Todd screamed. Something came out of his mouth that he couldn't even hear. And then there were a couple more cops emerging from the dark, rushing to the front of Michael's, blocking the door. Todd charged into them. This was his place. He had to get inside. They were grabbing him though. Shouting at Todd. He started bucking, twisting. This couldn't be. It was impossible. Nothing made sense. But they were stronger than him, those cops, and within seconds his hands were pinned behind his back. He lunged forward, broke free, fury racing through him like never before. A cop grabbed at him, but Todd twisted free. Next something or someone was slamming into his back and he was hurled forward, thrown down and onto the concrete steps. And three or four guys were squashing him to the sidewalk.
Then someone, a woman, was shouting at the cops, telling them to back off.
“Take him down to my car!” she yelled.
There was a scrambling of limbs. A good amount of cursing. They lifted him, dragged him toward the street.
And this cop, a woman with short, blond hair, was by his side, saying, “You can't go in. Michael Carter has been murdered. We need to talk to you.”
It all ran out of him, every bit of fight, of resistance. As if shot, Todd let himself be dragged along. He looked up. Cindy Wilson and Mark Buchanan were charging toward him, the camera trained on him. Of course all this was running live. This was America. This was real-life drama. This was good television.
Pushing for something, anything, with which to shock her viewers, Cindy Wilson shouted, “Todd, what is it? Who was killed? How do you know him?”
And as Todd Mills, star reporter, the big Emmy Award winner, was hoisted to his feet and shoved toward an unmarked cop car, he looked back, focusing on the camera. All his defenses had been blown to bits, and the naked truth that he'd hidden for so painfully long just slipped out, the words crossing his lips more easily, more naturally than he could ever have imagined.
“Michael Carter was my lover!”
5
The rest of Todd's life began that night. It was as if he'd crossed over a line, or been dragged over it. And as he was pushed from the glaring lights into the back of an unmarked car, which a few minutes later sped off, he knew deep inside there would be no coming back, no withdrawing ever again into the warmth of Michael's arms or, for that matter, into the darkness of the closet where he'd hidden for so very long.
Todd had been at the Minneapolis city hall many times. He'd cruised the halls of the huge granite structure, filming the accused, lobbing questions like grenades. Yet this time he was the one being led along, directed down this corridor, up that one. As he passed deeper and deeper into the hulking building, he was silently watching all this, observing even himself, as if he were seeing it all not in person but on television. This was too weird, too unreal, and he was docile as the blond woman and another man escorted him into an elevator, upward, and then through the homicide department.
Only an hour after he'd turned the corner onto West 23rd Street and spotted all those lights and activity—had he really thought for a moment that they'd all gathered there to celebrate his promotion?—Todd found himself in a small room. He was seated on a comfortable couch, and in front of him on a Formica-clad coffee table sat a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Todd stared at the steam rising from the cup, then looked down at his hands. Why was he here? What did they want?
“Would you?” repeated the woman.
He looked up. There were two other people in this small room with the gentle light and the short carpet. Detectives, isn't that what they had said? He couldn't remember who was who. They'd told him their names when they sat him down in that car, a Ford Taurus, and said they needed some help. Would he talk to them? But Todd couldn't even speak. He'd just stared up at the house. Yes, they told him. Michael was dead. There was a squad of detectives in there, and the guys from the crime lab had just arrived. Todd couldn't go in. And the body couldn't come out. Not just yet. The crime scene was sealed indefinitely.
So they asked if he'd come downtown, which he somehow had agreed to, and now the woman was raising a tiny packet of something dry and asking again, “Would you like some creamer?”
“No.”
He stared at her, this woman with the round face and blue eyes and short blond hair who was sipping her coffee. She was tall and hefty, dressed in blue jeans and a navy blue sweater. Todd turned from her, looked at the other one, the guy, who was short and stocky, handsome in a clean-cut way, face pale and serious, his brown hair cropped.
The guy said, “Mr. Mills, Detective Lewis and I want to thank you for agreeing to come down and talk to us tonight.”
His reply was a faint, “Sure.”
“We're seeking information regarding the murder of Michael Carter,” said the woman. “If we could just ask a few questions. You're free to leave at any time. Do you understand?”
Todd nodded. “Yes.”
“Did you know Michael Carter?”
“Of course.” Todd looked at them, cleared his throat. “Are you both detectives? The two of you?”
“That's right,” said the woman. “I'm Detective Lewis and this is Detective Rawlins with the Minneapolis homicide division. We want to find out what happened to Michael Carter, which I'm sure you do as well.”
“Yes … yes, of course.”
Rawlins gently said, “I've seen you on TV, haven't I? You do the crime stuff, right?”
“Channel Seven.”
“Have you been in television for long?”
“Since college.”
“Are you from here?”
“No, Chicago.”
“That's a nice place. A lot of fun. How long have you been in the Twin Cities?”
“Six … six years.”
“Do you live in Minneapolis or St. Paul?”
“Minneapolis.”
“Where?”
“By Lake Calhoun. In a condo.”
Rawlins smiled. “What a great part of town. All the lakes. Lots of fun in the summer.”
“But … but …” Todd shook his head. “What's this have to do with Michael? What happened to Michael?”
“Just relax,” said Rawlins.
“Did you know Michael Carter?” asked Lewis, cutting in.
“Of course.”
“For how long?”
“Four years.”
She said, “How well did you know Mr. Carter? Were you close friends or… or…”
Todd didn't hear the rest of her question. Instead he thought of Michael. Michael who'd gone to the huge march in Washington. Todd had opted out, but Michael had gone with a handful of friends, returning somehow touched or transformed. Oddly empowered. Legitimized, that was how Michael had put it. Full of excitement, Michael had insisted that Todd absolutely had to go to New York for the Gay Games. Instead of hiding at home, watching all those queers on CNN, Todd had to experience what it was like to be surrounded by a million people that were just like him. Todd, however, had bowed out of that one too, manufacturing some lame excuse, which in turn had led to a rather vocal argument all its own.
Todd said, “Michael and I were lovers.”
Rawlins raised his eyebrows, took a sip of coffee, then asked, “Michael Carter and you were gay lovers?”
“That's what I said.” Todd had talked about his sexuality so seldom that he was surprised how easy it was to say “I'm gay.”
“Sure. Of course.” Rawlins glanced at Lewis. “We just want to understand everything. We just want to make sure everything's clear.”
“How long had you two been involved?” asked Lewis.
“About four years.”
“Did you have a good relationship?”
“Yes.” And bit by bit they'd been getting closer. “For the past couple of years I spent most evenings and nights with him at his house.”
Lewis shifted in her chair. “Have you had other homosexual relationships?”
“What?” It didn't make a difference anymore just what he revealed, did it? “A few. I was
married before. But Michael … Michael was the first serious one with a guy.”
“Any problems?”
Todd stared at her. What was her name? Lewis? She looked to be in her late thirties, strong, determined. He glanced at her left hand, saw no wedding ring. A lesbian? If so, would she understand?
Todd said, “Just the usual.”
“The usual, such as?”
“It's just not easy loving another man… ”
Rawlins volunteered, “You find having a same-sex relationship is stressful?”
“Yeah, well you should try having a straight one,” interjected Lewis, “and two kids and a career. I'll bet you ten-to-one that's harder.”
Detective Lewis was married? Unlike Michael, who had a natural sense for it, Todd had always been pathetically weak at picking out who was queer and who wasn't.
“You're not open about your sexuality, are you, Todd?” asked Rawlins.
“No.”
“Do they know at the station where you work?”
He looked at the floor. “No.”
“That must be hard. Did that affect your relationship with Michael Carter?”
“Of course.”
“How?”
“In some ways it made us closer. In other ways it made things much more stressful.” Todd couldn't hide his irritation. “Do we have to talk about this?”
“We're just trying to piece things together.” Lewis moved on, asking, “When did you last see him?”
“Last night.”
“Did you sleep there?”
“No.”
“What about tonight? When were you at his house this evening?”
“I wasn't.”
She studied him. “But that's where we just came from. We just left Michael's house.”
“Well, I wasn't there before that. I was just coming … coming home. My car should still be out front. A green Cherokee. I saw all the cars and lights, and I just parked right there on the street and ran up to his house.”
“I see,” she said, nodding. “So when did you last see him? Sometime earlier tonight?”
“No.” Todd shook his head, cursed himself for leaving. ”I haven't seen Michael since last night.” He fell into thought. “What's going to happen now? I mean, to Michael's body?”
“When the guys from the crime lab are done, the coroner will bring the body downtown,” explained Lewis. “There there will be an autopsy.”
Todd bowed his head into his hands. “Oh, God.”
Rawlins leaned forward, said, “Todd, you said you slept most nights at Michael's. Why didn't you stay there last night?”
“What?”
“Why didn't you stay with Michael last night?”
“Because …”
“Because?”
“Because we had a fight.”
Todd didn't care how it sounded. That was the truth. And Todd hadn't spoken to Michael since that horrendous argument. Nor would he ever again. Those were their last moments together, all that shouting, all that cursing. The last memory.
After a long moment Lewis said, “What did you and Michael fight about?”
“My job. Us. Where we were going. Or weren't.” He looked at Lewis, then Rawlins. “It's kind of complicated.”
Todd took a sip of the coffee, which had grown cold, and then he told them about the pending promotion at Channel 7, how he'd gone to tell Michael the good news. Michael hadn't taken it as such, though, and when Michael had asked about the stupid Christmas party, Todd had burst into a rage. Todd told them in detail, holding nothing back because he wanted to talk about it, make someone understand why he hadn't been with Michael since yesterday. If only he had been. Maybe Michael would still be alive.
“At first I just threw my Cubs hat on the floor—it's still over there somewhere, I think—but then I really lost it. There's a broken bottle of champagne in the living room. Maybe Michael already cleaned up, but I was so pissed I hurled it against the fireplace. And I tipped over a piece of furniture. I'm sure you'll find some broken dishes. A lot of them, actually.”
“This was some sort of frustrated outburst?” Rawlins paused, then said, “So you've had a hard time being gay?”
“Yeah.” Todd looked at the floor, seeing how complicated he'd made everything. “And I've made it harder than necessary.”
“Would you say Michael was forcing you to be gay?”
“What?” Todd stared at him, couldn't hide his surprise. “No, he was forcing me to be honest.”
“Where were the broken dishes?” asked Lewis.
“In the dining room.”
“So you dumped over some furniture, and then what?”
“I left. I don't know, maybe I shouted something too.”
“Did you strike Michael Carter?”
“No.”
“You didn't hit him before leaving?”
“I said no.”
“Where was he when you left?”
“In the living room.”
She asked, “Alive?”
“Of course he was.”
“What was he doing? Did he threaten you at all?”
“Michael? Absolutely not. Michael would never have hurt anyone. He was much too … too gentle.”
“So it was you who lost your temper?”
“Yes, that's what I said.”
Rawlins cleared his throat and asked, “Do you own a knife?”
Todd glared at him. “Of course I do. I've got a half-dozen in my kitchen.”
“Do you hunt?”
“No.”
“Fish?”
“No.”
“Where were you earlier this evening?” demanded Lewis.
“At the station. Channel Seven's right here, right downtown on Marquette.”
“You were there until what time?”
“About six or six thirty.”
“And then?”
“Then I just started driving.”
“Where?”
“I don't know. I was still upset about our fight.”
Rawlins jumped in. “When was that?”
“Last night, damn it all. And I was upset about it all day today too.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn't know what to do about the job offer at the station. And I didn't know what to do about Michael and me. So I just got in my car and started driving. I headed south on Thirty-five W. I just needed to get away. To think.”
“Was anyone with you?” said Lewis.
“No.”
“Did you visit or see anyone?”
“No.” As an afterthought he added, “Wait, I did stop at a restaurant out on the Strip.”
“Did you speak to anyone?”
“Barely.”
“Did you hurt Michael Carter?”
“No!” Todd was suddenly on his feet, pacing to the side. “I was mad at Michael. I was mad at the situation I was in. The promotion and all. But, hell, no, I didn't hurt or kill Michael! Do you hear me? No, no, no! I most certainly did not hurt Michael Carter!”
Rawlins said quietly, “But you did break a bottle and some furniture. Did you damage anything else?”
“Nothing!”
He grabbed at his head with both hands, pulled at his hair. He'd hated his father's temper, which his mother had dismissed as his Polish nature coming through. Todd had more rightly suspected it was the vodka. In any case, for whatever reason, Todd had inherited it.
“Yes,” he said, sitting back down. “I was angry as hell, and I guess I smashed all that so I wouldn't hurt Michael.”
“When was that?”
“Last night.”
“Not tonight? You weren't over there tonight?” demanded Lewis, continuing to press him. “You didn't break that bottle and then hit Michael?”
“No! It was last night. Just ask the upstairs neighbors. They must have heard something.”
“We did. The couple upstairs heard a large fight. And they heard you yelling.”
“Right. That was yesterday evenin
g,” said Todd as if he were vindicating himself. “About eight thirty, I think.”
“You have a key to Michael's, don't you, Todd?” Lewis asked, moving on.
“Of course.”
“And you were over there earlier this evening, right?”
Todd was suddenly quiet. He understood where this was going. What they were trying to construct. And he understood what this and some of the earlier questions implied.
“Is that how it happened?” Todd asked. “Michael was stabbed? Earlier this evening?”
“Yes.” Rawlins nodded. “There were multiple wounds in the stomach and chest.”
“Oh, Christ …”
“You didn't know?”
Todd looked up at him. “Of course not.”
“Todd, I'm sorry, I'm just trying to get all this straight. I'm a little confused here,” began Lewis, shifting in her seat. “So the last time you saw Michael Carter was in the back hallway? Is that what you said?”
“What?”
“The last time you saw Michael Carter alive was in the hallway by the bedrooms?”
Todd shook his head. “No, he was out in the living room. We were both there. I dumped over that sideboard … and then I left. I went out the front door. The place was a mess— I trashed it.” He took a deep breath. “Did Michael clean any of it up?”
“A bit, but everything's pretty much like you described it.”
Todd was rubbing his eyes. What were they trying to imply?
Lewis leaned forward, pointed at him, and said, “You've got something on your neck.”
Todd reached up. “I do?”
“Is that a bruise?” she asked. “Here, why don't you take off your coat and let me take a look.”
Why did this sound so familiar? Where had he heard a line like that before? Oh, crap, he thought. This was almost straight out of a story he'd done about a twenty-year-old punk who'd been picked up for a shooting. The detectives had proudly told Todd how they'd gotten the kid to lift his shirt, show them some rather incriminating bruises from an all-too-recent fight. He'd shown the detectives the bruises and that had been the basis for his arrest.
Dear God. Todd fully realized that he was downtown at police headquarters and in a soft room. He looked around quickly. Yes, that's what they called these chambers. And he knew what they were for too. A pleasant, intimate place for interviews, equipped with a couch, coffee table, a couple of squishy chairs. And a microphone. Probably a video camera too. His heart started pounding. In one of these walls there was most certainly a pinhole, and they were most likely videotaping him. He'd played right into them too. From the beginning they'd made it perfectly clear that he was noncustodial. Sure, they'd even said it, told him he was free to leave at any time. And Todd, in all his confusion, had just been blabbing on and on, giving them everything they wanted.
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