It was yet another beautiful morning in this fall of extraordinary weather, and the rising sun spread a golden cast over the glasslike surface of Lake Calhoun. The perfect backdrop for the beginning of the story, thought Cindy Wilson. She and Mark Buchanan had it all planned out. She was going to be standing with the lake behind her, then he'd swing around and zoom in on the hillside, and next they'd cut to the segment they'd been piecing together since before six this morning. Perfect. Yes, her stock at Channel 7 was rising quickly, and this story very well might clinch her promotion. The CrimeEye might be all hers.
She opened her compact, stared at the small mirror, and noted that her blond hair was all in place. The deep red lipstick was fresh and expertly applied too. Good. Putting away her compact, Cindy smoothed her black leather jacket, which fit her trim body perfectly. She'd been wearing the same jacket since she arrived hours ago, and although she'd considered switching to her burgundy wool coat—which was up in the Channel 7 van and looked so great against the tones of her skin—management downtown had told her to stick with the leather. Much better, they'd said. Made it look like she was actively involved in the investigation. Which in a very real way she was. After all, she'd found the body.
“Thirty seconds,” called Mark, tightening his camera on the tripod.
Cindy assumed her position, adjusted her earpiece, flicked at one stray hair. Clear your head. Think this through. Start with the sunrise. The beauty. Move into the murder. Yes, this was going to be great. And be sure, she told herself, be absolutely sure to mention the bit about the suspect. Tell them to stay tuned to Channel 7 for this unfolding story of murder.
“And five, four, three, two, one,” announced Mark. “You're live.”
A microphone in her right hand, Cindy looked directly into the camera. “It's a beautiful dawn out here on Lake Calhoun, with the morning sun cutting through the trees, reflecting off the glassy surface of this popular lake. It's just after seven in the morning, and already scores of joggers and bicyclists are out enjoying the day. But is this lake, this park, as beautiful and safe as we would all like to believe? Evidently not, for early this morning another man was murdered, apparently knifed to death in an area where gay men reputedly seek anonymous sex. Once again the CrimeEye team has been on the story from the very start, alerting the police and aiding in the investigation. Here's what we learned…”
The camera turned away from Cindy, showed the bushy hillside, and then faded away. Cindy turned toward a small monitor and watched the clip she and Mark had prepared.
“Shortly after five this morning Channel Seven received an anonymous tip, claiming that a man had been killed in this area,” came Cindy's voice-over as the video showed a large clock in the station downtown. “Our night manager of the news desk then alerted both me and the police of the mysterious call, and all of us immediately rushed to this area of Lake Calhoun, frequently known as the gay beach.” The video showed the police and Cindy Wilson searching the area, flashlights in hand. “And what we found was indeed a body.”
As graphically as could be portrayed on television, the camera showed the sequence of events as Cindy Wilson narrated. There was shouting and hollering. Then Cindy gasping, trying to maintain control, trying to look both professional and resolute. Yes, the body, Cindy shouted. The cops came running, and the camera zeroed in on one hand poking out of the brush. Then there was a huge bloodstain on the hillside. An ambulance. Flashing lights. The arrival of the crime lab. More shouting and chaos. And lots of Cindy Wilson looking official, concerned, and professional. Always professional.
Then back to Cindy live, standing on the banks of the picture-perfect lake. “The victim of this grisly murder was a white male, thought to be in his early thirties. While the police are not releasing the victim's name pending notification of relatives, the CrimeEye team has learned that the cause of death initially appears to be multiple knife wounds. This is speculation, but it is quite possible that early this morning the victim was seeking anonymous sex in these bushes and was attacked and killed in the process of that.
“It's much too early to reach any conclusions, of course, but off the record several police officers have already commented on the similarity of this murder to the one just last week. That murder occurred only ten blocks away in Kenwood, and I'm sure many viewers will recall seeing Channel Seven's own Emmy Award-winning Todd Mills led away by the police. Although he was released, Mr. Mills was held overnight for questioning for the murder of Michael Carter, his homosexual lover, who died from multiple knife wounds. Whether the man found dead this morning was also gay remains to be known, but police are not discounting a link between the two. However, I did personally note a wedding band on the victim's left ring finger.
“Needless to say, the tranquility of this beautiful autumn morning has been shattered by this grisly murder. While murder is by no means new to Minneapolis or St. Paul, it is rarely seen in the heart of the wealthy Kenwood area or in the beautiful Lake District, which really is the pride of the entire city of Minneapolis. I have been assured by the head of police, Captain Lou Olson, that these two cases are top priority.
“I should add, there has already been one very interesting development in this case that might lead to a solution of this murder and perhaps also that of Michael Carter,” continued Cindy Wilson. “A piece of evidence was found near the scene of the crime this morning. While I'm not at liberty at this moment to divulge anything further, an item was found in the bushes that police feel might lead to an arrest. The police are excited and pleased about this, and I would like to assure you that the CrimeEye team will keep you completely informed for any developments in this exciting and fast-breaking story of murder and gay sex.
“For the Channel Seven CrimeEye team, this is Cindy Wilson.”
22
“You look like shit,” said Donna Lewis, sitting behind the steering wheel of the Taurus.
“Yeah, well, I didn't get much sleep last night,” replied Rawlins.
His mouth opened in a huge, unstifled yawn, and he glanced down the hill at the collection of cop cars on the grass and along the bicycle path. Lewis and he had been down there for hours and had only just retreated to their car up on the parkway.
“What, were you out at the bars trying to find the man of your dreams?” she prodded.
“Something like that,” answered Rawlins, trying to ignore her by looking through the dense trees and out over the smooth surface of the lake.
“And?”
“None of your business, Mom.”
“But you did see Mills?”
“Like I told you, he was at the Gay Times.”
“That's pretty nervy of him, wouldn't you say?” She reached toward the dashboard for the silver Thermos of coffee. “I mean, going out cruising just after you bury your boyfriend doesn't sound so very puritan, does it? Then again, if he did kill Carter and perhaps this guy, then obviously he isn't terribly ethical, much less sentimental.”
Rawlins looked away in disgust and said, “After some of the shit I've seen him pull on TV, I wouldn't call him warm and fuzzy, that's for sure.”
Rawlins shrugged and slumped against the passenger door of the Taurus, then closed his eyes. He hadn't been asleep more than an hour or two when the phone started ringing and he was called down here to Lake Calhoun. Then for the last few hours it had been nothing but chaos as everyone from the crime lab to the coroner to—of course—Channel 7 rushed around, doing their business. Although Lewis and he had yet to talk about it specifically, Rawlins most certainly knew their next task of the day.
Crap, he wasn't going to get any time for a nap. All he wanted to do was sleep. Things were calming down now though. They'd just taken away the body, and the guys should soon be done combing the hillside for any additional items. Already they'd found a number of condoms. And, of course, the hat.
“More,” muttered Rawlins, holding out his chipped coffee mug. “Like about a gallon.”
“Yeah, yeah,” s
he said as she poured some for him, then for herself.
Of course the guy they'd found knifed in the bushes had been seeking anonymous sex. In Rawlins's mind there was virtually no doubt about it. Lewis had suggested a simple mugging; Rawlins had told her to stop being ridiculous. And he wasn't that surprised to learn that the dead guy was married and from the wealthy suburb of Edina, facts that had been confirmed within the last half hour. Sure, most of the men who hunted for sex in these bushes were gay, either the compulsive types or the perennial lonely hearts. But a good deal weren't. After all, anonymous sex areas like this were anonymous for a very good reason: Many of the guys had much too much to lose. Like wives. Or girlfriends. Or jobs.
“So you think this is connected,” asked Lewis, “to the murder of Michael Carter?”
Rawlins hesitated, wasn't sure how he should respond, then answered the most simple way, saying, “Probably.”
“Both were knifings, obviously. Both appear to involve gay men.” Lewis sipped at her coffee, then added, “But it'll be interesting to see the coroner's report.”
“He should be able to tell us if the wounds could have been made by the same weapon.”
“Or if any sexual act had taken place. After all, they never found proof that Carter was actually doing anything.” Lewis shrugged. “This guy's pants were open, but that was about it. I mean, it didn't look like he was doing anything hot and heavy.”
Rawlins shrugged. “Blow jobs?”
“Could be. We'll have to wait to hear from the coroner on that one too. See what they find in his mouth and stomach.”
With his head, Rawlins motioned toward the Cubs baseball cap perched carefully on the backseat and said, “So at last we have the mysterious Cubs hat. What are we going to do about it?”
“Even if it is his, it doesn't prove anything, not conclusively. Obviously, though, we need to talk to him.”
“When?”
“The sooner the better. Actually, we could just go over there right now. I would imagine this early he'd still be there.”
The possibility that the cap belonged to Todd Mills had been brought up almost immediately after it had been found in the bushes. Upon seeing it, both Cindy Wilson and Mark Buchanan had stood there dumbfounded. It wasn't that Cubs hats were all that rare in the Twin Cities, merely that Cindy and Mark so clearly associated a hat like this—a real wool Cubs cap like the players wore—with one person in particular.
“Wait a minute, that's Todd's hat, isn't it?” Cindy had said, freezing in her steps.
“Christ,” Buchanan had muttered, knowing fully what it implied.
Of course, it might not be, and in an effort to identify its owner the crime lab had been quick to study the hat and gather a number of hair samples from it. With any luck there were still a few follicles attached to those samples, otherwise they'd get an identification with only eighty-five percent certitude. Which wouldn't be good enough in court. Nevertheless, the hat was clearly attached to the murder via a stain on the brim, which one of the technicians had taken note of. He'd done a chemical test on sight, and the dab had barked up orange, meaning that the spot was in fact blood. They'd be able to ascertain a blood type within a few days, but it would take at least a month to get a foolproof DNA identification.
Rawlins downed his coffee and said, “You know what, why don't you let me go over?”
“Alone?”
“Yeah, I just want to get him talking. See how much he'll say. I think we'll get more information out of him if we keep this as nonintimidating as possible.”
“Not to mention noncustodial.”
“Exactly.” Rawlins wondered if Lewis suspected anything, and he added, “Let me just go over and shoot the breeze with him. I'll get him to make me some coffee and just sort of work into it.”
“You mean, you think he might talk more to you just because you're gay?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Maybe.”
“You fags,” said Lewis, rolling her eyes. “You're like a private club, you know?”
“Let's not get into that now.”
“No, really. You want to be accepted, but you can't accept that some straight people just might—”
Rawlins shook his head. “Listen, we'll have a group therapy session on sexuality some other time. Just not now. I'm too tired.”
“Okay, fine. You go over alone and talk about boy things or whatever. I don't care. I'll get a ride downtown with the crime lab.” She nabbed the Thermos off the dashboard. “Just don't forget to take a real good look around his apartment. Maybe he'll even let you do a search without a warrant.”
“Yeah, he just might.” Rawlins smiled. “He's starting to get real comfortable with me.”
23
Todd just lay there in bed, his eyes open, his body not moving beneath the down comforter. For a moment he considered trying to catch the morning news on his small bedroom TV, but the morning light in his bedroom warned that it was already too late. After staring at the ceiling for five or ten more minutes, he rolled his head to the side, saw the clock. It was just after nine. Well, he'd missed the news by more than two hours. Oh, well, he thought. He should get up. He had to. But his arms felt weighed down and he just couldn't move. He hadn't slept this late in years.
He had reason to be exhausted, of course, and he was sure that he hadn't slept this soundly in weeks, most definitely not since the night before Michael and he had fought. His mind drifted over all that had occurred since that night. No wonder he was worn out, he mused, getting tired just thinking about it all.
So had he slept so soundly because he'd passed through the end of the beginning or because he'd had sex with Rawlins? Todd rolled onto his side, stared at the empty space. Christ, what had he done? How stupid. How … how …
Rawlins had really been here, and it had really happened. They'd started out there in the living room and ten, maybe fifteen minutes later proceeded back to this bed. And it had been great. Todd recalled the other man's body, the surprising bulk of his chest, the strength of his shoulders, the trim waist. How wonderful it had been to hold someone in his arms. And to be held. Absolutely. Through all of this short, intense week Todd had yet to realize how lonely he was already. And he recalled Rawlins's sure, firm exploration of Todd's own body, how naturally and easily things had progressed. It was almost as easy as being with Michael, he thought with yet another tinge of guilt. Perhaps even a little bit more exciting. Or had that been because of the novelty? Sure, it had been exciting to touch and feel and kiss someone altogether new. There had been something odd about it though, for while it had been passionate, it had also been so frenzied, so desperate.
But what did it mean?
Todd didn't know the answer to that one. Rawlins hadn't stayed long enough. The act itself had been protracted—three or four times they'd neared orgasm, only to hang back and stretch things out—and then once they were done, Rawlins had left, rather hurriedly so. When was it? Almost 3:30. He'd barely lingered afterward. Barely said anything as he slipped out of bed and trudged naked back to the dark living room, where he gathered his clothes. Todd had followed a few minutes later, stood at the end of the hall and watched as Rawlins dressed, looking … looking what? Angry? Todd had been so tired he couldn't really tell. Or rather, he'd noticed, but he'd been too exhausted to give it any thought. Instead, he'd given Rawlins a final hug, seen him to the door, then collapsed into bed and blacked out in a deep, lost sleep.
Despite how deeply he'd slept, Todd now felt nearly as exhausted as when he went to bed. He stared at the curtain-covered window and at the light that was seeping around the edges and thought: Michael is dead and I screwed Rawlins.
Sure, but Michael had been killed almost a week ago. He was never coming back. It was just that, well, Todd wasn't ready to move on, to let go of Michael. Yes, that was right, thought Todd, realizing he was as depressed as he was exhausted. He wasn't ready to start picking up the pieces, didn't want to be ready. Yet Rawlins had just dropped ri
ght in there, forcing a wedge right between Todd and the memory of Michael.
So what had been on Rawlins's mind? Why had he come over here in the first place? Rawlins had claimed there was something he wanted to talk about, something he wanted to tell Todd. Was that merely a ploy, a way to gain entry into Todd's apartment and his emotions? And why had Rawlins seemed so stern as he departed? Surely that had to do with his work. Perhaps Rawlins was afraid it would get back to the police force, where word of last night's liaison might not fly too well. Then again, Todd wasn't still a suspect in Michael's case, was he? Surely the statements from that gas station attendant and the waitress at the chili restaurant had taken care of that. And surely there were no ethical questions involved. This wasn't like a shrink sleeping with a client. Or was it? Then Todd wondered if the complicating factor wasn't much more basic. Did Rawlins have a partner, a lover, a longtime companion, or whatever you called the person of the same sex you couldn't live without? No, he'd claimed earlier that he was unattached.
Todd moaned and rolled out of bed. From the bathroom he took his robe, the big white, terry-cloth one, and proceeded to the living room, where he put on some music. As he turned toward the kitchen he saw it, the blue towel, right where Rawlins had dropped it after pulling it from Todd's waist. Todd had a vision of himself standing naked before Rawlins in the dimly lit living room. Okay, it might be complicated today, but last night it was hot. Definitely so. And he wondered when he might see Rawlins again, what might transpire at that time versus what he wanted to transpire. No, he thought, he couldn't handle anyone new in his life. Not yet.
In the kitchen Todd glanced at his new answering machine. Even as he looked at the small white box, he saw the digital number climb from five to six. Six messages? How was that possible? He studied the phone. Oh, right. He'd turned off the ringer last night, and his machine had been silently answering the phone all morning.
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