A Simple Suburban Murder (23 page)

I nodded. Greg lay on the ground his good leg bent. He was in obvious pain.

"What are you doing here?" I repeated Scott's question.

"Looking for Phil," he said through gritted teeth.

"You knew he was here?" Scott forgot to whisper.

Greg winced in pain. He said, "Not when you left my sister's. I'm not even sure now."

"How'd you find out about this place?"

"I asked my sister more questions when she got back. This is where she said to look. Sometimes kids stayed here, she said, kids who had parts in the movies with no place else to go."

"We haven't found anyone else here, but we've only been through half of it. With all your noise if anybody was here, they've been long since alerted," I said.

"Maybe not, this area is fairly soundproof around stage sets."

"You've been here before."

In the flashlight glow I saw him hang his head. "Yeah, I've been in some of the movies. But I swear, Mr. Mason, I never knew kids stayed here. I never knew they made gay movies either. My sister got me occasional jobs here." He added hurriedly, "In straight porno only."

"Why, Greg?" I asked.

"It was fun. I was popular here. There were no tests like in school. I had one of the major qualifications, my dick could stay hard for hours. Here no one laughed and made fun of my being stupid. It paid decent money too."

Scott asked, "If you were in porno movies, why did it bother you that your sister was a whore?"

"This is a hobby, fun, not a job. I'm not a prostitute. Besides, she's my sister. I have to look out for her." Whether this was misguided sexist chivalry or what I didn't know.

He shifted his weight. The movement made him cry out again. He asked, "How'd you guys find out about this place?"

I told him, leaving out Neil's name. When done explaining I said, "We've searched about half this place. We'll leave you here and finish looking. If Phil is here, he may be tied up, unable to yell. There can't be any guard. They'd be here by now. We'll go as quickly as we can. Then we'll get you to a doctor."

It took fifteen nerve-wracking minutes to go through the rest of the warehouse. Less afraid of noise now, we searched more quickly. There was no sign of Phil. No way of telling if he'd ever been there. The warehouse was a deserted dead end.

We went back for Greg.

"He needs an ambulance," Scott said.

"We can't call. None of us is supposed to be in here," I replied. "Let's get out first. Then we can make decisions."

By clasping each other's arms halfway to the elbow we made a sort of seat for Greg. He handled the tool kit and flashlight and guided us as we moved slowly and awkwardly toward the back. Careful as we were, unfortunate jostlings caused him pain. While Greg wasn't a big person, he was heavy enough that we were forced to stop several times.

At one stop I asked Greg why he hadn't been afraid of tripping the alarm. He shrugged at me. He hadn't thought of it—a naive suburban kid.

I tried to hurry us along. Ten feet from the back exit we had to stop again.

"I'll get the car," Scott said. "We won't have to carry him as far."

I nodded, rubbed my arms to restore the circulation. "Hurry," I called to him, "I want to try the locks on these storage bays before we leave."

"Oh, shit," Scott said from the doorway.

"What?" I asked.

"Someone's coming. There's a moving van backing up in the parking lot."

Scott relocked the door and scrambled over to us. We picked up Greg. He clenched his teeth to stifle his cries of pain. Our haste precluded gentleness.

We hurried through the first door we'd gone through— into the office room. We laid Greg behind the large desk. Scott and I crept back to the door. We opened it a crack and looked out. One of the large garage doors rumbled open. Someone backed up a semi-trailer to the delivery bay. One preson was in the warehouse guiding the truck in. Red lights flashed as the brakes were pumped on and off. We heard a minor thump. The truck lights went out. Darkness returned for a moment. Then the man inside turned a switch. Several bare bulbs poked the darkness with feeble light. Three other men joined the first one.

When the lights came on I thought of closing the door, but it was too late. I was afraid any sudden movement would draw attention to our position.

The four of them began walking toward the door behind which we crouched. They moved casually and at ease. Their errand was not an urgent one, I guessed.

They came closer. Fighting it out with them was absurd. We had Greg to think of so we couldn't try a mad dash to freedom. They got closer—twenty feet, ten feet. Up close I recognized them. All four were at the party earlier. One was Edgar. I could hear their conversation.

One I didn't know said, "I don't see why we have to move this stuff now. I could be in bed with that cute young thing."

"Put a lid on it," another said. "The boss wants this moved now, so now is when we move it."

They were close enough for me to touch them. I held my breath. They walked past the door.

Their voices receded as they passed beyond my line of sight.

I drew a trembling breath. A short time later they returned from some distant storage area carrying large wooden crates. From their stooped posture as they carried the boxes I guessed what was inside must be heavy. They deposited the boxes in the truck and marched back out of our sight.

"We've got to do something," Scott whispered. "They could walk in here any minute."

"I'm open to suggestions," I said.

We were silent as the four of them trudged by with another consignment. After they passed back the other way Scott said, "Why the hell do they have such a huge moving truck? You could put several housefuls of furniture in that one easy."

I said, "Whatever they're up to has to be illegal or why do it at this hour of the morning?"

"I'm going to set off the fire alarm," Scott announced.

"Are you nuts? We're still the illegal ones here."

"While they're distracted with the firemen we grab Greg and clear out. The noise from the alarm will cover our exit."

He moved off before I could grab him and stop him. Seconds later the alarm began clanging. We snatched Greg and headed out toward the front, but it was useless. We made it to the second stage set, and they were right behind us. We hid behind a fake fireplace.

Again we could hear their voices. Edgar definitely was in charge. His authoritative voice, no longer slurred with drink, cut across the distance clearly. "We'll meet them outside," he barked. "We don't want them snooping in here." They all hurried past us toward the front.

"Out the back," I said.

With Greg we made a slow dash to the back entrance. For the first time I saw the open bay they'd been working from. I could make out a ten-foot-high, ten-foot-wide opening filled with the wooden boxes.

When we got to the car I said, "Stay here with Greg.
I
'm going back to look in that storage bay." I left before Scott could object.

I ran to the warehouse, through the door, and to the storage bay. Quickly I examined the boxes. I tried opening some of them. They'd been nailed tightly shut. The outsides gave no indication of the contents. An aisle between boxes led into the interior. I pushed farther into the room.

I heard footsteps rush up behind me and whirled. It was Scott.

"Hurry," he commanded, looking over his shoulder. "They'll be here any second."

"A minute more." I pushed farther in. I turned a corner. My stomach did a flip. In the dark recesses sat a cramped and grimy movie set. On the floor there was a long box separated from the others. No boxes rested on top of it, because a body dangled there, its toes resting lightly on the lid of the box below. I knew this was where they made the snuff movies.

I rushed to the body. "Scott," I called as loudly as I dared. In a moment he was beside me. His face drained to sickly white.

The body dangled by a short rope tied by the wrists to a beam above. There were deep gash marks on the face and ugly stab wounds on the arms and legs. Up close the body stank, but it was warm to the touch. I saw the chest shudder feebly. "He's alive," I said. We scrambled to untie the knots.

We stood on the box to get to the rope. We had no knife. Precious moments ticked by as we worked at the tangle of knots. We lowered the body. The face was horribly torn and bruised. It was Phil. He was unconscious.

We had him nearly down when Scott stumbled. He fell heavily, smashing open the box beneath. The noise was horrendous. I hoped Edgar and the crew were far away, or that a fireman was nearby and would come to investigate. Anything but Edgar and the boys by themselves.

I'd managed to keep myself and Phil from falling when Scott fell. He picked himself up. I eased Phil to the ground and looked at the newly opened box.

Styrofoam packing material had flown all over. Scott was closer to the box. He turned his head to see what he'd landed in. Then I caught a glimpse.

It was a body. A naked woman—a girl, I corrected after a closer look. She might have been fourteen or fifteen, maybe pretty at one time. She was dead. They had mutilated her worse than Phil, one breast hanging half off.

I listened to Scott being sick in the corner.

I stood up. Inured as I was at one time to death, this was tough. I felt lightheaded, but I kept my stomach under control. We had to get out.

I checked Phil. He breathed shallowly but was otherwise frighteningly still.

"Who's in there?" a harsh voice called from the front.

I walked back down the aisle between the boxes.

Edgar and his cronies blocked the entrance. Edgar had a gun. There was no fireman. For the first time I lost hope.

"One last thing," a voice from behind them called. An immense figure appeared in the opening. His fireman's coat could not hide a figure of some heft. His face bulged redly, topped by a glowing red nose. His ears stuck out from under his fireman's hat. He was uglier than a mud fence. I could have kissed him. Other firemen crowded behind him. None of them could see the gun.

"These men are murderers," I announced loudly.

"This man is here illegally. He must have broken in," Edgar said. "I want you to arrest him—them," he corrected as Scott walked up beside me. Scott wobbled as he walked, barely recovered.

I talked directly to the firemen. "There's a dead body back there and a boy who needs immediate medical attention—if it isn't already too late."

The situation was one Edgar hadn't prepared for. He couldn't kill all of us, or murder me in front of such a crowd. He swung the gun to cover the whole group.

The fat, ugly fireman caught the movement. His hand blurred and the gun skittered across the floor.

"Run," Edgar yelled. He and the boys made a break for it. The big fireman moved faster than an all-pro lineman. He blocked three of them, but Edgar sprinted around him and then through the other startled firemen. I gave chase. He got halfway to the truck only because I had to leap over several boxes before I hit full stride. I tackled him elegantly. There was a delightful crack as his skull met the pavement. He didn't move.

They called ambulances to take Phil and Greg. I asked to go with them, but the police wanted us there for questioning.

It was long past dawn when we finished talking to the cops. I gulped coffee to stay awake. Scott, quiet through most of the interrogation, added nods of confirmation at critical points. Cops appeared in the background to stare at him. No one asked for an autograph.

Kiddie porn filled the boxes ready for shipment to distributors.

The police arrested Edgar and the other three. I never did get their names. The police led them away to waiting police cars.

We wound up at the 18th district police station on Chicago Avenue.

Around seven I called school to say I wouldn't be in.

At nine-fifteen Frank Murphy and John Robertson showed up.

Robertson wore a scowl, but stayed silent for most of the conversation. Frank seemed to be in charge for the moment.

The Chicago cop who'd been questioning us, Lieutenant King, greeted Frank by his first name. They obviously knew each other.

King told them the story. "We owe these two a pretty big vote of thanks," he concluded.

Frank smiled as he said, "Yeah, they wouldn't listen to us and keep their noses clean."

I wasn't in the mood for anybody's smile. "Did we uncover a major criminal operation? A dead kid?" I asked.

"Yeah," Frank said, "take it easy."

"Sorry, I'm tired," I apologized. I turned to King. "Who was the girl?"

"We don't know," he answered.

"Could the medical people tell what happened?" I asked.

"Only the obvious for now—someone tortured both kids for an extended period. She probably died from the wounds. We won't know for sure until she's been examined at the lab."

"It might be on a film," I said.

"We'll go through all of them, of course. Everything there will be inspected carefully," the lieutenant said.

"Will you arrest North?" I asked.

"We'll question him, but right now we have those four guys." He flipped his notebook shut. "You two can go after you sign a statement. By the way, the commander told us to overlook your little break-in."

"Thanks," we both muttered.

"No problem. The department can't arrest the city's biggest baseball hero after he breaks up a kiddie-porn ring and discovers a murder. Speaking of which, the press has been crawling around. Word is out you're here, Mr. Carpenter. If you want when you're done, we can get you out of here without you having to mess with them."

"Thanks," Scott said.

To the two suburban cops King said, "I imagine you'll want to talk to them." He left.

Frank sat on the edge of a cluttered desk. Robertson stood by the door. Scott sat on a black cotlike couch next to the desk. I slouched in the chair behind the desk.

"Did these guys kill Evans?" Scott asked.

"Yes," Robertson said.

"No," I said.

We glared at each other. He looked away first.

"Let me tell you what we found in the last thirty-six hours," I said.