Declination

by Gregory Ashe

  “You find anything?”

  Shaw made another grab for the bottle and then frowned. “I realized I have a bad memory.”

  “Like the time you made me that birthday cake out of kitty litter and it was April.”

  “It wasn’t kitty litter. It was oat groats. Can I just—I’m really thirsty. I drove all the way over here without a drink, and I—”

  North yanked the bottle out of reach. “My birthday isn’t in April.”

  “Well, yeah. I remember that now.” Shaw was suddenly beaming at him. “It’s tomorrow.”

  Shock floored North for a moment; he had forgotten about that.

  Bending, Shaw kissed North. And then one kiss turned into another. And another. And Shaw whispered, “It’s going to be your first birthday that we’re together. It’s going to be really special.”

  North’s voice came out more unsteadily than he would have liked. “Because you’re making another kitty litter cake?”

  “Because I’m going to dress up like Akira from Devilman Crybaby and you’re going to dress up like Ryo, and we’re going to do unspeakable things to each other.”

  North’s throat had dried up at the mental images, and it took him a moment to realize his mistake. “I don’t . . . I haven’t . . . What’s Devilman Crybaby?”

  Snagging the Coke, Shaw gave a triumphant cry and danced backward. He spun off the cap, tipped the bottle back, and drank.

  “God, that’s so good,” Shaw said when he finally pulled the half-empty bottle away. He pressed the glistening plastic to his forehead. “Did you ever think about how smart it would be if everybody was forced to carpool? What if we did it with an algorithm based on where you lived and worked? And also, oh my God, what if we made exoskeletons for dogs and cats so they could do more housework? I mean, it would work, right? They could clean the house while we were gone.”

  “Ok. I think half a Coke is too much.”

  “No,” Shaw said, tucking the bottle against his chest and turning his body to shield it from North.

  “The caffeine hasn’t even hit your bloodstream. It takes, I don’t know, twenty minutes.”

  “So?”

  “So you’re a total lightweight.”

  “Tell me that again tomorrow,” Shaw said with a grin.

  “I know it’s my birthday, and I appreciate that you’re trying to make it special, but I’ve never even heard of Devilman Crybaby.”

  “Right.”

  “I don’t know who—what did you say his name was? Ryu? I don’t even know who Ryu is.”

  “Ryo.”

  “Right. I don’t even know how to say his name.”

  “So that fifteen dollars a month subscription I found on your credit card bill, the one for the add-on Hulu anime package, that’s what?”

  North felt himself go very still. His heart thumped against his ribs.

  Shaw’s grin slipped after a moment. “You know what? I don’t—”

  “It was a billing mistake.”

  “Yeah. That’s what it was. Just a billing mistake. And then the DVDs that you sent to our PO box, the ones for—” His grin slipped again. “I don’t really, um, I can’t . . . what was I saying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s right. Nothing.”

  “So, just to be clear, I should return the Ryo and Akira outfits?”

  “Who?”

  “Ok. I’ll return them.”

  “Did you buy them locally?”

  “What? No. I had to order them. From Japan, actually, and—”

  “Well, there’s no point in trying to return them. The shipping would cost way more than it’s worth.”

  A smile tugged at the corner of Shaw’s mouth. “That’s so smart.”

  “You can just hold on to them.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that. I’ll just . . . hold on to them.”

  “Maybe you’ll find somebody to give them to.”

  “You’re so smart.” That little tug at the corner of his mouth got bigger.

  “So while I’m trying to solve our cases, you’re busy doing online shopping. Is that the extent of what we’ve learned?”

  Shaw drank again from the Coke until there was nothing left. Then, apparently believing he was now safe, he dropped onto the curb next to North, their shoulders bumping. “What I said about my memory. I was serious. I don’t really remember much about the Slasher.”

  “We’ve talked about that. The trauma—”

  “No, I mean, I don’t remember much at all from that period. And I know it’s from the trauma. I basically invented trauma. But I think we might be overlooking something.”

  “Something from seven years ago?”

  “What do you remember from that time? Right around when the Slasher attacks started, what else was going on?”

  “I don’t know. It was the end of the semester. I was spending nights and weekends in the hospital with you. It’s all a blur.”

  “That’s what I mean. I think we’re missing something.”

  North frowned.

  “What?” Shaw asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe what?”

  North rolled his shoulders. “I’m not saying no. I just hadn’t thought of that before. You think something triggered the Slasher? And you can figure out who he is by finding the trigger?”

  “I don’t know. Honestly, all I know at this point is that it’s going to take me an eternity to get through all the newspaper articles from that time.”

  “He stabbed gay guys.”

  “I know. I was kind of intimately acquainted with that part of the whole operation.”

  “No, I mean, what if it’s some sort of religious thing?”

  “Ok.”

  “Or what if there was something else linking the victims?” North felt a whisper of excitement. “What if the gay angle, what if that was covering up something else? Like he was killing people he had a grudge against. Guys who had rejected him. Something like that.”

  “You think I rejected somebody and he tried to cut off my balls?”

  “I’ve told you several times that I’ll take off your balls if you don’t stop leaving the towels on the bathroom floor.”

  Shaw’s face was turned at an angle, his expression distant. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “And I’ve got an idea about your newspaper problem.”

  “It’s not a problem.”

  “Sure, it is. Reading old newspapers. Getting your hands smudged with ink. A black spot on the tip of your nose because you’ve been reading all night and your eyes are tired. Just you, all alone in the stacks, working hour after hour, until your boyfriend gets lonely and decides he’s not waiting for you to come home anymore. He goes to the library. He has needs, God damn it.”

  “This is an interesting burst of imagination.”

  North flashed him a wicked smile. “Just read the headlines.”

  “Well, the headline of that story would be something like: Burying the Lede: Lonely Boyfriend Plows Deep into the Archives.”

  “You’ve been watching porn again.”

  “No.”

  “You’ve been reading porn again.”

  “I have not.”

  “You’ve been writing porn again.”

  Shaw’s cheeks turned red, huge blotches beautiful on the fierce symmetry of his features.

  “Am I a recurring character?”

  “I’m not . . . it’s not . . . maybe I based a few characters, and—” He cut off with a gulp.

  “Anyway,” North said, fighting a laugh, “I just meant, don’t read the articles for now. Just read the headlines. You can get the details later, but for now, just get an overview.”

  “That’s actually kind of . . . smart.”

  Patting Shaw’s knee, North stood. “I know. Now get back to work. In the library archives. Where I can find you.”

 
“Actually, I’m going to see Ricky.”

  “Jadon’s boyfriend?”

  “He answered my friend request while I was driving over here.” Shaw stood, dusting off his jeans. “I want to see if he can tell me anything about where Jadon has been going over the last few weeks, what he’s been doing, etc.”

  “Don’t you dare write him into one of your pornos.”

  Shaw’s cheeks were dusky with heat, but he said, “Actually, I have been working on one longer piece with Ryo and Akira, and I kind of based Ryo off, um, the way you look, and, um, some of the things you do. And some, uh, thingsIthinkyoushoulddo.” The last came out as a single, compressed sound.

  North’s heart was thudding in his chest again. He forced himself to work some spit into his mouth. He said, “Sorry. Who?”

  “You really don’t know who those characters are?”

  North shook his head. He had to fight to get the words out. “No. Sorry.”

  Shaw’s blush deepened; he just stood there, watching North.

  After ten seconds had passed, North thought he might explode. He heard himself saying, “But if you need someone to read it, you know, just for some feedback.”

  A sharp grin blew across Shaw’s face, there and then gone. “Yeah. Thanks. That would be great.”

  He took a step toward North, and then past North toward the Phillips 66. North caught his arm.

  “Where are you going, baby?”

  “I just thought I’d—”

  Plucking the bottle from Shaw’s hand, North said, “No more. Go see Ricky.”

  “I was just going to recycle the bottle.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s just right there by the doors.”

  “I know.”

  “Maybe I should stop in and use the bathroom before I—”

  “No, baby. One is enough. Go see Ricky.”

  North could read the struggle in Shaw’s face, but then Shaw nodded. “I’ll just go see Ricky.”

  North sighed; he wondered how many Cokes Shaw would pick up along the way. “Ok.” He kissed Shaw and walked him around the Mercedes. “Be safe.”

  “I will.” Shaw dropped into the driver seat. “And North? If you think of somebody who might like those costumes, I put them in the hall closet. Top shelf. Behind the extra soap.”

  “What costumes, baby?”

  Shaw just nodded, that smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know what? I don’t even remember.”

  Chapter 17

  SHAW DROVE WEST on Highway 40, exiting just outside the city limits into the suburb of Clayton. In its own way, with its glittering high-rises and expensive restaurants and cramped streets, Clayton felt like a revised version of St. Louis’s downtown. Whiter, Shaw thought as he exited. And richer.

  He followed the GPS directions toward Ricky’s condo, his mind a cyclone from caffeine and sugar and the rush of talking to North—a rush that never got old, never got familiar, never diminished. With twenty ounces of Coke in him, Shaw played their conversation backward and forward a few hundred times, his brain firing like it was the Fourth of July.

  As he turned onto a tree-lined street, Shaw realized that he didn’t understand. The DVDs. The credit card statement—Shaw hadn’t been snooping; North had left it right out on top of the desk. The viewing history on Netflix. The obvious match between days North called in sick and the days new anime shows launched. All of the evidence was perfectly clear, and for North to deny it, insisting that Shaw ignore reality, was a challenge.

  And Shaw didn’t understand why. He didn’t understand why it mattered. He didn’t understand why after eight years of friendship, eight years of loving each other, after being roommates and best friends and lovers, after seeing each other naked more times than Shaw could count, after seeing each other with food poisoning and emergency runs to the bathroom, after all of that, Shaw couldn’t understand why a few stupid TV shows mattered. Was it because Shaw didn’t like anime? He didn’t think North cared about something like that; Shaw didn’t like a lot of the same stuff that North did, and it never bothered North. So what was different about some cartoons?

  For another moment, he sat parked in front of the block of condos. Then he unbuckled himself and went up to the door. He buzzed the apartment for Ullman and waited.

  The voice that answered sounded congested and raw. “Yes?”

  “I’m here to talk to you about Jadon Reck.”

  “Oh my God. Is he ok? Oh my God. Oh my God.”

  “He’s fine, as far as I know.”

  “Thank Jesus. Ok. Yeah, come on up.”

  Shaw took the elevator to the fifteenth floor and then, just in case someone was waiting, he climbed the stairs to the eighteenth floor. He could feel the sheen of sweat on his forehead. He found Ricky’s door, but before he could knock, it opened.

  Richard Ullman had red hair. Really red hair, in fact. He wore it in a messy cap of curls; he wasn’t wearing much else: a white tank, athletic shorts, and his feet were bare. His eyes were red, and his nose too.

  “Oh my God,” Ricky whispered when he saw Shaw. “You’re him. You’re that detective.”

  Shaw introduced himself while Ricky ushered him into the condo. It had a wall of windows and a lot of September light, emphasizing the condo’s minimalist furnishings: an Ikea futon; a particleboard console for a TV the size of a paperback; a kitchen table folded up like a matchbook. Discarded clothing, stacks of paper, and books marked routes through the apartment, and Shaw was reminded of going to Lone Elk Park and spotting game trails worn into the brush.

  “You’re a student,” Shaw guessed.

  Nodding, Ricky seemed to dismiss the statement. He leaned against the door and threw a glance over his shoulder as though he could see through the solid wood and out into the hallway. “You’re, like, a detective.”

  “I am.”

  “He said you might stop by.” Ricky’s upper lip trembled, and he wiped his eyes. “He said you would . . . he said you would . . .” He finished in a rush before dissolving into tears. “He said you would want to help.”

  The words slammed into Shaw, and he had to take a breath and reconsider the condo; he walked across the room, ignoring the carefully marked trails, and pressed his forehead against the wall of windows. Below him, people the size of ants scurried through the array of buildings, the mixture of brick and steel and blue-black glass like chips of ice.

  Ricky was still crying.

  Shaw went to the kitchen, filled a glass of water, and took it to Ricky. He guided Ricky over to the futon, noticing how Ricky kept to the marked trails even in the midst of his grief, and then he found a rolling chair in the bedroom and pushed it to a spot between the futon and the TV. Ricky was still crying, holding the glass to his cheek, his eyes squinted shut. Shaw didn’t think the two of them looked anything alike.

  It took a lot of talking. A lot of casual questions. A lot of friendly touches to the shoulder, the arm, the knee. A lot of prompting to take another sip of water. A lot of patience that Shaw felt was running low, his internal gauge dipping down into the red. He had to close his eyes a few times and think of that vision out of the window, the blue-black glass scattered like pieces of winter somebody had forgotten to sweep up.

  “I’m sorry,” Ricky finally said. “It’s just, they won’t let me see him. I can’t get anything out of them. Nothing that means anything, anyway. Do you know Diamond? I mean Officer Kelso. She’s been wonderful, but she can’t really do anything but give me basic updates. He’s alive.” Ricky grimaced and took another sip of water. “That’s what it all boils down to. She just keeps telling me he’s alive. And then you came, and I thought, I don’t know. They tell people in person, right? They wouldn’t call, not for something like that, would they?”

  “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “You were dating, right? I mean, you and Jadon.” If possible, Ricky’s cheeks seemed to glow a little redder. “The way
he talked about you, I . . . I don’t know, I wanted to know, so I read some articles about a blackmail operation you helped take down, and I thought maybe . . .”

  “You said Jadon told you I might come talk to you.”

  After another sip of water, Ricky nodded. “That’s right. He told me a few times that if anything happened to him, you might try to help. He told me to tell you whatever I could.” Ricky took another sip; his hand was shaking now. “What’s going on, Mr. Aldrich? Jay tried to kill himself. And then some of his friends came by and they kept saying, ‘Don’t talk to anybody, don’t say anything, if you want him to have his job when he makes it through this, you can’t say anything.’ And they wanted to go through my stuff,” he gestured at the ley-lines of paperwork and clothing, “and they kept asking questions, kept trying to get me to tell them something. Only I didn’t know what they wanted me to tell them, and then they left, and some more of his friends came, and they weren’t as nice, and—” Ricky stopped himself and then, after a moment’s hesitation, blurted, “I’m starting to freak out.”

  “Start from the beginning. I’ll ask you some questions as we go, but I need you to talk me through all of it.”

  “Well, Jay’s partner, do you know Bryce? Bryce called—”

  “Go back a little.”

  Ricky chewed his lip. “I mean, last weekend Jay and I got in a fight, but it was about—”

  “Farther back, actually. How did you and Jadon meet?”

  “I don’t think it matters.”

  “It might.”

  Ricky chewed his lip longer this time. “He was at a workshop.” Ducking his head at the window and, beyond it, the outlines of Wash U’s campus to the east, he said, “I’m a grad student. In anthropology. Jay sat next to me; it was totally chance.”

  “He sat next to you?”

  “Yeah, it was kind of cute. He kept dropping stuff, his keys, his pen, his notebook. At first he was embarrassed, then we both started laughing about it. It got so ridiculous that we had to leave early; I mean, I was just laughing too hard, so we left and got coffee.”

  “Was he taking courses?”

  “Oh no. He said it was connected to a case he was working.”

  Shaw fought to keep his expression smooth; what kind of anthropology workshop was relevant to a detective working on the LGBT case squad? “Did he tell you anything else?”