by Josh Thomas
“Your brother Danny is looking good for his age. But Stone’s about ready to go to seed, don’t you think? Old Straight jocks always do.” Jamie’s hand clutched his mouth. He flashed on his phone tap and cassette recorder—useless in his suitcase, then he realized he didn’t need them, this was already recorded. He’d call and play this back from Kent’s office. Jesus Christ. This son of a bitch was at Mom’s funeral? I even looked for him.
“So, Mr. Bigtime Reporter, or at least you think you are, Mr. Award Winner, you weren’t content with finding that Ferguson guy—was that his name?—in the slough. I can’t believe you’re this stupid. Don’t you know why I fucking planted him there? Don’t you know I was trying to warn you off? It was your last chance, after you printed that pre-Labor Day ‘Strangler’ shit.
“It’s that time of year, all right. But no, you’ve got to play the big Gay activist, show the world what a fucking caring person you are, when anybody else would have taken these murders for what they were and left ’em alone. But no, not Jamie Foster, the best Gay reporter of the year. Hell no. Jamie Foster wants to be a hero.”
“No, I don’t,” Jamie told the tape.
“Yeah, you want to be a fucking hero. You think you’ve been a hero for the past four years. So I thought about it and I decided, okay, what’s it take for him to get over this? Dump a body on his doorstep?
“But I went easy on ya. Besides, you weren’t on your doorstep, from what the neighbors told me; there wasn’t any mail in your mailbox in Columbus. Jamie’s on vacation. Where’d he go? How about his Mom’s?
“So Labor Day came, and I took pity on ya. Did I dump John Doe in Columbus? No. In West Lafayette? No. See what a nice guy I am? I always told you I was, and Roger too, and you never could get it right, you asshole.
“Okay, what’s the next best alternative? How about the slough up in Morocco? It’s got water, it’s isolated, it’s another jurisdiction, the county sheriff there doesn’t investigate anything, it all goes to the state police; and I happen to know the Rensselaer troopers couldn’t find their ass with a roadmap. Perfect. Now maybe Jamie will get the picture and get out of my life.
“And what do I get for my trouble, my time and consideration? Another goddamn copyrighted story while Jamie tries to win the Pulitzer Prize.”
The voice hardened. “I’ll tell ya, I have fucking had enough of you. You leave me with only one alternative. I’ve already got the bridge picked out I’m gonna dump you off. You’d love it if you knew where it was. It’s very à propos. You stupid faggot. I can’t believe you went to all those hotshot colleges and still root for Purdue.
“I’m gonna dump you off a little one-lane bridge—that road out of Battle Ground?—smack dab into the Wabash River! You can float your way to campus, Jamie.
“So I’ll see you at the bars this week. I’ll be wearing my Muscular Dystrophy Telethon T-shirt, just for you. I hope you’ve got your will together since Rick died on ya. You’re gonna need one. And ol’ Danny will be back in Lafayette for another string quartet, and I’ll take it from there.”
Jamie hadn’t rewritten his will. Everything was still in Rick’s name.
You keep your hands off my family!
“Oh, I forgot. You really should have changed the default code for playing back the messages on this machine. You are such a fucking fool. I punched in 1-2-3 and it plays back everything you’ve got on this tape. By the way, who’s Casey? Is that whose dick you’re suckin’ these days, now that Rick checked out on ya? Sounds like a nigger. Christ, Jamie. You’re not only a cocksucker, you’re a nigger-lover. That’s really disgusting, you know that? Were you suckin’ him off while Rick was in the hospital? Don’t you know niggers stink down there? I mean, we’re talking rank.”
How would you know, unless you had your nose down there? Faggot!
“So I’ll be able to erase this evidence before you even get a chance to preserve it. My computer is going to be calling in every three minutes. I reach two busy signals on your line and you’re dead meat, because I’ve already talked for five minutes. I’ll know you got the message, and I’ll know where to find you, and then you’re history. I’m going to have a great time with you. I’ve looked forward to this for a long, long time, you nigger-loving faggot hero in his own mind, incompetent asshole. Oh yes: Have a nice day.”
A pre-recorded voice said, “Tuesday, 4:22am.”
Jamie listened numbly to the last message, a brief one from Father Jim, who wanted to know if he was all right.
He wanted to hang up, but then he punched another code. “One moment please,” said the pre-recorded voice. “I will replay messages.” Jamie heard the whir of tape rewinding. I can replay forever!
He grabbed his camera bag. Notebooks, pens, cassettes flew out as he searched for his tape recorder and the tap. He found them and dashed back to the phone. Ford’s voice. Still time.
He placed the tap’s suction cup near the receiver’s ear, hoped he had it in the right place. It had been a long time since Bulldog bought him the mic and taught him to use it. He popped a new cassette in the recorder. The answering machine was now replaying Father Jim’s message. Jamie plugged the jack into the cassette player and punched Record. This would be tricky.
Tape recorder in one hand, phone in the other, Jamie heard, “That was your last message.” He re-entered the code for the machine, soon heard rewinding sounds. He switched off the cassette, hit Rewind. Three seconds later, he hit Play.
Father Jim’s voice on his cassette in Indianapolis, soothing. “Yes!” Jamie shouted.
The answering machine was just about done rewinding. Jamie reset the tape recorder, hit Record. First Casey. Then “Hello, Jamie. This is your friend down in Indianapolis.”
The next five minutes were agonizing. This week! At “the bars.” Which one? What had Ford planned?
Danny, Jamie’s beloved big Bro. Keep your filthy hands off my family!
Once the answering machine got to Father Jim again, Jamie hit Stop on the cassette, then Rewind, then Play. “… you’ve got your will together since Rick died on ya. You’re gonna need one.”
Jamie wasn’t the only one who’d made a mistake. This was two now. Besides the recorder in his hand, there would be phone records of Ford’s original call, and all those calls from his computer to West Lafayette if he made them, plus the one where the computer hit Jamie in the act of retrieving; the answering machine itself.
Maybe not, if Ford called back and hit Erase. Jamie punched in more Touch-Tone numbers, ordered a new access code for the answering machine, then replay again. Ford could try all 1000 three-digit combinations, but that would take time or, more likely, programming. Jamie could stay on the line until West Lafayette troopers got there to yank out the machine.
The records on Jamie’s cell phone would also be admissible. I’ve got you at last, creepface! This cassette itself is enough to convict. Voice-prints, baby. He punched the air like he’d just won the Gay Super Bowl.
He had the recording now and felt like hanging up, not wanting to hear it again. Then he had another idea. Still connected to West Lafayette on the cell phone, he picked up the hotel phone, dialed. “Stonewall Task Force,” Kent boomed.
“Get back to the hotel now. Message from the suspect on my Mom’s answering machine. I’ve made my own recording of it. Order the West Lafayette post to enter my Mom’s house and grab that machine. Key’s on the ledge, above left of the door. You come and listen to this filth.”
“Be right there. Stay calm, partner.”
Jamie was right, he could replay indefinitely. Maybe it would be a stronger case if Kent also listened first-hand and made his own recording. They could both testify.
In less than one cycle from the phone machine, Jamie heard a siren approach. Soon Kent burst into the room, ready for war.
31
Sister
Jamie screamed, “What do you mean it’s not enough?”
“If you’re asking,” said chief assistant prosecu
tor Rob Willingham, “is it enough to convict for phone harassment, yes. We could get stalking. Terroristic threats, a felony at least. Accessory, yes. But for murder, it’s way too chancy.”
“What more do you need? I can identify his voice; you can make voice prints. You’ve got him on tape describing the place, the time of year, references to the serial string, the Schmidgall connection. He admits he dumped Ferguson off at the Slough. That isn’t a confession of murder? Now you’re telling me you want video of him doing it? Why not wait for the goddamn Broadway musical?”
“The reference to Ferguson is not enough. I want enough evidence to get a conviction for murder, kid, not phone harassment or accessory after the fact. We don’t want another Crum here, walking away scot-free.”
“You want a goddamn video for cases Marion County has never cared a fuck about.”
“Jamie, settle down. Try to listen,” Kent urged. Jamie glared at him, felt a little betrayed.“No one wants to lock this guy up more than we do.
But what if he’s not the only one? What if he’s like Schmidgall, and the vet is in on it, or Lash, or who knows how many? Picking up Ford, assuming we get a conviction, doesn’t lead us to the rest of them. If we’re really going to stop it, we need them all.”
“Why don’t you pick him up, play him the tape and manipulate the truth out of him? Isn’t that what you guys are so good at?”
“What if he doesn’t break?” Major Slaughter asked.
Jamie snapped, “Major, you won’t know if you don’t try.”
“So we’re supposed to Rodney King this dude, is that it?” the prosecutor asked. “Beat the truth out of him? Whatever it takes?”
“Get a killer off the streets and use psychology, not beat his head in,” Jamie slammed back. “Don’t insult my Commander that way. This is twice now you’ve used all-or-nothing thinking.”
Slaughter noted, “He’s right, Rob. Anything short of a murder conviction, you had Ford walking away scot-free.”
Kent said, “We all need to calm down and look at this thing rationally. Okay, Mr. Prosecutor?”
Jamie said, “Commander, based on your experience and knowledge of the suspect’s emotional state, what interviewing technique would you choose with him? Would you be empathic or confrontational?”
“Empathic. Get him to open up, tell me why he hurts.”
“Major, Mr. Prosecutor, this trooper excels at being empathic. Ford won’t stand a chance. The face will soften him up, and the genuine kindness will tip him over.”
Slaughter said, “That’s a powerful point.”
“Interview him. Maybe he’ll confess to everything in five minutes. Dahmer did. All they had to do was ask him. This guy’s number two obsession is the day he gets caught. He knows he’s out of control. He can’t wait till he sees your lights. The suspense is killing him. Why else is he calling me all the time?”
“Dahmer acted alone,” Willingham said. “Even if we did get Ford to confess, it doesn’t guarantee we get the accomplices. Confessions are worth diddly.”
“That’s your problem, you want guarantees,” Jamie sneered. “Would you need guarantees if the victim was your sister?”
The prosecutor’s face turned red. Jamie didn’t back down, but he did finally allow a standoff. “Major, tell me this is not because Glenn Ferguson was Gay.”
“It’s not about that, Mr. Foster.”
The prosecutor yelled, “No, we just want a jury to convict Ford of something besides a goddamn traffic ticket! Jesus, George, your CI’s a fucking prima donna.”
“No, asshole. I’m a reporter,” Jamie spat. “Who’s actually managed to get some evidence on this creep, unlike anyone else in this room.”
Slaughter closed his eyes, sighed. Kent shook his head. Jamie stared into space. “I’m sorry, Commander. You got the Walkers. And the teenage girl. I spoke out of turn.”
“Forget it, man. We both got the Walkers. You did, for that matter.”
“So these are my choices, Mr. Prosecutor: let myself be stalked so you can get your guarantee; or you do nothing?”
“Jamie, now you see what police work is really like,” Kent urged. “We have to face these questions all the time.”
“Don’t turn on me, partner,” Jamie warned. “You won’t like the consequences, partner.”
Slaughter intoned in his deep, controlling, calming voice, “You’re upset, Mr. Foster. It’s understandable. All of us are.”
“Yeah, right. This prosecutor isn’t the one who got the call. Ford knew about the music at my mother’s funeral! That wasn’t in the paper. He had to be there to know.”
Slaughter shoved back his chair and jumped up. “It’s not a crime to attend a funeral! Think, Mr. Foster. We are all upset. We just handle it differently. I’m sure you do not want to impugn these officers’ motives. You’re not the only caring person in this room.”
Jamie was quiet for a time. He looked at Slaughter. “I respectfully disagree,” he said softly. “It’s very much a crime for a murderer to attend my mother’s funeral.”
“Jamie, I didn’t mean to undermine the dignity of your mother or the solemnity of her service.”
“And I don’t mean to impugn anyone’s motives. But if your department had a better record of working these cases for the last decade, the trust issue would never come up. If I’m out of line, I apologize. Otherwise it’s my job to push you to make an arrest.”
“The question is, what’s our best hope of success? Isn’t that so, Mr. Foster?”
“I want a cigarette,” Jamie scowled.
Willingham tossed a pack across the table. Jamie jerked his jaw up an inch in acknowledgment, took out a smoke and lit up. He inhaled deeply, exhaled, looked out the window at nothing.
Somehow I’ve become the key to this whole case.
Wished he’d brought menthols. This cigarette is for shit.
Six months after Rick. My mom not even dead two weeks. And now I’m supposed to give it up for the Straight man’s law, which says I’m a felon in 23 states, a non-person in all but nine. Welcome to Amerika, boy.
He faced the prosecutor, put his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Assuming you’re right, which I do not assume: Is there no value in getting him off the streets for six months or a year? If you can get terroristic threats, that’s a longer jail term. No one dies during that time. That counts for something important. And you start to tighten the noose for when he gets out. Assuming that you can’t nail him for life, which I think you can.”
“Sure,” Willingham conceded. “We can take him out for a short period at minimum. Maybe more. The felony’s six years. Doesn’t mean a judge will keep him that long.”
“If that’s how you want to play it, Jamie, that’s fine,” Kent said. “I thought you wanted to catch a killer.”
Jamie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I thought I just did,” he said, exasperated and furious. “Why are you turning on me, partner? Surely you’re not as bad as the rest of them.”
Kent was torn, didn’t know what to say. Doe-eyes finally got to Jamie. “I’m sorry, Kent. The last thing I want is to impugn your motives. You’ve been great, man. I’m not being objective, Major. Mr. Willingham, I’m sorry, I guess I don’t understand the law.”
“Jamie, forget it,” Kent scowled.
“The way to do it,” Willingham said, “is to wire the CI.”
“No way,” Kent insisted, “I won’t allow it. He’s in too much danger as it is. Let me try talking to Ford. We can videotape the whole thing and prove any confession wasn’t coerced.”
Willingham said, “And if that doesn’t work, we’re stuck charging a killer as a mere accessory.”
Slaughter sighed at the dilemma. “It does come down to what you want, Mr. Foster. What your goal is. You are the one being stalked. I don’t doubt Sgt. Kessler’s interviewing powers; but it’s a gamble. Absent a confession, I think the prosecutor is right if we go for murder. Meanwhile this is an extremely valuable tape.”
“How nice of you to acknowledge that,” Jamie muttered. “Pardon my sarcasm, I know I’m overinvolved, but God. Maybe you can get Tommy Tune to do your choreography.”
Slaughter chuckled, but he wouldn’t be diverted. “It is a great piece of evidence. It could be the centerpiece when we nail the guy, if we do. But it’s not a stand-alone. It’s a piece of evidence, Mr. Foster. And we may be up against a very powerful force here. It’s probably not just one guy. You know that.” Slaughter looked away. “I’m sorry. But he doesn’t give any information that only the killer would know; and that’s what constitutes proof. There’s nothing to keep him from claiming he only transported the body. What happens when we haul his ass into court against millionaire lawyers and a possible organization behind him? Can we make it stick? If this were any other case, maybe we could. Isn’t that right, Rob?”
“Sure, if this were an isolated case. You voice-print the tape, confront him and say, ‘They’re your own words.’ It’s a great tape and you’ve done a brilliant job, Mr. Foster. I give you that willingly. You alone got this evidence. But this is not your normal killer.”
“The question is the others, Jamie,” Kent said. “We take down Ford, even put him on Death Row, that doesn’t guarantee your people stay alive. It just gives you the Schmidgall result all over again; one in jail and two or three others still on the loose. What if there really is an organization? They’ll just find themselves another Ford.”
Jamie hadn’t thought of that. But he knew the Schmidgall cases better than anyone. “Consider the alternative on Schmidgall. Maybe it’s for the wrong crime, but Chicago gets Schmidgall, subtract 21 unsolved cases and one killer. Criticize Chicago and Kickapoo County all you want for not getting Crum; I’ve made a career out of doing that. But with Schmidgall in prison, they can still close those cases, and he does-n’t kill anyone else. For which even I have to give Chicago credit.
“Rob admits you can get Ford for a felony in the Ferguson case; what about Gary Tompkins, Kent? Doesn’t Gary have a right to get on with his life after his lover was murdered? I would think that would be the first consideration. But no, you guys want guarantees, you want to bust the whole Mafia in one fell swoop. I know you’re the studs of the world, but even Eliott Ness broke a complex case into pieces.”
