A Simple Suburban Murder (22 page)

"He may be," I replied wearily. "I feel terrible about Phil." As we waited for the light to change across from the Limelight I said, "I'm not ready to give up."

"I'm too tired to go back there and storm the place," Scott said. "We were lucky this time."

"I don't want to go back there right now."

"Good."

We reached the car. I said, "We haven't solved the murder or found the kid."

"That we haven't." He patted his pockets hunting for his keys.

"I want to go see Neil," I announced.

"Now?At this hour?" He found the keys and unlocked the car. We got in.

"Yes, now. He'll be among the queens holding court at the Melrose. They gather there every night when the bars begin to close." "Why do we need to see him? And why now, for Christ's sake?"

The street outside was quiet as we sat in the car arguing.

I said, "Because we've wasted too much time already. The kid called around this time last night, maybe a little earlier. It's been twenty-four hours."

"And whatever's been done to him happened twenty-four hours ago," Scott cut in.

"Probably, but we don't know that."

"I'm tired. You're tired. We can catch a few hours' sleep at my place. We'll be fresh in the morning."

"I have to work in the morning."

"Take the day off, or let's wait until after school."

"No," I said, "we let the boy go once. We're partly responsible for anything that happens to him."

He put the key in the ignition and said, "You still didn't answer me about why Neil."

"He's the one I got my basic information on North from. I'm hoping he'll know more."

"Tom, that's not a big possibility to go chasing at two in the morning."

"I know, Scott, but it's at least some hope. I promise it'll be the last stop tonight."

"You promise?"

"Yeah, I swear by my best pink chiffon outfit."

"You don't have a pink chiffon outfit."

"So, I swear by yours."

"I don't have one either."

"Scott, start the damn car. Melrose and Broadway."

"I know where it is."

Neil was there. Crammed into the corner booth were five of them all in their finest drag outfits. Neil spotted us and waved us over.

"You're here for high tea with the queens?" he asked.

"We need to see you, Neil."

My demeanor must have communicated the urgency and importance of my request. We moved to a back booth so we couldn't be overheard.

I told him what happened. His first reaction was "So, you've been in the sacred precincts. Half the queens in the city would kill for one of his invitations. Plus you made it all the way to the third floor. I am impressed. Gold stars for both of you." Then Neil launched into an anti-North tirade.

I stopped him. I said, "I agree, he's a despicable son of a bitch in designer clothing, but we need information, Neil. We've got to find the kid."

"If he's out there, I can't help you. He could be anywhere."

"What about North?" I asked. "Where does he send his rejects? The boys he's tired of—what happens to them?"

Neil hesitated, grumbled low, and looked away. I'd never seen him try to be evasive and distant before. "Nothing happens," he said. His hand shook as he raised his cup of tea for a sip. I'd never seen him lose his cool.

"Neil, you've got to tell us."

“I can t.”

"The boy's life could depend on it," I said.

"It might," he admitted.

Scott and I pleaded and cajoled for fifteen minutes.

Neil still refused. He said, "John North has power in this city. In the gay community he knows all and sees all. He has queens begging to be his spies. Anyway, for what I've heard I have no proof, no certain knowledge, and I don't want it either. If it got out it could destroy me, a great deal of this community, and, of course, John North."

"Please." I explained again what we'd been through. What it meant to us. I added, "You want to see him taken down a few pegs, maybe hurt badly. This is your chance."

He glanced from Scott to me. All trace of theatrical effeminacy evaporated from his manner. Beneath the makeup I could see the frightened man.

He took out a hanky and wiped it across his upper lip. "All right," he said.

Neil looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was near, then leaned closer. He said, "This information is dangerous—not only for the reasons I said before—I mean for you personally. Be careful with it. These are only rumors, you understand. Of course, I believe them, but that's because I hate John North." He lowered his head and leaned further across the table. He whispered, "He makes porno movies, kiddie porn and worse. Many of his movies have sadomasochistic action." His words were so low that Scott and I were forced to bend almost half over to be close enough to hear. Our three heads were inches apart. "Some of the torture scenes are more than acting, and"—now his voice was lowest of all—"it has been said that on occasion the actors die."

My head jerked up. The waitress stood at our table staring at us curiously. We three looked at her guiltily.

"Sorry it took so long to get back to you fellas, but a girl's got to have a break, you know? Can I get you boys something?" Her gum popped. She scratched inside her beehive hairdo with the tip of her pencil.

We ordered coffee. When I was sure she was out of earshot I whispered, "Snuff movies? Are you sure?" "No."

"How can he get away with it?" Scott asked.

"If he's doing it, and if he's getting away with it with the complicity of the police and/or politicians, you're dead meat if you get near it. If the police don't know, then he'll be even more vicious in snuffing you out to protect himself."

"Where does all this happen?" I asked.

"I've gone this far," Neil muttered. "You'll find out anyhow. You'll go there. I'm probably signing your death warrant. I hope you find the place empty and deserted."

He told us the address. It was a warehouse on Diversy Avenue, near, I guessed, to where it crossed the North Branch of the Chicago River.

We hurried to the car. Silently Scott drove down Halsted to Diversy and turned west.

"No arguments or objections?" I asked quietly.

"We're going to bust up that motherfucker," he vowed. "It'll be the two of us."

"I'm glad you have such faith in our prowess."

"They won't be expecting us."

"They may not be there at all."

He slammed his fist on the steering wheel. "How could those bastards be killing kids?"

I had no answer to that. I said, "Even if it's deserted we may find some clue that will lead us to Phil." We crossed Lincoln Avenue. "Remember, it was only a rumor," I said.

"Do you doubt it?"

"I find it hard to believe. When Neil thinks the worst about someone, he can go overboard. I'm glad you're willing to go tonight. I'd have walked by myself if you hadn't."

"I know," he said.

We rode in silence. I yawned, whether from nerves or being tired, I couldn't tell. Probably both. In the dashboard light I saw the grim set to Scott's features.

In minutes we were there. First we drove slowly around the building. It was a vast rambling place, a city block wide. The front facing Diversy was all art deco, the sides and back a dull yellow brick interrupted by squares of former windows totally boarded up from inside. No light shone from the warehouse interior. There were no cars parked outside. No one was on the street. The front entrance was deeply recessed and unlit. Dark shadows hid the door, but rather than risk being seen in the lights of a passing car we opted for a rear entrance. Scott drove into an alley across from the back of the warehouse.

He parked in the deepest shadows. The old factories around us were all dark. To our left was the river. We couldn't see it, but its faint acrid reek let us know it was there.

We paused at the curb under the shadow of a lone oak tree. The faint lights from the side streets wouldn't betray our presence anywhere back here. I didn't realize until much later, but for the next hour we spoke in nothing but whispers.

"This is breaking and entering, real criminal offenses," I said.

"Do we have a choice if the kid's in there?" Scott asked.

"No, I don't think so. Calling the police would bring unnecessary delays. North might have clout enough to keep anyone from ever getting inside."

He nodded agreement. We looked at each other a moment. We'd been through a lot, but this was new, dangerous, and illegal. We grinned at each other.

Broken glass gritted under our shoes as we crossed the street and stole across the parking lot.

I pointed to the locks on the door. "Now what? Plus they've got to have a formidable security system."

"No problem," Scott said. He sprinted back to the car. Moments later the soft click of the trunk closing penetrated the night air. I watched him dart back. He brought a tool kit and a flashlight with him. In the dimness he examined the back of the building. Finally he gave me a reassuring smile. "It's a good system, but I can break through. I've installed more complicated ones. All I have to do is—"

I interrupted, "Don't explain. Just do it."

"Okay." He shrugged. "You'll have to boost me onto the roof."

More eternities than I ever want to spend passed as I waited for his return. The occasional rumble of trucks on Diversy Avenue seeped to the back of the warehouse. In the silence my breathing seemed louder than a symphony orchestra. Where was he? I glanced from door to roof and back countless times. After ten minutes I expected alarms to begin screeching any second.

Slowly the door began to open. Your heart really does stop at heart-stopping moments.

Scott poked his head around the opening. "Come on," he urged. "The alarm's off. I broke through a skylight."

Squaring my shoulders, I entered the building. If there was a silent alarm too, there was no hope for us. We shut the door. The area we were in was completely dark. I let my eyes adjust. A few stray beams of light oozed around corners and through chinks in the boards that covered the windows.

It wasn't much, but enough to see we were in a deserted area that ran the length of the back of the building. Double-locked storage bins loomed opposite from us. They stretched to the distance in both directions. Nothing moved in the vast emptiness, not even the rustle of a rat.

"I haven't seen anyone," Scott said. He turned on the flashlight. Quickly he reset the locks on the back door. Uncertain if our light could be seen from outside, we moved quickly to a normal-sized door opposite.

The room we entered was an office with a phone, desk, and filing cabinets. It was windowless. I felt comfortable panning the flashlight around the room. Rapidly we looked through all the drawers for any hint of a clue. A brief search turned up a few paper clips and three crumpled invoices from
1965.

We followed the flashlight through the room's other door. We found ourselves walking through a series of deserted stage settings. Three-quarters of the building must have been devoted to filming. Cameras and lights cluttered most of the areas. We stepped carefully around them. We made little noise. For the moment we were lucky amateurs. Each of the areas had a different motif: one a simple bedroom, one a prison cell, another a nineteenth-century bordello. There were numerous others. We entered a dungeon setting. I went up to the rack.

I motioned Scott over. "Look," I pointed. Splashed on various parts of the rack was blood. "It looks fresh," I said.

A harsh clattering noise froze us in our tracks.

— 9 —

Q
uickly I doused the light.

I reached out for Scott, found him, and drew him close. I put my lips next to his ear. "Which direction did that come from?"

He shook his head. "I couldn't tell."

We waited for the noise to recur. One light-year passed, then another. I tried to breathe easier. I turned to whisper to Scott. The noise came again louder.

"That's breaking glass," I said into his ear. "Someone else wants to get in."

Above us, this section of the warehouse was two stories high. A grid of steel beams and catwalks crossed the area above. They were backlit by dust-encrusted and begrimed skylights. The lighting was uncertain, but there was enough so that without the flashlight we could make out vague shapes. We moved carefully forward until we could look around the torture rack.

The noise didn't come again. Soon we heard footsteps moving unsteadily about. There was a bang, a series of crashes, and a thump. It sounded like someone ran into one of the cameras or light fixtures, knocking one over and causing a chain reaction. The person swore.

A five-minute silence ensued. My leg muscles began complaining about being forced to remain in one position.

Then a slow scraping sound came from our left. Interminable increments of time crept by as the scraping came closer. Slowly the volume of the scraping increased. Soon I knew the person making the noise was in the same staging area.

I guessed whoever it was didn't belong here as much as we. The person must be equally as frightened. I decided to risk a light.

The second after I pushed the nob the thought struck me—what if this person has a gun? The light would give them an excellent target.

Before I could turn it off, Scott, his eyes quicker to adjust, said, "It's Greg."

It was. We got up stiffly from our hiding place and hurried over to him.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Scott demanded.

"I'm hurt." Greg clutched his left knee.

I pulled the pants leg up. "What happened?" I asked.

"I fell and twisted my knee. Then this big thing dumped square onto it. My knee hurts."

I shined the light on the knee.

The skin wasn't broken. Scott stooped down. Carefully he placed his fingertips on the front, back, and side of the knee. At one point Greg cried out and clinched in agony.

Scott said, "I've seen this kind of thing once before. A guy mashed his knee falling into the dugout while chasing a foul ball. A fifty-pound bag of bats tipped onto his knee as he landed. We have to get you to a doctor. We'll have to carry him."