by Dorien Grey
“Do you mind if we sit?” they asked, and Phil nodded. Carpenter sat in the chair facing the sofa, and Couch pulled another chair up to sit beside him. Couch took out a notepad and pencil while Carpenter leaned forward on the edge of his chair, elbows on knees, hands folded between his legs.
They proceeded to ask Phil the usual questions. When had he last seen Billy? Did he know where Billy had gone—or with whom—the night he disappeared? Had he noticed anything unusual in Billy’s behavior lately? Did he have any known enemies?
Then they began to zero in on Billy’s relationship to Phil—how long they’d known one another, how they’d met, what they each did for a living. When Phil said they were both models, the two officers again exchanged glances and immediately asked if Billy was a homosexual.
Yeah, you assholes, I thought. Everybody knows if you’re a male model you’ve got to be a fucking faggot!
When Phil nodded, they went off on a long string of questions they probably had to ask, but their tone made it pretty clear what they thought about homosexuals. Did he bring a lot of guys home? How promiscuous was he? (Not whether he was promiscuous, of course—all faggots are promiscuous—but how promiscuous was he?) Did he use drugs? Was he into S&M? What bars did he frequent? What kind of crowd did he hang around with? Did he hustle tricks?
All phrased with the firm assumption that Billy was obviously a slut.
To the question of whether Billy hustled tricks, Phil answered “No,” which was technically—and semantically—true.
I was glad I was there, not only because the cops’ questions skirted some I had but because my presence might rein in an open display of the homophobia only implied in their phrasing and tone. Phil wasn’t in much of a condition to protect himself against being pressured. I wasn’t about to let them even try.
Carpenter reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a photograph and handed it to Phil. Phil looked at it, and what little color he had regained in his face drained away again.
“Do you recognize that tattoo?” Couch asked.
Phil’s head moved almost imperceptibly up and down, very slowly. He handed the photo back to Couch, who returned it to his jacket pocket. As he was putting it away, I saw it was a close-up shot of a little mouse tattoo.
They then asked if he had any photos of Billy. When he got up to go into Billy’s room, they turned their attention to me.
“Were you a friend of Mr. Steiner’s?” Carpenter asked.
“I’m afraid I didn’t know him all that well,” I said. “Mr. Stark and I have been friends for some time now.”
“What do you know about Mr. Steiner’s sexual habits?” Couch asked, completely out of left field.
“No more than you know of Detective Carpenter’s, I’m sure,” I said, as calmly as possible.
Couch’s face flushed in anger, but before he could say anything, Phil returned with a framed photo of himself and Billy at the beach, arms on each other’s shoulders. Even from my distance across the room, I could see Billy’s tattoo clearly. It was, I knew with a sick feeling, the same as in the police photo.
Phil handed it to Detective Carpenter, who said, “We’d like to keep this for awhile, but we’ll get it back to you as soon as possible.”
Phil merely nodded.
Looking at his notebook, Carpenter then asked for the name and phone number of Billy’s employer, and the names and addresses of Billy’s family, which Phil provided.
“Should I call Billy’s folks?” he asked.
Carpenter shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that until it’s been positively confirmed that it is Mr. Steiner,” he said. “Without the…”
He stopped abruptly, realizing what he was about to say—that without a head and hands, positive identification, even with the tattoo, would be difficult.
“There’s an outside chance…” he started, but then let it go. Neither Phil nor I would have bought it anyway. Still, it was nice of him to try.
The detectives got up, thanked Phil for his cooperation and said they would be in touch shortly. I stood aside as they approached the door. Carpenter nodded to me as he opened it. Couch merely glared. Neither said a word, which was fine with me.
When they’d gone, I went over to Phil, who was still standing in the same spot and in the same position as when he had handed the photo to Carpenter.
“Why don’t you try to get some sleep now?” I suggested, but he shook his head.
“I can’t sleep,” he said, although he looked completely exhausted.
“Well, then,” I said, “why don’t you at least lie down here on the sofa for a few minutes. I’d like to use your phone if I could—I should let the Glicks know what’s happened and tell them to be ready for a visit from the police.”
Phil nodded then reluctantly sat on the edge of the sofa.
“No, lie down,” I said, turning his shoulders to one side and pushing him back gently until his head rested on the arm of the sofa then lifting his legs to put his feet on the cushions. He was much too tall to be able to totally stretch out, so I grabbed a cushion from one of the chairs and put it behind his head.
“Now, just rest,” I said.
I called the Glicks from the kitchen phone. The maid answered and put me through to Mrs. Glick. Since I have yet to figure out a casual way to tell someone of a death, or found an acceptable way to segue into the information, I simply told her directly what had happened and that ModelMen should be prepared to be contacted by the police.
When I told her Billy was dead, I heard the receiver being dropped, and there was a long pause before it was picked up again. I asked if she was still there, and there was another long delay before she replied. It was rather like talking to someone on the other side of the moon.
She seemed to be in shock, and little wonder.
When she had composed herself to the point of asking for the details, I told her I would tell them everything I knew a bit later, but that she should probably break the news to Mr. Glick immediately and get ready for a visit. I cautioned her once again not to directly lie, but knew they were sharp enough to be able to evade the issue of Billy’s involvement in—or if possible, even the existence of—the escort service branch of the business.
I knew, too, that what I was doing could well—and undoubtedly would, if found out—be taken as hampering the police investigation.
I could have tried to kid myself into thinking there might be no connection between Billy’s death and the escort service, but my gut told me otherwise. Until I had a better idea of whether there was or not, I needed time. I had been hired to protect the Glicks and ModelMen, and if that put me in trouble with the police…
Well, I told myself, the cops should have enough to keep them busy with the information they already had.
When I returned to the living room, I was relieved to see that Phil was sound asleep. I went back into the kitchen for a pencil and sheet of paper I’d seen beside the phone and wrote a note telling him to call me at the office when he woke up. Taking the phone off the hook and putting it on the counter, I left the apartment as quietly as I could, making sure the door was locked behind me.
*
There were two calls waiting for me when I got to the office, neither of them a surprise—Lt. Mark Richman and Arnold Glick. I gave Glick’s call priority, since I knew Richman would want to see me at police headquarters. I was relieved to see, however, that it was Richman who’d called rather than Captain Offermanns, head of the Homicide Division. Richman I felt fairly comfortable with, Offermanns was pretty much an unknown quantity.
Although Richman was technically in the Administrative Department, I knew he worked closely with homicide.
The voice announcing “Thank you for calling ModelMen” was one I did not recognize, but I assumed it was the regular receptionist who had been out ill during my last visit. When I identified myself and asked to speak to Mr. Glick, she put me through immediately.
“Mr. Hardesty,” Glick said, not quite able to
conceal the tension in his voice, “I appreciate your call. You have no idea how shocked and devastated Mrs. Glick and I were to hear of Billy’s death! I’ve been trying to call Phil—I know how close he and Billy were—but his line has been busy.”
I explained that I had left the phone off the hook so Phil could sleep.
“We have to talk privately and soon. I explained the situation to Mrs. Glick and am sure you understand I’m doing whatever I can under the circumstances. I suspect I’ll be called down to police headquarters, since I was present when the police questioned Phil, but could we meet later this afternoon?”
“Just call when you’re ready,” he said.
“I assume you’ve not been contacted yet?”
“No,” he said, “but we expect to be at any time. Of course, we have nothing whatever to hide. Billy was one of our most popular and in-demand models, as you know.”
I got the message.
“Well, until later, then,” I said, and we hung up.
I immediately dialed police headquarters and asked for Lt. Richman’s extension.
“Lieutenant Richman.”
“Lieutenant, it’s Dick Hardesty. I got your message. I gather you want to see me?”
“As soon as possible,” he said.
I looked at my watch.
“I can be there in half an hour.”
“Okay, I’ll see you then.” And he hung up.
Hoping Phil would be able to sleep and not try to call me while I was gone, I headed for the City Building Annex.
*
I’ll spare you the details of the meeting, mainly because while I was driving over to the City Building, I couldn’t help thinking of Billy, and the numbness set in again. So, I can’t recall word for word what was said or in what order, other than that Billy had been found in a Dumpster behind the Bull Pen by one of the area’s homeless, and that a thorough search of the area had not yet found Billy’s head or his hands.
That information in itself would have been enough to make me totally tune out to what followed.
The gist of it was clear, though—Richman was not happy, to say the least. He let it be known that, had Captain Offermanns not been out of town at a conference, this meeting would have been between me and Offermanns, and if I could sense Richman’s displeasure, I could fairly well imagine how Offermanns must be feeling.
The fact there were now two murder victims, killed in uniquely grisly ways, that both victims had been gay—well, gay and bi—and that I had known both of them was, to the police, very disturbing. Like I was happy about it? And even though there was absolutely no hint they thought I was even remotely involved in the deaths, the Scapegoat Principle is a pretty strong one, so I was being made the oblique outlet for it, however illogically.
Richman, of course, wanted to know what Billy and Anderson might have had in common. I was able to pull myself together enough to do a little fancy footwork around that one, but based on the Glicks saying Billy had not been present when Anderson met the other escorts, I could honestly say I had no indication he and Anderson had ever met. He asked if Billy was a hustler, and again I was able to step out on the weak limb of semantics between “hustler” and “escort” and say no, he was not.
He asked about Billy and Phil’s relationship, and I told him honestly it was strictly a close big brother/little brother friendship.
Obviously, Richman had talked with Carpenter and Couch and was just doing a little cross checking.
He asked what I knew of Billy, and I told him, again honestly, that he seemed like a really nice kid with no apparent problems, and not the kind to get mixed up in anything kinky. But then, neither was Anderson.
One little exchange I do remember, though, since it says a lot about the mindset of the average heterosexual male—well, the average heterosexual male homicide detective, at any rate.
“I hear you managed to piss Detective Couch off pretty effectively,” Richman said.
“How was that?”
“When you implied that he and Detective Carpenter were sexually involved with one another.”
“When I what?” I asked, incredulous. Then I told him exactly what I had really said, about my knowing as much about Billy’s sexual habits as Carpenter knew about Couch’s. Obviously, since Billy was a fag and Phil is a fag, and I was most probably a fag, I was inferring the two detectives were as well.
Richman heard me out then shrugged and gave a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Ah. Well, they’re good cops, but they learn slow. Interesting how their minds work, though. Give ‘em time.”
The meeting ended with my usual promise to keep him posted on anything I might learn, although I realized that, under the circumstances, that was going to be a mighty hard promise to keep.
*
I hurried back to the office to see if Phil had called. He hadn’t, so I tried calling him on the basis that if he were still sleeping I’d get a busy signal. It was picked up on the second ring.
“Yes?”
“Phil,” I said, “it’s Dick. Did you get my note? I hated to leave you, but I know you needed the sleep.”
“Yeah, I did,” he said, his voice still flat, “and I appreciate your being here. I was going to call you, but…”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Listen, why don’t you come over and spend a couple days at my place? I—”
“That’s really nice of you, Dick, but the Glicks just called and insisted I come over and stay with them until all this settles down. I didn’t really want to, but they wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I said I would. Just for a day or two.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” I said, thinking it was really nice of the Glicks to offer. “Are they home now?”
“No, they’re both at the office. I think they’re waiting for the police.”
That figured.
“I’m going to be seeing them later today, I hope,” I said, “so if you’d like me to pick you up and take you over…”
“No, that’s not necessary, Dick,” he said. “I can drive okay. And getting a little sleep helped a lot.”
“Well, okay, if you’re sure.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I’m sure. I’ll probably see you later, then.”
We exchanged goodbyes, and I immediately called ModelMen, identified myself, and asked for either Mr. or Mrs. Glick. The receptionist said both were occupied at the moment but would be happy to call me back as soon as they were available. I pretty much could guess with whom they were occupied and was anxious to hear how it went.
I tried to pass the time with busywork—reorganizing the file cabinet, straightening out my desk drawers—anything at all to not think of Billy and what had happened to him. I hadn’t yet gotten past the sadness stage to the anger, but I could feel the transition starting, and I knew I’d have to work hard on controlling it.
Half an hour later, the phone rang. I didn’t wait for the second ring.
“Hardesty Investigations.”
“Mr. Hardesty, this is Arnold Glick. Could you meet us at our home in about an hour?”
“I’ll be there.”
*
Mrs. Glick greeted me at the door, although it was not the Iris Glick I was used to seeing. Her makeup was subdued, and instead of the bright colors she usually favored, she had on an attractive and expensive plain white blouse and dark-grey skirt. We exchanged quiet greetings, and she led me into the study/library, where Mr. Glick was standing by one of the large windows, talking on the phone.
“No,” he was saying calmly, “no, we won’t hear of it. You will not be an imposition at all, and Johnnie Mae has already started dinner. She knows how you love her back ribs, and she’s making them especially for you. You don’t want to disappoint Johnnie Mae, now, do you?… I thought not. And the pool is just sitting empty, waiting for you to use it whenever you feel like it. All right?… We’ll see you around seven, then. Our home is your home. Goodbye.”
He had noticed my entry a moment or two
before he finished his conversation, and he shook his head as he hung up.
“That was Phil,” he said, sighing—which I had already assumed from what I’d heard. “He had changed his mind about spending some time with us, said he didn’t want to impose. But he shouldn’t be alone now, and I managed to convince him.”
I was again impressed by the Glicks’ kindness and generosity, and a bit relieved Phil hadn’t yet arrived. I didn’t think he needed to hear what the Glicks and I had to talk about.
Chairs had been rearranged around the fireplace, three in a small semi-circle. Mrs. Glick motioned me to one, and she and her husband sat next to one another in the other two.
“This has been an incredibly difficult and sad day for us,” Mr. Glick said, reaching out to take his wife’s hand. “And we are grateful to you for your kindness to Phil, and for being so considerate as to be the one to break the news to us and prepare us for our meeting with the police.”
“How did the meeting go?” I asked.
He gave a slight shrug.
“About as well as could be expected, I think. There were two detectives…a detective Carpenter and a detective…” He paused, looking to his wife, who shook her head.
“Couch,” I supplied.
“Yes, Couch. Thank you. They had the usual questions, and some not so usual.” He looked again to his wife, who picked up the conversation.
“They asked if we knew Billy and Phil were gay, and if we made it a point to hire gay models. We told them the sex lives of our models was none of our business and mentioned several are, in fact, married.
“We keep portfolios of all our models and the work they’ve done, and they seemed very interested in Billy’s, asking if he had done any work shirtless. He had done some catalog work for shorts and swimwear, which we pointed out. They asked to borrow a couple and wanted to know the name and address of the photographer, apparently so they could go over the contact sheets to look for something.
“At least they were apparently satisfied that Billy was a legitimate photographer’s model. They asked what our relationship was with Billy, and we told them honestly that we consider all of our models to be an extended family, and that Billy was a member of that family. When they asked what we knew of Billy’s personal life, we were once again able to answer truthfully that we had control over Billy only insofar as his employment with us was concerned, but that the personal lives of our models are their own affair. They seemed satisfied.”
