File Under Dead

by Mark Richard Zubro

“I’m not from here. I grew up in Newton, Iowa.” His pager went off. He glanced at it. “I gotta go,” he said. He stood up. “We done here?”

  I said, “I guess.”

  He left.

  Awarjak said, “Roland is a good kid. He’s not violent. He’s always eager to please. I know. He wouldn’t kill anybody.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time a hustler got violent with a client.”

  “He’s a good kid.”

  At the moment I had no way to prove otherwise. Awarjak and I agreed to keep in touch.

  34

  I tried to call Larry to confirm the bits Roland the escort had told me. His dad answered the phone. Larry was out. “You’ve been such a help,” his dad said. “He really appreciates all you’ve done. I’ve had problems with him. That Mr. Weaver has been great for him, too. It’s good that he’s got another adult to talk to.”

  I said, “I’m just checking times and information from Friday night.”

  “All I know is Larry got home around two.”

  “You let him come in that late?”

  “He’s a senior. It’s spring break. He’s an athlete. They can take care of themselves.”

  He gave me Larry’s cell-phone number. I called. Busy.

  I tried Jenkins’ number. He sounded as sullen and annoyed as he had that afternoon.

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me,” he said.

  “There’s no choice,” I said. “Did you say you wanted to talk to the cops instead?”

  “No.” A little nasty sullen in his tone. I didn’t give a rat’s ass.

  I said, “I talked to the hustler who was with Charley Fitch the night you were in the basement.”

  “Which night?”

  “You were there more than once?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “About six months ago.”

  “You didn’t mention this.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “Larry said it was his first time doing anything.”

  “It wasn’t my first.”

  “Who were you there with?”

  “Jan Aiello.”

  Oh. “I thought you said you didn’t like effeminate guys.”

  “I don’t. He wasn’t effeminate during what we did.”

  “Did you talk to him any time between when you saw Larry Friday and when you talked to me?”

  “He called. He asked if I knew anything. I said no.”

  “Did you tell him you were down there Friday night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “With Larry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jan must have talked with Larry.”

  “He could have.”

  “Who drove Friday night?”

  “Larry and I had separate cars.”

  “What time did you get home?”

  “About twelve.”

  “You must live farther out than Larry.”

  “I’m in Palatine. He’s in Arlington Heights.”

  Larry lived closer to the city, but he got in later. I wanted an explanation. Again, I called Larry’s cell phone. He answered. I told him we needed to meet. He was mystified but agreed. Then he told me he was in the basement of the clinic.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “No.” I heard him gulp or gurgle.

  I said, “I need to meet you at the café. You need to get out of that basement.” The phone clicked off. I tried calling again. No answer. I drove to the clinic.

  I wasn’t about to meet him in the clinic basement. That was nuts. I had no physical evidence that he was the killer, but I had an anomaly and a suspicion. I called the café and asked for Gordon Jackson, the owner. He agreed to keep a lookout for Larry and to stick close in case anything seemed wrong. If Larry was a killer of three people, I wasn’t about to give him an unprotected chance at me.

  I had very mixed feelings about Larry. As a troubled gay kid, he had all my sympathy. As a possible killer, I was completely on guard. I wanted to talk to him before involving the police. If he wasn’t the killer, it was not right for me to bring grief to him. A small part of me was afraid I would find his lifeless body in the basement instead of waiting for me in the café.

  As I walked to the clinic I listened to the city night noises. I wished they were more comforting. A light rain was falling. As I entered, Gordon hurried toward me. He said, “Kid’s in the Shakespeare room.” I thanked him.

  Larry sat with his head down. He glanced up briefly when I joined him.

  I said, “The time you got back the night of the first murder doesn’t check out. Jenkins says one thing. Your dad another. You live closer to the city. You should have been home earlier than Wayne.”

  “I wasn’t checking the time.”

  “You can’t lie about timing when you’re a suspect in a murder. You talked to Jan. He knew you were down there the night of the killing. He knew Jenkins. Jan must have been suspicious of you. Why?”

  I thought he might try to lie. Big tears began to flow. They weren’t going to work. He blubbered for a while. I waited. Finally, when he got himself under enough control, he said, “Jan was an asshole. He saw Wayne and me go into the basement. He came and watched. That was sick. When we were about to leave, he managed to get out without us noticing him. When he called me, he described what we did. Then he bragged that he’d had sex with Wayne. I thought I was Wayne’s first. That pissed me off.”

  “You got home late. Where were you?”

  “I didn’t mean for anything to happen.”

  “What did you do that night?”

  “I wanted to relax for a few minutes. I wanted to enjoy how happy I was. This was my first time with a guy. I knew I’d always remember it. It was so perfect. Hard to believe I felt so good in a dump like that. Wayne was real gentle. Two willing guys. He was so masculine.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “Fitch caught me down there.”

  “How?”

  “It was stupid. I lit up a joint. He smelled smoke. He came down. He started yelling at me. Just like my dad does. Fitch is such a fanatic about dope and keeping things clean. We hadn’t cleaned up. There was a used condom on the floor. He was just crazy. He told me I was banned from the clinic. I followed him upstairs begging and pleading. He said if I didn’t stay out, he’d call the police. If the cops were called, my name could be in the paper. He was mean. Brutal. I didn’t want to stay away. This place is perfect for me. Then I could picture everybody finding out about me, about losing my chance at playing ball in college. With each plea he got meaner and nastier. He wouldn’t listen. I just went nuts. I saw the ax in Mr. Weaver’s office. I thought I’d threaten him with it. He laughed at me. Just like my dad does. I held the ax high over my head. He laughed even harder. He turned to walk away from me. I brought it down on the back of his head.”

  “How’d you get your fingerprints off but leave Lee’s on?”

  “I wiped it where I touched it. I didn’t clean the rest of it. I didn’t care about the blood.”

  “How could you do that? Keep chopping?”

  “I was crazy. I had to do something. I had to try and make the killing go away.”

  “Why use the basement?”

  “I must have been thinking on some level. I took him down there so I wouldn’t be caught.”

  “But then you distributed the body parts.”

  “I guess I thought it would make the police more confused. I don’t know what the hell I was doing.”

  “But you dropped very little blood around the clinic as you moved the parts around.”

  “I put two garbage bags together. There’s all kinds of garbage in that basement. I threw them away in a dumpster by a mall near my house.”

  “You wiped up after yourself. You were doing some kind of planning.”

  “No matter what my dad says, I’m not stupid. I was scared, and excited, and confused, and out of control, but everything was like I was going in slow motion.”

  “Why di
d you kill Jan?”

  “He was figuring it out.”

  “Did he see you kill Fitch?”

  “I don’t think so. The next day he just called me and called me and got all smarmy. He kept implying that he knew stuff about the murder. He wouldn’t tell me what unless we agreed to meet.”

  “He told me he’d been down there with a boyfriend.”

  “Bullshit. He didn’t have a boyfriend. He was a pathetic loser. When Jan asked me about times I did stuff that night, about when I got home, I began to get worried. He knew what time Wayne got home. He pressed me and pressed me. He could be so obnoxious. I got him there with the promise of sex. When we got there, I told him I’d let him blow me but that was all. He got all bent out of shape about that. I think it was partly just to stop him from talking that I took that fucking feather boa and half strangled him with it. At least he finally shut up.”

  “I was told Jan was pretty strong.”

  “I took him by surprise. I was sort of fooling with the feather boa.” He rubbed his hands together. “He fought as best he could, but I’m pretty big. After he passed out, then I strung him up.”

  “Why didn’t you kill Wayne?”

  “He only knew about us being down there. He didn’t know about my return.”

  “Why did you even tell me about you and Wayne?”

  “Because of what you said. You knew that everybody would find out about us hearing Karek and Mr. Fitch. You said that kind of thing always comes out. I figured I could tell part of the truth and that might keep you from getting suspicious of me. And I figured maybe I could cast suspicion on Mr. Weaver as the killer.”

  Not that long ago I had sympathized with his plight. That evaporated in the knowledge that he was a killer. It was becoming clearer with each word how calculating and odious he was.

  “Why did Karek have to die?”

  “After I finished with Jan, I turned around and there he was. I have no idea what he was doing there. I didn’t care. I tackled him. I grabbed the first thing I could get my hands on, that screwdriver. I wanted to carry him away from the clinic.”

  “Why?”

  “I couldn’t explain two bodies down there. Jan claimed he was keeping our meeting a secret. He believed in all that bullshit intrigue. Telling you I found Jan made sense.”

  “You took a risk carrying the body down the alley.”

  “I had to do something. It’s awfully dark. Nobody saw me. I figured if I put him in your car, then you’d be more of a suspect. I’m sorry. You helped me, but I was desperate. Yours was the only car in the lot.”

  “You waited all that time last night to try and kill me?”

  “You were learning too much. I couldn’t take a chance.”

  “How’d you get back to attack me?”

  “My dad and I had a big fight. When he talks to adults about me, he’s all reasonable. When we got away from the cops and you that night, we had another fight. I always start to cry. That drives him nuts. Does me too. I’d come in my own car. He told me not to come home. I sat in my car and waited for you. I’ll never get the sound of your car alarm out of my head. I saw you down the alley. I don’t know what I was doing. I was so angry. I was so scared and screwed up.”

  “Why not just try to kill me now?”

  “I can’t. I’m tired. I just want this to end. And I can’t sneak up on you. You’re pretty strong.” He stood up. I did, too. “I’m not going to try anything.”

  I said, “I need to call the police. I’ll call my lawyer for you. Do you want to call your dad?”

  How my innate sense of helping kids took over at this point, I have no idea. Larry Mullen was a killer, but I understood too well his frustrations and fear.

  He shook his head. He began walking toward the door. I said, “Hey, wait.”

  He was big and he kept moving. Gordon noticed us and caught up with me as I pushed the door open. Larry stood at the corner of Monclair and Addison. I wasn’t going to let him go. It was nearly eleven. Traffic was fairly light. I saw a bus barreling down from the east. I waited to make my calls until after its noise had passed. The DON’T WALK light was flashing. Larry started across the street. I reached for his arm and pulled him back to the curb.

  The light turned orange. The bus was speeding up toward the intersection to beat the light. “Let me go.” Larry jerked his arm from my grasp. He teetered slightly. Larry looked at the bus, then back at me. He said, “Thanks for trying to help me.” He turned and dashed away. I grabbed for him. Missed.

  I lunged after him. The next second I remember bright headlights, a rumbling engine, squealing brakes, and being yanked off my feet backwards.

  There was an awful thud. I saw a blur of body and blood flung fifty feet. I looked behind me. Gordon had hold of my shirt and the waist of my jeans.

  When I got to Larry, there was nothing to be done. Finding the head was bad. This was worse. It was hard to hold his lifeless and crushed corpse. All I kept thinking about was that not more than a minute before, I’d touched a living person and now all that he was, was gone forever. Five minutes before, I’d watched sad tormented eyes. I’d been disgusted by a gay killer, someone who’d been willing to kill me. The disgust now was mixed with pity. For a wasted life. For the moments of anger in a clinic designed to help.

  I knew I hadn’t pushed him physically. I didn’t think I had. He just pulled away. His leap for the bus took numerous steps. If he’d been falling from the contact with me, he would have landed near the curb, not out in traffic. He’d made a choice, but one that I would have to live with.

  I also knew that if Gordon hadn’t pulled my back, I might have been dead as well. He stood next to me as I cradled what was once a life. After the paramedics arrived, I loosened my grip on Larry. I became aware of backed-up traffic and gawking spectators. I began to tremble. Gordon led me to a quiet spot in the café, sat next to me, and kept an arm around me.

  My lawyer and the police showed up. I called Scott. His plane was flying over Southern California. He told me he loved me. I was too exhausted for tears.

  35

  The cop stuff that followed was a blur. Neither detective seemed willing to believe my explanations. I didn’t much care. They had a corpse to deal with. Gordon had been a few steps behind me. He’d seen what happened. He tried to comfort me. I was glad he was there. I kept mumbling my thanks to him for saving my life. He offered to stay with me or find someone to stay with me until I felt better. Todd did the same. Scott would be home in a matter of hours. That would be enough, I hoped.

  I kept going over what I could have done differently. Called the cops before going to talk to him? Hell, called a team of social workers to meet with him and me? Called Lee? He’d have come. Called Larry’s dad? I didn’t know what would have helped.

  Then again, Larry had made the choice to kill people, then kill himself. Nevertheless, I was part of what had gone wrong with his life. And that didn’t feel good. I didn’t feel responsible. I didn’t feel guiltless.

  Scott returned from his road trip that morning about six. The all-night flights from the Coast were always a pain in the ass. He’d pitched, so he would be exhausted as well.

  I was sitting in a chair in the penthouse living room watching the sun rise over the lake when he walked in.

  He sat next to me on the couch. He gave me a hug. He said, “You look awful.”

  “I haven’t slept.”

  He took my hand.

  I don’t know how long I talked. I know we’d spoken on the phone during his flight. He’d known the basics. Now he knew all the details.

  When I was done he said, “I wish I’d been here.”

  I said, “It wouldn’t have made a lot of difference. The same people would have died.”

  “Yeah, but I’d have been with you through it all.”

  “I thought I was doing good and right things. Instead I was used. I was stupid and oblivious. How could I miss that Larry was a killer? How could I not know he was using me?”


  “The before-the-event insight? Had you but known?”

  “No. It’s more like, why didn’t I know. Maybe I could have done or said something to make things come out differently.”

  It’s hard to escape the assumption that if we’d have just said the right thing events would have turned out differently. This is what I call the magic-power-after-the-fact-but-said-before-the-fact syndrome. If the post-tragedy insight had happened prior to an awful event, somehow it would have led to the exact right words to prevent the tragedy. You’d think someone would have noticed what those exact right after-the-fact words are and written a million-selling self-help book. The truth is, of course, that there is no such thing, and the just-after-the-nick-of-time insight is unlikely to eliminate the tendency of the universe to act in random, cruel, and tragic ways.

  In this case I kept reminding myself that Larry Mullen had committed his first murder before I knew him. That thought mixed with flashes of the bus smashing into his body. But two other people had also died. The flashpoints had been a rude old queen and Larry’s fear of being found out as gay. Sad and tragic and pretty fucked up.

  Scott said, “You have more insight than most people. You are not expected to have magic powers of instant insight. Nobody can expect that. You know it, too. You were trying to help.” I nodded, grateful for his words. “And he was willing to kill you,” Scott pointed out.

  “I know. That’s not the part I’m sympathizing with. I think some of my own feelings of growing up gay got in the way of seeing Larry in an accurate light. Same with Lee. I felt sorry for both of them. I didn’t think Lee would ever tell me that big of a lie.”

  “Feeling sorry for someone is not a criminal act. Maybe there was no way to see either Larry or Lee in an accurate light. Friends and lovers have flaws. Sometimes we can’t see our own. The murders are a tragedy for which you are not responsible. You weren’t in the basement. You are not snarly and rude. You tried to do some good. It wasn’t enough. Sometimes it isn’t. It’s the trying that makes a difference.”

  “I want to believe that.”

  Something else was bothering me. I sat with him. He still held my hand. Our legs touched. I could smell his aftershave.