Murder at Willow Slough (26 page)

Jamie grinned back, then went outside to wait. Kent watched the man on the fourth stool from the end. He didn’t seem to notice that Jamie left.

Kent walked out. They discussed it; Kent made calls, ran nearby license plates through the computer; no matches. “Lash is an unusual name,” Jamie said. “Can you get his address that way?”

Kent tried, got an address in the 800 block of Pennsylvania Street. “Walking distance,” Jamie told him.

“I’ll assign a plainclothesman to follow him home.” Kent made a call to Post 52—and 30 minutes later, nobody showed up. He was stunned. “’Cause it’s a Gay bar? Those bastards. They don’t even have to go inside, just follow somebody, see who he’s with.”

Jamie patted Kent on the back. “You said you wanted to learn about the Gay community. Buddy, you just did.”

“It’s discrimination, Jamie. It ain’t right!” Kent got pissed. “My own organization lets me down. Sgt. Gillespie’s going to hear about this tomorrow morning, by God. So will Major Slaughter.” He called the post again and ordered the shift commander, a corporal, to assign someone. As he did, the man on the fourth stool from the end walked out alone, headed for Pennsylvania Street. They hid. “At least he didn’t see us,” Kent said in disgust.

What played in Jamie’s head was, “It’s discrimination, Jamie. It ain’t right!”

During the cab ride Kent told Jamie about Not Gay. Jamie shrugged, “He said the same thing to me. He memorized his lines better than you did.”

“I can’t believe guys would say things like that to each other. That’s as blatant as any Straight bar I’ve ever been to. And you’d be amazed at how crude Straight guys can be. Girls too. Some of them are just as bad or even worse.”

“The only difference is that it was a guy who was trying to pick you up, not that he was Gay or Straight or Green. Besides, there are 99% fewer fistfights in Gay bars.”

Kent didn’t have any reply. But he knew guys had to fight sometimes, it was nature’s way. “How do you do it, then, when somebody gets drunk? How do you fight if you don’t use fists?”

Jamie timed his reply. “We engage in polysyllabic debates over exactly which ten movies Bette Davis got Oscar nominations for.”

Kent chortled, “And you always win.”

At the door to their hotel room, Jamie said, “Good job, Majesty. You did great tonight. No one knew a thing, and we want to keep it that way. Good job.”

Kent amazed himself. “Bet you say that to all the queens.” His teeth flashed.

Jamie mumbled, “Yeah yeah yeah,” and pushed inside.

Kent hit the sack immediately, but Jamie had computer work to do.

Half an hour later he stepped outside, pulled his cell phone out, dialed. “Here’s the progress report you asked for. There won’t be another one,” he told the voice mail. “We hit the bars tonight and he did fine, no panic attacks and no neon. Cool, smart, funny, as flexible as you said. He’s quite remarkable. We got discriminated against tonight and he responded perfectly. He’s the best possible cop for this case.

“He’s completely ignorant about Gay people but willing to learn. He also put me in my place a bit during dinner—he’s the Commander, not me.

“There was a possible Lash sighting, but we’re not sure.

“He’s pulling Julie Campbell onto his team, and I’ve suggested that he hire Dr. Steve Helmreich as task force consultant. Steve can keep the group from falling into the jurisdictional jealousy trap. An older, neutral guy might also show the other departments you’re not saying Kent’s better than they are, when Bulldog’s got twenty years’ experience on him. All departments are competent in investigation, it’s the rapid team-building that’s essential. Therefore an outside consultant.

“Most of all thanks for your help all these years. I’m looking forward to seeing you and 300 other hot men at the Midwest Fun Run next month. Oh, but buddy? The next time this happens, do me a favor; assign an ugly dude. Kent is driving me nuts. I saw him tonight in his underwear—wow. I knew you were into psychotorture, but this is ridiculous. You will have hell to pay when this is over. And don’t forget—I’m young, hung and mister, I’m blond, I know exactly how to torture you back!”

He cackled a full ten seconds on Major Slaughter’s voicemail.

30  

Message

Kent knocked on the bathroom door at 7:32 a.m. “You ready?”

Jamie, just out of the shower and naked, grabbed a towel in panic, got it around himself, turned his back to the door. “Ready for what?”

Kent leaned through. “For breakfast. I’m starved.”

“No, I’m not ready. I’m not even awake. We worked last night. You said to sleep in!”

“Man, it’s almost 8 o’clock. Half the morning’s gone.”

“What does sleeping in mean to you, ace?”

“Seven o’clock. What’s it mean to you?”

“Ten!”Jamie gave heaven a hand gesture. “Which means I don’t function till noon. Will someone teach this man about Gay time?” Then he chuckled, the guy was just up from rookie league. “Go on, give me 30 minutes. I’m not going anywhere with wet hair.”

It wasn’t wet hair that Kent noticed, but a dramatic, V-shaped back. Athletes always compare and compete. It wasn’t huge, but it was a darn good back.

***

In the coffee shop they traded plans. Kent would call FBI/Quantico to get a copy of Behavioral Sciences’ profile of the killer. He would release it to The Ohio Gay Times; Jamie would have another exclusive, and that would get Louie off his back. “Is your boss going to be a problem?” Kent asked over the last of a tall stack of pancakes, eggs and biscuits with sausage gravy.

Jamie sipped heavily-doctored coffee, moved a croissant around on his plate, ate a strawberry. “Louie Mascaro is always a problem. To stay here I’m going to need story out of this every issue, Kent. Something beyond ‘the investigation is continuing.’”

“We’ll come up with something,” the trooper said, his mouth full of wheatcakes, maple syrup and real butter. “We’re a team, you and me.” “Not if sleeping in means 7 a.m., we’re not. If country people had running water you wouldn’t have to get up so early.” “Maybe we can download some over the Internet.”
***

Kent left for his new office—and a telephone harangue with the commander of Post 52. From the hotel room, Jamie checked his mother’s answering machine. It was long distance, so he used his cell phone instead of charging it to his room. “One moment please. You have three messages.” Tape spun; the first was from Casey, just checking in and being thoughtful.

Then: “Hello, Jamie. This is your friend down in Indianapolis.” Jamie sat down on the bed. The same brittle voice…

“I hear you’re casing the bars now. You want a confrontation, we’ll have a confrontation. How’s life on Tad Lincoln Drive? Did you get your mom’s yard mowed?”

A hole opened up in Jamie’s stomach and acid dripped in.

“I just wanted to tell you I know where you are. I read your mother’s obituary in the Sun. Survived by three sons, Daniel of Denver, Stone of Bedford, James of Columbus, Ohio. So that told me where your mother lived and where you are these days.

“You know you’ve written a million stories about Roger’s so-called victims in Newton County, and that red-haired guy, and how you’re from there originally. That was very foolish, Jamie. That was a mistake.”

Jamie reached for his smokes. We were naive then, we thought it would add power to the story. It did add power. But it was read by a killer.

“I must compliment you on your mother’s funeral. Very classy, with the string quartet and all. Of course, I prefer an open casket myself, but I know you fucking Episcopalians have other ideas. Let the corpse be seen, that’s what I believe in!” An obscene giggle.

“Your brother Danny is looking good for his age. But Stone’s about ready to go to seed, don’t you think? Old Straight jocks always do.” Jamie’s hand clutched his mouth. He flashed on his phone tap and cassette recorder—useless in his suitcase, then he realized he didn’t need them, this was already recorded. He’d call and play this back from Kent’s office. Jesus Christ. This son of a bitch was at Mom’s funeral? I even looked for him.

“So, Mr. Bigtime Reporter, or at least you think you are, Mr. Award Winner, you weren’t content with finding that Ferguson guy—was that his name?—in the slough. I can’t believe you’re this stupid. Don’t you know why I fucking planted him there? Don’t you know I was trying to warn you off? It was your last chance, after you printed that pre-Labor Day ‘Strangler’ shit.

“It’s that time of year, all right. But no, you’ve got to play the big Gay activist, show the world what a fucking caring person you are, when anybody else would have taken these murders for what they were and left ’em alone. But no, not Jamie Foster, the best Gay reporter of the year. Hell no. Jamie Foster wants to be a hero.”

“No, I don’t,” Jamie told the tape.

“Yeah, you want to be a fucking hero. You think you’ve been a hero for the past four years. So I thought about it and I decided, okay, what’s it take for him to get over this? Dump a body on his doorstep?

“But I went easy on ya. Besides, you weren’t on your doorstep, from what the neighbors told me; there wasn’t any mail in your mailbox in Columbus. Jamie’s on vacation. Where’d he go? How about his Mom’s?

“So Labor Day came, and I took pity on ya. Did I dump John Doe in Columbus? No. In West Lafayette? No. See what a nice guy I am? I always told you I was, and Roger too, and you never could get it right, you asshole.

“Okay, what’s the next best alternative? How about the slough up in Morocco? It’s got water, it’s isolated, it’s another jurisdiction, the county sheriff there doesn’t investigate anything, it all goes to the state police; and I happen to know the Rensselaer troopers couldn’t find their ass with a roadmap. Perfect. Now maybe Jamie will get the picture and get out of my life.

“And what do I get for my trouble, my time and consideration? Another goddamn copyrighted story while Jamie tries to win the Pulitzer Prize.”

The voice hardened. “I’ll tell ya, I have fucking had enough of you. You leave me with only one alternative. I’ve already got the bridge picked out I’m gonna dump you off. You’d love it if you knew where it was. It’s very à propos. You stupid faggot. I can’t believe you went to all those hotshot colleges and still root for Purdue.

“I’m gonna dump you off a little one-lane bridge—that road out of Battle Ground?—smack dab into the Wabash River! You can float your way to campus, Jamie.

“So I’ll see you at the bars this week. I’ll be wearing my Muscular Dystrophy Telethon T-shirt, just for you. I hope you’ve got your will together since Rick died on ya. You’re gonna need one. And ol’ Danny will be back in Lafayette for another string quartet, and I’ll take it from there.”

Jamie hadn’t rewritten his will. Everything was still in Rick’s name.

You keep your hands off my family!

“Oh, I forgot. You really should have changed the default code for playing back the messages on this machine. You are such a fucking fool. I punched in 1-2-3 and it plays back everything you’ve got on this tape. By the way, who’s Casey? Is that whose dick you’re suckin’ these days, now that Rick checked out on ya? Sounds like a nigger. Christ, Jamie. You’re not only a cocksucker, you’re a nigger-lover. That’s really disgusting, you know that? Were you suckin’ him off while Rick was in the hospital? Don’t you know niggers stink down there? I mean, we’re talking rank.”

How would you know, unless you had your nose down there? Faggot!

“So I’ll be able to erase this evidence before you even get a chance to preserve it. My computer is going to be calling in every three minutes. I reach two busy signals on your line and you’re dead meat, because I’ve already talked for five minutes. I’ll know you got the message, and I’ll know where to find you, and then you’re history. I’m going to have a great time with you. I’ve looked forward to this for a long, long time, you nigger-loving faggot hero in his own mind, incompetent asshole. Oh yes: Have a nice day.”

A pre-recorded voice said, “Tuesday, 4:22am.”

Jamie listened numbly to the last message, a brief one from Father Jim, who wanted to know if he was all right.

He wanted to hang up, but then he punched another code. “One moment please,” said the pre-recorded voice. “I will replay messages.” Jamie heard the whir of tape rewinding. I can replay forever!

He grabbed his camera bag. Notebooks, pens, cassettes flew out as he searched for his tape recorder and the tap. He found them and dashed back to the phone. Ford’s voice. Still time.

He placed the tap’s suction cup near the receiver’s ear, hoped he had it in the right place. It had been a long time since Bulldog bought him the mic and taught him to use it. He popped a new cassette in the recorder. The answering machine was now replaying Father Jim’s message. Jamie plugged the jack into the cassette player and punched Record. This would be tricky.

Tape recorder in one hand, phone in the other, Jamie heard, “That was your last message.” He re-entered the code for the machine, soon heard rewinding sounds. He switched off the cassette, hit Rewind. Three seconds later, he hit Play.

Father Jim’s voice on his cassette in Indianapolis, soothing. “Yes!” Jamie shouted.

The answering machine was just about done rewinding. Jamie reset the tape recorder, hit Record. First Casey. Then “Hello, Jamie. This is your friend down in Indianapolis.”

The next five minutes were agonizing. This week! At “the bars.” Which one? What had Ford planned?

Danny, Jamie’s beloved big Bro. Keep your filthy hands off my family!

Once the answering machine got to Father Jim again, Jamie hit Stop on the cassette, then Rewind, then Play. “… you’ve got your will together since Rick died on ya. You’re gonna need one.”

Jamie wasn’t the only one who’d made a mistake. This was two now. Besides the recorder in his hand, there would be phone records of Ford’s original call, and all those calls from his computer to West Lafayette if he made them, plus the one where the computer hit Jamie in the act of retrieving; the answering machine itself.

Maybe not, if Ford called back and hit Erase. Jamie punched in more Touch-Tone numbers, ordered a new access code for the answering machine, then replay again. Ford could try all 1000 three-digit combinations, but that would take time or, more likely, programming. Jamie could stay on the line until West Lafayette troopers got there to yank out the machine.

The records on Jamie’s cell phone would also be admissible. I’ve got you at last, creepface! This cassette itself is enough to convict. Voice-prints, baby. He punched the air like he’d just won the Gay Super Bowl.

He had the recording now and felt like hanging up, not wanting to hear it again. Then he had another idea. Still connected to West Lafayette on the cell phone, he picked up the hotel phone, dialed. “Stonewall Task Force,” Kent boomed.

“Get back to the hotel now. Message from the suspect on my Mom’s answering machine. I’ve made my own recording of it. Order the West Lafayette post to enter my Mom’s house and grab that machine. Key’s on the ledge, above left of the door. You come and listen to this filth.”

“Be right there. Stay calm, partner.”

Jamie was right, he could replay indefinitely. Maybe it would be a stronger case if Kent also listened first-hand and made his own recording. They could both testify.

In less than one cycle from the phone machine, Jamie heard a siren approach. Soon Kent burst into the room, ready for war.