Murder at Willow Slough (20 page)

aching for such tenderness. He didn’t need to be fucked silly. He needed the comfort of a friend. Jamie turned onto his chest, hugged his pillow like a lover, matched

his breathing to the snoring, and slept.

22  

Glenn

Kent was gone the next morning, but left a note: “I didn’t bring work clothes. Call you today.” His handwriting was tight, compact, masculine and eye-pleasing; there was no mistaking that long-tailed K. Don’t indulge this, let last night’s magic be what it was. Just having Kent in the house made the Day After more bearable.

But five minutes later Jamie lay on Kent’s sheets, soaking up nature’s baby powder, letting his cock do what it was built for, as he clutched the pillow Kent snored on.

***

Jamie retrieved the morning papers; no Mom. When the bank opened he would inspect the safe deposit box, pick up the bonds, leave his raw notes of Ford’s calls, max out the ATM card and say nothing.

He made coffee. He poured himself a cup but let it go cold. Might as well try to work. There was so much to do.

He learned to negotiate his mother’s computer. He was appalled by Microsoft’s clumsiness, but he located the legal and financial information he needed. Jeez, Mom, plug in the Bunn! She held onto her stock in infashion.com and did very well with two local corporations and several mutual funds. A document called “My Dear Sons” explained the first steps to take; every asset she had was divisible by three boys. She made a pitch for contributions to Purdue, and she told them that she loved them.

He sat in his mother’s office, reading, occasionally tearing up, but mostly trying to get an old dot-matrix printer to work. It finally did, racing back and forth on its track, a noisy, bizarre little machine that somehow typified his cheapskate, adorable mother.

Danny called to say he couldn’t get plane tickets closer than St. Louis, so he and Lynn were driving in from Colorado and would arrive tomorrow. Jamie’s heart sank, but he didn’t show it. “Be safe, Bro, don’t push yourself if you’re tired. Stop and get a hotel room.” Danny said he would, but they both knew he’d drive straight through.

And still Stone didn’t return Jamie’s call. Later Jamie would learn that was because Stone was drunk 24 hours a day.

Jamie signed a paper and faxed it to the Indiana University School of Medicine, allowing it to take control of her body. The funeral home people wanted to know what to dress her in, and how her hair should be done. He called Connie, her friend and hairdresser. After receiving her shocked condolences, he said, “My thought is we’re not burying her in a favorite outfit; it’s a different sort of occasion, like she’s going to work at her volunteer job at Pharmaceutics Research. I think she should dress down. And since we’re sending her to IU, I’m thinking of decking her out in Purdue sportswear.”

“She’d love that. And I’ll do her hair one last time. Please let me, it’s my gift to your family, and to her.”

He accepted her gift and headed down to the Village, West Lafayette’s shopping district. At the Purdue Spirit store he picked out gold sweats. At the checkout counter he spied a little $5 trinket, pushed its button to activate a computer chip. “This,” he cried, “we must have this.”

He ran to a nearby copy shop, made up a little sign to pin to her sweatshirt: “IU MED SCHOOL, PUSH HERE,” with an arrow to the button. Then he delivered the outfit to the funeral people, specifying that his mother’s body wasn’t to be moved until his brothers arrived.

It would be a good memory in future years; they’d send her to IU singing “Hail, Purdue!” He remembered her singing the Fight Song to him as a child, solemnly teaching him all the proper etiquette. All the little Foster boys knew that cheering for Purdue was like cheering for their Mom. So they cheered like crazy. Alma mater; dear mother.

Back home he fired up his laptop, tried to organize his information. It was better than playing 99 games of solitaire, the only alternative he could think of.

His sadness turned to anger as he read his notes about the murder of Glenn Archer Ferguson. Anger was often Jamie’s fuel; now he deliberately channeled it into the one thing he could do to make sense out of this irrational world.

Later he made another phone call, got what he needed. Ate, went to the bank, then drove to Indianapolis.

That evening he e-mailed Casey:

ED. NOTE: Six (6) photos sent in .JPG for download: Victim Glenn Ferguson (1), lent by lover G. Tompkins; Crime Scene (2, 3) at Willow Slough, Morocco, Ind.; investigating officer Sgt. Kent Kessler of Ind. State Police (4, 5); Kessler with state Conservation Officer Suzanne Myers at scene (6); she discovered body behind woodpile.

Call if you have ?s, Case, it’s okay to call despite everything. Edit for tightness & coherence, I guarantee the veracity but not that I make sense. Not much sleep last night so watch out. I think we should copyright, don’t you? Our exclusive, don’t let AP steal it. Love & thanx, J.

P.S. See what I mean about the cop? If you run him I recommend no hat, let that face be seen. But maybe the hat adds credibility. (And no you can’t have a copy of the print, you nasty boy.)

Quincy Strangler: Body in NW Ind. Linked to 12 Others

Death of Young Professional Alters Serial Pattern

By James R. Foster © The Ohio Gay Times All Rights Reserved

MOROCCO, Ind., Sept. 10—The Quincy County Strangler has struck again.

Indiana State Police confirmed today that the mostly-nude body of a Gay Indianapolis man found strangled in a park near here is linked to twelve other murders over a 14-year span.

Sgt. Kent Kessler, detective in charge of the investigation, said, “We believe this case is connected to a string of Gay-related murders in Ohio and Indiana.” No arrests have been made.

Forensic specialists in Indianapolis identified the body as that of Glenn Archer Ferguson, 29. He was a marketing manager for concessions for the Indiana Pacers of the National Basketball Association.

He had been missing since Sept. 6, according to his lover, Gary Tompkins, 26. The two men shared a luxury apartment at Riley Towers in downtown Indianapolis since April 1995, Mr. Tompkins said.

He filed a missing person report on Mr. Ferguson Sept. 7, police records show, a day after he failed to return home from work.

Mr. Ferguson’s body was found in the Willow Slough State Fish and Recreation Area that day by a conservation officer near this small town in northwestern Indiana, outside Chicago.

Police believe Mr. Ferguson was killed elsewhere and his body dumped here in a deserted campground behind a woodpile Sept. 7.

An autopsy performed by the Marion County coroner’s office named the cause of death as strangulation, according to Sgt. Kessler. Further test results are not yet available.

Disbelief

Mr. Tompkins was in shock after learning of his lover’s death.

“Glenn never picked up guys in bars,” he told The Times. “I can’t believe he’d be victimized this way. He was a professional with a lot of Straight friends as well as Gay ones. He didn’t go out (to Gay bars) much, and then only if our schedules kept us apart. If he did go out, he always came home alone. Ask anybody who knew him. He loved sports and the arts; otherwise he was a homebody, we were in love. He was a guy with a future, not the type to put himself at risk.”

The night of Sept. 6 was different somehow. Police are trying to determine what changed Mr. Ferguson’s pattern.

He visited two downtown Indianapolis Gay bars prior to his disappearance, according to bartenders interviewed by The Times. “He got here about six, had a beer, and left sober and in a good mood about an hour later,” said Russell Dixon, manager of the Six of One Tavern. “He was always quiet, cool, never caused any trouble, never picked up anyone or tried to drive drunk. A good customer, a nice guy, handsome and popular, the last person you’d expect to find murdered.”

Later Mr. Ferguson traveled to the Chez Nous bar on 16th Street. Bartender Jimmy St. John remembered seeing him that night. “He had a Miller Genuine Draft, which was usual for him. He played a couple of games of pool. Then I didn’t see him. But he wasn’t the type to pick up people. He flirted a lot but he loved his lover, it was obvious.”

Mr. Tompkins, a real estate agent, said he had early-evening appointments to show a house in the northern suburbs, followed by shopping at a nearby mall. Clients and friends confirm his account. At breakfast that morning, the two agreed to eat dinner separately, then meet at their apartment later that evening.

Mr. Tompkins waited in panic when his lover never came home.

Linkage

Police linked Mr. Ferguson’s murder with 12 others in Indiana and Ohio dating back fourteen years, based on the cause of death, the victim’s place of residence and the rural, watery location where his body was discovered. When they learned that Mr. Ferguson was Gay, the linkage was complete.

Most of the other victims—all young men “with ties to the Gay community in Indianapolis,” according to authorities—were strangled and dumped in isolated, rural bodies of water. Four were found in Quincy County, Ohio, more than any other location, leading The Times to dub the killer “the Quincy County Strangler.”

Times stories have been picked up in Dayton and Cavendish, Ohio and Richmond, Ind., but have not played in Indianapolis, where all 13 victims originate. The Indianapolis Sun still has not reported Mr. Ferguson’s murder.

Mr. Ferguson has one similarity with—and one glaring difference from—the other victims. He generally fits the physical profile, being a trim, handsome young man, six feet tall, with dark brown hair. But his job set him apart, according to police.

“Most of the other victims were more or less street people, or at least individuals familiar with street life,” said Indianapolis Police Lt. Phil Blaney, who is assisting Sgt. Kessler with the investigation.

“Some of the others were hustlers, or guys who hung out at the bars a lot, maybe had a little drug involvement, minor police records. One was a practical nurse. But Mr. Ferguson was a college graduate, had a professional job and a very good income. He never even had a traffic ticket. He was well-known in the community. That makes him very different from the other victims.”

A few of the Strangler’s earlier victims were loners who went unidentified for years after their decomposing bodies were discovered. Other victims’ survivors have pressed police for answers for over a decade.

Task Force

Indiana State Police are now in charge of a “task force” of officers from seven counties in the two states. An FBI conference was convened in Greenfield, Ind. two years ago to discuss the cases and to circulate a psychological profile of the killer, which has never been released to the public.

But as The Times has repeatedly noted, until this week the “task force” has existed only on paper. It has had no staff, no budget and only three officers doing part-time investigation. In police terms, these are cold cases.

However, Sgt. Kessler of the West Lafayette State Police post may symbolize a renewed effort to find the killer. The post in Rensselaer, 10 miles from here, would ordinarily be in charge of Mr. Ferguson’s murder; but in a highly unusual move, top officials in Indianapolis have assigned Sgt. Kessler as the task force Commander, saying that “new blood” is needed to solve the serial cases.

West Lafayette is halfway between the crime scene and Indianapolis, noted Deputy Superintendent for Investigations, Major George F. Slaughter.

“We are doing all we can to energize the task force and see that the killer or killers are caught,” Slaughter told The Times. “We will not rest until this killer is brought to justice. It doesn’t matter who the victim is—Gay, not Gay, his family and friends have a right to know that the state of Indiana is doing all it can to find the killer and lock him up. That’s exactly what we intend to do.”

Sgt. Kessler, a nationally certified investigator, urged all citizens who may have information about Mr. Ferguson’s actions and whereabouts on the night of Sept. 6 to call this toll-free number: (800) 555-TIPS. Callers’ names are kept confidential.

“The Indiana State Police will not discriminate on the basis of sexual orientation, or any other basis, in investigating these cases,” pledged Sgt. Kessler. “I want the killer, not the informants.”

-30

Jamie tried but failed to bring out his usual ebullience over getting the story. All he could see was Gary Tompkins, sobbing in his arms a few hours ago.

Jamie was able to give to Gary as Kent gave to him. Jamie heard all about Glenn and Gary’s vacations, the house they were building that Glenn would never see; their parents’ reactions. Glenn’s were okay; Gary’s were hateful. Gary had pulled himself up from rural Hoosier poverty and found the man of his dreams, an athlete, starting point guard for the Saint Louis Billikens—a topman for poor, insecure, overachieving Gary.“He was so sexy standing there in the bar, no shirt, great body, tight sweatpants, I could see it right there. He saw me looking at him, so he touched himself, then walked right up to me. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He said, You want it, don’tcha. Did I ever. Then he turned out to be nice, sophisticated, everything I wasn’t. He took me to my first art museum, my first play, my first NBA game. All I had to do was be faithful to him, mind him, cook for him and put out. What a hardship. I wanted him 24/7.”

Seeing Gary’s bereavement, Jamie could be quiet with his own.
***