A Fountain Filled With Blood

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  Elliott peered into his face. “I still get to talk with my lawyer?”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Okay, then.”

  Russ rose, unlocked the door, and strode down the hall to grab a tape recorder from the squad room. He spotted Lyle. “Run the name Chris Dessaint. Anything we’ve got.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Elliott’s giving us a statement.”

  Lyle’s response was lost as Russ reentered the interrogation room. He turned on the machine, read McKinley his rights again, and had him state he understood and was voluntarily making his statement without the presence of his lawyer.

  “Okay, Elliott, I don’t want to put any words in your mouth. Why don’t you tell me how you and Chris got into whomping on gay guys. Start at the beginning.”

  Russ expected to hear about Emil Dvorak, so he was surprised when McKinley said, “We went up to Lake George to party. Me and Chris and our friend Nathan. Then we decided to go barhopping. Anyway, we were outside some place—I think maybe it was the Blue Lagoon, or the Blue Parrot, something like that—and we went out back to smoke a joint. This guy comes out. You know, perfect teeth, nice clothes. He starts talking, and right away I know he’s a fag.” He frowned. “The guy starts hitting on us, wanting to know if we want to party with some of his buddies, bragging that they got some good stuff. Man, it was like, you know, all day long I gotta take orders from some rich fag, and now here I am on my own time, having to listen to the same bullshit. And Chris, he’s a real good-looking dude, always has girls falling all over him, and I’m thinking, This queer’s hitting on Chris! Anyway, I can see Chris is thinking just the same as I am. So we tell this guy off and punch him around.”

  “Nathan, too?”

  “Naw, he just kept bleating about getting out of there. Like the fag’s buddies were going to come out and take us on. Anyway, it felt good. You know, like we were standing up for our right not to have all that fag stuff shoved in our faces. We didn’t really talk about it until almost a week later, when Chris asked me if I’d like to do it again.”

  “Find someone to rumble with?”

  “Yeah. ‘Go on a queer-hunt’ was how he said it. Then he said there might even be a few bucks in it for us.”

  Russ blinked. “How so? You were going to find someone loaded and roll him first?”

  “No, Chris had a friend. Someone who felt like we did, about the fags getting way too pushy and out of control. His friend couldn’t get out and do anything about it, but he wanted to bankroll us. To make a statement.”

  Russ felt as if he had gotten on the Northway to Albany and had suddenly looked around and seen Kansas instead. He inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Chris’s friend—you ever meet him?”

  “Nope. Just Chris did. He lived up to his word, though. We got the money, and some bonuses, too.”

  The way he said the word bonuses was a tip-off. “Drugs?” Russ asked.

  “Yeah. Chris handed it out—ecstasy, meth.”

  “Did Chris work with you? Had he ever met your boss?”

  “Nah. He works at the Shape warehouse, doing inventory. You know, punching in the numbers on a handheld.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “We went to school together.”

  Russ nodded. “Okay. So Chris said you could get paid for finding a gay guy and beating him up. Then what?”

  “Chris said we needed to find someone else to help us. That we needed three all together.”

  “Your friend Nathan was out, I take it.”

  “Oh yeah. Anyway, I knew this guy Jason Colvin, from when I hung around with Arnie Rider. I thought Jason might be game. So I talked with him, and he was down with it, so we were ready to go.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Chris told us about the fags running the inn on Route One Thirty-one, down a ways from where I work. He thought that would be a good place to find somebody. He told us he would let us know when. We made a couple drive-bys on nights when we had been partying, just jerking them a little. And then Chris gave me a call that Wednesday and told me we were on for that night.”

  “He picked that night particularly?”

  “Yeah, which I thought was kinda weird, since we all had to be at work the next day.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We got together in the woods first, partied a little. Chris passed out some meth, so Jase and I were feeling pretty pumped. Then we drove by, and we saw a bunch of guys out in front. One of ’em was getting into this Chrysler convertible—you know, your typical old rich dude car. So we went down to Route One twenty-one and pulled off to the side, figuring he had to come that way and we’d be able to see him in time. I was at the wheel, ’cause it was my truck, and Jase and Chris were keeping watch. We all were smoking a little more. My idea was to force the guy off the road, but Jason yelled that the lights were coming and it was too late to get all the way back on the road. I was backing up, so he wound up hitting my truck, which really burned me. I put a lot of money and time into that truck.”

  Russ’s throat tightened. He nodded for McKinley to go on.

  “So we did him. It felt kind of righteous.” He stopped. “Man, can I have a cigarette?”

  “Officer Entwhistle, bring Elliott a pack and an ashtray.” Noble unlocked the interrogation room and disappeared around the corner.

  “You know,” McKinley said in a confiding tone, “I probably wouldn’t have done all this stuff if I hadn’t been high while I was doing it. Chris was handing out shit like it was candy. He was calling the shots. I was, like, just along for the ride.”

  “Yeah.”

  Noble reappeared and handed Russ a pack of Marlboros and a disposable aluminum ashtray. Russ slid them across the table to McKinley and fished in his pocket for his dad’s Zippo, circa 1945 and still working great.

  “You smoke?” McKinley asked, proffering the pack.

  “Not anymore. But I always carry this lighter. Comes in handy.” He lighted McKinley’s cigarette and clicked the Zippo closed, running his thumb over his father’s initials, which were engraved on the case. A tiny reminder linking him to a world where beating men half to death wasn’t part of anyone’s recreation. “Go on. You were saying you did the man in the convertible. Did you know who he was?”

  “Nah. But Chris said he knew he was gay, because there wasn’t anybody but queers staying at the inn that week.” “Did Chris tell you that Bill Ingraham lived at that inn when he was in town?”

  McKinley sucked hard on his cigarette, his eyebrows wrinkling together. “No, he didn’t. Ingraham was there? No shit?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “How the hell would I know? It wasn’t like we socialized.”

  “Okay. What happened next?”

  “Chris said I probably ought to keep my truck out of sight until I could fix it. I got a cousin who does his own bodywork out of his barn over to Fort Henry. I parked it in there. Haven’t had a chance to straighten out the fender yet.”

  “Who came up with the idea to hit the video store owner?”

  “That was Jason,” he said quickly. “Jason had known him in school and knew he was queer. He said it would be easy, ’cause we would know right where he would be. Chris said he’d check it out, and then that Friday we all got together. His friend had said okay, but we couldn’t rob the place. And we were supposed to wear gloves so we wouldn’t leave any fingerprints around.”

  Russ thought of the prints they had left on Emil Dvorak’s Chrysler. “Did you?”

  McKinley made a face. “Hell no. It was a video store, for Chrissakes. There would be, like, hundreds of fingerprints all over the place. And there we’d be, walking in with rubber gloves on. Might as well come in and announce, ‘Call the cops,’ right? That’s when I knew his friend with the money was an amateur.” He glanced at Russ. “Not that I’m, like, a professional. I’m not.”

  “It’s just your hobby,” Russ said.

  “Hey, man, do you like quee
rs? Do you like ’em shaking their booty everywhere, demanding their rights to make out in public and wear dresses? It’s sick. It’s a sick thing. I probably wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been so stoned all the time on Chris’s shit, but I just done what a lot of people would if they weren’t afraid.”

  Russ looked down at the table. His hands seemed relaxed, except for the white pressure points under his nails. He reminded himself that wiping the floor with McKinley was simply not an option. Stay calm. Control, he told himself.

  “So you hit Todd MacPherson’s video store.”

  “Yeah. But we didn’t rob it!”

  “You just gave MacPherson a lesson in straight pride.”

  McKinley looked confused. “Huh?”

  “Never mind. What did you do afterward?”

  “We went back to Chris’s place. He gave us some poppers and then Jase and I each got five hundred bucks.”

  “You three talk about your next hit?”

  “A little. Jase thought we ought to go down to Saratoga. But Chris said to cool it, that he’d let us know. ’Cause why do it for free when we could get paid?”

  “Weren’t you curious about who was bankrolling Chris?”

  “Hell yeah. But he wouldn’t say nothing. Chris is way big into all that fake militia, need-to-know stuff, like he was the general and we were the grunts. Screw it. I figured Chris was probably taking his cut off the top, but why should I complain?”

  “Did Chris make any suggestions as to a target? Say anything that made you think he knew something you didn’t?”

  “Nah. He was mostly talking about getting out and buying some new gear with his money. He likes camping and all that healthful shit. Vitamins.”

  “But he also deals?”

  “Chris? Not normally. He smokes, but everyone smokes. He mostly stays away from the other stuff. He does steroids sometimes, ’cause he lifts weights.”

  “Okay. What did you do after the meeting at Chris’s place?”

  “Are you kidding? It was the weekend and I had five hundred bucks. I took off. Just got back this morning.”

  “Have you seen the other two since Friday night?”

  “Nope. Chris already had plans for the weekend, and Jase wanted to hole up with his new girlfriend.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Lake George. Around. I crashed with friends, mostly.”

  “You have any of that money left?”

  McKinley laughed.

  The door clicked open. Lyle MacAuley stuck his head in. “Burns is here. He wants to see his client.”

  Russ slid sideways out of the bolted-down seat. “Elliot, I want you to give Officer Entwhistle a detailed account of where you were and who you saw this weekend. I mean a minute-by-minute account. This is going to establish your alibi, so I don’t imagine your lawyer will object.”

  Actually, he figured Burns would be screaming his head off in five minutes. He just didn’t plan to be around to listen to it. He ducked through the narrow back corridor that was their supply closet and emerged by the squad room. He stuck his head in. There were voices raised by the reception desk, but he didn’t see Lyle anywhere. He slunk toward Dispatch and stuck his head in. “Lyle?” he whispered.

  Lyle appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing? Why are you whispering?”

  Russ tilted his head toward the sound of expensive shoes marching down the hall to the interrogation room. Lyle’s bushy gray eyebrows rose in comprehension. He thrust a manila folder into Russ’s hand.

  “Chris Dessaint. Twenty-five. He’s been up on D and D, disturbing the peace, assault—a few fistfights. Small-scale stuff. He’s got a juvie record, but it’ll take some time to get that unsealed. Nothing to indicate he’s suddenly likely to step up to the big time.”

  “Got a current address?”

  “It’s in there. His next of kin’s listed as Alvine Harp-swell; you’ll remember her.”

  He did. Alvine had been in on numerous domestic charges, both as batterer and victim, and the speed with which she ran through her partners was astounding, considering her less-than-stellar looks. Lyle went on. “There’s a bunch of Dessaints living in Cossayuharie and in Warren County. I figure he’s related to them.”

  There was a rising noise from the direction of the interrogation room. Lyle jerked his thumb toward the front doors. “Paul’s waiting in a black-and-white, and Dave’s out on patrol. You better hightail it out of here before Geoff Burns gets hold of you.”

  Russ nodded, tucked the folder under his arm, and hobbled down the front steps and out the door as fast as his swollen knees would let him.

  There was no problem finding Chris Dessaint’s trailer in Lyon’s Gate Mobile Home Estates. There was also no problem gaining access; taking a cue from McKinley’s flight, Russ and Paul went through the tiny front door to make the arrest while Dave stood out back, weapon drawn. There was no problem with a resisting suspect. There was no suspect. The place had been cleaned out. Dessaint was gone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Clare wasn’t surprised when the office phone started ringing promptly at nine o’clock. She was kneeling atop her desk, struggling to open the window. She knew it could be done, because Mr. Hadley, the sexton, had taken down the forties-era storm windows and hung screens in their place. When she had asked about an air-conditioning unit, he looked at her as if she had suggested installing a hot tub in the bathroom. “Waste of money,” he said. “Won’t get so hot an open window and a fan can’t handle it.”

  And she had to admit he had been right, up until last week. The June temperatures had been balmy, and she had simply cranked open the narrow casements at the bottom of her diamond-paned windows for a little fresh air. But after the dismal Fourth, July had moved in like Sherman through Georgia. This morning, walking from the rectory to the church, she had already felt the heat rising from the pavement under her feet. Her sunny office would be an oven if she couldn’t get some cross ventilation.

  Unfortunately, the rise in heat and humidity seemed to have caused the window to swell. Knees sliding on loose papers, Clare braced her hands under the sash and heaved. Nothing.

  Her speakerphone buzzed. “Reverend?” Lois, the church secretary, hadn’t looked hot this morning. Lois never looked hot, or frazzled, or unkempt. Somehow, she managed to have two fans blowing vigorously in the main office without stirring a single strand of her perfectly cut bob. “It’s Robert Corlew on the phone.”

  Corlew had taken over as the head of St. Alban’s vestry since the beginning of the year, after former president Vaughn Fowler had … permanently resigned. When replacing him, the vestry had decided Corlew should use the more traditional title of warden, perhaps to encourage the idea of stewardship, rather than Fowler’s approach, which had been more like Alexander Haig in crisis mode.

  Clare grunted, trying the sash again. “What’s he want? And can we get Mr. Hadley in to pry this darned window up?”

  “Maybe Mr. Corlew could do it for you. He sounds as if he’s ready to rip a window right out of its frame.”

  Clare sank back onto her calves. “He read the newspaper.”

  “He read the newspaper.” After the Monday-night broadcast that outed, as it were, Bill Ingraham, the Post-Star had taken the story and run with it. Yesterday, they had a piece on Ingraham’s death and the effect it might have on the Algonquin Spa development. Today, the Wednesday Post-Star featured a prominently placed story linking Ingraham’s murder and the Dvorak and MacPherson beatings, including comments from leaders of gay organizations. Clare’s name, and St. Alban’s, had also been mentioned in both the Tuesday edition and today’s. Lois had already cut out the articles for the church scrapbook. “It makes such an interesting change from all those community news stories about the Saint Martha’s Group tea and white-elephant sales,” she had said.

  Clare clambered down from her desk. “Put him through,” she said with all the enthusiasm of an early Christian asking to meet the lions.

  “
Try not to sound so eager and upbeat,” Lois said before she clicked off and Robert Corlew came on the line.

  “Reverend Clare?”

  “Good morning, Robert. How nice to hear from you. I don’t think I’ve seen you in church more than once since Memorial Day. I’ve missed you.” She grinned to herself. Maybe she could land a preemptive strike and take the field before he recovered.

  “Ah. Well, you know how it is—summertime, grandkids visiting, houseguests, sailing. And business is nonstop.” She could hear him collecting himself. “I’m calling about the article in the paper today.”

  “Yes, I saw that. It mentions St. Alban’s. Did you notice? We’re really starting to get our name out.”

  “That’s what I mean. I don’t think we want to ‘get our name out’ in a story about gay guys who get killed while cruising for anonymous sex!”

  Clare leaned back in her old-fashioned office chair. It let out a satisfying snap. “Are we talking about the same article? The one that describes how a doctor and a video-store owner were assaulted and then a highly respected businessman was killed?”

  “In the bushes in the park, yes, that article. I can read between the lines as well as the next man. Gay man plus dark, secluded area in a park means one thing.” His voice dropped into a confidential tone. “Look, I can understand. You happened to be there; your name got into the paper as a result. What’s done is done. What I’m thinking of now is damage control. I want to make sure you aren’t getting involved, that’s all.”

  “ ‘Involved’?” Clare’s resolve to treat Robert Corlew with teasing good humor was cracking under the strain of his conversation. “Can you expand on that?”

  “Reverend Clare, we can’t afford to have St. Alban’s name linked to any more…scandals. Not after last December. I’ve seen how you can get with these little pet projects of yours. The unwed teenage mothers. Those old drunks. Right? Let’s all get on the same page with this. Homosexuals getting attacked while cruising is unfortunate, of course, but it doesn’t have anything to do with us. I’m sure I’m speaking for the whole vestry when I say we sincerely don’t want to see you in the news again unless it’s the annual ‘What Is the Meaning of Easter?’ story.”