Murder at Willow Slough (10 page)

“One other thing. Call him Foster. Use only his last name when we talk.”

“Sir?”

Slaughter looked into the future, tried to empty himself. “Objectify him, sergeant; depersonalize him. He’s not Brad Pitt, he’s a witness, a confidential informant. A thing. We objectify CI’s. When you talk about him, think about him, it’s Foster. Nothing but Foster.”

“Sure, chief, right. Foster.”

“Befriend him, but also objectify him. He’s only a means to an end. Use him; it’s what he wants.” Slaughter glanced at his cigar. “Otherwise his reputation is he intimidates everyone; you’re not the first officer who’s told me that. It’s his stock in trade. He uses it to get whatever he wants. I suppose that’s the mark of a good reporter, barreling in, Gay flag flying, asking about neck bones. All but daring you to make something of it. Even if he is a little squirt.” Slaughter smiled slightly; Jamie was very well-built, but “squirt” was still apt.

Kent grunted. “He’s something else, all right.”

“Not your typical Gay man. Not that I know what one is anymore, Kent. Times are changing, that’s for sure. It’s a new world and we’ve got to change with it.”

“Takes all kinds, I guess. Thank you, chief. You’re fantastic. I’ll bring you the killer, sir. I swear it.” “Do that, son.” Slaughter’s eye found his peace memorial, nodded at it slowly. “Bring me his head on a goddamn platter.”
***

Kent was halfway back to Lafayette before he realized he hadn’t told Slaughter that Jamie—Foster—was blond. But heck, the chief knows everything about everybody. He put it out of his mind.

So doom set in; massive guilt. He drove, desperate, clueless, praying hard. The chief was right; the only solution was to get the killer’s head on a plate.
***

Slaughter poured himself a second drink and returned to his meditation spot.

It was a high-risk strategy, putting this young sergeant on the case. To get to a Gay killer, he’d assigned an investigator so handsome he was a Gay man’s dream. With him and Jamie working together, doors would swing open, they’d get access, entrée—an ideal pairing, fast, efficient, potentially lethal.

It wasn’t just looks; Kent was the best he had. He could also impose police control on Jamie, who was tougher and more independent than ever. He now criticizes his Quincy County friends in print. And he’s hammered the FBI, rightly so.

But the relationship had to work. Jamie wasn’t the problem, he’d even work with ignorant rednecks, as Bulldog Sauer proved. The potential problem was Kent. If he couldn’t control his feelings, all hell might break loose. Not only could it put Jamie in harm’s way, a new round of killings seemed sure to follow; while the department tried to pick up the pieces at square one. Again.

Slaughter searched his mind one more time, his own devil’s advocate. The key to it all was how Kent handled homosexuality, handled Jamie, handled himself.

Slaughter flashed back to the Academy five years ago: Kent a scrub-faced boy scout, eager, easy to train. Educated, smart, dedicated, competitive as hell; with physical skills the others could only marvel at. He could make his body do anything he wanted; he only had to be shown a move once. An excellent shot; by graduation almost as good with a baton as Slaughter himself, and Slaughter was a master.

The faculty had to back off to keep Kent from knowing how good he could be. Yet he was never cocky, only confident, eager to learn more. A man’s man, as popular with the men as the women; which meant damn popular.

Yet a caring guy, not macho-stupid when someone hurt. Great with kids. He knew when to let his compassion come out, and when not to.

With that personality, plus some political seasoning, he could go anywhere in policing. He could take over the department one day.

But not till after I’m done with it, boy. Slaughter smiled at his Scotch.

A Little League coach; a regular church-goer, but not the rigid kind. Hell, they say he even sings in the choir. Slaughter shook his head, picturing his macho toughguy in a Methodist choir robe, singing angelically. He did enjoy the young man.

Twenty minutes later, his drink killed, his cigar stubbed out, he turned and noticed his desk lamp. The troops all thought he used it to convey power. That made him smile. They didn’t know he used it to watch their eyes undetected, easy as pie.

He switched off the light, heard his office door lock behind him, went for a late dinner. Kessler would stay Commander for the duration.

12  

foster.com

“What are you doing to keep yourself busy, son?” Thelma asked, between bites of her strawberry sundae. “I hate for you to be cooped up here all the time. I’m awfully glad you’re here, I’m just feeling guilty, I guess.” She muted the mini-TV set. For the first time since her surgery she had the tube on. TV was progress, normalcy.

Jamie patted her shoulder. Today was the first day she was sitting up in bed, too. “No guilt. Actually it’s rather nice to be back home. I’d forgotten how scenic it is here. I did the recycling, then went down to Fort Ouiatenon and just stood on the riverbank with huge, century-old maple trees, watching the river flow by. It was such a peaceful feeling, to think of the Weas and Miamis and French fur traders. The one constant over the centuries is the river. We take it for granted, but it’s why this city is here.”

“Mmm, this tastes good. I’m glad you got the recycling done.”

“And I keep in touch with the office. Casey and Louie send you their best. Louie always asks if you’re still in intensive care. He’s afraid he’ll have to spring for a bouquet, and he knows they’re not allowed in ICU.”

“Now, James,” his mother smiled. “I do hate to take you away from your work. Are you able to get anything done here? Did you bring your…” She was interrupted by a coughing spell. This wasn’t her usual smoker’s cough, but a deep, rattly hack and wheeze. And it didn’t seem to do her any good.

When the spasm was over she sagged deeper into her pillow for a few seconds of rest. Then she opened her eyes, found Jamie and finished, “Your laptop?”

“Sure, Mom, I don’t go anywhere without my equipment. Don’t you remember, I put it on the kitchen table when I came in Saturday afternoon? Then we decided it should go in the computer room.”

“Oh. That’s right, we did. Are you getting any writing done?”

Jamie hadn’t told her about the body at the Slough. But now she was asking. “Well, there is a possible story here, but I’m not doing anything on it right now. You’re the story I’m here for,” he smiled, filling up her ice water from the pitcher, fully aware that hospital patients with visitors have an endless supply of ice water.

“There’s nothing more boring than sitting around a hospital room waiting on somebody. I want you to have fun while you’re here, and I think for you, working is kind of having fun, isn’t it?”

Yeah, Ma, chasing serial killers is my idea of a good time. But she was right; working for him was fun.“I don’t even know if there’s a story in it.”

She leaned on her elbow to shift position, then looked at her youngest son. “If I weren’t stuck here, what would you be doing?”

Damn, a direct question. “Just talking to some cops,” he shrugged. “The usual.”

She was silent for a moment, mulling this over. “Where’s the body?”

Jamie didn’t want to concern her with this, but she’d trapped him. “Willow Slough, believe it or not.”

“It’s not Pauline, is it?” she chuckled and coughed. “I used to have dreams about putting Pauline there.”

He was suddenly six years old again. Pauline was the Morocco town slut; she’d had an affair with Jamie’s father. When Thelma found out— in a small town one always finds out—Ronald promised to give Pauline up. But he was much better at making promises than keeping them. “My mother, the murderess.” He grinned at the unlikelihood.

“In the right circumstances, anyone’s capable of it.”

“Anyone’s capable of the fantasy. Like you, they’re not capable of the crime. This is an unidentified man. We don’t know whether there’s any connection. Without an ID there’s no way to know where he’s from, and that’s a major step in figuring out who killed him. So don’t worry about it. There’s no story yet.”

“Strangled?”

“Isn’t it about time for your medication or something? Aren’t they going to try to get you to sit up in a chair tomorrow?”

“Yeah, they said something about it, but I don’t know whether I’m up to it. I suppose they’ll decide when I’m ready.”

“And you won’t have a thing to say about it,” he predicted.

“I pay them to know when I’m ready.”

She set aside her sundae, looked tired again. Jamie asked, “Do you want a nap?”

“Well, I was kinda thinking about it.”

“I don’t want to tire you out.”

“Here I’m not doing a durn thing and you’d think I’d been working an eight-hour shift.”

“You are, Mother. Recovering from surgery is a full-time job. Now it’s break time.”

She smiled, “This Bud’s for me.”

Jamie was struck for the 9000th time by the irony of illness. Rick was never more loving than after he came down with the disease. Here was Thelma, chipper and intelligent and sick. “Take your break, dear. I’ll be back this evening.”

“Okay.” She sighed. “Jamie?” He moved to the edge of her bed. “You can go on up there if you need to. I don’t have to have you here all the time. It’s only an hour’s drive.”

He held her hand in both of his, kissed her fingers. “If and when I need to, we’ll talk about it. I don’t need to today, and I probably won’t in the future. It’s probably not connected.” After a moment he said, “I love you, Mother.”

“I love you too, James. You’re my baby.”

He had long ago given up protesting this term.“See you later.”And he left his mother in intensive care.

It’s been days. Shouldn’t she be in med-surg by now?

He drove to the Union-Gazette office downtown, found a parking place across from St. John’s, where he had been an altar boy for years, and headed into the old four-story building on Ferry Street. He tried to visualize 19th Century people, horses and wagons crossing the Wabash River by ferry.

He stopped at the front desk, gave his name and asked for Bob Schwartz. Schwartz’s was the first byline he’d learned as a paperboy. In the ’80s, Schwartz was the political writer, now he was executive editor. Jamie figured he must be ancient; two decades ago his columns had pictured a very large man with a very bald head.

Soon Jamie was cleared to go up. His watch read 2:05 p.m.—late enough that the afternoon edition would be on the streets already. Then he remembered the U-G was a morning paper now. Two o’clock was prime time, he couldn’t take more than five minutes. He made his way through the newsroom, an open arrangement crammed with desks, strewn papers and brown-screened monitors with yellow squiggles full of tomorrow’s copy. Jamie was glad The Times used Macintoshes, the elegant machines.

A harried young man walked towards him, reading without looking up. Jamie touched the reporter’s shoulder and the guy looked up quizzically. “Schwartz?” The young man pointed to a glass-enclosed

office, then went back to reading.

Jamie knocked. “Enter,” a voice barked.

Jamie stuck his head in. “Mr. Schwartz, I’m Jamie Foster. I only need five minutes.”

“Come in,” the editor said, rising slightly from his desk and motioning to a chair. “What can I do for you?”

Schwartz looked just as old as Jamie pictured him, and yet no older than the photo atop his column 20 years ago. Lost his hair early. “We’ve met before, chief, but there’s no reason you should remember me. I’m from West Lafayette, I used to carry this paper in grade school and junior high.”

“I know you,” Schwartz smiled. “We’re surrounded by talent in this town, but farmboy prodigies still stand out. What are you doing now?”

Jamie was taken aback; the last time he’d been called “farmboy prodigy” was 14 years ago in the Union-Gazette. “I’m Midwest correspondent for The Clarion, the national Gay and Lesbian newsmagazine. I’m based in Chicago. I’m working on a piece on police/Gay community relations: Are they getting any better? I thought I’d look in on conditions here, specifically the state police, in a college town that just passed some slight version of a human rights ordinance.”

“Right. What do you want to know?”

“I’ve talked to some of the officers at the post—a Sergeant Kent Kessler, an Officer Campbell, a few others. They seem young, not my picture from years ago of the middle-aged, barrel-chested trooper. Do we have a new breed of cop here? Younger, well-educated?”

“Talk to Karen Wilson on the police beat, but yeah, there’s something to it.” Schwartz mopped his face with a handkerchief. The air conditioning seemed fine to Jamie, but Schwartz was sweating like a Hampshire hog. “Troopers can’t afford to stay in state service, the pay hasn’t kept up. Worst-paid troopers in the Midwest. We’ve got trooper families on food stamps.”

“That’s shocking. I’m sure you’ve covered the story.”

“The minute they can, they hire on as sheriff ’s deputies at ten grand more a year. The attrition rate is terrible, richer counties get excellent, experienced officers without having to pay for training. Meanwhile poor counties depend entirely on the state police.

“Kessler’s a farmboy prodigy too. Chief detective in this post. He’s from 20 miles south of town, we covered him all through high school, multi-sport athlete, three times Mr. Baseball. Made it to the Major Leagues, a brief but spectacular career with the Atlanta Braves, then knocked out of the World Series by tragic, career-ending injury.”

“Indeed.” Jamie joined the hog club. His sweat popped out.

“Front page, above the fold when he got hurt. Broken back, ruptured spleen. All of Indiana mourned for him. Every sports store in town still sells his jersey.”

“What an accomplished man. Then to become a state trooper, how unusual.”

“Talk to Elliott in sports if you want the rest. Everyone says Kessler’s a great trooper. Did the lion’s share of tracking a big drug case in White County a year ago, before the DEA came in and tried to steal the credit. He works the major felonies, the youngest faculty member at the state police academy. Wilson would know, but he’s supposedly a crack interviewer, the ‘good cop’ who works on the wife or girlfriend. They say with his looks he could get a confession out of Dillinger’s mother. And that old broad didn’t talk to nobody.”

Schwartz indulged himself with laughter, pulled a fax out of the machine, glanced at it, tossed it away.

“Kill the ladies with kindness?”

“But tough on the suspects, physical courage, plays by the rules, he’s the whole package. Talk to Wilson.”

“I will, chief. One other thing. Are any of the local agencies doing any kind of Gay sensitivity training? Police brutality has a long history in the Gay community. Are any of the departments doing anything to prevent it?”

Schwartz scratched his pate, looked blank for a moment. “I don’t think that’s been tried anywhere in the state. The Gays spent so much time and energy on these ordinances here the last few years, I don’t think they had time for that. Plus the state hate crimes bill. God, they got creamed on that one. Indiana likes hating Gays.”

“So I’ve noticed. Is Wilson in right now?”

Schwartz stood, looked out his glass box and pointed her out; a young, plain-looking brunette in a long floral dress. She couldn’t have looked dowdier if she came from Lafayette, Indiana. “Thanks a lot,” Jamie said, extending his hand. “You’ve been a big help, chief. I read the U-G every chance I get. Your Web page is great, I read Purdue sports on it constantly.”

“Thanks, we work at it.” Schwartz held the door open for him. “One other thing. You any good, boy genius?”

“Genius isn’t potential, it’s accomplishment.” Jamie trotted out his modest ones: “Columbia J-School. GLMA Best Investigative Reporter in the nation, twice. AP citations, a Pulitzer finalist last year. Hold off on the genius till I win it.”

“Pulitzer finalist, wow. How’d you like to move back to Lafayette?”

“Chief, that’s a fate worse than death.”

“No, it isn’t. If you ever come back here, call me. You should go mainstream.”

“Thanks, I started out mainstream in Columbus, Ohio, but the company and the product were anti-Gay, and I quit. The news industry discriminates, it doesn’t have the guts to take on the bigots of the day. The

L.A. Times had no Black reporters to cover the Watts riots; Martin Luther King was ‘the militant Negro leader’ until the day he was shot. I won’t go into hiding to do my job.”

“Man, you’re quite forceful. Don’t forget, boy wonder, the verb makes the sentence, and the lead makes the story.”

“Will do, chief, thanks. I’ve admired you for years.” Then Jamie went to shanghai Wilson on the police beat, thrilled that Schwartz would ask about mainstream. Jamie wanted good mainstream desperately. If I could pull Casey in too, we’d make a dynamite team.

His heroes were Woodward and Bernstein, in an era when people despised reporters.
***

On the sidewalk, he flipped past baseball stats to make one last Wilson entry in his notebook: Has overwhelming hots for Kessler. “Get in line, honey.”

When he got back to his mother’s, there was a message on the phone machine. “Mr. Foster? This is Sgt. Kessler. Call me when you come in, if you would, please. I’ll be here until 4:30. Or leave a message. Thanks.”

“All right, hotshot, but you’re not going to co-opt me. You figure you’ll get over because you’re handsome and I’m Gay. No way, fella. To me you’re just one more cop ready to beat my faggot brains in.”