“President Allen’s party,” AD Jones says, observing the obvious for me.
The puzzle pieces fall into place. The name the Director had dropped, the one that AD Jones couldn’t ignore, had been the President’s. And Dillon Reid was not just the President’s friend, he was potentially the next President himself.
“I didn’t know that,” I muse.
The Director raises his eyebrows. “You didn’t know Dillon Reid was a shoo-in for the Democratic nomination? Don’t you watch the news?”
“Nope. It’s all bad, so why bother?”
The Director is staring at me in frank disbelief.
“It’s not like I don’t vote,” I add. “When the time comes, I find out who the candidates are and what they’re about. I’m just not that interested in all the stuff that comes before.”
AD Jones smiles a little. The Director shakes his head.
“Well, now that you do know, listen up,” he says.
Introductions are over, time has come to hand out the orders.
“At no time in this investigation are you to let politics or political considerations keep you from doing an honest investigation. You are expected to be considerate and to exercise discretion. I’m going to fill you in on some important facts. You’re going to keep these facts to yourself. You’re not going to write them down anywhere, not a note, not an e-mail. You’re going to relay these facts to the members of your team that need to know, and you’re going to make sure they keep their mouths shut. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I reply.
AD Jones nods.
“A transsexual child is political dynamite for anyone, but especially so for a Democratic congressman in what’s historically a Republican state. The Reids dealt with this by essentially cutting ties with their son. They didn’t disown him, but whenever they were asked, they made it clear that Dexter wasn’t welcome at home as long as he insisted on pursuing a transgender path. It got its fifteen minutes and that was pretty much that.”
“But it was bullshit, wasn’t it?” AD Jones says.
I glance at him, surprised. Director Rathbun nods.
“The truth is, the Reids loved their son. They didn’t care if he was gay, transgendered, or Martian.”
And now I understand.
“They helped pay for the sex-change, didn’t they?”
“That’s right. Not directly, of course, but they provided money to Dexter whenever he needed it, knowing it would be used for sex-change necessities. Dexter has also secretly attended every Reid family Christmas.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “Is the lie really that important?”
The Director’s smile at me is the smile you give a child who’s just charmed you with their naivete. Her so cute!
“Haven’t you seen the culture war going on in this country? Well, magnify that by ten when you hit parts of the South. It could be the difference between being President or not. So yeah, it’s important.”
I consider this. “I understand,” I say, “but I don’t care about any of that.”
Director Rathbun frowns. “Agent Barrett—”
“Hold on, sir. I’m not saying I won’t keep the confidence. What I’m saying is that I won’t keep it because the congressman wants to be President. I don’t give a rat’s ass about that. I’ll keep it because a family that lost a son wants me to.” I nod toward the body of Lisa. “And mostly, because Lisa seemed content to keep it herself.”
The Director stares at me for a moment. “Fair enough,” he replies, and continues. “Mrs. Reid is going to be the family contact. If you have to speak to the congressman, she’ll arrange it. Any permissions needed in terms of searching Lisa’s condo—anything—she’s the one you’ll talk to. Stay away from the congressman unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“And what if this ends up pointing at the congressman?” I ask.
His smile is mirthless. “Then I know I can count on you to ignore political necessity.”
“Who’s going to handle the press on this?” AD Jones asks.
“I’ll deal with that. In fact, I don’t want any of you speaking to the press, period. No comment and that’s it.” He glances at me. “That goes double for Agent Thorne, Smoky.”
He’s referring to Callie Thorne, a member of my team. She’s known for saying what she wants when she feels like it.
I grin at him. “Don’t worry, sir. She’s got other fish to fry.”
“How’s that?”
“She’s getting married in a month.”
He does a double take. “Really?”
Callie is somewhat infamous as a serial non-monogamist. I’m getting used to the disbelief.
“Yes, sir.”
“Wonders never cease. Give her my best. But keep an eye on that mouth of hers.” He glances at the Rolex. “I’m going to take you to see Mrs. Reid now. The ME should be arriving shortly. The autopsy results go to me and your team and that’s it. Any questions?”
AD Jones shakes his head.
“No, sir,” I say, “but I think I should see Mrs. Reid by myself. Mother to mother.”
He frowns. “Explain.”
“Statistically, men are more ill at ease with transsexuals than women. I’m not saying the congressman didn’t love his son, but if Lisa had a champion, someone she was really close to, I’m betting it was the mom.” I pause. “Also, I think there’s another reason she asked for me.”
“Which is?”
I look down at Lisa. She represents a new secret now, one the dead reveal, the old know, and the young will always ignore: life is too damn short, however long it is.
My smile at him is humorless. “Because I’ve lost a child too. It’s a members-only club.”
2
I WATCH AS THE CAR PULLS UP BEHIND THE MORGUE. IT’S black of course; preferred color of the government and its employees, almost comforting in its continuity. The back windows are tinted to prevent anyone outside from looking in.
It’s half past four in the afternoon, and dusk is beginning to make itself known here. This part of Virginia huddles close to DC while still retaining its own identity. It is quieter than the capital and whether true or not, feels somehow safer. There is a mix of suburb and city that provides an illusion of comfort. Like so many places in the East, it has a certain weight to it, a unique blend of character and history.
It’s late September here in a way I’ll never see on the West Coast. The air has teeth, a bite that promises a winter with snow. Not as bad as, say, a Buffalo, New York, winter, but not one of those wussy California winters either.
There are trees everywhere, young and old. Their sheer volume tells me they are cherished by this city, and I can see why. Fall is an actual season in Alexandria, Virginia. The leaves are on the turn and, well—it’s pretty spectacular.
The car stops, the side door opens, and I climb inside. Time to focus on why I’m here.
I’d been given the basic facts about Rosario Reid by the Director.
“She’s forty-eight years old. She had Dexter when she was twenty-six, a year after she married the congressman. They’ve known each other since high school but waited until a few years after they finished college to marry.
“Her great-grandfather came to the U.S. from Mexico, and built a small cattle empire back when that was a difficult thing for a Mexican in Texas to do. He seems to have passed his gumption along to his progeny—Mrs. Reid is one tough cookie. She’s a Harvard-trained lawyer and she has a taste for the jugular. While Mr. Reid was building up a head of political steam, Mrs. Reid was busy championing the underdog. She won a number of high-profile cases, none of which I have the details on, all of which basically stuck it to various corporate bullies. When Mr. Reid decided to run for Congress, she rolled up her tents as a lawyer and managed his campaign.” The Director had shaken his head in admiration. “People in Washington who know better are afraid of crossing her, Smoky. She’s one of the nicest women I’ve met, but she can be ruthless if you mess with he
r husband.”
I find all of this intriguing, even admirable, but high-profile people can become mythological fast if you let them. I want to get a sense of Rosario Reid for myself, because understanding the mother will help me understand the child. I need to figure out if and how much she’s going to lie to me, and if she does lie, for what reasons. Love for her child? Political expedience? Just because?
MRS. REID NODS TO ME as I close my door. She knocks on the partition window for the driver to go and pushes a button that I surmise turns off the intercom. The car starts driving and we take a moment to appraise each other.
Rosario Reid is undeniably attractive. She has the classic lines of an intelligent Latin beauty; sophisticated, yet sensuous. As a woman, I can tell she’s taken measures to tone this beauty down. Her hair is short and all business, and she’s allowed strands of gray to remain untouched. There’s no mascara thickening her lashes. Her son got his full lips from her, but she’s used liner to make less of the cupid’s bow. She’s wearing a simple white blouse, a navy jacket, and matching navy slacks, all tailored to perfection but sexually muted.
These superficial things highlight her political savvy and tell me a lot about her loyalty to her husband. Rosario is doing the opposite of what most women do. She’s playing down her native sensuality, leavening her beauty with understated professionalism. Tweed, not silk.
Why? So that she remains palatable to the congressman’s female constituency. Powerful women can be attractive, but never sensuous or sexy. I don’t know why this is so, but it is, even for me. I trust a woman in a position of power who looks like Rosario more than I would one who looks like a Victoria’s Secret model.
Go figure.
She’s strong too. She’s keeping herself composed, but the intensity of her grief is obvious when I look into her eyes. She won’t weep in public. Grief is private to this woman, another thing we share in addition to our dead children.
She breaks the silence first. “Thank you for coming, Agent Barrett.” Her voice is measured, quiet, neither low nor high. “I know this is unusual. I’ve made a point, over the years, of not using my family’s political position for personal favors.” She shrugs, and her grief gives it a terrible elegance. “My child is dead. I made an exception.”
“I’d do the same in your position, Mrs. Reid. I’m very sorry for your loss. I know that’s a clichéd thing to say and I know it’s inadequate under the circumstances, but I am sorry. Dexter—” I stop, frown. “I’m not familiar with the etiquette here, ma’am. Should I say ‘him’ or ‘her’? Should I use Dexter or Lisa?”
“Lisa spent her life wanting to become a woman. The least we can do is treat her like one now that she’s dead.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Let’s do away with the titles in private, shall we, Smoky? We’re just two mothers of dead children here. No men around with their peacock worries or chest-puffing.” She pauses, fixes me with a fierce gaze. “We need to put our heads together and do some dirty work, and that requires first names and no pleasantries, don’t you agree?”
We women, we’re the ones who bury the children, the ones who drag the hems of our dresses through the cemetery dirt, that’s what she’s saying.
“Okay, Rosario.”
“Good.” I see her eyes appraising my scars. “I read about what you went through. In the papers and so on. I’ve been an admirer of yours for years.”
Her gaze remains level as she says these words to me. Her eyes don’t flinch at the scars on my face, not even a little. If she’s at all uncomfortable, she hides it better than the Director did.
I’ve inclined my head to Rosario in acknowledgment.
“Thank you, but there’s nothing all that admirable about being the one who wasn’t killed.”
She frowns. “That’s very uncharitable. You went on. You continued to do the job that put you in harm’s way. You continue to do that job well. You continue to live in the house where it happened—which I understand, by the way. I’m sure many don’t, but I do.” She smiles a sad smile. “Your home is your tree, the place where your roots are buried. It’s where your daughter was born, and that memory is more powerful than all the painful ones, yes?”
“That’s right,” I reply, quiet.
I find myself taken by this woman. I like her. She is honest. Her insightfulness speaks to her character. This is someone who understands: family is home, family is the roof against the world. Love may be the glue, but the string of moments shared, that’s the soul of things.
We’re driving at a leisurely pace, a big circle with the morgue at its center. My eyes are drawn to the turning leaves again; it’s as if the trees are on fire.
“Like you,” Rosario says, continuing to look out the window, “I married the man I kissed in high school. Have you seen pictures of my Dillon?”
“Yes. He’s handsome.”
“He was then too. And so young. He was my first love.” She gives me a sideways glance, a small grin. It makes her seem eighteen for a moment, a brief, bright flash. “My first everything.”
I smile back. “Matt was for me too.”
“We’re a dying breed, Smoky. Women who marry their high school sweethearts, who can count their lovers on just a few fingers. Do you think we’re better off, or worse?”
I shrug. “I think happiness is the most personal thing there is. I didn’t marry Matt to make a statement about chastity or anything. I married him because I loved him.”
Something about what I just said shakes that composure, a little. Her eyes get wet, though tears don’t fall.
“What an excellent way to put it. Yes. Happiness is a personal thing. That was certainly true for my daughter.” She turns in the car seat so that she is facing me. “Did you know that it’s more dangerous to be a transgendered person than any other discriminated minority? You’re more likely to be a victim of a violent hate crime than a gay or a Muslim, a Jew or an African-American.”
“Yes, I did know.”
“And they are aware of this, Smoky. The boys and men who become women, the girls and women who become men—they know they’re going to be shunned and reviled, maybe beaten, maybe even killed. Still, they do it. Do you know why?” Her hands shake and she grips them in her lap. “They do it because there’s no other way for them to be happy.”
“Tell me about Lisa,” I prod her.
Because that’s what she really wants to do. That’s why I’m here. She wants to make me see Lisa, to care for her. She wants me to understand what’s been lost, and to feel it.
She closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, I can see the love. This is a strong woman, and she’d loved her child with all of that strength.
“I’ll use the name Dexter first, because that’s how he started. Dexter was a kind, beautiful boy. I know all parents think their children walk on water, but Dexter really did not have a mean bone in his body. He was small and slight, but never weak. Gentle, but not naive. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose the stereotype would have him as a momma’s boy, and that was true to a degree, but he didn’t hide behind my skirts. He spent his time like any boy—outside, in the sun, getting into various types of trouble. He played in Little League, started learning the guitar when he was ten, got into a fight or two with bullies. No reason to think or assume he was going to do anything other than grow up to be a wonderful man. I rarely had to use his first, middle, and last name at the same time.”
She assumes I know what she means, and she’s right. It’s universal mother-speak. Every child knows, when Mom uses your first and last name together, you’re in trouble. First, middle, and last? That particular triumvirate is reserved for the worst offenses, the greatest angers. Duck, cover, and hold.
She looks at me. “How old was your daughter when she died?”
“Ten.”
“That’s a great age. Before they start keeping secrets from you.” She sighs, but it’s more wistful than sad. “
I thought I knew Dexter inside and out, but of course, no mother really knows her son once they hit puberty. They begin to get distant. Horrified by the idea that Mother might know they masturbate about women—Mother is a woman after all. I was prepared for that, it’s the way of things, but Dexter’s secrets were different than my assumptions.”
“How did it come about? Realizing he had a problem?” I stop myself. “Sorry—is it wrong to call it a ‘problem’?”
“That depends. To those who oppose the whole concept of a transgendered person, it’s the change that’s the problem. To the transgendered, the problem is that their body doesn’t match their interior sexual identity. Either way, I suppose ‘problem’ is accurate enough. To answer your question, Dexter probably felt ill at ease as a boy for a very long time. He first started…experimenting when he was fourteen.”
“Experimenting how?”
Those hands, shaking again, finding each other in her lap. She doesn’t speak for a moment, and I see the struggle.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “it’s just…Dexter’s personality, the things I loved so much about him, were so evident in the way he handled his first forays into exploring his gender identity. It was bras and panties, you see.”
“Wearing them?”
“Yes. I found them one afternoon in the bottom of his underwear drawer, buried and hidden. My first assumption was that they were mine, but they weren’t, which is what I mean about his personality. You see, we gave Dexter an allowance, and he also did odd jobs in the neighborhood. Mowing lawns and so on. He took his own money and bought his own underthings. Do you understand? He was fourteen, he was conflicted about what was happening, I know from later conversations that he felt guilty, dirty—but he simply didn’t feel it would be right to steal my things. He felt the only honorable thing to do was to take his money, walk into a Kmart or some such and buy them himself. He was very embarrassed about it, he told me that later, but he was stubborn with himself when it came to right and wrong.”
I can see it in my mind. A young, slight boy, buying a pair of panties and bra, cheeks burning as he did it. Doing it because it just wasn’t right to steal from his mother.
The Darker Side Page 2