Dead Egotistical Morons

by Mark Richard Zubro

  Clendenen said, “I need to use the washroom.”

  Paul pointed. “Down the hall on the left.”

  Ben said, “Father Flanagan brings home lost boy, or do we have a serial killer among us?”

  “He’s one of the guys from the band Boys4u.”

  “It’s all over the news. Worse than when Princess Di was in the car crash.” As they talked, Ben began frying bacon and chopping vegetables.

  “Fenwick and I have the case. This kid showed up on our doorstep, and Mrs. Talucci noticed him on her morning walk. He claims he’s afraid to be with the rest of the group.”

  “What’s he afraid of?”

  “I’m not sure. What he really needs is a good therapist. I’d like to make a call or two and get someone I trust to come over.”

  Ben said, “At least you can be thankful that neither of your kids has expressed a desire to be a rock star.”

  “Somebody gave Brian a drum for his third birthday. Dumbest thing he ever got. Fortunately it never took, and I was never the kind of parent who insisted on a kid taking music lessons.”

  Paul heard thumping that could only mean one thing. His overactive older son was pounding down the stairs. He wondered if the steps would last until the boy went to college. Brian breezed into the kitchen. He wore red boxer shorts, white athletic socks, and nothing else.

  “Good morning,” Paul said. “Is that the same pair of boxers you’ve had on for the last several days?”

  His son tended to parade around the house in his underwear. Brian pulled a gallon bottle of orange juice out of the refrigerator. He yanked off the cap and began to raise the container to his lips. Silently Ben handed him a glass. Paul knew the kid probably guzzled half the liquids in the refrigerator from the bottle when the adults weren’t present. Brian took the glass and filled it. After finishing it off, Brian said, “I have fourteen pairs of these. All the same color.” He began refilling his glass. Sometimes Paul felt half his salary was spent to keep his sons in provender.

  “And the reason you have fourteen of the same?” Paul asked.

  “I like the color.”

  Ben said, “With so many the same, he doesn’t have to sort his clothes as much. In there somewhere is probably part of a scheme to do less laundry, although I’m not real sure about that. If he has all the same color, maybe he’ll stop borrowing yours. One hesitates to say his girlfriend might like them.”

  The seventeen-year-old turned slightly pink. “Mandy has opinions about everything. I’m probably gonna drop her.” Brian continued to sift through a passel of girlfriends. Most often now, he and a mixed male/female group attended events in a clump.

  Clendenen reentered the kitchen. Paul introduced them. Brian gave no sign of recognizing the name. Paul noticed that Clendenen took careful note of his son’s state of undress. Brian played numerous sports and had made all-state in football. He worked out for several hours a day. Clendenen averted his eyes quickly when he realized Paul was watching. It wasn’t gaydar, but it was the first overt hint that Clendenen might not be heterosexual.

  Paul said, “Dexter is going to join us for breakfast. You need to shave, shower, get dressed, and get ready for church before you finish depleting the supplies in the house.”

  “Got it covered.” Brian thumped back up the stairs.

  Paul heard his youngest son Jeff’s wheelchair. The twelve-year-old had been refusing help lately in getting dressed. For years he’d been doing okay on his own, with just a little help. The younger boy had insisted on being more independent. He made himself get up half an hour earlier so he could accomplish this. Paul admired his determination and stamina.

  Jeff wheeled into the kitchen. “Morning Dad, Ben.” He looked at Clendenen. “You’re in Boys4u,” Jeff said. He went to the refrigerator and got out the same gallon of orange juice as Brian. He began imitating his older brother’s from-the-bottle guzzle. Silently Ben handed him a glass.

  Jeff finished pouring his juice and wheeled over to Clendenen. “On the Internet this morning, I saw about one of the guys dying. I’m sorry your friend died. Are you okay?”

  Tears started down Clendenen’s face.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.” He looked at his father. “I didn’t mean anything.”

  His father reassured him. “You expressed your concern. You did right.”

  Clendenen said, “It’s okay, thanks.”

  While waiting for Brian to finish in the bathroom, Paul used the upstairs phone to call Robert Grannett, a psychologist he knew. Grannett and Guy Moriville were a couple that Paul and Ben occasionally spent an evening with at the movies or a play.

  On the phone Paul explained the situation. “I don’t know what to do with this kid.”

  “Want me to come over?”

  “I think I’m going to drag him to church with us.”

  “Probably nothing harmful in that as long as the kid isn’t recognized.”

  “I don’t want to leave him alone in the house.”

  “I think that’s a good idea.”

  “Do you think he’s suicidal?” Paul asked.

  “I’d have to talk to him. Anything is possible. From what you describe, there’s little question that he’s very fragile right now. He might be that way all the time. I can be over later this morning and give you a hand.”

  “That would help. I have no reason to mistrust him, except for normal cop precautions. I don’t think he’s a killer.”

  Brian finished in the bathroom and Paul showered and changed. The water revived him a little. What he really needed was sleep.

  Breakfast conversation consisted mostly of Jeff asking Clendenen reasonably innocuous questions about what it was like being in a boy band. Clendenen was reserved at first, but the down-home atmosphere seemed to put him at ease. Since he’d dined sumptuously at Mrs. Talucci’s little more than an hour ago, he only sipped from a glass of orange juice.

  Brian said, “I’d like to be as rich as you are when I’m your age, but I can’t sing, and I can’t dance.”

  “We have lots of coaches, and we practice for hours every day.”

  “Gotta have talent,” Brian said. “That kind of talent, I don’t have.”

  Paul announced, “We’re going to church.” They still attended the local Catholic mass every Sunday. Paul hated the Catholic Church’s stance on gay people and he wasn’t sure how he felt about the reality of a supreme being running the universe. Brian attended the Catholic high school connected with the parish, one of the few left in the city that was still active, and Paul had decided years ago that church attendance would probably be good for the kids. To his surprise Brian hadn’t begun rebelling about the Sunday ritual. Paul figured attending the local school must have a lot to do with it. It also gave Brian a chance to socialize with his buddies and the girls in the neighborhood. The high school hadn’t become coed yet.

  “I can’t be recognized,” Clendenen said. “You don’t know what it’s like. It’s a madhouse. A swarm. It only takes one.”

  “We can disguise you,” Paul said. “Dark glasses, a high turtleneck sweater. A hat might be out of place in church, but a knit stocking cap on such a cold morning wouldn’t get you thrown out. You can leave it on. We’ll sit in the back. The boys know enough not to say anything.”

  “I’ve got some stuff that will be too big for you,” Brian said. “It would be perfect for a disguise.”

  Clendenen almost smiled. “I’d kind of like to be in a public place without a million people recognizing me. If we want to shop at a grocery store, we have to do it at two in the morning.” He thought for a minute. Turner saw a bit of a fleeting smile. “Okay, I’ll go.” The kid had showered immediately after the concert so he probably didn’t need to clean up much. Paul doubted if he shaved more than two or three times a week. He actually thought Jeff’s clothes might fit Clendenen better—the band member’s figure was so slight—but he was afraid the twenty-something guy might take it as an insult.


  Brian led him upstairs. Ben and Paul filled the dishwasher. Jeff headed for his computer to check the Internet for the latest news.

  When all the kids were gone, Ben said, “You look like you could use some sleep.”

  “Yeah. Soon. I hope. I’ve got Robert Grannett coming over. He should be here just after we get back from church. I want a therapist with this kid. He’s unstable. I’d like to get him back to his own people.”

  “Do you think he might have done it?” Ben asked.

  “I don’t know. I doubt it right now, but you know me, I never rule anybody out. Mrs. Talucci checked in his coat and backpack for weapons. He’s not armed. The kid’s so frail, he wouldn’t take much to subdue.”

  Brian came down the stairs with Clendenen. The white fisherman’s turtleneck sweater swallowed the boy, covering nearly the entire bottom part of his face and hanging to mid thigh. He wore dark glasses and a navy blue, knit cap. “Perfect,” Paul said.

  Church went off without a hitch.

  About ten minutes after they got home, Robert Grannett arrived. Clendenen had gone upstairs with Brian to change.

  Grannett said, “What’s the deal?”

  “He doesn’t want to go back to the band. I’m not a therapist, but something seems to be really wrong. Why would he come to me, an almost total stranger?”

  “It’s that fatherly thing you do and the deep voice. Makes everybody feel safe. You should try and package it and sell it.”

  “I wish it worked on more criminals.”

  “Who knows with this kid? Maybe he desperately needs a father figure. Fame could have destroyed his ego instead of building it up. You and Fenwick interviewed him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Almost anything could have clicked in his head while you were talking. And with his friend dead, that could push a fragile ego way over the edge. You’ve seen it in the people you bring bad news to. They react to stress in all kinds of ways. We don’t know what his life is like. He could have been abused. He could be a pathological nut. He could be a killer. Or he could be a sad young man who just lost his only friend.”

  “Dad!” Brian called from upstairs. It was a voice of urgency parents recognize. Paul bounded up the stairs. Grannett followed. Ben rushed up from the basement. Jeff wheeled himself to the bottom of the stairs. Brian was at the open door of his room. Paul looked over his shoulder.

  Clendenen sat against the far wall, between Brian’s desk and his bed. He was rocking back and forth clutching his backpack. When the motion brought him upright against the wall, he would softly pound his head against it three or four times, then he would resume rocking.

  “What the hell?” Paul said. He sat on the bed next to the boy. He reached out a hand to touch him. No reaction. He propped a pillow behind the boy’s head so he wouldn’t hurt himself. “Dexter. Dex,” he said softly. The boy gave no sign of recognition. Paul returned to Brian and Grannett near the doorway.

  Brian said, “We were talking. I was showing him some of my football stuff. I didn’t think he was real interested. I tried talking with him about the band.”

  Grannett asked, “Do you remember exactly what either of you said just before he started doing that?”

  Brian shut his eyes. “We were talking about sports.” He opened his eyes. “Then I asked what it was like being in the band. He said something like, ‘okay.’ Nothing real expressive. I asked if it was anything like metal or rock bands, the kind I listen to. Did the guys in this band have to deal with all the girls and drugs like heavy metal bands are supposed to? Seemed like an okay question. You know, kind of a guy thing. He said that nobody knew what his life was like. That’s it.”

  “Was he doing anything special, touching anything?” Grannett asked.

  “He took a couple things down from the shelf above my desk, not like he was interested, just maybe something to hold onto. All of a sudden he got real creepy, like he turned pale.”

  “What did he touch exactly?” Grannett asked.

  Brian turned red. “Well. Um.”

  “Brian keeps his condoms up there,” Paul said. “It’s been the same box since he was fifteen. He doesn’t think we know about it.”

  “Dad!”

  “Son?”

  Clendenen continued rocking but had stopped banging his head against the wall.

  Grannett asked, “Then what?”

  Brian said, “He kind of sagged against the wall and started the rocking and banging. Nobody freaks at a box of condoms, do they?”

  They might if they’ve had a negative sexual experience connected with them, Turner thought.

  “You did nothing wrong,” Grannett said. He knelt in front of the boy who began a high-pitched keening. Grannett spoke very softly. “Dexter.”

  The boy continued to rock but as Grannett reached to touch him, he began to bang his head again. The psychologist backed off immediately. They decided they had better get him to an emergency room to check for physical problems and get him some meds.

  Turner approached the boy carefully. “It’s okay, Dexter,” he murmured. The boy’s eyes followed Turner’s hand as he rested it on Clendenen’s forearm. Turner helped him to his feet. When Clendenen was upright, he began to sob and cling to Paul as if he were his last hope before drowning. Paul held him and patted his back. Dexter clung more tightly.

  Grannett retrieved Dexter’s coat, hat, and gloves. They had to pry his arms away from Turner’s body one at a time to get his coat on. When Paul let go to put on his own outer gear, the kid sank in a heap to the floor. They got him on his feet again, but he didn’t seem capable of standing on his own.

  Grannett said, “I wish I believed in the slap-him-till-he-snaps-out-of-it school of helping clients.”

  Paul had no notion of what would work with Dexter. He doubted if there were enough meatballs in Mrs. Talucci’s feed ’em psychology to help this kid. Maybe not enough meatballs on the planet.

  Paul said, “I can carry him downstairs.” Paul used a fireman’s carry. Grannett went in front of him and Brian behind so that they could help if there was any problem on the stairs. Paul carried Clendenen out to their jeep and buckled him into the backseat. The boy looked at him with tear-filled eyes. Paul patted his arm and smoothed back the hair on his head. Clendenen didn’t look like a famous rock star. He looked like a pathetic young man who could use a lot of help.

  Paul and Grannett drove him to the nearest emergency room. Paul left him in Grannett’s charge. He also made sure a beat cop was on duty. As he left, he could hear the nurses murmuring Clendenen’s name. His whereabouts wouldn’t be secret for long.

  Turner went home to bed. He woke up around five. Ben was folding laundry and placing it in their dresser. Ben wore black jeans on his lean hips and a gray T-shirt that hugged his torso. Paul rolled over. Ben glanced at him.

  “Sorry,” Ben said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “I need to get up anyway.”

  Ben sat on the edge of the bed and placed his hand on his lover’s shoulder. “You didn’t get enough sleep. The boys are out. Jeff’s at his Harry Potter club meeting. Brian is escorting a damsel home from the library where I have no doubt they have been doing nothing but studying all afternoon.”

  “I should get to work.”

  Ben leaned down, nuzzled the fur on Paul’s chest. Nuzzling proceeded to passion and after several moments Paul said, “The mountains of paperwork won’t notice how early I am for work.” More than a few minutes later he was feeling very much better but hardly less tired.

  Paul phoned Robert Grannett.

  “How’s Dexter?” Paul asked.

  “They sedated him. He’s been asleep most of the afternoon.”

  “Any way to know a prognosis?”

  “Not yet. Sometimes these things happen simply because someone is exhausted. Six months of touring is tough. I’ve talked to his parents for a few minutes. They’re heading for the airport even as we speak. They were as concerned as you’d expect parents to be. I se
nsed confusion and hostility, but I’m not sure if it’s directed at their kid or Riveting Records, or somewhere else. We’ll have to see after they get here. You know, Dexter’s presence in a hospital isn’t going to be kept quiet long.”

  “Can’t be helped,” Paul said.

  Brian and Jeff came in and the four of them ate together. As Paul was leaving, Brian cornered him in the living room. The boy asked, “I didn’t drive him nuts, did I, Dad?”

  “He was near a breakdown. You were not the cause of all that led up to that moment. You are not responsible for his reaction to your question or your condoms.”

  Jeff said, “‘Famous Rock Singer Driven Nuts by Simple Questions.’ You could be famous.”

  Paul said, “You are not to talk about him. The poor kid needs help, not cheap gossip.”

  “Dad.” Lately Jeff had added an unattractive whine to his repertoire. “How come he’s got condoms in his room?”

  “You and I have talked about condoms. You may ask your brother about his. If he wants, he can answer your questions. First, you might want to check with him about the success of adding whining to his list of ways to get me to agree to something. Whining will also not prevent my comments about the need for changes in your behavior.”

  “Doesn’t work,” Brian said, “and I am among the best. The more you whine, the more likely he is to make long boring comments like that last one.”

  Paul added, “Editorials from teenagers about parental behavior are also frowned upon.”

  “See?” Brian said.

  Paul frowned.

  “Sorry,” Brian said.

  With a last admonition to keep quiet about their recent visitor and a kiss for Ben, Paul drove to work.

  10

  Thirty or forty reporters and four camera crews clustered in the frigid air outside Area Ten headquarters. It was supposed to get to seven below tonight. Paul parked down the street and used a side entrance. Fenwick would have pushed straight through them. Turner didn’t feel the need.