The Truth Can Get You Killed

by Mark Richard Zubro

  The judge’s right hand began to reach for his coat sleeve, then stopped.

  Turner and Fenwick noted the movement.

  “We need a search warrant,” Fenwick said, “One of us is staying around until it gets here.”

  “You’re not going to find a gun,” Wadsworth said.

  Fenwick said, “We’re going to get a microscopist to go over your clothes and your car for traces of Judge Meade’s blood. We’ll check fibers from your coat against those found in Mike Meade’s apartment.”

  “This is an outrage.”

  “Maybe we don’t need a warrant,” Fenwick said. “We’re already in.”

  Turner said, “We’re not screwing this up. We need to call Area Ten and get Molton down here. This is going to be taken care of tonight.”

  Fenwick glared at the judge. “Your honor, you need to carefully take your coat off. Don’t try and brush any part of it. Don’t touch anything in this room. If you do either of those things, I will cuff you immediately and we will continue this discussion down at Area Ten.”

  “How dare you.”

  “I can pull my gun and make this really dramatic,” Fenwick said, “or you can do as I said very slowly and very carefully.”

  The judge complied with ill grace. Turner thought he saw him trying to snatch glimpses of the back and sleeves of the coat.

  The standoff continued in the vestibule of the building for the hour it took for the calls to Area Ten, for Wadsworth’s protests to be ignored, and for Molton to show up, search warrant in hand.

  “You got it?” Fenwick said.

  “I backed you guys as much as I could. Went out on a limb with a judge I know who hates federal judges. I think you might have something.”

  Turner and Fenwick hunted carefully through the entire office. At intervals they could hear the judge loudly protesting in the hallway. His calm demeanor was gone. The loudest protests came when his coat was taken away by the lab technicians. At three in the morning Turner began methodically going through the judge’s Rolodex. In it they found several numbers listed under Lance Thrust’s name. Mike was penciled in at the bottom of the entry. They dialed each of them. On one they got the answering machine in Bloomington. Another got them the bar. They got no answer when they called the third. Judge Wadsworth refused to tell them what it was. It took several calls to Headquarters, but the detectives eventually ascertained that it was the number to Mike Meade’s cellular phone.

  “Why do you have Mike Meade’s unlisted cellular phone number in your Rolodex?” Turner asked.

  “His father gave it to me.”

  “He never gave it to his father. His father didn’t know he lived here and not in Bloomington.”

  Fenwick asked, “What’s this nine-hundred number with no name next to it?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Fenwick tapped in the numbers and listened to the receiver.

  A few seconds later he held it out so they could hear. It was a recorded message asking for the caller’s credit card number so they could begin having a party.

  “Phone sex,” Fenwick said. He listened another minute. “Male-to-male phone sex.”

  Wadsworth slumped onto his chair. He said, “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try us,” Fenwick said.

  “You don’t know what it is like being married and being gay. For years I kept myself under control. Relations with my wife were never great, but they were something. As we got older, they tapered off. We got separate rooms, which was good for both of us. I wasn’t that interested any more. I began to go to a few bars. Then I went to that bar Au Naturel. I found one of the dancers attractive. I brought him to a hotel once in a while. I used a fake name. I had met Judge Meade’s wife on occasion, but never his kids. I had my own courtroom. The picture of them on his desk is from when they were little. I found myself falling in love with Lance Thrust. To my surprise he returned my affection. I saw him at least once a week. I no longer had to go to the bar. I teased him about his name a lot. He wouldn’t tell me his real name.”

  “Did he know who you were?”

  “I don’t think he did. Not until the last couple days for sure.”

  “How’d you find out his real name?”

  “Late this summer, out of idle curiosity when he was in the shower, I looked in his wallet. I was stunned to realize it was Mike Meade. I did not confront him. I didn’t know what to do. Al Meade was so smug about his antigay decisions. He made me furious, but I couldn’t say much or he might become suspicious of my sexuality. He was trying to deny gay people their rights, when I was a better judge than he was, smarter, wrote better decisions, was more well-connected. I could barely contain myself. By early December I was convinced that I was in love with Mike Meade. Maybe he really was returning my affection, or maybe I’d deluded myself. I wouldn’t be the first person on the planet to fall hopelessly in love with a whore. I didn’t tell him what I knew. I kept the relationship going. I tried to do everything I could to make him love me back. Maybe partly it was for revenge on his dad, but I also really loved him.”

  Fenwick said, “He was an expensive whore. He wasn’t in love with you. He certainly wasn’t being faithful.”

  “I knew he went with other men, but I blotted that out of my mind. Love and revenge got mixed up. Meade kept pushing his homophobic views, and then with the Du Page County decision, I lost it. A couple days before New Year’s, I blurted out that his son was gay.

  “He wanted to know how I knew. On that day, I refused to tell him. I tried to get hold of Mike, but I couldn’t. I don’t think Judge Meade could either. Al Meade and I had an angry meeting first thing in the morning on New Year’s Eve. God forgive me, I told him everything. He was furious. He said he was going to bring me up in front of the judicial commission. I found that amusing. His son was certainly of age.”

  “What happened later?”

  “I was supposed to meet Mike at the airport. We planned this long before he left. We did talk briefly early that afternoon on the phone. I didn’t want to tell him what I’d done until I saw him in person. I had to talk to him before his dad got to him. I offered to pick him up at the airport. I was going to tell him everything. We could talk at the Federal Building. I know ways to circumvent the security system. I felt terrible about not telling him about my fight with his dad, but I figured I’d be seeing him in a couple of hours. I came home with my wife and retired. As you know, we have separate rooms. This condominium is huge. It wasn’t difficult to leave without her knowing.

  “Mike told me later that his dad had seen him with his friend at the airport. He accused his son of being gay. Mike denied it and said he didn’t know why I would say such things.

  “They’d just separated when I found him. I gave Mike a big hug. His dad saw us together. For some reason he didn’t confront us there, but he followed us to the Federal Building. We used the reserved entrance. Later, I would have to make sure the camera wasn’t working, but it malfunctioned without my intervention.

  “Mike and his dad were both like maniacs. Mike spilled out everything. About the sex we’d been having, about dancing in the bar.”

  Turner said, “Mike told us that his father didn’t approach him at the airport.”

  “He was trying to protect me. He didn’t know I killed his dad.

  “Father and son were screaming and ranting at each other. Then Mike ran off. Al turned on me. I thought he would have a stroke on the spot. He made all kinds of threats. He was going to reveal my sexuality. He had to be stopped. He told me he was going to drag his son out of that bar and then finish with me. He claimed that my career was over. He left. I went home and brooded for several hours. I knew what I had to do. Al Meade needed to be stopped. I didn’t know if he’d gone home so I decided to try the bar first. I went there and found him. We went into the alley, but it was too cold to stay outside. We talked in the Federal Building. The security system for the judges is a joke. I shot him when he went to the john. The tile
was easy enough to clean. I wrapped the body up and took it downstairs in our private elevator. I thought I’d try and make it look like he was the closet case, so I tried to get the body into the dumpster behind Au Naturel. I was in a hurry and petrified about being caught. When the blood started to drip while I was carrying him, I stuck him in the next dumpster I came to.”

  “You knew Mike danced there,” Turner said, “didn’t you think the body being there would implicate him?”

  Wadsworth shrugged then asked, “How did you find out he danced there?”

  “He’d taken one of the guys to his place in Rogers Park to trick with him.”

  “Only the one?”

  Turner nodded.

  “Then, if not for that odd chance that the guy he went home with still worked there, you’d have never found out he was a dancer.”

  “Maybe not.”

  Fenwick said, “What happened with Mike?”

  “I didn’t see him until two nights later. He was impossible to get to talk to. Finally I got through. He agreed to meet at his place in Rogers Park. I didn’t even know about it. When I went to get groceries this morning, I stopped in. I made a mistake. I thought he’d be happy that his dad was dead. Mike said he was going to go public about his sexuality. He said that his dad hurt lots of people and the only way he could see to make peace with himself was to tell all. He had already set up an interview with one of the national gay magazines. I was worried that any revelation on his part would reflect on me. He got angry at that. He said it was the closet and secrets that hurt. I told him I had freed us, and there was no need for public disclosure. I overestimated his affection for me.

  “When I confessed what I had done, he was already overwhelmed by guilt. He told me he was going to tell the whole truth. He said hate and lying were what killed people. He was determined to stop this closeted crap, that this hiding in the closet had cost too much. He said he was never going to hide in the closet again. I couldn’t let him get away with that. My life would be in ashes. You were never going to solve Judge Meade’s murder. You all came to the conclusion that he was a closet case. You were wrong, of course, but it fit my purposes. None of this could come out. So I killed him.”

  “How’d you happen to have your gun with you when you went to see Mike?”

  “Mike was the only one who knew I’d seen the judge the night before. On the phone, he’d mentioned going public with his life. This might have meant ruin to me. Certainly it would have ended our relationship. I wanted to convince him it wasn’t that bad to hide, that we could have our lives together. I’d done it all these years and that, now that his dad was out of the way, things could go back to the way they were. He said he was going to tell. I had no choice. When he saw the gun, he tried to get away. I was between him and the door to the apartment. I guess he wanted to lock himself in the bathroom. I burst in before he even got the door closed. He shoved me and I fired. That’s when I must have fallen. I bumped the radiator didn’t I?” He looked at them. Their faces remained impassive. Wadsworth shrugged. “I shot him. I came here tonight because I realized the rolodex here was incriminating. I was too late.”

  “Premeditated murder, your honor,” Fenwick said. “You were protecting your own butt.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “More than you imagine,” Turner said.

  An hour or so later two uniformed cops took the judge away. Turner and Fenwick stood in the hallway of the judge’s home.

  “You okay?” Fenwick asked.

  “I don’t like arresting people when I understand all too well what they’ve gone through.”

  “When you were coming out, you didn’t murder anybody.”

  “Sometimes in high school I thought about killing myself.”

  Fenwick looked at him very carefully. “Being a gay kid can be tough. You’ve told me.”

  “I know. I think back on then, and wonder how I ever could have thought about it. I’ve got Jeff, and Brian, and Ben. Good friends, Mrs. Talucci, you, Ian. Back then there were times when it wasn’t so good.”

  “Didn’t your buddy Ian say that the vast majority of gay people thought about suicide at some time?”

  “Yeah. I guess. I don’t know if he’s right or not. All I know is about me and how much it hurt being a frightened gay kid. And I know now, more than ever, that closets can kill. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Paul didn’t get home until six the next morning. Jeff was still asleep. Ben was at the kitchen table drinking coffee. He wore only his pajama bottoms. Paul admired his well-muscled and hirsute chest.

  “You up all night?” Paul asked.

  “No. I woke up early and you weren’t here. I couldn’t find anything else in the house to read so I picked up one of Jeff’s books.” He held up Freddy and the Men from Mars. “Mostly, I was practicing not worrying. After Jeff woke up, I was going to go over and see Rose Talucci.”

  Turner got a container of orange juice out of the refrigerator and poured himself a glass. He sat across from Ben.

  “You okay?” Ben asked.

  Turner told him what happened.

  “That’s tough on you,” Ben said when he finished.

  “None of those killings should have happened,” Paul said.

  “They were gay and they were frightened, and now people are dead because of it. That’s all it is.”

  They met Brian’s plane at the airport late Sunday evening. He was beautifully tanned and nauseatingly cheerful. Brian put down his heaps of packages, shook Ben’s hand, hugged his little brother, and wrapped an arm around his dad’s shoulder. He grabbed several of his bundles. He passed one to Jeff who put it in his lap in the wheelchair and tore off the cover. It was a football signed by all the members of the Miami Dolphins.

  “How’d you get this?” Jeff asked.

  “I paid for it like anybody else. I got you guys something too,” he said. He grinned at his dad and Ben. He held out two bulky packages to them. “I was thinking of getting you matching rhinestone-studded leather jockstraps from Key West, but I got you these instead.” Turner looked inside the large bags. Two pink flamingoes.

  Jeff tugged at the bags. “Lemme see.”

  Paul handed the birds to Jeff, then hugged his older son.

  By Mark Richard Zubro

  The “Paul Turner” Mysteries

  Sorry Now?

  Political Poison

  Another Dead Teenager

  The Truth Can Get You Killed

  The “Tom and Scott” Mysteries

  A Simple Suburban Murder

  Why Isn’t Becky Twitchell Dead?

  The Only Good Priest

  The Principal Cause of Death

  An Echo of Death

  Rust on the Razor

  THE TRUTH CAN GET YOU KILLED. Copyright © 1997 by Mark Richard Zubro. All rights reserved.No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  eISBN 9781429954266

  First eBook Edition : July 2011

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Zubro, Mark Richard.

  The truth can get you killed / by Mark Richard Zubro.

  —1st ed.

  p. cm.

  1. Turner, Paul (Fictitious character)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3576.U225T78 1997

  813’.54—dc21

  97-2490

  CIP

  First Edition: August 1997

 

 

 
-ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share