When we awoke, it was nearly noon. Scott called the hospital. Donny was still in intensive care.
The answering service buzzed us. My sister was on the line, but they also had a message from Douglas Clangborn, the reporter from the
Tribune.
He had invited us to a meeting of another group of athletes. After I’d noted the address, I told the service operator to switch my sister onto the line. Caroline began immediately: “What have you done?”
“I won’t know until you tell me what you’re upset about.”
“The police were here to question Ernie. My husband did not kill his brother.”
“Why did they come to question him?”
“They wanted to know when and what we knew about that condo. They could have only found out about our being there through you. They wanted to know about Ernie’s movements last night and at the wedding. They said that bathroom in the hotel was wheelchair accessible, as if that made someone a suspect.”
“They have to check out all possibilities. He is the brother. It is traditional to check out the family thoroughly in these cases. I like Ernie. I think he’s a good guy.”
“You had at least as much reason to dislike Ethan as Ernie did.”
“I had an emotional peak experience of anger at Ethan. Ernie had a whole lifetime of being pissed off.”
“He didn’t kill him. There was a death in St. Louis. He couldn’t have done that. He couldn’t have gone to St. Louis without me knowing about it.”
“I believe you.” This wasn’t exactly a lie. What I meant was, I had absolutely no proof that Ernie killed anyone.
Caroline said, “The police kept wanting to know where we got the photos. They wouldn’t believe that we simply found them in a briefcase. You gave them the photos. What did you do that for?”
“They were evidence.”
“They practically accused him of working with Ethan. How dare they? He’s my husband. I’m frightened. I’ve never been so worried. I don’t like being any part of this.”
“Nobody likes being part of a murder. It isn’t something you run around auditioning for or seeking out.”
“I want this to go away.”
“I know,” I said.
“Call me immediately if you learn anything.”
“I will.”
“How is Scott’s nephew?”
“It looks pretty bad.”
“Tell Scott I care.”
I promised I would and hung up. I told Scott what she’d said.
Scott said, “I don’t think she has anything to worry about. Ernie didn’t strike me as the violent type.”
“Me neither.”
We called Clangborn. He said, “I’ve got some guys you can talk with.”
We drove out to a sports bar on Madison Avenue in Forest Park just west of Harlem. We found a three-or-four-block stretch filled mostly with sports bars and beauty shops.
We parked on the street and walked into Mr. Luckey’s. The bar was crammed with televisions showing sports events, some presumably live, others taped.
Clangborn waved us over to a small knot of guys in a large booth near the back. Several empty pitchers of beer sat on the table. The waitress brought over three new ones as we sat down. She brought glasses for Scott and me. Scott paid. We did a round of meet the famous baseball player. No talk about the gay stuff.
We met three more athletes with Robert Murphy in their midst. I was eager to confront him, but first I wanted to get information from the athletes. This was a much angrier bunch than was at the first place.
One was Billy McConnel from St. Louis, whom Coach Weiser had mentioned as transferring to Lafayette when Ethan had switched universities. Without preliminary, McConnel said, “I wish I’d have murdered all three of them.”
“Which videos were you in?” I asked.
“I made one of their jack-off videos.”
Jose Perez, another athlete said, “I did a couple with women. I never did anything with guys.”
Scott asked, “You’re willing to admit that in front of a reporter and your buddies?”
“Why not? The tape exists. I saw it on the Internet once. It’s not like I did something with another guy. I’m not gay.”
Perez’s skin was the color of light chocolate. His thick hair was cut short and dyed blond, which accented his skin color. He said, “I played baseball for Carl Sandburg University. I knew I wasn’t going to be a pro. What was the difference? They paid me a thousand bucks. They didn’t tell me it was going to be on the Internet. I only have an old computer at home that isn’t much good for anything but word processing. I don’t surf porn sites. I have no reason to visit gay porn sites.”
The third athlete, Emile Tanzi, had been caught beating off at a urinal. He had short, curly hair, a bushy mustache, and flawless olive skin. Emile said, “I thought the place was deserted. It was deserted. I got turned on by a girl in the stands while I was waiting to take a dive. She congratulated me after I won the competition. I went back to the locker room. You ever had a hard-on in a Speedo? It’s embarrassing. Nobody was in the locker room. I never dreamed there’d be a goddamn camera.”
“Everybody’s angry,” McConnel said. “We came up to see what could be done. Barney Natlik is gathering everybody up here. Coach Fariniti is coming to town as well.”
“How’d you guys wind up making videos?”
McConnel said, “I needed money. It’s not a secret a lot of us do. Josh Durst was the one who told me he had a way for me to make extra money. I figured he was gay and he wanted to get me into prostitution. I wouldn’t do that kind of shit. I know gay guys who hang around sports events just to ogle the guys or who have a lot of money to pay the athletes.”
“Was Ethan involved in any of that?” I asked.
“I sure never heard he was,” McConnel said, “but how would we know for sure?”
None of the others had heard of it.
I turned to Perez. “How’d you get involved in making videos?”
“Durst.”
“He must have been the recruiter,” Scott said.
“Yeah,” Perez said. “Plus I wanted to have sex. I got to make it with a pair of nineteen-year-old twins with huge tits. It was great.”
Tanzi said, “They sort of blackmailed me. I was embarrassed at what they had on tape. When they asked me to do more, I figured I had no choice.”
“Did they make threats?”
“Did they need to? I was caught beating off in a public place.”
“Did Coach Gahain ever attempt to have sex with any of you?” I asked.
They all said no.
The athletes left. We asked Clangborn if he would excuse us while we talked to Murphy. The reporter told us to keep in touch and reminded us of our promise to call him first. He left. I turned to the coach and said, “We talked with Marty Burnes.”
Murphy glowered. “The police talked to me. I figured Burnes had to be the one to tell. I’ll fix that little weasel. He’s a liar.”
I said, “We gave the cops your name, Burnes didn’t.”
“Yeah, well, I gave the cops
his
name. I knew he was in the sports program. I knew he was close to Ethan. I figured he was the rat.”
My dilemma about telling the police had now disappeared. I said, “Burnes claimed you hated Ethan Gahain. That you were rivals. You lied to us. Why did you come here today? To help these athletes smear Ethan with a reporter? I want to know what the hell was going on.”
“Marty Burnes is a desperate wanna-be. Why would you trust him to tell you the truth any more than you would me? Do you know him better? Do you know where he was at the time of the murders?”
I said, “Tell us about your connection to Ethan and to pornography.”
“Yes, I’d caught him at it. Yes, I’d threatened to turn him in.”
“And you were rivals at work?”
“Yes. He tried to undercut me in the department. He denied it, but I knew what he was trying to do. We were rivals. I saw a way of getting rid of him. I didn’t care if he took porn pictures of the whole department, as long as he left. I was smarter than he was. I threatened to tell all. I had more power and influence than he did. He got the chance for the new job. I told him he had to leave.”
“Why not go to the head of the department?”
“Ranklin? Ha! He’s an administrator. He doesn’t have a brain in his head. Until this came out in the paper, he didn’t have a clue to what was going on. I found out. I had a way of getting rid of a rival. He was gone. What did I care who he had pictures of?”
Scott asked, “Why not just turn him over to the police and ruin Ethan completely?”
“I’m gay. I can’t risk people asking questions and getting nosy. My name would be associated with Ethan’s. Did you think that maybe Burnes had his own reasons for diverting suspicion from himself?”
“Are you saying he and Ethan were enemies?”
Murphy countered, “Burnes sure knows more about the porn operation than anyone still living, doesn’t he?”
“You do,” I pointed out.
Murphy said, “Fuck you both,” and stormed out.
We left and drove to the police station. It was nearly six before we got a chance to talk to Rohter.
He said, “Fariniti’s on his way in.”
“Has he been arrested?”
“We’re getting fingerprints. We want him for questioning. His lawyer is trying to cooperate.”
“Can we talk to him?”
“Not a chance.”
All the other amateur sleuths got to talk to the suspect if they didn’t actually take part in the trapping. We must not be doing this right.
Rohter said, “We found a video he was in. He lied to the St. Louis police, and he does not have an alibi for the times of the murders.”
“He must have been in Chicago yesterday.”
“When I said on his way here, I didn’t mean on his way from St. Louis. We found him in a motel at the airport. We got that information from the St. Louis cops, who’d checked into his whereabouts.”
“It’s suspicious that he was here.”
“More than a bit,” Rohter said.
We stopped for a bite to eat then hurried to the hospital. Still no change. We took part in the wait and worry until midnight. We were still tired from staying up most of the night before. We went home.
The phone woke me out of a deep sleep. It was four in the morning. Fears hammered at my heart. Calls in the middle of the night are not the harbingers of good news. I picked up the receiver. The answering service said, “It’s Mrs. Carpenter for her son.”
I handed Scott the phone. I whispered, “It’s your mom.”
He listened for a few moments, then said, “We’ll be right there.” He handed me the phone and I hung it up. “It’s Donny. They don’t know if he’s going to make it through the night.”
We dressed quickly and hurried to the hospital. Scott’s mom and dad, his sister, and his brother-in-law were in the intensive care unit waiting room.
Mrs. Carpenter said, “Hiram and Cynthia are in with him. He hasn’t regained consciousness since the operation. He’s taken a turn for the worse.” She dabbed at her eyes. We kept vigil through the rest of the night. As dawn rose, Hiram and Cynthia entered the room. Their eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks pale and sunken, shoulders round and slumped.
Hiram shook his head. Mrs. Carpenter buried her face in Scott’s dad’s shirtfront. Scott’s sister leaned heavily on her husband. She began to cry softly. Scott embraced his brother and sister-in-law. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured.
I heard them both whisper thanks. It’s true, there is nothing you can really say at a moment like that. Any words are not going to make the hurt and pain and loss go away. It is also true that it doesn’t make a lot of difference what you say at times like that. You don’t need a memorized speech or need to say the exact right thing. The murmurs of love and the closeness of caring are what make the difference. We spent several hours holding and comforting. Listening to medical personnel, and making arrangements. Hiram and Cynthia would fly their son’s body back to Georgia. We did everything we could to help. Scott and I would be flying down in a few days for the funeral. Another day or two without pay paled in comparison to this tragedy.
Nobody got angry. Nobody engaged in recriminations.
When we were ready to leave the hospital, we stood in a circle in the hospital foyer. Hiram asked, “What happened? Why did he have to die?”
None of us knew. With final hugs, Scott’s relatives headed to their hotel to pack and make final preparations for leaving. We drove home.
On the way we caught the news that Fariniti was in custody but had not been charged yet.
Half an hour after we’d been back in the penthouse, I wandered past the electronics room. Scott was setting back in place all the machines his nephew had moved. I didn’t think this was a time for a cleaning frenzy, but it was only a few machines. Then again I’m never in favor of cleaning much at all, much less a frenzy. Cleaning is an “issue” in our relationship. He loves to do it. I hate it. Unfortunately, his love for it does not translate into a willingness on his part to do all of it. Worse luck. We’d compromised over the years. He groused less, and I cleaned more. I still had my slob room in his penthouse and in my home in the country. He only entered these sanctums under duress. I loved them.
I figured I’d better help. It couldn’t be good to begin married life by reviving a spot in our relationship that needed compromise. I pitched in. He was leaning down and plugging in one of the DVD components when he held up a CD. He said, “I don’t think this goes on the floor back here.”
I sauntered over. For once I knew I hadn’t misplaced something. I took it from his hand as he stood up. “This doesn’t have a label on it,” I said. I glanced around the room. “There aren’t any CD cases lying around. I didn’t put it there.”
“So what the hell is it?”
Scott reached behind the VCR and pulled out four credit cards. They were Ethan’s. I said, “The only person besides ourselves who’s been in this room was Donny. We now have more than a fingerprint to prove he was in with Ethan.”
Scott said, “I didn’t want to believe he would rob a dying man.”
The horror of that hit me powerfully. Donny had come upon someone who’d been hurt, and not only didn’t he help, he’d ripped him off. Certainly I didn’t want to believe someone I knew, even slightly, would do such a thing. I didn’t want to believe in that kind of cruelty.
However, my wants had little to do with it. This was reality, and Scott’s recently deceased nephew was not a good person.
We stuck the CD into our newest, biggest, most powerful computer. In minutes we were looking at a file of model releases for the videos that Ethan and his little gang had made.
“Ethan, Cormac, and Josh Durst each had a copy,” I said. “Extra copies for protection. Obviously, not enough.”
“How’d Donny get a copy?” Scott asked.
“Had to be from the murder scene.”
The model release records numbered over a hundred pages. There were more pictures than we’d found in Ethan’s condo. It took a minute or so for each picture to fully appear on the computer. Ours was fast, but these pictures must have required a lot of memory. Some of them were simply posed pictures, guys in various states of undress. Others were blatantly sexual with guys holding stiff pricks or scenes of guys making it together. There were a few live-action shots about ten seconds long, snippets of sexual action, all gay. We also found action loops, each about five minutes long. One of these last caught my eye.
I hit pause.
Scott said, “Is that who I think it is?”
“Who is that with him?” Coach Ranklin was in a sauna. He was there with another man whose face we couldn’t see from this camera angle. “They caught him in the amateur-without-consent crowd.”
Scott asked, “But why was it in with this set? I thought we were convinced the killings had something to do with blackmail.”
The two men in the video shifted, and we finally saw the other person face-on. The identity of the young athlete was unmistakable. It was Shawn Ranklin, the budding Olympian, the all-American boy. I began to fast-forward it. We saw the two men drink from the same bottle of what looked to be champagne. We saw them touch and then begin to kiss.
“Oh, my,” Scott said.
They rapidly proceeded from kissing to more intimacy.
I said, “We need to talk to these people now.”
“We should call the police.”
“He was my coach. I danced with him at my wedding. We don’t know he killed anyone.”
“Ethan had these pictures. He caught the two of them breaking one of the most powerful taboos in society. It’s the perfect setup for murder.”
We left messages for Rohter and Hoge to call us.