by Mark Zubro
Molton and Fenwick looked at him.
“No, I don’t have proof,” Turner said.
Molton said, “You going back to the party?”
Turner said, “It’s next on the agenda, but it’s still early. The place won’t really get going until after ten. We told them we’d be back between ten and eleven. Until it’s time to leave, we can start catching up on the paperwork on this case.”
Molton said, “Go then. Find. Fix. Solve.” He left.
The forensics report was waiting on their desks. Turner yawned as he opened his. He wanted to sleep.
The last page had the information about the entrance the kid, Scanlan, had taken them to.
Some of the smudges found in the dirt there were the same blood type as Belger. They’d sent their materials for DNA analysis. Turner knew it could take a week or two to get those results. He gave Fenwick the news.
Fenwick said, “Fuck-a-doodle-do. We need to get that kid back in here.”
Turner called the parents. They didn’t know where the kid was. The mother dissolved in tears after she told him that. The father came on the line. He was angry and demanding. Turner didn’t think either reaction helped much at this point, but he understood parents being distraught about their children.
He hung up and told Fenwick who asked, “Already? How can they not know where their kid is?”
“He’s a teenager,” Turner began.
“And they are idiots,” Fenwick finished for him.
Turner said, “They were quite willing to blame us.”
“Idiots,” Fenwick repeated. “Moronic, too stupid to live idiots.”
Turner wasn’t sure he would be quite so harsh in his judgment as Fenwick. The point was they needed to talk to the kid.
Turner and Fenwick began plowing through the mound of paperwork. They would take even more care than usual. Neither wanted the slightest slip-up.
An hour later the lab called. The tech said to Turner, “We’ve been told to rush everything that has to do with the Belger case. We got that box of sex toys you sent over. I can tell you the sex toys have Belger’s fingerprints on them and no one else’s.”
Turner waited. The silence lengthened. Turner said, “That’s it?”
“That’s all I got. No blood. No dust. Oh, sorry, and the clothes from the kid.”
“Yeah.”
“They were the kid’s clothes.”
“That’s it? No blood? No anything?”
“Sorry, that’s it.”
He hung up and reported to Fenwick who said, “Either someone cleaned the stuff we found, or he was always fastidious with his sex toys.”
“Isn’t everyone?” Turner asked.
“I thought you were the one opposed to delving into personal sexual habits in this investigation.”
“Just making an observation.”
Fenwick said, “And the kid wore his own clothes.”
“Another alert the media moment.”
THIRTY-SIX
It was ten. Turner and Fenwick went to change. Just before they left for the party, Molton walked up to them. He raised his eyebrow at Fenwick’s outfit. “You’re disguised as a what?”
Fenwick growled. He wore black jeans and hiking boots and a black muscle T-shirt that clung to every bulge in his torso. Turner wore black leather pants and a chain-mesh T-shirt he’d borrowed from Ben just before he left home.
Molton handed them the latest envelope filled with information they’d requested from Barb Dams. It was fairly heavy now with a surprising array of pictures and data sheets. It must have taken hours. She was a great cop, and they knew she was behind them. And she was a friend. And she was stunningly thorough. If data could catch a killer, it could very well be in the stuff she’d compiled.
Out in the humidity, Turner’s pants were miserably uncomfortable.
As the air-conditioner in the car fought more with itself than the humidity, Turner said, “At the fair you might see odder stuff than even you’re used to.”
“How much odd stuff have we seen as cops?” Fenwick asked.
“You want that chronologically or alphabetically?” Turner asked echoing Robert Downey Jr. in his first Sherlock Holmes movie.
“Take too long either way,” Fenwick said. “You and I have seen more corpses and crushed humanity, physical and emotional, that we can count. If any cop who’s been on the job as long as we have is shook by what he or she sees, he or she should quit. I’m a tough Chicago cop. At the fair, if it’s still breathing, I can handle it. If not, I’ll get Madge to explain it to me when I get home.”
Images of some of the horrors that were part of their job almost daily flashed through Turner’s mind. He knew what Fenwick meant. Turner said, “Just thought I’d mention it.”
Fenwick said, “Ain’t just gay people who are kinky.”
Turner said, “Kinky is universal. I’ll add that to my list of Fenwick’s familiar quotations.”
“A fine list I’m sure it is.”
In the air-conditioned upper reaches of the former train station the humidity was bearable. Sanchez and Deveneaux, the two beat cops from the night before, were with them on the detail. Turner thought Sanchez looked exceptionally hot in low-rise leather pants and no shirt. He never knew Sanchez had a tattoo of an eagle stretching from shoulder blade to shoulder blade on his back. Normally, Turner didn’t care much for tattoos, but on Sanchez, it was hot. Sanchez’s gun was in his left boot. Deveneaux wore faded and torn blue jeans and a bulky black T-shirt that concealed his gun. The detectives had strapped theirs to their ankles, to be armed but discreet.
Denver Slade, who’d first met them outside the door twenty-three hours ago, began prattling as soon as they arrived in his presence. “Now, you can’t be mean. You’ve got to be kind. These people have paid a lot of money.”
Fenwick asked, “Why hasn’t Bryner fired you? He said he was going to when we questioned him.”
Slade said, “See, now that was mean. Why would you say such a thing? He hasn’t said a word to me. He and I are friends. I’m the one who really runs this thing. Sure it’s his money, him and his rich buddies, but I know how to organize.”
Fenwick asked, “Where is Bryner?”
“He knows people in this town. Him and his powerful buddies have been calling each other and having meetings. I haven’t seen him since around four this afternoon.”
Fenwick said, “He confided in you?”
“No, not really. Rumors swept through the community, this morning, that the rest of the party was cancelled. Then that it was on again. It’s been a crazy day. I’ve never seen Matthew Bryner sweat, but he was sweating today. He may have wanted to fire me, but I know every single detail of this fair. He doesn’t. I know how it runs, who the vendors are, how to get things done.”
Turner thought it would be a good idea to keep Slade around. It would lessen the alarm from the impact of police asking questions, and with luck it might get potential witnesses to open up.
Turner eyed the mass of people. “The murder doesn’t seem to have hurt attendance.”
“Not yet,” Slade said.
They asked Slade to find someone he trusted to go with Sanchez and Deveneaux who were, first, to show photos of all the people they’d dealt with on the case to any person at the fair who had anything to do with registration or guarding the place. Turner glanced at what Barb had assembled. She’d even included pictures of the Scanlan kid, his parents, Lensky, Vereski, Dossett, the police brass from late that afternoon, and more. She was a gem beyond worth. Second they were to question people in the more private whipping rooms below the main level. Slade found someone who left with the two police officers.
First, Turner and Fenwick stopped at the booths selling sex toys. Turner and Fenwick had no guarantee that the killer had purchased the dildo and whip used on Belger at the party, but it was a start.
The walls and partitions of one formerly-shuttered store front were now lined with sex toys. In addition they saw displa
y carrels of dildos, orgasm balls, chains, whips, harnesses, socks, gloves, hoods, and masks. Rows and rows of pleasure instruments lined every surface. Turner found and purchased a dildo the size of the one stuck in Belger’s ass.
At a book stall the tables were strewn with piles of books. Turner noted a few titles: Ties That Bind, Carried Away, Master’s Manual, and thirty or forty others. Turner thought the covers were rather repetitious. Guys tied to various apparatuses, or blindfolded, or being led on leashes. These got repeated in lots of variations by a whole lot of admittedly not very attractive men; overweight, out of shape, scraggily bearded, wearing only black socks. One whole line from one publisher used blurry covers. Turner didn’t know if this was an improvement or not. Maybe that’s what turned guys on who wanted this kind of book. Turner knew they didn’t turn him on.
Fenwick pointed to one with the title Butt. He said, “That’s one thing I don’t get.”
“What’s that?” Turner asked.
“Getting fucked. I think it would hurt.”
“I like it. Being top and bottom.”
Fenwick turned to his friend.
Turner said, “Nor do I intend to discuss that with you further. You’re the one in this relationship whose peccadilloes get mentioned, described, and analyzed beyond all relation to their importance and regardless of their grossness. I’m not starting.”
Fenwick said, “Pity.”
Turner asked, “You sure this stuff doesn’t make you uncomfortable?”
“Why would it?”
“It’s about as gay as you can get.”
“And you’re not?” Fenwick asked.
“I just thought it might be a lot different than you’re used to.”
Fenwick said, “You’re the one who just said he didn’t want to talk about his intimate stuff. Yes, I blab. Because you know all the stuff I do blab, doesn’t mean there isn’t other stuff I don’t blab.”
Turner looked at his partner. “I don’t know if I should take comfort in that or not.”
They kept the dildo with them as they picked out a set of orgasm balls that matched the ones that had been found. They took them up to the counter and showed them to the manager and Slade.
The manager, Earnest Drinkwater, had a shaved head and a face with wrinkled skin that showed he must have spent his life outdoors in the hot sun. His leather pants drooped on his thin frame. He kept yanking at them to hold them up.
“You sell any of these in the past couple days?” Fenwick asked.
Drinkwater said, “Over fifty of the dildos. Maybe ten or fifteen of the orgasm balls. And I’m not the only one selling them.”
Turner took out the photo array that he’d tucked into a slim, black-leather satchel. “Any of these people look familiar?” He showed him the pictures.
The man looked. He shook his head. He called over his two helpers who also said they didn’t recognize anyone. They got the same result from the other sex-toy vendors.
Turner and Fenwick proceeded to the whipping booths. As they strolled along the path they passed several men with their penises protruding from their pants. These were all older men whose entire costume seemed to be a limp, shriveled prick sticking out of the zipper opening in their pants. Turner guessed these guys might actually have nothing to do with the leather community. They’d just found a venue where they could expose themselves in public and not be arrested. The one time he and Ben had vacationed without the boys at a gay clothing-optional resort, Turner thought that those who exercised the option, shouldn’t. He thought the same rubric applied to these guys.
“This is legal?” Fenwick pointed at one such drooping dick.
Slade said, “Technically this is a private party. People can act as if they were in their own homes. It’s sort of public, but actually private. That’s why we have the guards at the door. That’s why people need to sign up on the Internet and prove their identity and not just that they are over eighteen. They have to prove their age and identity again at the registration area. We don’t let just anyone into these things. It just can’t be done.”
Many of the leather clad patrons they passed wore pants or shorts, but no shirt. One oddity Turner quickly noted was that the muscled, studly men with tight abs tended to be younger and to keep their chests at least partly covered, and that the more portly men tended to let their bellies bulge out for all to see.
On their way to the whipping booths, they passed the pissing booths. In one of them two men were on their knees. Their jeans and tight T-shirts were soaked. One of the men opened his mouth as a man stepped from the crowd and began to piss on him. Instantly, over half the members of the crowd produced cell phones and began taking pictures.
Fenwick said, “Not quite your basic home entertainment.”
“Depends on your home, I guess,” Turner said.
Several drag queens swept by. Rainbow-hued from toe to crown, their shoes, gowns, make-up, and hair flashed far beyond the point of exaggeration. They laughed and pointed and sipped from multi-colored drinks topped with little umbrellas. Hairdos stopped three feet above their heads. Heavy makeup and bright smiles and evening gowns clung to hefty figures.
Fenwick nodded toward them. “I thought there was a dress code.”
Turner said, “You ever try and stop a drag queen?”
“You mean you don’t know how they got admitted.”
“They’re here for effect. They own the place. They’re related to the mayor. How long of a list do you want?”
Fenwick asked, “What are they doing here?”
Turner said, “Having a good time?”
Swaying on his ten inch heels, one of the drag queens lurched up to Turner. With a smile that almost cracked his ten layers of makeup, he put out one excessively manicured nail and touched Turner just above his belly button. “Hi, Mr. Man.”
“Hi, yourself,” Turner said.
“You busy later?” the drag queen asked.
Turner said, “I’m always busy, my dear, sorry.”
“Too bad,” said the drag queen and looking more like a drunken stork than anything else, stumbled away.
Fenwick said, “You always have all the fun.”
“The next one can be yours.”
“More fun than I’m up for.”
The detectives descended to the lower levels. While edging their way through the crowd, they saw in one store-front window a man draped backward over two sawhorses with someone dripping hot wax onto his nipples.
Fenwick pointed, “Isn’t that uncomfortable?”
“The wax?”
“No. The way his body is bent sort of backwards.”
“Maybe it only sort of hurts. He’s not trying to get away.”
They stopped at the porn-site booth where Belger had been involved in the whipping demonstration. At a table at the front, two men took in money and explained rules and regulations. Preening in front of a mirror behind them was a porn star that Turner figured the booth had hired as part of its advertising. He thought the guy was built as if he stopped using his gym membership about six months ago. As they moved into the store, they saw, along the two walls, various devices people could be or were tied to. A portly gentleman with a white beard explained the finer points of whipping to a group of fifteen or so. A man sprawled face first on a giant cross obviously ready for the next demonstration. The gentleman lifted the whip and struck. The crowd murmured and nodded approval.
They found Frank Jordan, the owner of the porn site, whom they’d interviewed earlier. He said, “I got all the people who worked at the booth here like you asked. Some aren’t real happy about it. You’re fucking up our business. They’re afraid you’re going to screw up their lives or try to arrest them.”
“Not unless they’re killers,” Fenwick said.
Slade said he had chores to attend to. The detectives told him if they needed him, they’d send for him.
In the back they found a walled-off section that might have been used as an office in an earlier in
carnation. It contained a door that lead to a small bathroom.
Turner said, “Why don’t you send in the man who organized the whipping, took the money, and the paperwork.”
Jordan returned a few minutes later with Dave Ordman, who wore a knit black cotton-mesh jockstrap and nothing else. He looked to be in his mid-thirties. He sat down casually and spread his legs. His hairy chest sloped down to narrow hips. Turner thought perhaps he could have used a size or two larger jockstrap. Or perhaps the size he had on was the point. Ordman raised two shaven eyebrows at them, and in a voice from the lowest bass register said, “What can I do for you guys?”
If Turner hadn’t been totally in love with his husband, Ben, there were quite a few things he thought this man could do for him.
Turner said, “Tell us about Jack Rammer.”
“Belger?”
“You knew it was him when he came in?” Fenwick asked.
“He came to us before he got famous. I recognized him from TV after it happened, but he never mentioned it, and I never brought it up. It had nothing to do with the site.”
“Do you remember what he said when he first showed up?” Turner asked. “How he behaved?”
“The first-timers are an odd bunch. There’s the confident ones who are there to show you how studly they are. They’re all on their way to being major porn stars, and you should be grateful that they’re bothering to stop by and grace you with their presence. Then there’s the shy ones who want to make a little cash, think this might be a little fun. Belger was closer to one of those. He was real reluctant to give his name. I told him, like I tell all of them, they don’t have a choice. We need a real name, real photo ID, the disclaimer filled out. We don’t take chances. No sensible porn site does. Why bother? There’s always another guy who wants to take his clothes off.”
“Did you know he was a cop?” Turner asked.
“He said he was. Even showed me his badge once. But he looked the part, a little older, in decent shape, certainly not a muscle queen. A believable persona makes it hotter.”
“How would a viewer know he was a real cop?”
“We specialize in cops and military guys or at least we have them tell the camera they’re cops. Some really are, but don’t come across as believable on screen. Others aren’t but are really convincing. Others aren’t and wouldn’t fool much of anybody, but if you’re watching the site so you can jack off, you’re not looking for academy award performances. We interview them on screen. Some guys you can just tell. It seems natural. I try to get them to tell stories about their jobs. Nothing too specific so they’d give away details that would get them discovered, but enough to show they are what they say. I guess it’s like anything on film. It’s what you can get the audience to believe.”
