Black and Blue and Pretty Dead, Too

by Mark Zubro

  “Is that a category for the Olympics?” Turner asked.

  “If it’s not, it should be,” Fenwick said.

  Turner said, “The odder question of the moment is how the hell did you find us?”

  Ian said, “Sources.”

  Fenwick said, “Bullshit.”

  Ian said, “Bullshit sources? I kind of like the notion.”

  Turner said, “It’s too hot for pointless repartee, and we haven’t been lovers in enough years to justify an argument.”

  Ian said, “I heard there was a problem at the Black and Blue party. I got word that Belger was dead. I knew you’d have to talk to the former partner. I know enough about cop bars in this city, and I still know people in the department. I didn’t want to go into the bar. People might know me in my incarnation as gay reporter. Remotely possible, but still possible. I knew somebody who gave me the license plate number of your car. All I had to do was check the nearest illegal parking spaces. I decided to lurk out here. Good thing I did. Your car would have had its tires flattened and the sides keyed.”

  Fenwick said, “Good news travels quickly.”

  Ian said, “It’s not like it’s your personal car.”

  Fenwick said, “It’s the principle of the thing.”

  “Who tried it?” Turner asked.

  “Older cop, heavy set, big jowls, hat pulled down low, no visible ID, beat cop outfit. Didn’t know him. He took off when I looked obstinate. He didn’t want to call back-up for an attack on the vehicle of one of his own. I might have been half his age and in better shape so I don’t think he wanted a fight.”

  Fenwick said, “Why didn’t he just arrest you?”

  “I was charming.”

  Rare, but Turner had seen Ian charm some odd characters in his time.

  Fenwick said, “I need to be fed.”

  Ian said, “It’s only a few blocks to a Dunkin’ Donuts. We can just walk.”

  “A few blocks,” Fenwick said. “In this heat? You must be mad.”

  Turner thumped the trunk of the car. “After what you said, wreck though it is, we shouldn’t really leave this thing unattended.”

  They piled into the car and drove three blocks to the restaurant. They parked in a lighted spot in the lot where they could view it from a table inside.

  Ian had coffee. Fenwick had an order of donut holes and a large diet soda. Turner, who had long since learned not to question Fenwick’s dietary habits, had ice water.

  Turner wasn’t averse to talking a case over with Ian. Their friendship triumphed over Ian’s need to be a reporter. He knew Ian would keep anything they said confidential. Turner gave him the details they had so far.

  When Turner finished, Ian said, “He was whipped?”

  Turner nodded.

  “And he had a dildo up his butt?”

  Another nod.

  “But we don’t know if he was gay?”

  “I don’t,” Turner said. “The ME will give us the official word on what killed him. I’m not sure who can give us the official word if he liked being fucked. Or if either of those options would lead to a murderer.”

  “Was he dumped at the Black and Blue party or was he attending?” Ian asked.

  Turner said, “Supposedly he’d been doing demonstrations at the whipping booth. He could have left. He was scheduled to come back and do another performance.”

  “Doesn’t mean he’s gay,” Ian said.

  “Doesn’t mean he isn’t,” Turner said.

  “What does it mean?” Fenwick asked. “You guys need to explain this whole gay leather thing to me.”

  Ian said, “Some people like to get beat up and pissed on.”

  “Those are the romantics,” Turner said.

  Ian said, “And some don’t. It’s just a kink. Kind of like kinks for straight people but different.”

  Turner said, “I know about International Mr. Leather. That’s usually around Memorial Day, and the Folsom Street Fair in San Francisco, but I’ve never heard of this one.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Ian said. “The Black and Blue party goes out of its way to be mysterious and fly under the radar. They do not advertise themselves in the gay press. There are no cutesy articles in magazines desperate to be trendy. You have to have someone give you the secret password just to get on their website.”

  “Why?” Fenwick asked.

  “A wise woman once said that if your specialty was making enough money to support a magazine then maybe it wasn’t so special. These guys were making a ton of money.”

  “Define ton,” Fenwick said.

  “I heard it costs two thousand dollars just to register for the convention. That doesn’t include costs for hotel room, transportation, or meals.” He tore a piece of paper from his reporter’s notebook and handed it to Turner. “This is the secret password for the website.”

  “You know these things?” Fenwick asked. He’d managed to scarf down half of his donuts and a third of his diet drink.

  “I know everything.”

  “When will the Cubs win a World Series?”

  “Not this decade.”

  Turner said, “Focus, boys. The party. The section we saw was mobbed.”

  “Money isn’t the problem. They like to think they’re extremely exclusive. Of course, if you’re so exclusive nobody shows up, there’s not much point in the whole operation. As you know the leather scene takes itself very seriously.”

  Fenwick asked, “These are all gay guys?”

  Ian said, “This party is certainly pitched to gay men, but lesbians and straight people show up.”

  “You’ve been?” Turner asked.

  “Of course. I attended the first one. I have to make sacrifices for my journalistic integrity. I haven’t been since.”

  “Blow your integrity out your ass,” Fenwick said.

  “Paul can do that any time the need arises.”

  “Not this decade,” Turner said.

  “Did you wear your slouch fedora?” Fenwick asked.

  “No.”

  Turner stifled his curiosity because he and Ian were no longer lovers. Fenwick, however, had no such restraint. “You into this scene?” he asked.

  “I can be. How about you?”

  Turner said, “This is way more information than any of us needs.”

  Fenwick grinned.

  Ian said, “Some of these guys talk about the ‘leather community’ as if it was this awesome monolith of masculinity. I think it’s just a bunch of dizzy queens over-compensating.”

  Fenwick said, “But why the secrecy? It’s not really necessary, is it? I mean who cares what somebody does in private or do these guys get hassled?”

  Ian said, “I’ve done enough research to know that everything they do meets the exact letter of the law. It is very private. No one from the public can get in. There’s no chance some random tourist family from Nebraska will ‘see’ something so the party organizers don’t have to worry about intrusions.”

  “We met at least one guy who snuck in.”

  “No system is perfect. But the secrecy and the exclusivity are draws in and of themselves.”

  Turner said, “Secrecy can also be a turn on. Or maybe they just like it. I like men, not because I’m feminine, but because I’m attracted to their masculinity.”

  Fenwick said, “I’m open to debating the nature of sexuality, gay or straight. I think I’ve got it. They let Belger in, but that doesn’t mean he was gay.” He finished the last donut and gulped the entire rest of his drink. Among the many things Turner had learned to not mention was the rate at which and quantity of food Fenwick was able to consume. Turner sipped from his ice water.

  Ian said, “Right. I’m sure they don’t discriminate. As long as the straight person behaved themselves, I’m sure they’d let them in, and if they paid their exorbitant fee.”

  “Did you?” Fenwick asked.

  “It was a legitimate journalistic expense.”

  “Bullshit,” Fenwick said.

  T
urner said, “Was Belger gay or straight and does it make any difference to the investigation?”

  Ian drank some coffee. He said, “I’ve started to snoop around. My sources among the attendees of the party are pretty good. And I still know a few cops. I’ve got no clue about his sexual orientation, and I’ve got evidence of Belger being on camera for pay but no evidence that he was hiring himself out as an actual prostitute. I haven’t been able to find any kind of profile for him on gay male escort web sites, but I haven’t had a lot of time to dig through all of them. Plus I’m still looking for more information.”

  Fenwick said, “He didn’t strike me as hot enough to be a hooker.”

  “Hot in the leather world can mean many things. If he was into being beaten and whipped, then among a certain set, he might have been very popular.”

  “How do we find these guys?” Fenwick asked.

  Ian said, “The whole party is anonymous. You get your ID badge, but it doesn’t have your name on the front. It’s on the back along with your personal code which supposedly means you paid. They don’t let just anybody into that thing. They’re afraid of reporters sneaking in and trying to take pictures and all kinds of stuff.”

  “Who runs it?”

  “Who did you talk to?” Ian asked.

  “Denver Slade and Matthew Bryner.”

  Ian said, “Slade is kind of the manager. Matty Bryner is a piece of work.”

  “Matty?” Turner asked.

  “We’re best friends.”

  Fenwick said, “In a pig’s ass.”

  “I’m sure we could get a booth for that at the party,” Ian said.

  Turner said, “Gentlemen. Focus.”

  “The real people behind the party are a consortium of wealthy gay men. I was told it started a few years ago when someone had a snit fit about a contest during a leather event in, I think, Los Angeles. I’m not sure. The main point is the person vowed to get revenge. Who was getting revenge on whom, I’m not sure. I’ve also been given to understand that they think the other leather fairs around the country are too commercial and too tame. These people claim to be the real thing.”

  “I don’t get it,” Turner asked. “Real thing? Once you’ve pissed on somebody, what else is there? Do they mean they chained people up, killed them?”

  “No snuff films I’ve heard about,” Ian said. “These are wealthy people, but they aren’t nuts.”

  “You know them?” Fenwick asked.

  “I know a few things about some of them. I do know Matty Bryner. As it happens. I made it my business to look into the party that first year. It all turned out to be remarkably prosaic until I got to ol’ Matty. The deeper I looked into him the murkier it got.”

  “How murky can you be if you’re from Des Moines?” Fenwick asked.

  Ian said, “I got rumors, and only rumors. Problems with police. Bryner and a boyfriend in an S+M scene gone very, very wrong.”

  Turner said, “If the police were involved, there’d have to be some kind of record.”

  “But there isn’t,” Ian said. “Either it’s not true, or he’s got a hell of a lot of power in Iowa. The same seems to be true here. He may be from Des Moines, but he’s got some kind of pull in this town.”

  “Who’s behind him here?”

  “That I don’t know. Finding out didn’t seem worth the effort at the time. No crime, as far as I knew, had been committed in Chicago. I could find no records of any crime in Des Moines. Sometimes rumors are just rumors. People who involve themselves in the inner workings of the gay community are subject to being viciously attacked. Same as any group. I don’t know if these guys being a complicated and secretive group makes it worse or not.”

  “Why be complicated and secretive?” Fenwick asked.

  “Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Maybe it’s as simple as why not or because they can. Or maybe it’s because they’re silly twits? They do work hard for the tough leather-man mystique.”

  Turner said, “Do people in this day and age really care if someone’s running around in a motorcycle jacket and leather pants? It can be sexy, and that’s nice if it is, but who cares?”

  Fenwick said, “It must make somebody feel better.”

  Ian said, “For a lonely gay man from Podunk, Nebraska, who wants to be masculine and gay, it might be vital, but other than that,” Ian shrugged, “I can work on my sources in the department. I think that’s where your answer is to this thing.”

  Turner said, “I agree. Certainly putting the body at that party could easily have been a way to divert suspicion from the real murderer.”

  Fenwick said, “If there’s this much animosity among these leather people, maybe some of the others are trying to get even with Bryner. Or maybe this party was taking business away from theirs. Maybe they were pissed about that.”

  Ian said, “And they committed murder and dumped a body at the party all in hopes of getting Bryner bad publicity?”

  Turner said, “It’s possible, but I don’t know who those people are or if they were there.”

  Ian said, “That I can check. The more prominent fairs and festivals have publicity people. I can nose my way into it.”

  “Thanks,” Turner said.

  “What did you find out in the bar?” Ian asked.

  “That cops lie,” Turner said. “Stop the presses.”

  Ian said, “Speaking of guys in bars.”

  “And we were,” Fenwick said.

  “You interviewed the reporter who broke the original Callaghan story yet?”

  They shook their heads. “I’ve got a rumor, very unconfirmed, that he is very closeted and very gay.”

  Turner said, “Are you saying there’s a connection between him, Belger, and Callaghan that goes beyond what was reported on the news?”

  Ian said, “My money is on the killer being someone from the department, but there’s obviously a gay angle to this somewhere. Right now, it’s only a rumor.”

  Fenwick said, “My money is on it being one of ours.”

  Ian said, “You have no group loyalty.”

  Fenwick said, “Loyalty? Sure. But this isn’t some mafia omerta where people take a blood oath of silence. This is real people getting killed.”

  Ian said, “Mafia people aren’t real people?”

  Fenwick grumbled.

  Ian grinned. He was one of the few people who did not get intimidated by Fenwick’s grumbles.

  Fenwick resumed, “Belger may have been an asshole. He may have deserved to die. I’ve met a lot of people who deserved to die and didn’t. I’ve met a lot who deserved to live, but they died. I can’t change any of that. None of it involves loyalty.”

  Turner recognized the echoes of Tolkien’s famous quote in Fenwick’s statement. He knew his partner loved the Lord of the Rings books and movies. He did too.

  Turner said, “We’ll have to talk to the reporter.”

  Ian said, “Remember, the reporter didn’t make the tape.”

  Fenwick said, “Gotta talk to that guy, too.”

  Ian said, “And find out how the hell that recording made it into the press. Somebody pulled a smart, fast one there, too.”

  “I wondered about that,” Turner said.

  Ian said, “It was just too damn quick. Remember, it wasn’t a bar that had security cameras.”

  Fenwick said, “What the hell for? It was a cop bar.”

  “Exactly,” Ian said. “The incident happened just after three in the morning, but it was on the earliest newscasts and even made it national before eight A.M. Somebody knew somebody or something odd was going on.”

  “Somebody planned it?” Turner asked.

  Fenwick said, “How do you plan a fight between cops?”

  Ian said, “Very carefully. I’ve got lots of sources in the news business in this town. Some of them owe me. The guy who actually recorded it just faded into the background.”

  “We’ll have to get to him,” Turner said.

  Ian said, “I know enough not to taint a wit
ness although he wouldn’t be a witness to your murder. I hope. But if the gay angle turned out to be true, maybe I can kind of chat with one or both of them.”

  “Do what you can,” Turner said. “Anything you find out, we appreciate.”

  Fenwick said, “We should go see the family.” He used a finger on his now empty plate to dab up bits of sugar and fried dough that had escaped his earlier inhalation.

  Ian said, “You ate all those yourself.”

  Turner said, “He considers them fusion cooking.”

  Fenwick said, “It’s got sugar and grease. That’s as much fusion as I need.”

  They got up to leave. Ian tapped each of them on the arm. They turned to him. He said, “You guys should be very careful. What happened in the Raving Dragon this morning is not because one random isolated asshole was out of control. This could be lots of assholes acting randomly, or it could be a conspiracy to murder gone wild, and you guys are the ones on the case. Until this is solved, I’d be very worried and very careful.”

  “We know,” Turner said.

  TWELVE

  It was nearly half past one in the morning. They had Trent Belger’s address from his identification and the papers Molton’s secretary had sent. Belger had four children, two with each wife. He and his first wife had joint custody. They’d been married four years. He lived with his second wife and her mother. He’d been married to the second wife for five years. They would start with her.

  The least favorite part of the job, Turner always thought, was taking bad news to the victim’s relatives. Had to be done. Didn’t get easier with time. And sometimes you got a bonanza of unexpected information. He knew one young detective on his first murder case who had been out canvassing the neighborhood for the first time. At the second house he went to a man answered. The young detective had asked the man if he knew the murdered guy, who’d been found half a block away. The man who answered turned out to be the brother of the victim. The man said, yes, and I killed him. A few of Turner’s cases came close to being that easy, but none ever matched it.

  Belger had lived on the northwest side in Wicker Park on the way to O’Hare Airport. Ringing the bell produced no results. They knocked on the door for some minutes before lights began to go on in the house. They didn’t want to wait for the morning to tell the family. They might hear it on the news, and they should hear such news from a person, not an impersonal broadcast.