Closet

by R. D. Zimmerman

  There was at least one more guy he wanted to do. And if there were others who knew too much, he'd do them too.

  Just as he'd done with Michael, he'd been studying the next one, a fat, lonely guy, for weeks. He knew where Mr. Number Two lived, where he worked, even when he went to sleep. He knew that and so much more. Once, right in the middle of the day, he'd even stopped over at the guy's house and thumbed through his mail. That had been dumb, one of the neighbors could have seen him, but he couldn't resist. Anyway, that was almost a month ago, and he had to know everything. Now that he did, it was time to whack him. So to speak. Yes, he had to do it. Had to. It was an obsession, he understood that much. But an obsession born of necessity. And he had to take care of this next man.

  He sucked on the cigarette until his head grew light. That was a real plus about smoking rarely. When you did have a cig it made you kind of high. Oh, blessed life, he said to himself, loving every bit of this. Last night had gone better than he'd ever imagined.

  He'd tried to anticipate it all, tried to make a plan or a schedule, but now that he'd finished with Michael everything was different. Not at all as he'd expected. This side of murder was entirely different than he'd ever thought. Beforehand, he was sure he'd have to wait a few months, maybe even six, before he could get up the nerve to start after his next target. He'd even considered the possibility that after he'd killed for the first time he wouldn't be able to do it again. But that wasn't the case. Not at all. He was actually eager.

  Cigarette in his mouth, he turned from the sliding glass door and headed over to his chair. The picture, now where was it? He lifted up a couple of books, pushed aside a coaster. Yes, there it was on the side table. It didn't mean much, not at all. All he had was this one photograph, a small one, and even if the police raided his apartment and found this snapshot it certainly wasn't going to prove anything. Nevertheless, what had Grandma always said when she'd measured and remeasured flour for her cakes? You can't be too careful, no sirree. It was an adage that had served her well. And him too.

  Photo in hand, he returned to the kitchen, struck another match, and held it to the picture. The flame took to the paper, crawling up and around the image of a very heavy man in his late thirties and capturing it with fire. He turned to the sink, held the burning thing over the drain. Of course this man knew Michael. They'd been good friends for a long time, actually.

  Pinching the burning photograph by the very edge, he held it until the very last minute. Mr. Number Two was going to be easy. He worked hard, lived alone, was in terrible shape. There had been no lover in his life for a long time, perhaps years. He might even beg for it. Yes, this target would be that excited, so delighted that another living and breathing soul had taken an interest in him. Christ, he'd probably be down on his knees, screaming: Give it to me, oh God, give it to me! And he was going to get it, no doubt about that.

  Only one problem. This one was a real talker. A gabber who loved to expound on everything and anything. He'd tell the world all of his joys and woes as loudly as he could. So now the man resolved he'd have to sneak over after the bars had closed. Nothing said beforehand. Absolutely not. And no seeing him beforehand whatsoever. No way.

  Yes, that was the way it would be. Only with one twist. God, this was great. Okay, okay, so he didn't have the idea at first, but at least he was smart enough to pick up on a terrific thing. Namely, if Todd Mills had taken the fall so easily for the first murder, why not the second? He'd just happen to drop a little something of Todd's at the murder site, a little something that he so happened to have in his possession. Even if the police didn't jump on it, the media most certainly would. Then it would turn into a real circus.

  With that in mind, he glanced at his watch. Oh, shit. It was almost time. He dropped the photo into the sink, turned on the water as well as the disposal, then flushed the remains of the picture down the roaring drain. He dropped his cigarette butt down too, and turned and hurried into the living room, where he switched on his small color TV.

  It was almost time for the midday news, and the talk of Todd Mills was sure to be juicy.

  11

  “Listen, lunch was enough,” Todd said as they rode the elevator downward. “You don't have to take me home.”

  “Like hell I don't,” replied Janice. “Are you still mad?”

  “About the fifty plucked pubic hairs? No, just a tad sore.”

  “I'm sorry I forgot to tell you.”

  They'd eaten in an empty corner of a cafeteria, Todd not finishing the small tuna sandwich. And now the elevator halted three levels beneath the street, and the doors eased open into the small lobby of a vast underground parking garage. Janice stepped out first, briefcase in hand, her high heels clipping along.

  Todd hurried after her, suggesting, “I could just grab a cab and go over and pick up my car.”

  “Think again, sweetheart. You ain't got no vehicle.”

  Todd stopped, put his hand to his forehead. What the hell was she saying?

  “Todd,” said Janice over her shoulder as she led the way out of the small lobby and between two cars, “you're out of the slammer, but your car isn't. For the time being the police have your Cherokee. It's nothing serious, you don't have anything to worry about, they just want to check it out. No big deal. You don't have a second car, do you?”

  “I used Michael's when mine was in the shop.”

  “Well, you can forget that for right now. You have to stay away from Michael's place and his things—including his car—for a while. His apartment is still a sealed crime scene.” She thought for a second and added, “Remind me to check on this, but you might even have to get permission from his next of kin to go into his place.”

  “Isn't that me? Aren't I next of kin?”

  “Not legally.”

  “But we were pretty much living together. And I have a lot of stuff over there. Clothes, books. I think I even left my checkbook in the bedroom.”

  “Sorry, you weren't married. Not that you could have been, that being against the law for two people of the same sex in this great nation of ours.” She turned down a row of cars, headed for hers, and, her voice thick with judgment, said, “Of course if you and Michael had bothered to register as domestic partners, the legal status between the two of you would be much better. But we didn't bother to do that, now did we?”

  “No.”

  Michael had wanted to register when the city made it legally possible several years ago. But to do so would have meant an open public process, and how could Todd do that? That gossip columnist over at the Tribune could have picked up on it, and then what about his career? So Todd had nixed that one. But Michael had kept pressing, suggesting another symbol, say, the exchange of rings. Todd had tripped on that idea as well, asking what kind of ring, a gold wedding band or something totally different? Michael said it didn't matter, just something, a symbol of their commitment. Then Todd had stalled over the design.

  Bullshit, thought Todd. He'd stalled because he'd been worried what people at the station would think about him wearing a new ring and what it might imply if it had even slightly looked like a wedding band. He'd hesitated on any public symbol of their relationship, and now Michael was gone forever.

  What an absolute fool Todd had been. He now saw that so completely. Obsessed by what others would think, when all that mattered in the end was how deeply he cared for someone and how that someone had reached into his heart and said, yes, we are good. Together the two of us are good. Well, Michael had been better than Todd. Far wiser. And infinitely less uptight.

  “Janice, you go back to your office. You've got work to do. I'll just take your car.”

  Janice stopped next to a van and turned, studying him out of the corner of her eye. He glanced away, wondering if Janice, the purveyor of truth, might see through him. Would she approve?

  “Pardon me, Todd,” she began, one hand on her slender hip, “but you look like shit. Your hair's shooting this way and that, your eyes are red and pu
ffy. Your clothes are wrinkled. You need to go home and get some rest, and that's where I'm taking you. Home. And I want to escort you all the way there, just so that I know you make it.”

  “Janice, I can—”

  “Have you realized that there might be some journalists waiting at your building, hoping to get a word or a photo of you?” She paused. “Well, have you? You're good bait, and this makes a great story. I wouldn't rule out Newsweek or Time going after this story. Don't forget how the media swarmed over O. J.”

  “What?” None of this had even occurred to him.

  “That's why it would be good to have your lawyer with you. Let me remind you, this is big, juicy stuff to Middle America. A queer TV journalist arrested for killing his secret lover. Sounds like a movie of the week, doesn't it?” She shook her head. “Dear God, don't I sound ridiculous? Middle America. I mean, what is it? And who are they? A coffee klatsch consisting of all our mothers waiting to pass moral judgment? Lookit, Todd, here we are, the two of us, in an underground garage, smack dab in the middle of the Midwest. If this isn't Middle America, where is it? Better yet, if we aren't part of it, who is?”

  “Janice, really, there's no need for—”

  “Okay, out with it.”

  “With what?”

  “Listen, I'm not some dumb old dyke. You're not planning on going home just yet, are you?”

  “No.”

  “You don't want to go to the station, do you? That's not where you're going, is it? As your lawyer and your friend, I'd advise against that right now. You've been suspended with pay, don't forget. It really would be best if you let me contact them.”

  “No, I—”

  She stared right at him, fear whisking across her face. “My God, you're going to see someone else, aren't you?”

  “Well, actually, yes.”

  “Oh, shit, Todd, you shouldn't have told me that,” she said, putting her left hand to her forehead.

  He watched as she spun on a heel and stormed off toward her car, then stopped, turned again, and started toward the elevator. Her face was flushed red with fury.

  “Janice, please.”

  “As your lawyer I've got to hear everything, but as your friend this is exactly what I didn't want to know.”

  He jogged after her, caught her gently by the elbow. She stopped, bowed her head, couldn't even bear to look at him.

  “What the hell's going on?” he asked.

  Finally she said, “You've got another boyfriend and you're going to go see him, aren't you? Did you spend the night with this other guy after you and Michael fought? Oh, Christ, wait until the police find out about this. No, wait until the paper gets ahold of it. My God, you're dead meat. They'll make you out to be just another pervert fag. Shit, why did Michael ever put up with you, what did—”

  “Janice, there was only Michael,” Todd said softly. “Only him. I was a jerk about a lot of things, but I knew right from the start that I never needed anyone else.”

  She looked up at him, her own exhaustion showing through, and asked, “But … but then where are you going?”

  “I need to see Maggie.”

  Janice gasped and put a hand to her thin lips. “Oh, Todd …”

  “I won't be able to rest or sleep until I see her.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “It's not a problem, my going there, is it? Legally, I mean. That's why I didn't want to tell you. I've got to see her.”

  Her voice was faint. “No, no, it's okay.”

  She closed her eyes, tried unsuccessfully to hold back several tears. Michael's murder was going to shake up the entire gay community of Minneapolis and St. Paul, Todd knew. For Michael's close friends like Janice, however, the tremors would resonate much deeper and much longer.

  “I'm sorry,” began Janice. “This is too much, all of it. I'm really sorry. Maybe I'm too close to you. And I adored Michael. Maybe I shouldn't be handling this case.”

  “Nonsense.” He bent forward, kissed her on the cheek.

  “I hate it when people die. I hate being left.”

  “Yeah,” he said, understanding she was referring to her own tragedy. “Thanks for liberating me this morning.”

  “Yeah, right,” she said as she fumbled through her briefcase, searching for her keys.

  “I can pick you up later this afternoon.”

  “No, don't. I'll take the bus.” She was quick to add, “And keep the car. Don't forget, I still have Julie's Beetle. I'm pretty sure I can get it going.”

  “That old orange thing?”

  What was it, twenty-five years old? Janice's partner, Julie, had had it from her college days right up until her death. And yet, even eight years after Julie's death, Todd knew Janice couldn't sell the Volkswagen with its convertible top. The little thing with the rattly engine just seemed so much like Julie, free-spirited and fun, particularly on a hot summer day with the top folded down. And so it remained in Janice's garage, covered by a couple of old dingy sheets, started up not more than three or four times a year.

  Janice plucked the car key from her key ring, stuffed it into Todd's palm, and said, “I'll call later, see if you need anything like a pizza or ice cream.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Give my love to her.”

  It was a straight shot out of the city to Lake Minnetonka. The state had recently spent a ridiculous amount of money— nearly a half-billion dollars on not quite fifteen miles of concrete—to make it as easy as possible for white folk to flee the city to the wealthiest and most exclusive western suburbs. Todd had never understood that one, why the state would work not to slow the hemorrhage of tax dollars out of the core city but instead to encourage it. In any case, that afternoon the smooth, straight highway made Todd's drive simple, even thoughtless. Whisking along in Janice's red Honda Prelude, Todd found himself squinting, for he couldn't take it all in, particularly after the darkness of the jail. The clear, crisp day was just so bright, so beautiful, the fall colors still at their peak of bright gold and orange. It looked so disturbingly heavenly.

  Just over twenty minutes after he left Janice in the underground garage, Todd pulled off the highway and passed along the edge of Lake Minnetonka, a huge lake that never seemed to quit, only twist and turn. He followed a winding and hilly road lined with trees in multicolored splendor and then turned down a small lane. Soon he was maneuvering down a familiar narrow drive strewn with fallen leaves. Then he saw it, the Cape Cod house perched right on the edge of the lake. Through the collection of shedding oaks and maples he spotted a number of cars as well. It all appeared so perfect, but of course it wasn't, not today of all days. A moment later a frisky golden retriever bounded out of the woods, barking his announcement. When Todd parked and climbed out, the dog came rushing up.

  “Hi, Pronto,” he said, patting the exuberant creature, which had been a gift from Michael two years ago. They'd been at the state fair and Michael was talking about the kids, how upset they were about their parents' separation. And as Michael chowed on a Pronto Pup—that peculiar corn dog on a stick—he resolved to get them a golden retriever, just like he'd had as a boy, in the hopes that it would bring them the same joy.

  “And I'll recommend they call it Pronto,” he'd said with a big laugh. “Absolutely. It's got to be a golden retriever too. They're such happy dogs.”

  The dog, like Michael, had indeed brought joy to this house, for the parents had gotten back together. The magic hadn't lasted forever though. The parents had split again, and now they'd been apart for three or four months. Todd glanced to his left, saw the silver Oldsmobile. At least Rick was here today.

  He pressed the doorbell, heard small, quick steps, and the door was pulled back by an eight-year-old boy with curly brown hair. As the dog went shooting past them both into the house, the child stared up at Todd and his eyes quickly grew huge with fright.

  In an instant he was running back into the living room, shouting, “Mom!”

  “Wait, Jason!” Todd called, reaching fruitlessly after him.


  He hadn't thought about it before, he'd been too tired, but now that he'd seen the fear in Jason's eyes, Todd worried how the others would react. They couldn't possibly think that he'd been involved in any way, could they? Dear God. Todd stood on the threshold, switching his weight from his left foot to his right and back again. Should he have called first? Or maybe not come at all? He put his hand to his forehead. Perhaps he should just turn around, race away. Was this how everyone was going to react to him, assume he was a killer?

  A weak voice said, “Todd?”

  He looked up. Michael's sister Maggie stood there, her hair dark brown and curly like Michael's. She was pretty, with brown eyes, a handful of freckles set high on her wide cheeks. Outside of their own homes, there were very few places Todd felt comfortable being openly gay, and this was definitely one of them. Michael and his sister were extremely close—her rock, she called him—and Todd and he had come here at least several times a month for dinner, a swim, a long talk. Yes, the long talks. While Michael had been out playing catch with his two nephews, Todd had often sat on their deck, beer in hand, discussing with Maggie and Rick the traumas of the world. Lately, of course, it had just been Maggie, and lately the subject had been marital bliss, or the lack thereof.

  Now Michael's little sister stood at the far end of the hall, staring at Todd with red, swollen eyes, and for a long moment he thought she was going to scream at him. He bit his lip, couldn't move, didn't know what to say. How was this going to go?

  “Oh, God, Todd!” she finally said, and started rushing toward him, her hands lifting upward.

  He hurried forward, embraced her, one hand wrapping around her back, the other up into her hair. All at once he could feel her crying, the sob racking her body, bursting out of her mouth. He bit his lip, clenched his eyes shut, held his pain as deeply and tightly as he could.

  “I loved him, Maggie,” he managed to whisper. “I didn't hurt him.”