our legs hold out. I already had a nice walk around the neighborhood this morning. That reminds me… What are those beautiful, brightly colored vines that grow so big around here? I see them in purple or red or orange, usually.”

  “You must mean bougainvillea,” Tim said. “In Palm Springs I’ve even seen them in sort of a salmon-colored pink and almost pure white.”

  “And what are those bushes with the big yellow trumpet-shaped flowers hanging down? They look so exotic!”

  “I think those are called ‘Angel’s Trumpet.’ You see them in a lot of Art Nouveau designs, in lamps and things. They’re in the belladonna family. You’ve heard of deadly nightshade? Well, I’m not sure how poisonous these are. If you really wanted to kill someone, you’d probably want something a little stronger, like strychnine… or a knife.”

  “That’s not funny!”

  “I’m sorry,” Tim said as he stood. “I’m gonna take a shower and roll a joint and then we can escape, maybe stop for breakfast in the neighborhood first and then go see the sights… wherever you’d like. I haven’t felt like a tourist in San Francisco in a long time.”

  They stopped at Orphan Andy’s near the corner of Castro and 17th Street, just east of the Twin Peaks bar. It was early enough on a Monday morning that they didn’t have to wait for a seat. They got a prized little table in the window where they could watch the ever-changing view of pedestrians and the brightly colored antique streetcars as they started their run to Fisherman’s Wharf. They both ordered chicken fried steak and eggs with biscuits and gravy. Ruth could almost hear her arteries slamming shut with every bite. She pictured great greasy globs of cholesterol piling together like automobiles in a multi-car collision, but they were delicious. Tim paid the bill and flirted with their waiter before they walked across 17th Street to the island and boarded a 1936 bullet-shaped Brooklyn streetcar on the F- Market Line.

  More people got on, mostly tourists with maps, until the half-full streetcar started up at last and rounded the corner, clanging its bells as it turned onto Market Street. Ruth and Tim were both so stuffed from their huge breakfast that they barely talked for a long time.

  Ruth looked around and said, “Tim, this is amazing! It’s like living in Disneyland or something. I can’t believe people actually ride these gorgeous old antiques to work every day. Don’t you want to pinch yourself sometimes?”

  “No, I’m not that much into S&M.”

  Ruth wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but she was hesitant to ask. Knowing Tim as well as she did, he was probably trying to embarrass her again with some sexual innuendo. They watched people getting on and off the streetcar block after block, as well as the carnival of pedestrians on Market Street.

  At Powell, Tim nudged his aunt and pointed at the line waiting to ride the cable car. “Look at all the tourists in their matching plaid polyester, souvenir T-shirts and shorts. They’re comfortable now, but they’ll be covered with giant goose-bumps by this afternoon when the fog rolls in again.”

  At Fisherman’s Wharf, even after such a huge breakfast, Ruth was tempted to buy a crab cocktail from the sidewalk vendor outside Alioto’s. Tim saw her eyeing them. “Go ahead, Aunt Ruth. We’ll walk it off. How about scaling Telegraph Hill?”

  “Sure, I guess so. These hills look pretty steep, though.”

  “Big hills build great asses! Nobody in this town needs a Stairmaster, that’s for sure. It’s quite a climb, but the views are worth it and we can walk off some of this food. We don’t want to gain twenty pounds each on your vacation.”

  “That looks like quite a climb. I don’t know.”

  “I’ve got an idea - let’s compromise. We can take a bus from Pier 39 up to Coit Tower and then walk back down.”

  It was the most convoluted bus route Ruth had ever seen. They stopped at Filbert Street to let dozens of Chinese schoolchildren cross. All of them were exactly the same height and wore matching purple t-shirts, walking hand-in-hand, two by two, smiling and laughing. At Washington Square, Ruth nudged Tim and pointed out the window. “Look at that old man in the park leading all the people in some sort of dance.” Tim explained to his aunt that it was a Tai Chi class. Outside Mama’s restaurant a long line waited in the sunshine to get inside for lunch.

  This bus was about half the length of a normal one. Ruth doubted that a full-size bus could have made the sharp twists and turns through the streets of North Beach and the narrow, winding incline up Telegraph Hill. At the top of Coit Tower they got separated by a group of Japanese tourists coming down the stairs to the elevator level. When Tim caught up to Ruth on the observation deck, she was standing still with her eyes closed, not even facing the views. “What’s going on?” he asked. “You look
like you’re lost in thought about a million miles away.”

  “A million years away,” she corrected him. “The last time I was here a boy kissed me right in this very spot.”

  “A boy? Not a man?”

  “A boy.” She closed her eyes again. “I was just a girl then myself, a college girl at Stanford and he was a college boy, so sweet.”

  “Uncle Dan, you mean? You met in college, right?”

  “I said sweet.” Ruth opened her eyes and laughed. “Oh, okay, you’re right. Dan could be sweet at times, I’ll give him that, but this was before I met Dan, a boy named Frank. It was sunset and it was our first date and our first kiss. I could have fallen pretty hard for Frank.”

  “What happened?”

  “The lottery.”

  “He won the lottery?”

  “No, the draft lottery – Vietnam – ask Arturo or Artie about it sometime. Frank’s number came up so close to the top he enlisted before they could draft him. I never heard from him again after he left for basic training.”

  “Do you think he’s still alive?”

  “I don’t know. I doubt it. I never knew his family and I don’t even remember where he was from, but I doubt it. I sure do remember that kiss, though. Somehow, I think I would have heard from him again if he got back alive.”

  “I’ll bet you would have.”

  “War does terrible things to people’s lives. Even when we think we’re far away from it, the consequences reach us eventually, like dominoes falling; somewhere down the line we get hit, whether it’s the senseless death of someone you love or something as mundane as higher gas prices. During the Second World War they had rationing, you know.”

  “I’ve heard of that, I guess,” Tim said, “in history books.”

  “If it hadn’t been for the war, all of our lives might have taken different paths.” They turned toward the view of Sts. Peter and Paul Church beside Washington Square directly below them. In the distance, the bay was dotted with sailboats and ships sailing under the Golden Gate Bridge. “What were you thinking about, Tim?”

  “These windows are filthy. They’re not even real glass. What a waste, to lure people all the way up here for the view and you have to look at it through this murky scratched up Plexiglas. And why do people have to stuff pennies behind them? This isn’t a wishing well. It’s worse than graffiti. People can be so stupid!”

  Ruth took Tim by the arm and led him back toward the stairs to the elevator. “Come on. You’re starting to sound just like you did when you were a little boy and about to throw a tantrum. Maybe you need some chocolate. Let’s find the gift shop.”

  Tim was feeling irritable, but he didn’t need chocolate. Maybe it was talk of war or thoughts of the different paths that any of their lives might have taken. Why did Jason’s path have to lead him to the point of a killer’s knife? Maybe Tim just needed to get laid. Once outside, the air was fresh and damp and salty, wafting all the way up from Fisherman’s Wharf to the top of Telegraph Hill. Tim felt fine again and then he noticed a familiar-looking Cadillac across the parking lot. “Hey, look! I think that’s Viv’s car, the piano player from Arts. Yes, that’s her and her cowboy husband, Roy.”

  “Where?”

  “The old Caddie over there.” Tim pointed and they headed toward the car. The passenger side window was half-way open and they could see Viv and Roy making out in the front seat like a couple of teenagers.

  “Will you look at that? It’s bad enough what heterosexuals do in the privacy of their own homes, but why do they have to rub it in our faces?“ Tim let out a long whistle and walked right up to the open window. “Hey, Viv! Why don’t you two love-birds get a room? This is enough to scare the horses.”

  Viv looked up and giggled, “Oh look, Roy, it’s Tim from the restaurant and his Aunt Rose from Michigan.”

  Ruth let the mistake pass. “Hello again, Vivian. Nice to see you, Roy.”

  “My Aunt Ruth is visiting from Minnesota. But anyway… what brings you two honeymooners all the way up here when you have a bed at home?” Tim kept on teasing.

  Viv pointed to a pile of shopping bags in the back seat. “Roy took me shopping at Macy’s and Pier One and then we went to lunch at the Buena Vista.”

  “What a lovely day to be outdoors,” Ruth said.

  “Yes, well, we needed a little break from all the work going on at home.”

  “What work?” Tim asked.

  “Didn’t I tell you? Roy is painting my whole house inside and out from top to bottom. He’s already finished with the bathroom. We thought that old pink decor in there was much too feminine for a big husky guy like him. We bought new shower curtains and soap dishes and the little rug that wraps around the commode, you know. Next he’s going to paint the kitchen and redo the chipped tiles.”

  “What a handy guy to have around,” Tim said.

  “Oooh, he sure is!” Viv cooed in her best Mae West imitation. “And he’s doing wonders with my little yard already, aren’t you, honey? I couldn’t grow anything, but he’s going to buy me some roses out at the big nursery on Sloat one of these days. We just thought we’d take a drive up to Telegraph Hill today and take in the view before we head home. Fancy running into you two! I haven’t been up here in years!”

  “Me neither,” Ruth said.

  Tim noticed that Roy’s fly was open and Viv’s blouse was unbuttoned, revealing a lacy black push-up bra. “Yeah, it’s a great day for the view, Viv. You’re getting to see Coit Tower up close and personal and Tex is getting a grand view of your Twin Peaks.”

  “Oh my goodness!” Viv spread her bejeweled fingers across her cleavage.

  “Well, you two lovebirds have fun and try not to get arrested. We’ll see you back at work one of these days, I guess.”

  As they walked away from the car, Ruth said, “Wasn’t Roy awfully quiet today?”

  “No more so than usual. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard more than two words out of him. He just makes a few grunts from time to time and points at things when he wants them. Viv must like the macho caveman type.”

  Ruth laughed. “Maybe he didn’t like their little afternoon tryst being interrupted.”

  “Then he should have picked a better place to park than Telegraph Hill in tourist season.”

  They took their time walking down to Grant Avenue and stopped for a cold beer at the Savoy Tivoli. After riding the Cable Car over Nob Hill on their way to Market Street and the F-Line back to the Castro, Ruth said, “This city is so beautiful! I’ve only been here a few days and I don’t know if I could bear to think about leaving.”

  “Maybe you don’t have to. Worse things could happen than making a move to San Francisco. What do you have to go back to Edina for? You already have a job lined up at Arts if you want one. You should think about it.”

  “Maybe I will,” she smiled, “…think about it, I mean.”

  Chapter 9

  Thursday’s edition of the B.A.R. ran a photograph of Jason on the obituary page with a full-column biography listing all the places he had worked and the organizations he’d belonged to and volunteered for: from the Castro Kiwanis to the board of the AIDS Emergency Fund and Project Open Hand. Tim never realized how philanthropic his ex-boyfriend had been over the years. The front page also had an article about Sunday’s gathering at Arts. It continued on an inside page with a photograph of the muscular drag queens in their long dark Cher wigs posing in front of the restaurant. Tim couldn’t help notice that the taillight and part of Arturo’s car were visible in the photograph. He wondered if it occurred to anyone else that Jorge’s body was still in the trunk when that picture was taken.

  Another feature article focused on the murders in the gay community. This one was more specific in exploring the attempts to find a link between Jason’s death and Jorge’s, even though Jorge was straight. That little fact didn’t seem to matter to the police, the journalist or any of the people he’d interviewed for the story. Anything was possible when the w
hole neighborhood was so rife with speculation about a serial killer in the Castro.

  On Thursday evening Ruth wanted to get out of the neighborhood again. “Let me take you someplace nice for dinner, Tim,” she offered. “You name the place and I’ll provide the credit card… wherever you want to go!”

  “How about the Grand Café in the Hotel Monaco? I’ve heard that the food is terrific and expensive.”

  “It’s a date.”

  “You buy dinner and I’ll spring for cab-fare,” Tim said. “We should get all dressed up. It’ll be fun.”

  “Do you even own a steam iron, Tim? I need to find something nice to wear and I’m sure I’ll need to press some wrinkles out.”

  “Yes, it’s in the kitchen cupboard under the sink. The ironing board is behind the door. You have to move the blue chair to get at it. I’m going to check my email, okay?”

  “Take your time, dear.”

  Tim hadn’t logged on for several days, not since his Aunt Ruth arrived in town. The computer was in the living room, after all – her room, for the time being. More important, he hadn’t logged on to any of the gay sites. The first one he checked was dudesurfer.com, the only site he actually paid for. That entitled him to unlimited access and he could post up to eight pictures of himself – he only had three – and view anyone else who was logged on to the site, member or not, and use the “search” feature as many times as he wanted.

  The “search” feature was the one he’d hardly ever used, much less mastered, but he was curious about it. When he’d cleaned out the sexual paraphernalia from Jason’s house – unnecessarily, as it would turn out – he wondered what other traces of Jason’s sex life were left behind after his death. Tim had no idea how many web-sites Jason belonged to, but dudesurfer.com was one he was sure of. Jason probably had profiles on dudesnude, manhunt and all the recon sites as well, but Tim remembered him mentioning this one.

  It was when they first met, when Tim started working at Arts. Arturo introduced them and they shook hands across the bar. Tim tried to be friendly, but he was intimidated by Jason right off the bat. Jason was so handsome that Tim considered him way out of his league. “Dudesurfer” was among the first words Jason said to him: