by Renee James
“The trans thing . . . I . . .” He stops and stutters several times. “I’m still trying to deal with it.” He says it with a rush, like I’m going to shoot him between the eyes as he says it and he wants to get it all out. “I know that’s offensive to you, but it’s not about you. It’s about me. I have to grow a little.”
About him? I want to ask how it’s about him when I’m the one he can’t handle.
“The thing is, I can’t get you out of my mind. I like being with you.”
“Well, that sure makes a girl feel good. At least you think I’m a good lay.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he says. He’s beet-red, his voice a little chippy. He’s getting tired of my little gibes. He recovers. “I meant I like to be with you. Like this. At a club. In a restaurant. Any place.”
I knew that’s what he meant but I felt like being cruel. I feel like I’m making a point in a very feminine way—no snarling anger, no loud voices, just a little dig that he can explain away if he wants to.
“I’d like for us to go out on dates. As friends. Maybe it becomes something else, maybe it stays friends. I’m good either way.”
“You know I’m crazy about you, Phil. But I’m not desperate. I’m not going to invest myself in someone who is too ashamed of me to introduce me to Mom and Dad or take me to the policeman’s ball.”
“We don’t have a ball,” he says. He’s trying not to smile.
“Well, your turkey shoot, then. Or your bad guy shooting range, whatever you guys do to entertain your significant others.”
“I will introduce you to my parents next time they visit. I will proudly take you to my favorite cop bar and introduce you to my friends.”
I can see how this might work. He would be introducing me as his friend. It’s not as edgy as introducing a transwoman as your lover. It gives everyone a chance to get used to the idea. I tell him I’m okay with that and try to smother the impulse to ask if we might make one little exception to the just-friends rule and run over to my place and make mad, passionate love. The urge passes, but it lingers just below the surface. Probably will always be there until he walks away for good, which, realistically, is where this is headed.
We make small talk until I check my watch. I tell him I need to get back to Betsy and Robbie.
“Just one other thing, Bobbi,” he says. “Our friend Allan Wilkins called me yesterday—”
I sit back, raise my hands in protest, and cut him off.
“No, no,” he says. “Hear me out. It’s not what you think.”
He waits for me to calm down.
“He asked me to see if you’d talk to him one more time. He’s having surgery in a few days and he’s trying to get closure on some things in case the surgery doesn’t go well. I told him I’d relay the message, but I also told him I didn’t think it was a good idea for you to do that. He just thanked me and said you’d understand. Frankly, I don’t.”
Phil wants to know what Wilkins meant. I don’t want to get into it with him. But Wilkins is right. He has read me perfectly. I would like to tell him. I’d like to confess to him and to Betsy and get free of this suffocating weight. For five years, the quiet moments of my life have been tormented by little film clips that pop into my mind from nowhere. They run for a few seconds or a minute, but like a bad aftertaste, they cloud my world for hours. They are scenes from the Strand murder, a blend of what I did and what I wanted to do, and haunting dreams about how the murder played out. Some scenes are starkly real, some gruesomely exaggerated. Some clips show the knife slicing through Strand’s throat, the blood gurgling out, his eyes wide with shock, his jaw slack. Another shows his choirboy look when he was trying to convince me to let him go. Of course, it was an act, a moment of fraud sandwiched between a display of his vicious animal nature and his arrogant, do-my-bidding-you-tranny-scum routine, but guilt and horror often block those mitigating images.
The vision of Strand’s throat being slit is so vivid I still sometimes wonder if I actually did it myself, if my recollection of leaving him strung up alive is just the fabrication of a mind too racked with guilt to accept reality. In my lucid moments I know I didn’t murder him, but that realization doesn’t reduce my guilt at all. I made it easy for someone else to do the deed.
I lose sleep over normal things, too, but they come and go. The kidnapping and murder of the murderer John Strand is with me forever. I have accepted it as part of my normal life. Losing one or two nights’ sleep every week is the price I pay for continuing to live.
Maybe it’s time for one last meeting with Wilkins. A last chance for two tortured souls to find some sliver of peace.
* * *
MONDAY, DECEMBER 22
Wilkins arrives at the coffee shop a few minutes after I do. He sees me in the corner in an overstuffed chair that faces another one across a small table. He approaches, his gait slow and weak.
His appearance is frightening. The ebony skin of yesterday is as gray as a corpse and hangs in deep folds that weren’t there just a month ago. His eyes, always shining with intensity, now view the world with the dimness of a dying flashlight.
“Can we move to a different table?” he rasps when he gets to me. He points to a conventional table with two traditional wooden chairs. I agree. As he settles into his chair, I ask if I can get him something. My shock at his appearance must be obvious.
“No,” he says. “I can’t eat solid food and I have to be careful what I drink. That’s why I look like shit. That’s how I got this cold.” That’s why we’re sitting at this table, I realize. His raspy voice wouldn’t carry across the void between the stuffed chairs.
“I’m sorry you’re ailing,” I say. I really am. This has to be more than a cold.
“We all have our crosses to bear,” he says. A segue into my confession.
“What’s your cross, Detective?”
He starts to wave me off, but stops. He stares at me, nods, and reaches into his portfolio. He places tear-sheets from a book in front of me. They have photographs of people with horribly mutilated faces.
“I have oral cancer,” says Wilkins. “I have to have an operation. If I’m lucky, I’ll die on the operating table. If I survive, I’ll look like this.”
The world stops turning. Everything seems frozen in place, including my lungs. I stare at the photos in horror. I can’t take my eyes off them. I should pretend like it’s no big thing, but the images are horrifying. I make a little moaning sound and gasp. I would not wish this fate on my worst enemy. I wouldn’t have wished it on John Strand.
I can’t help myself. I lower my head and cry.
“What can I do?” Those are the first words that come to my mind that I can say. He would have been offended if I had voiced the other words, you poor man, I feel so awful for you.
He reaches across the table and puts a hand on my wrist. “You can tell me what happened with Strand.”
The thought jolts me out of my mourning. “What?” I stare at him, trying to see if his horrible appearance is some kind of act, a miracle of makeup and modern plastics. “Is this some kind of joke?”
He shakes his head slowly. “No joke, Ms. Logan. I have very little time to finish up what I’m going to finish up. Your story, your true account of what happened with John Strand is the most important thing on my agenda. I’d like you to tell me what happened, your words, your perspective. You can tell me now, no witnesses, no tape recorder, so I’ll at least know the truth. After that you can decide if you want to make a statement for the record.”
He recites again how good it will be for my conscience to unburden myself and come clean with my society, and how he can still intercede with the DA to get me special consideration.
“Believe me when I tell you this offer is only good for one more day,” he says. He smiles a little, a sad, ironic smile.
“You don’t expect to survive your surgery?” I ask.
“Even if I survive it, I won’t be able to talk for months, maybe never. I won�
��t have the strength to go to the DA’s office or even meet you here. My clock’s ticking.”
My eyes drop from his eyes to the table, to the pictures of mutilated people. Even as I’m consumed by grief, I am overwhelmed by a sudden understanding of this man, this relentless pursuer. He is a cop. That’s what defines him. Closure on his life requires closure on his last case. He is going to die a worse death than John Strand, worse than any murderer or rapist or child molester, even though he has given his life to the protection of others. I feel myself letting loose. This is the time and place.
“Okay,” I say. I take a deep breath. “Most of it is just like you figured. I had been trying to track down the man who beat Mandy Marvin to death. I was obsessed by it. It was bad enough he did it, but what got me was, no one cared. It was like, transpeople don’t matter . . . I don’t matter unless I can bring that bastard to justice.
“Strand was easy to find. When he figured out what I was up to, he wanted me to know he did it so he could toy with me . . . a psychopath tearing the wings off a fly. He seduced me, then abused me, but that just made me more determined. I should have backed off after his thugs raped me, but they started following me again. I knew it was just a matter of time before they killed me, so I put together a plan. It started with a little sweet revenge. I led one of the goons into a mugging of his own . . . as you guessed. I wanted the revenge, but I also needed to strike back at them successfully, just to know I could. I never really believed I could succeed against Strand, but after I pulled off the mugging, I felt a little empowered and that maybe I could at least scare him.”
“What about the other thug?” Wilkins asks.
“I never saw him again. I think Strand sent him away and put the A Team in the game.”
“What happened next?”
“After that, I started planning Strand’s death. I assumed a male disguise and followed him around and got to know his patterns, where he picked up his girl, where he went. On the night it happened I had trouble getting up the nerve to take him, but he made it easy when he started smacking his girlfriend around.”
Wilkins rubs his chin. “He was a strong man. How did you take him down?”
“I surprised him. He was getting out of his car to catch his girlfriend who was trying to run away. I used an animal tranquilizer and the eye gouge to disable him. I drove him in his own car to his love nest and I trussed him up and hung him by his wrists from the ceiling.”
“Was he awake?”
“He came to after I strung him up. He was disoriented at first, but he came around, and we had a nice little chat. I told him about the dreams I had after I was raped, especially the one where I cut off his testicles while he watched. He actually got scared for a moment . . . followed by a psychotic rage, of course. When he quit twisting and kicking, I went behind him and put the knife to his throat . . .” My voice trails off. I’m transported back to that moment.
“. . . I could feel the honed edge of the blade on his throat like it was an extension of my fingers. I could picture the little trickle of blood starting on his windpipe. I could see in my mind’s eye how the blade would slice cleanly to his jugular in one clean swoop, and a force of pure evil would leave this world.”
I lock eyes with Wilkins. “In my mind I was saying ‘Yes! Now!’ The moment had come. But I couldn’t do it. I stood there and commanded my arm to slice the blade through his throat. I swear I could feel the nerve impulses moving from my brain to my arm to my hand. My mind was screaming, ‘Kill this murdering bastard!’ Every rational thought I had was about how he’d kill me if I didn’t kill him right now. But I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t make myself do what needed to be done. It will haunt me to my final breath. I couldn’t kill the devil.”
“What?” Wilkins is astonished.
“Really,” I say. “I threw the knife on the floor. I ran to the bathroom and vomited like a teenage girl on her first drinking binge. When I could stop heaving, I washed up and left. I took his car keys so he couldn’t beat me home and kill me right away. I knew he’d come, and soon, but I hoped I might see him coming and get lucky, maybe kill him in self-defense. A reflex action instead of premeditated murder. It was a fantasy, of course. I hated myself for being so weak, giving my life to an animal like that.
“. . . Next thing I knew, there’s a newspaper headline that someone slit the bastard’s throat.”
“Damn you say!” Wilkins sits back in shock.
“Yeah, I can hardly believe it myself.”
“So who did it?” Wilkins asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “And I don’t want to know.”
“You’re saying someone came in after you and offed him?”
I smile weakly. “Either that or there really is a God who works in mysterious ways.”
“That person would have been following you that night.”
I nod. “Or following Strand.”
“Why would he have been following Strand?”
“Because Strand was a murderous, evil, motherfucking bastard?”
“He was all of that,” says Wilkins. “And you have no idea who finished the job?”
“I don’t even want to guess. It’s bad enough that I’m going to pay the price for stopping Strand. Let’s not add to the body count.”
Wilkins sighs.
“What now?” I ask.
“I’ll file my report,” says Wilkins. “Eventually, someone will read it, and the DA will send someone over to take your statement. You can refer them to your lawyer, and she’ll ask for a deal. I’ll recommend leniency, but if you don’t like the deal, just deny you ever said anything to me about Strand.”
We’re quiet for a long while. The earth has shifted for both of us, and it takes some getting used to.
“Do you have a family, Detective?” I ask.
I should be running home. I should be rethinking my rash decision to confess. I should be getting away from these hideous photos in front of me. But I can’t leave. I feel so sad I can’t stand and walk out of here. Not yet.
“Ex-wife and two kids, nineteen and sixteen.”
“Will they be there for you?”
“Sure.” He nods his head up and down, but his body language says he’s facing this on his own.
“Can I visit you in the hospital? If I’m not in jail?”
“No,” says Wilkins. His voice is firm. “I don’t want anyone to see me like that.”
We are silent for a long while.
“You should reconsider that, Detective.” It’s my turn to reach out with a comforting hand. “You can learn a lot from a transsexual about dealing with other people’s perceptions of how you look.”
His eyes come slowly into focus on mine. They are sad eyes, but there’s still life in them and a glimmer of something. Realization, maybe.
“There’s how you look and there’s who you really are.” My voice is sympathetic. So is my heart. When you’ve walked this walk, you hope no one else ever has to again.
“John Strand looked like a movie hero but he was evil. Whatever you look like now or next week, you’re a good person.”
He nods slowly. “Thank you,” he says. “That means a lot coming from you.”
My eyes widen in surprise.
“I guess we both learned some things,” he says.
* * *
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 23
Marilee registers several emotions as I tell her what transpired between Wilkins and me. First comes the sad-eyed visualization of a dying man making his last wish, then wide-eyed shock that I would confess, and finally her mom look.
“You’re too good for your own good, Bobbi,” she says. “I wondered how long you’d be able to live with that terrible secret.”
“You’ve kept it, too,” I point out. “How did you do it?”
“I’ve kept worse secrets than that,” she says.
After a long silence, she asks me if I’m going to confess on the record.
“Should I?” I ask.
<
br /> “That’s a choice only you can make.”
I knew she would say that.
“What would you do?” I ask her.
“Oh, Bobbi,” she sighs, “my answer would have no weight. It’s a hypothetical question for me. For you, it’s real. If I confess, it’s about morality and principle. If you confess, you spend the next twenty years in jail.”
“So you see it as a moral dilemma?”
Marilee thinks for a moment. “No,” she says. “Not to me. If you were a hit-and-run driver, or you had hurt an innocent person, then yes. It would be a moral dilemma. You took hostage someone who wanted to kill you. A murderer who had no conscience. I don’t see that as an immoral act. You just did what you had to do. The question now is whether or not you can live with it.”
Marilee was the first to hear my confession after I kidnapped Strand and he was found murdered. She knows about the tortured dreams I’ve had ever since, dreams of guilt and dread.
“Somehow, I don’t think confessing and going to jail will make the nightmares go away. In fact, it seems like it would be worse because I’d also have the guilt of abandoning Betsy and Robbie in their time of need.”
Marilee nods her head soberly. She won’t say it out loud, but that’s what she sees, too. The only rational act is to deny everything. I shouldn’t even be thinking about it, but I hate lies. I hate living my life that way. My life as a male was a lie, at least after I figured out who I was. Having come clean, having survived being cursed and spat upon and gawked at and abused to emerge on the other side of the tunnel as a person, a person I like, I don’t want to go back into the dark with another lie.
I say all this to Marilee.
“Of course,” she says. “But you don’t have to lie. You can refer the police to your attorney who can tell them you refuse to answer questions that might tend to incriminate you.” She’s been the wife of a cop for several decades.
“That would satisfy the legal code,” I agree, “but to me, it’s like lying without saying the words.”
I wonder how Wilkins would handle it. By the book, no doubt. Let the chips fall where they may. Live with the consequences. Honor the honor code.