by Dorien Grey
The kitchen, off the small dining room, was roomy and pleasantly cluttered—not messy, and a lot neater than mine, but lived in.
Ed fixed the drinks, and I sat at the kitchen table while he moved back and forth between the sink, refrigerator, and stove with professional casualness.
“I hope you don’t mind meat loaf,” he said, pausing to take a drink from his Manhattan. “That, steak, and chili I can handle. Everything else is a disaster. My general rule of thumb for cooking is, if you smell it burning, it’s done.”
We small-talked our way through his preparations, then adjourned to the living room.
“Feeling any better?” Ed asked, handing me a coaster. “You really sounded pretty down when I talked with you earlier.”
“Yeah,” I said, sensing the back burner of my mind switching on despite my efforts to keep it off, at least for tonight. “Like I said, it was a rough day. I sort of lost a client.”
Still, ingredients were beginning to drop into the pot—McDermott; B. Kano; missing photos; open doors.
Later, damn it! Let me just relax tonight, okay?
“Hmm,” Ed said. “Sorry about that. But a guy like you should have lots of clients.”
“Yeah, usually. Mostly piddling stuff. This one’s different. A lot different.”
I leaned forward, idly stirring the ice cubes around in my drink with an index finger. I suddenly remembered Tim. I’d tried to get him before I left the apartment, but he wasn’t home yet. I wouldn’t feel right about asking to use Ed’s phone—talking about finding corpses wasn’t exactly conducive to the flow of a pleasant evening.
Besides, I didn’t want to bring Ed into the whole mess. I decided that if I couldn’t call Tim tonight, I’d try him first thing in the morning.
Rogers: cheating on a lover. McDermott: a “tramp.” Granger: into rough types. Klein and Harriman knew each other—of course they did. Rholfing knew them all, so the odds were pretty good they all knew one another.
“Well,” I heard Ed saying, “I don’t want to butt into your business, but any time you feel like talking to someone about it, I’m a good listener.”
I smiled, suddenly aware of just how much I’d been wandering. Looking directly at him, I said, “I appreciate that, Ed. Really. And I hope you don’t mind if I seem a little preoccupied every now and then. I don’t mean to be, but I can’t seem to help it.”
He returned the smile.
“No sweat.”
We small-talked some more, finished our drinks, and Ed went into the kitchen to get us a refill and check on dinner.
Why wouldn’t Bell, Sibalitch, or Miller have known any of the other victims? What link was there in the fact that they didn’t? There was one. That bastard part of my mind knew, and it wouldn’t tell me.
“A-hem.”
Startled, I looked up to find Ed standing in front of me, holding a fresh drink. Embarrassed, I took it.
“Some company I am,” I muttered.
“I told you, no sweat. I get that way myself from time to time.”
Time! I nearly dropped my glass.
“Time!” I said aloud, producing a look of surprise and slight bewilderment on Ed’s face.
“Time for what?”
“Time! It’s a link!” I heard myself say.
I lost track of everything around me in the rush of thoughts, like air filling a vacuum. I wasn’t even aware that I was talking aloud.
“Martin Bell was out of the city for an extended period starting about three years ago. Mike Sibalitch had been with Gene Harriman a little less than three years. Klein and Harriman had known each other before that. Rholfing and McDermott had been together about a year but had known each other quite a while before that. Gary Miller and Alan Rogers had been together less than two years. Whatever they had in common has to go back at least three years!”
Ed just stood there, looking at me and shaking his head.
“Whew!” he said. “You lost me way back there. Right about when you shouted ‘time!’”
I felt like a complete fool.
“Oh, shit, Ed! I’m sorry. I really am! You must think I’m some sort of nut—and you’re probably right.”
He smiled and motioned me toward the dining room.
“Forget it, Sam Spade. You can help me set the table. It’s just about time to eat.”
Time was a link!
But to what?
I got up to set the table.
Chapter 7
Rholfing was dead, and I was technically without a client. But I had about $300 of his retainer money in the bank and another $500 stashed at home. I also had a burning sensation in my gut that told me I was going to follow the case no matter how long it took or where it might lead.
I still couldn’t shake the feeling of responsibility I had for Rholfing’s death. If he knew the victims, he knew the killer—I was positive of that much. And if I’d told him Rogers, Klein, Harriman, Granger, and Barker were dead, he would never have invited his killer in. And if wishes were wings, elephants could fly.
At seven-thirty the next morning, I was on the phone.
“Good morning.” Tim’s voice as a bit groggy.
“Tim. Hi. Sorry if I woke you, but I’ve got some news I wanted to prepare you for.”
“I’ve got VD.”
“No…”
“You’ve got VD.”
“No, damn it! We’ve got another death. Rholfing—McDermott’s lover.”
“Holy shit! That must have been the one they were wheeling in just as I was leaving. He was in a body bag, but it wasn’t all the way zipped up and I thought that bleached blond hair looked familiar.” He paused, then said, “But how did you find out?”
“I found him yesterday afternoon. I called the police from Rholfing’s apartment, but didn’t identify myself and wasn’t about to stick around for them to get there. I didn’t want to call you at work, and wasn’t able to call after you got home.”
“I had a date right after work,” Tim said. “I didn’t get home until late.” Another pause. “I don’t suppose I have to ask how Rhol…Rholfing, was it?…died?”
“Not if the slight scent of almonds and blue skin gives you any clue.”
He gave a long, slow sigh.
“Here we go again.”
“Look, Tim,” I said, “I really hate to put you out on a limb like this, but could you make an extra effort to find out what’s going on with the police? Surely they’re not just going to sit on their hands with seven deaths and counting.”
“Dream on, good sir.” His voice showed his bitterness. “From everything I know, they’ve done nothing but sit on their hands so far. ‘Proceeding with all deliberate speed,’ I believe they call it. They’re positive it’s a serial killer, though, which gives their lack of action a certain credibility, in their eyes at least. All they can do is wait for the next body and hope the killer makes some sort of traceable mistake.”
There was yet another slight pause, then: “Tell you what. I know one of our people on the force. I don’t know whether he’s aware of what’s going on or not—I told you that rabidly homophobic police chief of ours is trying to keep this a very private party—but I’ll check with him without giving too much away. It’s a toss-up as to whether he’ll have anything or not, but it’s worth a try.”
“Tim,” I said honestly, “I don’t know what I’d do without you! I really owe you.”
“How about a partial payoff with lunch today? Maybe by that time I’ll have rustled up something.”
“You’re on. When and where?”
“Well, I only get an hour, and I still have to be pretty careful. Can’t go anyplace gay during working hours, and straight places make me nervous. Why don’t you grab some fried chicken or something and meet me at the fountain in Warman Park? About noon, or a few minutes after.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
“Okay. I’d better start pulling the old bod together for work. The way I feel this morning, it’s goin
g to be a major project. See you at noon.”
I hung up the phone and poured myself a second cup of coffee. It was going to be a long morning.
*
I’d tried to reach Arnold Klein before I left the apartment, but there was no answer, so I tried again when I got to the office. Still no luck. I decided to try once more that evening and, if there was still no response from the roommates, to just drop by their apartment and leave a note for them to call me.
Which is what I also decided to try with Bill Elers, Clete Barker’s lover/roommate, since neither was listed in the phone book.
I futzed around the office until the bank opened, deposited Rholfing’s posthumous $500, and headed for 4427 West Avondale—Elers’s apartment. I didn’t really expect to find anyone home, and didn’t. I slipped my card under his door with a note asking him to please call me that evening, giving both my office and home numbers.
By the time I made it back downtown and stopped at a fast-food place for some chicken and a couple large Cokes, it was nearly noon. Warman Park is about two blocks from the City Building, where Tim worked, and I sat on the edge of the fountain—the upwind side, to avoid windblown spray—and waited for him.
Fortunately, Warman Park has some very nice scenery—hunky office workers, up-and-coming young execs, a few scantily-clad joggers—so the time passed quickly. Still, it was nearly quarter after when Tim showed up.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, plopping down on the ledge beside me. “We did the autopsy this morning on you-know-who. God, even dead he looks like a faggot.”
“Any surprises?” I asked.
Tim looked at me, one eyebrow cocked.
“You expected surprises?”
The breeze made a sudden shift, and a few drops of spray began to fall around us. I grabbed the chicken and Cokes, and we moved off to a shady area under a tree about twenty yards from the fountain and ten from the nearest pathway.
Tim rummaged through the sack like a bear at a campground.
“God, I’m hungry!” he said.
I never could figure out how someone could carve up dead bodies all day and still be hungry, but, then…
“So, did you find out anything from your cop buddy?” I asked, waiting while Tim ravaged a drumstick.
“Um-hmm,” he said, grabbing a napkin and wiping his mouth. “Word’s pretty well out in the department.”
He inserted the straw expertly into the slit in the plastic lid of his Coke—I always end up stabbing furiously at it, usually smashing the straw beyond repair, sloshing Coke all over myself, or both in the process—and took a long drink, his eyes closed in mock ecstasy.
“But it hasn’t provoked much interest,” he went on finally. “I checked with my contact, and he was pretty close-mouthed. He’s aware that something is going on but apparently doesn’t know any of the specifics. What he’s heard is that there’s another serial killer out there, but that since he’s specializing in faggots, it’s not that big a thing. Now, if straights start dying…
“I overheard the medical examiner—I know damn well he knows my scene, and he’s pretty sympathetic to us—talking to some plainclothesman I assume is in charge of whatever investigation there might be.”
He reached into the sack for a breast portion, which he attacked with the same enthusiasm he’d shown the drumstick.
“Anyway,” he continued between bites, “the ME was asking the cop how the investigation was going, and it was plain as shit the cop was bored by the whole thing. No leads, no clues, absolutely no connection between any of the victims—and get this.” He jabbed the air with the half-eaten breast, emphasizing his point. “His reaction to the fact that McDermott and Rholfing were ‘roommates’ was ‘Well, it just goes to prove these fucking faggots never learn!’”
He stared at me in wide-eyed disbelief.
“Can you imagine that? Jesus Christ, I wanted to give that asshole an autopsy right on the spot! Even the M.E. couldn’t let that one pass.”
Tim finished the breast, dropped the bones onto a napkin with the remains of the drumstick, and licked his fingers.
“You’re not eating?” he asked as I stabbed furiously at the Coke lid with the straw.
“Not hungry right now,” I said, giving up and tearing the lid off the cup.
Tim shrugged and reached into the sack for more chicken.
“Anyway, the ME looks at the cop and says, very calmly, ‘These are human beings we’re talking about.’ I nearly applauded. The asshole turns about three shades of purple and says, all blustery, ‘Well, of course they’re human beings. We don’t show any bias in our investigations. But you know how hard it is in these home-o-sex-yool cases—they’re all so promiscuous.’
“He left a few minutes later, and if I never see him again, it’ll be too soon.” He paused and looked reflective. “I take that back. On an autopsy table, maybe…” He attacked his third piece of chicken.
We—I broke down and had the remaining drumstick—finished our lunch in relative silence. It was only when we were putting all the bones, napkins, and empty cups back into the sack that Tim looked at me casually out of the corner of his eye and said, “So, you keeping anything from your Number-one Son?”
Embarrassed, I blurted out everything I knew, including my certainty that whatever linked the victims lay about three years or more in the past, and my guilt over Rholfing’s death. I didn’t mention having met Ed Grayley, though—not that Tim would have been jealous. I just didn’t want to risk the possibility.
“Come on, Dick,” he said after I’d finished. “You can’t honestly feel responsible for Rholfing. Hell, you had no way of knowing.” He thought a minute, then shook his head. “But it sure is one hell of a mystery. I can almost see now what the cops are up against, even if they are convinced the deaths were just random.
“Three years is a long time, especially in the gay world. There could be any number of links—the same bar, the same organization, or work…no, not work, I don’t think—they all did different things, as I recall.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “You’ve really got your work cut out for you,” he said.
He was, as usual, so right.
After dumping the garbage in a trash receptacle, I walked Tim partway back to his office, and he promised to call me if he learned anything at all new. I left him at the corner a block from the City Building and watched as he crossed the street. Safely across, he turned, gave me a wave, and disappeared into the crowd.
*
Time. Time. What was it Martin Bell had said about his friend Arthur Granger? Something about three years ago. Yeah, that fit. Definitely. But what had he said?
Then, about three years ago, he went through some sort of trauma—he never would discuss it…
I looked up Bell, Book & Candle and dialed the number. I recognized Bell’s voice even before he identified himself.
“Bell, Book and Candle. Martin Bell speaking. May I help you?”
“Mr. Bell, this is Dick Hardesty calling. Do you have a moment to talk?”
There was only a brief hesitation, then: “Yes. Yes, of course. What can I do for you, Mr. Hardesty?”
“When we spoke, you mentioned that Mr. Granger had had some sort of traumatic experience about three years ago which he would never discuss with you. Do you have any way of knowing what that might have been?”
There was another moment’s pause.
“No. No, I’m afraid I don’t, Mr. Hardesty. Arthur was really a very private person in many ways, and as close as we were, I had learned long ago never to intrude upon that privacy. He told me only what he wanted to tell me.”
“Did you ever surmise what it might have been?” I asked.
“No, I did not. I only know that Arthur was badly shaken by it. If I were to speculate, I would assume it had something to do with his sex life. I believe I told you that Arthur’s tastes were somewhat…bizarre.”
I had a feeling Bell wasn’t going to be able to open many new doors, but I pushed on.
“What can you tell me about Mr. Granger’s life around that time? Did he mention anything specific about his activities? His friends? Places he frequented? Anything you found unusual or out of the ordinary?”
“Mr. Hardesty,” Bell said, and I could almost see his beagle face breaking into a wry grin, “Arthur’s life was unusual and out of the ordinary. He was a brilliant man—a CPA by profession—but his personal life was chaos.
“As to friends, he had very few, I’m afraid. He preferred the anonymity of one-night stands and backroom bars. Nothing in his letters struck me as unusual…for Arthur.”
Strike two.
“Did he belong to any organizations? Any social groups? Go to any particular bar?”
The smile was still in Bell’s voice.
“To Arthur, variety was exciting. I never knew him to take a sustained interest in anything other than sex. And because he respected my opinion of his sexual tastes, he spared me the details of his many encounters. He…oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Hardesty, a customer has just come in. You’ll have to excuse me.”
“Of course, Mr. Bell,” I said, feeling the familiar flat line of frustration. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thank you for talking with me. Good-bye.”
Sighing, I hung up the phone.
Even though he and Alan Rogers had been together only a comparatively short time, there was an outside chance Gary Miller might know something about Rogers’s past. I dialed his number, not really expecting to find him home. Luck was with me.
“Good afternoon. Gary Miller here.”
“Gary. Hi. This is Dick Hardesty.”
His voice was as warm and sexy as ever.
“Dick, good to hear from you.” That man’s voice could melt the polar caps.
“I wanted to call to thank you for your hospitality the other night. I really enjoyed talking with you.”
“The pleasure was mine,” he said, and I could just see the East Coast being submerged in 200 feet of icecap melt water. “I’d always wanted to meet a real, live detective.”
“Flattery will get you anywhere,” I said. “But while we’re on the subject of detecting, there were a couple of questions I didn’t get to ask you while I was there.”
