by Mark Treble
“Ethan, blah blah blah.”
I had stopped listening after he called me Ethan and not Douchebag.
We were getting along much better. There were still conflicts and battles and boundaries to deal with. But this was more of the Alex I remembered while Dana was alive. He can't help being eighteen and rebellious. I just need to remember that I'm the adult here.
Oh, by the way, some foundation paid all of Veronica's costs for the rest of her nursing degree. It used the same bank Herb Lockhart had used for the reward fund. I called him and he said he was pleading the Fifth.
Danny came by and we got some more details. It seems Blowjob Bob had taken me to his house for the fun and games. When the emergency button went off they panicked and left. Danny and a couple of uniforms responded to the alarm, and found AB negative blood (my type, fairly rare) and my driver's license. Blowjob's fingerprints were all over the Chrysler. And the knife, with my blood and his fingerprints, was recovered from a trash bin about a hundred feet from his front door.
His arrest plus some of my blood on the front bumper of the truck got a search warrant for the transport company. Stiletto rolled over on everybody. The city ran out of jail cells and had to farm out some of the prisoners. The importer was still working (The Boss refused to talk) but the wholesaler was shut down. The price of coke and heroin on the street skyrocketed.
A Baton Rouge gang tried to fill the void and sent a truck with drugs toward the city. It got into an accident on the Interstate. With a police car.
The book deal came through. I said three years for final copy, they said nine months. We agreed on fifteen months and I took a $350K advance. Herb told me I was a fucking idiot. I told him I was a broke fucking idiot and the advance fixed so many financial problems that more money was just icing on the cake. Step one was to give Luke back his money. He knew I would worry until it was paid back, so he just said “Thanks.”
I eventually reminded Danny I wanted to speak to the ADA handling Rufus Yardley's case, unless it was Hartag. He said Hartag was serving a three-month suspension of her license, and it was a guy named Mike. Lucy drove me to the DA's office.
“Sir, I'm Ethan McQuade. You have Rufus Yardley dead to rights on six murders, and two of them include special circumstances. He's dead, just not buried.” I had gotten all of that from Will, the crime beat guy at the paper who got me started on trying to find Alex.
“Ethan, I'm Mike Jagger. That's all correct, but I have no idea what you want to do.” He looked puzzled.
“Did anybody ever call you Mick?” That was me.
“Nobody who survived.” That was Jagger. “Now, what do you want?” He didn't appear rude, just wanting to get to the issue.
“Your job is ensuring justice is done, right? Not winning cases or sending murderers to the death chamber?” My few conversations with Herb Lockhart over the past three weeks had been fruitful.
“So what?” That was actually a very good question from Mick. Or Mike.
“So, what if I can give you a seventh murder for which he has not been charged? And for which someone has already been wrongfully convicted and is serving a life sentence without parole?” I just stared at him.
“Fuck. Who is it?” I reminded him about the journalist part and confidential sources. He added another “Fuck,” and then asked his secretary to get an appointment with the D.A. herself. Now.
He came back in four minutes. “What do you want?”
Well, apart from clearing Jerry for the murder, I wasn't sure.
“What can you give him?” After all, I was a journalist and had taken Interviewing 101 my freshman year.
“The only thing we have to give up is the death penalty. If I can get the victims' families to agree to that, we might have a deal. If you can get me the seventh murder.” I couldn't have hoped for any more.
Three days later Mike called me. I was to meet with him, Rufus and Rufus's lawyer that afternoon. I was looking forward to it.
We met in a conference room at the D.A.'s office. It was a lot better furnished than the rooms at the newspaper, but the newspaper didn't have its hand in the taxpayer's pocket. I decided to put that thought aside.
“Rufus, I'm Ethan McQuade, a journalist with the New Orleans Daily Post. I…” That was all I could get out.
“You're the motherfucker who threatened me at the Pussy Willow. Fuck you. You ain't gettin' shit.” He turned to his lawyer. “Let's go.”
His lawyer was trying to protect his client and not prove how long his dick was. “Rufus, sit down. Let's hear what everybody has to say, OK?” Rufus sat down.
“Rufus, I'm days away from going to press with the story of another murder where you intentionally framed someone else.” Rufus started looking nervous. “Yeah, that one. When the guy you framed reads the piece, you won't live to stand trial.” Never underestimate the power of a good bluff.
Rufus looked at his lawyer.
“What do you have to offer?” That was the lawyer and the question was aimed at the ADA.
“We take the death penalty off the table if we get a full confession to all seven murders, including the one Mr. McQuade raised. That's it. Your client is going to jail for the rest of his life, almost certainly without possibility of parole.
“If your client accepts the deal I will be sorry that the state can't execute him. On the other hand, I will not cry if he's murdered in prison and suffers terribly for a long time while dying. Either way, he's dead.” Jagger spoke matter-of-factly, and I believed every word of it.
The lawyer and Rufus spoke for a minute before the lawyer said, “It's a deal. Now, I want the reporter out of here.”
“One thing first.” Mike didn't look happy, but that was his problem. “I want Rufus to name the guy he framed before I go.”
We all looked expectantly at Rufus. Finally he said, “Jerry Fuckin' Gamblin, the liquor store hit. I knew I should have fuckin' killed you the first time I saw you.”
Mike Jagger was the most shocked of all. He had sat second chair at Jerry's trial and was sure they had the right guy. His expression went through shock, shame, sorrow, and seven other emotions I couldn't figure out, then back to shock.
“Get out,” Mike and the defense lawyer said in unison. I got out.
As soon as I was clear of the building I called Herb Lockhart. “The real murderer at the liquor store is right now confessing to the D.A. I suggest that if you haven't heard from the D.A. by tomorrow you make a phone call.”
Herb was ecstatic. He said thank you in more ways than I knew how. Jerry will be happy and yadayadayad and he can apply for parole in another ten years and so forth and so on. Big deal. I had a fucking story to write.
Chapter Fourteen
Things settled down for a couple of days. Just for shits and grins I asked Danny to bring over the victims' profiles for the missing boys in case what I had learned might let me see something new. Nope, absolutely nothing. I went over the profiles again and again and again. Nothing.
I had finished my third beer and had to take a leak. I was working from home for another few weeks and that had worked out well. Lucy came out every day for at least two hours, and we got the column back to once a week. When she saw Alex in his jockeys she laughed.
“My brother is an underwear model. I'll let him know he's safe from competition.” Alex was mortified.
When I came back from taking a leak Alex was looking at the profiles. Fuck, I shouldn't have left them out.
“Ah, Alex, I'm sorry but I shouldn't have left those out. They aren't for public consumption. My fault.” It really was my fault, and I was glad Alex was well enough to display his normal curiosity.
“Where's the other interview?” Alex looked at me quizzically.
“What other interview?” I had no idea what he was talking about.
“The other parent. Each guy's parents were interviewed. But none of them had two parents. Most had one, and one guy had none. What are the odds?” I had started for another beer bu
t grabbed two.
“Have one on me. And thank you.” I immediately called Danny with the new information.
Everybody had missed it. The police, the feds, me, and everybody but Alex. I guess being an orphan had sensitized him to the issue. Wow.
Danny was there in an hour along with another detective. They questioned Alex at length, but he had nothing else to add. They asked me questions but that was pointless. I still knew nothing more.
NOPD called the feds. The next day the feds put out a bulletin with the victim and crime profile and asked if any other cities had experienced something similar. Oakland, St. Louis, Birmingham and three others popped up on the radar. So far, 56 missing young men matched the profile, all in the last thirteen months. Six other small to mid-sized cities said they'd get back to the feds.
Danny was asked to join a federal task force since he was the one who spotted the pattern. Sure, it was Alex, but let's face facts. He would have been useless on the task force anyway.
They were going to run it out of St Louis and asked me and Alex to come up. I told Luke, who said he had a friend who used to live in St Louis. Well, gosh golly, I used to live in Smyrna, Tennessee. So what?
Danny was already there when we arrived. In fact, he picked us up at the airport and took us to a luxury hotel. He had just been moved there to a small suite. Alex and I got a two-bedroom suite.
I asked Danny why Alex and I were there.
“I told the head guy about your escapades in New Orleans that brought down an internet fraud scheme and the city's biggest crime family, all in forty-eight hours. They want to be able to pick your brain. Also, they don't understand what's going on and already have a fiction crime writer on the task force to offer up scenarios. They figure a fact-based writer won't hurt.
“Alex is here because I told them the truth. I didn't find the pattern in the kidnappings, he did, from a single reading of the cases. They're hoping he'll strike gold again.”
He had talked to the manager of the hotel. “The suites are courtesy of the hotel as a favor to the Chief of Police. She's reduced crime by leaps and bounds and we'd give her the entire fucking hotel for a month if she asked. A couple of suites doesn't even make a round-off for us. Enjoy yourselves. And you've each got a $200 a day room service tab.”
I told Alex about that and he picked up the phone to order a case of beer. At least he was ordering it until I took the phone from him. “Ignore this call, it's a prank. No case of beer.” My step-son glowered at me. Tough shit.
I tried calling the Chief of Police's office but got nowhere. I asked Will if he could help. Still nothing. The whole thing was a mystery. Then I remembered Luke's off-hand remark about having a friend who used to live in St. Louis.
“Luke, does your friend who used to live in St. Louis know the Chief of Police?” Turned out they were good friends. “Tell him thank you a million times over.”
I gave in and ordered a case of beer from room service. I told Alex we had to share, and that he needed to ration how many he drank at one time.
“Thanks, Ethan.” He had called me Ethan again. I quit while I was ahead.
Alex spent a morning with the task force and didn't strike gold. He did strike a pretty young secretary who was making eyes at him. The head guy noticed that and told Alex to go back to the hotel. He spent every moment in the room glued to porn on the television and drinking beer. What could I say? At eighteen I'd have had hookers in, too. At least if they were covered by our room service budget.
After three days on the task force they thanked me for my time and trouble. A slightly inebriated Alex and I made our way to the airport and flew home. A detective picked us up at the airport. And I had a story to get started on. Eventually. I had signed a non-disclosure agreement with words such as “fine” and “imprisonment” in it. Fuck.
Cheryl moved back to her place, but we still managed to have sex four times a week. Actually, that's four days a week. Having sex was more like ten or eleven times a week. I was starting to experience fatigue, but Cheryl said I was still more than fifty orgasms in the hole on my quota and she expected to be paid. Fatigue be damned, this is one debt I fully intended to pay off.
Lucy and I worked on the book as we had time, but I knew we weren't really up to the job. We were going to have legal issues with what could be revealed. Blowing up Jerry Gamblin's cover as a source was not only a violation of ethics, it was also a bad idea. And, probably, bad for our health as well. Then there were Evangelina and Shorty. And all the others. The paper let us use their lawyers in exchange for a one-day lead on exclusive publication rights to excerpts. I called my agent (actually, my Dad in Tennessee) who told me to get a real agent.
The real agent (last name Golden; how convenient) went over the contract and told me I was a fucking idiot. Well, I'd been told that already. My Dad had had the sense to reserve stage and screen rights, both movie and television, but missed a few things. Like lucrative consulting contracts on a movie. There was other stuff that the real agent didn't like. I told him to play the hand he was dealt. He never did stop grumbling, but not having to deal directly with the publisher took one issue off my plate.
One night Cheryl asked me over dinner about a strange call she had gotten from a former nurse who was a new medical examiner. There was a hush-hush request from the feds for nine specific autopsy reports, and they seemed to be linked to the same case I had worked. Did I know anything about it?
I asked the expert. Alex said that all of the parents' deaths had been in the last fifteen months, and that was all he knew. Had all of the parents been autopsied? Fuck if he knew. He went back into his bedroom with Monica. I did my best to not hear the sounds of very enthusiastic and athletic sex coming from that direction. For two hours nonstop. Oh, to be eighteen again.
So, Cheryl and I retired for the night. Sure, we kept it up for two hours also, just not continuously. The days of non-stop ejaculation were a few years behind me. Cheryl displayed remarkable talent with every part of her body to get three out of me most nights, and occasionally four. After a four-orgasm night I drank protein shakes and prayed.
I called Danny. “Were all of the parents autopsied?” He got very unfriendly very quickly.
“Why are you asking that, McQuade?” What happened to Ethan? “Who is your source?” I thought he was smart enough to remember the journalist part for a week or two.
“Well, Flint, I can't tell you who the source is. So, from your reaction I take it the answer is yes.” Two can play this game.
Danny begged me not to go public with my speculation. It wasn't yet fully confirmed and they were afraid of destruction of evidence. I had enough columns to last until at least my seventy-ninth birthday, so this one just got filed away.
I started going into the office once a week, but Barbara told me to stay home otherwise. They knew where to reach me and unless I committed multiple felonies per hour for a week, my job was secure. My day in the office was usually used keeping in contact with my friends and colleagues, which helped.
Kendra had, as requested, given the list of seven companies to Detective Danny. By then he was overwhelmed mopping up the Capelleti goons, so he passed the list off to colleagues. Kendra and Will co-wrote a series of articles on the companies and how analysis of raw data and nothing more had led to their discovery. (Yeah, newspapers aren't supposed to lie, but this was more like a fib.) A magazine asked them for an article on how to spot an illicit company. Kendra sent me flowers. Will sent me a case of beer. Alex drank the fucking beer, leaving me to smell the flowers. Shit.
I went out at least one day a week to keep contact with my sources. Evangelina threatened to quit, so I gave her a hundred dollar bonus. She allowed as how she just might still be available. But don't ever call her on her work phone again. I promised, but kept my fingers crossed. If I had to call her at her work phone to find my son, I'd do so.
Luke was over one day while I was working from home. He and Alex were bullshitting about kinds of wo
rk Alex could do. Alex said his goal was to be a porn star. Luke asked me to take off my shirt and pants.
“You see that scar on Ethan's shoulder? Well, that's from him barely touching the porn industry. You see that nasty zipper on his abdomen? Same thing. Ethan, please smile.” I did, showing off the missing front teeth. “More from the porn industry. We won't even address the minor injuries. Now, Alex, what did you want to do?”
Before Alex could answer Lucy stopped in for a visit. I was starting to pull on my pants.
“Don't bother, Ethan. I told you my brother is an underwear model. I can scratch one more competitor from the list. Anyway, those boxer briefs look comfortable. Not to mention kind of sexy.” Lucy winked at me.
And so it came to pass that when Alex and I were at home the house became a pants-free zone. Cheryl approved (of course she approved), and Luke said that now Marcus would no longer need to get dressed when he came over. I was struggling to remember the last time I had seen Marcus in anything but his boxers, but such is life.
Monica usually spent the night with Alex. Her parents called me telling me they were not happy about the situation. Well, neither was I.
“Does either of you believe that they will stop having sex as often as possible if she doesn't spend the night here?” Nope.
“So, after safe inside a house with an assured supply of condoms, where would you rather they have that sex?” Neither had a clue.
“Look, I don't like this any more than you do. In fact, I might like it less. It's under my roof. Alex has been a handful since his mother's death, and this is one more thing. I can throw him out, but you know what he's been through. Shit, Monica's been through a rough time herself. I'm open to suggestions.” Nobody had a single one.
One evening Monica came out of Alex's bedroom nude. I didn't have to say a thing.
“Go put on a fucking robe, Monica, I'm serious.” That was actually Alex. You could have knocked me over with a dust rag.
“What are you grinning about, douchebag?” That was also Alex. I just nodded my head and continued grinning. Cheryl, on the other hand, laughed out loud. Alex looked at her menacingly and she laughed again. You know, there are days where I'm glad I'm not eighteen any more.
