Butterfly Girl

by Wayne Purdy

  “So, it would be totally normal for a person who was born a boy to grow up and become a woman and to be attracted to men or women, or both.”

  “Sure,” Dr. Herron replied. “People often confuse gender identity with sexual orientation, but being transgender isn’t the same as being gay, lesbian, or bisexual. Its about who you are on the inside. Being straight, gay, lesbian, or bi is about who you are attracted to. A transgender person can be gay or straight or whatever, just like anyone else. Think about it like this; sexual orientation is who you want to be with, and gender identity is who you are.”

  “Okay. How are they diagnosed?” Hazel was writing furiously, trying to keep up with Dr. Herron.

  “It used to be that a person was completely unhappy in their own body, trapped in a prison that they were born into. They were depressed, unhappy, and often suicidal. Psychologists used to call it gender identity disorder.”

  “So, is it a mental disorder?” Hazel asked hesitantly.

  “Absolutely not,” Dr. Herron answered quickly. The mismatch between body and gender identity isn’t mental illness on its own, but it can certainly cause emotional distress. The medical community eventually changed the tern to reflect our better understanding of it. Now its called gender dysphoria. People are now diagnosed with that in order to receive medical treatment to help them transition.”

  “Transitioning is when they have surgery to change from one gender to the other?”

  “Not necessarily,” Dr. Herron corrected her. “Transitioning is the process of changing the way you look and how others see you and so that you match how you feel on the inside with your gender. It can involve medical treatment and hormones. It can involve a name change and the use of other pronouns. He becomes she, for example. There are really two types of transitioning; medically and socially. Socially involves name changes, and coming out to family and friends, changing how you dress, that sort of thing. Medically involves hormone therapy, to change voices, facial hair distribution, muscle growth, fat distribution, breast augmentation or reconstruction. For trans men, that’s female to male, it means a hysterectomy, the construction of a penis, using parts of your own body. For trans women, male to female, it involves the removal of the testicles, a tracheal shave, to make the Adam’s apple smaller, facial feminisation surgery, to create a smaller, more feminine face, and penile inversion surgery, which is the creation of a vagina by inverting the penis.”

  “Got it,” Hazel said. She looked up from her notes. “Is the butterfly a common symbol for transgender people, like the rainbow flag?”

  Dr. Herron gave Hazel a quizzical look. “Not traditionally, although I can see the obvious connection. They have a flag. The top and bottom band are blue, the traditional colours for baby boys. The next two are pink, the colour for baby girls, and the centre one is white. There’s also a combination of the male, female, and genderqueer symbols that is sometimes used. The butterfly is interesting though. It represents transformation. I wouldn’t be surprised if it becomes widely used. Why do you ask?”

  “The murder I’m writing about involved a butterfly. I’m afraid I can’t say anything more. What kind of man would be attracted to a trans woman?”

  Dr. Herron shrugged. “Any kind,” she said. “After the surgery, you could scarcely tell the difference, except that a trans woman couldn’t conceive, of course.”

  “What if there hadn’t been a surgery? If she still had a penis?”

  “Like transgender people, individuals attracted to transgender people may identify as heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, pansexual, or maybe even none of these. It’s hard to say without knowing more about the person.”

  “One more thing, what if the person was straight and didn’t view the trans woman as a woman? Or if he found out during a sexual encounter?””

  “It wouldn’t be unusual for a man in that circumstance to question his own sexuality. He might be a self-loathing homosexual, and they are often dangerously violent.” Hazel thought about the photo of Sandra Mack, and her disembodied penis. Dangerously violent didn’t begin to cover it. She closed her notebook and slipped it into her purse.

  “Thank you, Dr. Herron,” she said.

  “It was my pleasure,” Dr. Herron replied. “I hope I was helpful.”

  “You were,” Hazel said. “You’ve given me a lot of information to think about.”

  “I hope it helps bring the murderer to justice.” The older woman reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a pamphlet. “This is an information packet that my department made up. We hand them out to students to help educate. It also includes links to websites that you might find helpful.”

  Hazel took the pamphlet graciously, “Thank you.” Hazel paused at the door, thinking about something.

  “Is there anything else?” Dr. Herron asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Hazel said, then continued. “Yes. One more thing, if you don’t mind.”

  Dr. Herron made a point to look at her watch. “I have a meeting.”

  “I’ll be quick,” Hazel said. “Do many trans women have their penises removed?”

  “If you’re asking if they go for the penile inversion surgery than the answer is as varied as trans people themselves. Some want it gone, so that they can start their lives off as women, and it can be jarring to see a woman’s reflection in a mirror but with a penis. It doesn’t mesh up with who they are inside. Others opt to keep it. Maybe their partners like it. Some have grown attached to it, no pun intended.” She smiled wryly. “I can tell you this; more trans women have penectomies, surgery to remove the penis, than trans men do having one constructed.”

  “Why is that?” Hazel asked with genuine interest.

  “To put it bluntly, it’s easier to build a hole than a pole,” she said. Now it was Hazel’s turn to grin.

  “Thank you, doctor,” she said. “Sorry I took up so much of your time.”

  On her way to the front lobby, Hazel mulled over the information that she’d gotten from Dr. Herron. Both Gracie and Sandra were transgender people, but they were at different stages in their transitions. Gracie was crossdressing, trying to make herself appear as female, but she had never had the chance to do anything surgical. That may have been owing more to her circumstances than anything else. It was difficult to be accepted in the military as gay, for a trans person, it was nearly impossible. And the military wasn’t interested in accommodating its soldiers while they had gender reassignment surgery. She had transitioned socially, or at least began to when she started using the name Gracie instead of her birth name, Mark.

  Sandra, on the other hand, did have some surgeries judging from the crime scene photos. She had breast augmentation surgery and probably hormone treatments as well. She may even have had cosmetic surgery because she had rounded, soft features that weren’t generally seen on men. She made a note to ask Heck if they could find out how many surgeries Sandra had, and what they were. She still had her penis, though, at least up until she was murdered. Something about the removal of the penis bothered her, but Hazel couldn’t place her finger on it. Something didn’t add up. Her reverie was interrupted by her cellphone buzzing. She retrieved it from her pocket and flipped the top up, “hello?” She asked into the receiver.

  “Haze, it’s Hector. I’m all done here. How are you doing?”

  “Just finishing up,” she said. “Where do you want to meet?”

  “I’m on my way to you,” he said. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Is that okay?”

  “Fine. There’s a coffee shop down the street. You want to have a quick lunch before we hit the road?”

  “I’m starved,” he said. “I’ll meet you there.”

  It took him twenty minutes. Hazel sat at a table in the corner by the window. A band of light washed over her, and she basked in it. She waved to Heck as he came through the door. She had a coffee in front of her. “I’m going to get a sandwich. What do you want?” He asked her.

  “I think I’ll have the tuna melt on
a croissant,” she said. He nodded his head and then made his way to the counter. There was only a small line and it didn’t take long to order. The harried staff had his order ready in a couple minutes. He took the seat opposite Hazel and placed a plastic tray between them. He took a drink from his coffee and frowned. It was burnt, but they were crushed for time, so he didn’t complain. He removed a couple sugar packets from the caddy on the edge of the table and tried to bury the bitterness in sugar.

  “How did it go?” He asked her as he bit into a ham and cheese.

  “It was informative,” she replied. “I got some good information.”

  Heck arched an eyebrow, and Hazel swooned inwardly. She doubted he knew how adorably that expression fit him. Somehow it complemented the harshness of the eyepatch, humanising him. “Do tell,” he said, between bites of his sandwich. She went over everything quickly, trying to remember the pertinent points. He took it in quietly, letting her finish before asking follow-up questions. “So, Gracie is considered a trans person, even though she was unaltered physically?”

  “Yes. The big thing is just trying to make your appearance match how you see yourself. I don’t think there’s any question that she wanted to be a woman.”

  “I agree,” Heck said. “It was well known, even on base. She had written letters to her mother telling her that she was Gracie now. I wonder if she was actually gay.”

  “I don’t think so,” Hazel said, kicking herself. That was a question she should have asked Dr. Herron. “If she identified as a woman, then any romantic relationships with men would probably make her straight. It can get kind of confusing.”

  “I don’t think it matters,” Heck said. “I don’t think either of the murders were sexually motivated.”

  “Because they weren’t any signs of sexual violence?” Hazel asked.

  “Yeah. My friend, Detective Hosani sent me the initial coroner’s report. No recent anal penetration, no tears or bleeding. Both had semen in their stomach contents, but there isn’t any indication that anything was forced.” Hazel looked at her croissant as Heck talked and decided she wasn’t hungry after all.

  “So, you’re thinking this has to be something about gender identity then? They were killed because they were transgender.”

  “I think so.”

  “What about Dr. Herron’s theory that the murderer was a self-loathing homosexual and that he was tricked into sex with what he thought was a man?”

  “It doesn’t add up with what we know,” Heck said. Hazel waited for Heck to finish, but he took a bite out of his sandwich, finishing it up. She thought about it while he chewed.

  “There wasn’t any sex. The penis wasn’t cut off because he was mad,” Hazel said. “It was cut off because he wanted to help.”

  “I think so. When it all comes out, I’d bet anything that the killer isn’t gay.”

  “Well, he’s got some serious issues then,” Hazel replied, “because that’s some crazy shit.

  They were nearly an hour into the drive to Port Hope to interview the last suspect on the short list Nowak had given Heck. The sun moved across the blue sky, hanging at precisely the point where it was blinding westward drivers. “How did things go with Frank Bello?”

  “It was alright. I hadn’t seen him since the accident.” Hector’s hand absently patted his eyepatch. “I wasn’t sure how I’d feel seeing him again.”

  “How did you feel?”

  Heck shrugged. “It was fine. He’s an animal. He’s where he belongs, and I have no doubt that he’ll be back in there after he gets out. He’s violent and dangerous.”

  “Did you get anything from him?”

  “Yes and no. He confirmed that there was an order to assault Gracie. He said that he got it from the horse’s mouth.”

  “Cutler?” Hazel asked.

  “Yep. Bello says he got the go ahead from the man himself. Says Cutler even saw him do it at least once.”

  “Holy shit!” Hazel exclaimed. “Can Cutler go down for that?”

  “Maybe,” Heck said cautiously. “It was a long time ago, and its his word against Bello’s-”

  “And Bello is a convicted criminal,” Hazel finished for him.

  “That’s right. There’s no evidence linking Cutler to the assaults and in a ‘he said-she said’ contest, Cutler wins every time. Besides, we want him for more.”

  “You still think he’s the guy?”

  “It’s hard to say, but it’s looking like it. Its best not to think conclusively. We don’t want to go into this with blinders on. We just have to follow the evidence. See where it leads us.”

  “Which brings us to Hernan Estes.” Hazel asked. “What do you know about him?”

  “Nothing really. He has a criminal record. Mostly petty stuff like assaults or drug possession. Looks like a common thug.” Hazel didn’t say anything. She was thinking about the contrast between Hector and Frank Bello and Hernan Estes. Heck was a good man. Bello and Estes were thugs. Had they always been bad? Or did they learn it from the army? She wished she knew the answer.

  “Did you call ahead?”

  Heck shook his head no. “I don’t like to give them time to come up with answers or have them run. It’s been my experience that surprise is a good way to cancel home field advantage. The only one that knew I was coming was Bello, and that’s only because there was no other way.”

  They pulled off the highway and after a few confusing turns, found themselves travelling on a heavily potholed macadam road. They were surrounded by cattle grazing behind old wooden fences. Hazel looked at the fences and wondered how much they were worth. She remembered watching a home improvement show where the decorator was trying to source out some wood that looked just like the ones Hazel was now looking at. They were weather-beaten and aged to a grizzled gray. The farmer probably didn’t know that he was sitting on a goldmine, that some dumb city-slicker would pay out the nose for all that wood. Heck turned Macy down another dirt road. It was barely wide enough for two cars. “Are you sure we’re going the right way,” she asked doubtfully.

  “I hope so,” Heck said, checking his GPS. “This is the middle of nowhere.” Then he spotted an old blue pickup parked on an overgrown driveway in front of a trailer home. The trailer was sitting on cinderblocks and looked in need of a fresh coat of paint. A dark plume of smoke spiralled upwards from somewhere behind the trailer. A ramshackle barn stood several metres away. It was on the verge of collapse.

  “Is this it?”

  “Chez Estes,” Heck muttered, pulling in behind the pickup, and putting it into park. Hazel opened her door and her nose wrinkled in disgust.

  “What is that smell?”

  Heck walked around and stood beside her. The air was acrid. “I don’t know. Stay close. I don’t like this.” He cupped his hands together and called, “Hernan! Hernando Estes!” Heck heard a pathetic squeal, an agonising yelp. He gestured for Hazel to stay put. She watched as he sidled towards the rear of the trailer. Instinctively, his hand reached for a sidearm. He hadn’t had a gun since he left the army. The hair on Hazel’s arms rose. There was something wrong here.

  “Be careful,” she whispered to Heck.

  Heck had just gotten to the corner of the trailer when a man emerged from the backyard. “Who the hell are you?” He was gaunt. The skin on his face was pulled so tight that the hollows of his cheeks were accentuated, giving him a ghastly appearance. His black hair was thin and greasy, haphazardly brushed over a balding pate. His eyes were dark, made more so because they were set so deeply. He was sunburned and shirtless, flecks of dead skin peeled up like old wallpaper. He smelled of stale body odour and gasoline, and Hazel guessed that he must be burning something in the back yard, yard waste maybe.

  He only wore a pair of old coveralls, cut into jeans. One strap was done up, the other trailed behind like an impecunious bridal train. If his physicality didn’t give it away, his sparse, yellow-green teeth told the tale. This man was a meth addict. Hazel had seen many of them at Pandor
a’s. He had the vacant, desperate eyes of a man that had long ago lost hope. This was his lot in life now, and there was an air of melancholic resignation to him. His addiction had reduced him to something less than human, she was reminded of Gollum, the pathetic creature from Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings books.

  “Are you Hernando Estes?” Heck asked.

  The man’s rheumy eyes narrowed to slits. “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m Hector Collins. This is my associate, Hazel. We’re investigating the murder of Gracie Telford.” Heck didn’t give her last name and she was grateful for that. The last thing she wanted was for this man to have a way to track her down. He stepped back at Heck’s words, and appraised him, and then ran his eyes up and down Hazel’s body, lingering at each curve and swell, before sucking on his teeth, with something that sounded like approval. It made her skin crawl.

  “That’s me. I’m Hernan Estes. Don’t know nothing about no murder,” he said. His voice was high pitched and didn’t quite match with his body.

  “You would know her as Mark Telford. You served together in Afghanistan.”

  “I know you now. You were that cop. Got hurt chasing Frank Bello. I remember Mark too. I didn’t kill him though. I had no part in that.”

  “Did you ever beat him?” Heck asked.

  “Nah. Bello told me to, but I didn’t have nothing against him.”

  “You didn’t care that he was gay?” Hazel asked him, surprised that Estes was that tolerant. He didn't seem the sort. “Did you and Gracie…Mark…ever have sex?”

  “Sex? No. I don’t swing that way. Got a blow job from him a time or two. I got needs and there weren’t many women over there.” Estes looked at Hazel and his eyes landed on her breasts. “It’s cold out,” he said. His tongue darted in and out of his cracked lips.

  “You never hurt him?” Hazel asked, ignoring him. She crossed her arms over her chest

  “Why would I hurt the guy?” He carried on, oblivious to Hazel’s corporeal disdain. “That would make me a whatchamacallit. A hippogriff.”