I said, “Adults have disagreements, even people who love each other. Don’t your parents fight?”
“My mom and dad have been divorced since before I was born. I don’t remember my mom. I argue with my dad, but I figure that’s teenage stuff. I guess I’ve seen adults fight, but not like this.”
I said, “Unfortunately, all kinds of people don’t get along. Did you hear anybody else?”
“No. My buddy and I were there until about ten thirty. Then we left.”
“While they were still fighting?”
“Yeah.”
I said, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to tell the police you were there and what you heard. They’re going to want to talk to the guy you were with. I’m sorry.”
“I can’t.” He moaned softly. “I can’t. He’s on the team. No one knows he’s gay.”
“If you need an alibi, you’re going to have to. Once you admit you were there, the police are going to want to know why, exactly when, and what was going on. If you lie, and they find that out later, the police will most likely get pissed and worse, be very suspicious. You could become a suspect. Your friend can back up your story. It’s not going to help to lie.”
He shook his head. “Yeah, but it could sure hurt a lot. It was our first date. It was the first time I kissed a guy. It took us both a lot of nerve to even admit to each other that we were interested.”
“I’m sorry.” I patted his arm. “Talk to my lawyer. He’ll be better able to advise you. You’ve got to protect yourself and be honest.”
He looked near tears. He said, “You have to understand. It’s not me I’m worried about. I don’t want to get Mr. Weaver in trouble. He’s helped me so much. I told you because I figured maybe you could do something about it. I want to do what’s right, but I can’t tell on him to the police.”
I said, “I’ll do what I can. You’re going to be talking to them about the Karek fight. Have you told anyone else about what you heard last night?”
“No.”
“But your friend knows.”
“He’d never tell. He’s never been to the clinic. With all this happening I’m not sure he’ll even speak to me again.”
“Concealing this kind of information would be bad. I don’t recommend lying.”
“If they don’t ask me, maybe I won’t have to tell.”
“Not the best policy.”
“You won’t tell, will you Mr. Mason, please? Mr. Weaver…he…” He wiped at his eyes. I saw the beginning of several tears. “I get pretty depressed sometimes. I’ve been better since…Well, Mr. Weaver, he saved me. I owe him a lot, everything. He helped me with colleges and scholarships and all kinds of stuff. I could never turn on him. Please don’t say anything to the cops.”
“It’s not my story to tell,” I said. I hoped that was true. More teen secrets. Not a good thing.
Larry said, “I figured if I told you, maybe you could, like talk to Mr. Weaver or something. Maybe you could fix stuff. Can you fix this?”
“I don’t know. I’ll try and use your information to help the situation.” What I didn’t say was that I intended to confront Lee with this new information at the earliest possible moment.
“Thanks. I appreciate your help.”
“I’ll do what I can. Try not to let it worry you.”
“I’m worried about my dad, too,” Larry said.
I thought he should be more worried about the cops. I tried to be reassuring. I said, “Maybe sometime Scott and I can trade coming-out war stories with you. The process of being who you are is seldom easy. This situation is more complicated than anybody would ever want, but you will get through it. Maybe Scott and I could arrange to meet you and your boyfriend. Or meet with your dad. I know we’d do anything to help. You’re not alone in this. There are lots of people willing to help.” He reached over and gave me a fierce hug. By the time Todd’s associate arrived half an hour later, Larry wasn’t looking quite so upset.
The associate, Frank Gebott, talked to the four of them. I’d seldom met Frank, but many years ago he and Todd had set up a practice together. If Todd had faith in him, so did I. Parents were called. When the kids and a passel of parents had been assembled, they met. Under Frank’s tutelage, the whole aggregation trooped over to the police station. All this waiting, arriving, talking, and deciding took well over an hour. During much of that time, Jan kept up a stream of chatter that would have made Donkey in the movie Shrek look like a mute hermit. Thinking about Jan, the fleeting notion struck me that there was never a file cabinet drawer around when you really needed one. I know that’s harsh, but the kid was a poster boy for annoying asshole of the year. As an adult he could easily rival Charley Fitch.
9
I wanted to get to the police station to see if I could find out anything about Lee. Todd had told me he thought he would be there for hours, and even then Lee might not be released today.
Before I could leave, a large man in a black business suit swung into the café. He had his hand clutched around Abdel Hakur’s forearm. The adult elbowed his way to the front of the order line and leaned against the counter. He slammed his fist down next to the cash register. He just missed a stack of muffins. “Where are these clinic people?”
The teenager on duty stared at him. Bang went the fist again.
I walked up. I said hello to Abdel then held out my hand to the adult and told him my name.
He ignored my hand, glared at me, and said, “I know you. You’re a teacher at my son’s school. You’re connected with this clinic?”
I said, “Yes, I am.”
“I’m Abdel’s father. I tried to find someone to talk to across the street. The police told me no one was there. They said try over here. They told me about the murder. My son went to that clinic for help. That is an outrage. My son is not gay. You people had no right to talk to him. You had no right not to inform me that he went there. I know all about you. You think your teaching job is safe because you’ve got that lover.”
He spoke at full volume. People near us in the café turned to stare. I heard one say loudly, “Who is this homophobic asshole coming into our community?”
Mr. Hakur looked around. The place was crowded and the line to be served was eight deep. Patrons did not look sympathetic. Maybe he was getting the idea that he wasn’t in his own personal little fiefdom filled with like-minded bigots.
I said, “May we sit down and discuss this?”
He wasn’t quite as loud as he said, “There isn’t going to be any discussing. There aren’t going to be any more meetings. My son is not gay.”
Abdel might have been two thirds his father’s size. I give the kid credit: he wrenched his arm out of his father’s grasp. He said, “I’m in love with a boy, a Jewish boy. You will not tell me what to do. I’m not like mother who you can bid and command. I’m a man.”
The backhand Mr. Hakur used on his kid came so quickly that I didn’t have a chance to block it. The kid stumbled backward several feet, knocked over a table. Patrons, cups, and coffee went flying. Abdel fell on his butt. He leapt back up. Tears didn’t diminish his angry glower or his flow of profanity.
Several of the dumped-on and pissed-off patrons began to encircle us. The owner of the café hustled in from the back. Gordon Jackson was a large man in his late thirties. He used to wrestle on television. Patrons pointed and complained about a homophobic asshole. Gordon righted the table, mollified the patrons, and approached us.
Mr. Hakur was big, but Gordon towered over him and had a hundred pounds on him. Gordon had a deep, resonant voice. He looked down at Mr. Hakur. Gordon said, “There will be no violence in my café.”
“I’ll do what I want with my son.”
“Not in my café you won’t. Nor will you spout homophobic bullshit in here.”
I heard shouts from several directions: “Yeah. You tell him.”
Hakur looked around again. “I don’t have to stay here for this.”
“I’m not leaving,” Abdel s
aid.
“You will do what I tell you,” Hakur said.
Abdel sidled around so that he was behind Gordon and myself. I glanced over my shoulder. The teenager was trembling and crying. The left side of his face was an ugly red.
I asked, “Do you abuse your child often?”
He started to raise his hand to me. I didn’t flinch. He was only an inch or so taller than I, and his extra weight looked like it was mostly flab. I presumed I was in better shape than he was. I was certainly in a position to stop him from abusing his kid. Gordon stepped forward. “There’s no abuse of anybody in here, ever.”
Mr. Hakur looked rebellious, but he shifted from foot to foot, perhaps less sure of himself.
I asked, “Mr. Hakur, how did you know to come here?”
“I have no obligation to respond to you.”
Abdel spoke up. “I said I was running in a track meet this morning. He came home early and decided to go. There was no meet. He’s more concerned because he made a fool of himself looking for me. He called all of my friends. He thought people were laughing at him. They probably were.”
Mr. Hakur said, “I searched his room as is my right. I found a brochure for this clinic and a phone number. I’d had suspicions before. This confirmed them.”
Abdel said, “Bullshit suspicions. You’re mad because I don’t believe in that radical religious shit.”
Mr. Hakur raised his hand, but Abdel remained behind us.
Abdel said, “He thinks I’m not masculine enough. I’ve heard him talking to my brothers. I know how he feels. I’m not ashamed of what I am or of coming to talk to Mr. Mason.”
Detectives Lynn Stafford and Jason Abernathy walked in and strode over to the four of us.
“We need to talk to you, Mr. Mason.” Nothing in their expressions led me to believe it would be a cheery session of jokes and good times.
“Arrest him,” Mr. Hakur said.
“Who are you?” Stafford asked.
“These people at the clinic were trying to corrupt my son.”
“Are you accusing someone of molesting your son?” Stafford asked.
“Nobody touched me,” Abdel said. “Never at the clinic.”
“My son has been to this clinic.”
“When?” Stafford asked.
We looked to Abdel. He whispered, “This morning.”
His father bellowed, “You stupid shit!” He launched himself at his son. Gordon had to physically restrain the man. Uproar followed.
When calm returned, Gordon permitted the police to use several offices in the back to conduct interviews in. I watched uniformed officers put Hakur and his son in separate rooms. The office I was in had a desk, halogen lamps, several well-worn comfy chairs, and shelves of ledger books.
10
“Friends of yours?” Stafford asked.
“Not likely. How’s Lee?”
“He’s being booked. We found another little problem since then. We need to focus on that.”
If they had a suspect, but were here again only a few hours later, that meant something was up, and I doubted if it was a small thing. And it had something to do with me.
Stafford said, “We found your fingerprints on your filing cabinet.”
“That doesn’t sound odd,” I said. “It was mine. They should be there.”
“They were the only ones,” Stafford said.
“But the killer must have left his.”
“Exactly,” Stafford said.
My stomach did an unpleasant lurch. I know that the one who finds the body, or in this case the first remnant of it, is always at least somewhat of a suspect. When I’d thought about it, I’d assumed there’d be lots of prints on the cabinet. At least five other people used that room as an office and dozens more had reason to use the filing cabinet. That all theirs were gone and mine were present was not a good sign. I certainly never took a dust rag to any surface or part of a piece of furniture. I doubted if any of the teens who performed the custodial tasks were fanatics about scrubbing or polishing. The staff made sure the public areas were reasonably pristine, but the individual offices were up to their tenants. When people shared an office, cleaning tended to be somebody else’s job, not yours.
I said, “The killer must have wiped it off.”
“Possible,” Abernathy said. “Detective Stafford wasn’t exactly accurate. We also found one other partial set of prints. They weren’t on the handle or near the top of the drawer. We’ve got two sets, yours and someone else’s. Only one other person. The rest of the thing was wiped clean. The place doesn’t look like it ever gets touched by a janitor.”
“Were they Lee’s?” They kept silent. I said, “No, if they were, we’d be having a slightly different discussion. You don’t know whose the others are.”
Stafford ignored my observation. She said, “A logical conclusion would be that you and an accomplice put them there. Nothing else in the office was wiped clean.”
“Another logical conclusion is that while I was reaching to put some files into the drawer this morning, I put them there. Then I found the head and had no notion that it was necessary to wipe up after myself.”
Abernathy said, “Possible.” His tone gave me no confidence that he was ready to accept such a conclusion.
I brought up my earlier point. “They aren’t Lee’s?”
“No.”
“So there’s a third person in your conspiracy theory?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“If I wiped it clean, why would I be stupid enough to put my prints back on it? And why wouldn’t I have had the sense to make it look like everything had been wiped?”
“You carry around a lot of severed heads?” Abernathy asked.
I glared. They didn’t wilt.
Stafford said, “Committing a simple murder would be enough to unnerve a normal person. Hacking someone to death and cutting their head off is the kind of murder that would unnerve anyone except the most demented criminal.”
Abernathy said, “There’s a small smear of blood on the outside of the filing cabinet. The other prints besides yours were on top of the blood. The blood matches Mr. Fitch’s. The prints were put there after the murder. Who else was there with you this morning?”
“There is no logical connection between there being another set of prints and someone else being there with me.”
“We don’t believe in coincidences,” Abernathy said.
Neither did I. Silence ensued.
Abdel had sat next to the filing cabinet. I didn’t remember Max getting near it.
If I was uncomfortable with my silence, they looked as if they had all the time in the world. I’d dealt with police before. I could wait, too.
Finally, Abernathy said, “We understand that you and Mr. Weaver have known each other for a long time. You’re good friends. He was fired last night. His prints are on the murder weapon. Yours are on the drawer.”
“What was the murder weapon? Where was it?”
“Where is not as important as Mr. Weaver’s prints being on it.”
“But mine weren’t, or you’d be booking me like you are him.”
“We’re not booking you, yet.”
“Are you advising me of my rights?”
“We’re not arresting you, yet.”
I was moving from very uncomfortable to definitely worried. I thought it was just about time to ask for my lawyer. As Todd had told Lee, tell the truth. I hadn’t killed anybody. I asked, “Were there other prints on other places where the killer put body parts?”
Abernathy said, “We’ve got yours at a significant point. The other print on that cabinet was not Mr. Weaver’s or anybody else we’ve talked to so far from the clinic. You’re the only one who admits to being there after the murder. Do you know who it was?”
“Maybe it’s actually the killer’s? Maybe he missed a spot when he was wiping up.”
Abernathy said, “He wiped off the cabinet, put the head in, then touched the c
abinet again?”
“It could easily have happened that way. He had to close the drawer. If I’m the killer in the scenario you’re positing, then that’s the way it would have happened.”
Stafford asked, “Why use the hand without the cloth he wiped it off with?”
“You just tried to ascribe great nervousness to me because of the horrific nature of the crime. Perhaps your analysis is accurate for the real murderer.”
Abernathy said, “We think the killer was calm and collected. He was distributing body parts, catching the blood. There were very few drops around the clinic. There are no other fingerprints on any surface near a body part. Just yours in that one spot.”
“I didn’t kill anybody. I wasn’t there last night. You should be able to get an approximate time of death from the medical examiner.”
Stafford said, “The man who was shouting when we came in got his son to admit he was at the clinic. He’s not on any of our lists so far. Is he the one?”
“Ask him.”
“Why don’t you just tell us?”
“It’s a minor thing, I suppose, but I don’t break trust with teenagers.”
Stafford asked, “Even if you could be accused of murder, or of being an accomplice to murder?”
“Why not just ask him?”
11
Abdel and his father were brought in. Abdel took a seat to my left, the farthest from his dad. Abdel wasn’t crying, but his hands still shook. He had a lump growing next to his left eye. It was beginning to discolor. The cops asked him several direct questions. They got stubborn silence. When the teenager finally spoke, he said, “I don’t want my dad here.”
His father said, “I demand to be in the room when my son is questioned.”
Abdel said, “I don’t want you here.”
“The law says a parent has to be present,” Mr. Hakur said.
Since Abdel wasn’t a suspect, I wasn’t sure Mr. Hakur was right.
Stafford said, “We’d like Abdel to tell us his story. It might help us solve the crime.”
Hakur whispered, “Are you saying he had something to do with this murder?”
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