Murder at Willow Slough (30 page)

***

A few minutes later, the chiefs of staff tried to excuse themselves, assuring the officers that their bosses would support the operation. Dr. Steve Helmreich asked for written documents instead, signed by the governor, mayor and U.S. attorney. Staff chiefs stared. “These folks will put their lives on the line, and they need not to be second-guessed by politicians after the fact.”

Steve had an authority about him. It came from Green River and Ann Arbor, a toughness seldom seen in academics. He wasn’t just an academic—he was a cop.

The staff chiefs agreed to request such documents. Captain Steve, Ph.D., asked for faxes “or we don’t move.” The pols couldn’t scurry out fast enough.

When they were gone Bulldog laughed. “I been waitin’ my whole life to see a politician’s ass put to the fire. Steve, come to Quincy County any day. We got some county commissioners we’d love to sic you on.” Hickman gave Bulldog five.

Slaughter suggested, “Let’s divide up strategy and tactics, logistics and personnel. Commander, what’s your preference?”

“Doc, help me out here, make sure I’m not leaving anything out. Great job, thank you. Committee heads are me, George and Bulldog. Phil, Julie and me on strategy and tactics. George, Chief Watson, Sheriff Grumwald and Sgt. Gillespie on personnel. Bulldog, Barry and Jack, you figure out what logistics and technology we need and report to me. Mr. Brown, coordinate with Bulldog on logistics if you want to have prosecutors there. Harvey, brief the media spokesperson. Doc, you’re my floating observer to make sure our committees mesh. Jamie, do you have input?”

“My concerns are technology and backup. I want to make sure that the personnel are capable of being Gay-friendly in the bars.” There was a pause here, official discomfort edging up slightly,the Gay Issue. “Chief Watson, Sheriff, I’m sure your personnel are well-trained for the police operation, but there are people skills to consider too. You’ve got to have guys, not women, in the bars, except at The ’69, and they have to be perfectly at ease. They can’t, uh…”

“Come strutting in like Marshall Dillon,” Kent finished. Jamie flashed him a grin.

“Right,” Watson said. “George, Sheriff Grumwald, Eamon and I will consult. This has to be a City-County-State Police team. There’s no guarantee where this scene will take place. Inside the old city we’re the leaders, if that’s acceptable; in the county the sheriff takes his territory. But all departments report to Cmdr. Kessler.” Indianapolis has an unusual political system; the city and county governments merged, in everything but police, fire and schools. Uni-Gov was designed to make sure White, Republican suburbanites could always outvote Black, urban Democrats, and schools stayed segregated. So a Federal judge ordered school busing.

“Right,” Kent ordered. “We’re going to follow normal jurisdictional lines as much as possible.” He liked commanding. He was good at it.

“Can I put that in writing too?” Steve asked. “Clarify the lines of authority and responsibility, that each jurisdiction has pledged to cooperate with the others? Very simple, a two-page document, but colleagues pledging to back each other up in this one operation?”

“You drive a pretty hard bargain, doctor,” Chief Watson frowned.

Helmreich stepped down for a second.“I don’t want to push it harder than I should, but you all need to know where everyone’s coming from, and it sounds to me like you’re heading that way anyway. All departments might work together better with a teamwork statement that clarifies everyone’s responsibilities. State police are the leaders, so only they will speak with the press?”

It was a new idea, one nobody had ever heard of before, this notion of putting things in writing. Chief Watson was right, it felt a little dangerous. But they were there to work together, and they were hungry for success. When no one spoke, Kent ordered, “If we get arrests, every department here will get full credit. Put that in writing, too, Doc.”

Jamie winked at Steve. Kent he couldn’t even look at.

They spent several minutes on police procedure. As an inside look, Jamie found it fascinating. He also wished he weren’t quite such an insider. Then it was time for committee meetings. “Jamie, you’re with me,” Kent said. He glanced at his watch. “Report back here at 1500 hours. Let’s move.”

Jamie grabbed his camera case, asked for a favor.

They let him take a few shots, which Casey could use if he wanted. Then Kent insisted on one more, asked Harvey to point and shoot at the Task Force, Jamie standing in the middle, Kent’s and Bulldog’s arms on his shoulders, Jamie holding up his cassette; his other hand shyly around Kent’s waist, because he had no idea where else to put it.

***

After the meetings and the reconvening, Kent pulled Jamie aside and said, “The reason we want you at the bar is so we can protect you. We can’t have him confronting you alone a week from now at your Mom’s house, or back home in Columbus. For us to protect you we have to be there without him knowing it. It’s easier for us to protect you at a bar, where we can blend in and control the situation.”

“How do I set it up? What actions do I take?”

“With you being in a public place, it’s much harder for him to snatch you. I’ll have my eyes on you at all times. If he tries to get you direct, I’ll be there to apprehend him. He won’t get past me. Instead, he’ll have to grab somebody else, then offer to trade. All you have to do is see him, Jamie, let him see you.”

“How will he and I make contact afterwards?”

“Your Mom’s probably. Same way he contacted you before.”

“Then what?”

“Get us directions to the rendezvous. We get that, you split immediately.”

“How do I cover the story if I split?”

Kent stared, exasperated. “Forget the damn story, I’m trying to save your life!”

Jamie blazed back, “Why can’t I join you when you apprehend him?”

“You shouldn’t be anywhere near there.”

“If I’m with you I’ll be safe. Why can’t I be there?”

“I want you well back from the scene. You’re not allowed on the front lines.”

“I’m allowed to risk my life, but not be on the front lines? I want pictures of the arrest! I want to report the story without getting in danger, but without your holding me back from the action, either. Kent, I deserve that. You’re using me to try to arrest a serial killer. What do I get out of it, some merit badge six months from now?”

Kent frowned, looked away. “I’ll get you as close as I can, but you do what I say, damn you. I’m your Commander. You follow my orders.”

“I can take the next flight to San Diego. Without me you don’t write a traffic ticket.”

Kent made a fist. “I’d love to pop you, boy.”

Jamie stuck his chin out. “Not as much as you’d love to arrest a killer. Go ahead and pop.”

“How’d you get to be so tough?”

“You think Gay guys aren’t tough? Watch!”

“Here we go. Gay rights again.”

“Ain’t Gay rights,” Jamie sneered. “Gay survival.”

33  

Thoroughbred

After dinner—Straight and in the far suburbs—Kent drove an unmarked, dented-in Chevy to the hotel. “We’ve got a search warrant when we need it, but he still hasn’t come home. The surveillance has electronics to intercept any conversation inside the home; his trailer will call us if and when he goes out and tell us where he’s headed. If he goes to a bar you’re not at, we’ll get you there. Also, the prosecutor is going to the grand jury tomorrow, even if he has to ask for a sealed indictment.”

“For threats or murder?”

“Murder. We all know he killed that guy, Jamie. Took you to rub our noses in it.” Kent parked, got the gym bag with their equipment out of the trunk. “You ready?”

“I’m Freddy.” By the eyes, by the strut, Kent knew Jamie was hyped.
***

Jamie sent him away, took a pre-bar nap, then showered and toweled his hair. He told the mirror, “Tonight you dominate.”

He shaved, flossed and brushed his teeth, treated his skin, snipped any oddball hairs, made himself perfect; if he was going to die, he might as well look good doing it.

He took his time, mentally focused, preparing for this performance as he would any other, making himself outstandingly handsome; there was power in that. He finished his routine; Kent knocked on the door. “Come in.” Jamie walked away, wearing jeans, boots and no shirt. He’d discarded an undershirt after grave deliberation. He didn’t want Kent to see his body, but he didn’t want to roast all night. He kept his back to the door.

Kent came in, stopped, loudly whistled, “Whee-oo! The lats. The waist! Turn around.” Jamie’s waist was tiny, which made his V-shape so dramatic. He turned, faced him, got looked at. Kent surveyed him for fifteen silent seconds. “That is the body of a thoroughbred.”

Jamie’s ears burned. Why else but to breed blond children had Thelma married the worthless Ronald, whose only redeeming features were his hair and his dick? Kent said, “Do you shave your chest? That’s part of it. Man, you’re beautiful.”

“No, I’ve got fuzz if you look in the right light.” Jamie tried to find some.

“Straight, ideal abs, amazingly deep cuts. Striations in square pecs. Big arms, great triceps. Wonderful delts. But man, look at that little bitty waist. What’s your sport?”

“I love my hoops, but I’m no athlete.”

“Jamie, get real, that’s an athlete’s body if I ever saw one. You’re too smart not to play to your strengths. How did you use it?”

“Show business. Briefly, only during college.” Jamie turned away, embarrassed.

Casually Kent said, “I guess being in show business, you got photographed at times.”

Don’t ever lie to a cop. “Many thousands of times. That’s how I paid for my education.”

“Man, you’re handsomer than Brad Pitt. You should be a movie star.”

“I don’t want to portray illusion, I want to describe reality. All my life I’ve wanted to be a reporter.”

“It’s a professional body, man, why not use it?”

“It’s a professional mind. Can I never get paid for my ideas?”

That hit hard, and Gay-Straight confusion fell on them; they had a job to do. “You have the tiniest waist, though. How’d it get so small? You ain’t normal.”

“By not eating greaseburgers, you moron. By working out six days a week. And before you can say anything, I’m 5’10” and taller than both my parents… were. Can we please get on with it now?”

“Yeah, let’s get this thing secured.” Guiltily, Kent took out an oversize, red Indiana University sweatshirt, turned it inside out and clipped a mic to the chest, then turned it rightside out. “Here you go, slugger.” He held it up.

Jamie raised his hands, got it on; it was commitment. He looked in the mirror. “No, not an Other School sweatshirt! I can’t wear this, my mother would shoot me. I asked for Purdue. You know I did.”

“They didn’t have any in your size. This was the best I could do.”

“What a betrayal. My whole family would shoot me.” Except that stupid Stone.

“Let me see.” Kent turned him this way and that. “You look good in red. The extra size helps conceal the mic. Besides, baggy’s in style. How does it feel? Does it scratch?”

“No, and I look better in gold!” Jamie turned away for his smokes. “Bought a fucking Chair-Thrower sweatshirt. The minute we’re done I’m burning this thing.”

Kent sat on the bed. Maybe this wasn’t about sweatshirts. “Are you all right?”

Jamie quieted. “I’m not going to back out, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You can, you know. No one will blame you if you do, Jamie. Nobody in the world has the right to tell you to do this. Back out at the last minute if you want to.”

Jamie drew in a lungful of smoke, sat on the other bed. “I feel confident, a bit pumped; otherwise calm. At some point I may need to tap into my anger. I’ll know if the time comes to turn it on.”

Kent thought of Cy Young winner Tim Virdon; same attitude on game day. Kent nodded, then snickered.

“What?” Jamie said. Are my wrists too small?

“I was just thinking how you had your anger going with Carson. Whee-oo! Remind me not to cross you. You were ready to take on the entire FBI. And wouldn’t nobody in that room have bet against you, neither.”

Jamie smiled ruefully. “What a jerk.”

“Why does the FBI have a file on you?”

“I don’t know, but somehow it’s related to this case. There’s something very strange going on. Everything changed when FBI jurisdiction was transferred from Cincinnati to Indy. You saw it today with Carson. Cooperation turned into complete opposition. I don’t trust his office, Kent. Something’s not right.”

“Do you really know the attorney general?”

Kent’s face was so serious-doubtful-wondering that Jamie smiled. “The attorney general’s never heard of me—but the White House has. If it comes to it, I’ll contact their political people, and they’ll contact DOJ. I’ve tried to avoid it up to now, I don’t want to exert political influence in a criminal investigation. If I get an uncensored Freedom of Information report, I won’t need the attorney general. The FBI will hang itself.”

“Shee-it,” Kent chuckled, falling back on the bed. “I kind of thought you were bluffing.”

“But you bought it anyway.”

Kent grabbed a pillow and threw it at him, caught him full in the face. “No way I wasn’t gonna buy it. You even had me scared, you little fucker. Blaney and me both.”

Perfect tension breaker. Jamie stood, faced a wall, stepped back three paces and did ten pushoffs, a full-body stretch.

Then Kent maxed out the tension; reached into his pocket and took out a handgun. “Jamie, I wouldn’t feel right without asking you to protect yourself.”

Jamie turned, recoiled at the thing in pure fear. “Kent, this is all going to go just fine. I’m not getting near these people. All I have to do is get the address.”

“Take the gun, Jamie. You may need it.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do with it. I’ve never fired a gun in my life.”

“Never?”

“Is there a rule that says I’m supposed to have? Take that thing out of my sight.”

“Well, no, but gee. I’ve never met a guy who hasn’t fired a gun.”

“Go to Gay bars more often.”

“Jamie, this could be dangerous. What if something goes wrong?”

“It goes wrong. I’ll have to use my other weapon.”

“What’s that?”

“The one between my ears.”

Kent’s voice rose, “Jamie, I’m your Commander. I order you to take the damn gun.”

“You’re my Commander, all right—and I’m a civilian. San Diego’s nice this time of year. There’s a limit to the orders you can give.”

“I know, man. But please take the gun.”

“Kent, I have an aversion to guns I can’t begin to tell you about. I won’t touch it; I’m terrified to be in the same room with it. Take that awful thing out of here. Let’s catch a killer using my Commander’s good plan.”

“Jamie, no plan is foolproof.”

“Buddy, if your plan is flawed, theirs is a recipe for disaster. Commander’s going to arrest them without a shot being fired.”

Reluctantly Kent put the gun in a drawer, told his monitor to call the room if he could pick up their conversation. Five seconds later the phone rang.

“Taxi’s on its way,” he said, tossing the Chevy keys to Jamie, who attached them to a key ring on his left hip. Kent would hold the cab, which was really a police car, until Jamie and the Chevy were away, then Kent, as his bodyguard, would follow to Chez Nous. George Slaughter would be stationed at Six of One, with a mic and a monitor car. Mic’d officers were deployed inside all other Gay bars and restaurants, and everyone had unmarked backup outside. Slaughter’s assistant Harvey coordinated communications at headquarters.

It amused Jamie to imagine Slaughter at Six of One, but Kent hadn’t questioned the decision. “It feels good to be back in the saddle again,” Slaughter had said. “I get claustrophobic in this office box sometimes.”

Privately Jamie teased him, “It’s really just an excuse to wear your leather.”

“That too,” Slaughter grinned, daintily batting his eyelashes.

Plain cars were assigned to the library, Washington Street and the bathhouses on Capitol and North Keystone. A patrol car was at Monument Circle because that was normal behavior, with another floating among the monuments north of Washington Street and a third making a circuit past each bar in turn. Col. Potts, Chief Watson, the sheriff and the prosecutor had command cars on the perimeter. Post 52 was on alert, every trooper available.

The whole thing even acquired a nickname. “Operation Pride,” Kent told Jamie over dinner. “I picked it for you. God knows, officers have a lot of pride staked on this thing.”

Jamie was deeply pleased. Now he said, “It’s ten o’clock, Commander. Ready to go to the dance?” He swung his camera bag over his shoulder.

“Let’s boogie,” Kent said, following him out the door.

Jamie sang, “We Will, We Will Rock You!” By the second line Kent was supplying foot-stomps and handclaps, Jamie the fist-thrust choreography. If the thoroughbred was going to die, he might as well do it to a song by Queen.

Kent couldn’t help but watch that tiny little butt stomp away.