Black and Blue and Pretty Dead, Too

by Mark Zubro

  Slade turned at the cops’ entrance. The man behind the desk said, “This is a private conversation. Get out.”

  NINE

  Turner thought it took Fenwick a full two minutes to stop laughing. When he did, Slade said, “These are the two detectives I was talking to you about. This is Matthew Bryner. He runs the Black and Blue Party.”

  Bryner said, “I’ll be ready to talk to you when I’m done talking to Mr. Slade. You’ll need to wait outside.”

  No laughter from Fenwick this time. The detective walked to the front of the desk. He looked at Bryner. He looked at Slade. In his gruffest rumble he said, “Mr. Slade, get out. Now.”

  Muttering apologies to the cops and Bryner, Slade scuttled out the door.

  Matthew Bryner’s bald pate gleamed in the orange and red glow of the lights in the Black and Blue party’s offices. He wore black leather pants and a black motorcycle jacket. Turner saw tendrils of tattoos escaping from the neck of his black T-shirt. Bryner drew a lungful of smoke from a fat cigar. It stank of burning rubber and refuse. He tapped a few bits of ash into a pink ceramic ashtray in the form of a hand with the middle finger extended. Bryner said, “You can’t just barge in here.”

  Fenwick said, “This is a murder investigation. That takes priority. Including shutting you down if we feel like it.”

  Bryner took a puff on his cigar. “You can’t shut me down. I have friends in high places.”

  “And you’ve got a dead body in the basement,” Fenwick said. “You’ve got a problem.”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Where were you tonight?”

  “Taking a well-deserved break.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Do I need them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, then, I have them.”

  Smug son of a bitch, Turner thought. Maybe he really did have connections, which wouldn’t stop their investigation, but it could complicate it.

  Turner pulled up two metal folding chairs. He and Fenwick sat.

  “Is this going to take long?” Bryner asked.

  Fenwick said, “It’ll take as long as it takes.”

  Bryner said, “You can’t just shove people around.”

  Turner said, “I thought that was part of the point of the Black and Blue party.”

  Bryner rubbed one hand over his shaved head while twirling the cigar in his other. Turner wondered if the guy could chew gum at the same time. He thought the addition of a handlebar mustache would add the right note of absurd menace. Bryner stopped the head rubbing and cigar twirling and said, “I don’t know what you want of me. I’m sure I can’t help you in any way. I’m sure no one at the party would have anything to do with murder.”

  Fenwick said, “A party that’s dedicated to violence?”

  Bryner said, “Look up your own statistics. Gay events from hundreds of thousands at the Pride Parades to these kinds of parties have stunningly low incidences of crimes. If you don’t know that, you should.”

  Turner did. He nodded. He said, “Mr. Bryner, it would help us if we could get some background on how the party works. How it’s set up, who works here, who comes to this kind of event.”

  “Why?”

  “We need background,” Turner said. “We don’t mean to bring trouble to you. As far as we know right now, the party will be allowed to continue. Obviously your having contacts in the city could help you, but if we could solve the crime, and you were helpful, we could guarantee you wouldn’t have any problems. And I’m sure, contacts or not, you don’t want adverse news stories trumpeted in the media. A quick solution would help that not happen.”

  “Are you threatening to go to the media?”

  Turner felt Fenwick stirring with annoyance. Before his partner could begin to bluster, Turner said, “No. If I wanted to threaten you, I would. I’d much rather work with you. And remember, even you can’t control all the people connected with this. Things could slip. The faster we work, the better for you.” Turner knew the majority of what he was saying was mostly true, but what was important was that Bryner think it was all true, or at least take it seriously enough not to be an asshole about cooperating.

  Bryner thought for a minute then nodded. He seemed mollified for the moment. He said, “Putting together a leather party is a nightmare. I’m almost sorry I started this thing four years ago.”

  “Why did you?” Turner asked.

  “I got sick of all the prima donnas at every other leather event in this country. You ever tried to organize members of the leather community into doing something? You’ve got as many mad leather queens as you have ditzy drag queens or politically correct assholes at any other gay event. They are supercilious, condescending, and nasty and that’s on a good day.”

  “Why?” Fenwick asked.

  “Why what?” Bryner asked.

  “Why are they all those things? Why doesn’t everybody just have a good time?”

  Bryner sighed, let bushels of air escape his lungs. Then he sucked them back in. He said, “Because they’re morons and Looney Tunes and queens desperate for a little attention for themselves. It’s madness. I wanted a place where real leather people could go for some real connections with real men who didn’t need to preen and play-act. But some prefer to wreck things and tear down what others have tried hard to put together.”

  Turner said, “But isn’t that what a lot of leather is all about, play acting? I mean, come on, if somebody is being led around by a harness and treated like a slave…”

  “Because they are slaves.”

  “Because they chose to act that way,” Turner said. As soon as he’d said it, Turner realized he’d fallen into a debate.

  Bryner said, “You just don’t understand. Most people don’t. Leather is supposed to be different.”

  Fenwick said, “Kinky is as kinky does.”

  Bryner gave him a quizzical look.

  Turner said, “So what happened to turn this sour?”

  “I thought it would be perfect. We didn’t have those stupid beauty contests and ‘talent’ contests. Beauty pageant. Pah. And talent! Nonsense. I knew I could make this perfect. This party has everything a real leather man could want. And sure, I’ve got connections, but murder! Even I know that could destroy everything.”

  Turner said, “It wouldn’t destroy the party. Not unless the party was the direct cause of the murder.”

  Fenwick added, “Or you go back to your original attitude when we walked in here.”

  Bryner sent Fenwick a nasty glare. Turner wondered if they taught that particular glare at one of the more dangerous leather booths, or if Bryner came by it naturally.

  Fenwick said, “What if the leather event people from around the country wanted to sabotage you? A dead body could do that. You’d be shut down. And if not shut down, the bad publicity could drive people away. You said it yourself, a lot of these people want to wreck and tear down.”

  Bryner said, “They wouldn’t dare.”

  “Why not?” Fenwick said.

  “They just…they…I don’t know. I didn’t see any of their names on the registration list. I…they wouldn’t.”

  “You know all of them?” Fenwick asked.

  “All the important ones.”

  “Did you know Belger?” Turner asked. They showed him a picture.

  Bryner barely glanced at it. “We don’t ask for a person’s autobiography when they sign up. They just have to prove their age.” He pushed some papers toward them from the top of his desk. “Slade said you wanted that man’s registration. There it is. I glanced at it before you came in. I don’t know this man. When I heard his name, I didn’t associate him with that bar incident. The other guy did the beating. Everybody’s heard of him. But I don’t know either man. I don’t care that this one died, except in so far as it affects me. That may be heartless, but I don’t know him, and I do know how many thousands I have invested in this event.”

  Turner and Fenwick examined the registration. The dat
e was three months prior. It was one page of basic facts: name and age, but with a number of extra items such as leather preferences, as well as lines to fill in that showed he consented to participate. It listed his home address and credit card number, and Belger had checked the box that claimed he was over twenty-one.

  Bryner said, “We have that, and we check them once again when they enter the party. We’re very careful. He was a consenting adult. He paid to be here.”

  Fenwick asked, “And you didn’t know Barry Callaghan?”

  Bryner said, “I know of him. Everybody on the planet must have seen that video a hundred times. It got what, ten zillion hits on the Internet? And wasn’t it on half the newscasts for weeks? He beat up that poor woman. He’s a pig. He had no entry pass for the party. His name is not on any list.”

  “People have gotten in without passes and whose names were not on lists. We were shown one way.”

  “Slade will be fired. I can’t have that. But your dead person had an entry pass. So did a few thousand other people.”

  Fenwick said, “Peter Hardon, real name Scanlan, the guy who found the body, wasn’t old enough to shave.”

  “People can bring guests but we monitor them closely. Some people try to cheat. Obviously somebody did and got in.”

  Fenwick said, “We had uniformed officers talk to the men posted at the door and the men at the registration desks. No one remembers Belger or Scanlan. That strikes me as convenient.”

  “We have thousands of people here. How can they be expected to remember one or two out of all those people?”

  Turner asked, “I saw a mural down below. Black figures with a white background.”

  “You really don’t know what that is?”

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked.”

  “It’s a reproduction of a famous mural painted by Chuck Arnett. The original used to be in the basement of The Tool Box bar in San Francisco. We like to replicate any of the good things from the old, glory days of leather.”

  “Where were you tonight?”

  “I needed a break from the tension for a few hours. I can’t be here every minute. I’ve got to trust some things to other people. Most of them don’t know I’m in charge and that I fund this.”

  “Why’s that?” Fenwick asked.

  “I own a family company in Des Moines. I can’t have my name in the papers. The family name would be ruined.”

  Turner said, “Isn’t that kind of sixties thinking?”

  Bryner said, “You live in Des Moines? Obviously, there are a lot of nice people. There are also a lot of assholes. The religious right will make a hassle for anyone. I come to Chicago to indulge my tastes. I have this fair in Chicago because it suits the leather community and me.”

  Fenwick said, “We still need to talk to a lot of people. We’ll have to come back later today.”

  “If you’re going to talk to a lot of people, and if you want to get answers, you might want to try to blend in. As it is now when people see you, they’ll know you don’t belong. Even someone with average intelligence will think you’re cops. People are either going to be intimidated at the least or start leaving in droves at the worst.”

  Fenwick said, “We’ll consider it.”

  While walking back to the murder scene, Turner said, “We’re coming back in disguise?”

  “How hard can it be?” Fenwick asked.

  Turner said, “I can handle it. Can you?”

  Fenwick said, “I’ve been giving butch lessons for years. I can handle it.”

  Turner said, “He’s got friends in high places.”

  Fenwick said, “We’ve got friends in high places.”

  Turner said, “We do?”

  Fenwick said, “I’ve got a direct line to the goddess.”

  “I’m not sure she’s more powerful than the Commander of a Chicago police district or an alderman for that matter.”

  “For district commanders we better have Molton make the initial contacts. Commanders are a weird bunch, and Aldermen can be a danger to themselves and others. Bryner sure does have a strong sense of his own suffering.”

  “He’s putting something together with the gay community. He should have known there would be petty, nonsensical crap to deal with.”

  “Why is that?” Fenwick asked.

  “Simple explanation? Everybody wants to be a chief. Nobody wants to do basic work. Complex explanation? They’re egotistical morons making up for every slight they ever endured in the school yard.”

  “Really?”

  “Would I lie to you?”

  Fenwick said, “Never ask a man who has a direct line to a goddess that question.”

  “Why not?”

  “I might be forced to answer honestly.”

  Turner said, “Honesty doesn’t seem to be something you’re hesitant about.”

  Fenwick said, “Finding a body seems to have sent some of these leather people into a tizzy.”

  “Do you mean they’d be better equipped to handle a dead body, or you’d expect them to be tougher? Maybe it’s just the difference between fantasy and reality.”

  “Just seemed odd to me.”

  “And if being odd was our criteria for judging, one of the two of us would be in deep shit. And I don’t think it would be me. And by the way, I would never say ‘tizzy’ to a leather queen.”

  “Now who’s being judgmental?” Fenwick asked. They returned to the entrance to the station where they first entered. The flags still hung unmoving in the humid-dense air.

  Sanchez hurried up to them. “I found out where Callaghan is. He hangs out at the Raving Dragon, the cop bar where the bartender incident happened.”

  Fenwick said, “I know it.”

  Turner said, “He still goes there? That’s a hell of a nerve.”

  Sanchez said, “I don’t have an actual sighting, but supposedly he hangs out there every night until it closes. It’s got a four A.M. license.”

  Fenwick said, “We’ve got a lot of people to talk to here. We go after Callaghan or we worry about these guys?”

  “Both,” Turner said, “but I gave up bilocating years ago. I think we go talk to Callaghan. He’s the prime suspect.”

  “He’ll lie,” Fenwick said.

  Turner repeated the great cop truism. “They all lie.” Then continued, “Callaghan has got to realize we’re not going to be intimidated just because he’s a cop. I think we need to pressure him. He’s the logical suspect. He’s gotta know that.”

  “Then he comes first.”

  Turner said, “I’d like to be the first to tell him the news.”

  Fenwick said, “Every CPD employee breathing at this hour knows the news. It’s worse than a small town in East Nowhere, and I like East Nowhere.”

  “That’s so like you,” Turner said.

  Fenwick turned to Sanchez. “If you would, please, get the name and address of everyone working all three whipping booths. If they’re not local, get their motel or hotel and their home addresses. Check driver’s licenses. Remind them we need to talk to everyone tonight between ten and eleven. We’ll meet them here. Get the Scanlan kid down to Area Ten headquarters. Have them get in touch with his parents. He’s under age for being here and for being out this late. Don’t let him out of your sight. He may not be a suspect, but he’s the closest thing to a witness we have.”

  Turner said, “And let’s see if we can’t find him something to wear.”

  “No,” Fenwick said. “No change of clothes. I want to see the look on his parents’ faces when they see him in that outfit. If they let him go out dressed like that, they should be liable for some kind of prosecution. If they don’t know anything about it...” He shook his head.

  Turner wanted to meet the parents as well. He thought Fenwick might want to take a picture of them and add it to his rogues gallery of criminally negligent parents. Turner wanted to meet them to see if they were as clueless as he guessed them to be.

  TEN

  Outside, after the car
started moving, Fenwick said, “I have a technical question. Did I really see a big burly guy strutting around? Said burly guy was leading another burly guy around by a leash. Guy on other end of leash was on all fours.”

  “Yes,” Turner said.

  Fenwick glanced at Turner. “To whom is that a turn on?”

  “Probably the same people who get goose bumps when you use the correct interrogative pronoun.”

  “I talk correctly,” Fenwick said, “and I have the soul of a poet.”

  “I can’t help that,” Turner said.

  “It turns you on?” Fenwick asked.

  “You being a poet? No. The leather stuff? Some of it does sometimes. Just like I’m sure you’re turned on by things that I’m not turned on by.”

  “Like what?” Fenwick asked.

  “Tell you what, I’ll make a list for you, right after you make a list for me.”

  “Oh,” Fenwick said.

  “Precisely,” Turner replied.

  Fenwick dropped it.

  After a few minutes fiddling with the air conditioning, Fenwick said, “We’ve got to figure out how the kid fits into all this. One option, he’s totally innocent. A second is that he did it. Another is that he’s being set up by the killer. A killer might think that just because the kid’s young, we wouldn’t believe him. Maybe make him a suspect.”

  “If that was true, wouldn’t there be more evidence linking him to the murder?”

  Fenwick said, “We don’t know yet if there isn’t any.”

  “He claimed he got lost. What if he had stayed lost and never found the body?”

  Fenwick said, “Kind of fucks up a murder plot if your fall guy is a screw-up. Or they were improvising. They didn’t know if it would work, but if it did, they’ve got a fairly dumb kid with no explanation.”

  As they drove, Turner scanned the materials Barb Dams had prepared. Turner found a stack of photos that included Belger, Callaghan, and any other police personnel connected with the case, as well as Stephanie Preston, the bartender from the notorious incident at the Raving Dragon. There was an Incident Summary Packet of what different witnesses said happened at the bar. A one-page background summary of every cop who had been at the bar. Included on that page was the current contact information for everyone involved. Barb had included a Post-It note that promised more if they needed it. She also added a memo that she’d called Stephanie Preston.