Dead Egotistical Morons

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “Who were his enemies?” Fenwick asked.

  “He got bluster from bands he didn’t like. No personal enemies.”

  “His reviews didn’t sound impersonal.”

  “I’m sure you can check to see if any of the members of any of the groups he gave rotten reviews to are in town, but really, are people going to be that angry over style?”

  Fenwick said, “You never know.”

  “Every critic has people who dislike them,” Rolt said. “You don’t become enemies over a review. There are no permanent animosities.”

  “I wonder if the people who have been savaged feel as magnanimous as you just put it,” Turner said. “I bet there’s lots of hurt egos and desire to get revenge.”

  “Everybody’s got an ego,” Rolt said, “but everybody understands how the game is played.”

  Turner said, “Tromping on someone’s dreams could be devastating. I read a few things of Mr. Blundlefitz’s. I’d say he did a lot of trampling.”

  “His criticism was on the cutting edge.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Fenwick asked. “He wrote criticism differently from anyone else in history? Did he reverse the order of syllables in words he was using? What?”

  “Detective, you’ve given public performances for which you’ve been criticized,” Rolt said.

  Fenwick ignored the insight. “Anybody specific recently that he pissed off? Or maybe someone who called to complain?”

  “No one. Randall was a professional. He knew the rules. In this case he was after a story. He thought he could bring justice to the case.”

  “He was getting justice from Jonathan Zawicki?” Turner asked.

  “He was getting respect from Jonathan Zawicki. He was treated well.”

  “I’ll have to find out who gave him sucking-up lessons,” Fenwick said. “I’ll take the class.”

  “Why was respect from Zawicki so important?” Turner asked.

  “Randall was kind of a mess. He needed the approval he never got.”

  “He could have given reams of approval,” Fenwick said.

  “He felt the need to be honest,” Rolt said.

  Fenwick said, “There’s a difference between honesty and savagery.”

  Turner said, “He said nothing to either of you about why he wanted to see you?”

  Head shakes no. Rolt and Lummy left.

  Before Turner and Fenwick headed out they examined Dexter Clendenen’s diary.

  “How’d Blundlefitz get this?” Turner asked.

  “He had more access than anyone.”

  The diary was hand-written in pencil, different colored pens, markers, and at times in what looked like lipstick.

  The handwriting was blocky and childish. Turner noted that spelling had obviously not been Clendenen’s strong point. Some entries were dated. Others were not. A great deal of it was nearly illiterate drivel about places he’d seen in new cities and itemized lists of everything that was in their hotel rooms.

  Interspersed throughout Clendenen had detailed all the times he’d had sex. The diary mixed pornography and banality. He wrote about sex with guys with an emphasis on how big or long a guy’s dick had been and how he’d always tried to find bigger and longer guys. At least half the entries didn’t mention any name. He also detailed the first time he was screwed by each member of the band and by Zawicki. Either he didn’t include all the other times or he’d been done once by Galyak, Devane, Pappas, and numerous times by Roger Stendar. Nowhere did he talk about enjoying what was happening to him during sex. A scientific accounting rather than a pleasure diary.

  Clendenen penned occasional entries about wanting to be hugged and held, that he enjoyed the times most when Roger would hold him. The detectives didn’t recognize most of the names in the diary. Clendenen had obviously found as many guys in different cities as the others had found women.

  At various intervals he talked about growing up. This section was heavily laced with sexual adventures which included sucking off the quarterback of the high school football team. Dexter listed among his conquests numerous movie stars, or people who he claimed were movie stars and listed them only by their first names, such as Tom. Tom Cruise who spent his life denying he was gay? Tom Hanks? Tom Thumb? Tom Postern? Had to be a lot of actors in Hollywood named Tom.

  “Size mattered,” Turner said, “at least to him.”

  Also included was a long string of complaints against both parents. These ranged from allegations of indifference to accusations of physical abuse. They found a long list of reports relating incidents of being picked on—from memories of kindergarten to violence on his last day of high school. Nothing indicated who might have wanted to kill the members of the band.

  Turner and Fenwick drove to the offices of Hot Trends magazine. Rolt let them in. Blundlefitz’s office was neater than an anal retentive’s who had swallowed an entire bottle of speed. They checked his computer. Turner scanned a number of the files. They seemed to match what the reporter had at home. It looked like Blundlefitz kept back-ups of all his work. His hard-copy files had every article he had ever written in chronological, alphabetical, and subject order. On the computer there were duplicates of all these.

  “Man had a system and he kept up,” Fenwick said. “I hate that. And that is not cop banter. That’s only a sarcastic crack.”

  “What makes it banter?” Turner asked.

  “You have to play the straight man.”

  “A role for which I am not well suited.”

  At the police’s request, Rolt had summoned the other employees. It was the middle of the night, but it was the best place for the detectives to start. They got nothing from them.

  Turner’s pager went off. They were wanted back at the All-Chicago Sports Arena. This dispatcher didn’t know who the caller was, but the message said that it was urgent.

  The cavernous interior was dark. They found a security guard eating lunch in front of a bank of monitors. “Aren’t you supposed to keep people out?” Fenwick asked.

  “You’re the cops. I knew it was you.”

  Fenwick said, “We got a call that we were needed here.”

  “I ain’t heard nothing.”

  “Somebody from the band is in here,” Turner guessed. “You better turn the lights on. We’ve got to look this place over.”

  “A whole crowd from the band was in and out of here all night. They got started on the takedown, but the union guys won’t be here until morning. Rules are pretty strict. Far as I know, they took a lot of personal stuff, small stuff. Some of the band guys were here when they found that critic. With another dead body, your guys told them they had to leave all the rest of their stuff.”

  Turner, Fenwick, and the guard walked around the entire backstage and ground floor area. They heard their footsteps and the hum of electric fixtures, nothing else.

  At center stage in the middle of the remnants of the Blundlefitz crime scene, they found a smashed and broken cell phone. Turner looked up at the high platform. “What is that?” He pointed at the tip of what looked like a yellow rag. Fenwick and the guard shrugged.

  Fenwick said, “I already made that climb once. Until I lose fifty pounds, I think only one of us has to go up there and get that.”

  Turner began to ascend. As his foot touched the first platform, a voice called from above, “Don’t come any higher.”

  Turner shaded his eyes from the glaring ceiling lights. “Who’s there?” he called.

  Dexter Clendenen’s face appeared over the edge of the highest platform. He held a yellow T-shirt emblazoned with the band’s logo. “Don’t come up here.”

  Turner forbore ascending further. He called up. “Dexter, what’s going on?”

  “I’m going to jump. I’m going to splatter myself on center stage.”

  “Why?” Turner asked.

  “It’s my only option. I can’t take the pain anymore.”

  “Did you kill the other guys in the band?”

  “No.”
r />   Turner heard distant pounding on one of the doors. “Go see who that is,” Fenwick ordered. The security guard hurried away.

  Turner took several steps on the platform. Whatever Dexter’s motivation might be, and despite the disclaimer of a moment before, Turner wasn’t eager to be up on a high platform fifty feet above the ground with a possible killer.

  Dexter said nothing. He too seemed to have been distracted by the knocking.

  Turner sat down on the steps leading to the next level. He felt the heat from the lights. He said, “Dexter, what pain is it that’s so powerful? If you tell me, maybe I can help.”

  “Nobody can help me.”

  “There’s lots of people who would like to,” Turner said.

  “I don’t want lots of people. I wanted you. That’s why I called and left the message. I knew you’d come.”

  “Why me?”

  “You’re gay. So am I.”

  “Being gay isn’t a reason to kill yourself,” Turner said.

  “I know. That’s not why I’m doing it.”

  “Then why?”

  “It hurts too much to do this stuff. It takes too much. I don’t have any friends. No one cares about me. Not really. You care because you’re a cop assigned to this case. All those fans care because they want to be part of the life of someone famous. Nobody really listens to me. Nobody really wants me. Nobody cares if I live or die.”

  “I do.” Dexter gazed down and Turner looked over at this new voice. Jordan Pastern stood center stage with the security guard. Pastern called, “I care, Dexter.”

  “You’re like the others. Taking advantage.”

  “How’d I take advantage?” Pastern asked.

  “You know.”

  Clendenen wrapped his body around one of the fiber-glass poles which no longer had the protective strings attached. He swayed for several seconds, lost his balance, and toppled back onto the platform. Turner pelted upward. Pastern rushed for the stairs. Fenwick told the security guard to call for backup, including an ambulance, and then lumbered after the other two.

  Turner got to the third level before Dexter’s voice rang out, “Stop!” Turner looked up. Dexter’s face appeared at the top of the stairs at the fifth level about twenty feet above him. Pastern was about ten feet below Turner.

  Turner lowered his voice and spoke down to Pastern. “Do you know what this is about?”

  “I can hear you,” Dexter said.

  “No idea,” Pastern said.

  “How’d you know to come here?” Turner asked.

  “Yeah,” Dexter said. “I didn’t tell no one.”

  Pastern said, “I’ve been listening to Dexter all day. I’ve been worried. He kept talking about finishing everything off. I was worried that he was the killer. Everybody took cabs or vans back to the hotel. They were supposed to stay together. Dexter told me he was going with Mr. Zawicki. He lied. When we got back to the hotel, I went to check on everyone and to double the security. We ordered everybody to get permission to go anywhere. It was a madhouse. I went to look for Dexter. He was gone. The last anybody saw of him was here.”

  Clendenen said in a voice they could barely hear, “Zawicki is never going to fuck me again.”

  “You don’t have to kill yourself to stop that from happening,” Turner said.

  “Killing myself will make him sorry for what he did,” Dexter said.

  Pastern said, “Jonathan Zawicki has never been sorry for anything he’s done. He never will be. You know that Dexter. You’ve seen how he works.”

  “You still work for him, and you’re going to be fired.”

  “I work for you guys. Let me come up there.”

  “No. You stay down. Paul can come up to the next level.” Dexter sat with his feet dangling over the edge of the platform. He leaned his head over to gaze at the three adults.

  The security guard reentered the hall with a small crowd of paramedics, beat cops, Dexter’s parents, Zawicki, Hinkmeyer, and others Turner didn’t recognize.

  “Get the fuck away!” Clendenen yelled. He scrambled onto the metal strut leading from the center of the platform to the roof. Turner remembered that what appeared from a distance to be a smooth construct actually had foot-and handholds at regularly spaced intervals. Clendenen ascended about ten feet. The kid was higher up now, but if he jumped from that position, he’d almost certainly land on the fifth platform. Almost certainly landing safely wasn’t good enough for Turner in this situation. The kid could easily tumble over into nothingness after his jump.

  “Dexter, come down from there,” called a new voice from below.

  Everybody on the platforms looked down. It was Clendenen’s mother who had called. His father was with her. Along with several others, she began to ascend. Clendenen responded by climbing higher onto the strut.

  “I think you should stop,” Turner called down.

  “Why? He’s my son.”

  Turner said, “He’s climbing higher.” Everybody looked up. Clendenen was now nearly fifty feet above the platform.

  Pastern called up, “I care, Dexter. Please, let me come up to the top platform. Please come down.”

  “I want everybody but Detective Turner to leave.”

  “I won’t go,” Mrs. Clendenen said.

  Dexter leaned out from the strut. He held on with one hand and one foot. He swung back and forth. “I’m not afraid of heights,” he called. “Not anymore, but I don’t know how much longer I want to do this. Whee!” He swung out again.

  Turner said, “Let’s do as he says.”

  Zawicki called up from below, “Everybody come down from there. The detective is right. They know how to handle this. If it’s going to help bring him down, let’s let him do it.”

  Turner wasn’t surprised Zawicki hadn’t rushed up with the rest of the crowd to try to save the kid. At the same time, he wished he had as much faith in his ability to save Dexter as the words indicated.

  Pastern retreated, Fenwick with him. They joined the mother and the crowd. At the exit, she turned and called, “I love you, Dexter.”

  Finally Turner and the kid were alone. Turner climbed up to the fifth platform and sat down with his back against one of the fiberglass corner poles. Dexter’s tatty brown backpack sat near the center pole. Turner removed his coat, hat, and gloves and placed them on the platform. He looked up at Dexter. The kid wore tight black jeans, white athletic socks, and black running shoes. The boy had climbed down to about twenty feet above the platform. Turner did not relish the idea of scrambling that high up to bring the boy down. He could see that Dexter was crying.

  Dexter murmured, “I’m really scared.” Turner saw that the kid’s eyes were closed. Now he clutched the strut as if it was his only lifeline, which it was. “I don’t think I can move from here.”

  “I can get you down,” Turner said. “Or we could have some specially trained people come and help you down.”

  “I just want you.”

  “Why?”

  “I liked it when you carried me.”

  “I can carry you again, but I’m not sure I could do it on that strut or on this platform or on the stairs down.” Turner wasn’t afraid of heights, but he wasn’t stupid, either. Carrying a hundred-twenty-pound adult around your shoulders was not the smart way to descend from such a height. He said, “I don’t want to risk dropping you. If you want me to hold you, that would be okay. I don’t have to carry you for me to hold you.” Turner thought the training all cops get in how to deal with possible suicides was okay. Speak softly and confidently and don’t make any sudden moves. Not this high up he wasn’t going to. He realized the accuracy of what they’d told him about the conflicted feelings he was having about whether what he was saying was what would save Dexter. He was also furious with Dexter for even putting him in this position, high above the stage.

  Dexter said, “I always figure unless I’m psychologically needy, I can’t get what I want.”

  “You don’t need to blackmail me into giving you a
hug.”

  “I already did. You’re here.”

  “Were you faking the other day at my house? Doing all that banging, just to get me to hold you, to carry you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why did touching that condom cause you to begin banging your head against the wall?”

  “I was forced to suck on a classmate’s dick when I was in eighth grade. He wore a condom. It made me gag. I’m pretty fucked up. It’s like I can’t do anything just because I want to or need to. It’s like I’ve always got to have an excuse. Nobody’s going to meet my needs unless I blackmail them into doing it.”

  “When you come down, we will hug, if you want. We can talk for as long as you want. I’d like it if you came down.” Turner’s neck was also getting a crick from constantly having to look up to talk to the kid. He tried to maintain as much eye contact as he could. After he dropped his head for several moments, then looked back up, Dexter had taken several steps down. From this distance his bare torso revealed tattoos: roses, lightning, a Pegasus. The ones on his wrist that Turner had seen the edges of in their first interview turned out to be musical notes.

  “How’d you get in here?”

  “I came in through the secure entrance. All of us were given the star code. It was some kind of security thing.”

  Turner said, “I thought you were petrified of heights.”

  “I’d like to die like this. That’s what I was always afraid of. That I’d let go. That I’d fly off. That I wouldn’t be able to hold on.”

  “Down here you can hold onto me.”

  Clendenen shut his eyes. He lowered each leg slowly until it firmly rested on the next rung down. Turner knew there were cops watching. He saw several people easing along the struts near the ceiling high above. He didn’t think they’d be able to do much good. They couldn’t possibly rappel down faster than gravity would bring the kid down to earth. He knew Fenwick would keep anyone from taking any precipitate action. He didn’t know what Dexter would do if the kid became aware of them.

  It took fifteen minutes for Clendenen to descend the twenty feet. When he had both feet on the platform, Turner stood up. Clendenen could still dash to one of the sides and hurl himself off. Clendenen took a stop toward Turner.