File Under Dead

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “We just need to hear from him,” Stafford said.

  I said, “Abdel, I think it would be okay if you told the truth.”

  Abdel looked from one to another of the adults, his eyes resting on mine last. He nodded, sniffled, then told an accurate story, leaving out Max. I didn’t add anything.

  Stafford said, “Why, specifically, did you want to talk to Mr. Mason? Why not just any counselor at the clinic?”

  “People trust him. He’s openly gay at our school. He’s famous. Who else were we going to talk to?”

  Neither of the cops made mention of Abdel’s slip in saying we.

  “How’d you know he would be here at an odd hour on a Saturday?”

  He gave them the same answer Max had given me earlier.

  “You didn’t see Mr. Fitch at any time?”

  “I don’t know who he was. I don’t even know what he looked like.”

  “My son is innocent,” Hakur said. “You need to look to these unclean people.”

  “Shut up,” Abernathy said.

  “Did you touch the filing cabinet?” Stafford asked.

  “I don’t remember. I sat next to it. I guess I might have.”

  Mr. Hakur said, “You sat next to a filing cabinet with a head in the drawer? You stupid fool.”

  “I am not stupid,” Abdel said. “Do you think I have x-ray vision and can see through metal? I’m not the stupid one.”

  “What you did was get yourself into this mess. If you’d have been at home where you belonged, you wouldn’t be here now being questioned by the police.”

  “Shut up,” Abernathy said.

  “You can’t keep saying that to me.”

  “Sure, I can,” Abernathy said. “And if you annoy me often enough, I may decide to do something about it.”

  “You’re not allowed to be prejudiced against Muslims.”

  “This isn’t prejudice. I’ve found that being an asshole-blowhard pretty much crosses all national, ethnic, and religious boundaries.”

  Hakur said, “You just insulted me.”

  “Yes, I know,” Abernathy said.

  I said, “Neither Abdel nor I had anything to do with the murder.”

  Abdel said, “Mr. Mason didn’t kill anybody. He just tried to help us.”

  “Who’s us?” Stafford asked.

  Abdel gulped.

  “You said we earlier,” Stafford pointed out.

  Abdel had blown it. “I won’t tell you who my boyfriend is.”

  Mr. Hakur said, “He’s Jewish. Abdel let that slip earlier.”

  The cops looked at me. “Who was this other person you didn’t tell us about?”

  I kept quiet.

  “You’ll be in more trouble if you don’t tell us,” Stafford said.

  I wasn’t sure if she was referring to Abdel, me, or both of us.

  Abdel said, “I didn’t commit murder. My boyfriend didn’t. Is Mr. Mason going to be in more trouble?”

  “Just tell them,” Mr. Hakur said.

  “I won’t.” Abdel was adamant.

  Stafford said, “We’ll find out who all your friends are. If he’s a boyfriend, someone will have noticed who you hang out with. You can’t keep this kind of thing quiet. I’m sorry. We really don’t want to bring trouble to you, but this is a murder investigation.”

  I said, “Look at it this way, Abdel. You were afraid your dad would know. He does. That part of the fear is over. This is something else entirely. They need to talk to everybody.”

  “Just tell them,” Mr. Hakur said.

  Abdel glared at his father. The teen set his jaw and crossed his arms.

  I spoke directly to Mr. Hakur. “Don’t you realize that every time you give your son a command, he just gets more stubborn and shuts down? When either the police or I talk, he listens and seems almost cooperative. Doesn’t that give you a message of some kind?”

  Mr. Hakur looked me full in the face and met my eyes for more than a second. When he finally looked away, he remained silent.

  I said, “Abdel, it will help.”

  Abdel said, “It was Max Bakstein.”

  They got addresses and said they’d go out to talk to him to confirm Abdel’s and my stories.

  Before the detectives left, I said, “Have you been to the police station in the past hour?”

  “We were at the forensics lab.”

  “There are some other kids who want to talk to you,” I said. “I don’t believe Lee killed anybody. They don’t either. They heard a quarrel between Billy Karek and Charley Fitch. The two of them threatened to kill each other.”

  I gave the detectives the kids’ names. I said, “They all went over to the police station with their parents and a lawyer. The whole crowd might still be there.” I wanted desperately to add, Look how cooperative I’m being. I’m sending tons of witnesses your way to help you with your case. The police didn’t pick up on the notion, though, and I had enough dignity and sense to keep my mouth shut.

  “We’ve got a lot of people to talk to,” Stafford said. “We’ve still got Mr. Weaver in custody. Prints on the murder weapon are pretty damning. On the filing cabinet is also bad, just not quite as bad.”

  The detectives told me in the strictest terms not to leave town. I wondered if the reason they didn’t arrest me on the spot was because Abdel had been there that morning. I wasn’t sure.

  The detectives left. Abdel, Mr. Hakur, and I looked at each other.

  “Let’s go,” Mr. Hakur said.

  “I’m not leaving with you,” Abdel said.

  “And you would go where? No relative of mine will take you in. Nobody takes in other people’s kids. You come with me.”

  I stood up. Mr. Hakur did also. I said, “Mr. Hakur, I’d appreciate it if you were more reasonable.”

  “You have nothing to do with my family.”

  I said, “Look at your son’s face. He should probably have medical attention. In this state teachers are mandatory reporters of abuse and you just won the prize for the most direct observable abuse seen by a teacher this decade.”

  “I will do what I want with my son.”

  “Not bloody likely, you son of a bitch.”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  Gordon wasn’t there, but I was reasonably confident in my ability to keep Mr. Hakur away from Abdel.

  I said, “Watch me. You will not do what you want. There are rules and laws. There are probably still half a dozen social workers within call.”

  “I don’t care about your social workers.”

  “But I do, and you may not have a choice. They might not have much physical power, but the cops aren’t far. If Abdel doesn’t want to go, he isn’t going to go.”

  “This is kidnapping. I’ll call the police.”

  “They were just here. I’d be happy to have them take pictures of what you did to your son.”

  Abdel said, “I’m not going.”

  Mr. Hakur drew himself up very straight and said, “As long as you persist in this, you are not my son.”

  He walked out.

  Abdel said, “I hate him.”

  I said, “We need to find a place for you to go.”

  “I can find my own place.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  He sat there. Looked at me. Scratched his head. “I don’t know…I guess…I’m not sure. I have some friends.”

  “I’d like to avoid dealing with the foster care system. Can you appeal to your mom?”

  “I told you this morning, it’s my dad who’s the problem. My mother is not the solution. Not in my house. My brothers would probably beat me or worse. I can’t go home.”

  I wanted to make sure he was safe, but I was worried about Lee and obviously the police were very interested in what my role was in all this. I needed to take some action before I was arrested. Just because they hadn’t, didn’t mean they wouldn’t.

  Gordon, the owner, entered. He said, “You okay?” Gordon was a friend. After coming out publicly, Scott had don
e one of his first talks to the gay community to a crowd that filled the café and blocked traffic in the streets around it.

  I said, “I need a place for Abdel.”

  “I can watch him for a while. He could even earn a few bucks working in the back.”

  Abdel said, “I’d like to work in a gay place. It would be okay. I’m going to call Max and tell him what happened. He was going to tell his parents everything. I hope he’s okay.” Abdel pulled out a cell phone. I wondered how long it would be before his dad pulled the plug on that.

  12

  Back out in the café Evan Smith, who often shared my office, came up to me. He was in his mid-twenties. The slight roll in his midsection said he’d need to start going to a health club in a year or so. He had a pleasant sense of humor. He said, “Can we talk?”

  “Depends. Were you the last one to see Charley Fitch alive?”

  He looked confused. “No.”

  Irene Kang, the receptionist with the glorified title of executive assistant, came out of the back and swept toward the bakery counter.

  As she passed us, Smith asked, “What’s going on?”

  Kang paused next to us. “Who are you?”

  Smith said, “I’m one of the volunteers at the clinic.”

  “I don’t remember you.”

  “I stuffed envelopes for the last several fundraisers.”

  She lowered her glasses on her nose and glared at him. “I do know you,” Kang shrilled. “Charley had it narrowed down to only a few people who could be the reporter who was trying to cause a scandal. He thought you might be the one. He said you asked too many questions.”

  “What questions aren’t there to ask about a place when you newly volunteer?” Smith asked.

  “Nobody’s going to talk to you. Are you a reporter? If I ask, you have to tell. You can’t lie.”

  Smith said, “Whether I’m a reporter or not, you don’t sign my pay check, you rude jerk. I’m sick of putting up with the incessant nastiness from you people. Frankly, I wish you’d eat shit and die.”

  Kang drew herself up. “Well!” she said. “Well!” Smith glared. Kang said, “You’re probably the one who caused all this. Why don’t you go chase an ambulance or do whatever it is you people from the gay press do? They arrested the killer.”

  I said, “I don’t believe Lee did it.”

  Smith said, “I agree.”

  Kang said, “No journalist is concerned with the truth. They’re all out to smear and harm.”

  “Go away,” Smith said.

  Kang stomped off.

  Smith said, “I am a reporter for the Gay Tribune here in Chicago. I heard Lee was arrested. I know you’re good friends with him.”

  “Yes.”

  “What can you tell me about what’s going on? I don’t think he’s a killer. I like Lee. If we could sit quietly for a few minutes, it might help. Would you mind?”

  I hesitated. I was used to reporters because of all the publicity with Scott. That didn’t make me like them any better. It didn’t make me dislike them immediately either.

  “We really need to have a private conversation. I know things about the clinic. Maybe I can help prove Lee didn’t do it.”

  “I never knew you were a reporter. You hid that information. Why should I trust you? I don’t know you.” I’d had a vague notion that he was a college student.

  “You don’t need to trust me to listen to me.”

  An eminently reasonable statement, and one that made me feel just a bit abashed.

  “Of course,” I said. “I was being silly.”

  Smith said, “I think there was stuff going on at that clinic that a whole lot of people would commit murder over. None of these staff people are going to talk to me. They barely acknowledged my existence when I volunteered. When I tell them I’m a reporter, they’ll react like Kang just did. I’d like to do whatever I can to find out who did it. I’d love to prove it was one of these asshole staffers. At the least, I’d like to prove Lee didn’t do it. I’d think you’d want to do the same. Sure, I’d make a name for myself if I found out who did it, but that’s not what I’m in it for.”

  Another reporter dedicated to the cause of truth and right. I’ve met too many reporters to not keep a healthy heap of cynicism handy when dealing with them.

  I said, “Before I answer any questions, I want to know exactly what was going on at the clinic. Why was there a need for an investigation? No bullshit. No holding back.”

  Smith said, “If you’ll respond in kind.”

  “If what I say doesn’t get printed until we find out who killed Charley Fitch.”

  We agreed. Did I trust him? I wasn’t sure. He could give me information. It might help clear Lee and by extension me. I wasn’t worried, really, but I wasn’t as calm about my being a suspect as I had been before the cops told me about the prints.

  Smith said, “How come they arrested Lee?”

  “The cops didn’t tell the reporters?”

  “They didn’t express an inclination to confide in me. There’s supposed to be a press conference later tonight or early tomorrow morning. I heard a rumor that they found the murder weapon.”

  “How’d you get the rumor?”

  “I was hanging around with a bunch of other reporters. You never know if what you hear around them is useless drivel or real facts. Most often it’s something in between. Whatever it is, Lee’s in trouble.”

  I agreed. I said, “I’ve got to find out more about this clinic, the dirt. I’ve never paid much attention before. I was just trying to help the kids. I didn’t know Charley Fitch personally or intimate details about his life. Did he have a lover? What was he like outside the clinic? Not how he sucked up to donors, but him as a person.”

  Smith said, “I’ve been hunting around in his background since I started on this. The owner of my paper doesn’t like Snarly Bitch. Snarly tried to buy the paper some years ago. Why he would want to buy it makes no sense. All of us were terrified he’d succeed.”

  I said, “I heard he heavily funded the clinic.”

  Smith said, “Actually, that was his family foundation’s money. He had a vote in how it would be spent, but it wasn’t like he was dictator. But they never turned down what he wanted to do.”

  “Who inherits his money?”

  “I don’t know,” Smith said. “He didn’t have offspring. I don’t know if he had a will. I do know he had at least one sibling, a sister. It might go to her or back to the foundation. I only began working on that last a few days ago.”

  “So what happened with the paper?”

  “Snarly tried to get the employees to organize against the owner. Tried to get them to just walk out with all the equipment and everything.”

  “That sounds odd.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time that happened in this town. It didn’t work. We like the owner. He’s a great guy. He works hard. He gives us great benefits. He gives us a lot of latitude. He pays the advertising staff the best rates in town. The more ads they sell, the bigger the percentage they get. They’re really motivated. So Snarly Bitch tried to go through a third party. He got somebody to make a bid. Our owner turned it down. We heard Snarly was going to start up his own gay paper, but this town already has several. There isn’t room for another. The advertisers wouldn’t respond to Snarly. The gay ad budget in this town is limited. Snarly’s paper never got off the ground. My boss was willing to do anything to get back at him for trying to sabotage his paper.”

  “Commit murder?”

  Smith gazed at me as if this was a brand-new thought. “He wouldn’t do that,” Smith said.

  “You sure?” I asked.

  “We’re lovers. I know him. Lots of people didn’t like Snarly Bitch.”

  “Somebody must have liked him. Did he play cards on Saturday night with friends? Did he go to the movies? Did he give razor blades to little babies, kick puppies?”

  “I don’t know anybody who ever referred to Snarly as a friend. He could h
ave haunted leather dungeons nightly or sat home reading books. Sorry, I don’t know.”

  I wanted to find out. I asked, “What were you investigating?”

  Smith said, “Possible embezzlement. Maybe fraud. I talked to Ken Wells. I was working with him. Ken says he didn’t notice any problem for the longest time. He was involved in getting the money in. Snarly could schmooze with the best of them, but you had to have the basics intact. Snarly was good at what needed to be done for an event for it to be successful, the right caterer, that kind of stuff. Wells probably wouldn’t have noticed anything at all, but he was in New York meeting with some fundraising people there and they were telling him how much they were clearing in terms of percentage of profit on their events. Everything Wells did here was earning less, not always significant amounts less, but less. Like if there was a dinner. Someone in another city might clear eighty-five percent and the clinic would only clear eighty. For a while you can put that down simply to differences in practices, but it kept up.”

  I asked, “Who actually handles the clinic money?”

  Smith said, “Everything is supposed to be accounted for, but in a small group it’s tougher to move things around. Wells organized events, but the checks come into the clinic. As far as I can tell the chain of custody was Kang took in the money from whatever fundraiser. She counted it up. Snarly Bitch made the deposits.”

  “Kang would know if there were any irregularities?”

  Smith said, “Kang might have been the cause of them. She might have been doing them without Snarly’s knowledge. We’ll never be able to tell what Snarly knew. He might have been suspicious of her. They didn’t like each other.”

  I said, “Every time I saw them together, she did nothing but suck up.”

  “You should have heard him bawl her out.”

  “I never did.”

  Smith said, “Her favorite expression was, ‘It’s not in my job description.’ I think he was going to fire her.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “So it was her, not Fitch, who was cheating? If he knew she was cheating, if she was, that might give her a strong motive for murder.”

  “She might have been cheating. Snarly almost certainly was. Two nights ago I found evidence that there were two sets of books. I found receipts that weren’t accounted for in the books that were there. I found different reports of income from the same fundraiser. I uncovered receipts that had obviously been doctored. I couldn’t find a second set of books. I’m sure two sets exist.”