Murder on the Down Low (35 page)

“What time did you get there?”

“Now
that
I remember. We had an eight o’clock appointment. I got there about five minutes early.”

“And where does Eddie live?”

“Across from USC. In the Trojan Arms apartment complex.”

Vernetta lowered her head over her legal pad.

“What? What?” Special asked. “Please tell me what’s going on?”

“Remember Nathaniel Allen? That football player who was murdered?”

“Yeah?”

“He was shot outside the Trojan Arms apartments.”

“So. What’s that got to do with me?”

Again, Vernetta gave her a moment to connect the dots. The incredulous expression on Special’s face showed the exact moment that she made the connection.

“Yes,” Vernetta said, “they’re trying to pin his death on you, too.”

“What reason would I have for wanting to kill him? Or that doctor? I don’t know them.”

Vernetta decided not to bring up the engineer. “I don’t know, but the prosecutor believes you had a motive. He just hasn’t told us what it is yet.”

Special and Nichelle appeared ready to keel over. Then Special’s left hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God. He was on the down low, too!”

“What?” Vernetta asked. “Who are you talking about?”

“That football player. He was messing around with this dude Donte. Shwanta, my braider, saw a picture of the two of them together naked. Maybe that doctor was gay, too. The police think I’m running around killing men on the down low!”

Vernetta thought about what Special had just said. That had to be the motive Martinez refused to reveal. Now, Vernetta was about to have trouble holding it together.

She was afraid to ask her next question, but somehow found the courage to proceed. “Special, what time did you leave Eddie’s place?”

“I don’t know. It didn’t take us that long,” she whimpered. “I think I left about ten minutes before nine.”

“Where did you go after you left?”

“Home.”

“Special, I want you to think real hard. Are you sure you went straight home? This is very, very important.”

She stared up at the ceiling. “Oh, I remember, now. After I left Eddie’s, I drove over to the Starbucks in the shopping center across the street.”

Nichelle looked at Vernetta. “What time was that football player shot?”

“Nine-forty-seven,” Vernetta replied. “Several students heard the gunshots.” Her eyes met Special’s. “Don’t tell me. You don’t have an alibi for your whereabouts after you left the Starbucks.”

“I don’t need an alibi.” Special’s fear had converted to anger. “I was probably in my car driving home. Anyway, there’s no way that Starbucks clerk would remember me considering how many people go in and out of that place.”

Vernetta recalled what the Starbucks clerk told the police. “What kind of drink did you buy at Starbucks?”

“What? What do you wanna know that for?”

Vernetta had less than an ounce of patience left. “I just do. So tell me.”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with anything,” Special complained. “I usually get a hot drink, but I decided to try something new. SoI bought one of those cold ones. A Java Chip Frappuccino.”

R
everend Sims stood near the window of his office, staring out into the empty church parking lot. He was still coping with the death of his neighbor and friend James Hill when he learned of Eugene’s murder. As a minister, he was usually the one offering comfort to others. Now,
he
needed a shoulder to lean on. But he didn’t have a soul he could confide in. Not about this.

The reverend knew he should go to the police and tell them that he had been with Eugene the night before his murder. The police needed to know about Eugene’s suspicions that Special Moore was stalking him and that he planned to get a restraining order.

But going to the police would require him to do a whole lot of explaining. For one, why was he, a respected minister, having dinner with and visiting the home of a gay man? No, he could not allow himself to get tangled up in this mess.

According to Belynda, Special Moore claimed she had a picture of Eugene with another man in his kitchen Friday night.
He
was the other man in that picture. He prayed that picture never surfaced.

The reverend returned to his desk and checked his leather datebook. He had three counseling sessions, but the first one wasn’t for another hour. Just as he was about to open his email, he heard a knock.

“Reverend,” said Bettie, the church secretary, “there’s a very troubled woman outside who would like to speak with a minister. She wanted to see Bishop Berry, but he’s not here. Do you have time to meet with her?”

He nodded. Handling someone else’s problems might help him forget his own.

Moments later, when Bettie escorted Special Moore into his office, the reverend became so flustered, he knocked over his coffee.

Bettie rushed over to help him clean up the spill.

“Excuse my clumsiness.” Reverend Sims pulled a wad of napkins from his desk and blotted the coffee. He extended his hand to the woman.

Special reached out to shake it. “I’m Special Moore. I’m not a member here, but my friend Nichelle Ayers urged me to come.” She studied the reverend’s face. “You look very familiar. Have we met before?”

Reverend Sims hid his growing angst behind a smile. “I preach here every few weeks.”

“No,” Special said. “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t here. But I know I’ve seen you someplace.”

“I also preach at other churches from time to time. Why don’t you have a seat and tell me why you’re here.”

Special took a chair in front of the reverend’s desk and set her purse in her lap. He could tell that the woman was a mere shell of what she used to be. Stress had a way of wearing the body down. That videotape of her running up to Eugene and attacking him with pepper spray played over and over again in the reverend’s mind.

“Well, I can’t put my finger on where I’ve seen you before, but I’m sure you recognize
me.
” She fumbled with the strap of her purse. “My face has been plastered on TV stations and newspapers from here to the moon. And for the record, most of what you’ve been reading about me isn’t true. I’ve been falsely accused of killing a man.” She stifled a whimper.

“I’m here because I need prayer. Lots of it. I don’t have a church home right now. Nichelle told me Bishop Berry counseled her a couple years ago. She said it was very helpful.” She broke down into a full sob. “I feel like I’m falling apart.”

Reverend Sims reached for the tissue box on the corner of his desk and offered it to her. The reverend patted her on the back and waited as she dried her eyes.

“I’m glad you came,” he said. “God’s never failed me yet, and he’s not going to fail you either.”

Reverend Sims began by asking her several questions about her spiritual life.

“I’m embarrassed to say that I haven’t attended church in quite a while,” Special said. “After Maya became ill, I was so mad at God, I refused to set foot in a church.”

“Sometimes difficult things happen, and we don’t understand their purpose,” Reverend Sims said empathetically. “But God’s power is tremendous. All you have to do is call on Him and He’ll see you through.”

“My predicament might be even more than God can handle,” Special said with a sad chuckle. “As my daddy would say, I’m in a whole heap of trouble.”

“I don’t need to know all the specifics,” Reverend Sims said. “God knows.” He pulled open a side drawer of his desk, took out a brown leather Bible and handed it to her.

A larger Bible lay open on his desk and he pulled it closer to him and put on his reading glasses. “I’d like us to read a few verses together.”

Reverend Sims recited a short prayer, then directed Special to the Twenty-Third Psalm. When they were done reading together, he took off his glasses. “I’ve turned to that verse over and over again during my own difficulties. And when you’re feeling at wit’s end, that’s exactly what I want you to do.”

Special nodded as she dabbed at the steady stream of tears falling from her eyes.

They read a few more verses together and when they were done, Reverend Sims wrote down some additional verses for her to read at home and handed her two pamphlets
.

After another short prayer, Reverend Sims escorted her out.

“Thank you so much,” Special said. “I do feel a lot better.”

“Good. Spending time in prayer can do that for you.”

She started to leave, then turned back to him. “I’m probably going to remember where I know you from as soon I get home.”

Reverend Sims scratched his cheek. “When you do, you be sure to let me know.”

He remained in the doorway of the church until Special drove off. The reverend was now in a state of complete panic.

Special apparently hadn’t gotten a good look at him when she took that picture. He just prayed that she never made the connection. No one would ever believe his story about pushing Eugene away. His family would be devastated and he would be disgraced.

The reverend rushed back to his office. He only had fifteen minutes before his next counseling session. Now, it was
his
turn to ask God not to forsake him.

V
ernetta tiptoed into their darkened bedroom and tried to undress without waking Jefferson. She was almost out of her clothes when she heard him stir.

“Sorry I’m so late,” she whispered as she hung up her clothes. “I was with Special.”

Jefferson yawned, then sat up and turned on the lamp on the nightstand. “How’s she doing?”

“Better. She spoke with a minister today, and I think it helped. Too bad he couldn’t work a miracle on her legal problems.”

“What’s going on with the case?”

“As it turns out, the prosecutor has some pretty damaging circumstantial evidence against her.”

“Enough to convict her of killing Eugene?”

“Him and possibly four other guys, too.”

Jefferson’s brow furrowed. “What other guys?”

Vernetta slipped into a nightgown, then stood in front of the mirror brushing her hair. “I know you’ve heard all the talk about a killer who’s been gunning down prominent African-American men.”

“Yeah,” Jefferson said. “One of ’em was that running back at Fox Hills Junior College”

“Well, believe it or not, the prosecutor thinks Special is the serial killer who shot every one of them.”

Jefferson’s silence caused Vernetta to glance over her shoulder. She couldn’t remember her husband ever being speechless.

“I understand why Special might’ve wanted to off Eugene,” he said finally, “but what motive could she possibly have for killing those other guys?”

“I’m not sure you’re ready for this, but I think they were on the down low, too.”

Jefferson smacked his lips and slid back under the covers. “Ain’t no way in hell I’d believe that running back was gay.”

“That’s the word on the street.”

Jefferson fluffed up his pillow, then plopped back down. “That’s some bullshit. If they’re not calling us criminals, then they’re saying we’re lazy and irresponsible. And now they’re pinning this homo crap on us. A brother can’t get a break.”

“Sounds like you think this down low stuff is some kind of conspiracy against black men.”

“That’s what it feels like. I don’t even get the whole gay thing.”

“What’s there to get? Some people are gay, some people are straight.”

“I will never, in a million years, understand how a brother couldn’t like pussy.”

Vernetta shook her head in dismay. “I can always count on you to break down any issue to the crudest possible level.”

“I’m serious.” He rested his back against the headboard. “Why would a brother wanna be rubbing up against some ashy, hard ass dude, when he could be with a nice, soft woman? It just don’t make sense to me.”

“So you don’t believe people are born gay?”

“Hell, nah! They’re making a choice to do that shit. And anyway, these dudes claim they’re not gay, just freaks. If I wanted to be a freak, there’s a whole lot of freaky shit I could think of doing before getting with a dude
ever
crossed my mind.”

“Being gay is not about sex. And it’s certainly not easy being gay. So I doubt anyone would make that choice considering the way our society treats them.”

“Why in the hell are you defending ’em?” Jefferson asked. “Black women are the ones they’re hurting. I was in the drugstore yesterday and overheard two women discussing this crap. They were intentionally talking loud enough for me to hear. One of ’em was saying there’s no way for a woman to tell if a brother is straight or gay anymore. She had the nerve to roll her eyes at me. I was about to tell her to kiss my ass, but she looked like a real ghetto girl. I didn’t wanna have to call you from the county jail.”

“Thanks for showing such restraint.”

“Well, I ain’t got too much of it left. Everybody’s trying to act like half the brothers in America are punks.”

“What a lot of people refuse to accept,” Vernetta said, “is that being homosexual is as natural for some people as being heterosexual is for you and me.”

“I don’t care if it is natural for them, that don’t make it right. It ain’t natural for a man to be monogamous, but we still do it. They need to just suck that shit up and act like a man.”

This time Vernetta put down her brush and gave Jefferson her full attention. “What do you mean it’s not natural for a man to be monogamous? What kind of sexist crap is that? So you want another wife now?”

“Hold on, don’t start trippin’. I wasn’t talkin’ about
me
. I’m talking about most men. We . . . I mean they . . . see women every day who they’re attracted to and wanna get with. But if you’re a man, a real man, you have to ignore those feelings because you made a commitment to your girlfriend or your wife, or whatever. These dudes are with women but claim they’re attracted to men. They need to man up just like we . . . just like other men do and handle their responsibilities.”

Vernetta thought about responding, but it was useless to get into a debate with him on this issue. Jefferson, however, refused to let it go.