Outburst

by R. D. Zimmerman

  Entering the kitchen, he glanced at the wall clock, saw that it was approaching eleven. Almost the end of another day, he thought thankfully. The sinus infection that had alerted him and his doctor to his HIV status had long ago faded after a third course of antibiotics. When neither amoxicillin nor Augmentin had worked, he'd switched to a third, clarithromycin, which had done the trick, and he'd felt nothing short of perfect since. Even the gunshot wound in his shoulder had healed beautifully. But there were going to be plenty more challenges in the near future, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a year or two or three. Sure, now he had a viral load just under five thousand, a T-cell count of about 450—a tad below normal, it indicated moderate immunosystem suppression—but sooner or later he'd be on some protease inhibitor, taking this cocktail and that. For the time being, his doctor, choosing a somewhat radical and risky position, had advised against any of the current meds.

  “We don't want you building up resistance to anything,” his doctor had said. “There are three new drugs coming down the pike, and I think they'll work best if you're a treatment virgin.”

  And even though that approach made Rawlins rather nervous—he liked to tackle things and deal with them right away—he also didn't mind, for entirely the wrong reasons. Going on a strong course of medication would mean medical-insurance claims. Medical claims would eventually mean coming out as an HIV-positive cop on the Minneapolis police force. And who knew what that meant, whether they'd fire him, demote him, or just assign him nothing but desk work, for no one had yet come out of that closet.

  Rawlins had gone to the U—the University of Minnesota—and received his B.A. in English. He couldn't quite remember what had prompted him—trying to make order out of chaos?—but the following year he'd enrolled in the police academy and gone through seven months of classroom and skills training. And, no, he hadn't been out back then. Anything but. During all his years as a patrol officer, later as a sergeant working juvenile, he'd been terrified that someone would find out he was queer. After all, he hadn't been able to escape his own homophobia, nor for that matter other threats, like the one made during FTO—the field-training program—when the guys bragged how they felt sorry for the first faggot to come out, because they were going to beat the shit out of him.

  But then a dyke had done just that.

  Bravely leading the way, the first Minneapolis police officer to come out of the closet was a lesbian, who did so back in 1992. The first gay man to come out wasn't until a full year or two later. Rawlins was the fourth, and it had been a horrible, awful hump for him to go over. But it had gone without a hitch. Contrary to his fear, Rawlins didn't have then—nor had he since—any problems as a result of his sexuality.

  But would he as an HIV-positive man? Would any of the cops want to work with him again? There was no way of telling, of course. Not until he got there.

  Heading to the bathroom at the end of the hall, Rawlins splashed his face and brushed his teeth. Out of habit, he then checked the lock on the back door, glancing out the window as he did so.

  His bedroom wasn't anything special, a small box of a room with a futon on a low platform, a long bookcase made up of bricks and boards beneath the windows, a single small closet, and his old desk. Even to Rawlins, who'd never been much attuned to these things, his place was beginning to look shabby and in need of much more than just a coat of paint. It was unbearably stuffy too. And hot. He took off his shirt, ran his fingers over the thick, still-red scar on his left shoulder, then slipped off the rest of his clothing. He lifted open both windows and climbed naked into bed. Yes, he thought, glancing about the pathetic room, they'd ended up spending their nights at Todd's condo for much more than just the central air.

  Picking up a copy of a thriller set in Berlin, he read until his eyes began to close almost thirty minutes later. He put down the book, turned off the light, but no sooner was his head settled on his pillow than he was suddenly awake all over again.

  Why hadn't that bastard called?

  In the back of his mind Rawlins had thought Todd would at least try. He'd envisioned staring at the phone, smugly letting it ring, though now he rolled on his side, saw the old dial phone on the floor next to his bed, and knew that if it rang this moment he'd jump on it. But nothing happened. That's right, Rawlins thought. And nothing's going to, for Todd's nothing if not resolute. Or, more accurately, a stubborn son of a bitch. Rawlins had told Todd they were supposed to talk only in a formal setting, so Todd sure as hell wouldn't call. No, Mr. Control himself wouldn't be the first one to crack. So would Rawlins?

  Oh, shit. Was this stupid or what?

  Rawlins tossed from one side to the other, kicked off the top sheet, pounded a fist into his pillow. Why the hell was he here alone and boiling hot when he could be there with him in air-conditioned splendor? Damn it, they should just forget Holbrook's stupid orders. They were grown men; they could observe a boundary.

  Shit. At the very beginning of their relationship Rawlins hadn't been able to sleep all that well with someone else in the bed—Rawlins couldn't stretch out as much, Todd hogged the blankets, Todd breathed too loudly. Now, Rawlins realized to his frustration, just the opposite was true. This was lonely, being here by himself. No one to kiss, to touch, to grope. Was he going to be able to sleep at all tonight? Probably not.

  Which was why he heard it, that first sound, a rattle of sorts.

  Rawlins was lying in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, when it came. For a moment he was quite still. Were those his downstairs neighbors, Mike and Amy, stirring about? No, it was from outside. Jesus, he realized. Someone was out there.

  And suddenly he couldn't have been more awake.

  16

  Opening the refrigerator, Todd pulled out an old, half-drunk bottle of white wine and poured himself a glass. Oh, brother, he thought, taking a sip. His mind was still racing—he'd been on the air barely an hour ago—and at this point he felt as if he was going to be up half the night.

  Leaving the sleek, all-white kitchen, he moved into the hallway and called, “Girlfriend? Girlfriend, where are you?”

  When the black cat, which defined the word fickle, failed to appear, Todd took his wine into the living room, grabbed a legal pad and pen, then slid open the balcony door. Stepping outside, he stared at Lake Calhoun, the oval body of water just across the street. Transfixed by the moon and its light shimmering on the still waters, he took several sips of wine and sat down on one of two metal chairs.

  So how was he going to do this and what exactly was he going to pursue tomorrow?

  Though Todd would have been surprised if Forrest had been anything but queer, it was now confirmed. Their eyes had caught in that way, hitting and holding a mere fraction of a second too long, each of them thinking, I'm one, are you one too? And Todd was sure of it, certain that someone like Mark Forrest—young, handsome, and out—had a Mr. Wonderful, someone who wasn't going to let him go. But if so, who was he, where was he, and why hadn't he come forward, either reporting Forrest as missing or now wanting to identify the body or some such? Or was Todd all wrong, was Forrest in the middle of his fuckathon days, going through guys on a daily or weekly basis? Perhaps.

  In the glow of the light from the living room, Todd started jotting it all down on the yellow pad. He began where it all began, with that phone call, the very first one Todd had received, the one begging Todd to meet down on the Stone Arch Bridge. He recorded the approximate time, paused, and then added a note. Yes, that caller and the killer were surely one and the same, just as the killer and the man who had called Todd this evening were undoubtedly one and the same. If he would only call again, mused Todd, then he'd be ready, he'd be certain to get a recording of the voice. He kicked himself for not having been so prepared earlier, but who would have thought the killer would call out of the blue?

  Moving on, Todd went through it all, every event, every time, from the meeting on the bridge to the shooting to finding the body to tonight's phone call. He was going to have to
be methodical about this. Obsessive too. Over the next few days he knew he'd write this over and over again, adding a bit more each time, always looking for a connection or a hole or something. Everything had to tie together, there had to be some link. So what was it, who was it? Exactly, which led Todd back to his first thoughts—who was Forrest doing?

  Fixated on Forrest's sex life, Todd took another sip of wine, then slipped back inside and grabbed his cordless phone from the coffee table. Dropping himself on his leather couch, he thought for a moment, recalled the number, and dialed.

  On the second ring a voice said loudly, “Hello, hello?”

  “Jeff?”

  “That's moi.”

  “It's me, Todd.”

  “Hey, you old closet queen, how are you? Long time no gab,” he said over the blare of Barbra Streisand.

  “I take it I didn't wake you up?”

  “Oh, heavens no,” said the bank teller by day and drag queen by night.

  “So what are you doing home tonight? I thought I'd get your machine.”

  “I'm taking the night off. You know why? I'm getting sick of the straight people down there,” he said, referring to the mega-gay complex, the Gay Times, where he often performed. “I mean, what's going on? Have we, the oppressed, made too much progress, or what? I mean, we're talking about a drag show. We're talking about big old homos in beautiful gowns and tons of makeup. I mean, do you realize that eighty percent of the audience last night was straight, and—”

  “Jeff,” interrupted Todd, knowing that he'd have to cut in at some point. “I need your help.”

  “Sure, doll.”

  “You told me once that all the bartenders know when Rawlins comes in to the Gay Times. Is that right?”

  “Of course they do, and it's not because he's dreamy, it's because he's a cop. Trust me, the bartenders always try to know the cops and know when they come in.”

  “Okay, then I have a favor to ask. Will you check on another cop for me, a guy by the name of Mark Forrest? Will you find out if he was in there recently? And with whom?”

  “Why? Don't tell me you got trouble in paradise and you're looking for another hunk in blue?”

  “I guess you haven't seen the news in the last couple of days. Mark Forrest was a park police officer, and he was murdered. He was also gay, and I'm trying to find out if he was dating anyone.”

  “Oh, my God, I should start reading the papers again, shouldn't I? Listen, I'll do what I can. I'll get as much four-one-one as possible. Tomorrow soon enough?”

  “Perfect.”

  Todd gave him a few more details and then hung up. Still clutching the phone, he knew what he wanted to do next, whom he wanted to call, very much so. But should he? Dare he? And then, without another thought, he started dialing. Then stopped halfway through.

  No, he wasn't going to give in. He wasn't going to call and check on Rawlins. He couldn't. Nope, he wasn't going to be the first one to break.

  Averting that number, he dialed another.

  A groggy voice answered on the fourth ring. “H-hello?”

  “Oh, shit, Janice,” said Todd, for he'd completely forgotten the time. “I woke you up.”

  “Oh, shit, Todd, you did.”

  “I'm sorry.” Realizing how self-absorbed he'd been, he quickly added, “Listen, it can wait. I'll call you back tomorrow.”

  “Forget it, Todd,” she said with a yawn. “I'm awake. What's … what's up?”

  “Nothing, I …” Now it sounded stupid, sophomoric. “Oh, brother.”

  “Oh, brother, what?”

  “At dinner tonight was I … well, was I a jerk to Rawlins?”

  “Why aren't you asking him?”

  “Because I can't. We're not supposed to talk in anything but an official setting, remember?”

  “Oh, right—police orders,” she said, stifling another yawn. “Well …”

  She'd tell him, give it to him straight, of that he was sure, and Todd felt himself flinching, for of all the people in the world, Janice and her opinions mattered the most to him. It wasn't simply that they had dated back in college and that they now had a unique family bond that would forever unite them. And it wasn't simply that she was always honest. No, it was more the way she always delivered the truth, frankly but softly. Or rather she was always direct but encouraging. He relied on her for this—relied on her perhaps way too much. But she had a way of helping him through the muckier corners of his life, nurturing the better parts of him in a way no one else could. When he'd been deep in the closet, she'd been one of the few to know that he was gay and virtually the only queer person not to cast judgment.

  “You know what I hate about gay men?” she said, the sound of her sheets crumpling in the background as she rolled over. “You think the words gayand sex mean one and the same thing.”

  “Oh, we do, do we?” said Todd with a smile, for this was vintage Janice, wise and irreverent.

  “Yes, you do. I mean, the whole world knows the power of testosterone, and I'm not knocking it, I'm really not. I mean,

  There'd be a whole lot less Lesbian Bed Death if dykes could get a hit or two of it. But you guys think with your dicks, you know? Yet what does sex take up on a good day, fifteen minutes? On a great day, thirty?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But …” She yawned again. “But you're still gay the other twenty-three and a half hours, right?”

  He'd often told her that she should have been a shrink instead of a lawyer, and he now ran his hand through his hair and said, “Yeah, of course, but, Janice—”

  “That's my point—you're not gay simply because you have an orgasm with someone of the same sex. You and I and Rawlins and every other queer person are gay because our primary emotional relationships are with someone of the same sex. And let's face it, the best part of being in a relationship isn't just the sex, it's having someone to have breakfast with, go walking with, do the gardening with, and—”

  “Janice, listen, I'm sorry I woke you up,” he interrupted, wondering where this late-night conversation was going. “Maybe we should talk tomorrow.”

  “No, you asked a question and I'm going to tell you. You see, sometimes … sometimes you just have to stop thinking about yourself and whether you should've done this or that, whether you looked good or stupid. Or who was right or wrong. You gotta forget all that crap and just give and give and give. That's how you keep a relationship alive and healthy and happy, Todd. Sometimes you just have to forget all about being the top dog and you gotta bow to your partner and give with every bit of your heart. And then still keep giving.”

  Staring out the balcony doors and finally seeing it all, he said, “I guess that means I was a jerk.”

  “See, you're not so dense.”

  17

  A moment later it was completely quiet, and Rawlins turned toward the open windows, stared into the dark, and tried to hear something, anything. There was the low, nearly continual hum of insects, a dog barking in the distance, and then … yes, there it was again. The sound of something moving ever so carefully, perhaps that of a shoe sliding through grass. Or was it just some sort of animal?

  A couple of years ago Rawlins had come home quite late—he and another cop had been staking out a suspected crack house, to no avail—and he'd parked in the back, just as he'd done tonight, in the space alongside the garage. Exhausted and stiff, he'd climbed out of his car, clutching the jumbo cup of cold coffee he'd bought four hours earlier at a SuperAmerica gas station. Heading toward the vinyl city-issued garbage can, he saw that the lid was flipped open. Not thinking much about it, he threw in the entire cup, coffee and all. Immediately there was a childlike shriek, a scream so shrill that Rawlins had jumped a good six feet. So was this happening again, had the street-smart and pervasive raccoons of Minneapolis invaded the garbage?

  In an instant Rawlins was on his feet, padding naked through the apartment, past the bathroom and to the back door. Scratching the dark hair of his chest, he looked
down from the second floor and his eyes fell immediately to the garage, a sagging wood-frame structure surrounded by an out-of-control raspberry patch. Off to the side, visible in the light from a lamp in the alley, sat his car, a silver Ford Taurus. And between his vehicle and the garage stood the large black garbage container, now completely undisturbed. Rawlins looked about, searching the bushes that were thick with the junglelike leaves of a hot, humid midwestern summer. He then moved to the side and checked the wooden staircase that doubled back and forth down the rear of the old house to the backyard. Nothing.

  Something off to the side caught his eye. Rawlins pulled back from the glass, but, yes, someone was out there—a man, none too big, slipping through his backyard. So was it just someone cutting through his yard, a neighbor taking a shortcut? No. Rawlins noted how the man was moving, slowly, carefully, and knew this wasn't right. Either this guy was scoping out his house, trying to discern an easy way to break in to the downstairs apartment, or…or … Wait, he was moving back toward the garage. What was he going for? Rawlins's car? There had been a rash of car robberies, where the windows were smashed in and radios ripped off. Or could the guy be going for the garage? In the past year there'd been a handful of garages torched, the work of some warped punk.