And yet: It was difficult to ignore, impossible to forget, what Dahr had said as he manned the controls of the hyperbaric chamber, telling Jason Ward, “I know what I’m doing, Doctor.”
I’d heard it clearly. Sheriff Simms had, too.
Some three hours after Dahr arrived at the loft, our evening together came to a close. A wonderful time, as they say, was had by all. Marson had charmed Dahr with his cooking and his small talk and his considerable skills as a gracious host. Dahr had charmed both Marson and me with his stories and his magnetism and his winks. Or were they tics? And apparently, I, Brody Norris, had all but charmed the pants off Dahr Ahmadi. It was not my intent to create an atmosphere of flirtation—I had simply tried to be amiable and welcoming—but Dahr must have tuned in to a more primal vibe.
When he arrived that night, we had greeted each other with handshakes and tentative hugs. Upon parting, however, we had cemented our friendship, so we forwent the handshakes altogether and hugged in earnest. And then, after the thank-yous and good-nights, Dahr offered kisses.
“May I, Mr. Miles?” he asked Marson outside the front door, leaning near for a smooch.
“With pleasure,” said my husband, and they exchanged a chaste peck.
“And Mr. Norris?” he said to me.
“Of course, Dahr.” We pecked.
Marson said, “Hope to see you again soon, Dahr. Good night.” And he turned inside to begin cleanup. It was not in his nature to leave things till morning.
Dahr asked me, “Walk me to my car?”
First Avenue was dead quiet—Saturday night, and our tiny town had “rolled up the sidewalks” already. A bit of evening drizzle had left the street dark and shiny. Yellow leaves glistened and dripped in the warm glow of a streetlamp. The soles of our shoes kissed the damp pavement. Then the man in black turned, and once again, he kissed me.
This was no tic. This was no ritual observation of some ancient parting custom handed down by Dahr’s Persian forebears. No, this was a kiss that meant business. This was a kiss that shot through me, that left me speechless and woozy and open to the unknown.
But then, without a word, he turned and left.
Shambling back to the loft, I wondered, What the hell was that? Was he making a statement? Was he challenging me? Daring me to fall for him?
Or was Dahr just using his wiles—buttering me up for a good report to Sheriff Simms?
When I stepped inside and closed the door, Marson looked up from the kitchen sink, merrily rinsing his way through a stack of dishes. “He’s such a sweet guy—what a great evening.”
Still a bit dazed, I confessed, “He kissed me.”
“He kissed me, too, kiddo.”
“I mean, he kissed me again, outside.”
“I’ve said it before, Brody: you’re an attractive man, desired by many.”
I took my explanation a step further. “I mean, he really kissed me.”
Marson gave a playful growl. “Yikes. Was it good?”
“Marson”—I moved toward him in the kitchen—“aren’t you … jealous?”
He set down his sponge. “Jealous? I’m complimented! Besides—” And he broke into laughter.
“Besides what?”
Marson grinned. “He’s not old enough for you.”
“Or”—I grinned—“he could be just the exception that proves the rule.”
Chapter 9
Truth is, there were no rules, etched in stone or otherwise.
True, when I was fourteen, I had developed an abiding attraction to older, creative men. True, my first marriage had been to an older, creative man, an architect in California named Lloyd Washington. True, my current marriage was to an older, creative man, a Wisconsin architect named Marson Miles. True, this seemed to denote a pattern. But there were no rules.
True, Dahr Ahmadi was perhaps two or three years older than I was, but this did not qualify him as an “older man.” In the generational scope of things, we were contemporaries. Dahr was a certified nurse practitioner, a respected professional with a noble and humane calling, but this did not qualify him as a “creative man.” He was a man of science. So it was easy to understand Marson’s confident assumption that, in my eyes, Dahr could never measure up. But there were no rules.
True, Marson and I were married. The conventions of marriage—of conventional, heterosexual marriage—demand a lifelong commitment of body, soul, and desire, frequently sworn in vows at the altar, which can lend poignancy to a fairytale ceremony. But even the most earnest exchange of vows offers no guarantee that reality will not evolve and intervene. And the truth is, for us—for any gay couple, married or not—there were no rules, other than those we were content to define for ourselves.
True, Marson and I had written “vows” and delivered them at our tidy civil ceremony, but they were sworn to no god. They focused on an abiding love, which sprang from friendship, and a commitment to “be there” for each other in a joining of forces till death do us part. But they made no reference to carnal fidelity, which struck us both as an irrelevant hangover from some medieval obsession with procreation. So for us, in the matter of Dahr Ahmadi, there were no rules.
True, we had a shadowy understanding that indiscretion could be hurtful to each other and therefore harmful to “us.” Did such an understanding therefore imply that any contemplated indiscretion should simply be replaced by discretion, by the venerable bromide that what you don’t know can’t hurt you?
I don’t know.
What I do know is that the memory of Dahr’s kiss—the second one, out on the street, under the drizzle in the yellow lamplight—vexed me and excited me and consumed my thoughts from the moment I stepped back into the loft on Saturday night. It followed me up the winding staircase as I prepared for bed. It stirred beneath the blankets as I cuddled with my husband, who drifted off, exhausted by his efforts to stage the perfect dinner party. It staved off my own sleep, and when at last I slumbered, the memory of the kiss peppered my dreams with possibilities. This was temptation, pure and raw and simple.
Sunday morning, unrested and bleary-eyed, I finally snapped free of this obsession when I poured a mug of coffee, sat down with Marson at the center island in the kitchen, and opened the front section of the Dumont Daily Register.
Clock is ticking on FlabberGas fiasco
Lack of progress in suspected murder case
may dominate closing arguments in election
Compiled from Register staff reports
•
OCT. 17, DUMONT, WI—One week from tomorrow, voters in Dumont County will begin heading to the polls for early voting in the election that will either award a second term to Sheriff Thomas Simms or, in an upset, turn the office over to his opponent, Deputy Alex Kastle.
The drama began last Sunday afternoon, when Dr. Jason Ward died under suspicious circumstances during the demonstration of a novel weight-loss technique, FlabberGas, presented by its inventor, Dr. Francis Frumpkin. A group of potential investors witnessed the tragedy, now being investigated by Sheriff Simms as a likely murder.
When questioned by e-mail on Friday about progress with the case, Simms offered no particulars. He replied, “An investigation of this nature requires time and diligence. We are still in the early stages of collecting the known facts and determining what directions to pursue as follow-up. There is nothing to report at this time.”
The Register asked the sheriff’s election opponent for comment. After reading the statement from Simms, Deputy Kastle said, “Obviously, the guy’s got nothing. He’s dragging his feet, brushing this under the rug till after the election. But voters won’t buy it. They’re plenty mad that the victim of this killing could have been our beloved Mary Questman. So it’s time for Simms to deliver.”
Kastle may be right. We sent a reporting team to ask Dumonters about the case during a busy Saturday morning at the local Walmart. Among those planning to vote, we found broad skepticism that Sheriff Simms would be able to solve the case quickly, i
f at all. Some expressed anger.
Mother of three and volunteer librarian Janet Stanley said, “It sends a terrible message that something like this can happen in Dumont. Then nothing? We need answers. We deserve better.”
Others were more blunt. Harvey Boller of Harvey’s Heating told us …
“Oh, boy,” I said to Marson, who’d already read the story. “This is not looking good. And that jackass Kastle is just stirring the pot, having a ball.”
Marson gave his head a woeful shake. “It’s just unthinkable that the voters in this town would even consider such an ignorant, bigoted, unqualified candidate. They’re not that dumb.”
I said, “Wisconsin sent you-know-who to Washington.”
“Christ, don’t remind me.”
My phone rang. I glanced at the screen, then answered, “Good morning, Thomas.”
“Hi, Brody. Not sure how good a morning it is.”
I asked, “You’ve read it, huh?”
“Right. Sorry to call so early on a Sunday, but I’d like to nail down a meeting tomorrow with the medical examiner. Nine o’clock at Heather Vance’s office. She has a report and some updates. Can you be there?”
“You bet. Just try and stop me.”
“Thanks, Brody. Gotta run now—taking the family to church.”
The medical examiner’s office was located downtown in the complex of county buildings, but not in the courthouse or the sheriff’s headquarters, so I was on new turf that Monday morning. I walked past the main entrance to the jail, then down a street that resembled an alley, heading toward a smaller, inconspicuous building tucked in at the rear of the grounds. Most of the county buildings were limestone, classically ornamented, but this one was plain red brick, designed for a strictly utilitarian purpose—such as a garage or dispatch center. And it had an uncommonly stout smokestack. From a distance, I couldn’t read the signage, so I paused, wondering if I’d gotten the wrong directions.
“Hey, Brody.” It was Sheriff Simms, approaching me from around the side of the jail. He was impeccably dressed, as always, but there was no bounce in his step, no broad smile to brighten his handsome features.
I gestured toward the brick building. “Is that it?”
“Yeah.” And he fell in beside me, not speaking another word, as we walked the remaining distance. It wasn’t far, but the awkward silence made the trek seem arduous.
I stopped to ask him, “Is something wrong?”
He stopped and turned to me. He checked his watch; we were a few minutes early. He said, “Wanna sit down?”
“Sure.” One of the county’s shabby metal picnic tables sat off to the side of the building’s entrance under a tree that had dropped slender golden leaves among the cigarette butts on the ground. We sat across from each other.
“Yesterday,” said Simms, “I took Gloria and Tommy to church at St. Alban’s. Have you been there?”
I shook my head.
“It’s a pretty little church, very old and established, Episcopalian. When we moved here, Gloria and I shopped around awhile, and we settled on St. Alban’s because it seemed like the right environment for bringing up Tommy. And we’ve made a lot of friends there—including Sarah and Jason Ward—their daughter knows Tommy in school. So all of that, it’s great.”
I had a sinking feeling. “What happened, Thomas?”
“Not so fast,” he said with a trace of a grin. “As you might guess, there aren’t too many black Episcopalians, not in Wisconsin. St. Alban’s has no other black families, but they’ve welcomed us warmly. Point is, it’s a small congregation, so everyone knows who I am.”
I asked, “Was Sarah there yesterday?”
“No. I was hoping she would be—wanted to give her some encouragement—but I guess she just wasn’t up to it, which is understandable. But I was there, of course, and frankly, needing a little brotherhood—this last week hasn’t been easy on me, either. I mean, that’s what churches are about, right?”
I couldn’t answer that one.
“The whole ordeal—arriving there, then the service itself, and the mingling afterward—it was all kinda grim. Sure, emotions were still raw. The congregation had just lost a member, quite possibly to murder. And naturally, the sermon was all about Jason, but it was also, to use the rector’s words, a ‘call to justice.’ See where this is heading? This may sound nutty, but I was made to feel that the problem wasn’t so much Jason’s death as it was my inability to wrap it up fast.”
I asked, “Did anyone actually say that?”
“No. Maybe I was just being paranoid, maybe not. But the whole time we were there, not a soul would even look me in the eye to say hello. I’m sure they’d all read the morning paper. I don’t know if it was the story that started giving them ideas—or if the story just confirmed what they’d been thinking all along.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. “Don’t read too much into this, Thomas. People are confused and hurt, especially, I imagine, at St. Alban’s.”
“Oh,” said Simms, adding another detail, “and it wasn’t just Jason being mourned—you could read it between the lines. There was also the speculation that Mary Questman could have been at risk, that she could have been taken from them. The Questman family helped build that parish.”
“Was Mary there?”
“No, I haven’t noticed her at church in quite a while—maybe last Easter.”
God is a myth, I recalled. Mary said her cat had enlightened her. Or was she tripping?
After we talked, Simms seemed better. The cold shoulder he’d gotten at church must have felt less chilling after I’d lent him a more sympathetic shoulder to lean on—an outcome that struck me as odd, but at the same time, gladdening. After all, he was the strong one, the enforcer, the guy with the badge; I was the gay guy, the creative one, just trying to help. And although we had always been chummy, I sensed we had now become friends.
When we entered the brick building together, I didn’t know what to expect and was feeling apprehensive—morgue, bodies, autopsies, chimney—but Simms led the way, and I drew confidence from his experience, which seemed to be telling me, This is no big deal. We entered a lobby of sorts, with a clerk behind a window who greeted Simms and said to go in. We bypassed a pair of hospital-style double doors (thank God) and breezed into the medical examiner’s office, which was perfectly pleasant: Sunny window, potted plants, a framed degree or two. No hanging skeletons, no ghoulish display of crime-scene photos, no spleens in jars.
Heather Vance stood and crossed the room to welcome us with a smile. She wore a cheery autumn dress of nubby silk, the color of squash soup, set off with a wide cream-colored belt. “Come in,” she said, “sit down.”
As Simms and I settled in, Heather resumed her seat behind the desk, telling the sheriff, “I was so sorry to read that your deputy’s been grandstanding again. It’s not only dirty politics—it could hurt the investigation. If it were up to me, he’d be disciplined.”
“There’s nothing I’d like better,” said Simms, “but Kastle and his supporters would simply turn that against me, claiming I was using my office to ‘impede his free speech’ or whatever. They’d be accusing me of dirty politics. So I think the best approach is to ignore him—and not even dignify his remarks as being worthy of a response.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Heather.
I hoped so, too. It was a risky gambit, but in the new political atmosphere of alternate truths and upside-down logic, Simms’s reasoning made sense.
“Anyway,” said Heather, “I have the results you’ve been waiting for, and we’re releasing the victim’s body to the family today. So you should now be able to shift the investigation into high gear.”
“Okay,” said Simms, not bothering to suppress his smile, “let’s have it.”
Heather opened a folder on her desk but didn’t need to read from it as she told us, “Our autopsy and subsequent testing revealed that Jason Ward’s cause of death was, as we surmised, asphyxiation by nitrous oxid
e.”
Simms nodded. “And manner of death?”
With a wry expression, Heather said, “There are only four possibilities, so let’s run through them. First, Jason Ward’s manner of death was not ‘natural causes’ because factors such as old age or illness played no role in what happened; he was a robustly healthy middle-aged man. Second, the manner of death was not ‘accidental’ because the gas lines to the hyperbaric chamber were switched, correct?”
“Correct,” said Simms. “The physical evidence collected and observed in the clinic’s gas closet proves that someone went to considerable effort to switch the gas feeds, which required circumventing the standard connectors. Those connections are unique to each gas and specifically designed as a safeguard against mix-ups. Accomplishing this had to be a deliberate, intentional act—not an accident.”
“So,” said Heather, “running down the list, the only remaining possibilities for manner of death are suicide or homicide. If this was a suicide, it was beyond bizarre. Aside from the pure zaniness of killing yourself in public by such contorted means, we found nothing in Jason’s medical records indicating depression or concealed illness or any of the other factors associated with suicide. There was no note. There were no reported patterns of suicidal talk. No, Jason Ward didn’t kill himself.”
“Which leaves only homicide,” said Simms.
“Murder,” I mumbled.
Jason Ward was now known to be a victim of murder. Murder by laughing gas. That assumption had been in the air since the afternoon of his death, but hearing the word from my own lips, hearing the step-by-step reasoning articulated by both the medical examiner and the sheriff, hearing that Jason had left his wife without a husband and left his daughter without a father—as the result of deadly mischief intended to kill him—all of this brought into perspective not only the importance, but also the urgency, of naming his killer.
Simms turned to me. “As you suggested, Brody, we checked the clinic’s supplier of medical gases, and they had made no recent deliveries—none in the three weeks preceding Jason’s death. So the possibility that their driver left the closet door unlocked is very remote; it would have been discovered and then locked again by any clinic staffer with routine access.”
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