by Leroy Clark
The girls were of little help in establishing any facial features, and in the end the sketch artist created a full figure. Slate thought it looked like a poster he had once seen for a local production of “Grease.” It did convey a definite posture and attitude, and the ass looked good, but it could have been anyone.
In the middle of the afternoon he and Jerry were back at their desks updating their reports. They were soon interrupted when Conny brought over the lab report.
“Only a day late—not bad.” Slate grinned, slapping Conny on the back.
“A day late and a dollar short,” Conny said. He explained that what he found offered little hope in identifying the killer. The stage of Duncan Auditorium was the scene of a nightly rehearsal with a cast and crew of fifteen students and faculty moving various props and pieces of furniture around for the thirty scenes in the play. During the day other groups of students from the Stagecraft and Lighting classes had been on the stage. For the janitors in the building the stage was off limits. The Technical Director took charge of sweeping and cleaning the stage, an activity that was very infrequent.
As a result, there was an enormous amount of trace evidence of human hair and fiber as well as chips of paint, dust, crumbs from French fries and hamburgers, cat and dog hair, bits of metal rust, sawdust, and almost everything imaginable found on the stage.
“So what you’re telling us,” Jerry said to boil down Conny’s long story into something concise, “there was nothing that stood out as unusual.”
Conny groaned. “I found eighty-one hair samples. They’re not only from this group, but from students over any number of years. The props are stored in the basement. They need a love seat, they pull it out. It has hairs from students from five years ago. There was so much shit—so much stuff that it’s like trying to make sense out of the sand in a desert.”
Conny had dusted the chair from near the victim and the other props on the stage as well as the dressing rooms and bathrooms. He had later taken a live scan of the fingerprints of all the students, faculty and staff involved in the theatre production. Comparing the prints found on the stage with the personnel had not turned up any prints from an outsider. All fingerprints were checked with the FBI computerized reference library. There was no record of any of them being involved in criminal activity.
“What it all boils down to,” Conny complained, “is one hell of a lot of work for nothing. Not one goddarn thing.” With that comment he tossed the report on to Slate’s desk and trudged back to his lab.
“You know,” Jerry said after he left, “it’s Murphy’s Law. Everything that can go wrong does. Here we are going over Niagara Falls in a barrel and there isn’t one piece of evidence we can grab on to.” He went back to his desk.
Slate was feeling depressed. He read the report over and over. Why couldn’t there be some clue? In Atlanta when there had been a string of killings of young black males, the Atlanta crime lab found yellow-green nylon carpet fibers that were very unusual on most of the bodies. The fibers led the police to Wayne Williams in whose apartment they found the carpet with the same fibers.
Slate decided the clues had to be in the behavior of the killer. He had to search for the motivation. Why was Steven murdered the way he was—hung naked on a stage, beaten, sodomized? How could he get into the killer’s mind?
CHAPTER 13
VISIT TO A GAY NIGHTCLUB
Our Fantasy was a complex that included a country-western bar on the East End, and on the West End a restaurant, and a nightclub with a dance floor, a stage, and a DJ who usually spun the latest popular rock and roll. The nightclub featured a drag show every Sunday night and occasionally a group of male strippers on tour.
Slate entered through the main entrance on the west side and paid the ten-dollar cover charge. It was his first time inside. He felt apprehensive and anxious, not knowing what to expect. As his eyes became used to the dimness, he saw that there were two levels. The upper level featured a large rectangular bar with stools on all sides. On the lower level tables surrounded a dance floor on three sides. Behind the dance floor was a stage.
The DJ’s booth was on the right of the dance floor. The man inside was playing “I am what I am,” and he was grooving to the music but the dance floor was empty as were most all of the tables. Too early Slate figured.
Slate walked to the bar and slid his ass on to a stool. The bartender was naked to the waist, a tank top hanging out of his back pocket. He was young—somewhere in his twenties —masculine. His body was stocky and looked as though he worked out. His biceps and pecs were pumped. His face was not really handsome but his charm more than made up for his lack of beauty. He had a strong chin, wavy dark hair and brown eyes, but his most outstanding feature was his mouth. His lips were full and wide. His smile revealed even white teeth and a twinkle in his eye. “What’ll it be?” he asked.
“Seven and seven,” Slate returned the smile.
The bartender reached his hand across the bar. “My name’s Kevin.”
Slate shook his hand. “Friends call me Slate.”
Kevin smiled again and went off to fix the drink. Slate looked at the other men gathered around the bar, some sitting alone like Slate, others in couples, one group of four. Half of the stools were empty. Slate looked at his watch. It was nine-thirty. Evidently the action didn’t get started until later, Slate reasoned. He was also surprised to see that except for some swishy gestures from two young twinkies, the bar was just like any other bar. Kevin brought him his drink and asked if he wanted to keep a tab. Slate nodded. “I’m gonna need a few of these,” he thought to himself as he took a sip.
At that moment Aaron Biggs walked in with Tim Wheeler and Derek Colson. All three were dressed in jeans. Derek’s were especially tight, and he wore a tight black shirt. Aaron wore a white Polo shirt that glowed in the blue bar light. Tim wore a tight black and gold T-shirt. As they stood in line to get drinks, Aaron recognized Slate and excused himself from the group. He came around the bar and sat on the stool next to Slate. “Hi. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Slate shook his hand. “I thought it would be educational.”
“You haven’t been here before?”
“No.”
“I’m here frequently, especially now. I figured it would be good research for doing the play.”
“That’s right, congratulations. I heard you were playing Steven’s role.”
“I’ll never be as good as he was, but I’m trying.”
“How are your friends?”
“Fine. We’ve all been working our butts off on the show, but it’s exciting. You gonna come see it?”
“Yeah, I will. Definitely.”
Aaron’s friends had made it to the bar and Kevin was delivering their drinks. They had ordered for Aaron, but expected him to pay for it. Tim pointed to the drink with one hand and rubbing his fingers together on the other hand in the typical gesture for money. Aaron jumped up. “Look, we’re gonna grab a table and watch the show. You wanna join us?”
“Sure. Thanks, I will.” Slate followed him around the bar until he met up with his buddies and proceeded to pay for his drink.
“Detective Slater.” Tim offered his hand. Slate shook hands with him and Derek. Both seemed a bit wary.
“Come on, guys. Grab a table,” Aaron ordered as he grabbed his drink. They moved to a table next to the dance floor and sat down. The place was beginning to get busy as more and more people poured through the door. A group of older men sat at the table to Slate’s right. On his left was an old queen and what appeared to be three younger trainees.
Slate asked his tablemates to point out anyone who might have known Steven. He could sense their concern from their expressions.
“Look, guys,” he said to allay their fears. “I’m off-duty. I’m on my own time. I’m not gonna be hassling any of your friends. I’m just asking that you give me a name if you see somebody you think might help, might know something. I won’t be interrogating anyone tonigh
t. I’m just out looking.”
“You think his murderer could be someone here?” Derek asked.
“The killer could be anyone,” Slate said. “At this point everyone’s a suspect.”
“That includes you, Derek,” Aaron laughed. “But don’t let it go to your head. You get no special status points for that.” With that the group relaxed. Aaron went on to explain to his buddies that this was Slate’s first visit to the place. A barrage of friendly jibes followed.
“We got ourselves a virgin,” Tim whispered.
Slate looked at Derek, remembering what he had said in Joslyn’s office. He wanted to say, “two virgins,” but he didn’t. He just smiled instead.
“When you go to the men’s room, you gotta be cool,” Derek warned. “It’s safe. No one’ll mess with you, but let’s just say the guys here are less shy about looking.”
Tim added, “And some guys may hit on you. They can get pretty forward, you know, feel you up. All you have to say is ‘not interested’ or ‘no thanks.’ They’ll go away.”
Tim Wheeler caught the eye of a tall, dark and handsome man with a beautiful smile across the room. He waved. The guy waved back in recognition, but he didn’t come to the table. “That’s Damien DiPietro. He and Steven dated for a while, but it was a long time ago. A couple of years. He’s a nice guy.”
From the olive complexion, dark hair, and smoldering looks Slate decided he must be Italian and made an association with the evil Devil’s spawn Damien in The Omen films so he could remember his name. To the others he said, “I was hoping Joe Moss might be here tonight.”
Aaron gave him an answer that provided some insight into Joe’s situation. “He was at rehearsal but said he was going home to bed. He’s a mess. Steven’s death hit him really hard. He breaks down crying at least two or three times a night.”
“He’s getting better though,” Tim added.
As the noise of dozens of conversations grew louder and louder, it became difficult to talk. Slate found himself moving his body to the rhythm of the music and just watching the people. It was a strange group. Some were obviously couples. Most were dressed in every day clothes. Some of the younger men were flashier. A few men wore leather vests and no shirts. There was an abundance of earrings.
Finally a rather chubby drag queen dressed in a floor length gown of dark blue covered with sequins and slit up the side to the top of the thigh slithered on to the stage. She wore a huge blond wig, enough fake jewelry to sink the Titanic and a white feather boa that Slate thought must be twenty-five feet long. “Hi there, everyone,” she purred. “I’m Ruby Fruit, your hostess with the mostess. And if you don’t believe me, I’ll show yah my banana and oranges.”
There was applause and whistles from the crowd. Slate laughed too. He thought Ruby was completely outrageous and enjoyed her snappy attitude.
“Later, boys, later. You know we got an ordinance here in Wichita says we can’t serve liquor and have nudity in the same venue.”
There was a great outburst of “boos” and a storm of protest.
“I know, but it is the law.”
Aaron nudged Slate with his elbow jokingly as if Slate were somehow responsible. “Hey, guys,” Slate said, “I had nothing to do with it.”
“Now, hold on, hold on.” Ruby yelled out to quiet the noise. “We’ve found a way around that. It’s called mesh.”
More applause.
“It’s clothing you can see through.” Ruby Fruit pulled a thong made of a sheer fabric from her rather large melons. She held it up to her face so that she could look through it, smelled it and rolled her eyes. “I ripped this off one of ‘em backstage. I’m taking it home as a souvenir.” She tucked it back into her cleavage.
Slate’s tablemates laughed and made suggestive comments. He laughed with them.
“We have a fabulous show for you tonight. This is a group of international males touring the country. You’ve seen that catalog, haven’t you? All those fantastic pictures. All those muscles. Oh, yes, and the swim suits and the underwear. Well, we’ve got something even better than that. We’ve got the real thing, alive and in the flesh. There’s a French Model, an Italian Master—I wonder what he’s a master of?”
“Sausage.” Slate whispered to Aaron. It had been a long time since Slate had really let himself go, and he was having a blast.
Ruby then sang to the tune of Fascination: “IT WAS MASTERBATION I KNOW.” When the laughter subsided, she continued, “There’s a Latin Boy who’s 100% Bottom. We have a Basketball Player from Harlem who is definitely a 100% top. He loves to bounce those balls and score. We have a Lifeguard from Russia with Love. A Swedish Masseuse who would love to give you a nude body rub. A German Leatherman. That’s Leatherman, not Letterman. A Greek Adonis. A red, white and blue All-American Rock Hard Patriot, a real, honest-to-goodness Cowboy from Arizona who loves to ride bareback. He must have seen Deliverance. We have a Tribesman from Cape Town, South Africa. He’s from a gay tribe. And from Hong Kong we have the latest answer to Bruce Lee. Didn’t your aunt tell you about everyone named Bruce? A dozen gorgeous men from all over the world.”
Someone in the crowd yelled, “Bring ‘em on.” A roar of approval followed this.
The drag queen batted her eyelashes and licked her lips. “Do you speak French or Greek?”
Slate didn’t understand the meaning but he knew it had something to do with sex acts.
As the laughter and noise mounted, the drag queen lifted her skirt and came down from the stage. She moved to a table at the edge of the dance floor to the right. She sat on top of the table, crossing her legs and taking a pose as if she were Shirley Maclaine in Postcards from the Edge, and said into the mic, “There, darlings, mama’s got to get comfortable.”
“Now, I want yah to know there’s more to Germany than bratwurst. We have with us a young man tonight—all the way from Berlin—That’s the city where they have a Mann-o-Meter. Just call Motzstrasse 5-69-69-6900. Berlin is the place where they party until the cock crows—or is it grows. Anyway this young man comes to us from the Twilight Zone. Have you heard of it? Of course, you have, but you’ve got the wrong one. This is not the one hosted by Rod Serling. This Twilight Zone is a Levi, leather and uniform cruise bar in Berlin with a three-level darkroom that draws butch blokes and twinkies. Naked safe-sex parties and other gala events are often on the agenda. I hope you’re listening to this, Chris. Chris is our manager. So give a big hand to Dirk Karsten, the biiiggg Leatherman from Berlin.”
As the throbbing music blared, a tall husky blond in leather appeared on the stage. He wore a black leather hood, a black hat with a visor and studded leather straps that ran from a ring in the center of his chest over his shoulders and around his torso. He had a studded band on each wrist and one on each bicep. Another strap lead from the center ring to a studded codpiece. Leather chaps covered his legs. As the man danced and turned his back toward the audience, Slate could see another ring in the middle of his back and a strap that disappeared between his muscular naked butt cheeks.
What impressed Slate the most was the man’s dancing. This was not just some local yokel bumping and grinding. This was a fully choreographed number with a professionally trained dancer who used every ounce of technique, every leap and turn, to convey the “leather” aesthetic. The crowd seemed equally astonished and incredibly enthusiastic, often applauded the dancer’s more amazing leaps and gymnastic feats.
After about three or four minutes, Ruby Fruit purred into the microphone, “Isn’t he delicious. I could just eat him up. Soooooo! What do you want him to do, boys?”
Several yelled out, “Take it off.”
The music changed. Ruby leaned forward and spoke in a breathy voice directly to the dancer. “You heard ‘em, Dirk. Take it off. Take it all off, honey.”
Dirk smiled at her and moving to the beat, turned his back toward and audience, flexing his ass muscles. In one smooth movement, he yanked off the leather chaps. The audience applauded and yelled. As h
e continued to dance, he removed the straps from his wrists, biceps, and finally the entire harness. Eventually he took off the hat, the mask and lastly the leather codpiece, tossing them to the side of the stage. Completely naked except for his boots and the see-though gauze thong, he moved around the dance floor, stopping by each table so that the hands waving dollar bills or five-dollar bills could slip them into his g-string or his hand or his boots. Most of the time, this was followed by a brief kiss and the patron sliding his hands over the stripper’s leg or his crotch or his ass.
Slate had been in some of the joints in Wichita with female strippers. Although he often felt attracted to women as well as men, he had not found most of them very sexy. The majority had seemed sleazy—not all that attractive—probably lower class—and not really dancers, but this scene was new to him. It was much more entertaining because the dancers were specifically trained and each routine was built around a distinct character. The audience was far more vocal and responsive, and the cost of the drinks was reasonable.
As the strippers continued to perform, waiters came to the tables to bring fresh drinks, the crowd’s enthusiasm grew. Slate drank too much.
His tablemates sometimes got up to slip a dollar bill into the g-string of a dancer they really liked. After a while they began to tease Slate and push him to do the same. Finally after much ribbing and joking, Slate took a five-dollar bill up to the Cowboy from Arizona. He tried to slip the money into the guy’s waistband, but the Cowboy pulled on the front of g-string urging Slate to put it in his pouch. Slate was embarrassed but did it and the guy kissed him. When he stumbled back to the table, his tablemates slapped him on the shoulders and bought him another drink.
By the time the show was over Slate was feeling a buzz. He said goodnight to the college students and sat down at the bar for a cup of coffee. As soon as Kevin had given him the coffee, a man sat down next to Slate and offered his hand. “Good to see you.” Slate shook his hand. The face was familiar. He felt he should know the guy but he couldn’t place him.
