Black and Blue and Pretty Dead, Too

by Mark Zubro

  “Do you remember anything distinctive about him?”

  “He was one of the ones who insisted that he wouldn’t touch any guys. Said if somebody tried to kiss him he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. I made sure the guys in scenes with him were careful.”

  Turner asked, “Would he let them touch him?”

  “Only to blow him, but it was the whipping that he was interested in. Kept asking about that over and over. He was really into it. That’s why he stood out. He couldn’t get enough. He was great at the booth here. Really in demand. He’d let guys get really into it. We keep medical supplies on hand, and we won’t let anybody really hurt somebody.”

  Turner said, “We were told by at least one woman that he wanted her to strap on a dildo and screw him.”

  Ordman said, “And I heard he was found with a dildo up his butt. He never said anything to me about dildos or his butt.”

  “Anybody who paid a lot for a chance at whipping him? Anyone who was especially tough or cruel?”

  “For Belger we had guys lining up. He was one of our main attractions. He projected a believable persona as a straight guy.”

  “Do you think he was straight?” Fenwick asked.

  Ordman scratched his balls while he thought. “I try not to get into these guys’ heads. I’m not sure why they do this. Being an exhibitionist, gay or straight, helps. Being into pain is kind of a requirement. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Whether it’s gay or straight, I can’t say for sure. I think they’re all gay, but I’ve got no proof. I came on to him once. He turned me down.”

  “Was there anybody angry at him?” Turner asked.

  “You get guys who are doing the whipping. Sometimes I don’t think it’s acting. There might have been one or two with Belger. I don’t remember names. We don’t keep records on those doing the whipping. They pay their ten bucks a hit and have at it.”

  “Nobody stood out?” Turner asked.

  “Nobody whose name I remember. I was at all of Belger’s performances here at the party.”

  “Did you tape them?”

  “Usually. A lot more people in the audience use their cell phone cameras to record stuff that turns them on.”

  Fenwick said, “I’m confused. I thought this was a private party where everybody was desperate not to let anyone know they were here.”

  Jordan said, “We don’t want the police to know. We tape the demonstrations to put on our own web site. Those who perform sign releases. We’re careful.”

  Fenwick said, “But if they’ve all got cell phone cameras.”

  “We aren’t responsible for that. People know what’s going on. If it’s that vital for them not to be filmed, they don’t have to be here. The police are a different matter entirely.”

  Fenwick said, “Seems like a double standard.”

  “I get it,” Turner said. A firm, definitive tone Fenwick knew he seldom used.

  Fenwick glanced at him. Turner saw his partner nod. He knew Fenwick was going to drop it, surrendering to Turner’s knowledge of this world.

  Turner said, “We’ll need to see the tapes you do have.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “This is a murder investigation.”

  “I dunno.” Ordman scratched his right butt check. “I guess.”

  Turner said, “There was one guy on the website who gave him a blow job.”

  “I can get you the guy in charge of that.” He left.

  Fenwick said, “I feel left out.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Nobody has this kind of thing for straight people.”

  “They don’t?” Turner asked.

  “Not that I know about.”

  “Maybe there is and you just don’t know about it,” Turner said.

  “I thought I was comfortable with this, but I’m just not into it.”

  “Nobody said you had to be.”

  “Maybe I’m missing out.”

  “You could ask Madge.”

  “She’d probably really beat the hell out of me.”

  “And you don’t deserve that?” Turner asked.

  “Not all that much.”

  “Or you’d enjoy it too much?”

  “Don’t push your luck.”

  Turner knew from his observation of the couple over the years that they were a loving pair although he suspected Fenwick revealed even more of his oddities and peccadilloes to his wife. At least Turner hoped he wasn’t the recipient of the most major ones in Fenwick’s life.

  “You mean this is too gay for you?” Turner asked.

  “No. That’s not it. Maybe it was when the guy scratched his balls through his jock strap.”

  Turner laughed. “When we play poker with some of the guys, what do straight guys do?”

  “Huh?”

  “You never noticed? They do three things. They belch, fart, and scratch their nuts.”

  Fenwick thought a moment then asked, “And your point?”

  “That’s all this guy did.”

  “He didn’t belch or fart, and we don’t wear see-through jockstraps.”

  “You bragging or complaining?”

  Fenwick grumbled.

  Turner asked, “Is that an annoyed grumble, an angry grumble, a frustrated grumble, or a go to hell grumble?”

  “I think it’s a let’s switch topics grumble.”

  Turner obliged. He said, “We’ll have more tapes to look at.”

  “I’ll let you handle it. You’re into this stuff.”

  “More like I’m familiar with what it is.”

  A few minutes later two men crowded into the small space: one an older man, Jasper Thiel, with iron gray hair, the other much younger, Ken Zibel, with dyed blond locks.

  Thiel said, “I’m in charge of putting people together on the site.”

  “How does that work?”

  “I find out what they will or won’t do, and I partner them with people who will or won’t do the same things. I show guys pictures of other guys or I introduce them. We try to get a chemistry that will work. Ken here saw a picture of Belger and was really into him. I told him it was hopeless.”

  Fenwick said, “We should probably talk to Mr. Zibel alone.” Thiel left.

  Turner said, “Mr. Zibel, what can you tell us?”

  Zibel spoke in a mild tenor voice. “I only knew him as Jack Rammer. He wouldn’t tell me his real name. But he was so hot. Rugged. Masculine. That turns me on. I really was into him. I like sex rough. I talked to him a few times on the set. Just to be friendly. I offered to do all kinds of things for him not on the set. In private. He kept saying no, but I persisted. Finally, I met him a couple times in like regular places. He was nice to me. I’m sorry he’s dead.”

  “Where did you meet him?” Turner asked.

  “Coffee shops mostly. At first.”

  “When was this?” Turner asked.

  “The last couple weeks before the incident in the bar. I really was into him. I got him to talk to me. He even finally talked about being a real cop. Helping people. Tackling a gang banger who just shot someone.” He sighed.“I wanted to see him in his uniform.”

  “And did he oblige?” Turner asked.

  “Finally. He came to my place. At first he wouldn’t let me touch him. I could just look. It was still so hot. He let me jack off while I watched him.” Zibel blushed. “Should I be telling this to real cops? Of course, he was a real cop. You don’t look like real cops.” He pointed at Fenwick. “You look kind of out of place, which I guess at the Black and Blue Party fits in.”

  “But he did let you blow him on the site?” Turner asked.

  “He let me do it in private once and on the site a few times. I couldn’t touch him above the waist or anything. He’d stop my hands if I tried anything.”

  “Why?” Fenwick said.

  “I don’t know. I hoped I’d get to do more. I guess I was in love with him. Or in lust with him. Then the incident with the bartender happened, and he got real cold. I figured
it was that, because of the bar incident, I knew his real name.”

  Fenwick asked, “All the time he saw you, he didn’t tell you his name?”

  “No. After the bar thing, he wouldn’t see me. He’d only do website stuff. He wouldn’t talk to me or tell me anything.”

  “He ever talk about fights with anybody? His partner Callaghan.”

  “Oh yeah, Callaghan. Man, he hated that guy. Belger would talk to me about him.”

  “He told you his real name?” Turner asked.

  “He never did, but after the bar incident when he was on TV, I figured out who he was and who Callaghan was.”

  “What would he say?”

  “He’d get real mad. Said the guy couldn’t be depended on. Said he was the one always getting in trouble with Callaghan doing dumb stuff, but they’d always blame him, Belger. He never said more than that. I don’t know anything about what happened in that bar.” Zibel got teary-eyed. “He was hot.” He wiped his hand across his eyes.

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “After his performance here. He said he’d be back. I had other stuff to do.”

  After he left, Turner said, “That was only the second tear we’ve seen for Belger. The current wife and this guy.”

  “That’s actually kind of sad or truly weird,” Fenwick said. Turner said, “An asshole pig, dies and some nearly anonymous kid is practically the only one who cares.”

  Fenwick said, “Somebody cares, if you call wanting to kill him caring.”

  They talked to the rest of the men staffing the booth. Several of them said they remembered seeing Belger. No one remembered him after his performance the day before.

  After they finished with the staff, they sent for Frank Jordan. Fenwick asked, “Did you notice any change in Belger after the bartender incident?”

  “I didn’t associate him with it. These guys come and go. Some need money and call day after day begging to be on. A few are semi-regulars. It’s not odd for them to just drop out of sight and never be seen again. Or they call once in a while. Some we call because they’re popular. Belger we’d call at least one or twice a month. I don’t remember anything odd.”

  Fenwick said, “They had this many people working on the site?”

  Jordan said, “During the Party we have a full staff. There’s only about five of us on permanent retainer and only three get full time pay and benefits: me, Jasper, and Ordman.”

  As they were leaving the booth area, Ordman, still clad only in his mesh jockstrap, motioned Turner over. When the cop was close, Ordman leaned so his lips were less than an inch from his ear. Turner could feel his breath and smell his sweat. It was not unpleasant. Ordman said, “I’d be happy to have you at the booth or the site.”

  Turner shook his head.

  “Or maybe even have a private show at my place. You don’t have to be into this.”

  Turner blushed. “Thanks. I have a husband and I love him.”

  Jordan smiled. “My loss.”

  Turner said, “I appreciate the compliment.”

  “If you change your mind.” He produced a card from a backpack under the table near the front of the store. Turner said thanks.

  “What was that?” Fenwick asked when they were in the grand concourse.

  “An invitation.” He crumpled up the card and threw it into the nearest trash can.

  Fenwick said, “What did that guy mean, I don’t fit in?”

  Turner said, “Buck, why don’t you make friends with a mirror?”

  “Is that a dig?”

  “Yes.”

  Fenwick said, “Belger had some kind of connection to Zibel.”

  “Yes. There’s a sort of relationship there that Belger permitted. Something was going on.”

  They tried the other two whipping demonstration booths, but no one in either of them claimed to know anything.

  As they climbed the stairs back to the main exposition booths, Deveneaux and Sanchez rushed up to them. Sanchez said, “Scanlan is here. I grabbed him, but he fought like mad for a couple seconds. He yelled for help, that he wasn’t a slave, this wasn’t a scene.”

  Deveneaux said, “I was just coming back up to the main concourse. I heard Sanchez yelling and came running.”

  Sanchez said, “People intervened. One huge guy grabbed me and said, ‘If the kid doesn’t want to play, let him go, find somebody else, like me.’ By the time I’d identified myself, he was gone.”

  “Which way did he go?”

  “Not out,” Sanchez said. “At least not toward the exits up here. He was headed downstairs.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  They sent for help, and told Deveneaux and Sanchez to guard the main exits above. As assistance arrived, it would be sent to all entrances and exits. They’d seal off as much of the perimeter of the massive old edifice as they could. As Turner and Fenwick prepared to descend into the bowels of the old station, Slade rushed up. He said, “I saw someone running toward the halls that lead to the entrance the Scanlan kid used. None of our party stuff is down there. I didn’t recognize who it was.” They left Slade behind.

  It could be a random fool, or a gate crasher, or something insignificant, or Scanlan. They borrowed flashlights from arriving beat cops. As they left the better lighted areas, they switched them on. Without a guide, they quickly found the vast corridors and innumerable turnings confusing.

  Fenwick said, “Molton has that schematic on order.”

  “Doesn’t help much now,” Turner said. “We’ll follow each major path then double back.”

  Fenwick halted in the middle of a corridor. He shone his flashlight as far forward as he could then back. He said, “Are we being set up?”

  Turner said, “Not by Sanchez and Deveneaux. We’ve known them too long.”

  Fenwick repeated the mantra, “Trust no one.”

  Turner said, “We gotta trust our judgment at some point. How many cases we worked with those guys?”

  “Several zillion.”

  Turner said, “If those two are plotting against us, I think maybe I don’t want to be a cop anymore.”

  Fenwick asked, “By Slade?”

  Turner shrugged then reached down and unstrapped his gun. Fenwick followed suit.

  As they descended farther, the sounds of the party diminished. The coolness from the air-conditioning faded more as they turned each corner. Faint breezes stirred at random intervals. Random openings? Ancient ductwork? Puffs of air did little to disturb the dust and nothing to relieve the stuffiness. As they got farther down, an occasional cricket let out a forlorn chirp. As they had the first time down here, they heard the faint skittering of nocturnal creatures.

  In another ten minutes they came upon crime scene tape strewn on the ground. Fenwick said, “It fell or somebody ripped it down, or it just got in somebody’s way?”

  “Yes,” Turner said.

  They followed the crime scene tape which now marked the route to the entrance near where Scanlan had been found.

  Fenwick said, “Hell of a long way to carry a body.”

  Turner said, “Maybe there’s a more direct way from the entrance to where the body was. Remember, the kid brought us here, but the maze that this place is, who knows? Hell, the body’s resting point could be ten feet from here. We have got to get those schematics.”

  A piece of metal clanked.

  The detectives glanced up and down the corridor. Nothing to be seen. Lots of closed doors and halls leading off left and right. Nothing visible beyond the glow of their flashlights.

  Fenwick said, “I got nothing funny, poetic, or gritty.”

  Turner said, “For that I am grateful.”

  As they turned the next corridor, a low moan echoed down the dark passageway in front of them. Crouched on opposite sides of the corridor, they switched off their flashlights. They stood still for a few moments so their eyes could adjust to the darkness. A far hall light added vague shadows to their forms as they inched forward. Moments later they came to
the door of the room the secret entrance was in. The dimmest light seeped from the room.

  They heard someone breathing heavily.

  Turner tapped Fenwick on the arm. They nodded to each other. “Police,” Fenwick announced. Gripping their firearms, first Turner then Fenwick rushed through the entrance and threw themselves in opposite directions inside the room.

  The light was sufficient for them to see Matthew Bryner stooping over a body on the floor.

  “Drop the dildo,” Fenwick commanded. “Hands where I can see them.”

  The offending sex toy thumped to the ground. Bryner then quickly obeyed the second command.

  Turner switched his flashlight on while Fenwick kept his gun trained on Bryner. Turner approached the body. It was Peter Scanlan. Blood seeped from his ears, nose, and mouth. Turner handed Fenwick his flashlight then took out his cell phone, punched in 9-1-1. While they were quite far down, the room was a direct exit to the street only a few steps away, so he could get reception. Turner used the other hand to feel for a pulse. Nothing, but the kid was still warm. The blood was still spreading.

  Bryner said, “I didn’t kill him.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  An hour later, just past two, Fenwick, Turner, and Molton huddled with the ME in the room where they’d found Scanlan. Molton rarely came to major crime scenes. He trusted his detectives, but they all knew that this case was big enough to warrant extra attention. Down the hall, Bryner was in handcuffs.

  Fenwick asked, “Did you find out who let Scanlan go?”

  “Boyle ordered it. He came to some kind of deal after he met the parents. I have the impression that he wanted to trash this party more than he wanted a suspect. And they couldn’t hold the kid. I got downtown to put pressure on getting the tests done quickly. Real tests with real results. Nobody would admit rushing them for Boyle, which put Boyle out of luck. He claimed he had test results which no one conducted. So his whole case went kaflooey. My guess is he’s going to be in trouble over that little fiasco.”