Murder at Willow Slough (25 page)

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Centerfielder

Kent hadn’t rented them two rooms, just one. “Why not?” Jamie asked.

“Why waste the money? It’s got two big beds. You can run your laptop on the table.”

“But I’m on an expense account.”

“I’d share with any other guy, Jamie. Or did you want to…?”

“No, I’m not that way.”

“We’ve gone camping together, we can sure as heck share a whole room. It makes up for the night I should have come after your Mom died.”

That silenced Jamie. He fired up his laptop while Kent took a shower. At 9:45,he appeared in the doorway in his BVDs. “What should I wear?”

Jamie’s sweat popped out.

He was shocked to see Kent in the flesh. At only 225 pounds he was-n’t a stereotypical bodybuilder, he was just all muscle, like an athlete. His pecs and shoulders were big, his abs perfectly defined. His nipples were the size of half dollars. His arms belonged on a giant, his quads bulged. But his skin was the revelation, thin, taut, dark, flawless. Jamie was very proud of his own body, but this man made him feel like a skeleton—a short one at that. He forced his eyes to return to the screen

and stay there. “So that’s what a home run hitter looks like.”

“Well, uh, yeah.” Kent scratched his chest hair.

“A sweatshirt will be best. Long sleeves will cover your arms, and you want to fit in, not stand out. Don’t draw attention to yourself. You’re there to look. Wear a baseball cap. It will hide your face and eyes, so you can observe others more easily. Wear sunglasses too, people will think you’re acting cool, but meanwhile you’re observing.”

“Okay.” Kent turned away. Jamie’s eyes feasted on ass, narrow, high, round and built for love.
***

They headed through the lobby toward a cab when Kent stopped in his tracks, grabbed Jamie and pulled him over to a TV. Onscreen, Jamie was mouthing words while a reporter did a voiceover. Superimposed on Jamie’s chest were the words, “Quincy County, Ohio, 1994.”

They listened. “…broke the story four years ago when he linked the murder of Aaron Haney, a Richmond, Indiana native living in Indianapolis, to three others here in Quincy County during the 1990’s. And now, police confirm, the killer has struck again.” Jamie recognized the voice.

“What is this?” Kent asked.

The picture changed to a map of northwest Indiana, showing Willow Slough, then footage of Haney’s crime scene, the bridge over Sevenmile Creek. Jamie turned away. But Kent caught his arm again, made him watch. The clip ended with the woman in front of the Quincy County Courthouse and the words, “still at large. Darla Collins for ABC News, Cavendish, Ohio.”

Next came a live report about a house fire in the suburbs. Kent and Jamie headed for the door. “How did Channel 5 get that?” Kent asked quietly.

“It’s nothing but file footage. The Dayton station heard about my story from last Thursday, so they rehashed it, you can tell by their focus on me. Then Darla did a retake on the voiceover ‘for’ the network, and the ABC station here pulled it off the satellite. It looks like news, but it’s really cost-cutting. It’s cheaper for the Indy stations to pay Dayton than to do it themselves, even though it should be their own local story. Knowing Darla, she sold it herself for the residuals. God, I hate local TV.”

“You’re really well-known over there, aren’t you?” Jamie didn’t reply. “I can see why. So, what do you think it means?”

The cab was waiting for them. “Every station in town will mention it at 11:00, and The Sun might give it a graf two days from now. That was Channel 7’s 11:00 program at 10:00 on Channel 5. That means the competition gets a preview of what Channel 7 has, and they’ve got an hour to see if their own affiliates have the story, since it was 7’s lead. Soon it will be on all five stations. That means our killer’s been put on notice. Ever since he dropped Glenn off at the Slough, he’s been waiting for his reviews.”

“Jeez, that’s sick.”

“Why kill a bunch of people if you don’t want to be famous? But Ferguson witnesses, if any, are also alerted. Poor Gary, I hope he’s not watching.”

“The ‘put on notice’ part bothers me. I hate for him to know we’re onto him. Darn.”

“Hope for witnesses, man,” Jamie replied, peering unseeing at the darkness as the car took off. “If people have a right to know anything, it’s that there’s a serial killer in town.”

They talked about the conflict between police work and journalism. Then Jamie prepped Kent for the bar. “Let’s review why you’re going undercover at all.”

“To familiarize myself with the Gay community.”

“Good. But more than that, Chez Nous is where Mr. Ferguson disappeared from. Your suspect hangs out there, it’s a place he and Glenn had in common. You’re in ‘A’ ball now, no more rookie league.”

“Thanks for the promotion, coach.”

“It’s a Monday, so there won’t be much crowd, a perfect night to initiate you. An impulse tells me our killer does not come out on weekends when the bars are crowded. Like with Haney, a sweet, lonely drunk in the corner, it’s easier to pick someone up during the week when there’s less competition. And Glenn was picked up on a Tuesday after a holiday. Now be forewarned: this place is cruisy, with sexual overtones. They’ll assume you’re Gay. Don’t take it personally, you’re here to do a job.”

“Right. Should we stay together or stand apart?”

“Apart. If we’re together they’ll think we’re a couple.”

“There are couples in Gay life? Is that common?”

“Puh-lease, this is A-ball,” Jamie demanded, incredulous and impatient and, as he looked at Kent, less impatient. “Sorry, man. Of course there are couples in Gay life, 40% of us. You don’t think Gay people fall in love? Glenn and Gary did.”

“I never thought about it before. They weren’t just roommates, huh?”

“Kent, Gay people are exactly like everyone else, except that… we’re not. Know what I mean?”

“I’m trying. So it’s not all just, um, one night stands?” At the rest stop?

Jamie rubbed his face, looked out the window. “Please, Kent, try to understand. I was with my lover Rick through vasculitis, amputations, wheelchairs, chemo, prostheses, heart attacks and death at 34. Does that qualify as love, or not?”

“It sure sounds like it.”

“We’re just like everyone else except we’re Gay. It’s two men or two women, and that changes things, but we want the same picket fence, shaggy dog and IRA as everyone else. We have the same loyalties, the same virtues and problems. Rick was with the Marines in Beirut, for God’s sake. I’m proud to have known the man.”

Kent looked out his window. What could he say? A Marine, in Beirut. “I’m sorry.”

Jamie couldn’t handle doe-eyes right now, there was a killer to catch. “Don’t worry. Keep asking questions, you’re doing great. If I react testily, please forgive me, it’s only because… I so want you to understand. I need that. These victims do.”

“You’re very patient with me. I need to start thinking of you guys as normal, don’t I?”

“That’s the best thing you’ve ever said. Don’t focus on the difference, focus on the similarity. Mr. Ferguson was a happily married man. His homicide is like every other one you’ve ever worked.”

They arrived at the bar. Jamie went in first. Kent waited a minute, then walked into pitch darkness. Slowly his eyes adjusted through his shades. Dance music was subdued but bouncy. The bar was straight ahead. Jamie took possession of a Bud Light, said a few words which brought a laugh from the bartender, and headed to his left, toward pool tables. Everyone in the room watched him walk away.

Then they looked at Kent. He felt conspicuous. It wasn’t his clothes, Jamie’s suggestions were right on target. He felt conspicuous because he was in a gaybar.

Don’t think about it. He ordered a Miller Lite, and tipped big as he’d been taught. Overhead was a huge rainbow-striped flag, just like the little one Jamie had put on the Red-Haired Boy’s grave. Kent wondered what the flag meant.

These people aren’t too bad. Kinda weird-looking, some of them, but okay. Half of them look normal even. I wouldn’t have guessed if I saw them on the street.

They hug each other a lot. And they laugh, they seem to enjoy each other. Nothing wrong with a little show of affection in their own bar, he decided.

In the corner were two guys wearing leather jackets, tank tops and longjohn underwear designed to outline their equipment. Blatant, like homosexuals on the TV news. One was okay-looking in a grungy, street kind of way. The other was fat and had tattoos. Kent stared briefly. Dressed alike, maybe they’re lovers. He turned away.

The music sure wasn’t his style, but he noticed he was tapping his foot.

Jamie moved through his field of vision, opened a glass door in the back and went through it. Thirty guys followed him, jockeying for position. There is more to this place than I realized. I better start moving around, they’ll think I’ve taken root here.

***

The guy at the pool table is a hustler. Long hair, the bored look of the not too bright; a little chunky in the middle, are there a lot of customers for that? There was one tonight; a bald man was plying the guy with drinks and using every opportunity to paw him as he lined up a shot. Kent tried not to curl his lip at the display.

A test at 11:13: he had to go to the bathroom. Where is it here?

He saw a guy coming out of a swinging door at the back of the pool room. No one else headed that way. Kent waited a minute to make sure. He set down his bottle, walked with casual wariness, pushed through the double doors. Two urinals, a partition between them, thank goodness, nobody.

At 11:20, a man in his twenties came up to him, sporting a buzz cut, earrings, Spandex trunks and a T-shirt reading “I’m Not Gay But You Sure Are.” Kent heard his own blood circulating.

“How ya doin’?” the guy asked.

“Pretty good,” Kent replied evenly. Then, “How are you?” The guy looked normal enough for what he was, maybe a student.

“Tired of this place,”Not Gay said. “You’re studly.You wanna come to my place and fuck?”

Kent swallowed and recited his lines. “No thanks, I’ve got a lover waiting for me. I’m headed home myself.” To his huge relief, the guy wandered away.

At 11:40, another man struck up a conversation with some comment about the crowd tonight. Kent decided on a light but friendly reply. This man looked like he had his act together, a bank teller or an insurance worker. “Do you play pool?” Jamaal asked.

Kent played pool. Easily beat the guy, who came up and shook hands. “Nice game,” said Jamaal. Then he moved away to give Kent space. Kent relaxed.
***

It was getting late when two guys across the room caught his attention. Slowly his blood ran cold.

They were in love, it was obvious. No one else existed. They talked only to each other; they touched constantly, one sitting on a stool, his lover behind him, arms around his chest, kissing his neck, his ear, his hair. Then they’d shift, take a drink, and touch again, a hand rubbing a thigh, a knee; little kisses on the lips. And no one around them thought a thing about it.

Did the sight of them arouse him? Not in the least. They terrified him.

He’d never been touched that way. He’d never been loved by anyone the way these two loved. But for some reason—here, now, panic time, in a gaybar?—he could start to picture being loved like he wanted to be.

He stood stock-still. He couldn’t look at them, he couldn’t not look.

They couldn’t see him stare because of the sunglasses, so he was safe; not that they had the least awareness of his existence. Only one person mattered, and it wasn’t him.

Jamie walked past them. Kent instantly broke the stare, forced himself to take three deep breaths. And his feet started walking to the other room. Why on earth should he key in on those two? He didn’t want to. When he calmed down, though, he realized Gay men could love each other, like Gary and Glenn did; like Jamie and Rick.

***

At 12:30 Jamie came up to him. “Hi there. Come here often?”

“Nope, this is my first time. What’s your sign?”

“Burma-Shave. Look at the man on the fourth stool from the end. He looks vaguely like someone you’ve seen in a photograph.”

“I’ll do that. Can I buy you a beer as I head past?”

“Mineral water would be nice.”

Kent left, came back in a minute. “Sort of like Lash but a lot heavier. And older.”

“Our photos are older. It’s probably not him, but he’s been following me the last half hour. But not talking, not approaching. I’m uncomfortable. If it doesn’t bother you for me to say this, often enough guys want to talk.”

“I noticed. You’re a magnet to these guys.”

“I want to cut out.”

“Thank God, I’m tired.”

“The bartender’s calling us a cab.”

Kent smiled. “We’re a cab.”