by Hal Bodner
On Wednesday, her call had come while he was high on a ladder in the dining room, in the process of replacing the burnt out candles in the chandelier. Foolishly reluctant to release his grip on the last candle as he had almost managed to position them all so that the drippings wouldn’t overflow, he’d stretched to reach the kitchen extension, overbalanced, and crashed to the floor in a pile of shattered wax and plaster; his weight ripped the fixture clean out of the ceiling.
He could have simply broken down and called her before she had a chance to call him, but Chris irrationally felt that to do so would be giving ground. By Thursday, therefore, he’d prepared. Resolving that, this time, he would answer the phone without disaster, he refrained from any substantive work on the townhouse and contented himself with waxing the newly stripped floors and dusting.
As of eight-thirty, however, the telephone still remained silent and Chris decided to go out and grab a bite. He left the townhouse and, walking down the street, almost immediately encountered a tall, lanky blond engineering student from Drexel. One thing led to another and the student eagerly accompanied Chris back home where Chris rapidly had him writhing in erotic passion. Chris had just gotten the young engineer out of his shirt and was slowly unbuttoning his own fly when the telephone rang.
Chris ignored it. It rang again.
By the seventh ring, he could stand it no longer. With a silent curse against all those who manufactured cheap answering machines and resolving to finally break down and get himself either voice mail or a cell phone which could be turned off, he excused himself from the sweating young man and rushed out of the bedroom and across the hallway to the telephone, completely forgetting about the newly waxed floor.
His feet suddenly began to move much faster than he had intended them to. He skittered across the hall, arms flailing futilely for balance and crashed into the telephone table, showering the hall with scraps of paper, pencils and the cursed answering machine. He grabbed the receiver as, in a flash of anger, he threw the machine into the living room where it burst against the far wall, gouging the wood paneling, bits of its innards flying through the air.
“All right already!” He yelled into the telephone, without bothering to say hello. “I made the fucking reservations! I’ll be there tomorrow!”
So saying, he hurled the telephone after the answering machine and listened in satisfaction as it shattered with a lovely crunching sound. Picking himself off the floor, he returned to his guest. The mood, however, had been spoiled.
Clive Anderson was pissed. He was outwardly calm and composed, but his insides seethed as the frustrations of the week hit home. They’d had three days of respite, and then, without warning, this morning the fifth body had been discovered.
The victim was a young Asian lad, with a classic V-shaped torso and heavily muscled arms and thighs. Clive had had ample opportunity to enviously examine the details of the corpse’s magnificent physique as, like Billy Boyd before him, this young man was stark naked. Looking down as Becky worked on the body sprawled out before her amid a cluster of forensics experts, and listening to the chatter of the group of local residents gathered behind the police barricade, Clive began to wonder if the neighbors were more upset at the thought of the killer amongst them or at the unfortunate youth’s lack of proper attire.
“Without a stitch!” he overheard the effeminate man who’d discovered the body say for what seemed the twentieth time in as many minutes. “Just lying there, bare assed, in the bushes next to the rear door of the shop. At first I thought, my dear, someone’s dropped off a present!” Clive turned away in disgust.
The speaker was Charles Partridge, owner of Partridge’s Pomade-a-Dorium at the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and the normally quiet residential block West Knoll Drive. He’d discovered the body shortly after opening up for business when he opened the back door of his shop to take out the garbage.
Fifty-eight, and, by means of an impressively dyed pompadour hairstyle that Clive suspected was actually a wig, trying to look twenty-five, Partridge was a notorious publicity hound. Three years ago, a Rolls Royce convertible had spun out of control and left Santa Monica Boulevard behind, leaping the curb and crashing through the front door of the salon. Partridge capitalized on the event by creating an advertising campaign, complete with photos of the car sticking out of the front of the shop with the copy: PEOPLE JUST CAN’T WAIT TO GET POMADED BY PARTRIDGE! In Clive’s opinion the ad had been tasteless.
Partridge had recently been making noises about getting involved in West Hollywood politics, perhaps even running for mayor. Even though West Hollywood’s current mayor, Daniel Eversleigh, was somewhat of a joke to practically anyone who knew him, the thought of this buttercup yellow-haired buffoon running for election made Clive shudder with distaste.
Partridge was notorious for holding himself above the law. In fact, at least two or three times a week, Clive was forced to take the hairdresser’s telephone calls and patiently explain that, although Clive was well aware that Charles Partridge was one of West Hollywood’s leading citizens and a bastion of the business community, there was still no way Clive could “get him out of” his parking citations for parking on the curb, the sidewalk, the middle of the street or on someone’s front lawn—whichever locale was the subject of the particular ticket that prompted the call. Partridge’s handling of a corpse on his back doorstep had been typical of the man’s arrogance as far as law enforcement was concerned.
Upon the discovery of the body, Partridge had immediately called his friend Ed Larsen, editor of the Gay Gazette. The sheriff’s department had been notified only after Larsen showed up with a photographer to snap exclusive photos. Clive had been furious and had seriously considered having both Partridge and Larsen arrested.
Larsen was currently a particular thorn in Clive’s side. The porn producer, still shaken up by the way he felt he’d been treated that horrible day of the false fire alarm at the station, had given an inflammatory interview to the Gazette immediately upon his return from the hospital. Accusing the city, the department, and everyone else who was even remotely connected with municipal government of institutionalized homophobia, emotional gay bashing, and insensitivity, he also used the opportunity to promote sales of his deceased lover’s latest video.
Egged on by Larsen, he’d managed to create a stir in the gay press, which, with the absence of new corpses, had only just begun to abate slightly. In addition, the producer had launched a rambling, sixty-two-page, three million dollar lawsuit against the city; the city attorney was still trying to make sense of the complaint and figure out just what West Hollywood was supposed to have done wrong.
Clive groaned mentally at the thought of what Larsen would come up with for tomorrow’s headline.
He jumped as a hand came clapping down on his shoulder and a voice brayed loudly into his ear.
“What the hell happened this time?”
The speaker was Pamela Burman. Pamela was widely known in local government for two things, her efficiency as West Hollywood’s City Manager and her obvious irritation with everyone she had ever met in her entire life. Burman had also achieved a certain notoriety with her neighbors due to her propensity, even though she had recently been quoted in a local newspaper as admitting to being “older than sixty”, for jogging three miles each morning wearing a variety of fluorescent colored jogging suits. Local dog owners, out taking the family pooch for a morning stroll, had quickly learned to prominently display shovels, paper bags, and rubber gloves as signs of their compliance with West Hollywood’s “pooper-scooper” ordinance, the moment they caught sight of Burman’s famous hot pink and electric blue costume descending upon them. Pamela was not above stopping strollers and their pets without warning and turning her full wrath upon them, including a series of citizen’s arrests, if the hapless animal lover could not immediately provide physical proof of his or her ability to remove the offending doggy deposits from West Hollywood’s pristine curbsides.
Burm
an’s escapades had made headlines on more occasions than anyone could count. In fact, she’d been carrying on a love/hate relationship with both of the local gay newspapers for several years. Burman was a news editor’s dream; on the one hand, she often allowed her innate rancor to get the best of her and made disparaging remarks about the local gay community’s activities, which, but for the fact that she was a violently outspoken Republican in a mostly Democratic town, would have been forgiven. On the other hand, she was indescribably campy, without intending to be, and the gay press gleefully reported on each and every one of her eccentric activities. She had sued both local papers countless times, losing each lawsuit.
In one instance, her claim involved some extremely arch printed remarks made by Ed Larsen concerning a neon green suede pantsuit, several sizes too small, that Burman had once chosen to wear to one of Mayor Daniel Eversleigh’s swearing-in ceremonies. Burman was infuriated by Larsen’s criticism and publicly promised to “...sue that nelly little bitch for everything he’s worth!”—following this comment with a stream of vituperation that covered, among other things, Larsen’s probable parentage and his dubious claims to masculinity.
The papers seized the opportunity and photos of the “Nelly Green Suit” began appearing everywhere, comparing Burman’s wardrobe to those of locally prominent drag queens and serving to hoist her to a new level of mindless ire. When asked if he truly believed the accusations of homophobia that his reporters were busily hurling at the City Manager, Larsen replied, “Are you kidding? We love her! What queen wouldn’t? She’s the fashion risk of the decade! Besides, she sells papers!”
So much for her gay constituency. As for West Hollywood’s extensive elderly population—they adored her. Long a candidate for Social Security herself, she refused to reveal her exact age, responding to most inquires with a clipped snarl of “Sixty-teen.” Yet she was indefatigable and had become somewhat of a role model for many, instituting many seniors’ programs geared toward elderly residents. She’d fought long and hard against the construction of a new city hall building, citing the fact that its proposed site was almost half a block uphill from the nearest bus stop, making it difficult for the elderly to access. She’d championed a taxi-coupon program with city-sponsored discounts for senior citizens and with the help of West Hollywood’s business community she created a Homeless Shelter after receiving complaints from elderly residents about being panhandled and accosted by vagrants. In fact, it was rumored that city council was considering renaming the shelter in Burman’s honor. Even though she was irritating and aggravating and a sworn enemy of the mayor, the Council was not so foolish as ignore their constituents: In any election year, Burman’s support could make the difference between keeping and losing a council seat.
Right now, however, Burman appeared less than charitable. She’d seen Ed Larsen taking statements from the gathered crowd when she arrived; the thought of additional bad press was doing little to improve her notorious ill temper.
“Good Christ! Another one?”
“Another one,” Clive sighed. My God, it’s unseasonably warm for October! he thought. He wanted nothing more than to be out of Pamela’s presence and back at the station, where he thought longingly of the spare clean, dry dress shirt once again awaiting him in his bottom desk drawer.
Drawing Clive aside for a moment, away from the corpse, and facing him so closely that they were almost nose to nose, she hissed, “What the hell are you going to do about this, Clive? You’ve seen what the goddamn gay papers are doing with it? I’ve had half a dozen gay rights groups outside of City Hall protesting since last Friday. When are you gonna find this lunatic?”
Clive gently extricated himself from Burman’s death grip on his arm and, smoothing out his wrinkled sleeve, replied, “We’re doing the best we can, Pam.”
“Don’t give me that crap! I don’t want your best. I want the son-of-a-bitch caught and locked up. Better yet, I want him hung. I’ll tie the damned noose my self. Around his balls if I can manage it. All you’ve gotta do is catch him. We’ve got the Halloween Parade coming up in a few weeks, and city council’s on my back about publicity.” She grabbed for the captain’s lapels to draw him closer; Clive narrowly avoided her grasp.
“Look, we tried to keep this out of the papers. With five unexplained corpses someone was bound to notice something sooner or later.”
“Can’t you get a restraining order or something against the Gazette?” said Burman venomously, as she caught Larsen’s eye, waved at him, and bared her teeth in a beatific smile. Larsen, out of earshot, waved back and snapped a picture of Burman and Clive standing next to the corpse. “God, I hate that bitch!” she said quietly, the smile still frozen on her face.
“Talk to the city attorney,” Clive suggested.
Burman’s phony smile vanished. “Yeah, right,” she fumed, “That asshole has had it in for me ever since I nailed his kid for rollerblading without a helmet last year.” She looked around in frustration at the increasing number of onlookers as Becky, finished with her preliminary examination, was supervising the loading of the body into the coroner’s van.
“Get outta here!” she yelled at the startled crowd. “Shoo! There’s nothing to see! Go home! Get a life!” She launched herself at the people standing most closely pressed up against the police barricade, her lemon yellow purse lifted and prepared to swing down upon the unprotected heads of the crowd. Clive grabbed her by the collar of her red-and-white-polka-dot woolen coat and dragged her back.
“Are you crazy?” he demanded. “Larsen’s got a camera! The last thing you need is a lawsuit for assault.”
“Then get ’em outta here!” she demanded. “They’re making me crazy.” She turned back to the crowd. “Don’t any of you people have day jobs? What are you standing there for?”
Clive motioned to two nearby deputies who began moving amongst the gathered onlookers and clearing them out. He saw Becky waddling toward them with the awkward gait she’d recently developed from her continuing efforts to hide her pudgy thighs. Her look of concern gave way to a grin at his altercation with Burman.
“What’re you smiling about?” he demanded when she came within hearing range. He nervously smoothed down his hair with his hands, wishing desperately for a comb, a mirror, and a nice tall relaxing glass of scotch and soda.
“Nothing. Good morning, Pam.”
“What’s good about it?” Burman fumed.
“What have you got?” Clive asked hopefully.
A look of uneasiness crossed Becky’s fleshy, pleasant face, wiping away her grin. “It’s bad, Clive. Very bad.”
“Great!” Burman snorted.
“Young, pretty, well-built...and gay. Just like the others.”
“We all saw what he looked like,” said Burman, waving in the direction of the coroner’s van. “Jesus Christ, the entire world saw exactly what he looked like! Down to his fucking religion!”
“Believe me, I know,” said Clive. He indicated a small group of four women and a man holding up handmade signs on broom handles on the far side of the barricade. “You see them?”
“So what?” said Burman with irritation. “God-damned morbid looky-loos!” she shouted at the startled group. “What do you people do, stop at traffic accidents and have picnics?”
“Pamela,” Clive hissed. “Will you stop? They’re from the League of Decency!”
“The born again group?” asked Becky. Clive nodded miserably.
“Oh, yeah?” said Burman pensively. Then her face brightened. “Watch this!” she ordered.
She marched up to the barricade, yelling out, “You! Hey, you there! Decency people! I wanna tell you something!” She motioned them toward her.
Slowly, the one male member approached, the women following behind. “Yes?” he inquired politely.
Burman leaned forward across the barrier. Breathing into the man’s face, she yelled, “Get fucked!” Leaving the startled Christians behind, she marched back to the white-faced Clive.
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” he gulped. “They’ve been writing letters to the governor for the past week protesting against indecent attire in their neighborhood. It probably doesn’t even occur to them that a corpse can’t help the state it’s found in.”
“Does anyone want to know what I found?” Becky asked before Burman could attack the Christians once more.
“What?” Burman demanded, half sarcastically and half with hopeful anticipation. “A clue? Finally!”
“I’m not sure,” Becky mused. “The blood tests prove that the first four victims were all negative for VD, including HIV, hepatitis, syphilis, the works. Not even a low-grade infection.” Becky removed her rubber gloves and, with a slightly apologetic look, took a Twinkie out of her pocket and began to unwrap it.
“Infection? You checked to see if they had the flu?”
“Anal sex, Pamela,” Becky sighed. “Over time, the rectum can get infected.”
“I need to know this?” Burman demanded with a look of mild distaste. “Some pathologist you are!”
“Pam,” Becky began patiently, her brow furrowed in concentration as she attempted to remove the plastic from her treat without getting vanilla filling on her hands, “This city has a population of thirty-five thousand people, a third of them gay men. Most of those guys have some kind of medical condition. If this one’s completely clean too, something strange could be going on. The statistics are against it.” She began to take tiny little bites from the cake.
“So what, the killer takes a blood test before he murders them? I’m supposed to tell that to that idiot Eversleigh and the city council?”
“It all comes back to the blood. There’s been too much blood lost from every one of the victims. But we haven’t found more than a few drops in the vicinity of the bodies.”
Clive thought for a minute. “Could the killer be someone with AIDS? Dementia’s a tricky thing. Maybe he wants revenge on healthy gay men.”
