They could only tell which boy was in which room by the labels on the luggage. In Stendar’s room they found a paperback copy of The Proof of Nothing by Fredrick Schermer. A wide variety of teddy bears was mounded in the middle of the floor of his room. Each boy had his own bathroom. They found deodorant, shampoo, razors, toothbrushes, and toothpaste. The members didn’t have a lot of clothes. Turner figured they learned to pack light. Dragging tons of luggage from venue to venue had to be a hassle. Or did these guys have to carry their own luggage? Devane and Pappas had portable CD players with earphones connected to them. Galyak and Clendenen had condoms in their personal packs, as had Stendar. In all this Turner and Fenwick found nothing unusual.
“I can picture it,” Fenwick said. “The most famous boy band in the world doing a condom commercial. They’d sell a zillion and their name would be mud. The Religious Right would make sure of that. They’d rather have a mythical virginal band and more babies.”
“Things don’t change much,” Turner said.
“Where are the notes Blundlefitz found?” Fenwick asked. “Either someone else was in here or he wasn’t quite as intimidated as we’d hoped. I can’t believe I’m losing my delicate, suave touch.”
“Hard to lose something I’ve never seen.”
They returned to the station. There was already a mob of reporters crammed into the first floor and spilling outside the station. Fenwick glowered at them as they approached the mass of humanity. “Famous dead people depress me.”
“Why?” Turner asked.
“I think a whole lot of people who don’t know them indulge in cheap emotions.”
Turner said, “You don’t have to know someone to feel sad that they’re dead.”
“Yeah, but you see so many nearly hysterical people who didn’t know them.”
“Maybe that’s mostly television. They prefer to show the heavily weeping over the rationally dealing.”
“I guess you’re right.”
It was near the end of their shift, but they put in an hour and a half on the paperwork. Before they left, Turner and Fenwick reported to the commander, Drew Molton, on their progress. Everyone knew the kind of pressure that accompanied the death of someone famous. They would do their best, just as they always did.
8
Paul Turner pulled into his driveway about a quarter to seven. The first light of dawn was barely touching the neighborhood. He could see the lamplight in Mrs. Talucci’s front room. She’d have been up for at least an hour and a half by this time. She arose before dawn every day of the year. He knew she was getting ready to go to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. Mrs. Talucci was in her nineties and determined not to spend her days waiting to die. She’d found a place to rent right on Bourbon Street, a block and a half off Canal. She was permitting one of her grandnieces to accompany her. Paul’s own family wouldn’t be awake for another hour or so. They’d have a large breakfast and walk to church. Paul would stay up long enough to accompany them and then get some sleep. He knew he’d have to go in to work early tonight. Paul rubbed his hand across his face and tried to clear his mind. When you worked nights, you never did feel like you got enough sleep.
Paul saw the curtains twitch in Mrs. Talucci’s parlor window. She beckoned to him. Tired as he was, he hustled through the cold. He was not about to refuse a summons from Mrs. Talucci. She’d been more than a help to his sons, Ben, and himself over the years.
Paul entered the front room. Mrs. Talucci said, “You have a visitor. I checked his coat pockets. He’s not armed.”
“Why did you check his pockets?”
“You investigating the Boys4u murder?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, one of the band members is here. Kid named Clendenen. He may or may not have killed somebody, but I don’t take chances. If he’s got a gun in the tight clothes he’s wearing, it’s smaller than a pea shooter. I inspected his winter coat and his backpack. Nothing more dangerous than a harmonica.”
“You know him?”
“I watch all the news.” Paul knew this was true. She also read three newspapers a day. She said it helped keep her mind sharp. Mrs. Talucci said, “The band was interviewed on three different local channels during the last week. They seemed like perfectly ordinary boys. They could use a little feeding. I gave him some nice ravioli. That stopped the tears for a little while. He doesn’t look like he eats much, but he managed three helpings along with meatballs and some sausage and some good garlic bread. I think they must abuse these children on the road. You’ve got to feed people properly.” Mrs. Talucci belonged to the fill-them-up-until-they’re-too-stuffed-to-worry-or-complain school of psychotherapy. To Turner her method seemed to work as well as many others and better than most.
Turner said, “All the teenage girls in the neighborhood would be outside if they knew he was here.”
“He doesn’t need teenage girls. He needs help. Adult help. I feel sorry for him. I found him sitting on your porch. I was out for my morning walk. I think he’d have waited until he froze to death.” Mrs. Talucci walked to the store every day to buy her newspapers. If there was a glaze of ice on the sidewalk, she was on the phone to the alderman making sure it would be gotten rid of. She had his home number. If there was deep snow, she had a crew of relatives and neighbors, led by Paul, Ben, and their sons to help clear paths.
Mrs. Talucci led Paul into the kitchen. Elbows propped on the table, head resting on the palms of his hands, a pile of used tissues next to his arm, Dexter Clendenen raised swollen eyes and looked at Turner.
“I can’t go to the hotel. I can’t sleep. I came here.” He shook his head and moaned.
Clendenen wore only a thin yellow T-shirt, tight faded jeans, and athletic shoes. Even if the kid had the best winter coat, he’d get awfully cold very quickly in that outfit.
Mrs. Talucci asked, “Is there anything else I can get for you, young man?”
“No, thanks,” he muttered. She patted Dexter’s shoulder, then left the room.
“Why didn’t you knock on my door?” Paul asked.
“I knew you were still at work. I called the station. They said you’d be back, so I knew you hadn’t gone home.”
“How’d you find out where I lived?”
“Zawicki knew. He always knows stuff.”
“How’d you get here?” Turner asked.
“I had our limo guy bring me. I can’t stay with the other guys. I need help. I know I need help.” Clendenen’s head swayed from side to side. Paul thought the boy might be close to a total nervous breakdown. He took off his winter coat, pulled up a chair, and sat down next to him.
“The limo didn’t stay?”
“I had him stop at the corner and told him to go.”
“How can I help you?” Paul asked. He wouldn’t have been surprised to get a confession to a murder.
“I’m scared,” the kid said and stopped.
“Of what?” Paul prompted.
“Of everything.” Paul waited. “Of the other guys in the band. Of Zawicki.” Silence.
“We were told there were notes from a meeting about the band breaking up.”
“I don’t know about any such meeting. We weren’t breaking up.”
“We were told that each of you had sex with Mr. Zawicki.”
“What? Well. Who told you that? All of us?”
Paul evaded the questions. “That was a cruel thing for him to do.”
“Zawicki made me have sex with him. He said nobody would ever know. Do the other guys know about me? He made each of them? Nobody ever talked about it. He said I couldn’t be part of the band if I didn’t. It was either bend over or get out.”
“Why didn’t you just leave?”
“This was my dream. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices. I just wish he’d have stopped. Do I really have to talk about that? It’s embarrassing. It can’t have anything to do with Roger.”
“Maybe Roger resented it. Maybe he threatened to go public with what Zawicki was doing.”
“Did any of the other executives make you service them?” Paul asked.
“No, none of them. Zawicki screwed me lots of times. I hated it. It hurt so much.”
“Couldn’t you tell anyone? Mr. Pastern was your security guard.”
“I liked it when Jordan took care of me. He was gentle. He never let anybody hurt me, but there was nothing he could do. He was an employee just like me. I never told anyone.”
“How about your agent, Eudace?”
“All he cared about was money. He’s our agent, not a friend. The company picked him for us. It was in our contracts that he had to be our agent.”
“Were you afraid of him?”
“No. He was just a corporate asshole.”
“Are you afraid of anyone else?” Paul asked.
“The guys in the band. They make fun of me. I get the fewest parts in the songs, but I get big play in the videos because I’m the sad-eyed baby. The other guys didn’t like that. As if they had that much more talent than me. I can sing. I’m good.” He burst into song.
Turner thought the voice seemed a little thin and high, but was generally pleasing. Turner didn’t think of himself as a music critic. He’d gotten stuck in the era between Elvis and the Beatles. His friend Ian claimed that Paul had never gotten over the Great Folk Music Scare of the early sixties. Paul thought this was probably true, although he did like old time rock and roll.
“Was Roger afraid of anything?” Paul asked.
“No, he was always brave, and now he’s dead, and there’s nothing I can do about it.” Clendenen began to cry. Turner put an arm around his shoulder. The boy put his head on Paul’s chest and practically crawled into his lap. The kid’s knee pressed awkwardly on Paul’s left thigh and the boy’s elbow poked uncomfortably into his side. He let the kid cry and held him gently.
After a minute or so, Paul twisted as best he could. He didn’t want to dislodge the boy, but he wasn’t comfortable with this level of intimacy with a possible murder suspect. Obviously, there was something very wrong here. He had no doubt the boy had numerous people he could have cried with about Roger Stendar dying. This might be genuine grief, but if it was, it seemed woefully misplaced genuine grief. Paul knew he was basically a stranger to the kid. Why come to him? A killer feeling great remorse? Maybe, but totally unsubstantiated. A gay kid who was reaching out was possible. Galyak might have caught on that Turner was gay and not just being politically correct during their interview and could have told the others. Clendenen must know other gay people he could go to. Dependence on the kindness of strangers was more cliché than truth. None of this made sense yet. His detective instincts didn’t prevent him from comforting the boy, but he remained wary.
After several minutes he heard the boy say, “I feel safe here in this house with you. The only safe place we really had was the tour bus. I felt protected there. Roger was good to me. The other guys weren’t. Roger was nice.” The voice was muffled against his chest. Paul gently disengaged himself and got the boy sitting back on his own chair. The kid took several tissues and wiped his nose and eyes. “Roger never made fun of me. He always helped me with my dancing. The other guys were more coordinated than I was, but I worked harder. In the beginning sometimes they’d say I was holding them back. But I practiced more than they did. I needed it. Roger spent lots of extra time with me. He was like the big brother I never had. I can’t believe he’s dead. I thought we’d all just go on singing together forever.”
“We talked to Sherri Haupmin. She said Roger wanted to leave the band.”
“I hate her.” No tears now. He’d turned from sadness to red-hot anger in an instant. “She should be the one who’s dead. She’s the one who put ideas into his head. She’s the one who said he wasn’t getting enough respect. She was like Yoko Ono who ruined the Beatles. She was always pushing for things to change. Why? Things were perfect. We got along perfect until she showed up. We laughed a lot. We had good times. I don’t know why Roger liked her. Maybe she was good sex. He never threw her in my face but I couldn’t say anything to him about her.”
“Did you try?”
“Not really. She always hung around. She got to perform because our production company signed her. We have a couple of opening acts, a different one every month. After the tour we were going to drop whoever the kids in the arenas didn’t respond to. She was gonna get dropped. She didn’t have any talent. Roger protected her, but it was getting obvious even to him.”
“Did he protect her like he protected you?” Paul asked.
“Hey, that was different. Roger was my friend. We were close.”
“Were you lovers?”
“No. No way. I’m not gay. Neither was he.” If this kid wasn’t gay, Paul was ready to turn in his ID card and return the toaster. “We just cared for each other. It’s okay for guys to care for each other. The other kids in high school used to laugh at me because I was in chorus and band. Called me a band fag. I went back to my hometown last year for a reunion. I didn’t see a lot of my tormentors, but I know they all saw my pictures in the paper. My going back was the biggest thing that town had ever seen. They even had a parade for me.”
“You must have been pretty young when you joined the band if you guys spent time in South America and Asia before you hit it big here.”
“I joined when I was seventeen. Just enough over the age of consent for Zawicki to take advantage of.”
“That bothers you?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve got a few more questions about last night.”
“Sure.”
“Did you see anybody leave the party?”
“No. Why?”
“We found the gun some distance away. We’re trying to figure out if anyone saw somebody leaving.”
“I didn’t notice. I was kneeling next to Roger the whole time until the paramedics got there. Then I was talking to Jordan. I wasn’t near the door.”
Turner said, “Who else at the company do you think would actually try to harm you?”
“Can you not ask me questions about Roger for a while, please?”
“Is there anyone I can call? Someone you’re close to? Is there anybody from Riveting Records who could help you out?”
“No. I’d rather stay here.”
“I’m worried about you. I could call your parents or a friend you’re close to.”
“I don’t want to be near any of those people from the band. They aren’t good for me. I should never have been in this band. I get so depressed.”
“About what?” Paul felt too tired to be turning into this kid’s therapist. Was this a needy boy, just barely out of his teens who’d grown up too fast and been given too much, or was he a manipulative and devious killer?
“I’m scared somebody might kill me next.”
“Did someone threaten you?”
“Not directly. Jordan told me you found all that sabotage.”
“Tell me about the water bottles.”
“Usually, we kept them in our own little places, but it wasn’t like real set. Kind of just the usual spot.”
“Did you check your own props?”
“One of us could have fallen. All we had keeping us up were those harnesses. In the beginning I was afraid of heights. They told me I could go up or leave. I pissed my pants the first time we practiced. I was so embarrassed. But Roger saw and he managed to get me away from the other guys without anyone seeing me. He never mentioned it. Not once. He was nice. I got used to it, and I did all the stunts, but I was scared every time. What if one of those wires broke? I even hired a therapist. I’m better as long as I remember what he taught me. Then tonight Jordan said one of the wires was almost cut through. We were way up high. One of us would have died right in the middle of the concert. I could have died.”
While his fear was understandable and in a lot of ways justified, Paul was concerned that his terror was close to paralyzing the kid. He was also aware
that the kid hadn’t answered his question. “Who checked your props?” he asked.
“The road crew and then Roger and everybody checked everything. I didn’t know how any of that stuff worked.”
Turner glanced at the silver-framed kitchen clock. Nearly eight. Ben would see his car in the driveway and wonder where he was. He said, “Let’s go over to my house, and we can talk more over there. I want to check in with my family.”
“I’m afraid of meeting new people.”
“You must meet hundreds every day.”
“No, not really. Only those we want to meet. The company filters everybody out and security keeps the crazies away.”
“Well, my lover and my boys are perfectly nice. I need to do this. You don’t have to come. We could call your limousine service and have them come get you and take you back to the hotel.”
The boy fidgeted. Paul got up, put on his coat, and handed Clendenen his own. The boy shuffled to his feet. Mrs. Talucci met them in the hall. She placed a calming hand on Clendenen’s arm. “Are you feeling better?” she asked.
Clendenen shrugged. “A little.”
Paul said, “We’re going to go next door. I want to see Ben and the boys. Thanks for helping out.”
Clendenen caught the cue and mumbled, “Yeah, thanks for the food. It was the best.”
She patted his arm. “You take care, young man. You have a lovely voice. Good luck.”
9
Paul walked into the house. As he hung up their coats, he heard sounds from the kitchen. Ben appeared in the doorway. Paul kissed and hugged his lover. He didn’t bother to worry about what Clendenen might think. He didn’t particularly care. This was his home and what some famous twinky thought, gay or straight, wasn’t going to influence him. He introduced Ben to Clendenen.
Paul added, “He’s involved in a case I’m working on. Mrs. Talucci fed him earlier. He needs a haven, and I’d like to provide it for a while.” Ben nodded.
The three of them moved into the kitchen. Ben was beginning Sunday breakfast. After Ben had moved in, he’d become the official Sunday breakfast maker. Paul and his two sons alternated weeks cooking the family’s daily breakfast, a meal Paul insisted they all have together. As each of their individual schedules was so hectic, it was often the only meal all of them were present for. More than half the time, dinner was eaten in shifts. Even working nights, Paul made it home for breakfast.
Dead Egotistical Morons Page 7