The Butcher's Son

by Dorien Grey

  So, while the chief’s seconds-in-command spent Sunday and much of Monday actually, if reluctantly, dealing with the Dog Collar fire, the chief, except for a few carefully selected photo ops (sitting solemnly behind his desk, surrounded by his deeply concerned top aids, gravely discussing the status of the investigation; inspecting the gutted interior of Dog Collar with the fire chief) spent the bulk of his time being carefully rehearsed on exact responses to every conceivable question he might face the following day.

  *

  Tuesday morning, I reluctantly returned to work, and to bedlam. About halfway through the morning, having carefully examined and boxed the press kits and made several phone calls to verify the readiness of the meeting room for the press conference, I found, buried on my desk, two phone messages from Kevin, one dated Monday, the second about half an hour before I’d gotten to work.

  Curious, I called the number on the slips.

  “Salvation’s Door Shelter.” I didn’t recognize the voice.

  “May I speak to Ke…to Reverend…Rourke, please?”

  “Just a second.” I heard the phone being put down and the sound of receding footsteps then silence for a good minute and a half, and finally the sound of footsteps again—approaching, this time—and the receiver being lifted.

  “Reverend Rourke.”

  “Kevin, it’s Dick Hardesty.”

  “Oh, yes! I’m glad you called. I tried to reach you yesterday, but they told me you were out for the day. I hope you weren’t ill.”

  “No,” I said, giving no further explanation. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Well, I wanted to let you know that I spoke on Saturday with my father regarding our idea for the Shelter fundraiser, and he didn’t seem averse to the idea. He said he would have to pass it by his political advisers first, of course.”

  Damn! Any political adviser worth his salt would see the tripwire on that little booby trap. Still, it’s the kind of logical proposal that would be a little hard to reject out-of-hand.

  “That’s fine,” I said. “Let me know what he decides, and we can get started on it as soon as he agrees.”

  There was a slight pause, and then: “There were a few other things I thought we might talk over, if you have the time,” Kevin said. “I know today is a very busy one for all of us, but I was wondering if we might meet for lunch.”

  Ping! Ping! Ping!

  I should have declined, of course, but what the hell? I needed to get my mind off the fire, and Kevin was becoming more and more an intriguing puzzle. I can never resist trying to solve puzzles. And C.C. couldn’t possibly object. He was the one who’d told me that whatever Kevin wanted, Kevin was supposed to get.

  “Sure. What time?”

  “It might be cutting things a little close, but would one o’clock be all right? We serve lunch here between eleven-thirty and twelve-thirty. I can set aside a couple lunches, if you wouldn’t mind sharing what we serve our flock?”

  “Not at all. And one o’clock is fine. I’ll see you then.”

  My phone buzzed just as I set the receiver back on the cradle.

  “Hardesty. I want to see you in my office.” There was a click at the other end of the line. Gee, I wonder who that might have been? I said to myself as I got up and headed toward C.C.’s office.

  I knocked and, as was part of his little game, there was silence from inside until I knocked again.

  “Come,” C.C.’s imperious voice commanded.

  I crossed to his desk, not expecting to be asked to sit. I wasn’t.

  “You’ll be at the center no later than two-thirty to be damned sure everything’s set up.”

  I’d been working on exactly that ever since C.C. first took on the chief as a project—and assigned most of the actual work to me.

  “Everything’s ready to go, Mr. Carlson,” I said.

  “Well, for your sake, I hope to hell you’re right. Any snafus, and it’ll be your ass in the wringer.” There was a pause while he furrowed his brows, trying to think of something I might have overlooked. “Did you double-check with the electricians to see that there’s plenty of power for the TV crews, if they need it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And coffee? Gotta make sure the coffee’s there for the reporters while they’re waiting. And none of those Styrofoam cups, you hear?”

  “Yes” I said. C.C. knew damned good and well the Center routinely handled dozens of events in the course of any given month, and knew what they were doing.

  “Oh,” I added. “Kevin has asked me to stop by the shelter at one o’clock. He has some things he wants to talk over.” Actually, I didn’t need to mention it at all, but I wanted to remind old C.C. that I was developing a pretty strong ally in the Rourke camp, lest he foolishly decide to push me a little too far.

  “Well, then, don’t just stand around here—you’ve got work to do. Go do it.”

  I didn’t wait for the dismissive wave, merely turned and left his office, closing the door behind me.

  *

  Driving down Sixteenth Street, I deliberately kept myself from looking left as I passed Arnwood. I didn’t want to risk catching any glimpse of the police barricades still in front of the Dog Collar. I kept seeing Ramón sitting on the floor with his back resting between Bob’s legs, talking and laughing and alive.

  There were quite a few street people milling around in the immediate vicinity of Salvation’s Door when I arrived at about ten till one. Not too many cars on the street, so I parked directly across from the main entrance, locked the car, and went in.

  Several people were still in the dining room, and I saw Kevin standing by the door to the kitchen talking with one of the workers. I stood there until I caught his eye. He smiled and motioned that I should go on up to his office, which I did. I was aware of the faint smell of smoke.

  I stood behind Kevin’s desk, idly looking at the notices on the bulletin board, until I heard him climbing the stairs. He entered the room carrying a tray with two bowls of soup, a couple of sandwiches, spoons wrapped in paper napkins, and two small cartons of milk. He looked at the desk, trying to figure out where to set the tray, and then motioned with his head to a space behind the open door.

  “There’s a TV tray there, I think. If you don’t mind, we could probably share it.”

  “Fine,” I said, moving to get the tray and set it up in front of his desk. He set the food down, and we cleared off the two wooden chairs and set them in the same places as on my first visit.

  “I try to keep these chairs clear,” he said, “but they just keep getting filled up.”

  We sat down, and I waited in rather awkward silence as Kevin lowered his head in prayer.

  “Amen,” he said and opened his eyes and smiled at me. It struck me that he did have a sexy smile. “Let’s eat.”

  The soup—minestrone—was excellent, and I told him so. He seemed pleased.

  “We really do the best we can with what we have.”

  The sandwiches appeared to be ham salad, and I nodded in approval as I took my first bite. We ate in silence for a few minutes before I said, “I’ve got to be at the center in just a little while to make sure everything’s set up for the press conference, so perhaps we could…”

  “Of course. As you know, my father will be addressing the State Association of Police Chiefs annual meeting on the twenty-sixth—that’s two weeks from this coming Saturday. It can be a very effective forum for him, and if we can provide some solid media coverage, it will offer a good opportunity for getting his message out to the public.”

  I finished my sandwich and opened the carton of milk.

  “Mr. Carlson will be there, of course,” Kevin said, finishing his own sandwich and using the paper napkin to wipe a crumb from one corner of his mouth, “and apparently you’ll be accompanying him.”

  This was news to me.

  “As you know,” Kevin continued, “this will be a very expensive campaign, and money is tight…”

  I’m afraid
my eyes opened a bit wide on that one, but I said nothing, and he didn’t seem to notice.

  “…so we have to do a bit of belt-tightening on travel expenses. Sue-Lynn and the baby won’t be able to come with us, I’m afraid, and so I was wondering if you would consider it too much of an imposition if we were to share a hotel room to cut down expenses.”

  No Ping! Ping! Ping! this time. More like Clang! Clang! Clang! Something sure as hell was going on here, and I still didn’t know exactly what.

  “Uh…” I said, then figured What the Hell? and dove in. “That would be fine.”

  “Good,” he said and, finishing his milk, lifted the TV tray from between us and moved it to one side. “By the way, I hope the smell of smoke doesn’t bother you. I’m afraid it’s a result of that…fire. You heard about it, of course.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I heard.”

  Kevin once again leaned slightly forward, elbows on the arms of his chair and hands lightly folded.

  “It was a real tragedy,” he said, shaking his head. “All those men…” He moved back slowly in his chair, one arm now lying the length of the chair arm, fingers curled lightly over the edge, the other on his leg. He sighed. “Of course, the Good Book does say ‘The wages of sin…’”

  I couldn’t help myself. My head snapped up, and I stared at him in disbelief.

  He caught my look and dropped his gaze slightly, adding quickly, “…but of course we are all God’s children.”

  I looked down at his lap, and his cupped hand had moved up his leg and was slowly sweeping across his crotch, his fingers spreading open.

  Jesus Christ! Is this guy groping himself?

  I got up out of my chair so fast it seemed to startle him. He acted as though he had no idea at all of what he’d been doing.

  “I’d really better get going over to the center,” I said. “There’s a lot to be done yet. Thanks for lunch.”

  Kevin got up and moved the TV tray farther out of the way.

  “Of course. I’ll see you at the press conference, then.” He smiled and extended his hand. I took it, and it was very warm, and very firm, and just slightly damp.

  *

  The chief’s reputation having preceded him throughout the state and, indeed, the nation, guaranteed a good turnout for his announcement. His take-no-prisoners/hang-’em-at-the-airport approach to law enforcement had pretty much polarized people as few others, in or out of government, have done or could do.

  The darling of the conservatives and the Antichrist to liberals, the fact was that, while nearly everyone had a strong opinion on what the chief was, almost no one had even the foggiest idea of who he was. I, personally, had reached the conclusion there was the uniform and all it represented, and there was the man, and that each was the other.

  At precisely four-thirty, the chief’s entourage filed into the room, forming a precise prearranged tableau that would have been the envy of any military drill team. The family was there, all perfectly scrubbed and coifed, beaming with pride and looking like a Christmas card photo. Kevin had his left arm, as always, wrapped lovingly around Sue-Lynn, who, as always, cradled little Sean at exactly the most photogenic angle. The other children were lined up in descending order of importance in front of Mrs. Rourke, whom I hadn’t even noticed on my first glance.

  On either side of the raised platform stood various pillars of the community and a smattering of local and state bigwigs. Closest to the podium in the gaggle of dignitaries on the right hand side of the stage, leading the applause as the chief strode into the room, stood a proud Carlton Carlson.

  The chief stepped up to the podium, laid several large sheets of paper on it, and began.

  “Before I make the announcement for which this news conference was called,” he said, his voice stentorian in its solemnity, “I would like to say a brief word in acknowledgment of the recent fatal fire which struck our community, and to personally convey my own and my family’s deepest, heartfelt condolences to the relatives of those who died.”

  The relatives? That’s it? That’s it? I thought for a second there I was going to lose it. You fucking bastard! I wanted to scream: What about the victims? What about their lovers and their friends? What about the entire gay community? Why don’t you just go up and piss on their coffins?

  The chief, of course, was as oblivious to my rage as he was to anything else that didn’t serve his own purposes. After only a momentary pause, he continued.

  “While I’m sure you all have questions regarding the progress of the case, I can only assure you that we are at a critical stage in the investigation, and are devoting all the efforts of both the fire and police departments to find and prosecute those responsible for this act. But since it is an ongoing investigation, I will be making no further comments at this time.”

  There was a muted murmur from the crowd, which the chief silenced by an authoritarian raising of one hand.

  “It is” he said, launching into his speech, “exactly this type of rampant lawlessness which underscores the urgency of providing those charged with protecting our citizens the tools and support they must have to do their job properly and thoroughly. We must once and for all say to the criminals who roam our streets with impunity: Enough!”

  He then laid out a detailed and carefully worded litany of everything that was wrong with the current governor and his policies—which was to say everything. I had to hand it to his trainers—his message was a puff pastry of political correctness, but the filling was pure stormtrooper.

  He rambled on for what seemed like an eternity, and I totally tuned out until at last I dimly heard “And it is to this end that I am today announcing my candidacy for governor of this great state!”

  There was a burst of enthusiastic applause from the assembly on the stage. Flashbulbs strobed the room, and before the gathered reporters had a chance to start shouting their questions, C.C. shot me a stern glance from across the room. I cued the guy with the sound equipment; the happy strains of “Yankee Doodle” filled the air.

  C.C. had originally considered “Hail to the Chief” but was talked out of it. He had also wanted balloons to drop down from the ceiling, but it would have been too short a drop to be practical.

  As if on cue—which was, in fact, the case—the chief’s family moved forward to embrace him warmly. It did not escape me that a few of the younger children appeared to be totally confused by this unfamiliar outpouring of familial love.

  The two bands of supporters simultaneously moved in from both sides of the stage for congratulatory photo-op handshakes and back-pats, and I suddenly realized that the chief actually thought he could use this orchestrated outburst of wild enthusiasm—which was limited entirely to the stage—as a smoke screen to signal that the “press conference” was over.

  Making sure that C.C. wasn’t looking, I gave the sound man a signal to fade out the music. The moment it died, the reporters began jostling forward, shouting questions in an attempt to be heard over the other shouted questions. The chief and C.C. looked a bit startled, and C.C. glared at me, but I merely looked at him innocently as if to say “What?”

  Reluctantly, the chief returned to the podium as the rest of the throng on stage moved back, distancing themselves from the journalistic onslaught.

  “Chief!” the reporter closest to the stage shouted, “The Dog Collar was a gay bar, and the twenty-nine victims were presumably all gay men. Is your investigation centering on known hate groups?”

  The chief had obviously been prepared for that one.

  “As I stated in my opening remarks,” he said, both hands gripping the edges of the podium, “this is an ongoing investigation in a crucial stage of development, and I cannot at this point speculate on the motivation behind the blaze.”

  I’m sure that was all he was supposed to say, but being the chief, he had to add a little something of his own.

  “Hate groups, a jealous boyfriend…I simply cannot speculate.”

  A jealous boyfriend? Did he say
that? Did he actually say that? I turned, almost knocking over the chair behind me in my hurry to leave the room. I didn’t know whether to yell or cry, but I did neither. Instead, I went to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face and pull myself together.

  I can’t do this, I told the obviously shaken me in the mirror. I can’t put up with this shit one single minute longer!

  Yeah, you can, the me in the mirror replied. You have to. You’re the only one who has any idea of what’s going on inside that pocket-Hitler’s little clique. And if you blow it by making it obvious you’re gay, who’ll be there to try and stop him?

  He was right.

  I wanted a cigarette but knew I’d probably been gone too long already, so I returned to the conference room. I don’t know what the questioning had been like while I was gone, but it appeared the chief was holding his own, although I could tell from the way he was clutching the edges of the podium and the narrowing of his eyes that he was mentally making an enemies list of reporters for future reference.

  At last it was over. The chief thanked everyone for coming and reminded them that his door was always open to the press.

  Yeah, I thought, like the door’s always open to the bank vault.

  He turned, awkwardly hugged his wife, put out his hand to Mary, his youngest, who took it with ill-concealed trepidation, and together, the family left the stage, followed by the remainder of the party. The reporters gathered up their gear and departed, leaving me to clear up the mess.

  Chapter 8

  The next week and a half went by fast—way too fast. At this rate, I figured, I’d be 97 years old before I knew it.

  Bob and a few close friends—Chris and I were touched to be asked to be among them—had a simple memorial service for Ramón at the local M.C.C. on Thursday night, and his body was then sent to his parents the next day for burial. Bob was holding up very well, under the circumstances, but there was a definite change in him.

  On Saturday, one week after the fire, a huge impromptu silent memorial for all the victims was held on the street in front of the Dog Collar. Thousands of gays, lesbians, and straights, alerted by word of mouth, gathered in silence at sundown to lay flowers in front of the yellow barricades outside the gutted bar, paying the dead the respect the chief of police and aspiring gubernatorial candidate had refused them. In an act of defiance by the community, no police permits were obtained in advance, even though the crowd filled the street and completely blocked traffic.