Outburst

by R. D. Zimmerman

  This territory was all too familiar. And horrible. Todd remembered—for God's sake, he'd wanted to die too—the night Michael was killed and Todd was hauled in for questioning. As if it weren't bad enough that his lover was dead, in the following days Todd became instant fodder for a media roast, with the world jumping to the conclusion that Todd Mills was guilty of murder simply because he was gay.

  So was that what was happening here? Was Todd's reporting about to unleash upon Christopher Kenney exactly what had been unleashed upon Todd? And could he morally do that to another person? More horribly, would the media rush to portray Kenney as a killer simply because of his gender expression, simply because he was so very queer? Absolutely, and the fire and brimstone they were sure to bring down upon a drag queen accused of murdering a cop would be crushing, of that Todd had no doubt.

  So how was Todd supposed to do this? Yes, he had a job to do. Yes, this was a most shocking case. And, yes, Todd was right at the epicenter. But as a gay person in the media he had definite, distinct responsibilities. So how could he push this further, how could he add another dimension to this story without exploiting the sizzle and gossip of a transgendered person's life, not to mention the fears and stereotypes of straight America as well?

  And just what obligation did he have to Christopher Kenney, if any?

  Not thinking if he should or shouldn't, only knowing that someone had to do something, Todd picked up the telephone and dialed her office number. Fortunately, she picked up right away.

  She answered, “Janice Gray.”

  “It's me,” said Todd. “You're working late.”

  “Oh, hi,” she replied with a yawn. “Would you believe I'm just revving up for a late night? I'm going to be here for hours.”

  “You sure don't sound like it. Say, I don't suppose you were watching TV this evening?”

  “Sorry. Were you on? Did I miss something?”

  “Kind of.” He hesitated—who else could he turn to?—then said, “Janice, I need some advice on transgendered people.”

  “What's that?” she said, sounding suddenly awake. “You got a question about trannies?”

  26

  Rawlins began to see his error not long after they arrived at City Hall.

  Back at the scene he'd been anything but clearheaded, and there'd been, of course, no time to think. And now, given the rigidity of the law—let alone the intensity of the situation—there was no going back. While Officer McNamee escorted Kenney into City Hall via the sally port—the police entrance on the east side of the building—and up to the CID on the second floor, Rawlins slipped away, unable to shake a sense of dread of where this thing would go over the next thirty-six hours.

  No longer pressing the bloodied handkerchief to his neck, Rawlins went into the men's room and headed straight for the mirror over the sink, where he examined the scratches, three of them, on the left side of his neck. The bleeding had stopped long ago, thank God. And really there hadn't been that much blood, for the scratches weren't that deep. It wasn't as if Kenney had gouged him or anything. There'd been no spurting artery, no spray of blood. Now thinking about it, he really doubted whether Kenney himself had been exposed to Rawlins's blood. For starters, Kenney would have had to have open wounds on his own fingertips, which was doubtful, though somehow Rawlins would have to check on that.

  Nevertheless, the struggle had still scared the shit out of Rawlins. He'd seen the blood and all he could think about was how to control it, which was why he'd overreacted. And why he'd taken the wrong steps. No two ways about it, he shouldn't have arrested him. Not yet anyway, for as of right now they didn't have it, enough evidence. Even he could see that.

  Rawlins took a deep breath, exhaled, then washed his hands. He grabbed a paper towel, dampened that, then blotted the wound, which looked completely clean. The tiniest bit of blood stained the towel, but nothing to panic about. It would scab over immediately. So don't worry, he told himself. No damage done. Just get on with it and make the most of the present situation. It was just that … that …

  “Oh, Christ,” muttered Rawlins, shaking his head.

  He wondered how long he could take this. Supposing that he was going to be HIV-positive if not for the rest of his life, then for years to come, he wondered how long he could take the pressure, the worry, the secrecy. A few years back it had been such a relief to come out as a gay man, but now he was right back there. No, actually he wasn't back in the closet. Rather, thanks to HIV he'd been tossed in some hideous dungeon from which he might never escape. Shit, he just wanted to tell someone on the force about his health. But who? And when? Or perhaps he should just ask for a desk job. Then again, knowing him he'd get the mother of all paper cuts and infect half the people in his office.

  He tossed the used paper towels in the garbage, then, just in case he started to bleed again, stepped into a toilet stall and grabbed some tissue and stuffed it in his pocket. Okay, he thought. You know what you have to do.

  A few minutes later Rawlins sat next to Officer McNamee in a small, windowless office, one of only several in the homicide division. In front of them, on the screen of a color television housed in a golden-oak home-entertainment center, was the image of a person, head bowed, blond hair disheveled, body completely still. The person sniffled once, and the sound was picked up clearly and precisely.

  “So,” said Rawlins, nodding at Kenney, “what's he been doing?”

  “Nothing,” replied McNamee. “Hasn't moved a muscle.”

  The interview room was right next door, a small chamber only some six feet by eight with a round table right in the middle. On the table sat two glasses and a sweating pitcher of ice water, and around the table were four simple, armless office chairs, the fabric on the seats a dark maroon. The walls were plain, a nondescript beige vinyl wallpaper covering them, and a single heating and air-conditioning vent was mounted halfway up one wall. Hidden in the vent was the video camera.

  Rawlins glanced at his watch. Kenney had been sitting in there for seventeen minutes. Usually he liked to let them sit longer, sometimes over thirty minutes, to give them a taste of incarceration. After they'd sweated it out some, they were usually more inclined to talk. But not this one. Rawlins could see him shutting down by the second.

  “Okay, here goes,” said Rawlins, grabbing a microcassette recorder.

  “Don't forget to smile for the camera,” cracked McNamee.

  Rawlins ducked out of the office, stepped to the next door, which was only inches away, tapped twice, and entered. Kenney didn't flinch. Rather, he sat there in a state of shock, one leg crossed over the other, his arms wrapped around his waist, his head hung. A single, narrow streak of mascara curled down his young cheek.

  Rawlins placed the small recorder in the middle of the table, pushed the record button, and said, “Good evening, my name is Sergeant Steve Rawlins. I'm a homicide investigator with the Minneapolis police, and we're here at the Minneapolis City Hall on the second floor. Our conversation is being recorded. Can you tell me your name, please?”

  “Kris Kenney,” she said quite faintly, without lifting her head.

  Rawlins glanced down at a piece of paper. “Christopher Louis Kenney?”

  She shrugged.

  “Please speak out loud so the recorder will pick up your voice,” said Rawlins.

  “Well, it used to be Christopher Kenney. I'm in the, um, process of changing it. I go by Krisnow. Kris with a K.”

  “And you can read and write English?”

  Kris nodded.

  “Please say your response out loud. Can you read and write English?”

  “Yes. Yes, I can.”

  “And you're comfortable and have water?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me where you live?”

  “In south Minneapolis. I live with my cousin at 5241 Turner Avenue South.”

  “I see,” said Rawlins, hoping to keep this warmup going as long as possible. “Have you lived there for long?”

>   “No.”

  “Can you tell me how old you are and where you were born?”

  Kris shifted in her seat, glanced up once with narrowed, angry eyes, and said, “I'm twenty-four. I was born in Duluth.”

  “And you went to school there?”

  “Yes, I went to school there.”

  “Do your parents still live in Duluth?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

  “Two brothers, one sister.”

  In the hope of gaining his trust, Rawlins continued with this series of banal questions, asking, “Did you go to college?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a job?”

  “Not really.”

  But when, he wondered, should he play the gay card? Eventually he had to, of course, because it was far too valuable a tool to ignore. He considered waiting, then dropping some I'm-a-member-of-the-tribe-too line when he needed to bring Kenney back, to make him feel as if he had a friend in Rawlins. But, no, he should work it in now, because one of the earliest things Rawlins had learned as an investigator was how critical it was to build rapport. The sooner the better. If Rawlins could do that, make Kenney believe he had a comrade in Rawlins, perhaps then he'd forgo a lawyer, which of course would be ideal.

  Referring to the mega-gay complex in downtown Minneapolis, Rawlins said, “I go to the Gay Times in downtown Minneapolis. Haven't I seen you down there?”

  For the first time Kris looked up. Cocking her painted right eyebrow, she stared at Rawlins for a long, ponderous moment. Then Kris poured herself a glass of water, took a sip, and leaned toward the small recorder.

  “That's right, I think we have met,” said Kris, quite clearly. “But I don't think it was down at the Times. No, I think it was in Loring Park on one dark night. After all, isn't that where all the homosexuals go to have sex? And aren't you the old troll who crept out and paid me twenty dollars for that blow job?” Kris forced a smile. “How did I do? Was it worth it, sweetheart?”

  Oh, fuck. Rawlins sensed a rush of redness climb from his chest and up his neck, then push across his face. Fully aware that this was also being videotaped, he bent over and shielded his face as if he were looking at his notes.

  Rawlins cleared his throat and said, “No, you're mistaken.”

  “Really? I could have sworn you were the one with that miniature dick. Then again, maybe it was a different cop. After all, it gets awfully dark under that bridge, don't you think?”

  Struggling to maintain control, which he clearly wasn't, Rawlins cleared his throat and asked, “So, Kris, how long ago did you move from Duluth to Minneapolis?”

  “I didn't move here from—” Kris shook her head, looked away, then stared back. “Would you quit fucking around with me and just get to the point?”

  Okay, thought Rawlins, so he knows how these things go. He's been through this at least once, of course, if not more.

  “Certainly.”

  What they'd talked about so far was nothing, a failed attempt on Rawlins's part to build trust. He had to be careful though. He didn't want to read Kenney the Miranda warning, not just yet, because then he'd probably lawyer up on him. At the same time, whatever Rawlins asked him now would not be admissible in court, not until Kenney had been Mirandized. However, it was a different matter if he didn't ask Kenney any questions but Kenney simply volunteered information.

  “There was a murder down on the Stone Arch Bridge the other night,” said Rawlins, choosing his words. “A police officer was killed.”

  Kris glared at him. “So?”

  “I wanted to hear what you had to say about it. Things apparently got out of hand. There was a big storm, and—”

  “You know what,” said Kris, choosing her words equally carefully. “You can eat shit. I'm not saying anything.”

  No, thought Rawlins, taking a deep breath, he didn't have any choice. Time to go to the next step.

  “I wish to inform you that you have been arrested for the murder of Park Police Officer Sergeant Mark Forrest,” began Rawlins, who then read him the Miranda warning. “Can you tell me what you know about this murder?”

  Kris leaned forward, put both her elbows on the table, and buried her face in her hands. Then she bowed her head farther down so that her hands slid into her tousled blond hair.

  Into the table, Kris said, “This is bullshit.”

  “What's bullshit?”

  “I didn't do anything. I didn't hurt anyone.”

  “Did you see anything?”

  “No!” shouted Kris, jerking her head up.

  He was going to lose him any second now, that much was obvious, and Rawlins stepped up the pace, asking, “Where were you two days ago, on the night of July tenth?”

  “I saw my shrink, and then … then …” Kris looked away and shook her head in disgust. “Oh, shit.”

  “What kind of car do you own?”

  Kris looked away and was totally silent.

  “Do you own an Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight? Minnesota license-plate number five-five-five RBG?”

  Kris sat there, staring at the wall and biting her lip.

  “What do you have in the trunk of your car?”

  She quickly looked back, her forehead wrinkled downward in confusion and surprise. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “What is in the trunk of your Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight?”

  “I don't know. Nothing. Just junk.”

  Rawlins went on the offensive, stating, “Kris, when I first approached you in front of your home you were putting something in the back of your Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight. Then you quickly shut it and moved up onto the sidewalk. Tell me, what's in there? A weapon of some sort? A gun?”

  Wordless, confused, and now afraid, her head shook back and forth, yet she said nothing.

  “Kris, we're in the process of getting a search warrant for your home and your car. Once we have that warrant, our investigators will go over everything. They'll look for hairs, for bits of fabric, and they'll spray anything suspicious with luminol. Do you know what that is? Luminol? It's a chemical that changes color if it touches blood or touches where blood has been, even if that blood has been scrubbed away. Perhaps we won't need it though. Perhaps we'll get lucky and find a few pure blood samples. Just a few drops, that's all we need. And if we find any we'll have it tested. And you know what? If the DNA matches Officer Forrest's, then you have a big problem.”

  “Oh, shit … You guys are out to get me, aren't you? You're trying to trap me, right?” she gasped, her eyes wide. “I … I need to make a phone call. I get to make a phone call. I want to do that now.”

  “You have to be booked first.” Rawlins tried to keep it going just a bit more. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “No. No, I'm not saying anything until I have a lawyer.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Wait …” Kris thought for a moment. “I want this recorded. I want to make this official.”

  Rawlins leaned forward, hoping this was gold. “Yes?”

  Kris leaned toward the small recorder and said, “I have to have a private cell. I don't want to be with anyone else. My name is Kris Kenney, and I'm a transgender person. If you put me in a cell with a bunch of guys they're going to rape the shit out of me. Am I clear?”

  “Absolutely,” said Rawlins, unable to hide his disappointment. “Don't worry, I can guarantee that for the next thirty-six hours you'll have a cell all to yourself.”

  “I mean it. If any guys in the prison here hurt me, I'm going to sue the Minneapolis police department for every fucking dime it's got.”

  Rawlins saw the hate in Kenney's eyes, then clicked off the recorder and pushed back his chair. “Come on, Officer McNamee will take you down.”

  It wasn't a quick process, but it wasn't hard. All she had to do was let herself be shepherded along. Arms up. Arms down. Fingers here. That one there. Look this way. Turn the other. Ink and photograph.

  Her
hands cuffed behind her back, Kris was led out of CID by some oaf of a cop and down the grand marble staircase of City Hall. About three steps from the bottom, she unknowingly walked through an infrared beam, which triggered a buzzer at the guard desk below. The guard looked their way, checking to make sure all was well this evening, then turned back to his magazine.

  She said nothing as she was led through a series of small halls, then around a corner where a line of cops and cuffed suspects waited in front of a heavy metal door labeled jail intake.

  “Ah, crap,” muttered McNamee. “This might take a while.”

  And it did, nearly forty minutes. Eventually, though, Kris was led up to the door and buzzed into a small room, where she was officially turned over to the Hennepin County Sheriff. Once she was thoroughly and completely searched, the deputy buzzed her into the next hall, and the process of booking began. In sequence, her personal information was taken, she was next carefully fingerprinted—her fingers rolled in ink one by one—and lastly photographed. Only then was Kris shunted onto a heavy, secure prisoner elevator and taken to the jail on the fifth floor.

  What seemed like hours later she was finally allowed her phone call. Calling from an outgoing-only wall phone, Kris dialed the number without hesitation. No, she'd never forgot this number. It would be part of her for the rest of her life.

  Her lawyer in Los Angeles picked up halfway through the second ring, with a frustrated, “Hello?”

  The operator chimed in, “I have a collect call from Kris Kenney. Will you accept the charges?”

  “What? Oh, sure. Yes, I'll pay.”

  The operator clicked off, and Kris, feeling relieved for the first time since her arrest, said, “Joan, it's me.”

  “Kris? Oh, my God. How are you, hon? Where are you?” A honk of a horn drowned out everything, and then Joan Ryan said, “Shit, you have to speak loud—I can barely hear you. You wouldn't believe the traffic I'm in. I've been driving five miles an hour for the last forty minutes. It's awful. Anyway, I haven't heard from you in—”

  “Joan, it's happening again.”