Murder at Willow Slough (8 page)

9  

Cabin

When Kent Kessler’s shift was over, he put everything out of his mind, like a baseball game after the last out; win or lose, it was tomorrow that mattered. That was his policy.

He worked out six nights a week, then he might watch TV, especially his favorite shows, “Home Improvement” reruns and “NYPD Blue,” which once had the Bible-thumpers riled over nudity. To him it was just a darn good cop show, who could get excited over the occasional bun shot? But when Rick Schroeder’s girlfriend showed her tits, that was definitely worth tuning in for.

Every Friday night Kent drank a beer because his bowling buddies did, but he was just as happy with diet pop. He couldn’t dance, so he never went bar-hopping with the guys afterward.

He played his guitar; he volunteered at the Boys and Girls Club, since Little League was over for the summer. He loved the kids, and he hoped he was doing some good. Every Saturday night he studied for his lieutenant’s exam.

On weekends he went to football games at Purdue, or in Indianapolis or Chicago, and hung out with jocks he knew. The Boilermakers were good this year, and last year’s team won a bowl game. The new quarterback settled right in; if anything, he needed better receivers. The kid was confident, a nice guy who knew who Kent was, before a coach introduced them.

Kent ate supper on Wednesdays and dinner on Sundays with his Mom at the farm; he sang in the little country church choir, as he’d done since he was a kid. He liked to sing, and if the preacher didn’t make much sense, so what?

After Sunday dinner Kent rode his horse. Or back at his cabin on the Tippecanoe River, he fished or went rowing, by himself or with anyone he could talk into it.

Since his first Slough visit the day the body was discovered, he’d been looking forward to hunting season. He cleaned his guns in anticipation. He came in second last year in the state police pistol accuracy contest, and headed off to the firing range, vowing not to stop practicing until he won it.

He worked at becoming a better archer, and wanted to bag a deer that way too; taking them down with a rifle was a challenge but not a sport. He donated half his venison to the FoodFinders, they always seemed happy to get it.

He loved hiking and being out in nature, watching birds, bugs, wolves. He’d been to all but three state parks, and made plans to get to the last ones this year, matching hunting seasons with his days off. Maybe he’d go hunting at Willow Slough this fall.

There was also the sandhill crane migration at Jasper-Pulaski in October, where the only shots to take were with his camera. The birds were beautiful to watch as they flocked and fed; then hundreds would take off, soar, big wings flying, legs stretched out behind them, as they led their babies south for the winter. The majestic birds made him feel like part of the life cycle, something larger than himself. He thrilled to them, never missed their flight.

He and the guys got to go water skiing on Lake Shafer for maybe the last time of the season, a glorious afternoon. Kent didn’t spill once; everybody else hit the drink two or three times. He loved driving Major Slaughter’s speedboat, hair flying, as much as he loved kidding his buddies about falling off the towline.

Kent and Julie sometimes went to a movie with a married couple from the post, but he never went out with her alone, because of office romance syndrome and because he just didn’t want that kind of relationship with her. Thought he ought to want it, but knew he didn’t. Hoped she understood. Thought she did, but then he just felt bad again. She was a great gal, and if sex was all he wanted it might have worked out; but he didn’t love her and never would. She had a crudeness about her that turned him off.

He wanted a son to teach things to, like his Dad taught him. Hoped he’d meet the right girl soon, so they could get started. He wanted love; he wanted a son.

He met women all the time, he had no shortage there. But they never clicked; most of them single mothers, divorcees, and he didn’t want some other man’s kid, he wanted his own. He wanted a woman he could respect, a professional woman with a career and a goal. But there weren’t any women like that, at least none who’d go out with a cop. His looks brought him women he didn’t want; his job scared the women he did.

He wanted a family to provide for, even if he did make only 26 grand a year. He still had his baseball money, his family’d be set for life. But he never went out with anyone long enough to dream that far.

His cooking skills were limited to grilling steak or fish, and he tried some new seasonings a trooper’s wife gave him. Otherwise he grabbed a lot of fast food.

Heard on the radio that Alan Jackson had a new CD out, so he had to have that. There were so many records he wanted, he had to keep himself from blowing his paycheck.

When he absolutely had to, when he felt bad about asking his mother to do his washing all the time, he went to the laundromat, stuffed jeans, tees, sweats and dress shirts in the machines, hit cold water, dropped in quarters and went for a walk. Even in the most familiar environment, there were always new things to notice.

He ran the sweeper once a month, but drew the line at dusting. He stowed the vacuum in the junk room and congratulated himself for only having four rooms to deal with.

He loved his little cabin; and thought about building a garage for his big new pickup. Bought a $10 book about garages at the hardware store, figured up how much money he’d need for lumber and supplies. Then figured how long it’d take him to save up the money, given the price of lumber these days.

Every night, having pushed his body in the ways he liked, he slept the sleep of the innocent in his BVDs. He got up every day at the crack of dawn, refreshed and optimistic, and drank orange juice out of the carton. After his morning run through the forest, he usually ate cereal for breakfast; but today he got ambitious and fried sausage, scrambled eggs. Melted cheese on the eggs, dumped the skillet onto a plate and ate standing up at the sink, watching a scrawny fawn eat hickory leaves in his yard.

Knew it would starve to death this winter. It was sad, but nature’s way.

He told himself he had a full life, that he was lucky. He was healthy, he was happy, he had fun every single day. So why was his life seeming kinda empty right now?

Decided he was just in a slump here lately. Probably because of the case. No crime scene, no evidence, no witnesses? No case.

Might as well get rid of that business card; but he couldn’t, it might be evidence. It’s just the case, that’s all; the case. What am I thinking about the case for?

He was off duty. Therefore he wouldn’t think about it. If the same feeling hit him at the post, then he’d think about it.

At work he was always so busy he never thought about it. Then a dream that night scared him to death.

10  

Casey

Jamie called his editor. Casey asked about Thelma, heard the news and the emotional tone, sympathized. “Did that brother of yours ever show up?”

“Stone visited 20 minutes tops, the day of the surgery. He’s back in Bedford now with his girlfriend-of-the-month. Didn’t say a word to me.”

“Homophobic pig.”

“Listen, Case, there’s a story here.” Jamie told him about it, the condition of the body, the handsome young cop.

“Ooh baby, just my type,” Casey enthused. “Tell me about his nightstick.”

“Extremely straight.”

“Well, most cops are. How come you get to meet all the studly guys? I’m the one who’s into uniforms, and I get stuck here writing the Black Gay Dear Abby.”

“And it’s the best-read piece in the paper, as you never fail to remind me. But man, I need your help to maintain some professional distance with this guy. Don’t be making sexual jokes about him. You get the uni

form—I want him out of it.”

“He’s that attractive?”

“I’ve never had such a reaction to a man. Casey, I’ve been around beautiful men my whole life.”

Casey said softly, “I can imagine.”

“I have to remind myself, as I’ve done before, that this guy is off limits, to maintain a professional relationship. Then I’ll have no problem. But don’t tease me about him.”

“I won’t, then. You’re smart to ask for what you need.”

“So let’s focus on him professionally. He’s the wrong cop from the wrong place and that’s very significant. But it’s only preliminary, till they get an ID.”

“Of course.”

“Let’s test my reasoning. I’ll give you some facts, and when you have enough to draw a logical conclusion, say it. First, on the victim: a White guy, he had a good body and worked out regularly; he’s very tanned, except for a European bikini.”

“He’s Gay.”

Jamie smiled. “He always wore a watch, even when he sunned himself. He kept his hair fairly short. He ate pasta salad and vegetables for lunch. He had one dental filling, plus a recent root canal.”

“Middle-class, business or professional. Gee, that would be different, if he’s connected to the others.”

“There was also a narrow tanline on his ring finger.”

“Like a wedding band? No other rings are that narrow. Either he was married or he had a lover. None of the rest of them did.”

“I wonder if it means they’ll get a fast ID. On the police officer: he’s young, not a line on his face. He’s a sergeant.”

“He’s been promoted quickly. He’s a top cop.”

“He’s a certified crime scene technician, which means massive FBI training and passing a tough exam. He’d qualify as an expert witness in any court in the country. Crime scene techs are usually civilians; this

guy’s armed. He sought the training to solve crimes.”

“He’s one of their best detectives.”

“Even though he’s 75 miles away from the scene, he was assigned to the investigation by Major Slaughter.”

“Wow. That has all kinds of implications. You’ve lobbied Slaughter every month for the last four years. He’s getting more active. He’s almost assuming…”

“Say it.”

“…That it’s connected.”

“Casey, we’ve dealt with these cases for so long, we may not realize how unusual they look to the police. If a woman’s body is discovered naked, sad as that is, it feels common enough to them. It’s rare for a man to be found naked.”

“It’s evidence of a sexual motive, along with the violence.”

“The victim’s rectum was dilated.”

“Oh, jeez,” Casey moaned. “I don’t like to think about this.”

“You don’t have to look at the pictures,” Jamie retorted. “Now returning to the officer: he is a serious athlete. He is overpoweringly handsome.”

Casey’s ears shot up. “Overpoweringly, to you?

“Stay on task. Cop’s a handsome young athlete.”

“Every Gay man in Indy will talk to him.”

“Exactly. Slaughter assigned him to a case he knew I’d get involved in.”

Casey mulled that one.“He’s using the handsome cop to reel you in?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him. The victim was discovered three miles from my boyhood home.”

“Jesus, Jamie, be careful!”

“Illogical. Not enough data.”

“But that kicker.”

“We blew it, man. As in totally.”

“With Bobby Hanger one county north, two weeks after you broke the story, there was no question of linkage blindness anymore. He sends you messages, Jamie.”

“Remember Bulldog. Two is a coincidence. Three is a pattern. This is only two.”

“It remains a distinct possibility. And don’t forget that note. This is three, Jamie.”

“Logical.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I’m not thrilled either.”

“Any chance Kessler could be Gay?”

“Let’s examine the data. I handed him my business card with the name of the paper on it, and he wanted to know if that means I’m Gay too.”

“Not likely he’s Gay. Who else but Gay people work for Gay papers?”

“He called it a lifestyle. He never even noticed the bikini tanline. I had to point it out to him, tell him what it meant.”

“He wasn’t looking at the guy’s ass! Then he has to be Straight.”

“Logical. And he’s completely indifferent to me.”

Casey was the only person in Columbus Jamie could discuss this with. A moment of silence ensued. “No one is indifferent to you, Jamie. He didn’t look once? Even Straight guys check you out, I’ve seen them. The air gets charged, they stand closer and closer to you, wondering what it’d be like to have your dick up their ass.”

“Calm down, Casey. He didn’t look once. Entirely businesslike. I wasn’t always, but he was.”

“Well, so much for that. I didn’t know they made ’em that Straight.”

“Next: Slaughter sends a young, Straight, handsome, expert investigator into the Gay community.”

“Cop’s mentally flexible? He can work with anybody.”

“I like that, Case. I sensed it but you’ve made it explicit. For now I don’t think he discriminates, he volunteered two anti-bias statements. But he sure plays head games. Six times he tried to intimidate me.”

“Intimidate the Intimidator? Six times he lost.”

“Once he won, but I’m not going to tell you over what.”

Casey squealed, “Your height!”

“Fuck you.”

“Anytime, Jamie. Anytime at all.”

Jamie smiled, changed the subject. “There’s a sketch coming, so save space for it.”

“What are your next steps?”

“There’s not much to do until he gets an ID and confirmation. Help me figure out how to get background on the cop without tipping off my competitors. If the local printjocks hear ‘Gay homicides,’ they’ll ask me, ‘What Gay homicides?’ I want publicity for the cases, but they can either quote me or do their own damn work. They’ve given this victim all of three grafs in the agate.”

“You’re a freelance reporter interested in police/Gay community relations—are the cops getting any better?”

“Save me some space, but prepare an alternative, too. I’m not doing a ‘possibly connected’ story; it’s either hard news or it’s no news at all.”

“Right. It helps Kessler—not to be macabre, but it helps him to have a fresh corpse in his state for a change.”

“God, that’s sick. But of course it’s true. If Kessler’s a hotshot, he may get an ID sooner than usual; he sure wasn’t blown away by the serial connection. He knows to look at missing persons out of Indianapolis.”

“Unlike the John Doe in Defiance. How much space you gonna need?”

“I doubt an initial story would run more than 500 words, all I’ve got is a dead guy dropped in my hometown. A dead guy, naked, who wore a European bikini.”

“Your hometown? You said something about a Willow—what was it you called it?”

“S-L-O-U-G-H. Old English, this one’s an ‘oo.’ When a snake sheds its skin, the same spelling becomes an ‘uff.’”

“Someone ought to reform English before the bough breaks, though slough’s enough.”

“Very clever!” Jamie chuckled. “My slough’s all that remains of the Grand Kankakee Marsh, which was once bigger than the Everglades. Remember Schmidgall and the Kankakee?”

“We put ‘Along the Kankakee River’ in the dateline. Then there was that kicker. Enough of the logic, Jamie, what if the killer’s trying to send you a message? That would be scary. You know he’s reading you. Lord, James, maybe he’s trying to tell you something.”

“Like what? We don’t know it’s connected yet, and until we do, I can’t worry about that.”

“Now listen, man: take care of yourself. This can be dangerous. And I ain’t writing no more obituaries, child. I am plumb sick o’ that. If I have to write ‘complications of AIDS’ one more time I am gonna lose it.”

“Right.” They both hated obituaries. “Good luck with your mom, Jamie. Don’t push yourself too hard. Take care of you, too, kid.” “Thanks, Case. I think she’s going to be okay.”
***

That night, with the help of a few drinks, Jamie thought about the friends he’d lost; an activist in Cincinnati; a composer in New York; the national political leader Steve Endean, who made Jamie his first stop in Ohio, only to discover that Casey was Black, handsome and had an apartment nearby. And Tom Stoddard, whose looks, brains and TV skills made him the Great Gay Hope, till he got sick. Jamie wondered how many people he knew at Gay Men’s Health Crisis were still alive.

He thought of Kelvin, and Aaron Haney, and a young man dumped in a slough. He cried for his beloved Rick, whom he would never get over.

Then his sweet, smart, formidable Thelma, source of life, whose strength of personality created him in grandiose humility; and finally, for the longest time, he cried for himself, the hardest sobs of all, exhausting him, cutting his abs anew, cutting his heart, with a vision of spurting, ineffectual blood; saving no one.

Hours later, the prairie’s dawn was objectively beautiful, but he could not be consoled by it. He went to sleep finally, angry and depressed, unable to stop anything or be done with anything.