Murder at Willow Slough (22 page)

“We’re getting a lot more data on him than we’ve ever had before.”

“Given the pattern, why divert from it? Why take a chance with a rich guy?”

“Physical type?”

“I don’t believe in the physical type explanation. Too Hollywood. It’s more a feeling that he can get away with killing this one.” Jamie paced. “Just because Glenn was young and handsome doesn’t answer why him. Most Gay men are attractive. A million of them are his type.”

“If a man’s handsome, he’s Gay?”

This was provoking, and also off-goal. Jamie confronted the undercurrent. He looked Kent full in the face. God, what a face.

Jamie said gently, “No, Kent. There are plenty of handsome Straight men and plenty of ugly Gay ones. But Straight men get married, take sex for granted and start putting on the pounds. Gay men work on their grooming, their clothes, and increasingly, their fitness; as a group we’re good-looking. Can we focus on Mr. Ferguson now?”

“Sorry. I just don’t always know what you mean.” Kent’s cloudy look came back. “So answer me this. I always heard Gay guys are sissies. You ain’t. Why not?”

Of the 5,000 possible replies, first of which was Yes, I am, Jamie said, “All people combine softness and hardness in individual ways. You do; I do. I hope we can still work together.”

“We can. Are there many masculine Gay guys?”

“Depending on your criteria, all Gay guys are masculine. Some of us toughguys even hate opera.”

Kent laughed, “Thank God, I hate that opera crap.”

Jamie backhanded him again, for disrepecting opera, and got pounded back. “Let’s move on, buddy. What was different about Mr. Ferguson that night? Let’s see the clothing list.” Kent shuffled through photos, notes, handed over a list, “Gray, summer wool suit by Perry Ellis, sports cut,” Jamie read. “Blue and gold tie. Black Italian loafers. Kent, this isn’t right.”

“He wasn’t wearing that?”

“If he was wearing Perry Ellis the killer wouldn’t have touched him in a hundred years. Rich guy, too many clues. Glenn disappeared on a Tuesday. Where are the white socks? He lifted weights three days a week, Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. Gary said in blizzard or tornado, Glenn always worked out.”

“If they’re his, the socks prove he changed.”

“Maybe Gary can identify them. How did it go? After work, Glenn’s downstairs in the weight room, he’s showered, he’s getting dressed, going out for a beer. Would he put his business suit back on to go to a Gay bar? No. He keeps casual clothes in his locker to wear home, he and Gary are going out to dinner the next night so he doesn’t have to wear the suit. What is this list, anyway?”

“Tompkins’ initial missing persons report.”

“Is there another list with the last known witnesses’ description? The bartenders and anyone else who saw him? I didn’t ask them, did you?”

Kent shuffled through his papers again. “White crew-style socks, mid-calf. Blue and gold stripes around the top. That’s the description of the body on discovery. None of our witnesses saw what the guy was wearing?”

“You don’t think the killer put those socks on him, do you? What kind of police work is this?”

“It’s possible the killer put the socks on him, but not likely. Forensics said the socks had been washed multiple times before, they’re a better brand. Maybe the witnesses’ descriptions are just contained in the interview reports. There isn’t a separate document.”

“Have we interviewed the other customers or just the bartenders? Did we take Ford’s photo in to show people?”

“Indy PD interviewed bartenders. Nobody showed any photos.”

“Jeez, there are people who hang out in those bars every night. Why don’t we have anything from them?”

“’Cause I’m not in control of the interviews. That’s going to change.”

“And because IPD doesn’t want to interview Gay people. God damn. So we know he wasn’t wearing the suit. Did anyone look at the locker?”

“I don’t remember seeing anything on it.” Kent tossed aside photographs and lab reports. He told himself, “Time to command, sergeant. We’ve got too much task and not enough force.”

“Call IPD. Better yet, call the Pacers too. Have them…”

“Seal that locker,” Kent said grimly. He picked up the phone, pushed a button on the speed-dial. Jamie heard him bark, “Sealed. Dusted.

Inventoried. Photographed. Receipted. And then all contents locked up. Got it? Or should I ask Captain Brown to do it for you?”

Jamie paced. “After his workout, he puts on casual clothes—jeans or sweats, a T-shirt, white socks, old Reeboks. He walks or takes a cab to the bar, it’s a short walk from home to the arena so he doesn’t have his car with him, his lover’s out shopping at the mall. He’s dressing for the bar now, he puts on—oh, no.”

“What?”

“He’s in sports marketing, so he’s wearing a Pacers T-shirt. Just like he was wearing team colors in his tie earlier, even his socks. But that Tshirt’s what started the conversation. Our killer—if he’s our killer—is a basketball nut. Remember his call to me, IU vs. Purdue? How much he’s in favor of the Chair-Thrower?”

Kent smiled. Jamie wouldn’t even say the IU coach’s name. “Hoosier Hysteria. Like everybody else in this state.”

“The clothes and no car are what convinced the killer that Glenn Ferguson was no big deal, that no one would miss him. Especially if Ferguson was non-committal in a bar conversation, didn’t give out much information.”

Kent frowned. “How did he get him in the car? Everyone says how cautious Ferguson was.”

“The killer’s persuasive, we know that. How he does it we don’t find out till after he’s caught. Don’t focus on the killer, focus on the victim. The victim tells us who killed him, if we figure out how to hear him.”

Kent was silent for a minute. “I don’t know how you know the things you know. But you’re right, I know you are. Besides, we still don’t have the drug screen yet.”

“You want a theory? Worthless speculation, but Glenn hits the bar for a beer, then he’s going to get a bite to eat at a nearby restaurant and head home. The killer offers to drive him to the restaurant, says he’s going that way and takes it from there. Maybe he’s got some added enticement. Maybe Glenn liked to get high.”

“Did you ask the lover?”

“No, it was too loaded a question for a first interview. But what about his watch? That’s how we know he changed his clothes and the socks are his; therefore he wasn’t wearing the suit, therefore the killer got fooled. He had an expensive watch which is still inside that locker.”

“So he changed watches, he was going out for a beer, and there’s no reason to flash a lot of money at the bar, he’s got a loved one at home and he doesn’t need to impress anybody, but he’s the professional type who feels naked without a watch, so he’s got a cheap one he wears sometimes. Call the lover and check.”

Jamie pulled out a pocket-sized address book, dialed, waited. “Gary, it’s Jamie Foster of The Ohio Gay Times. How are you getting along?” He listened for a few seconds, slowed down. “Gary, I’m here with Sgt. Kessler, and we got to thinking. What kind of watch did Glenn wear to work? And did he have another watch he wore at more casual times?” Jamie held up two fingers. “And do you have both of them there, are they among his things? Either one of them?” Jamie shook his head. “Did you ever know him to change clothes after his workout? What kind of clothes would he put on afterwards?” Jamie gestured for note paper. Kent ripped off two sheets and tossed him a ballpoint. “It won’t go in the paper, Gary. No one needs to know except Sgt. Kessler. It’s private. What kind of T-shirt designs?

“That many, eh? Always promoting the team. Have you cleaned out his locker? What about his desk and his office?” He made notes.

“Gary, there’s one other thing. I wouldn’t ask you, but it could be terribly important. Can I ask you a tough question? Did you ever know Glenn to use marijuana, or any other drug, or talk about it? It can’t hurt him now, and don’t worry about the legality, just tell me frankly. It won’t go in the paper, I promise.”

He listened, looked at Kent, slowly stuck a thumb up.

“Thank you. I know it wasn’t an easy thing to say, and I don’t judge. I’m not sure that it’s relevant, but every little thing helps. Are you flying or driving to St. Louis for the funeral? Give me the phone number where you’ll be.” He wrote it down. “Gary, I really appreciate your help. I know it’s a horrible time right now. It’s a great big hurt you’re going through.”

A minute later: “You know the only thing that works for me? I lost my lover six months ago and my mother a week ago. I tell myself, ‘Just put one foot in front of the other and keep going.’ Otherwise I’d shut down,just stop functioning.”Jamie talked with his hands.“If I space out in grief I’m dead meat. And I can’t walk a mile or even a block; but I can put one foot in front of the other, take one little step. And then at the end of the day, the hurt’s still there, but somehow the walking has improved me.” He handed the notes to Kent. Another line rang, Jamie said goodbye, handed the phone to Kent.

“Kessler.” He listened a few seconds, flashed an OK sign to Jamie. “What did you find?” He jotted his own notes. Kent was a southpaw, his wrist curled up above the line; it was a tiny thing to focus on, but Jamie was fascinated by watching Kent write. “Anything else? No, keep them for me. I’ll return them to the roommate when I can. Thanks.” He hung up and smiled crookedly.

Jamie suggested, “Trade notes.”

They learned that on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, Glenn Ferguson changed to sweats or tattered cutoffs, a Pacers T-shirt, a $2 plastic watch, jock and “thes ol stnky BB shos I kept begg. hm 2 gt rid of (our fant, bt shwr, sweet).” Every Wednesday they went out to dinner. And Gary didn’t have either watch in the home.

Kent didn’t ask what the fant was about. But Jamie understood Gary perfectly. If Glenn was wearing his old, stinky, favorite basketball shoes from college, Gary could expect a nifty pass from his all-conference point guard.

And it was those old, stinky shoes that made the killer think Glenn Ferguson was broke.

Meanwhile Perry Ellis, Italian loafers, a Rolex and used jockstraps crossed the street from Market Square Arena to the City-County Building, to be inventoried and stored in IPD’s evidence room. Jamie said,“I know where to find the shoes,sweatpants, cheap watch and jock. They are folded, but unwashed, in airtight bags in a bedroom closet in Indianapolis, along with assorted other trophies.”

“Trophies. Why airtight?” Kent’s lips curled up in dawning disgust.

Hollowly Jamie replied, “Except for the shirt, he wants to keep Glenn’s smell on them as long as he can.”

“Why not the shirt too?”

“Remember LeRoy’s description? Blue and gold tank top with a basketball on it. He got to secretly proclaim himself to the world as Glenn’s killer. If people only knew, hee hee hee.”

“Man, that’s sicker than cancer. You think he looks at his trophies sometimes?”

“He doesn’t just look. He jacks off over them.”

Partners exchanged looks of loathing. Kent shoved away from his desk, stood up tall. “Indianapolis.”

25  

Rolex

They rode, silent with their thoughts. Jamie wondered what he would do, now that he was alone in the world.

Go back to Columbus, of course; but for what? The job? Casey? Louie, for God’s sake? With Rick and Thelma both gone, there was no reason Jamie had to stay in the Midwest.

With his credentials, a Gay paper in Columbus wasn’t where he should be; in fact it was a dead end. Maybe he shouldn’t have quit the bigoted Telegraph in such a righteously indignant huff; it wasn’t a smart move, but it was the right one.

Maybe he should have taken the New York Times job. Maybe he should have gone with Newsday. But he had too much reputation in New York, couldn’t make his career jump there.

He thought about the offer he never got, for the job he really wanted, at The Post. To be in Washington, at the center of world power, was exactly where he wanted to be. But he got cut at the last minute, too many queers in the newsroom, a “controversial issue.” A discrimination complaint wouldn’t help his career move, and his entire plan was to make that jump.

So he accepted the lesser-tiered, general assignment job in Columbus. Walked out in a huff and into Rick’s arms. Fuck it, you do the best you can.

He should be pro-active with his career; he was a Pulitzer finalist, where did he want to work? He had contacts at The Plain Dealer; he wouldn’t lose his sources, staying in Ohio. And there was always The Pinnacle.

What did he want? He wanted to write important stories and live in a nice suburb with Rick Lawson. Those were the happiest years of Jamie’s life, but now they were over.

When this story was done he’d start looking for another job.

They passed Wrecks Inc., a junkyard landmark outside Zionsville. Kent said, “I have to mobilize my organization and get control of this investigation. It’s too fractured.”

Jamie switched mental gears. “That sounds right, Kent.”

“If Indy PD doesn’t see me there, we’ll continue to get this haphazard work. After all, it isn’t their case, they’re just doing what they can. I need to use the state police more effectively, my own organization. They need to see me in action, exercising authority, coordinating things, getting everyone’s input. Otherwise it’s every one for himself.”

“Call a formal meeting of your task force. Bulldog and Hickman and Blaney will be there, all you have to do is ask. And I suggest you get Dr. Helmreich in as an outside consultant. He consults with Scotland Yard. Have you ever worked a serial case before?”

“Serial rape, not murder. Does that mean I can’t do it?”

“No, Slugger, it means you need an expert coach. But you’re the one in the batter’s box.”

Kent looked at him,pleased.“Deal.Then how do I synchronize schedules in nine jurisdictions? If Quincy can make it, Hancock or Hamilton or Shelby County will say, ‘We’ve got this other thing scheduled.’”

“Forget them. Just convene your meeting, get fully organized. The cold counties will sit on their butts and let you figure everything out.

The issue isn’t the cold cases, it’s Mr. Ferguson and this active investigation. Narrow your task force to the state police, Quincy County, Jack Snyder and Phil Blaney. Make it obvious, you’re the leader.”

“Maybe that’s what was wrong with the old task force, the membership was wrong. Too unwieldy, too many jurisdictions.”

“And no leader. Take control, Kent. Solve the current crime, close our their cases for them. Do you have the backing of the state police hierarchy?”

“Yeah. But it would be good to have the deputy superintendent there at that meeting, or a symbolic appearance with me later today at Indy

P.D. I better call him.” Kent radioed headquarters. Soon George F. Slaughter’s deep voice came booming through the car. “Commander Kessler, Slaughter here.” “Yes, major, thank you. I’m coming in. I’ve done all I can do in north

ern Indiana, I need to be in Indy from here on out.”

“Right, sergeant, what do you need from me?”

“It’s time for the commander to command. I need to get control over the investigation, and be perceived by my fellow officers as doing so. I’m visiting IPD Homicide, Capt. Brown, Lt. Blaney at the prosecutor’s office, forensics and the prop room. We’re too fragmented, we just came up with another example of poor followup, lack of coordination, and I’m putting an end to that right now. The victim’s locker had never been searched. I’ve got my Gay smart card with me, chief.”

“Hello, Mr. Foster.”

Jamie smiled, “Hello, major.”

Kent said, “So if you have time this afternoon, I want to invite you to sit in with Capt. Brown, back me up a little. I need workspace, personnel and hardware, and I think if the local post commander and IPD Homicide see that we’re doing this in a coordinated way with your support, it will be easier for them to assist.”

“Good plan, Kent. I’ll contact the commander of Post 52. I’ve already arranged for space and hardware. Major Jenkins-Harris assures me that ‘936’ funds are available. If we need more, she’s going to be looking over your shoulder that much harder, and that always brings in the colonel. Beyond that it’s the governor’s office, but I’ve mentioned this operation to his chief of staff.”

Jamie pumped his fist.

“Thank you, sir, that’s great. I appreciate you laying the groundwork. Do you have any time available this afternoon if I can get in to see Capt. Brown?”

“I’ll tell Harvey to expect your call later today.”

“Appreciate it, chief. Talk to you later.” The radio crackled and went dead.

They passed the forest at Eagle Creek Park and bits of city began to appear. Traffic grew heavier. Shortly before 38th Street, they passed under Kessler Boulevard, and Kent honked the horn twice, sending long, loud echoes through the underpass. “Sorry,” he said. “For my Dad. I do it every time I come this way.”

Jamie grinned. “My mother did that when she got to the big Purdue sign on I-65. Now she’s got all of us doing it. Stone too, and he’s an IU grad.” Of course.

The former INB Tower came into view; Jamie didn’t know what bank owned it this week. Indy had acquired a modest skyline. Kent got off at Ohio Street, turned onto Alabama; Market Square Arena was on their left, police headquarters on their right. He parked in the crowded Police Only lot. “I thought we’d make the first stop at the property room.”

“Great. But what do you want me to do while you’re having this meeting?”

Kent flushed. He didn’t really want Jamie along for it. He wasn’t sure how other officers would react to having Jamie tag along. And securing the right reaction was what Kent was there for. “Let’s see the contents of that locker, then we can figure things out from there.” He opened the door for Jamie. Jamie frowned but said nothing.

The Rolex was tastefully gaudy. He hoped Glenn Ferguson didn’t wear gold neck chains. The jocks probably had Gary’s lip-prints on them. The only pair of sweats read “Saint Louis University.” There should have been more sweats.

There were no stinky old basketball shoes.

They found nothing else remarkable; the Perry Ellis had been folded with more than the usual care, and otherwise there was the rest of the business outfit, a weightlifting belt, two handball gloves, two weightlifting gloves, a headband, a rank Pacers T-shirt, a golf scorecard from two summers ago with 79 written in red ink and circled. Glenn Ferguson earned his jock.Jamie peeled off plastic gloves.“It’s what’s missing that’s the point.”

“Let Gary know you’ve seen it and where it is. And give him the receipt. Tell him we’ll get it to him as soon as we can. Thanks, corporal,” Kent told the guard.

In the corridor Jamie leaned against the wall, out of traffic. “So, I leave now, right?”

Kent felt embarrassed, tried to think of what to say. “Hey, it’s okay,” Jamie said. “Don’t think I don’t know what’s happening. You want to set up a rendezvous, or am I on my own now without a car? Don’t worry, I won’t slow you down.”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead. We’d better get a hotel room. I have to stay at the Ramada on Washington Street, that’s what the state pays for. You want me to make reservations? I can put it on my credit card.”

“Two rooms, so we’ve both got workspace. Here’s my credit card. Then check in after work and change clothes, take a cab and meet me at the Victory Lounge, 12th and Pennsylvania, at 7 p.m. We’ll have dinner. Meanwhile I’ll go see Gary, drop in at the Six of One Tavern.”

“Victory on Pennsylvania. Okay. Um, Six of One?” Kent was glad to be off the hook.

“Half Dozen of the Other. I’ll get Gary to give me a picture of Glenn, and I’ll talk to the late afternoon crowd IPD was reluctant to interview; see if the regulars saw him that night. With luck the same bartender will be working, too. I’ll get much more than a clothing list. I’ll find out what sexual message Glenn sent out and who picked up on it. Did he wear that tank top in the bar, or did he walk from the arena on a hot day without it? He first picked up Gary shirtless in sweats, showing off that pumped body. Maybe our image of the killer as someone who lures the victims is wrong. Maybe Glenn was luring him.”

Jamie headed out the door. Kent stared at him. When am I going to get a step ahead of this guy?