“Right.” Lewis rubbed her forehead, bit her bottom lip. “We have a complete search warrant, so we still have to get him over to Hennepin County Medical. I'd like that done before he leaves this morning.”
“Meaning I'm the one to maintain the so-called chain of evidence?”
“If you wouldn't mind.”
“But why me?”
“Because you're a guy.” Lewis went over to her desk, which was only a few feet away, and picked up a sexual-assault kit. “Here you go, buddy. Have fun.”
“Oh, brother,” said Rawlins, shaking his head. “Do you think I should get a gay nurse to help me? Someone flaming perhaps?”
“Actually, I don't think you want to intimidate him, not right now, and I bet anyone gay, let alone a queen, would make someone like him squirm.” She stared at Rawlins, looking him right in the eye as she said, “So what's your gut tell you on this one?”
Not missing a beat, Rawlins replied, “Most crimes are crimes of passion, right? So I'll bet it was a love fight between two homos, one of them horribly closeted and paranoid. A fight Todd Mills won.”
“Maybe. Time will tell.” She pointed to the stack of papers on his desk and said, “Rawlins, you're a mess, you know it? You really got to clean all this up. I mean, how can you find anything?”
“I got my own system.”
“You're hopeless.”
“I ain't no interior decorator, if you know what I mean.”
“No shit. Listen, I'll go get Mills, and then you can take him over to the hospital. We'll continue with the search as soon as you're done.” Lewis advised, “Just remember, be real friendly. No matter how guilty you think he is, be real nice to him, keep him talking.”
“I love dirt.”
“I'm serious. You're his new best friend.”
“Don't worry, I'm good at this shit.”
“I know.”
He chuckled, briefly so, but as soon as she turned away Steve Rawlins's smile vanished. He watched Lewis disappear, eyeing her anxiously until she slipped out of the room and down the hall. He sat there for a few minutes, the thoughts rushing and sliding through his mind. Screw these papers. Fuck the filing. He just prayed she didn't know. There was no way she could, was there? No, he thought, replaying not only this conversation, but every moment, every word since last night. He thought back on it all, from the time they arrived at the scene of the crime to the interrogation of Todd Mills. No, no fucking way she could have picked up on it. He'd played it perfectly. Oh, but if she or anyone else here on the force ever suspected, even hinted …
Right, he thought, reaching around and grabbing his dark leather jacket from the back of his chair. He was going to have to forget about everything else that lay buried in this stack of papers, all the cases that were begging for attention, even the ones on the way to court. Screw them all, he thought. Nothing was more important than making sure no one found out about his connection to Michael Carter.
9
“So when did you first do it?”
Todd Mills climbed in and pulled shut the passenger door of the Taurus sedan. Glancing out the windshield, he squinted at the bright sunshine. Had he heard Detective Rawlins correctly? No, that couldn't be what he was asking. Todd, who hadn't been released more than five minutes ago, who was exhausted and dazed, had to be imagining it.
“What did you say?” Todd asked.
“When was the first time?” Rawlins started up the car, glanced over with a sly grin. “You know, with another guy.”
“What?”
As they pulled away from the looming city hall, Todd shook his head. He couldn't believe this. Any of it. Wasn't the body search last night humiliation enough? Or the news reports?
Todd said, “I'm only doing this because my lawyer said I had to.”
“Correction, you're only doing this because of a court order.” Rawlins patted the sexual-assault kit next to him and added, “Don't worry, pal, it's painless and it won't take long. Kind of a formality. We're not looking for anything, really. It's just stuff for the record.”
“How nice.”
“Don't worry. I'll have you over at your lawyer's in forty-five minutes. Where's she taking you to lunch?”
“I don't know and I don't care.” Todd thought for a second, then asked, “What do they want this stuff for? Where's it go? What record?”
“No big deal, the results just go to the crime lab. It's not public.”
He slumped in his seat. “You know, I don't care what people know about me anymore. Not that I have a choice, but I really don't. I'm just too tired.” He'd finally seen today's paper, and even he had been surprised at how open and vulnerable he appeared in the photo.
“You worried about the hospital?”
“No. Well, yeah, a bit. I just don't want to have to talk to anyone.”
Rawlins quickly said, “Don't worry. I know a back entrance. We'll go in that way. We'll keep it quiet. No one will see you.”
As they passed around a corner, Todd looked up at the towering red granite walls of the building he'd just exited. He saw a series of smaller windows. Was that where he'd been last night, way up there in a cell?
“Me?” began Rawlins, driving through the light traffic. “I wasn't a real early bloomer, if you know what I mean. I was a virgin until I was twenty. And that first time was the absolute best. I was really in love too. I was the star hitter on the college baseball team, the girls were all over me, and I could have had anyone. I mean it, almost any one of those chicks would've loved me like there was no tomorrow. Instead, I fall for someone who dumps me, and almost twenty years later I'm still not over it. Man, imagine falling in—”
Todd eyed him suspiciously and interrupted, asking, “Why the hell are you telling me this? You think I care?”
“Maybe not, but I think you're wound up about as tight as they come. And trust me, man, everyone's going to be asking about your sex life. You're in the hot seat, buddy, and you just got to relax a bit. Do you have anyone you can talk to? Any other gay friends?”
“Well …” He'd almost mentioned Janice, but he stopped short, unsure just what was okay to divulge. “No, not really.”
“I'd recommend you find some fast. You've just come exploding out of the closet, and it's no time to be alone. Even I know that. The pressure's not going to let up on you for weeks, maybe months. You're going to need some good support.”
“So you're a therapist? And here I thought that you were just a detec—”
“Please, my duties are endless. I went into this field just so people could call me a real dick.” Rawlins laughed. “Which reminds me, have you heard what they call a lesbian detective?”
Todd wasn't sure he wanted to know. In any case, why the hell was Rawlins talking about this?
He said, “No.”
“A dyke dick.”
Todd shook his head, and stared out the window as they headed over to Washington Avenue, then headed east. The Mississippi River and the St. Anthony Falls lay to the left, just beyond a series of grain mills. Straight ahead, a mile at most, was the West Bank of the University of Minnesota. It all seemed so simple. For the first time Todd saw clearly how he'd taken so many false steps in life and how suddenly everything had caught up with him.
“You're one of those guys who'd change to being straight, aren't you? I mean, if it were possible you'd turn hetero, wouldn't you?” asked Rawlins. “I'm right, aren't I?”
“At one point that's all I wanted, yeah.” So, thought Todd, am I really that uptight, that transparent? “I even got married.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that last night. Were you happy?”
“She was very pretty, very nice. I was nice. We were nice together. Besides the fact that we stopped having sex after the first year, it just didn't work.” Todd shrugged. “What about you?”
“I almost got married a couple of times, but … but …” He shrugged and laughed. “Like I said, that first time was really the best. Unfortunately nothing's come cl
ose since.”
Todd saw how Rawlins was going toward the hospital, swinging wide past the Metrodome, then cutting back in. Why the circuitous route? This had to be twice as far as just cutting across town. Was Rawlins merely heading for the promised back door? Or was there another reason—namely, was he trying to prolong this conversation?
A few blocks later he saw it, the Hennepin County Medical Center, a massive beige and brown building, very long and low. Todd had been here a number of times as well. The best trauma center in the region was here, and Todd had charged in after a half-dozen crime victims. Frequently he'd cornered a hassled doctor for a comment too. And once he'd even been there filming when an old guy who'd been mugged went into cardiac arrest. A great segment. Quite intense.
“So when did you meet Michael?” asked Rawlins, as he turned another corner and started hunting for a parking place.
“Four years ago.”
“Where?”
“At the lake.”
“What'd you do, pick him up at the gay beach?”
“No.”
“In the bushes? There's a gay pick-up place there, isn't there?”
“If you really want to know, I was jogging and twisted my ankle in a hole. He was out for a run too, and he stopped, asked if he could help.”
“Love at first sight?”
“Kind of.”
Todd recalled how Michael had helped him over to a bench, then stood there, quite concerned, as Todd loosened his shoe. Todd wasn't all that lame, but Michael insisted on walking him the three or four blocks to his condo. Nothing had happened then, but they saw each other out running the next week and pretty soon they were jogging regularly together. Then Todd had invited Michael up for a beer. And then …
“So were you two committed right from the beginning?” asked Rawlins.
“Yeah.”
“You didn't date anyone else?”
“No. It felt that strong right from the start.”
“You were lucky.” With a grin, Rawlins pressed, “Really, totally monogamous? No fun on the side?”
“Nope.” Todd eyed Rawlins, wondered what his situation was. “What about you? Are you in a relationship?”
“I was last year. Or was it the year before?” he said with a laugh.
“What happened?”
He shrugged. “Someone started screwing around, if you know what I mean.”
Todd waited for the rest of the story, but there was none. He saw the change in Rawlins's mood—the still eyes, the flat mouth—as if he were recalling something not at all pleasant. Todd assumed that Rawlins had been dumped, his girlfriend probably left him for another guy. Everyone had a story, but he wasn't particularly interested in this detective's.
Rawlins, lost in thought, silently pulled the car into an empty spot and shut off the engine, then climbed out.
“Wait a minute,” said Todd, pointing to the box on the seat. “Don't we need this?”
“Right.”
As Rawlins scooped up the sexual-assault kit, Todd climbed out. He then followed the detective toward a side entrance, one that was off the main street and hardly used. Passing through a series of long white corridors, Todd kept his head down. He wished he had a hat. Or some big sunglasses. When a couple of nurses looked their way, Todd scratched his head and looked at the floor. They hadn't recognized him, had they?
Finally Rawlins ushered Todd into a small room, saying, “Wait in here.”
Todd entered the small chamber, saw a sink, an examination table, a chair. He stood there realizing he'd never felt so humble. Nor so lost. He just wanted to get this over with and go home. The details of Michael's funeral loomed before him like a dark cloud.
Less than a minute later Rawlins came back in, going over to the examination table and placing the kit on it. He opened the box and withdrew a small comb and several plastic bags. Jesus Christ, thought Todd, watching all this. What was going on?
“Okay,” explained Rawlins. “This bag is for pubic and the other for head.”
“What?”
“You know, hair samples.”
“Wait a minute, my lawyer didn't say anything about this.”
“Trust me, this is all standard.”
“But she told me,” protested Todd, “I was just coming over here to have some blood drawn.”
“That too. That's what those vials are for,” said Rawlins, nodding toward the inside of the kit. “But besides that I need fifty plucked pubic hairs and fifty plucked hairs from your head. They gotta be plucked, too, so you get the follicles or whatever.”
“No way.”
“I can show you the search warrant. Do you want to see that again? Or maybe you'd like to just go back to the jail?”
Todd shook his head. “I can't believe this.”
“No need to panic, bud,” said Rawlins. “Now, either you do it—you just put the samples in these little bags—or I can get a nurse. Would you like him to do the plucking?” He held up the comb. “Or would you like me?”
Todd shook his head, reached for the comb and bags. “No, thanks. You can leave.”
“Remember, fifty.”
“Yeah, yeah. But this is ridiculous. It's not going to prove a thing.”
“I'm just following rules.”
As Rawlins was shutting the door, it just popped out of Todd: “I was fourteen.”
Rawlins pushed the door back a bit. “What?”
“You know, the first time.”
“No shit, you were that young? Were you just experimenting or was it the real thing?”
“Well, frankly I'm not as straight as I've been pretending.”
“What was his name?”
Todd thought for a moment. “Tommy. He lived down the street.”
“And who was your best lover?”
“My last.”
“Meaning?”
“Michael, of course.”
“Yeah,” mused Rawlins, “there really are lovers who just pass through your life and others who change your path. Don't you think?”
Todd nodded. “That's the kind of guy Michael was.”
Then, before Rawlins could ask anything else, Todd pressed the door shut. He stood still in that small white room, wondering why? Why on earth would he confess any of his sexual history to Rawlins? And more important, why the hell would Rawlins want to know?
10
So they thought Todd Mills had done it. How fucking unbelievable. Incredible, really.
The little things in life offered the biggest rewards. Or something like that. His grandmother had had all sorts of little wisdoms, most of which he'd dismissed. But the old lady had been right on this one, by God. The one about the little stuff in life was absolutely true.
The man who'd most definitely been the last person to see Michael Carter alive now sat behind the locked door of his apartment, staring at the front page of the Tribune. It was early afternoon as he sat reading the paper over and over. He still couldn't believe it. It had been on the radio and television as well, a little feeding frenzy of guess-who's-fucking-who. He'd been so worried, had taken every precaution he could imagine so that no one would spot him and the police wouldn't be able to trace him. Obviously he'd done it all right. It was good, too, that he'd made Michael undress before doing him, for it made it look like a passionate crime. But Todd Mills? They thought Todd Mills had knifed Michael Carter? Holy shit, it was too good to be true. Why hadn't he had the brains to set it up that way? Then again, if he had tried, he probably would have blown it and been caught. So it was better this way. Totally unexpected. A surprise reward for a job well-done. He dropped the paper in his lap, felt another wave of smug pride.
It had also never occurred to him that he would be this exhausted after doing Michael. It was the release, he supposed. Even now, not even twenty-four hours later, he felt so relieved, so spent. For weeks he'd been anticipating last night. The sheer inevitability of it had loomed before him each day. The suspense of when and how had been unbearable, but no
w that it was over he felt like celebrating.
And he felt like having a cigarette too.
Still chuckling to himself, he pushed himself out of his chair and passed into his kitchen. It was a little box of an apartment, identical to all the other ones in the building, a two-and-a-half story walk-up built in the early seventies. It was comfortable enough, particularly given how little time he actually spent there.
He reached the dark-wood cabinets, pulled open a drawer. There it was: the knife. Just lying there with the big ladle, the grater, the can opener. Of course he'd never use it again for carving meat, not after last night. He wasn't some sicko after all. He'd come home and washed the blade thoroughly, then put on a spaghetti pot of water, brought it to a boil, and dropped the knife into it and let it cook for a minute or two. He guessed he should eventually get rid of it, but there certainly weren't any traces of Michael or his clothing left on it after all that. And what better place to hide it than with the ladle and grater and can opener?
He always knew he was smart, and this proved it, he thought, reaching past the knife for a half-empty pack of cigarettes that languished at the back of the drawer. He'd quit smoking—what was it?—five years ago, but he still allowed himself two cigarettes a month. That was nothing, really. Down from a pack a day. And he allowed himself two smokes a month not merely for the carnal pleasure but to show that he had real control. He wasn't like those wimps in all those stop-smoking groups, the ones who needed to be babied along. Nope. Not him. Just like everything else, he did it all alone. Grandma would be proud, so very proud.
He dragged a match over a burner on the stove, lit up a cig, and took a deep, soulful drag. The rich, hot smoke filled his lungs. He held it, let it burn his lungs, and strolled out of the kitchen, through the living room, and to the sliding glass door that opened onto the balcony. He pulled the door back a bit, leaned forward, let the smoke spew and steam out into the cool afternoon air. No sense in smoking up the joint.
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