The Truth Can Get You Killed

by Mark Richard Zubro

  Turner asked the assembled dancers if any of them were friends with Barnes or Thrust. Most shrugged. One or two looked uncomfortable.

  “Nobody dances and nobody works until we get some information about them,” Fenwick said.

  Sickles began a protest.

  Fenwick said, “I’m tired of this crap. If we don’t get information, we’ll find a way to shut you down.” He glared at her and then at the employees.

  None of them moved.

  Dana said, “Look, why don’t you step down to the corner for a cup of coffee. Let me talk to them. You’re not going to get anywhere by bullying them.”

  “I want answers,” Fenwick said.

  “Why don’t I just call my lawyer and we’ll all get nowhere together? My lawyer will be happy to slow you down as much as he can.”

  “Do you really think he can stop us if we’re determined?”

  “Going to run an inspection? Get ten or fifteen cops in here just to check my license?”

  “We need to get some questions answered,” Turner said. “We can do it simply and relatively painlessly, or we can go through a big hassle and do it the hard way.”

  “I suppose you could shut me down, or ruin the place for good, if it hasn’t been already.” She sighed. “Give me a chance.”

  “We’ll give you time to talk to them,” Turner said.

  The cops left. Wilson and Roosevelt drove off to pursue one of their own cases. After fifteen minutes in the coffee shop, Fenwick began to get restless. After half an hour, he was drawing faces in the ice on the inside of the huge picture windows.

  Thirty-five minutes later, they saw Dana Sickles emerge from her bar. A herd of bundled-up male flesh trailed after her. They quickly scattered. Dana entered the coffee shop alone.

  She ordered a cup of coffee and joined them. “Thank you for leaving.”

  “Seemed reasonable,” Turner said. “As long as we get some information.”

  “I’ve got a couple things for you. If you want to talk to the guys who gave me the information, fine. I got them to agree to that.”

  Fenwick grumbled, “How lucky for us.”

  “Barnes has moved recently. He’s living in a building on the southeast corner of Belmont and Lake Shore Drive.”

  “He can afford that?”

  “The guys think he has a sugar daddy.”

  “I thought he was straight,” Turner said.

  “Are any of these guys really straight? Maybe so, but if you offer a guy enough money, straight or gay, who knows?”

  “Name of the guy?” Fenwick asked.

  “Can you be a bit less aggressive? I’ve got the drill down.” She pointed at Turner first, then Fenwick. “You’re ‘good cop’ and he’s ‘bad cop.’ Don’t you get tired of it?”

  Fenwick said, “Sometimes we switch.”

  “He’s in apartment seventeen-oh-three.”

  “How about Mr. Thrust?”

  “Couldn’t get a real name out of them. One of the dancers said he went back to Thrust’s apartment with him once to have sex. This was Christmas Eve and Thrust was pretty drunk. None of the other guys said they ever went home with him. It was the first apartment building west of the El tracks on Loyola Avenue. North side of the street. He didn’t remember the address.”

  “Name of your source,” Fenwick said.

  “You can beat it out of me if you want, copper.” She gave them the names and left.

  Turner and Fenwick drove to Belmont and Sheridan. The door to 1703 was opened by a man who Turner thought might be in his late thirties. He wore black jeans and a white banded collar shirt. He frowned at them uncertainly.

  “How did you get past the doorman?”

  They showed him their identification.

  “May we come in, Mr. Rice?” They’d gotten his name from the doorman.

  “Certainly.”

  As Rice closed the door, another man, clad only in boxer shorts, entered the room. He was in his late teens or early twenties with broad shoulders and a flat stomach.

  “This the other two guys?” the boxer shorts man said.

  Rice caught sight of him. “This is the police.”

  “Oh.” The kid stood uncertainly.

  “We’d like to talk to both of you,” Turner said.

  The kid sat down on a couch. Rice remained standing. “We’re investigating the murder of Judge Meade,” Turner said.

  “Why come here?” Rice asked.

  “We need to ask a few questions,” Turner said. He focused on the younger man. “You’re James Barnes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You were at Au Naturel on New Year’s Eve?”

  He nodded.

  “How about you, Mr. Rice?”

  “I was home reading a book.”

  “A dancer with blond hair was seen talking to Judge Meade that night.”

  “Wasn’t me,” the kid said. “I don’t know any Judge Meade. Who is he?” His voice was deep and sensuous. Turner wished he’d put on more clothes.

  “He was murdered.”

  “Oh, I think I heard about that. Dana’s been calling around for everybody. Somebody told me, but I was planning to quit so I ignored it.”

  Fenwick looked at Rice then back to Barnes, “Did you find a better job?”

  Rice and Barnes kept silent.

  Turner showed Barnes the picture of the judge. “You remember if he gave you money that night?”

  “Hundreds of guys gave me money that night. I couldn’t tell you one from another.”

  Neither one admitted to anything more. Turner and Fenwick left. Just coming off the elevator as the detectives were entering were two men dressed in black leather from boots to cap. Each carried a large gym bag.

  As the doors to the elevator closed Turner said, “Mr. Barnes seems to have gotten himself a fan club.”

  Fenwick said, “The authors in the world would be pleased at the amount of reading occurring in Chicago on New Year’s Eve.”

  “We’re close to the address on Belmont that Roman Ayres gave us for Carl Schurz.”

  They stopped at the halfway house. The social worker in charge said, “I saw him late yesterday. He didn’t look good. Is he in trouble?”

  “We just need to talk to him. He’s a witness in a case.”

  “That kid is very fragile. It wouldn’t take much to put him over the edge.”

  No one else at the halfway house had seen or admitted to seeing Carl.

  In the car Fenwick said, “It’s only a block or so, let’s check on Mr. Thrust on School Street.” Their hunt for 623 was brief. School Street stopped at Clark and became Aldyne. There was no 623. They drove to Rogers Park to investigate the building they’d been given as a place one of the dancers had met with Thrust for sex.

  The directry at the apartment house did not list any Thrusts or Lances. Fenwick rang the bell for the manager. A portly gentleman answered. They identified themselves as police officers. He let them into his apartment. He had a pit-bull terrier and about a million plants. The dog growled and snarled even after he was placed behind a closed door.

  “Betsy doesn’t like strangers,” he said.

  They asked about Lance Thrust.

  “No one by that name lives here. Is this a joke?”

  Turner remembered that Lance had started work at Au Naturel in January. “Any tenants come to live here in the past year?” Turner asked. “Especially last January?”

  “I’ve had six new tenants. I’ll get you their names.” He produced a ledger book. He showed them the names.

  “No Lance, no Thrust,” Fenwick said.

  Turner didn’t recognize any of the names.

  “Any of them young men, probably good looking, in good shape, might belong to a gym?”

  “Got to be Malcolm,” the manager said instantly. “Three of the others are women. Two are older guys who are definitely not in shape.”

  “Tell us about Malcolm,” Turner urged.

  “Not much to tell. He’s very quie
t. Always pays his rent on time. Odd though, he always pays in cash. Most folks write checks. I have to give him a receipt.”

  “Anybody else fitting that description move in last year?” Turner asked.

  “No. Malcolm’s a looker. One of a kind. Don’t get them that hot around here unless they’re from the university. They usually can’t afford this place and we don’t let them put ten in an apartment. We have strict limits.”

  “He wasn’t going to school?”

  “Never saw him with any books.”

  “Can we see his apartment?”

  “What’s he done?”

  “We’re investigating a murder.”

  “He kill somebody?”

  “We just need to talk to him.”

  “I guess I could let you in. That’s not violating his rights, is it?”

  “Not if you let us in.”

  “Oh.”

  They followed him into the hall. Behind them, the lobby door swung open. Turner looked back. The evening gloom showed a blond-haired male. Mike Meade stood in the doorway.

  15

  Meade gasped, turned, and ran. His gym bag banged against a plastic reindeer on the lawn as he bolted across it. The reindeer plopped over and the right antler shattered on a patch of ice. Meade flung the gym bag away. He ran toward the El station. Turner leapt over the reindeer while Fenwick lumbered around it.

  Fenwick quickly fell farther behind. It would be a long time before he won a race with an athletic twenty-two year old. Turner wouldn’t have caught him either, except the kid’s winter jacket got entangled in the door handle of the El station. Meade yanked at it for a few seconds, and then thrust himself out of the coat. By then Turner had him by the scruff of the neck.

  The kid squirmed and punched for a few seconds. He hit Turner in the middle of his winter coat but multiple layers of heavy clothes prevented the blow from having much effect.

  Puffing spasmodically, Fenwick arrived. He grabbed the kid’s wrists.

  Meade yelled, “Help, robbery, I’m being mugged!” while continuing to squirm.

  “Hold still, you little shit!” Fenwick barked.

  A small crowd began to gather. Turner held up his identification.

  With a sudden thrust, Fenwick knocked the kid to the ground, sat on his butt, whipped the kid’s left arm back, applied the handcuff, and then snatched the other wrist.

  “That hurts!” the kid yelled. Turner saw tears start down his cheeks.

  “It’s supposed to,” Fenwick said.

  They yanked him to his feet. Turner searched him, but found no weapons.

  Meade was silent as they brought him back to the apartment house, picked up his gym bag, and proceeded inside.

  “We need to see your apartment,” Fenwick said.

  “I don’t live here.”

  Turner banged on the manager’s door. It burst open as if the occupant were eagerly listening with his ear to the other side.

  Fenwick pointed at Mike Meade. “He claims he doesn’t live here. You were going to show us an apartment?”

  “Of course he lives here, and he pays his rent on time. Malcolm what’s wrong?”

  Meade hung his head.

  “He couldn’t identify himself earlier,” Fenwick said, “but now he knows who he is, probably kind of a Generation X, dark-night-of-the-soul type of thing.”

  “Oh,” the manager said.

  To Mike Meade, Turner said, “We can talk to you here, down at the station, or up in your apartment.”

  “In the apartment,” he muttered.

  The manager looked disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to be part of, or at least witness to, more of a show. “Any help you need,” he called after them.

  Fenwick stood near the entrance with Meade while Turner inspected the apartment. The heat was on and the atmosphere crackled with dry electricity. The apartment had one main room with space slightly larger than an alcove for the kitchen. Small refrigerator, two burner stove, tiny sink, even tinier table on which they piled their coats. In the living room a fold-out couch was the only furniture. It stood next to a short, squat radiator painted white. The closet was part of the hallway leading to the bathroom. The storage space for clothes consisted of three narrow drawers. One had underwear, the other neatly rolled-up socks, the third two sweaters and two pairs of jeans. Four neatly ironed shirts hung on a rack attached to the top of the door.

  The bathroom gleamed. In the cabinet were a razor, shaving cream, toothpaste, and a toothbrush. In the narrow space a tall thin radiator provided heat.

  They left the cuffs on the kid and put him on the couch. Since he’d run, they’d keep him in restraints.

  Fenwick sat in the chair. Turner leaned against the doorway leading to the closet.

  “What’s going on?” Turner asked. “You’re Malcolm. The manager knows you as the one living here, and you’re Lance Thrust the dancer at Au Naturel. Why does Mike Meade go through all this elaborate deception?”

  “Why the hell do you think?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” Turner said.

  “Have I done something illegal?”

  “Your father has been murdered. His son is leading a double or triple life. You ran from the cops. I think that gives us a wide latitude in finding out what you’ve been up to.”

  Mike Meade stood up. Fenwick planted himself in front of the exit.

  “I’m not going to run,” Mike said. He nodded over his shoulder at his still cuffed hands. “Can’t you take these off?”

  “No,” Fenwick stated.

  Mike Meade wore white athletic shoes, faded blue jeans, a hand-woven Guatemalan shirt, and a sheepskin vest. Turner did not remember him as one of the dancers from New Year’s Eve.

  Meade walked to the one window looking out on Loyola Avenue. He stretched his arms and shoulders as much as he could against the cuffs, and leaned his forehead on the glass and spoke to the street below. He muttered, “Everything is so fucked up.”

  He was silent for a few moments, then turned and leaned his shoulders against the window and continued, “I haven’t been in school for more than a year. I didn’t tell my parents I quit. I had a full academic scholarship to the university. I just dropped out. Part of the reason was that I got sick and tired of my gay friends asking me how my dad could support legislation that denied gay people their rights. When I told them he didn’t know I was gay, some would be sympathetic, but lots of them thought I should confront him. That I owed it to the gay community, whatever the hell that is. One of my friends wanted to out me, sort of the reverse of the way that straight colonel did with his gay son. How that would get my father to support legislation favorable to gays, nobody ever said. Look at Phyllis Schlafly and her kid. He’s gay, but she’s still against gay rights.”

  “You never told your dad you were gay?” Turner asked.

  “I hadn’t.”

  “What happened?”

  “I left school a year ago Christmas. I needed money. Mom and dad gave me an allowance, but it wasn’t nearly enough for me to pay expenses on my own. I kept an address off campus. My parents gave me enough so that I could just pay the rent on that one. They sent everything to that address. I couldn’t get any kind of job in Bloomington. I didn’t know what to do. What the hell was I supposed to do? I’ve got no skills. No degree. I used to hang out in one of the gay bars in Bloomington. Once or twice guys had offered me money to go home with them. They were old and fat so I said no. When I’d been living on beans, bread, and water for two months, I thought about selling myself. I figured if I could be more selective, maybe I could handle it. I talked to a friend I knew who was a hustler. He’d begun dancing at Au Naturel. I liked that idea even better. If I didn’t want to be a call boy, I wouldn’t. I’m lucky to be in decent shape. My friend brought me down there. I applied, auditioned, and got the job. I could dance and pick the guys I wanted to go home with when I wanted. I made good money. Enough to set me up here.”

  “You hustled,” Fenwick stated.


  Meade shrugged as best he could. “Sure. I found out I liked making guys feel good for a few minutes. I was good at making old guys feel loved. Is that so bad?”

  “Why not just go home?” Turner asked. “Just tell them …”

  Meade interrupted. “You’re cops. You’re not gay. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “No, I meant just tell them you quit school. Thousands of kids do it every day.”

  “I wasn’t going to live a closeted life at home. I wanted to make it on my own. I wasn’t really doing that in Bloomington. Everybody talks about coming out as if it were so much safer and easier than it was twenty-five years ago and, for some people, maybe it is. For me, it wasn’t. My father was a horrible tyrant.”

  “Did he abuse you?” Turner asked.

  “Not physically. It was emotional control. I had to measure up. I had to be perfect. Being gay was not part of being perfect. I wish I wasn’t gay. If someone offered me a magic wish, I’d wish I could change. I’d rather be straight. I hate being gay.”

  “What happened New Year’s Eve?” Turner asked.

  “I wasn’t in Bloomington. I’d gone skiing in Aspen for three days with a wealthy client. That kept me out of the house for a good part of what was supposedly my Christmas vacation from school. I wouldn’t have to be in my dad’s presence. After the client was finished with me, I relaxed for a few days by myself. I flew back through St. Louis and spent a day there. I was flying back that night to go to work at the bar. I didn’t want to miss my New Year’s Eve shift. You can make a lot of money dancing on New Year’s Eve. The weather in St. Louis was terrible. For a while I didn’t think we’d be taking off but finally we did, three hours late. I didn’t even think about my dad being at the airport until we were in the air. I couldn’t remember when he was supposed to leave. I wasn’t even sure he was leaving on the thirty-first, much less what time of day.

  “I met a friend at the airport. I figured this next part out later from what my dad said. He saw me from a distance and tried to catch up. He didn’t know I was going to be there. Before he could catch up, my friend and I kissed and hugged good-bye. After that, my father didn’t approach me. He followed me to the El. It was crowded with the people rushing back from the airport trying to beat the jammed highways. I never saw him. I was late, and I only had my gym bag, so I went straight to the bar. I took the El back and then a cab from downtown. Traffic was still a mess so it wasn’t hard for him to get a cab and follow me. I never even looked back. Who would have noticed? Nobody expects to be followed. I sure didn’t.”