Closet

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “Excuse me,” he asked the librarian. “I'm looking for some class albums. Do you know where I might find them?”

  “Albums?” A short, bland woman with blondish-gray hair and pale glasses studied him judgmentally. “You mean, school yearbooks?”

  “Right.”

  “Sorry, we don't have anything like that here.” She tugged at a yellow sweater draped over her shoulders. “As you can see, this is a small library—just these rooms up here and the children's library downstairs. You might try the downtown library, but I'd call first. Most libraries don't have room for that sort of thing anymore; a lot of them cleaned house in the sixties and seventies and sent things like yearbooks to the historical society.”

  “So I could try there for Lake Harriet Elementary yearbooks?”

  “Actually, no.” She stared at him, then cleared her throat and continued. “They wouldn't have that either. Not for that particular school.”

  “I'm sorry, I'm a little confused.”

  “Well, if I'm not mistaken, none of the grade schools in Minneapolis had yearbooks.”

  “I see,” Todd muttered, unable to hide his disappointment.

  “Only the high schools,” continued the librarian, proud of her acquired knowledge. “So the closest you could come is the yearbook for Southwest High. That's where all the kids from Lake Harriet Elementary went.”

  “Of course.”

  Todd stood there, baffled and at a loss. He just wanted one name. That was all. Jeff would know, of course, but Todd didn't want to approach him with this question, which he might in turn avoid.

  “It's too bad Lake Harriet Elementary was torn down,” mused Todd, rubbing his forehead, wondering what to do next.

  “Oh, yes, indeed. A real pity. That was, what, maybe fifteen years ago? Something like that.”

  “I just wanted to see a picture of one of the graduating classes, and I'm sure they would have had that at the old school.”

  Her eyebrows raised, she pushed her glasses up her nose, and said, “Say now, maybe I'll be able to help you after all. When they tore the school down, the school offered us all sorts of stuff, but we just couldn't take it. Not enough room, like I said, so they passed most of their historical photos and data on to the historical society. I imagine it's all in boxes in some warehouse somewhere over in St. Paul. But … but it seems to me we might have something of interest in the pamphlet files.”

  Her hand to her chin, she muttered something, then pulled again at the shoulders of her draped sweater. She mumbled a few more words to herself, reached into a drawer, and nabbed a key attached to a large paper clip.

  “Yes, maybe we do,” she said, tapping on her front teeth with the nail of her right index finger. “Follow me.”

  Leaving the main counter, she turned immediately to the right and unlocked a narrow door. She flipped a light switch, then led Todd up some stairs to a small room with a balcony overlooking the rooms below. Perhaps, thought Todd, this had once been a charming reading alcove, a place to hide away with a book. Now, however, it was crammed full of stuff, from clunky old computers draped with a sheet of translucent plastic to stacks of books, broken chairs, and a wall of old oak file cabinets.

  “People live in this neighborhood for years and years,” explained the librarian. “Even if they do move away, they come back, either to retire or just to visit. People are very loyal to Linden Hills. And that's why it seems to me that we kept a few things from Lake Harriet Elementary.” Todd felt his heart pick up speed. “Like photos?” “Maybe.” Running her finger down the wooden file cabinets, the librarian stopped at one drawer and pulled it open, saying, “Here, you can try looking in here.”

  As Todd approached the open file she backed away silently, circling around a pile of books. He bent down, began studying the hanging green folders. If he had any luck— which lately had seemed to desert him—there'd be something in here. His fingers started thumbing quickly through the plastic tabs.

  Todd heard rustling, glanced over, saw the librarian standing there at the top of the stairs. Fidgeting with her sweater, she smiled oddly, hesitantly, at him. Had she only just recognized him?

  He said, “This should only take a few minutes.” “Yes,” she replied nervously. “I'll just wait.” He came to a file on streetcars, which had linked this cloistered neighborhood with the rest of the city. Then several green folders on the Lake Harriet bandshell and its various inceptions. Another on the history of the music at the lake's bandshell. The Rose Garden. A file containing photos of the fountain moved to the area from Gateway Park downtown. The historical highlights of Linden Hills were all captured here. Including, at last, Lake Harriet Elementary.

  Eagerly, Todd lifted the green folder marked with the school's name from the drawer. And there it was, an early black-and-white photo of the large and once proud educational building. Some early group pictures. Next a more recent photo of the triangular piece of land, now cleared of the building and all rubble, once the wrecking ball had done its job.

  “Shit,” muttered Todd under his breath.

  He dropped the hanging file back in and ran his fingers to the next plastic tab, which was marked Lake Harriet Elementary, Graduating Classes. Todd smiled, lifted the file, opened it. So this library had declined the vast majority of historical data from the school, but they'd kept the tip of the iceberg. Quite rightly too, thought Todd, as he flipped through the first photos, those of the graduating classes from the early part of the century. He lifted one marked 1927, turned it over, and saw a typed listing of names carefully taped to the back. If someone had grown up in Linden Hills, moved away, then returned and sought out old memories, the library would want to have at least a few things on hand.

  His fingers flew through the stack of black-and-white photos, soon reaching the fifties and eventually the sixties. So when would Michael have graduated from the sixth grade? He would have been ten or probably eleven. Sure, eleven. So, toward the late sixties. Todd skipped through the first part of that tumultuous decade, and then the familiar picture flipped right in front of him. Todd's heart jumped. It was the same photograph from Maggie's album, and he lifted it out. There was Michael. Jeff. And the mysterious third boy. Turning it over, Todd was relieved to find the names once again carefully typed and attached to the back. His eyes ran over the list, reaching the back row. Michael Carter. Jeff Barnes. And …

  Todd caught his breath, read the name two and three times. He turned back to the photo, stared at the third boy. No wonder he seemed familiar. The third of the famous group, the Banditos. Michael Carter. Jeff Barnes. And Steve Rawlins, Junior. All of them childhood chums. All of them as queer as a three-dollar bill from the get-go.

  31

  Standing at the sliding glass door of his apartment, he stared at the late-afternoon sky. And thought about the man he'd killed last night.

  Just last night? How odd. It already seemed days ago. Weeks. He took a deep, cleansing breath, then sat down in his leather chair. Closed his eyes. Smiled. He'd thought it would be so hard taking someone's life like that. It had seemed incomprehensible. Yet, he'd killed two men, and it had proved so… so easy. And challenging. That was what surprised him the most. The thrill of the hunt. It was like the biggest dare you could ever imagine, one that he'd actually succeeded in committing, which in turn left him with this great big buzz.

  That was fun, he thought. Stalking like that. The sport of it. First, of course, he'd had to scout the area, decide where. And he was pleased he'd chosen the bushes along Lake Calhoun, for it was right in a residential district. Right on the edge of Uptown. He'd figured it would send big shock waves through the city, and it most definitely had. Big ones. Better yet, the link with Michael Carter was drawn almost immediately. Both killed by knife wounds. Both gay. Both found dead in south Minneapolis.

  And both killed by Todd Mills?

  He smiled, rubbed his forehead. That was the buzz in town. Everyone was talking about it, speculating, pointing fingers. He'd been out
and about today and heard people gossiping, whispering. Todd Mills, good Lord, could he really have done such a hideous thing? And gay too? How creepy! He was on television, he was in our homes! Our family watched him, hung on his every word. And those Emmys, for God's sake!

  Seated in his comfortable chair, he wondered what defined a serial killer. Was it simply more than one murder? As few as two? Or perhaps three? If so, would this next one do it, qualify him for that very special club? Or was it more, say, a half-dozen? No, that seemed awfully high, he thought. Or could it be linked by style and method, perhaps the length of time between each killing?

  He really couldn't linger here at the apartment. Too much to do. And if he sat there much longer he was going to fall asleep. It had been a long night and only the adrenaline rush of the kill had kept him cruising all day. Soon he was going to crash big time. But he couldn't. Not just yet. Not now. Just one more big decision. It wasn't so much a question of how and where. He'd do the next one with a knife, of course. For better or worse, he was sort of stuck with that one already. And where? Not so important either. In a back alley. In another pick-up area. In the guy's bedroom. It didn't really matter just so long as it looked gay. Very gay. Maybe a little kinky. Perhaps a trifle perverse.

  Well, he'd work out the simpler details later. The only thing he needed to figure out right now was when he should do the next one. He'd been thinking about right away. Tonight? Or should he wait a few days, a week even? No, that wouldn't work. Too risky. His next target might talk. He might suspect that he was next in line and go running to the police. So actually, now that he thought it through, the answer was perfectly clear. No sense in letting the newspapers and newscasts cool down a bit only to stoke them again by the end of the week. No, he had to throw gas right on the flames, make everything explode. Then stand back, arms calmly crossed, and watch the spectacle while everyone else scurried about.

  He rose from his chair, crossed to the small kitchen, and poured himself a nice glass of chilled water. The cool, refreshing liquid soothed his parched throat, refreshed his weary mind. He'd strike again tonight. Two days in a row. Sure. Boom. It would make the front page. Perhaps even the headline.

  Oh, Todd Mills, thought the man as he grabbed his lightweight jacket and headed out. Oh, Todd, where are you? If you think things are bad now, you ain't seen nothing yet.

  32

  It could mean nothing. It could mean everything. As Todd drove through the bustling Uptown district, up Hennepin Avenue, past the Guthrie Theater and the Walker Art Center and the sprawling Sculpture Garden, his insides twisted into a knot of confusion. Michael, Jeff, and Rawlins—a.k.a. Corky—had been childhood chums, and they'd all turned out to be gay. Which in a very subtle way didn't surprise Todd at all.

  He'd had a best friend. Eric, also the son of Polish immigrants. They'd gone all through grade school and the first couple of years of high school together until Eric's dad was transferred and the family had moved. Where was it? Detroit. Up to that time Eric and Todd had been inseparable, exploring the back alleys of Chicago's north side, busting bottles beneath the El, hanging around Wrigley Field, searching the sidewalks for a dropped ticket, and in fact once finding one, then fighting about which one of them was going to get in. They'd never talked about anything personal, as boys seldom did. And virtually the only talk of sex was when they'd stolen one of Eric's father's Playboy magazines and stared at the huge breasts of a smiling, blond woman. Wow! Fuck! Look at those boobs! HUGE! They'd seemed like typical, average boys. Which they were. Yet with no coaching or even acknowledgment from each other, they'd both turned out “different” in one fundamental way. Four or five years ago Todd had heard from another old classmate that Eric had died of AIDS in San Francisco. Todd realized that part of their childhood friendship, perhaps the glue that had mysteriously bound them in companionship, had been their unrecognized and unrealized homosexuality.

  In view of the recent murders though, Michael's trio of childhood chums was too much of a coincidence. This was all connected. But what did it mean? Instinctively Todd understood there was something of great significance here. The very fact that neither Jeff nor Rawlins had mentioned Rawlins's connection meant something. And why in the hell hadn't Michael ever spoken of Steve Rawlins, one of his closest childhood buddies, a guy who was not only on the police force, but gay? What had happened between the two of them, what kind of rift had occurred? After all, Jeff and Michael had stayed good friends. Michael talked to him frequently and saw him regularly down at the Gay Times. So had Michael and Rawlins merely grown apart? No. If that had been the case Michael probably would have mentioned Rawlins sometime, even just in passing. And after Michael's death Rawlins would surely have mentioned the connection. Obviously something had happened to cause a bitter end of friendship, to make both Michael and Rawlins never want to utter the other's name.

  Todd wanted an immediate answer. He continued up Hen-nepin, past the formidable stone basilica, and finally reached 7th Street, where he turned left. He parked in a lot and strode quickly back across Hennepin, through the mall of City Center, across Nicollet, and around the corner. Breaking into a jog, Todd checked his watch. There was just enough time this afternoon.

  A block later he pushed through some heavy old doors and entered a two-story, wood-paneled hall. Todd glanced to his right, saw a handful of people at their desks, looked to the left, saw a row of tellers. Jeff was at the third window, helping an older man with a transaction. Rushing into line behind two people, Todd stood there trying to seem as calm as possible, his mind on fire with questions and anger. It was only a matter of moments. There was just one person left before Todd, a woman, and Todd abruptly cut in front of her when Jeff became available.

  “Excuse me,” he said, barging ahead of her. “That teller down there screwed up my account. I've got to talk with him. This is going to cost me a hundred bucks.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me, lady, you don't want that guy touching your money—unless of course you want to risk losing it.”

  “Oh, heavens no.”

  Todd moved across the deep red carpet, blotting a few drops of perspiration from his brow. Jeff, who was sorting some documents, didn't even look up.

  “Hello, Jeff,” said Todd, his voice hushed, as he leaned on the counter with both hands.

  Jeff, who assumed his customer had merely read his name tag, raised his head and with a bright smile replied, “Hi, and how … ” When he saw Todd, his voice trailed quickly off. “Oh, it's you. Hi, Todd. What the hell are you doing here?” He looked at him nervously. “Let me guess, you want to start doing drag and you've come to moi for some beauty tips.”

  “No.”

  “You want me to teach you how to pick up guys?”

  “No.”

  “Then, heavens, you must have an account here. I had no idea. How nice.”

  “No, I don't.”

  “Oh. Well … well, then would you like one? You can step right over there to open an account. You see those nice people at the desks? Unlike me, one of the personal bankers would be more than glad to help you.”

  “ have to talk to you, Jeff.”

  He looked nervously from side to side. “Can't you see that this isn't a coffeehouse, darling? Some of us have to work, you know. The bank's still open. Isn't that kind of obvious?”

  “When are you done?”

  “I … I have lots of catching up to do once the bank closes.”

  “I'll wait.”

  “No … no, please don't bother. I'll be here for hours,” said Jeff, glancing around. “Today really isn't good. I have to work late and … and then I have a show tonight. I have to rehearse. After all, I don't want to look like a fool. Dressing poorly is one thing, screwing up the lip-synch is another matter altogether. One on which I pride myself deeply. I'm working on a new Barbra Streisand number.”

  Todd leaned forward and blurted, “There were three boys. They all grew up in Linden Hills.”

  Jeff ra
n his hand around his heavy throat. “Todd, doll, are you okay? I know you've been under a lot of stress.”

  “Their names were Michael, Jeff, and Corky.”

  “You don't look too good, Todd. Maybe … maybe you should sit down. I heard the news on my break. Another murder. It's horrible, isn't it? So creepy. I'm sure the police have been asking you all sorts of nasty questions.”

  “Listen to me, you old cha-cha queen, quit fucking with me. You know all about Corky. I want the details.”

  “Really, you big old brute, I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about,” he said nervously. “Now please, Todd, enough of this chitchat. I have to get back to work. Look, look over there. See? See, there are people in line, waiting to do their banking. Some want to make deposits, some want to cash checks, and some—”

  “Corky was the nickname for Steve, Junior.”

  “Todd, do I need to call the guard over here?”

  “As in Steve Rawlins, Junior. As in the very same Detective Steve Rawlins assigned to Michael's murder.”

  “You know, all I have to do is raise my hands and scream in my sissiest voice, ‘Help me, help me, robber, robber!’ and you're dead meat, pal.” Jeff glared at him, lowered his voice as deep as it would go. “Get out of here, you bitch, before I make that big old butch guard over there shoot you full of holes.”

  “Go ahead. Then you'll be responsible for two murders— mine and Michael's.”

  “Ah … ah, what are you implying?” Jeff flushed red and started sorting through some papers. “No, I'm not going to talk to you. Not another word. Get out of here, you flicker. Now. Leave. Leave or I'll really call security. I have a buzzer under my desk here. All I have to do is tap it with my knee and security will be all over you. You'll get thrown in a cop car and hauled away by the police. Or maybe you'd like that. I bet you like body searches. Oh, and a night in prison with the guys—wouldn't that be a real treat for a closet queen like you?”