“My partner’s name is Jeff Lacroix. He’s a schoolteacher at Horton Watkins. I was with him that whole night. We walked the dog and then we were home and watched television. Do you want the names of the people who saw us at the dog park?”
“Not at this time.”
Aaron Peterson shook his head, dramatizing his offense.
Hastings said, “Would you have preferred I asked behind your back?”
“No. I just don’t see why you’d suspect me. Why anyone would.”
“Just making a record,” Hastings said. “You got along with him, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you have a relationship with him?”
“You mean sex?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Well, it kind of is. It may be material to this investigation. Aaron. Believe me, you’re much better off telling me the truth. If you lie to me about things or try to trick me, I will find out and then I’ll wonder why you lied. And then I have to read you your rights and things can get messy. You understand?”
“I understand completely, lieutenant. No, we didn’t have sex.”
“Ever?”
“Never.”
“Were you attracted to him?”
“Yes.”
“But he wasn’t interested.”
“…no.”
“Your partner, did he know about this attraction?”
“Sort of.”
“Did it upset him?”
“Not much. He thought it was…amusing. He thought I — he thought I was making a fool of myself. He said Johnny was a loser.”
“Okay. One last thing. Did Johnny hustle?”
Aaron Peterson looked at the cop again. He blinked and said, “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“I think you do. But I’ll spell it out anyway. Did he have sex for money?”
“No.”
Hastings gave Aaron his card and asked him to call if he knew anything else.
In patrol, they used to conduct routine sweeps of the parks at night and arrest men having sex in cars or on the grass behind the bushes. The charges were routine too: solicitation, indecent exposure, outraging public decency. More often than not, the people they arrested were married men. There were cops who enjoyed rousting the fags. Shining flashlights on them, rounding them up and cuffing them and putting them in the backs of the cars. Like playing tag. Hastings didn’t enjoy that duty. He was no liberal. But he didn’t like seeing men in handcuffs cry with shame, fearful of exposure and recrimination. But there were laws on the books and the public policy was to keep the parks clean. Even at night.
Hastings remembered one of his first homicide cases. A man had been beaten to death in Forest Park. His body was found near Art Hill. At that time, it was known as a gathering place for homosexuals. They tracked down the killer, a kid of twenty who was the deceased’s gay lover. There had been a dispute between them that got violent and then got deadly. After the initial arrest, Hastings spent three hours with the suspect. He did what a good detective does: read him his rights, befriended him, talked with him at length, told him how he understood things and got him to open up and discuss his relationship with his friend and then got him to talk about what happened and in time Hastings said what he often said near the end of such interviews. “And then things got out of hand, right?” He got a sound confession which stood up in court and secured a conviction for manslaughter.
The deceased victim had been a prominent attorney. Married with three kids. In time, Hastings learned that the deceased’s wife had no idea her husband was gay. No idea that he spent many evenings at Art Hill and other parks searching for partners. None of the lawyer’s siblings or friends had any idea about this secret life. Hastings wondered what she would tell her children. He hoped that she lied.
A detective learned such things. Learned that the guys who went to parks usually didn’t go to gay bars because they liked the anonymity and the darkness and, to an extent, got off on the danger and recklessness of the encounters. The police knew that a good many of those who frequented the parks were men of good standing in their communities, leading “straight” lives. Politicians, lawyers, teachers, ministers. Sometimes these men would be the targets of rednecks who just wanted to do some good old fag bashing. Most of these beatings were not reported to the police. The victims later telling their loved ones they had slipped and fell or just got mugged but didn’t want to call the police. Anything but the truth.
Hastings could have told Aaron Peterson about these experiences. Let Peterson know he wasn’t the fag hater Peterson seemed to think he was. But he didn’t want to and he doubted it would have done any good anyway. Like most cops, Hastings didn’t spend a lot of energy worrying about community approval. Any community’s.
Hastings had once told his ex-girlfriend that the government could enact the most progressive gay rights legislation in the world, but there would always be gay men remaining in closets, unwilling to come out, sneaking around their loved ones. People will always have secrets. It was human nature.
What secrets did Johnny Rodgers have?
He hoped Klosterman would turn something up on NCIS.
But he didn’t. Klosterman called him and said that Johnny Rodgers had no priors. Not even a speeding ticket.
Johnny Rodgers’s apartment was in a rough area near the St. Louis University medical school. Hastings called the landlord and met her there.
The landlord was an airline stewardess with Southwest Airlines. She and her husband owned three apartment houses on the block. She was wearing her uniform because she had to cover the Chicago run that evening. Hastings told her he appreciated her coming on such short notice.
She let him in the front door.
It was a small two bedroom apartment. At the front was the living room. A black patent leather couch, more square than comfy. In front of that a coffee table with an empty Taco Bell bag on top. There was an old Riverfront Times on the table too. A couple of run down chairs and a television. It looked like the living room of a recently divorced man. The next room was a dining area and it had a large table and chairs almost filling it. There were photographs on the table along with a lot of papers. Hastings would come back to this. He looked in the bathroom and the kitchen. One of the bedrooms had a bed in it and French doors which had been sealed and made into a window. They gave a view of a shabby looking back yard and beyond that a faint sight of Interstate 44. The kitchen was small. A red topped Formica table with a couple of chairs that were probably the most stylish furnishings in the apartment. Dirty dishes in the sink. The kitchen smelled. A messy place that had been likely inhabited by a messy man.
In the second bedroom there was a desk and chair. Wires on the floor coming out of a long bus bar.
Hastings called out to the owner.
She came into the bedroom, her coat still on. She didn’t want to stay here long.
Hastings said, “Did Johnny have a computer?”
She looked into the room. “I don’t know,” she said. “Most people do.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“I don’t know that he had one.”
“Has his family been here?”
“Yes. A few days ago. I don’t remember them carrying out a computer.” She paused. “They seemed pretty disgusted.”
“At what?”
“That he lived like this, I guess. They asked if they could have his security deposit back. I told them, probably not. It’s going to cost a lot to clean this place up. I mean, I feel bad for them, but I don’t think I should have to lose money because of it.”
“I understand. What kind of tenant was he?”
“Not so great. Sometimes he was late on the rent. I would call him or my husband would call him and he always had an excuse, but he would always pay. Eventually. He was a nice guy. I hate to say this, but I’m kind of relieved.”
“That he’s dead?”
“No. I
didn’t mean it like that. Shoot. I’m sorry.”
“You’re relieved that you can rent the apartment to someone else.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry I sound so cold. I —”
“His family. Who specifically came here?”
“His sister.”
“When she came, were you here or was your husband?”
“I was.”
“And you checked her identification? To make sure it was his sister?”
“No. Should I have? I mean, she looked like Johnny.”
Hastings shrugged. It was a lot to ask of a landlord who believed her tenant had committed suicide. He said, “Did his sister take anything?”
“She took — well, let’s see. She took a clock. A wooden sort of curvy clock that had been on the mantelpiece. She said it was a family heirloom. She looked around. She was only here about ten minutes. She wasn’t very nice.”
“Did she take a computer out of here?”
“No.”
“You’re sure of that.”
“Yes. I would remember that because even though she wasn’t nice, I would have offered to help her carry something like that.”
“She called you?”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t have her own keys?”
“No. I let her in. I don’t see why she would have had a set of keys. She was from out of town.”
“Well, she would have had his keys.”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. You know, come to think of it. I asked her if she had a key so I could get it back and she said something kind of snotty. Like, ‘Would I have called you if I did?’ So no, she didn’t have a key to the apartment. Do you have his key?”
Hastings looked at her for a moment. Then said, “Well, no. I called you too.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
“Was she driving his car when she came here?”
“I don’t know what his car looked like.”
“Okay.”
Hastings walked through the apartment again. The woman followed him and said, “Listen, I’d like to get this place cleaned up so I can show it for April. You’re not going to seal it off, are you?”
She’d been watching her CSI. Hastings smiled to himself, but thought, well, what authority did he have to seal it? It was not formally a St. Louis homicide. He wasn’t sure it was a homicide at all. He had no warrant and little authority. But things didn’t smell right. The missing computer. And then there was the issue of the key. How could Rogers’s sister have the key to his car, but not the key to his apartment? Wouldn’t both keys have been on the same ring? Was it possible that someone had taken the key to the apartment off the key ring and then used that key to get into the apartment and, once in, taken the computer?
Hastings said, “Did Rodgers pay his rent for this month?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s his till the end of this month, right?”
“…yes.”
“In that case, I’m going to have to ask you to leave it alone at least until then.”
“You mean I can’t even show it?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s a crime scene.”
He suspected his use of the term crime scene would cheer her up. He was right. She might lose a month’s rent on the place, but she would have something to tell her friends.
Hastings said, “We’re going to send some people here from the forensic lab to see if there are any readable latent prints.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Yes. And, if you’ll pardon me, I’m going to ask that you and your husband not discuss this with anyone. Okay?”
“Oh, of course.”
Hastings handed her his card. He said, “I’m going to try and line up the forensic team for tomorrow morning, if possible. Would that be all right with you?”
“I think so. If I have to work, I can get my husband to come here and let you in.”
“That would be great.”
The woman said, “Gosh. Do you really think he was murdered?”
Hastings thought it was necessary to give her a frown. He said, “It’s possible, ma’am. But again, I really don’t want you to discuss this with anyone other than your husband. Can I count on you for that?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He called Klosterman after he left and told him he wanted a forensics team to check the apartment. They discussed the case for a while. Klosterman said he would take care of it. Toward the end of the conversation, Klosterman said, “I thought you were going to take a few days off?”
“I thought so too,” Hastings said. “But this may be something.”
“Yeah, maybe. But…”
“But what? Oh, are you thinking I’m doing this just to take my mind off getting sued?”
“The thought had occurred to me,” Klosterman said.
“It’s occurred to me too,” Hastings said. “But that missing computer’s genuinely bothering me. And the key. Something’s pretty stinky here and I think we should look into it.”
“I’m with you. But Karen won’t like it.”
“You want to clear it with her?” Hastings voice was sharp. He wasn’t really asking a question.
“You know me better than that,” Klosterman said. “I have no intention of asking her permission. But she’ll get wind of it and then she’ll call you, demanding an explanation.”
“I’ll be ready for that,” Hastings said.
Captain Karen Brady called him at nine o’clock the next morning. He recognized her number and ignored the call. Then he called Klosterman and asked if he had lined up the forensic team for Johnny Rodgers’s apartment. Klosterman said he had. Hastings said to get them over there now and he would meet them.
Hastings called the landlord. She had not left town but said she was tired from last night’s trip to Chicago. Hastings said, “Oh, I am sorry. But we really need to do this as soon as possible. Can you meet us there in an hour?”
She didn’t seem as civic minded this time. She sighed and said, “Can this count for, you know, jury duty?”
Hastings said, “Oh, well. It might.” Knowing it was a flagrant lie. But she agreed to meet him.
Karen Brady called again and left another message, telling him she was concerned about the use of detectives on this thing and could he please call her back as soon as possible?
Hastings called after they let the forensic team in to take fingerprints. Klosterman was there too. He brought boxes to store evidence in, as Hastings had told him about the photographs.
After they had started, Hastings called Karen back.
In a nice tone, he said, “Hi, Karen. What’s up?”
“What’s up?” she said. “You were supposed to call me an hour and half ago.”
“Oh. Sorry. I must have had the phone off.”
“I heard you’ve requested a forensics team.”
“Yeah. They’re here now. We’re on it.”
“On what?”
“The case,” Hastings said. Like it was a silly question.
“George, why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“I’m the lieutenant of this homicide team. I don’t want to bother you with these micro issues. I know you’re very busy.”
“Well, yeah. But…”
Hastings kept quiet. He didn’t dislike Karen. She was affable and at times even friendly. But she had never been much of a detective. She was unimaginative and had little instinct for the work. Her occasional suggestions were respectfully heard then usually ignored. For reasons only the brass understood, she had been made a captain in homicide. Fortunately, she had a need to be liked. Not just by those above her in rank but also those below. She groused here and there, but she had never yet formally disciplined Hastings.
Now Hastings said, “I thought it’d be best to get this done early. Don’t you think?” Karen liked to be solicited sometimes.
“Right, but I’m just confused about this. Why are you investigating the
death of someone who was found at Lake of the Ozarks?”
Hastings gave her a quick explanation. He said it was possible that Rodgers had been killed in St. Louis and transported to the lake after.
Karen said, “I thought you were taking a couple of days off.”
“I was. I sort of stumbled into this.” He didn’t want to discuss Terry with her.
Karen said, “Well, it’s just that we don’t have unlimited resources, manpower.” She forced out a laugh. “We’ve got plenty of business here. We don’t have to solve cases away from home.”
“I understand your concern,” Hastings said. “But it’s already in motion. If you want to cancel it, I can send them back. But…I’d have to put that in the report. Then Ronnie will call me in and ask me why.”
Ronnie Wulf was the Chief of Detectives, Karen’s superior. Ronnie and Hastings got along most of the time. That was not to say Ronnie would always back Hastings on any pissing contest. He wouldn’t. Ronnie was as much a politician as anyone else in management. Maybe he wouldn’t back Hastings on this one. But the hope was Karen wouldn’t take that chance.
Karen said, “I’m not cancelling anything. But I want a report this afternoon.” She needed to get something back.
Hastings said, “Absolutely.”
They exchanged goodbyes and Klosterman came over to him. He said, “Well?”
“She’s pissed,” Hastings said. “But she’s not going to interfere. I’ll make it up to her.”
“Kind of dirty pool there, George. Threatening to go to Ronnie.”
Hastings smiled. “I never threatened her.”
He placed a couple of boxes of photographs in the trunk of his Jaguar. He was shutting the trunk when his cell phone rang.
It was Henry Brummell, the lawyer.
Brummell apologized for not getting back to him sooner. Then he asked if Hastings could come to his office that afternoon.
Henry Brummell didn’t use his desk to his advantage the way Devin Cloud had. He talked with Hastings in a conference room where there was no computer or calendar to distract him. Brummell was a short, stocky man with thick dark hair and black framed glasses. He reminded Hastings of Al Pacino. But he was careful and sparse with his words, like a soldier would be with his ammunition. He sat in his chair in his white shirt and tie, asking questions and writing things on a yellow pad. The only other thing on the table was a copy of the petition.
Bullet Beth (George Hastings police procedural) Page 5
