by Josh Thomas
“Is this just a one time thing, their working together?”
“Hell no, they’re out together again right now. That faggot’s hanging onto Kent like barnacles on a boat.”
“I sympathize with him. I wonder why Kent’s allowing it. Homosexuals aren’t trustworthy informants.”
“Kent’s encouraging it, they’re thick as thieves. He even calls him his partner. Can you believe that?”
“No. What’s gotten into him? A police officer doesn’t call a civilian his partner.”
“Well, that’s what he calls him. A partner who’s queer.”
“You know, a thought just occurred to me. Oh, I almost hesitate to say it.”
A red light went off in her head. “What do you mean, Frank?”
“I hate to even suggest it. Still, we have to consider all the possibilities.”
“Tell me what you’re thinking. Whether he knows it or not, he’s my partner. I’d better have all the info I can.”
“Would you please keep this confidential?”
“Sure, Frank, spill it.”
“I was trying to think whether Kent had a woman in his life. Here he is in his late twenties, and still single, isn’t he?”
“He’s 26. The woman in his life is me.”
“Oh, you’re seeing each other often?”
“Well, it’s not that often,” she stammered. “But I know he’s not going with anybody else. He and I kind of have an arrangement. We let each other know when we date other people. We kid around about it, ’cause it’s always the date from hell.”
“It’s good you’re close. When’s the last time you two dated?”
Her gut twisted into a knot. “It’s been awhile.”
“How long, if you don’t mind my asking?”
It’s none of your business. I’m the woman in his life!
Carson continued, “You’re his partner, you should be helping him on these cases, not some homosexual. Kent could be very vulnerable. Foster is deemed extremely attractive among homosexuals.”
“I’ve seen him myself. He has cocksucker written all over him.”
“Julie, we must talk more about this, off the record. I think I can help you.”
“Maybe you’re right. This is sensitive territory.”
“If Kent falls prey to a homosexual, this investigation could be completely compromised.”
“Kent ain’t about to fall for no queer,”she scoffed.“For God’s sake,he played major league baseball.”
“Baseball. Around other young, athletic men.” Carson paused. “I can help you, Julie. And your investigation. I have information you need to know. Foster isn’t what he seems. The alleged reporter is the target of a Federal investigation.”
“God, that could screw up everything.”
“This is extremely important. The Bureau needs your help, Julie. The American people do.”
“Sure, Frank, anything.”
“Let me take you to dinner tonight. I know an out of the way place with catfish and great steaks. Shall I pick you up?”
With drinks, some deep, confidential sharing, a few well-planted fears and sex later that night, Agent Carson sewed up Campbell with a ten-dollar plate of fish.
27
Victory
Kent was late for the Victory Lounge. He wore DKNY jeans, a commemorative V-neck from a golf fundraiser for the Boys and Girls Club; 46 eyes followed his muscular progress to the back.
He found Jamie at a table in a small room on the right. Two salads with low-fat dressing and two glasses of white zinfandel awaited his arrival. Jamie spied the gold chain this time. “Hey. Sorry I’m late.”
“That’s okay, I knew when you got here.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m a reporter, news travels fast.”
“This joint’s gone to seed. How’s the food?”
“The cook won’t be drunk for another hour.” Jamie hated the place, its butt-sprung booths and passing-for-Straight décor a perfect symbol for India-noplace; but it was easy to find in a city hard to drive in. A waiter came. “Chicken piccata. Beg them to make it lite.”
“Bacon double cheeseburger,” Kent declared.
“How do you want that cooked?” The waiter moved to within three inches of Kent’s biceps.
“Uh, medium.” Kent snapped the menu shut, handed it back and looked elsewhere. Anywhere.
“Thanks, fellas,” the waiter said, sashaying his retreat.
Kent followed with his eyes for a second. “Takes all kinds, I guess,” a casually homophobic remark that Jamie registered. Kent tried his wine.
“How did it go with IPD?” There was an unusual amount of activity in their direction, as customers stood at the end of the bar to drool.
“Good. It helped to have Major Slaughter there. The meeting with Quincy and Stillwater is set for Monday morning. Bulldog is coming but not Hickman, with a Stillwater deputy. Post 52 commander’ll be there. I left a message for your Dr. Helmreich.”
“Good work, Kent. Where’s it going to be?”
“My new office at state police headquarters. And it’s not just my office, Quincy and Stillwater and anyone else can use it as their base when they’re in town.”
“How’s the computer?”
“Not the newest but it’ll work. I’m going to put Julie Campbell on it. She and I complement each other real well. She came back from training last year with the best scores in her class on computer analysis. The program can pick out any little similarities I’m missing, and the database will be a big help.”
“This can lead to thousands of leads, tips, wild goose chases—guys who suspect their ex-lovers because ‘he got drunk in 1984 and said he’d kill me, the sumbitch.’ After awhile you don’t remember half the people you’ve talked to. The computerized Rolodex alone saves you time.”
Jamie tried his salad—mostly iceberg, with some onions and carrots. But the tomatoes were homegrown and delicious. A voice at the bar said, “I don’t care if they are. The blond looks like Troy on ‘General Hospital,’ to die for, ’cause he’s heaven. And the brunet he’s with, don’t they make a pair.”
Jamie raised his voice, “I saw Gary. He was glad to get the receipt and know Glenn’s belongings are safe. The one thing he wants right now is Glenn’s desk photo of the two of them.” Glenn Ferguson, with a job in pro sports, kept a picture of his lover on his desk—and was still well-liked. Jamie admired that. “I told him I’d ask if you can spare it, but everything else is evidence.”
“Sure, we’ll get it to him. Poor guy, he really seems devoted to Glenn.”
“He was. Now he’s just numbed out. As long as Glenn was missing he could hope. Now he doesn’t have that anymore. I hate that he had to ID the body by himself. Those ligature marks on the neck will haunt him the rest of his life.” Jamie looked sad, angry, then determined.
“We didn’t run it that way. I had Lt. Blaney pull out the drawer, take a Polaroid of the face only, and walk it back to Gary. He never saw those marks.”
“What a sensitive, caring, thoughtful way to do it. My goodness, Kent. Thank you.”
Kent shrugged, “Most people don’t want to see the trauma. Phil said Gary was a nervous wreck.”
“Did you have him bring in duplicate socks?”
“No. Good idea, though. Did you get anything else?”
“Background on the victim. And I hired a hustler.”
Under his breath Kent said, “Oh my God, look at that!”
Jamie turned around, didn’t see anything. “What am I looking at?”
“There’s two guys up there kissing each other! Say, what kind of a place is this, anyway? There’s nothing but guys in here. Why, you…”
“We’re here, Kent.” We’re queer. “Get used to it. Two guys kissing, what a novel idea. I wonder why Glenn and Gary never thought of it.” Jamie laughed, “Eat your salad, lunkhead.” Kent gulped his wine instead. “Slow down, tiger. That metal thing is called a fork. And it’s not polite to stare
.”
Kent said quietly, almost angrily, “The least you could do is warn me you were taking me to a gaybar.”
Jamie set down his elbow, pointed a finger at him and sneered. “Sergeant, if you think you’re going to catch a Gay killer without setting foot in the Gay community, go back to rookie league!”
Their eyes blazed. Jamie turned the intensity down a notch. “If you have to work your way up to it, you’re as bad as Hickman, barreling in wearing a neon ‘COP’ sign. Be better than that, man; look around you. This is the tamest place in town. It may have been where Glenn was headed to eat the night he was killed.”
Kent glowered,but took a big chomp of salad.Slowly he said,“I never thought of that. I’ve just never been to one of these places before.”
“Nothing is going to happen in one of these places that you can’t handle, big man.”
“If you say so, little man.”
They ate in silence until the waiter returned with their plates. He set chicken in front of Jamie, then sidled over to Kent with an enormous greaseburger. “How are you boys doin’? Can I get you anything, hon? Ketchup, wine? A date for after work?”
Kent cleared his throat while Jamie suppressed a smile. “Uh, no thanks. Uh, maybe some iced tea?”
“Whatever you want, sugar. My name’s Miles. I am definitely your server tonight.”
“Thank you, Miles,” Jamie answered. “Server is fine, servant is not.” He smiled, his voice had just the right degree of acidity. Miles frowned and left.
Kent rubbed his face. “Thanks. First time in a Gay bar.”
“And see, it’s over now. He won’t bother us again.”
Kent nodded. “It is no reflection on your masculinity, Kent. In fact, it is the most macho thing you can do.” He said softly, “Maybe you were right to bring me here.”
“I’m sorry. It never occurred to me to warn you that you might meet guys like me.”
“I didn’t mean it that way! Darn it, Jamie, I hate fighting with you. I want us partners.”
“Forget it. Lighten up, you’re doing great. Don’t misplace your sense of humor. If you’re going to watch guys kiss, rate them on technical difficulty and artistic merit. Did their tongues nail a quadruple axel? It’s never been done in competition.”
“I predict it will be completed by a guy named Todd.”
“That only eliminates three guys.”
Kent smiled his big open smile. “Now what’s a hustler exactly? What I think it is? What do you want one for?”
Jamie took a sip of wine. “A male prostitute. His name is Rocky, I gave him lunch.”
Kent choked, “What do you want with some prostitute named Rocky?”
“I want him to keep an eye out for a beat-up Toyota, a license plate and two guys in a photo. Remember, some early victims were known hustlers. If your killer were capable of forming a relationship, he would-n’t need a prostitute.”
“But he ain’t capable. Can’t compete, no self-esteem.”
“IPD and Quincy surveilled the library a year ago, videotaping. All they caught were truckers and teachers in line for a quickie. You should have heard poor Bulldog. ‘Why, there was married men and everything.’ Gee whillikers, Sherlock.”
Kent chuckled. “Why the library?”
“That’s where hustlers hang out. You thought it might be the Hyatt Regency?”
Kent was chagrined. “You think this Rocky will do it?”
“It’s worth a shot. I gave him fifty bucks and told him I’d give him another fifty the next time I see him. He’s the smartest one there. Goes to college and shows up in late afternoon for the businessmen. I talked to four of them, once I got them calmed down.”
“What were they upset about?”
Jamie looked right at him. “Competition. Loss of revenue.”
“Oh, gosh. You’re a surprise a minute.”
“I told them not to go with him and not to let anyone else if they could help it. If they did see him, to remember the time and date and license number. Rocky carries a sketchpad in his backpack, so he can write it down.”
“Good idea, I guess. I hope it works and he doesn’t just take your money.”
“It beats having no observers at all. He said he’d been on the scene for two or three months—which probably means eight or ten.”
“Earning tuition money?”
“Why not? He also hitchhikes on Washington Street, but Monument Circle is hot right now.”
Kent took a bite of his burger. “This is good,” he said with his mouth full.
“Enjoy it while you can.”
“What’s that mean?”
“The heart attack comes later.”
“I work out all the time.”
“Good, it’ll make your recovery go faster.”
“Want to compare who’s healthier here, little man?”
“I’d smoke you in a cholesterol test and you know it. Bacon and cheese, mayo and a half pound of fatty beef? They’ll have to pump Liquid Plumber in you to get out the clogs.”
“I am not a vegetarian, Mom,” Kent growled, wiping grease from his lips. “I eat meat and dairy products. I’m a Hoosier. My family raises the food that keeps your skinny butt alive.” He tried to act upset but his eyes crinkled fatally.
Jamie plunked his elbow on the table like he was going to Indian wrestle, then cocked his arm backward, “Whoa, copboy do bite back.”
“I’m tired of you know-it-all city guys,” Kent reproved. “Think you’re hot stuff ’cause you got running water.”
Jamie laughed, sliced his piccata. His smile, the way his eyes look; it’s not just how attracted I am. This guy is fun to be around.
“It’s funny,”Kent said softly. “You’re the one with the walls,Jamie,like I won’t accept you; when I have to fight so that you’ll accept me.”
“I’ve always accepted you as a police officer. Since my mother died, I’ve welcomed you as a friend.”
“You don’t accept me as a man.”
How can I, when you’re shocked over a kiss? How can I, when your purpose is to use me?
How can I not, when we were boy scouts on the floor? “Damn, you’re good. Call me Dillinger’s mother.”
“Tiny lady, she lied about her height too. Buddy, you’re not five-ten. That height chart must have been put up crooked.”
“I am too, darn you. Don’t be telling that. I’m five-ten.”
“Never lie to a police officer.”
“Never lie to a reporter! You got the case because Slaughter didn’t want that bigot in Rensselaer on it. Every state police post investigates every type of crime.”
“Oops. Didn’t know you knew that. But it was too soon to tell you it was a special assignment.”
“I understand. And by God, I’m five-ten.”
“You only let me get away with lying for ten minutes.”
“It’s my aggressive interviewing technique. Mrs. Dillinger would have served me up on toast points. Here, she’d say, have a cuh-nape.” Jamie found this hilarious. “That’s Eye-talian for little bitty samwitch.”
“Do you really think you’re five-ten?”
It was a joke, but Kent almost wanted to establish something. Control? The truth? Truth was what Jamie dealt in. “Perhaps I’m not quite. Years ago I was five-nine and three quarters. But that little quarter-inch lie made all the difference in the world. I used to have a job with height and weight requirements.”
“Doesn’t matter, man, I’m glad you finally told me. I knew there was a reason. There always is when people lie.”
Jamie looked down. “I’m sorry if I lied to you.”
“I’m sorry too. No more lies to each other, okay, partner?”
“Got it, Commander.”
“Heck, Jamie, I’d hire you at five-nine.”
“And three quarters! Don’t you steal my fractions.”
***
After that, Kent began to notice new behavior in Jamie; he finally relaxed. Through the rest of the meal
Jamie unconsciously went through a series of moves, loosening every joint, stretching every muscle. He threw his shoulders and elbows back, stretching his pecs; he crossed his arms in front of him, stretching his lats. An elbow in the air stretched his triceps. He put an ankle over one knee and bent his foot backward, then forward, stretching his gastrocs; then the other leg. He was living in his body, which he hadn’t done before; no longer pure brainpower.
Kent did those things himself all the time, brainless stretches that athletes do. It pleased him, though, something in common. Jamie was finally being his full self. Kent wondered what sport he played; then decided, basketball.
“The hustler was a good idea—if he follows through.”
“He’s studying at the Art Institute. It’s tough to get admitted there. He has talent.”
“Is this Rocky some big bruiser?”
Jamie chuckled, “This Rocky is thin and bespectacled.”
“What’s an art student doing hustling at the library?”
“College is expensive. A lot of students dabble in prostitution.”
“Does he know why we’re looking for these guys?”
“I just told him they were violent, and gave him your 800 number.”
“It would be better if my task force had its own 800 number and voice mail. Let callers know they’ve got my task force as soon as I pick up the phone. Don’t make them get transferred all over the place, some of them will hang up.”
“Were people pleased with your progress?”
“Yes, but the prosecutor wants more. I saw his chief criminal assistant today. The bottom line is they don’t want another Dr. Crum.”
“Rats,” Jamie said, wanting to throw his fork at something. “If Kickapoo County had a decent prosecutor they could have convicted Crum. That whole trial was political, a prosecutor with no commitment except to embarrass the previous prosecutor, for making a big deal out of why the prosecutor before that never tried to nail Schmidgall the first time. But it was Studer who got the confession out of Schmidgall, then Studer lame-ducked out before he could get Crum to trial.” After this outburst, he patted his mouth with his napkin. “Listen to me, using words like ‘lame-ducked’ and ‘surveilled.’ This case is ruining my vocabulary. And I’m done with this food. Hail your waiter friend for me.”
