Murder at Willow Slough
Page 41
Jamie looked up at Kent, wanting to hug him, afraid to; they both were. Then fear was nothing but fear. Jamie took three small steps toward his Commander.
Kent opened his arms, clasped Jamie’s shoulders, avoiding wounds he knew so well. They stood together in the hospital room, a tall, dark trooper, ramrod-straight; a small blond bag of bones. Jamie whispered, “Thank you. For everything you’ve done, everything you are. You’re my Hero, Kent, my forever Hero.”
Kent was quiet, absorbing, memorizing. Their bodies touched. Then something about a shoulder made Jamie rest his head there.
Kent gazed down at blond hair, with a swoop around the sides. “Jamie, thank you. This feels so good, you can’t imagine. Man, you were awesome tonight, and… I don’t know how you do this stuff. I’m so proud of you. I’m no good with words the way you are, but I have to tell you some things. They’re real important, okay? Jamie, I…”
Jamie fell asleep.
It like to killed Kent. “Standing up,even.Poor little guy.”His shoulder sang a wistful lullaby as he cradled that blond head.
A minute later, he picked him up and put him to bed. It was the sweetest pain, getting shoes and socks off him, Levi’s, the gold Purdue sweater, seeing his wasted thighs, his ribs, a body which had nearly starved to death; but was alive, gloriously alive, never more than on this night, their night together on national TV; their night in each other’s arms.
Kent pulled the blanket up, glanced toward the door. “Good night, partner. I’m sleeping here with you. See you tomorrow.” He stroked a swoop of blond hair.
That opened Jamie’s eyes. “Good night, Commander.” He dropped off again, exhausted.
Kent savored that hug for the rest of his life.
51
Dangerous
Casey hit the nation with a bombshell.
“I’ve got your exclusive,” Kent told Jamie, early on the paper’s street day. “Will you give me permission to search your mother’s house? Also your place in Ohio?”
“Sure. Why do you want to do that?”
“Casey sent me your FBI file. Read ’em and weep.”
Jamie read; the first page stunned him. The FBI called him “the most dangerous homosexual in America.”
This was alleged because he was young, highly intelligent, an aggressive journalist from an Ivy League school who wrote stories critical of the President and the Pentagon; because he had “no responsible editorial supervision” and “wealthy friends accumulated during his six years as a fashion model,” because of “his considerable self-discipline,” and because “his perceived physical beauty, as seen by other homosexuals in countless semi-nude photographs, makes him a prime candidate to unite them in ways that may undermine the military, the Constitution and the rule of law.”
But what really pissed off the Feds was that he was the founder and principal shareholder of infashion.com.
The company was a very smart collaboration between Jamie and Foster; they were lucky they thought of it first. At the height of his career Foster complained bitterly about being paid 20% of what women supermodels made; he even walked off a set and filed a groundbreaking discrimination complaint. Jamie’s lawyer successfully argued that while women’s fashion is much bigger than men’s, Foster was hired for the women’s market and should not be paid 80% less for the same amount of work. Haute couture drooped like a failed soufflé.
So Jamie came up with a win-win settlement. The way to make money in fashion was to own all the designers, all the models, all the clothes and accessories and workout videos and signed posters and home furnishings and upscale retailers, and sell them all on the Internet through one memorable name. He wasn’t Calvin’s lover, but his business partner—and everyone else’s. The IPO made Foster obscenely rich; while Jamie lived in Dublin, Ohio off his newspaper money.
There was no allegation in the FBI report that he’d committed a crime or was about to. Congress banned domestic surveillance 25 years ago, which didn’t stop Agent Carson. “They don’t even mention that for a terrorist, I’m well-hung.”
Kent laughed. Jamie thumbed through other pages. The FBI took a prurient interest in sexy pictures of him, page after page of Foster’s swimwear, his workout trunks, his jock. The Bureau tracked Jamie’s movements, reported on who he saw, what he wrote about; there were photocopies of his reporting on Gays in the military. A memo complained that “for a homosexual, he appears unassailable in terms of sexual misconduct. A five-month study by the Columbus office since the death of his male lover reveals no known sexual liaisons. This is such a bright and cunning predator that he carefully avoids such activity. In short he keeps it in his pants, so other points of attack will need to be identified.”
“They’re attacking my pants.”
“Have you ever seen a stupider thing?” Kent chuckled. “Still, it’s real important. They were following you, Jamie; they may have bugged your house. That’s why I need to enter your domiciles, to check for eavesdropping devices.”
Kent was so cute, using jargon words like domiciles. “Suppose they’d put this effort into catching Tommy Ford? These people have corrupted the rule of law without my help.”
“There’s one detail I’m real curious about. I’m sorry to bring it up, but your mother’s funeral, the string quartet. Ford wasn’t there, none of them were. How’d he know about that? Maybe Carson bugged your Mom’s house.”
“Did we ever discuss the case there?”
“No, we started to but we never did. Read the last page.”
Jamie did. His face turned purple. For years, the Bureau sent HIV-positive informants to try to infect him. When that didn’t work, they tried the same thing with Rick. It was finally halted by a section chief in Washington as “not cost effective.”
Jamie flung the pages at the wall. “Get ’em, Commander! Check my car, my office, everything I own.” He got out of bed, started grabbing for his clothes. “They’re about to meet the most dangerous homosexual in America.”
“Between that file and those bugs, I may get attempted murder on every FBI agent between here and Columbus.”
Jamie pulled on a shirt. “Then how far up does it stretch? Agent Carson didn’t go to Ohio, the local office did it for him.”
“It ain’t over yet, buddy. Get well.”
“Kent, you’re an incredible officer. I’d never have focused on criminal charges, to me it’s a Constitutional issue. But you immediately attack it as a crime.”
“I need you, partner. Can’t have my best investigator lying around here vacationing.”
Jamie turned to him, near tears, picturing his beloved Ricky, targeted in an FBI attack. “Take me home. Please, to my mother’s. Kent, take me home.”
Kent backpedaled, “You ain’t even half-rehabbed yet.”
“They’re not doing anything medical for me; it’s all nutrition, physical therapy. There’s PT at home; we have food at home.”
“Man, we should talk to the doctor.”
“I can’t help you here. I want to go home.”
“Jamie, you’re tremendous. Let’s talk to the doc.” Kent teared up
slightly too. “So I can take you home.” ***
At 4 p.m., with the issue on the streets, Casey held a news conference. His copyrighted Exclusive, “FBI Tried to Infect Jamie,” led every newscast in the nation.
Leaving the hospital was gruesome. TV cameras lined up to watch Jamie being wheeled out. Kent deployed decoy vehicles at the front, and they escaped by the receiving dock instead.
His patrol car, lights flashing, preceded the ambulance up I-65. Kent tooted his horn at Kessler Boulevard, and later as they crossed into “TIPPECANOE COUNTY,HOME OF PURDUE UNIVERSITY.” Even the ambulance driver honked. Still, the ride wearied Jamie. When they finally stopped at the house on Tad Lincoln Drive, Kent insisted on carrying him inside. “You don’t want that bumpy gurney with the steps and all. I know where to hold you so it won’t hurt.” The wheelchair-to-ambulance transfer had jostled like hel
l, not to mention every pothole.
Kent patted him once he had him settled into Thelma’s bed. “You okay, buddy?”
“Fine, Kent,” Jamie said, turning away, pulling Florence Henderson on top of him.
Kent called the nursing service. Friends from Ohio were scheduled to arrive in an hour. Then he scoured the house for electronic devices. It took awhile, but finally there it was, under the rim of an occasional table—right between the twin La-Z-Boys.
As Jamie slept, rioters with AIDS trashed the Federal Building in San Francisco.
52
F.O.I.
Jamie was up and about every day, sleeping a regular schedule, gaining a few ounces. Danny and Lynn, Casey and other friends took turns staying with him. Casey brought winter clothes, some of Jamie’s stylish attention-grabbers. Jamie had no place to wear them, but he was glad to get his look back. He liked Hoosier basics, but he loved fancy. He sat in a La-Z-Boy wearing a cobalt, banded-collar silk shirt, matching double-pleated pants, a stunning gold belt and patent leather shoes as Casey interviewed him. They cheerfully made up stuff. Then Casey deleted the lies and made a column out of it.
Kent visited every other day, met all Jamie’s friends. LeRoy Walker sent a bouquet, “Depositions today, propositions tomorrow?”
Martha Kessler enjoyed hearing Kent talk about his visits; everything was getting back to normal. She baked another pie, her killer meat loaf and scalloped potatoes to send. Kent drove the food over in the studtruck F-250, saw a minivan in the driveway. He rang the bell. Stone appeared, took the food, said, “Gee, thanks,” and started to shut the door. Kent, jaw agape and hand out, blocked it.
Stone glared. Kent got ready for a fight.
Stone wouldn’t back down exactly, but he yielded half a step. “He’s sleeping. Which is what he needs. We’re glad you brought this. But I can’t deal with you yet, okay?”
“What did I do, besides save the man’s life?”
Stone looked away, then got in the trooper’s face. “When your brother goes on national TV to tell the world he’s a cocksucker, then you can tell me how to act!”
“You stupid bigot, he’s more macho than you are. They suck him.” Kent curled his lip, “You can suck me.” He turned his back and walked away. ***
He got Jamie a day later. “How you doing, partner?”
“Better, now that I threw Stone out. I can stay by myself okay.”
“Good. He gave me the creeps.”
“Moaning around here like he’s doing me a big favor, when what he really came up for was to chew me out. The ‘48 Hours’ gig bothered him more than my ass hanging out all over the world. Get this: he actually said, ‘Everybody in the country knows you’re a faggot. Thank God Mom’s dead so she didn’t have to see this shit.’”
“What a thing to say about his mother.”
“Isn’t it!? Plus he drinks vodka every waking minute.”
“How did you get rid of him?”
“The instant he made that crack I told him that as Mom’s trustee, I control this property and he was trespassing. I claimed to have friends at the state police.”
Kent chuckled. “I wouldn’t want to cross you, boy. But the great news is you’re well enough to be by yourself.”
“Thanks. What’s with you?”
“Hey, I got two tickets for basketball. You want to go to the Miami game in a month? It’s an afternoon game on national TV. Do you think you’ll feel up to it?”
“Purdue home opener against Miami University and the legendary Bingo Peters? I would love it, man.” It was just a friendship thing; but hoops at Mackey Arena! Kent wanted to socialize with him after he got well. “That would be fabulous. I hope to be able to drive soon, short trips. Can I pick you up?”
Kent insisted on the other way around so hard Jamie gave in, quicker than he usually would; there was no stopping Kent when he took a notion. Besides, in all the excitement, Jamie was getting tired again. “Thank you, Kent. It’s something I’ll look forward to every single day.”
They rang off. Jamie rummaged in his suitcase, found the T-shirt, put it on. Went back to the family room, sat in a La-Z-Boy, put his feet up. Fell asleep knowing that “Purdue Basketball Is Life. The Rest Is Just Details.”
***
Marion County Assistant Prosecutor Rob Willingham came to West Lafayette to depose him on the FBI file for the grand jury. It was videotaped in the living room, lasted most of two days. Kent and Phil sat in.
Before they got started, Jamie gave Rob a present with a bow on top. Inside a box of red velvet lay the photo of his sister Cassie, with small diamond earrings for her. “You kept your promise, Rob. You treated Mr. Ferguson like your sister.” They shook hands, went to work.
Rob got through the preliminaries, then asked, “How did you learn about the FBI file on you, Mr. Foster?”
“It was only a reporter’s hunch. I had interviewed the public information officer at the Cincinnati FBI office, which has jurisdiction over Quincy County, several times. This was to establish what assistance the FBI could provide to the local investigators. The spokesman was very helpful, and he made several promises about FBI assistance, yet the help was never forthcoming. We printed this information each time, as dates of conferences kept being delayed. Then the Cincinnati spokesman informed me that jurisdiction had been transferred to Indianapolis, where we got zero cooperation. The spokesman there was quite rude. He denied the legitimacy of my newspaper; he denied everything I already had, on the record, from Cincinnati, including jurisdiction over these murder cases or even knowledge that they had been committed.
“Yet I knew that police officers in Quincy County had filed very lengthy and detailed reports with the FBI Behavioral Sciences Unit. I had confirmation from Quantico that these reports had been received. I knew that attempts were made, through the VICAP program, to search national crime databases to see if there were similar unsolved homicides elsewhere in the country.
“So I simply began asking myself why the Indianapolis office was dragging its feet; why the spokesman there was so rude and even lied to me. I asked the Cincinnati spokesman about it. He could not comment for the record, but he told me off the record that the Indianapolis office saw me in very disparaging terms. Why? Because I tried to get Federal assistance for a small, rural sheriff ’s office?
“I was doing the right thing, but to Indianapolis I was the enemy. That made me suspicious. So I filed a Freedom of Information request and was informed that the FBI file on me would be available in six weeks.”
“What about its contents surprised you the most?”
“It’s an admission of attempted murder, directed at innocent people, my lover and dearest friend.” Jamie got emotional for a second, then continued, “It was the Indianapolis office which had to forward the material to Washington, so I had no expectation I’d receive such a complete, unedited document. There is a notation that the final version is completely unlike the original one first forwarded by Indianapolis prior to the stabbing. But the FBI’s under a lot of scrutiny now, I take it Washington wants to show the Indianapolis office was a renegade operation—so they released the whole file.”
“I will introduce both versions to the grand jury and let them draw their own conclusions from the disparity. Meanwhile, are you involved in any criminal activity? Do you belong to any organization which advocates the overthrow of the United States Government?”
“No, sir. As a reporter I can’t join organizations, in case I later have to report on their activities. I belong to my church, to my college alumni associations and the Society of Professional Reporters; but no Gay or Lesbian groups, it’s a conflict of interest.”
“Do you support the Constitution of the United States?”
“Of course. My late lover was a decorated veteran of the United States Marines.”
“Is it possible, as a journalist, to support the overall mission of the Armed Forces, while publishing articles critical of the military from time to time?”
They took a break. Kent said, “Gee, you’re so good at this you even wrap yourself in the flag.”
“Buddy, it’s our flag too.”
“Eliminating somebody by infecting them with AIDS is a slow boat to China, though.”
“The Bureau still thinks HIV’s an immediate death sentence. And their role would go undetected. My infection would be the result of my own actions.”
“That’s why they were so pissed you never had sex after Rick. Attacking your pants don’t work.” Jamie smiled. Depends on the attacker. ***
The second day Rob asked, “Did you have reason to suspect these men who systematically tried to involve you sexually were FBI informants?”
“No, sir.”
“Your late roommate, Rick Lawson, was also approached several times. Did he ever mention a suspicion that FBI informants were involved?”
“No, sir, but he certainly commented about the approaches. May I ask you not to call him my roommate? I loved him, we lived together. The proper term is lover.”
Rob nodded. “What did Mr. Lawson say about these approaches?”
“We discussed how odd it was that men were making passes first at me, then at him, after he was sick and in a wheelchair and had had multiple amputations, when they never made passes at him when he was healthy.”
“These men tried to take advantage of a man in a wheelchair. Where did they approach him?”
“In his bookstore, after he was able to return to work. They were never regular customers, just people he’d seen once or twice. He turned them down and never saw them again. It happened three times that way. Something wasn’t right. The man was on chemotherapy, he lost his hair and was bloated by steroids. He was hardly interested in having sex outside marriage.” Or inside it, either.