File Under Dead

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “Isn’t it all just a matter of computer records?” I asked.

  “Fitch was being dragged howling and screaming into the twenty-first century. To be fair, the computer upgrades he needed would have cost a lot. They couldn’t spare the cash.”

  “How’d you find this stuff?”

  “I volunteered to answer the phones after Kang’s nine-to-five stint was done.”

  “Were you there last night?”

  “Yep. While they were having that prom meeting, I had another chance to snoop in Snarly’s office. I’d managed to do that in small bits and pieces. Nothing gets locked up too well in that place. I’d been through small sections of his office. I used to offer to do the filing. Kang hated filing. After a while, I figured out which things needed to be filed in Snarly’s office. I could get in there fairly regularly. Most of the stuff I hunted through was a waste of time. Some of their record keeping is pretty haphazard.”

  I asked, “How late were you there last night?”

  “I left just before the prom meeting ended.”

  “Did you know Billy Karek had been there late recently?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know the kids used the basement as a hangout after hours?”

  “No. What I did find out was that the board itself was investigating Snarly Bitch.”

  “They had the nerve to do that?”

  “One of the board members hinted about somebody on staff watching the till.”

  “What were they investigating?”

  “The board member wouldn’t tell me. I presumed the same thing I was.”

  “Did you tell the board member what you were investigating?”

  “No. He didn’t ask. He wasn’t confiding in me. I put two and two together. Last night I also found Snarly’s personal check book. I know what he makes as the head of the clinic. There were other unaccounted-for deposits. I found a set of deposits into accounts with the clinic’s name on it, but which were not part of the official records.”

  “What did you do with the knowledge?”

  “I didn’t confront Snarly. I have a single-use camera. I took photo copies of everything. The copy machine at the clinic always jams. I couldn’t risk taking things there and having to fight with the damn machine.”

  He was right about the clinic’s copier. The damn thing jammed more frequently than the Kennedy Expressway at rush hour.

  Smith was saying, “I need to get the records to my boss and to Ken Wells. We need to have our accountant go over them. I’m sure what I found proves that something criminal was going on.”

  I asked, “Why would he just leave that kind of thing out where people could find it?”

  “He didn’t. There’s a safe that they keep money in if they don’t have time to get to a bank or make deposits. I’m surprised the damn safe didn’t fall through the floor. It’s heavy and that place could blow over in the next gale. Kang had the combination. It took me a few months to find out where she kept a record of it.”

  “Do you know who the board’s investigator was?”

  “No. I wish I did. What did the kids say about Snarly’s fight with Karek?”

  “That it happened. That they threatened to kill each other.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Smith said. “How often were those kids down there? This wasn’t some kind of coincidence?”

  “As far as I can tell, they were down there quite often. It was like a haven for them.”

  Smith said, “Some of those kids were pretty screwed up. That Jan needs a team of therapists.”

  I said, “I’m afraid he’s going to try and hurt himself if he hasn’t already. You can’t be as perversely and willfully manic as he is without eventually paying a toll. Either you become the star of every musical in your high school and college and go on to a career on the Broadway stage and make enough money to afford all kinds of therapy, or, my guess is, you try to hurt yourself. He desperately needs attention.”

  Smith agreed. “Are these kids talking to the police?”

  “Yeah. There’s a lot of coming out to parents. Murder trumps hiding your sexuality.”

  “Which kids?” Smith asked. “I’d like to talk to them.”

  I said, “Talking to me is one thing. They confided in me. I got them to talk to the cops. They’re going to be talking to their parents about some basic emotional issues. I don’t think they need a reporter intruding on that.”

  Smith said, “I’ve got a right to get my story.”

  I said, “What you need to remember is they’re kids. Gay kids. You work for a gay paper. I assume you’re gay. You need to have some loyalty to them. You need to leave them alone. Do you think their parents are going to want you intruding on their lives?”

  “No, but this is a murder investigation.”

  I said, “But it isn’t your investigation, not technically. That’s the cops’ job.”

  “Yeah, but Lee is your friend. Don’t you want him exonerated?”

  “He’ll get off. I’m not going to sacrifice some kid’s life to get you a headline or to save my ass or a friend’s ass. These kids are our trust. We don’t break it. Not for any reason. They are not cattle to run over on your rush to fame.”

  “I’m not a monster,” Smith said. His voice was soft. “You talked to them. They might be the key to this.”

  I said, “They only heard something. That simply means that Karek can’t deny anything. Karek is going to be the one with the problem. Not the kids. They should be out of it by this time. My suggestion would be to leave them be. If something comes up with them that’s important to the investigation, I’ll tell you. I told you this part.” I held back what Larry had told me about Lee returning a second time. I wasn’t about to reveal the fact that I knew that to anybody but Lee. I hoped he had a good explanation. If he didn’t, he could very well be a killer. I just didn’t believe that. He was a good man. Who’d left out a big piece of information. I still wanted to trust him. I hoped I was right about him. I’d known him too long to distrust him.

  I said, “And I can give you more information. I’m a suspect.”

  I told him the story.

  When I finished, Smith said, “You’re in deep shit.”

  “I didn’t kill anybody. I barely knew Fitch. I’m not sure I cared whether he lived or died. Yeah, I helped the clinic employees, but that was using my expertise in a delicate situation. Dealing with him was a seldom thing. What I want to know is, who knew this guy? Did he have friends outside the clinic, or better yet, enemies? Who hated this guy? Who’d want him dead?”

  Smith said, “He lived with his sister, who is a lesbian. As far as I’ve been able to tell, while she’s on the clinic board, she never has much to do with the place. She works for one of those groups that finds things wrong with your food and scares you about it. I’ve seen her give interviews on television. She’s intimidating in the way a ten-ton locomotive coming straight at you is intimidating. I wouldn’t cross her.”

  “Maybe Snarly Bitch crossed her. Where they close?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I decided to try to pay her a visit. Daisy Tajeda had said she knew her. I’d try asking her for an introduction.

  13

  I was beginning to think about lunch.

  Max Bakstein strode into the café. He was in the company of a smiling bear of a man, round and bearded. Max saw me and nodded. The two of them joined me. We all got coffee.

  Max introduced his dad. Max wore a bulky black turtleneck sweater and tight blue jeans.

  Mr. Bakstein said, “You’re at that clinic.” His voice was deep and rumbly.

  I nodded.

  “I didn’t know Max was going there. I’m not opposed to being open-minded. He has to learn about many different things in this world. I’m glad he had a chance to talk to someone.”

  The man sounded unctuous and smarmy, the opposite of what Max had described.

  “You’re okay with him being gay?”

  The suave slipped f
or an instant as he said, “My son is not gay.”

  Max looked very pale.

  “I’ve talked to him and talked to him. He knows better. We communicate, Max and me. We always have. We do men things together. He’s not gay.”

  I looked at Max. He fiddled with the sleeves of his sweater. I thought the thing was at least three sizes too big for him.

  “Why are you here?” I asked.

  “I want to be sure there are no misunderstandings. I want to be sure that anyone connected with the clinic knows they don’t need to talk to my son. We’ll take care of that in my family. We don’t need to burden the clinic staff with problems that don’t exist. Max isn’t gay.”

  Maybe if he said it enough times, he’d convince himself.

  I said, “That isn’t quite the same story I heard from Max this morning.”

  “Well, really, he’s a changeable teenager. What do they know?”

  I swallowed my standard answer to this comment—more than we’d like to admit, and less than teenagers think.

  Max leaned over and put his elbows on his knees and his hands on his head. His sleeves of his sweater gathered at his elbows. I saw several deep bruises.

  I said, “Max, where’d you get those?”

  His father reached to move the sweater up. Max jerked his arm away. He looked at me. He whispered, “Help me.” Max reached up and moved the collar of his sweater away from his neck. He had purple welts and bruises around his throat. The kind hands leave when someone is trying to strangle you.

  Mr. Bakstein said, “We don’t need any help. Everything is fine.”

  Smarmy like Bakstein or shouting like Hakur, the effect was the same. The kids were in extremis.

  I said, “Max, who did this?”

  All three of us knew, but Max had to say it. Max had to make the accusation. I could offer to have Mr. Bakstein arrested and investigated on what I saw, but Max had to speak.

  Max dissolved in tears and whispered, “He did it. He did it. He did it.”

  Mr. Bakstein stood up. “We’re going to leave. This is so traumatic for my son. He hurt himself. That’s all those are.”

  “No,” Max muttered. “No. It was you.”

  I said, “I’m calling the police.” I took out my cell phone.

  “You’re calling nobody.” He reached across the table. His meaty hand clutched my right arm. All his smarmy suave was gone in an instant.

  I’d had just about enough. I took my left palm and jammed it up and in, pushing his nose back and up. He bellowed, loosed his grip on my arm, flopped backwards, grabbed his nose, and shook his head back and forth.

  His nose might have been broken, but not his spirit. Seconds later he hurtled toward me over the table. I turned. He missed. As he passed, I picked up the back of his jacket and his belt and, with the help of his momentum, pitched him to the floor. Crockery, furniture, and patrons went flying. He lay there moaning.

  Gordon came out. He asked, “Is there anybody you’re not at war with today?”

  “There must be someone left on the planet, but not in this time zone.”

  “You need help?”

  “Just another homophobe biting the dust.”

  Several of the patrons had helped Mr. Bakstein to his feet.

  “He attacked me,” Mr. Bakstein said. “You all saw it.”

  Max held out his arms. The bruises showed vividly. “You’ve beaten me black and blue for the last time. I’m never going anywhere near you again. Gay kids don’t have to put up with this.”

  The patrons who’d been helping Bakstein a moment ago saw the marks. They quickly moved away from him. Mr. Bakstein swayed from side to side. He clutched a table to keep from falling.

  “I will press charges,” Max said. “I will.”

  Bakstein said, “Never come back to my house.” He left. Max watched him go. When the door closed, he began to blubber. I had another sobbing teenager on my hands. At this rate I might be able to declare myself in charge of the weepiest teens on the planet. Max hugged me tight. I patted his back until he calmed down. Between snuffles and tears, he said, “I am such a coward. I just caved in. He found out I hadn’t gone to Abdel’s when Mr. Hakur called. He was waiting for me when I got home. I’m not brave. I told him where I’d been. I’m such a coward. I couldn’t stand up for the guy I loved. I am such a shit. I’ve fucked everything up.”

  I looked up and saw Abdel. He saw us and loped over. The two boys clutched each other in a fierce embrace. Abdel added his tears. A little more dampness and we’d have more water than the characters had to deal with in the movie The Perfect Storm.

  “What’s wrong?” Max asked. “What are you doing here?” They untangled themselves from the intense embrace. They sat holding hands. Max put one leg over Abdel’s knee.

  Abdel told him about his dad.

  “He was here?” Max asked.

  “Yes. He threw me out. I don’t even have a change of clothes.”

  Max said, “I’m not sure where I’m going to get any stuff. I don’t have access to money. Before we got here, my dad said he’d take away my college fund. My mom asked what she’d done wrong. She was worse than my dad. She tried to pile guilt upon guilt. I hated her reaction more than my dad’s. I can understand getting hit. I can deal with that. Her bullshit is worse. They both wanted to know how I could throw my life away. I told them Abdel was Muslim. I just told them everything including about using the clinic.” Max looked more sad then defiant. All his bluster of the morning was long gone.

  “Have you talked to the police?” I asked.

  “No,” Max said. “About my dad?”

  “That’s one thing we’ll have to handle,” I said.

  “Abdel told me about the murder when he called. My dad had heard a news report about the killing here. I think that’s partly why he was so angry.”

  I said, “The police are going to want to talk to you about it.”

  “Why?”

  Abdel said, “We were there. They think Mr. Mason might have had something to do with it.”

  Max said, “That’s stupid. I’ll talk to them.” A little of his earlier unrealistic ego strength resurfaced. He spoke with all the confidence of a blissfully illogical teenager.

  “I’m more worried about you two right now,” I said. “I don’t think either of you can go home.”

  Max said, “I didn’t get thrown out until I got here. At home the whole scene was emotional dynamite. They forbid me to ever see Abdel again. They forbid me to date anybody. We went at it for two hours. You called near the end of the whole thing. It was nuts. What are we going to do?”

  I said, “First, we’re going to eat lunch. Then we’ve got to find some place for the two of you to stay.”

  Max said, “I wish we had a place to go to together. Even if I could I wouldn’t go back to my parents’ prison.”

  Abdel said, “I called several of my friends. A few of them said maybe, but they’d have to talk to their parents. I’m not sure anybody’s going to take both of us. My friend Mike’s parents are cool. I could stay at his house tonight.”

  I said, “I need to talk to Mike’s parents.”

  I called. I explained what was going on. They wanted nothing to do with the situation. I expected most parents might have the same reaction. As we tried to figure out what to do, I bought us some lunch. Max and Abdel spent the time dreaming up strategies each more wildly unrealistic than the last.

  Daisy Tajeda walked in. She and I moved a few feet away from Max and Abdel. I filled her in about the two teenagers.

  She said, “I can handle it. I can find them a place to stay. Possibly we can find someone in their community who knows them who can handle them temporarily. I will not let these kids rot in a hostile foster system.”

  “Their dads have to be reported for physical abuse.” I gave her the details about what I’d seen.

  “Bruises and direct observation. Those two are toast. Taking care of this will get my mind off the horror of the past f
ew hours. Helping somebody will do that.”

  “Max needs to talk to the cops, too.”

  “I’ll make sure everything goes smoothly.”

  I brought her over to introduce them. She shook their hands. I explained that she was a social worker from the clinic and knew how to help. The kids looked reasonably relieved. Their last scheme had been that they would go to California where it was warm and sleep on the beach.

  As they were leaving, I managed to get Tajeda to one side. I asked her if anyone had said anything significant after I left the clinic group.

  “Nobody confessed to murder, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s all confusion and chaos.”

  I said, “I’d like to talk to Charley’s sister. Earlier you mentioned you knew her. Could you get me an introduction? I’ve got to try and clear Lee. I think she can give me information.”

  “She might not be willing to talk at this moment.”

  “Will you give it a try? I know you like Lee. I know you don’t think he did it. We’ve got to help him.”

  She agreed to try and set up a meeting. She left with the teenagers. I went to find out what was happening with Lee.

  14

  They had taken him to the Area Three police station. In Chicago they have police districts staffed with beat cops. Those handle minor crimes. The Areas cover homicides and major felonies. With enough grudging rudeness to make Charley Fitch proud, the cop on the desk informed me that Lee was inside. No other data passed the cop’s lips. I sat down to wait. I tried not to think about the hideous face in the filing cabinet.

  About half an hour later a heavyset, balding man walked up to the desk and asked for Lee. They didn’t tell him any more than they had me. I walked up to the man and introduced myself.

  He was Walter Truby, the chairman of the clinic’s board of directors. In real life, I’d heard he owned a used car dealership in the Northshore suburbs. It was the kind of place that advertised itself as having pre-owned luxury vehicles. He said, “I know you. You found the head. That must have been awful. How are you?”