Murder at Willow Slough (15 page)

“Jamie, did it occur to you this might be dangerous?”

No reply.

“Who else knows about this?”

“Phil Blaney at IPD. Bulldog of course. Jo Hansen at the Dayton Tribune. My editor, Casey Jordan. My publisher, Louie Mascaro, knows only the barest outline, no details. There is no reason to put him at risk. It’s dangerous enough just working for a Gay paper.”

“Why is that?”

“We never know when a firebomb is coming through the front window from the Army of God.”

“Lord, have mercy.” Kessler put his elbows on his knees, held his chin in his hands and stared at the western sky.

At last he said, “Give me the rest.”

“He knows I’m from here. I did a story once about Schmidgall’s four bodies on the Kankakee River bank a few miles north, and the identifier said I’d grown up here. It was a mistake. It was a great kicker, but we should never have printed it. I revealed personal information.”

Kessler waved his hand for Jamie to continue.

“Ford said something about being hounded by Schmidgall questions at his last job and having to quit. He’s a social worker, he was working at the state welfare office, but he said the cops came around so often to ask him about Schmidgall that he had to quit or be fired. I interpret that to mean he decided to quit because cops were getting too close.” A social worker. And Lash runs a recreation program for kids. Plus a veterinarian. Maybe it’s atonement for all the cats Crum strung up when he was ten.

“Has he taken any other evasive actions?”

“He sold his house a few years ago, went down to St. Petersburg because of the heat up here—what little bit of heat I was able to generate. But I hear now he’s back. I had a Straight reporter in Tampa, an old classmate, keep an eye out for me while Ford was down there, but they never found any young men strangled in the bay.”

“Why St. Pete?”

“Crum’s parents live there. Built-in support system.”

“This is great, but it’s all circumstantial.”

“Quincy has some physical evidence. I don’t know what it is, but that’s why Lash is also a suspect. They also have an eyewitness that puts him near the scene.”

Kessler made a mental note. “What about him?”

“He has a police record—indecent exposure in a park in Indianapolis. But that could mean anything.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s disgusting, but some Gay men, those who are closeted or not very out, sometimes cruise in public places looking for sex. So Lash was arrested in a public park. That’s all we know. The arrest could have been

a setup. Or a complete phony, just round up the faggots.”

“Why do you say that word ‘faggots’? Sounds nasty.”

“It takes the sting out of it to use it pre-emptively. I can use it within the Gay community. If you use it, I’ll put it in the paper and smash your face.”

Kessler slowly chuckled. There was nothing funnier at the moment than imagining himself in a fight with a short blond toothpick.

Still, he had to respect the guy. Tough little dude, challenging me when I’ve got fifty pounds on him. “Smash my face.” That’s cute.

Don’t laugh, though. You know he’s willing to try. “I never use the word, I’m a professional. So what are you saying about Lash’s arrest? Entrapment?”

“Or he could have been breaking the law so much that a Gay cop would have arrested him. Lots of serial killers have had other sex crime arrests—rape, child molestation, B&E, kidnapping. Don’t forget Crum and his child porn.”

“You’re big on Gay cops, aren’t you?”

“Yes. A Gay cop could solve this case. My problem is I don’t have one.”

“Let’s try this: one ignorant cop plus one smart Gay reporter equals one smart Gay cop.”

“Doesn’t that also leave us with one ignorant Straight reporter?”

Kessler shrugged, “I wasn’t gonna point that out.”

They backhanded each other. It felt great to establish that first physical acceptance, in guytalk, a language they both spoke.

“But get serious again. This is very valuable, Jamie.”

“A sheriff ’s detective in Jasper County, Jack Snyder, has photos of the whole group. You should take a look at them. Jack’s only fifteen miles away.”

“Good idea. Thanks, you always have good ideas.”

“Schmidgall talked about Ford in court when he confessed in the Barlow murder—mentioned ‘Tommy’ until he realized what he was saying, then he changed it to ‘this other friend who lived with us.’ I heard that with my own ears, and that did make it into the paper.”

“Why? I thought you tried to keep his name out of it.”

“Not at all; it was said in open court. I didn’t fill in his last name. But we printed it so he’d know that I knew.”

Kessler was startled. “You’re both playing this cat-and-mouse game. You’re doing it too.”

Jamie tried flipping a maple seed. This time it flew like it was supposed to. “I’m a reporter. You’re goddamn right I push it as far as I can go.”

“This is incredible.”

“How do you think I got his attention? The story he called about was the one with his name in it. I’d never have got the phone call without that. Or therefore the evidence that he called, which I hope you’ll someday be able to use in court if you need it.”

They were still with their thoughts. Not just a CI, an investigative reporter. Damn, little man.

Jamie remembered the argument he’d had with Casey over printing Ford’s name; it was the closest they’d ever come to a breach in their relationship. Then when the call came, it seemed like vindication, triumph even; maybe they’d smoked out a killer.

Kessler said, “Any other ideas?”

Jamie looked off into the distance. “Why would a killer call a newspaper? What does it say about him?”

“He wants to find out what you know.”

“True, but more than that, perhaps. He’s insecure, he’s worried, so he took the risk, made the call, after four hangups. Try to get into his head.”

“Man, without more physical evidence, the killer’s head is Exhibit A.”

“If you’d killed a dozen people, what would be going through your mind? You’d be scared to death of cops. Every time a cruiser passes on the street you’d be scared. ‘Is this the one who’s going to get me?’ You could never have a burned-out taillight, never go ten miles over the speed limit. You’d be obsessed with being caught.

“And then something would happen; your emotions would shift. You’d start to get into the pleasure of all that power you have, of life and death over people. You’d get cocky, drunk with it. The emotional payoff of serial murder has to be that sense of power, the adrenaline rush of committing a heinous crime. So when are you more likely to make a mistake—and thus get caught? Not during the careful phase. During the manic phase.”

“Man, you’re smart. Role-play that manic phase.”

Jamie climbed off the picnic table and began to pace. Then he leaned over and looked Kessler full in the face. “I’m so clever I can get away with murder. Not once, but a dozen times. I’ve figured out how to commit the perfect crime, over and over again. I’ve outsmarted cops in two states! Hell, half the time they don’t know who the victim is, much less who killed him. I’ve outsmarted the State Police. The FBI, even! I can get away with anything. If anyone ever asks me about it, I give them my most sincere concern—they fall for it every time. Cops are stupid. But me, I’m smart, I’m something special.”

“You’re special, all right. You haven’t got an ounce of self-esteem, you know you’re scum.”

“Those guys I killed? They were gullible, man. They’re lucky I got to ’em first. They were accidents waiting to happen. Suppose it had been Roger who got ’em, huh? At least I strangle them after they’re unconscious; no pain that way. If Roger found ’em, he’d have stabbed ’em and made them bleed to death. My guys don’t feel any pain. If you were going to be murdered, wouldn’t you rather be strangled, after you got high on some quality reefer? Or would you rather be shot, or stabbed to death, or run over by a truck? They don’t suffer. They’re faggots living in misery, lonely, poor, addicted half of ’em, rejected by their families. I just put them out of their pain. They’re so beautiful when they die; lying there, their faces completely peaceful as I send them to the other side. Like they knew I’d make love to them as I send them away. And they never complain; they never say it hurts, stop, don’t do that, I don’t like that. And nobody knows, nobody finds out a fucking thing. It’s priceless, man, I love it. Killing a man is the most exquisite joy you’ve ever seen—until you’ve killed twelve of ’em. I can do anything. I’m like God!”

After that bravura performance, Jamie looked back at the campsite where Mr. Ferguson’s remains were recovered; and silently promised the man he’d do his best.

He sat back down on the picnic table and apologized to the police officer. “No problem, that was great. Puke-worthy, but eye-opening.”

“The rationalizations, like he’s doing them a favor. The twisted logic. His intimate familiarity with the victims’ psychic pain. But most victims had family and friends who were concerned about them. So who is living in misery, lonely and rejected? Who’s rehearsing his own death, committing suicide by cop?”

“The killer with a diseased mind. And I get to find him.”

“Is it possible to induce the manic phase? Better yet, what phase is he in right now?”

“He just killed somebody. He’s still manic?”

“So now’s the time to nail him.”

“Deal! You’re great at this, Jamie. You’d be an asset to any department.”

“Every resource I have is at your disposal. Please catch this guy, whether Ford or someone else. You can do it.”

Kessler clasped Jamie’s shoulder. “Thanks. Let’s go. We’d better head to Jasper County.”

“Is there a real task force now? Are you the head of it?”

“Yup, with the title of Commander, by order of Major Slaughter. Anything else you know about Ford?”

They walked. “Just odd details. He’s foul-mouthed. There was a definite schizoid quality that first time.”

“What do you mean, schizoid?”

“Zig-zag conversation. Jumping back and forth from topic to topic: Schmidgall, Crum, the strangulations, my coverage, IU vs. Purdue basketball—he’s for the Chair Thrower, naturally—homophobic cops, Schmidgall, homophobic media, Schmidgall, how he’d watch the Jerry Lewis Telethon and get all teary, or the little Christmas cartoons every year; what a good job I was doing, and on the other hand I got it all wrong, Schmidgall had nothing to do with it. And he was very careful with his syntax.”

“Break that down for me.”

“Sorry, his choice of words. He’d be cautious, very polite, but at other times his speech was pressured, out of control. Manic. Foul-mouthed. Inconsistent. He’s inadequate, frustrated, angry. The other thing I’ve been told is that he hangs out at a certain Gay bar in Indianapolis, one that passes for a leather bar.”

“A leather bar? Motorcycle gangs? Gay Hell’s Angels?”

Jamie smiled. “Not exactly; more like opera-queen toughguys.” He had to ponder how to explain this one. “You’ve heard of sadomasochism?”

“People who like to get beat up?” Kessler curled his upper lip.

“Sort of. It’s a lot more complicated. In the Gay community it’s very ritualized, very safe. Not that there aren’t a few crazies out there like Tommy Ford; but over time Gay men—a few women too—have created a subculture around dominance and submission, developed a set of rules for it. The theme is universal, where people fit in the pecking order. It doesn’t mean the frightening things you think. It’s consensual and safe.”

“If you say so. That’s one more of these things I’m gonna learn about. But I’ll tell you, it—well, it sure sounds perverted to me.”

“You’re certainly allowed to feel that way. You don’t have to like Gay people, you just have to realize we’re human. You’re doing a great job with your questions.”

“So what’s the name of this place where Ford hangs out, they wear leather and,” Kessler chuckled, “safely beat each other up?”

Jamie smiled, “Chez Nous.”

“Will you take me there?”

“Sure, if you want to go.”

Kessler looked far away to a darkened high-rise. “If that’s where my suspect is, that’s where I go. What will I find there?”

“Guys who are looking for sex and will step into any stranger’s car to do it.”

“Gosh, that’s dangerous.”

“How does the killer gain control of the victims? A positive inducement. If he uses animal tranqs, he’s not overpowering them with violence, there are no signs of a struggle. He uses a passive double-cross.”

“He can’t pick ’em up on his own?”

“He can’t even fuck ’em till they’re passed out. He snaps their neck at the moment of orgasm.”

They both endured a wave of nausea. “Let’s shove off for Jasper County. I want to see the sheriff ’s pictures.”

They neared the squad car. Jamie, definitely cold now from the wind and the conversation, used his fastest New York walk, but Kessler said, “Wait.”