Murder at Willow Slough

by Josh Thomas

P.S. See what I mean about the cop? If you run him I recommend no hat, let that face be seen. But maybe the hat adds credibility. (And no you can’t have a copy of the print, you nasty boy.)

  Quincy Strangler: Body in NW Ind. Linked to 12 Others

  Death of Young Professional Alters Serial Pattern

  By James R. Foster © The Ohio Gay Times All Rights Reserved

  MOROCCO, Ind., Sept. 10—The Quincy County Strangler has struck again.

  Indiana State Police confirmed today that the mostly-nude body of a Gay Indianapolis man found strangled in a park near here is linked to twelve other murders over a 14-year span.

  Sgt. Kent Kessler, detective in charge of the investigation, said, “We believe this case is connected to a string of Gay-related murders in Ohio and Indiana.” No arrests have been made.

  Forensic specialists in Indianapolis identified the body as that of Glenn Archer Ferguson, 29. He was a marketing manager for concessions for the Indiana Pacers of the National Basketball Association.

  He had been missing since Sept. 6, according to his lover, Gary Tompkins, 26. The two men shared a luxury apartment at Riley Towers in downtown Indianapolis since April 1995, Mr. Tompkins said.

  He filed a missing person report on Mr. Ferguson Sept. 7, police records show, a day after he failed to return home from work.

  Mr. Ferguson’s body was found in the Willow Slough State Fish and Recreation Area that day by a conservation officer near this small town in northwestern Indiana, outside Chicago.

  Police believe Mr. Ferguson was killed elsewhere and his body dumped here in a deserted campground behind a woodpile Sept. 7.

  An autopsy performed by the Marion County coroner’s office named the cause of death as strangulation, according to Sgt. Kessler. Further test results are not yet available.

  Disbelief

  Mr. Tompkins was in shock after learning of his lover’s death.

  “Glenn never picked up guys in bars,” he told The Times. “I can’t believe he’d be victimized this way. He was a professional with a lot of Straight friends as well as Gay ones. He didn’t go out (to Gay bars) much, and then only if our schedules kept us apart. If he did go out, he always came home alone. Ask anybody who knew him. He loved sports and the arts; otherwise he was a homebody, we were in love. He was a guy with a future, not the type to put himself at risk.”

  The night of Sept. 6 was different somehow. Police are trying to determine what changed Mr. Ferguson’s pattern.

  He visited two downtown Indianapolis Gay bars prior to his disappearance, according to bartenders interviewed by The Times. “He got here about six, had a beer, and left sober and in a good mood about an hour later,” said Russell Dixon, manager of the Six of One Tavern. “He was always quiet, cool, never caused any trouble, never picked up anyone or tried to drive drunk. A good customer, a nice guy, handsome and popular, the last person you’d expect to find murdered.”

  Later Mr. Ferguson traveled to the Chez Nous bar on 16th Street. Bartender Jimmy St. John remembered seeing him that night. “He had a Miller Genuine Draft, which was usual for him. He played a couple of games of pool. Then I didn’t see him. But he wasn’t the type to pick up people. He flirted a lot but he loved his lover, it was obvious.”

  Mr. Tompkins, a real estate agent, said he had early-evening appointments to show a house in the northern suburbs, followed by shopping at a nearby mall. Clients and friends confirm his account. At breakfast that morning, the two agreed to eat dinner separately, then meet at their apartment later that evening.

  Mr. Tompkins waited in panic when his lover never came home.

  Linkage

  Police linked Mr. Ferguson’s murder with 12 others in Indiana and Ohio dating back fourteen years, based on the cause of death, the victim’s place of residence and the rural, watery location where his body was discovered. When they learned that Mr. Ferguson was Gay, the linkage was complete.

  Most of the other victims—all young men “with ties to the Gay community in Indianapolis,” according to authorities—were strangled and dumped in isolated, rural bodies of water. Four were found in Quincy County, Ohio, more than any other location, leading The Times to dub the killer “the Quincy County Strangler.”

  Times stories have been picked up in Dayton and Cavendish, Ohio and Richmond, Ind., but have not played in Indianapolis, where all 13 victims originate. The Indianapolis Sun still has not reported Mr. Ferguson’s murder.

  Mr. Ferguson has one similarity with—and one glaring difference from—the other victims. He generally fits the physical profile, being a trim, handsome young man, six feet tall, with dark brown hair. But his job set him apart, according to police.

  “Most of the other victims were more or less street people, or at least individuals familiar with street life,” said Indianapolis Police Lt. Phil Blaney, who is assisting Sgt. Kessler with the investigation.

  “Some of the others were hustlers, or guys who hung out at the bars a lot, maybe had a little drug involvement, minor police records. One was a practical nurse. But Mr. Ferguson was a college graduate, had a professional job and a very good income. He never even had a traffic ticket. He was well-known in the community. That makes him very different from the other victims.”

  A few of the Strangler’s earlier victims were loners who went unidentified for years after their decomposing bodies were discovered. Other victims’ survivors have pressed police for answers for over a decade.

  Task Force

  Indiana State Police are now in charge of a “task force” of officers from seven counties in the two states. An FBI conference was convened in Greenfield, Ind. two years ago to discuss the cases and to circulate a psychological profile of the killer, which has never been released to the public.

  But as The Times has repeatedly noted, until this week the “task force” has existed only on paper. It has had no staff, no budget and only three officers doing part-time investigation. In police terms, these are cold cases.

  However, Sgt. Kessler of the West Lafayette State Police post may symbolize a renewed effort to find the killer. The post in Rensselaer, 10 miles from here, would ordinarily be in charge of Mr. Ferguson’s murder; but in a highly unusual move, top officials in Indianapolis have assigned Sgt. Kessler as the task force Commander, saying that “new blood” is needed to solve the serial cases.

  West Lafayette is halfway between the crime scene and Indianapolis, noted Deputy Superintendent for Investigations, Major George F. Slaughter.

  “We are doing all we can to energize the task force and see that the killer or killers are caught,” Slaughter told The Times. “We will not rest until this killer is brought to justice. It doesn’t matter who the victim is—Gay, not Gay, his family and friends have a right to know that the state of Indiana is doing all it can to find the killer and lock him up. That’s exactly what we intend to do.”

  Sgt. Kessler, a nationally certified investigator, urged all citizens who may have information about Mr. Ferguson’s actions and whereabouts on the night of Sept. 6 to call this toll-free number: (800) 555-TIPS. Callers’ names are kept confidential.

  “The Indiana State Police will not discriminate on the basis of sexual orientation, or any other basis, in investigating these cases,” pledged Sgt. Kessler. “I want the killer, not the informants.”

  -30

  Jamie tried but failed to bring out his usual ebullience over getting the story. All he could see was Gary Tompkins, sobbing in his arms a few hours ago.

  Jamie was able to give to Gary as Kent gave to him. Jamie heard all about Glenn and Gary’s vacations, the house they were building that Glenn would never see; their parents’ reactions. Glenn’s were okay; Gary’s were hateful. Gary had pulled himself up from rural Hoosier poverty and found the man of his dreams, an athlete, starting point guard for the Saint Louis Billikens—a topman for poor, insecure, overachieving Gary.“He was so sexy standing there in the bar, no shirt, great body, tight sweatpants, I could see it right there. He saw me look
ing at him, so he touched himself, then walked right up to me. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He said, You want it, don’tcha. Did I ever. Then he turned out to be nice, sophisticated, everything I wasn’t. He took me to my first art museum, my first play, my first NBA game. All I had to do was be faithful to him, mind him, cook for him and put out. What a hardship. I wanted him 24/7.”

  Seeing Gary’s bereavement, Jamie could be quiet with his own. ***

  Kent called while Jamie was down in Indy, didn’t leave his number, and wasn’t in the book.

  Jamie sat in a La-Z-Boy with only the stove light on, listening to Bach, drinking sour mash, waiting for Stone to call; half-hoping the doorbell would ring, but knowing it wouldn’t.

  When he’d had too much to drink, he put himself to bed on the air mattress. The smell of Kent’s sheets cheered him. Danny will be here tomorrow.

  Kent was here last night.

  23

  Danny

  The next day Jamie tried Stone one last time, “Get your ass up here right now.”

  He showered and shaved, then straightened up the house for Danny and Lynn. He looked in the refrigerator. They would need food. What to buy? He made a list on an old Navane note pad.

  Beer; Michelob, he thought. They could always send out for pizza; no one would expect him to cook at a time like this. Breakfast food; he wrote down a loaf of bread, eggs and bacon, sausage and fruit. He couldn’t find an onion, and added that to the list, along with sour cream. Soft drinks; all she had was Diet Pepsi for Arnie.

  Arnie! He was sitting down in Indianapolis and didn’t know about Thelma. How to get in touch with him? How to deal with Mrs. Arnie if he reached her instead?

  Arnie’s number wasn’t on Thelma’s speed dial. Where would she have put his number, or would she have kept it in her head, or did she never call there because of Mrs. Arnie? Should he wait until Arnie called him?

  Somehow this was more nerve-wracking than anything else. Jamie remembered how Ronald’s wife #5 hadn’t bothered to call his sons after he died, pissed off because none of them had kept in touch with their abusive father. Then they’d had to buy her off to settle their grandparents’ estate and God, what a mess.

  Poor Arnie. Jamie would call him when he found the number, screw Mrs. Arnie.

  The day grew longer. He worried that if he left for a half hour to go to the store, Danny and Lynn would arrive and he wouldn’t be there. Wait, go, who knew? The phone rang. It was Kent. He asked to help. Jamie faxed him the grocery list.

  Then he cried again. Kent was too solicitous, which felt wonderful and miserable at the same time. ***

  A black, late-model BMW sports car was parked in the driveway when Kent came by. Jamie was hugging a blond man; a blonde woman rubbed Jamie’s back and had a hand on the other guy’s shoulder.

  Kent slowed the pickup to a crawl, wishing he’d arrived either sooner or later. Slowly, quietly, he parked and switched off the ignition. The hug ended with the older brother still holding Jamie by the shoulders and talking to him. Kent wished he had an older brother.

  Danny said, “We’ve got company.” Jamie looked up, saw Kent. Jamie’s eyes were red. Kent felt his lips frown. He unlatched his door, climbed out of the cab.

  Jamie said, “This is the detective I was with when we got the word about Mom. He stayed with me at the hospital and the whole first night.”

  Kent stepped over to meet the people. Jamie said tremulously, “Lynn, Danny, this is Sergeant Kent Kessler of the Indiana State Police. He’s an elite homicide detective and task force Commander. He volunteered to do grocery shopping for us. Kent, I present my sister-in-law Lynn Evans, the acclaimed illustrator of children’s books; and her husband, my big brother Dan Foster, who writes for the Denver Rocky Mountain News.”

  “How do you do, sergeant?” Danny said, reaching out to shake his hand. “We appreciate your getting this stuff.”

  Perfect grammar, just like Jamie. He was five years older; his blond hair was darker, not as thick, he was three inches taller, 40 pounds heavier, husky almost, built nowhere the same; but the family resemblance was striking. He lacked Jamie’s ability to stop traffic, but Danny looked just like him. It was amazing to see them together.

  Danny loved his little brother, it was obvious. Jamie loved Danny with all the hero-worship a little brother can summon. A Gay guy, a Straight guy, they were Bro’s.

  Which made the Stone thing all the harder.

  Kent shook Danny’s hand, said hello to pretty Lynn. “Ms. Evans, I’m sorry we have to meet like this. You must be tired after that long drive. I hope it was uneventful?”

  She said ruefully, “For fourteen straight hours.”

  “You need help with those?” Danny asked, moving toward the 250’s passenger door.

  “No, please, Mr. Foster,” Kent protested. “You just got here. Relax, visit, I can bring this stuff in.”

  “Come on, honey,” Lynn said. She turned to Jamie, standing by himself, immobilized. She slipped a hand on his elbow. “Cutie, you got a bathroom in this place?”

  “Yes, sure.” He led her into the house, pausing to prop the storm door open so Kent and Danny wouldn’t have to fumble with it.

  Danny unlocked the sports car’s trunk, surveyed assorted suitcases, picked up Lynn’s dress bag, a carry-on and a shopping bag full of shoes. “Kent Kessler. Big Ten Player of the Year—for the Wrong School.” Kent smiled; Purdue fans were all alike, they hated IU, which hated them back. “Two and a half years with the Braves. All-Star team, that game-winning catch in the LCS in ’93. I’ll never forget it. It summed up the grandeur and tragedy of sports.”

  Danny gathered himself. “I saw you play against the Rockies. You had a great game, a triple and a home run, five RBIs.”

  “Against Sant’angelo? I remember that game.”

  “I’m a sportswriter. I cover the Broncos mostly.”

  “Dan Foster. Hey, I’ve seen you on ESPN.”

  Danny was amazed to meet Kent this way, a star athlete who became a police officer. The guy could have lived off his signing bonus, lent his name to a car dealership and a restaurant and loafed for the rest of his life; every other ex-jock did. “Thanks for coming, man.” It was forlorn but Danny didn’t know what else to say. “Thanks for taking care of my Bro.” Kent, with three bags of groceries, followed him into the house. The famed Dan Foster was Jamie’s big brother. “Kitchen’s to your right.”

  “Got it.” Kent knew where the kitchen was.

  A minute later he helped Danny with the suitcases and deposited a covered plate on the kitchen counter. Jamie, I’m sorry. And your brother’s a reporter too.

  But sports, fantasyland, not homicide. Puts things in perspective, don’t it? I know who the star is in this house. Gosh, little man.

  Jamie unpacked groceries, was in charge of the kitchen. Water ran elsewhere. Jamie saw the plate. “What’s this?”

  Kent looked down at the floor. “A pie. From my Mom.”

  “Oh, Kent. That is so nice.” Jamie took the lid off the Tupperware, stared at golden-brown latticework made by hand. “It’s beautiful. Please thank her for us. She didn’t have to do that.” He looked at Kent, then held onto the counter, looked away. “Casseroles every five minutes, Hoosierman.”

  Kent made a fist, studied a carton of eggs. “Whatcha got?” Lynn asked, entering the room to look at the pie.

  “Homemade,” Danny said. “From Kent’s Mom.”

  “What kind is it, cherry?”

  Kent said, “Cherry’s the pie she’s most famous for. She grows the fruit herself. Stay out of the way when Mom’s pitting cherries.”

  “It’s very considerate of her. Jamie told us how you sped down the highway the other day after you played back the messages on the answering machine.”

  Danny said, “And stayed with him at the hospital, when he was all alone, and we couldn’t be there. Thanks, man.”

  Kent just felt glum.

  “Um, should I make coffee, tea?” Jamie asked
. “What do you all want to drink? Lynn? We’ve got beer, wine, booze, soda, juice. Kent, what can I get you?”

  “Coffee, I think,” Lynn said. “I can make it.”

  “Nothing for me, thanks,” Kent said. “I’ve got to get back.”

  “Honey, you want coffee? Or a beer?”

  “Beer sounds good. You sure you can’t stay?” Danny asked Kent. “We appreciate all you’ve done for us.”

  “Lord, it would help if I’d pay the man,” Jamie scowled. “I’m such a scatterhead. Where’s my checkbook? Lynn, find the receipt.” He went off to the dining room.

  “I have to be going,” Kent said. “Jamie, we can do the money later.”

  “No, at the rate I’m headed, I won’t remember it two minutes from now and you’ll be out eighty bucks. Here’s my checkbook. Lynn, did you find that receipt?”

  “Fifty-four dollars and twelve cents.”

  Jamie wrote the check. The phone rang. Danny stood in the doorway. “Jim DeShaies, asking for you.”

  “That’s the rector,” Jamie said. “Tell him who you are. Ask about the string quartet.” He handed Kent the check. “The pie symbolizes all you’ve done for us. Not just the groceries, but the hospital. And the camping trip.”

  Kent put a hand on muscled shoulder for a second. “You should have told me they weren’t getting here till today. I’d have stayed with you last night.”

  Their eyes met. “It meant so much that you came the first night. I didn’t want you sleeping on a hard floor two nights in a row.”

  “I’d have come. You shouldn’t have been alone at a time like this.”

  “Kent, all day yesterday I took comfort in the fact that you came the first night. And now I’m not alone. But I’ll never forget what you did. Never.”

  “Call you tomorrow?”

  “Would you? I’d like that.” Jamie walked him to the door, then Kent was gone.

  Lynn said, “He seems like a real nice guy.”

  “He’s a prince. Lord, I’d better talk to Father Jim.”

  “You’re having a string quartet?”

  “I’m paying for it. Something classy, you know? And afterward a sound system in the parish hall, playing Julie Andrews.” Jamie hurried to the phone.