Drop Dead

by Mark Richard Zubro

“Maybe you’re hiding secret heterosexual tendencies.”

  “I’ll stick with Ben. I just believed her. We have no basis for disbelieving her. The main thing she’s got going for her is that she was not at the brunch. She couldn’t have pushed him. Same with O’Dowd and Spitzer. On the other hand, there are all kinds of reasons the owners of both companies would lie.”

  “And I don’t like them,” Fenwick said. “I want to see Veleshki and Heyling not dressed as if they were on their way to a photo shoot.”

  “If Veleshki had an affair,” Turner said, “maybe it wasn’t his only one.”

  “Possible,” Fenwick said.

  “Maybe Cullom only let people see bits of himself,” Turner said. “Maybe it wasn’t so much that he had ghastly secrets to hide. Maybe he simply never confided completely in anyone.”

  “Possible, but then maybe all these people are telling the truth. That’s a depressing thought—all the suspects in a murder case telling the truth.”

  “I also want to know more about this Kindel guy. He claims they were lovers. No one else confirms it.”

  Fenwick said, “Maybe Cullom told him one thing and everybody else another.”

  “Let’s meet Ian for lunch,” Turner suggested. “I’m dry of insights for the moment and the agent’s office is near the paper. Maybe Ian can find out more about Kindel for us.” He drummed his fingers on the dashboard. “I don’t feel like I’ve got a good handle on Furyk. Kind of like I’m dancing on an oiled floor. I don’t get a feeling for who he was.”

  “You know what we’re missing in this case?” Fenwick asked.

  “The murderer.”

  “Besides that.”

  “What?” Turner asked.

  “Nobody’s morally outraged by all this hopping into bed.”

  “We could place an ad in the paper—‘Wanted: one morally outraged suspect.’”

  “Or murderer.”

  “Or murderer. Apply to Buck Fenwick, Area Ten headquarters.”

  “I think I miss moral outrage,” Fenwick said. “It would add flavor, a sense of narrowness, fuel to the fire, grease to the wheels.”

  “Boredom to the cliches. You want to be morally outraged, you could do it for both of us.”

  FIFTEEN

  They met Ian at the Melrose Restaurant several blocks south of the newspaper offices. They sat up front in the corner booth with the best view of the passing scenery. Ian said he always loved this spot for people watching. He kept his long legs halfway into the aisle. Ian wore his customary slouch fedora along with khaki pants, a white flannel shirt, and work boots.

  After they ordered lunch, Ian asked, “What’s the latest?”

  “Fenwick’s doing moral outrage.”

  “Great. I hear it’s a big trend these days. Maybe you could start a congregation. Nothing like contributions from the faithful to the morally outraged.”

  “If I’m good at it, I could get rich. I could give lessons, have my own little university. I see a whole cottage industry.”

  “For which I’m sure I’ll be grateful,” Ian said. “Are you being morally outraged about anything in particular or is this general, nonspecific outrage, because if it is, I’m here to tell you, you’re way behind the religious right on this.”

  Fenwick said, “I was just curious. None of the people we’ve interviewed has expressed moral doubts about Cullom Furyk’s sex life.”

  “Which was?”

  “Active,” Turner said. “Remarkably so.”

  “I’m outraged, too,” Ian said. “I wish he’d have told me his secret.”

  “Be young, beautiful, and rich,” Turner said. “Not much of a secret to it.”

  “You ever been to one of those circuit parties?” Fenwick asked.

  “I don’t find that set stimulating. I prefer people with a modicum of self-awareness and the ability to think critically beyond the question of where my next drug overdose is coming from.”

  “Furyk seems to be a mass of contradictions,” Turner said. “We’ve got all kinds of people claiming they were close to him.”

  “Try this for an explanation,” Ian said. “Often the truly famous deal with people in brief snippets. The hangers-on and the wannabees see the little bits of the personality they want to see. Their perceptions are clouded by gossip, their own desire for fame, their wanting to touch that which is famous.”

  “Moral outrage and snippets of fame,” Fenwick said. “Doesn’t sound like a best-seller to me.”

  Their sandwiches arrived. After taking an enormous bite, Ian said, “Strange things are afoot. I was thinking of calling you.”

  “What?” Turner asked.

  “The lawyer who represents the owner called. We’re to have an emergency meeting today.”

  “That’s odd?” Fenwick asked.

  “The rumor is that everybody is supposed to drop everything else and work on the Cullom Furyk murder.”

  “A famous gay person is murdered in Chicago,” Turner said. “I can see why some people wouldn’t look at it as a nothing story.”

  “It’s not real news. It’s sad the guy is dead, sure, but I come from an activist mentality. That which is important must effect people’s lives. It’s got to have significance. This is police blotter stuff. Tabloid stuff. I’m interested in real news.”

  “And this is unreal news?” Fenwick asked.

  “You know what I mean,” Ian retorted.

  “I’m not sure,” Turner said. “Look at the news coverage when Gianni Versace died.”

  “He was the owner of a company, famous for many years, and it was connected to a spree killer. I know it sounds horrible to say, but I didn’t much care when he died.”

  Turner said, “Young gay kids seeing someone open and successful? Isn’t that important for them to have role models?”

  “Who cares about the fashion world?” Ian retorted. “Everybody thinks all the guys are gay anyway. It’s not news. It’s a world of people who are steeped in useless opinions and dripping with silly accessories—a faintly sleazy, artsy-craftsy milieu that I couldn’t care less about.”

  “I hate it when you hold back,” Fenwick said. “Try and see if you can give us your real feelings.”

  “Tell me about this Kindel guy,” Turner said. “We went to see him. He lives in this big old mansion.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Big mansion up north of here. He had what he claimed were Cullom Furyk’s clothes.”

  “Big mansion?” Ian asked. “He’s a stringer for the paper. He took early retirement from teaching. That can’t be a huge pension. The impression I’ve gotten is that he just barely gets by.”

  “Maybe he’s barely getting by in a big mansion,” Turner said. “He could have inherited it.”

  “You sure it was his?” Ian asked.

  “It was his address,” Fenwick said. “I suppose somebody else could own it, or he could be renting a room or two from someone.

  Turner added, “He also seemed a lot older and not as good-looking as the people Furyk was usually into.”

  “Maybe Furyk had eclectic taste,” Ian said. “Or maybe it was a mercy fuck. Who knows? You better watch what you say about people’s looks, Paul. You don’t want to be accused of lookism in this day and age.”

  “What ism?” Fenwick asked.

  “Lookism. Body fascism. That which is and those who are concerned with and value only those who are pretty.”

  Fenwick sighed. “More people to shoot.”

  “Could Kindel have been this guy’s lover?” Turner asked.

  “Hell, why not?” Ian said. “I didn’t believe you when you first told me. I still don’t. Kindel is such a total loser. I’ll look a little more into his background if you want.”

  “Thanks,” Turner said. “Furyk might have been lying to one and all. We’ve gotten some strange information that doesn’t add up.”

  “The fashion industry doesn’t add up,” Ian said. “Silly, frivolous.”

  “They make milli
ons,” Fenwick said.

  “That’s not my fault,” Ian said. “As far as I know, for the gay men involved, it is a I-can-have-anybody culture. Studly men. Lots of casual sex. Sounds like an unreal world to me.”

  “I didn’t think you were opposed to casual sex,” Turner said.

  “I didn’t say I was opposed to it,” Ian said. “It just isn’t real for most people. I think the majority of people are average-looking. They find somebody they love and settle down, or they have a circle of friends who care about each other. This I-can-have-everybody is an unreal fantasy.”

  “Real or unreal, we’ve got to get moving,” Turner said.

  Cullom’s agent, Hartly Woodward, had an office in newly renovated space just south of Buckingham Avenue on Halsted Street. Redwood patio furniture filled the outer office. Even Turner noticed that the young female secretary’s dress was spandex tight. Her overemphasized endowments gave her what Fenwick referred to as the ‘I’m-available-right-this-minute’ look.

  Woodward was in his late forties. He wore a beige sweater, black slacks, and an emerald pinkie ring. His hair was receding in two sharp widow’s peaks. His voice had a high-pitched whine.

  His office continued the redwood-furniture/floral-print pattern of the outer office. “You’re here about Cullom, of course. I was going to call the police, but I couldn’t figure out why I should. He was a fine young man. I shall miss him a great deal. I was the person closest to him.” He took a tissue from his desk and dabbed at his eyes. “I know everybody thinks agents are greedy slimeballs. I admit I will lose a lot of money with his death, but I honestly don’t care about that. I’d give up every penny if it would bring him back. I loved him like a son. He was one of my first clients. As his star rose, so did mine, but it was more than that. He trusted me and I trusted him. He and my wife and I would go to numerous functions together. He was always a good man, a sensitive man. Never a bad word to say about anyone.”

  “Was he leaving GUINEVERE, Incorporated?”

  “He and I talked many times about expanding his career. He had a lot of endorsements. See, lots of models rush around the planet desperate for work. Cullom was lucky. The work came to him. People would call here from every continent. They wanted him for their products.”

  “How did GUINEVERE, Incorporated feel about that?”

  “In the very beginning, they were reluctant to let him endorse anything for anybody. Those people are far more paranoid than they need to be. It is true he was very identified with the company. Still is. After he became such a big celebrity, they didn’t mind as much. I figured out a perfect and profitable way to get them to agree.”

  “How’s that?” Fenwick asked.

  “It’s obvious. Make his outside endorsements work for them. Say Cullom was pitching buggy whips. The agreement with that company would be for Cullom to be wearing GUINEVERE, Incorporated products in the commercial. GUINEVERE actually got a lot of exposure that way. He had that certain look which a camera really falls in love with. Cullom was like Marilyn Monroe that way. From the very beginning he just looked perfect in print or on camera. Lately he’d begun to get some serious consideration for movie roles. The money was just about right and it would get him out from under Franklin Munsen.”

  “We heard a lot of people hate Mr. Munsen.”

  “Him and his hired Nazi, Dinah McBride. Those two are the toughest pair I ever care to deal with.”

  “How did Cullom get along with them?”

  “Cullom never fought with anybody. He was sweet and kindly.”

  “One source left us with the impression he didn’t care that much about the causes he was involved in.”

  “That is a lie. He cared very much. He dodged bullets in Sarajevo to visit orphanages. He traveled around the world at his own expense.”

  “We were told that he called up friends late at night crying because he was lonely.”

  “You talked to Sibilla. That woman was not good for him. I don’t like her or trust her. She was out only for herself. I told him to stay away from her.”

  “Why?”

  “She has her own agenda and her own needs.”

  “Did he have any confidants besides Sibilla?”

  “As far as I know, he confided in me as much as anybody. You’ve got to understand Cullom. His mother and dad were perfectly nice people, just not very affectionate. When you are as pretty as he is, and you know it early in life, things come easy for you. People want to be around you. On the other hand, a model’s life can be very hard. Working your way up to the top is killing. Constant travel, long hours, a jammed schedule, the competition. Very few can handle the pressures and the demands. While Cullom was an enormous success, the success itself can be hideously draining. Few people realize how tough he had it. There were times when he was desperate for affection in any form he could find it. He was more needy in that area than most.” “We’ve heard he had a lover in Paris and one in Chicago. Were there others?”

  “You hear all kinds of rumors about lovers in this country and around the world.”

  “They weren’t enough to fill his loneliness needs?” Fenwick asked.

  Woodward sighed. “Cullom. was not perfect. Which of us is? Cullom was a taker. He kept the men in different cities to meet his needs. He didn’t flaunt the fact of his lovers, but I’ve seen him drain men dry.”

  “How did he juggle having all these guys?”

  “I don’t think most of them knew about the others. He never brought people with him on his trips around the world. On the other hand, much as I hate to admit it, Cullom could be very hurtful. To find someone who wants to genuinely touch you and genuinely care for you and genuinely love you is not easy for a famous person. Too many people want to love, touch, and care for your fame or your money or your looks and not the real you.”

  “Bullshit,” Fenwick stated. “If you want friends to like you for who you are, you pick out that kind of friend.”

  “You ever been young, pretty, and popular?” Woodward asked.

  Fenwick glared at him.

  “I didn’t think so. You can sneer at the beautiful people and their problems. I’m simply trying to describe those that Cullom had—how his problems were not unique to his profession. Sneer if you want, but Cullom had things tough.”

  Fenwick asked, “Why not find a relationship among other rich and famous and pretty people? Wouldn’t they understand the problem?”

  “Pretty as he was, even Cullom could not snap his fingers and have a perfect lover appear. No, Cullom is dead and that is a tragedy. He had problems. You asked, I told you what I know.”

  “How many lovers and how many cities are we talking about?” Turner asked.

  “He didn’t have one in every city all the time and they changed periodically. Usually there was one in Paris, one in Italy somewhere, one in New York.”

  “Did he ever mention a Sean Kindel here in Chicago?”

  “Not.”

  “Who else knew about these lovers besides you?” Turner asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What if they didn’t exist?” Turner asked. “Was he the type to make up those kinds of stories?”

  “Imaginary lovers?” He leaned back in his chair and looked at the two of them. “I never thought to question it before. I saw no reason to.”

  “Did he give you details, facts about them, names we could check?”

  “Well, no.”

  “He never brought someone around as a boyfriend or date to a social event?”

  “He was seen in many famous places with many famous people. He tended to travel with a small herd of admirers, quite often with groups of other models.” Woodward shrugged. “It was an ego thing to have hangers-on.”

  “Say we accept that all these lovers are real,” Turner said. “If he had all of them to meet his needs, why was he on the phone to Sibilla crying?”

  “I wonder if Sibilla wasn’t exaggerating her closeness to him. She wasn’t gay. How could she understand?�
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  “You’re a straight man,” Turner said, “but you claim to have understood him.”

  “That’s different.”

  Turner thought Woodward’s last statement was a crock. He asked, “Did he ever have any big blowups with these lovers? They can’t have all been happy with the arrangement. At the very least the long absences must have bothered them. Some must have found out about the others.”

  “He never told me about any big fights. As far as I know, when he left a boyfriend, there was no big confrontation. He simply stopped calling or coming around. Of course, that can be even more hurtful than an explosion.”

  Woodward could add nothing beyond the lover muddle. Turner and Fenwick left.

  In the car Turner said, “By my count that is the third person who claimed to be the ‘closest one’ to Cullom Furyk.”

  “Fame can be hell,” Fenwick said.

  Before they returned to headquarters, they stopped at the Blue Diamond Athletic Club. The immense edifice was on the west side of the Chicago River just north of Grand Avenue. Erika Douzane, the manager, wore a sweatsuit with the name of the club inside a large diamond shape in five different places on the outfit. She looked to be in her early forties.

  In response to their questions she said, “Yes, Cullom was here. He showed up on time. A lot of these people don’t. So many of them have an attitude. He seemed very sweet. Very unassuming. He got here, changed into his outfit and was ready for the shoot.”

  “Any problems?”

  “We’re used to celebrities being in the club. Still, the cameras and lights drew a crowd, and the photographers wound up needing a few extras for background. Instead of hiring people we just used members of the club. Any kind of celebrity connection is good for membership recruiting.”

  “Did he speak with anyone?”

  “He signed autographs for whoever wanted one. Also several people were waiting to talk to him either when he finished or during breaks in the shooting. You know, most of a photo shoot is setting up lighting and angles and that kind of thing, so the models do a lot of sitting and waiting.”

  Turner raised an eyebrow. “Do you know who was waiting to talk to him?”