by Dorien Grey
I dreamt of Tom, standing in front of the burning Central substation as it started to collapse, and I wanted desperately to run to him, to pull him away, to save him, but I couldn’t move.
*
O’Banyon called at 2:15, interrupting another dream—one in which I was holding a copy of the Journal-Sentinel with the photo looking through the open door of Tom’s car. There was something on the front seat….
I filled O’Banyon in on everything that had happened. He’d seen the morning news reports on the fire and tried to call me, but I was on my way to the Annex by that time. He said he’d be in court the rest of the afternoon, but asked me to call—or that he’d try to reach me—later to find out how the meeting had gone. We both had our fingers crossed.
I noted as we talked that the little red light on my answering machine was blinking—probably calls that came in while I was with the chief and Richman—but I just didn’t feel up to checking them right then.
When we hung up, I got up, made a pot of coffee—oh, boy! Caffeine!—went back to the bedroom to strip off my clothes, and spent the next twenty minutes in the shower. When I’d finished and dressed and had a cup of coffee, I checked the machine. Bob, Phil, Jared, Lee Taylor. I tried returning them all, except for Lee, who I hoped was at the meeting with the chief. No one was home except for Jared, who was packing for his move to Carrington. I told him about everything that had happened since we’d parted ways at the fire. He said he had been stopped, too, just as he was getting into his car, by one of the horse-mounted officers, who was apparently watching for people getting into cars parked along Beech. Jared said the cop tried to pretend he didn’t recognize him, but Jared swears he’d tricked with the guy one night at Thorson’s Woods.
Ah, Tom, ye weren’t alone, lad! I thought.
*
Though I’d only had about four hours of sleep, I didn’t even try to go back to bed. I was hoping Richman or maybe Mark Graser would call to let me know what happened at the meeting. I knew everyone there was aware of the stakes and the danger of any open confrontation between the police and the community.
I found myself thinking about the dreams I’d had. The first one, of Tom standing in front of the burning substation, was pretty text-book symbolism. The one of the Journal-Sentinel was a little less clear. Something on the seat? I didn’t remember that from the actual photo, but I’d kept it, for some perverse reason, and it was at the office. I’d check, just out of curiosity.
I toyed with the idea of going down to the office anyway, just to check messages and get the mail, but I didn’t want to miss a call from anybody at the meeting.
At 3:12 the phone rang.
“Dick Hardesty.”
“Dick, Mark Richman.”
Ready or not…I thought.
“Did they go for the postponement?” I didn’t want to beat around the bush.
“Yes,” he said, and I heaved a long mental sigh. “It got pretty hot and heavy there for a while, but the chief managed to convince them that it was the only way to avoid a disaster and let both sides save face. I’m not sure what an extra week will buy us, but it’s better than nothing.
“And of course they wanted to know what was happening in Officer Brady’s death. The chief called Captain Offermann in to talk briefly to the group.”
It struck me that Chief Black was a pretty damned shrewd politician as well as a good chief. He knew full well that he was going to be asked about Tom’s death, but calling Offermann in in response to their questions rather than having him there from the start gave the impression that he was going out of his way to be cooperative. Subtle but impressive.
“And what did Offermann have to say?” I felt a little guilty to realize that the fire had moved to the forefront of my thoughts in the past…what…twelve hours?
Sorry, Tom, I thought.
Don’t sweat it, buddy, Tom’s voice said somewhere in my head.
“He didn’t really have too much to say. Homicide has been doing everything it can, but these things take time. He stressed that the gang-retaliation theory was far more logical than that a cop might have been responsible, but confirmed that the gun had been a .38—one of the few things the Journal-Sentinel’s had ever gotten right. He told them that the markings on the bullet were being compared against those of every .38 registered to the force. Chief Robertson, shortly before he died, required each officer to test-fire his gun specifically to be able to determine, in any shooting involving the police, which bullets came from a police weapon, and to which officer it belonged. Thus far there have been no matches. He told them we were also checking the markings against those in our crime files to see if the gun had been involved in previous shootings.”
I hadn’t realized just how tense I’d been about the meeting, but I could feel the knot at the back of my neck fading away. “And what about Deputy Chief Cochran?”
“Chief Black invited him to the meeting as a matter of courtesy, and to prevent him from saying later that he’d been cut out of the loop. He just sat there, mostly, but it was obvious that he was not happy, you can be sure. But the fact of the matter is…I’m sorry, Dick; this sounds pretty cold, I know…that with Officer Brady no longer being Cochran’s trump card against the chief, he doesn’t have too much to bargain with at the moment except the potential for disaster the substation fire presents, and I’m sure Chief Black wanted to put him in the actual presence of leaders from the community to show him we’re all just human beings dealing with a mutual problem. Not that anyone has any illusions that Cochran will ease up on his efforts to discredit the chief, but for the moment….”
He was quiet a moment, then, “The chief took your suggestion about limiting the obvious police presence in The Central, and that went over pretty well. It’s still a dicey situation, and nobody’s home free yet, but it’s a start.”
“I really appreciate your filling me in.”
“Well, we owe you. I think that the one good thing to come out of all this is that the chief, at very least, recognizes the need for a permanent, direct liaison with the gay community.” Another pause, then: “Well, I’ve got to head back up to the chief’s office. He’s decided it is time to call a press conference to discuss the fire and, now, the agreement with the community. It’ll help get the word out.”
“Okay. And again, thanks.”
*
I’d just started to think about lying down for a while when not ten minutes later, the phone rang. It was Richman again. “Meet me at the corner of Collins and Warman in twenty minutes. I’ve got some really bad news.”
Oh, great! Some ‘really bad news.’ That’ll be a switch!
“I’m on my way.”
Collins and Warman formed two sides of Warman Park. I parked in the underground garage and was standing on the park side of the corner when a blue 4-door pulled up and Richman, in uniform but without his hat, leaned over to open the passenger’s side door. I got in.
“I didn’t make it to the press conference,” he said, pulling out into traffic. “Just as I was leaving my office, the report came in that we found a match for the bullet.”
He paused, whether for effect or because he didn’t like what he had to say, I couldn’t tell. Finally he said: “It isn’t from a police issue service revolver.”
“Well, I’d imagine that would be good news for you.”
He gave me a glance out of the corner of his eye, without turning his head. “It’s from a weapon used in a liquor store holdup and shooting about six months ago.”
“And…?” I said, still confused.
“A weapon we took from the suspect and had in our possession. It was stolen from the evidence vault in the police property room.”
“Jeezus! How in the hell could that happen?”
“Gee, Dick,” he said, his voice echoing his frustration, “we sort of wondered that ourselves.” There was a slight pause, then: “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to take it out on you. But the doors this opens up…. It was there the w
eek before Officer Brady was killed: It was officially entered in the property log at that time; when exactly it was taken from evidence storage, we can’t say. The undeniable fact is that it had to have been taken by someone on the force, and that means… The most important thing right now is that whatever happens, we can not let word of this leak out until we know exactly what happened!”
The implications of Richman’s news was slow to filter through everything else that had been clogging my mind for the past week.
“I appreciate your telling me.” I realized that he had not had to and probably should not have for sake of the investigation, “…but why are you telling me?”
We had, I realized, made several right turns and were now back on Collins, paralleling the park heading toward Warman.
“We need you to keep your ears wide open, he said. “If you hear anything about this—any rumors at all, call me immediately.”
“I will. I promise.”
He pulled up to the corner where he’d picked me up.
“Good. Now I’ve got to get back to work.”
He reached his hand across and we shook hands. I opened the door and got out, then stood there a moment, my mind racing, and watched him drive away.
*
Despite Richman’s bombshell about the murder weapon, by the next morning I was a little more alert and got to the office by 8:30. I noticed, as I left the ground floor diner with my large Styrofoam cup of black coffee and stopped to pick up a paper at the lobby newsstand, that while the headlines of both major papers were on a disastrous bridge collapse in Oregon, they both carried front page stories on the fire, the investigation and/or the meeting with Chief Black. The Journal-Sentinel, of course, ran a nearly-full-page shot of the ruins of the burned-out substation with the headline “Gays Throw Down the Gauntlet!” I was rather surprised to realize anyone at the Journal-Sentinel even knew what a gauntlet was.
Once in my office, after a quick check of my messages, I sat down at my desk to drink my coffee and read the paper—hey, routines are good to have. My eye was immediately drawn to an article at the top right hand corner of page two:
A.H.W.A. Local Head Resigns
Joseph Giacomino, head of Local 344 of the Amalgamated Hotel Workers of America has resigned his position to accept a new assignment at the union’s headquarters in New York City. Giacomino, who led the union’s recent labor contract negotiations, will become liaison to John Corello, A.H.W.A. president….
Aha! So little Joey G. was being yanked back home. I was sure the “new assignment” was just a face-saving move for the union. Undoubtedly Joey’s handling of the negotiations had not met the approval of the union’s higher ups—or of Joe Sr. from his prison watchtower. I could only imagine how Joey must be feeling about that.
But far more importantly, I realized that once Joey was out of the city and out of the state, bringing him back for any sort of charges Jonathan might be able to bring against him was extremely remote. I knew Lieutenant Richman already had more to do than he could handle, but I owed it to Jonathan, and who knows how many other kids like him, to make sure that Joey G. didn’t get off on this one. Now that Tom was…gone…there wasn’t any need to use Jonathan as a counter-trump to keep Cochran from running with the “gay cop” issue. If the chief decided to use the Jonathan-Giacomino-Cochran chain to investigate just what skeletons might be in Cochran’s closet, fine. That was up to him. But Jonathan deserved justice, and I was going to be damned sure he got it.
And while I was sitting there thinking these things over, I remembered my dream about the Journal-Sentinel photo of Tom’s car and there being something on the seat. I really didn’t remember seeing anything when I first looked at the photo, but then my mind wasn’t exactly operating on all cylinders at the time. I rummaged through my desk and found the paper in a bottom drawer, again not quite sure why I’d kept it in the first place—I realized even at the time that whenever I would look at it, it would hurt. It did.
The photo was newspaper-grainy with the individual pixels readily visible with just a little bit of effort to see them. And sure enough! There was something on the front seat, barely visible near the passenger’s side door. I couldn’t make out what it was—some sort of small box or package, or maybe a paperback book? I remembered that Richman had said something about the police thinking Tom might have stopped somewhere on his way home for gas or for something to eat. That last part stuck me as odd, especially since Tom had just come from a party where I’m sure there’d have been more than enough food even for Tom’s legendary appetite. Still….
I folded the paper and put it back in the drawer, then dialed the City Annex.
“Lieutenant Richman.”
“Lieutenant, it’s Dick. Sorry to bother you: I know you’re busy. How are things going?”
“You have no idea. You’re lucky to have caught me; I’ve been in and out of the office since seven-thirty this morning.” He paused, then said: “What can I do for you? You haven’t heard any…rumors, I hope?”
“No, thank God. But I was wondering if you’d seen the article in today’s paper about Joey G.’s being called back to union headquarters in New York?”
“I haven’t had much time to read the papers lately.”
“Understandable, but I don’t want that bastard to get out of town before Jonathan has a chance to file charges against him for the beating.”
There was another slight pause, then: “Good point. Why don’t you bring the kid in…uh…let me check…” yet another pause… “I don’t have a single minute free today. Why don’t you bring him in tomorrow morning, around eight?”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“So I’ve heard. But things are still too tense for anybody around here to be taking a weekend off. If we don’t find Officer Brady’s killer and/or who set the substation fire before next weekend comes around, we’ll be right back to square one with the Pride Festival problem.”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I realize your priorities…”
“Well, we can’t afford to let this Giacomino situation go away, either. You just be here tomorrow morning. I’ll make the time. And speaking of time, we can save some if you have…Jonathan…write out in longhand and in detail exactly what happened to him that night, from the time Giacomino picked him up to the point where he drove away. We’ll need it for the report.”
“He’ll have it for you. And thanks again. We’ll see you in the morning.” I was almost ready to say goodbye when I remembered the paper. “Oh, and I have a question you might be able to answer. That photo the Journal-Sentinel ran the morning Tom was…” I hesitated, the word caught in my throat “…Tom died: It looks like there was something on the front seat…a little package or box or something? The photo was too grainy to tell.”
“Yeah? What about it?”
“Do you know what it was?”
He was quiet a second. “Ah…not off-hand. A box of mini-donuts or a bag of chips or something like that, I think…remember, I told you he stopped at a QuickieStop on his way home. But I’m sure whatever it was shows up on our own photos. Why…?”
“I’m not sure.” I suddenly felt a little guilty for bothering him over something so minor. “But could I see those photos sometime?”
“Sure. Well, look, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you and…Jonathan…in my office tomorrow morning at eight.”
“Thanks again.” I heard the ‘click’ of his hanging up.
*
I realized that I’d not seen Jonathan in what I was rather surprised to think of as a very long time. I tried calling Bob and Mario—I assumed they’d be up by this time—to see if they could tell Jonathan I’d pick him up at seven the next morning, but no one was home. It occurred to me that they were probably over at the house, working, and I knew they hadn’t had their phone installed yet.
I decided to take a drive over and tell Jonathan myself. Besides, I wanted to see the progress they’d been making, and what was going on with the new bathr
oom, and…’fess up, Hardesty!…okay, and Jonathan.
What’s with you and this kid, Hardesty? my mind voice asked. This isn’t like you at all.
*
I had to park on the side street, just beyond the driveway, which was filled by a plumber’s truck, Mario’s car, and an exterminator’s van. I’d gotten halfway to the house when I remembered that I’d left the legal pad and pen I brought for Jonathan—I didn’t know that there’d be anything for him to write on in the house—and went back for it. I could hear the sounds of hammering and a circular saw as I walked up to the porch and knocked. When nobody responded, I assumed they just couldn’t hear me over the work going on, so I just went in. I saw a couple guys working in what had been the huge pantry and now was on the way to becoming a half bath. They didn’t look up as I walked through and, after a quick check of the main floor, I headed up the maid’s stairs to the second floor. I found Mario and Jonathan in what would be the master bedroom but was now a bleak tundra of drop cloths, stepladders and assorted paint cans, brushes, rollers, and roller pans.
Jonathan was edging the lower half of the window frame, the tip of his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth in total concentration as he tried to avoid getting paint on the wall.
Mario saw me first. “Ah, just in time!” he said with a grin. “Grab a brush.”
Jonathan looked up and, seeing me, broke into a full-sunrise smile. “Dick! Hi!”
“Hi yourself,” I said, returning the smile. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
“Yeah!” he replied enthusiastically. “It’s sure going to look nice, isn’t it?”
Mario’d set down his paint brush and came over to shake hands, first carefully checking to see that he didn’t have any wet paint to transfer. He glanced at the legal pad in my hand but didn’t say anything. Taking his cue from Mario, Jonathan did the same. He’d apparently at some point tried to scratch his nose while holding on to the paintbrush—he had a little swatch of paint over his left eyebrow. Why did I find that sexy?
