Damn him! She’d wasted more than two hours tracking him down. What she really wanted was to haul his pasty ass in for pandering. Hell, she might even throw in obstruction charges. She didn’t care who the old fart screwed, but if the time she’d lost had screwed her out of a collar, she’d charge him for sure.
She radioed back to headquarters that the judge had signed the warrants. Every available officer in Washington and southern Maryland converged upon Chevy Chase. As she sped up Wisconsin Avenue, Shirley heard sirens and knew she was getting close. She hoped they weren’t too late.
At Hampton Avenue she silenced the siren and sped down the long, curvy road with blue lights flashing. As the numbers on the curb approached 971, she searched down the street.
Unlike all the other houses, every light in the house in the Craftsman bungalow she believed to be her destination was on. She let up on the accelerator as she drew near, watching for shapes to cross the windows or other signs of life. Nothing.
No yellow Continental either. Dammit. They were too late. He was gone.
She stopped at the foot of the driveway and flung open her door. As she was about to step out of the car, 971 Hampton Avenue exploded.
The car door slammed shut as the force of the blast knocked her back into the car. Flaming fragments fell from the night sky. She’d never seen anything like it. One second the bungalow was fine. The next, the entire structure was engulfed in flames. She’d been lucky to escape harm beyond having the breath knocked out of her.
Shirley backed her car a safe distance away from the conflagration and watched the fire rage. Despite missing her collar, she wouldn’t charge the judge for any crimes. The delay had very likely saved her life.
The close call convinced her. The time had come. She was going to get laid this weekend, even if she had to pay for it.
Chapter Forty-Seven
AFTER TALKING with Sergeant White, Philip called George and brought him up to speed on recent developments. “She wants me to bring Terrence in so she can take his statement.”
“Give me thirty minutes and I’ll pick you up,” George said. “And please, wait for me to get there.”
Philip glanced up at the clock. “It’s three o’clock in the morning. Where else would I go?”
“Please promise me you won’t go anywhere until I get there.”
“Assuming you’re here within the next twenty minutes, I will.” He hung up the phone and then checked in on Terrence. “Are you awake?”
“Yes. The telephone woke me up.” Terrence sat up in the bed with the covers around his hips and stretched. “What’s going on?”
“The police want to talk with us about Clarkson.”
Terrence jumped from the bed. “So you believe me! I know it’s him.”
“Yes, everyone believes you. Now get dressed, and we need to hurry. My attorney is on his way over to pick us up.”
“The great George Walker?” Terrence stood next to the bed, naked… scanning the room for his clothes. “Anthony worshipped him.”
“Yes,” Philip replied. “The great George Walker.” He hadn’t realized Anthony had such good taste in men.
“Cool!” Terrence exclaimed. “I can’t wait to meet him.” He bent over and searched under the bed. “Do you know where I left my clothes?”
Cute though he was, Philip wished Terrence was wrapped up in a sheet or covered himself, but he knew he was simply trying to get a rise out of him. “You left them in a pile beside the tub.”
“Oh yeah.” Terrence paraded toward the bathroom. When he reached the door, he stopped. “I’m really glad I came to see you. I like being here. Thanks for letting me take a bath, cooking for me, and not making me go back to the shelter.”
His earnest look touched Philip’s heart. “You’re welcome, Terrence.”
FIFTEEN MINUTES later, George pulled up in front of Philip’s apartment to drive them to the police station. Terrence jumped into the back and Philip slid into the bucket seat.
“George, this is Terrence Bottom. He’s a friend of Anthony’s and was helping him with the investigation.”
“Nice to meet you,” Terrence said, shaking George’s hand. “Anthony never mentioned how handsome you are.”
Philip couldn’t believe it. George actually blushed. By the time they reached the police station, Terrence and Philip had filled him in on everything they knew.
Sergeant White was out, but she had radioed that she was on her way back to the station. She came through the door ten minutes later and ushered them into her office, explaining as she walked how Clarkson had become her primary suspect. “What did your friends at the Mattachine Society tell you about him?” She sat behind her desk with her arms folded across her chest. Philip noticed her tone was amicable, if not actually nice.
“Clarkson and the police chief are friends—they go to church together—and he gives the chief tips about where to conduct sting operations and raids.”
She let out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned.” She leaned forward in her chair. “Even the vice squad hasn’t known about some of those places. We always wondered how Chief knew about them. I thought maybe he was a closet case. You know what they say—he who screams the loudest.”
“You got that right, Sergeant,” Terrence said. “Only in this case, Tripp Clarkson is the one doing all the screaming.”
Emboldened by Sergeant White’s agreeability, Philip continued. “They also told me about an Officer Robinson, who they say is a bad cop.”
“Oh yeah?”
Philip had expected a different reaction. Instead of becoming defensive, she seemed… triumphant.
“Close that, will you?”
Terrence reached back and shut the door. The three men glanced at one another, then watched Sergeant White, waiting for her to speak.
She clasped her hands together and placed her forearms on the table. “Mr. Potter, on behalf of the DCPD, I want to apologize for Officer Robinson’s behavior the night of Mr. Walker’s passing. Our aim is to serve and protect all citizens, not just straight white people. Officer Robinson’s behavior on Christmas Eve was inexcusable.”
Philip nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant. But how did you know?”
“Mr. Carter told me. I’ve talked with internal affairs, and they’ve launched a department-wide investigation. Building the case against him and any other officers that are out of line may take a while.” She paused and her expression changed, like an idea had popped into her head. “Unless, of course, your Mattachine Society friends have information that could speed things up.”
Philip shrugged. “I can’t speak for him, but I’d guess Dr. Kameny would be delighted to share his files with you, especially if it helps you to rid the force of Robinson and others like him.”
“Good. I’ll give him a call.” She took a deep breath and let it out slow. “There’s something else you should know.” She paused, as if considering her words. “The police never entered your apartment on Christmas Eve.”
Philip was confused. “If the police weren’t responsible, who would have done such a thing?”
Her gaze softened. “Beau Carter.”
“That’s impossible,” said Philip. “What on earth gave you that idea?”
“Carter confessed. He had some crazy idea that helping you deal with the vandalism would give you a chance to get to know him.”
Terrence let out a low whistle. “Bad idea.”
Philip’s mind reeled. He remembered smelling the spray paint when he entered his apartment on Christmas day. He didn’t know then, but he had learned from his redecorating experience that such a strong aroma meant the paint had barely had time to dry—long after the police had left the scene.
“There’s more,” she said. “Do you know about Rudy?”
George said, “Rudy? Who’s he?”
“James,” Philip replied. “Rudy is the name he used on the streets. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Mr. Carter was one of Rudy’s r
egulars,” Terrence answered. “I didn’t want to tell you because I thought you were dating. That’s how all the guys know him.”
“Impossible!” Philip couldn’t believe the way his world was closing in around him.
“I’m afraid he’s right,” Sergeant White said. “Mr. Carter didn’t know his Rudy was your James until he saw the picture on your dresser. If it’s any consolation, he said that James adored you and was terrified you’d find out about his little sideline. Do you want to press vandalism charges against Mr. Carter?”
Philip thought Beau had been punished enough for his foolish and desperate act. “No, that would ruin him. No point making a bad situation worse.”
“Have you arrested Clarkson?” George asked.
He was changing the subject. Philip didn’t blame him. He didn’t like being reminded of the life James had chosen for himself either.
“No.” She drew a long breath. “By the time I got the search warrant, he’d already flown the coop. I’ve got an APB out for his Continental. He’ll turn up sooner or later. Judging from the little surprise he left for us at his house, he’s out of options.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
TRIPP CLARKSON and Billy Fleming, his best friend since kindergarten, spent the first weeks of the summer after seventh grade building a clubhouse behind the Clarkson’s garage. They’d salvaged two-by-fours and the biggest pieces of plywood they could find from the subdivision that had seemed to go up overnight in the pastureland on the other side of the backyard fence. They’d painted the finished structure inside and out and lettered “Keep Out!” and “No Girls Allowed!” on the door.
Billy and Tripp lay side by side on an old rug they’d thrown down for a floor, staring up at the ceiling. Billy had his hands laced together behind his head. He rolled over on his side, propping his head up on one elbow. “Did our clubhouse turn out as good as you thought it would?”
Tripp rolled onto his side and mirrored Billy’s position. “Even better than I imagined.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. The privacy I guess. It’s like being inside without having Mommy or Daddy watching every move I make.”
Billy rolled onto his back. “Yeah. I know what you mean. Hell, I can’t jack off at my house without one of my little brothers wanting to know what I’m doing.”
Tripp didn’t want to let on to Billy that he didn’t know what he meant by jack off. “Yeah, me either,” he said, hoping the response didn’t give away his ignorance.
“You want to do it now?” Billy smirked. “I mean, we’re best friends and everything, so it would be okay.”
Tripp was in way over his head. He didn’t know what to say. Sheer panic struck him dumb.
“Well?”
Tripp heard the challenge in Billy’s voice. “Uh, sure… whatever you want to do.”
Billy rolled over and pulled a cigar box Tripp hadn’t known was there out from under the rug. Inside was a half empty pack of cigarettes, kitchen matches, a bright green rabbit’s foot, a Swiss Army knife, and a small stack of postcards. He handed Tripp several of the postcards. “Take a gander at these, will ya?” Billy stood, removed his pants and shirt, and sat cross-legged beside Tripp in striped boxer shorts and white crew socks.
Tripp gasped. On the cards were pictures of naked women—something he’d never seen before. His reaction surprised him. Rather than being intrigued or fascinated or aroused, a woman displaying herself in such a manner repulsed him.
“You like that?” Billy was studying the postcard he held in one hand and sliding his other up and down the fully erect penis that poked through the fly of his boxers.
That’s when the demon first made his presence known. Tripp couldn’t help himself. The postcards fell to the ground, forgotten. He couldn’t stop staring at Billy’s boner. Without realizing what was happening, he reached over, gripped the cock in his fist, and slowly moved his hand up and down.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”
Mesmerized, Tripp ignored him, his attention focused on caressing and stroking Billy’s dick. He couldn’t stop.
“Man, that really feels good.” Billy uncrossed his legs and lay back on the rug.
Tripp slid Billy’s boxers down past his knees and kicked his own pants and underwear off as he continued to stroke, sliding his hand down to cup Billy’s balls. The noises coming from Billy made him feel powerful. Tripp ran his fingers through the smattering of pubic hair, and then, without knowing why, he took the hard cock into his mouth.
Neither boy saw Tripp’s father come into the clubhouse. They didn’t hear him unfasten his belt and remove it from his pants, nor the whistle as the belt came through the air on a collision course with Tripp’s buttocks.
HE DIDN’T remember what happened after that, but if the scars that marked his buttocks were any indication, he’d taken a heck of a beating from his old man. He’d never seen Billy again, and wondered if maybe his father had done something to him too.
A thump from the rear of the car made him glance in the rearview mirror. He’d been forced to move his wife and sons to the trunk before stopping for gas, and he considered it a miracle that the attendant hadn’t heard them thrashing around.
That had been his last sign from God that he was on the right path. Try as he may, Tripp couldn’t see a way out. His prayers went unanswered. He drove with no destination in mind, almost blinded by tears. How had things gotten so out of hand? What had he done to deserve this horror movie that had become his life?
His prayers became curses. God had abandoned him in his time of greatest need. He was alone. There was nowhere to turn. Nowhere to hide.
Only one option remained. His luck had run out. The demon had triumphed. The Anacostia River would cleanse him of his sins and he’d be free again.
Chapter Forty-Nine
PHILIP STOOD and prepared to leave. Terrence had made his statement. They’d finished their business. Terrence and George got up to follow.
The phone on Sergeant White’s desk rang. She grabbed the receiver. “White here.”
Philip could hear talking, but was unable to make out the words.
Sergeant White’s eyes widened. “Shit! He’s heading for that old parachute factory where he killed Anthony Vincent. I’m on my way.” She slammed down the phone and headed for the door. “We’ve found him.”
“I want to go with you!” Terrence said, running along beside her.
George and Philip hurried behind him.
“No,” she said as she walked briskly toward the exit. “He’s armed and dangerous. You can’t come.”
Terrence stomped his foot. “Aww, come on.”
She stopped. “You’re not coming with me. Do I make myself clear?”
“HURRY!” PHILIP said from the passenger seat of George’s Thunderbird. Terrence was in the backseat, leaning forward with an elbow on each of the bucket seats.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” George said. “Sergeant White made her wishes about us not coming with her abundantly clear.”
“And we’re not,” Philip said. “We’re going on our own. Keep driving.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Potter. Whatever you say,” George said, his face unreadable.
“Thanks, George,” Terrence said. “I should have been with Daniel that night. Anthony too—I wanted to go, but he wouldn’t let me. They might still be here today.”
Philip recalled similar thoughts of his own and remembered Mary’s words. “Hindsight is always twenty-twenty. What’s done is done.”
“I know,” Terrence said. “But I have to be there when they catch him—for Daniel, Lanny, Anthony, and all the other guys he killed.”
They drove along in silence, focused on the road ahead. Philip strained to see beyond the range of the headlights and listened for sirens.
“You two make such a cute couple,” Terrence said. “Philip’s a handsome man—you should see him in his bathrobe.”
“I h
ave,” George said. “Sure got my attention.”
Philip gasped at the reminder of the day they’d met.
“How long have you been together?”
George’s gloved hand went to his mouth. Philip couldn’t say for sure, but he thought George was hiding a smile.
“Terrence, Mr. Walker is a married man.”
Terrence rolled his eyes. “Like that means anything. So are most of my clients. One guy’s wife gives him the money. It’s the sixties—do your own thing.”
Philip decided to shift the focus. “Terrence, what would keep you from selling yourself on the streets?”
“Oh, that’s easy—one good sugar daddy. If I lived in a nice place like yours, Philip, I’d leave the streets behind. And unlike your Rudy, you wouldn’t catch me going back out. No siree, Bob.”
“Turn right up here past the filling station, George.” Philip pointed toward the front of the car.
“I know where we’re going, Philip. But thanks for making sure.”
Terrence laughed. “You two are adorable.”
“So, Terrence,” Philip said, ignoring him. “Say you had a nice place to live and your money worries were over. What would you do?”
“Hmm,” Terrence said, tilting his head as he pondered the question.
“Something in photography?” George asked.
The bounce of his curls suggested a negative response. “No, I don’t think so. I like taking pictures, but I want to be on the other side of the camera. Somebody everybody notices. I want to be appreciated and admired, and not just for being gorgeous. I mean, really, that goes without saying. But for making a difference in the world.”
Philip turned his head so he could see him. “Terrence, I have to say, you are an exceptional young man. An original. I’ve never known anyone quite like you, and I believe you’re capable of anything you set out to do.”
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