The Butcher's Son

by Dorien Grey

  And in some indescribable way, I think I was. How could I not be? Patrick was not around to protect him. Maybe I could.

  I had not been in the apartment more than ten minutes when the phone rang. It was Charles McNearny, although he didn’t bother to identify himself.

  He merely said, “Seven o’clock. My office.”

  I didn’t feel like going back up to Bob’s apartment, so I called and gave him the word, asking him to pass it on to any of the Guild members still there.

  *

  I didn’t have my customary before-dinner drink. I didn’t have dinner, either. While I wanted a stiff drink—or five—badly, I wanted more to be sure I had my full faculties when talking with the chief. As for dinner, food was the last thing on my mind.

  I kept thinking of Kevin and Patrick and wondering why in hell I hadn’t caught on to it all a lot earlier. God knows there were enough clues. Kevin’s “prayers and meditations” coincided with Judy’s onstage appearances. It would be easy enough to slip back and forth between the shelter and the back entrance to Bacchus’s Lair. And the music Patrick and I’d heard—and yes, I still thought of Patrick as a separate person—had to have come from the tape recorder I’d seen on the piano in Kevin’s office.

  But what had triggered Kevin in the first place?

  He’d probably just been hanging on to his sanity by a thread for years—most definitely since Patrick’s death—and the pressures had just kept building. The timing of everything—the opening of Bacchus’s Lair, and the first of the bar fires—was undoubtedly linked to the chief’s decision to run for governor. What was it Patrick had said? That he couldn’t let his father do to the state what he had done to him and Kevin?

  Where had Kevin’s elaborate tale about Patrick’s disappearance come from—the chief’s plan to send him off, the bank account in New York? I honestly think Kevin believed it. It was the only way he could avoid facing the unbearable reality that the only person he had ever truly loved, or who had truly loved him—was half of himself—was dead.

  It would not have been difficult for Kevin, who had ready access to the chief’s office—or could have seen them if the chief brought them home at any point—to take Tamasini’s arson records.

  The explosion at the fundraiser I was less sure of. I knew there were real problems with the oven, but it might have been Patrick’s way of sending a message to his father. The explosion could have been much worse, but Sue-Lynn and Sean were in the dining room—in the very front of the room.

  I’d never know on that one.

  The sex at the SAPC meeting—was it Kevin, or Patrick? I suspected it may have been something of a crossover. Kevin had acted as though he were totally unaware of it the next morning, and he may not have been, but it could just as easily have been his giving in to his own gayness.

  No matter how hard I tried not to think of it, my mind kept going back to Kevin’s terrible loneliness, loss, and ambivalence toward his brother. I’d often heard and read of how the bond between identical twins could never be fully understood by those who are not in that position. Under the most ideal of conditions, that bond would be intense. Given Patrick and Kevin’s family, it was incomprehensible. Patrick had the guts Kevin never had, but for Kevin to sacrifice his own desires for the sake of his domineering parents took a sort of guts, too. And what must Patrick’s disappearance have done to Kevin?

  And lastly, Patrick. I truly, truly did not want to think of Patrick and how he had really died. If Kevin knew, which I doubted, he could never say. If the chief had, indeed, had a hand in it—also unthinkable—he certainly would never admit to it.

  I preferred to believe that Patrick had died as everyone assumed he had, that he had fallen into the river when the bluff broke away.

  But I knew in my heart of hearts that I would be dreaming, for many years, of that bluff by the river, and what really happened there.

  *

  Neither Bob nor I spoke much on our drive to McNearny’s office. I was mainly concerned that I not, when actually confronting the chief, give in to my barely-under-control rage against him—against “The Butcher.” I told Bob to keep an eye on me, and to jump in if I started losing it.

  We arrived at exactly two minutes to seven, and McNearny was waiting at the glass front door of the darkened building to let us in. Without a word, he led us to his office where the chief, in full uniform in an obvious move to intimidate us, sat in a leather chair beside McNearny’s desk. He did not get up when we entered the room. There were no handshakes.

  McNearny motioned Bob and me to two chairs facing the desk then moved behind it to take his seat. When Bob and I were seated, he leaned back in his chair.

  “Now, exactly what is this all about?”

  I took a deep breath, and began.

  “This,” I said, nodding in Bob’s direction, “is Bob Allen, owner of one of the seven gay bars burned in recent months.” I noticed a look of contempt flash across the chief’s face. I ignored it. “Bob’s lover, Ramón, was one of the twenty-nine men who died in the Dog Collar fire. Bob is also a member of the Bar Guild, and it is as spokesmen for that group that we are here.”

  The chief’s look of contempt returned.

  “This is hardly the time or place—”

  “No, Chief Rourke, this is precisely the time and the place.” I glanced at McNearny. “What I am about to say is not a threat. Nor is it an invitation to a discussion. It is a simple statement of facts, and how you respond to it is up to you.

  “The fact is that Kevin is responsible for all seven fires, including the fire at the Dog Collar and its resultant deaths.”

  McNearny looked totally incredulous. Interestingly, the chief’s expression did not change by so much as a flickered eyelash.

  “You can’t—” McNearny began, but I cut him off with a raised hand.

  “I can,” I said. “I am ready to submit a report of everything I know to the arson squad tomorrow morning. Whatever concrete evidence we do not have, the arson squad can provide.”

  McNearny looked at the chief, who continued to stare directly at me.

  “Kevin started the fires, but the responsibility lies elsewhere,” I said, returning the chief’s stare. “In a way, Kevin is as much a victim of the circumstances that led to the fires as those who died in the Dog Collar. Bob, the other members of the Bar Guild, and I agree on that point.

  “Having said that, I will now outline our recommendations—which I assume you will see as more than recommendations. First, the chief will withdraw from the governor’s race. He has ample valid reasons to do so, under the circumstances.”

  McNearny started to speak, but it was the chief’s hand this time that stopped him.

  “It is my understanding,” I continued, “that the chief will be eligible for early retirement at the end of next year. It is our recommendation that he take it.

  “Second, Kevin is to receive immediate psychiatric care in a facility able to deal non-judgmentally with his condition, though speaking strictly from the position of one who has come to know and care for him, Kevin is shattered into so many pieces I doubt he can ever be put back together again.

  “Third, the official unofficial policy of this police department in regards to the harassment of gay bars, gay establishments, and the gay community at large will cease. If we are in violation of the law, we expect to be held accountable for it, but we are not to be singled out and targeted. We simply expect to be treated like everyone else,”

  I was silent for a moment, and the chief said, “And in return for which…?”

  I addressed myself directly to him.

  “In return for which a great many details of the chief’s personal life will remain personal. Kevin—and Patrick—have suffered more than enough. We have no wish to cause what remains of the family any further pain.”

  I fell silent again. McNearny had been staring at the chief with a look of total incomprehension but had not tried to interrupt again.

  Finally, th
e chief pursed his lips and said, “Anything else?”

  “No. That pretty much does it.”

  We all sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, until the chief said, “You’ll have our response within forty-eight hours.”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Kevin. Kevin first. Immediately.”

  The chief nodded.

  “We will be keeping a close watch on Kevin’s treatment,” I said, still staring directly at the chief, “and you did understand what I was referring to when I used the word non-judgmentally in selecting a facility for his care?”

  The chief nodded again.

  I got up from my chair, followed by Bob, who gave me a puzzled look.

  “Then we’ll be leaving. Mr. McNearny, if you could unlock the door for us?”

  McNearny got out of his chair, expressionless, and led us from the office to the front door, which he unlocked and pushed open for us.

  Neither Bob nor I spoke until we got into the car.

  “Was it just me, or was that too easy?” Bob asked.

  “Not really,” I said, waiting until a truck went by before pulling out into traffic. “He really didn’t have a choice. Either way, his political career is over, and he knows it.

  “The chief is a bigot, a bully, and a loathsome human being, but he is not stupid. I doubt he knew, or knows, everything. But he knows enough, and he’s probably known all along, that Kevin was in serious need of help but just refused to face it. As long as Kevin was the good little breeder son he always wanted, he could probably overlook a lot.

  “I’m still not sure he knows about Patrick, and in a way, I hope he doesn’t. Patrick belongs to Kevin. He always has. I just hope that some day Patrick and Kevin can come to terms with one another and realize that love doesn’t end with death.” I looked at Bob, and reached out to pat his leg. “As if I had to tell you.”

  *

  Chief Rourke withdrew from the race for governor the next day, citing family obligations relating to the discovery of his one son’s remains and the subsequent emotional breakdown of his oldest surviving son. Kevin was never charged with any of the arsons or the deaths, and although his involvement came to be widespread knowledge, the exact details and circumstances were never made public. Everyone seemed satisfied the issue was resolved.

  I mailed my resignation to Carlton Carlson & Associates on Saturday and never looked back.

  *

  A month or so later, Bob, Tom, Don and I got together for dinner at Rasputin’s. I had apologized to Don for hanging up on him after he’d told me about Patrick, but he understood.

  He and Tom were planning on moving in together, and Tom was considering an offer from a large insurance company to serve as their arson investigator/arbitrator. Bob was busy preparing for the reopening of his bar, which he had decided would have a new name: Ramón’s.

  I’d given quite a bit of thought, in the intervening weeks, to exactly where I wanted to take my life, now that my halcyon days with old C.C. were over, and I’d made a decision. I had just been waiting for tonight to run it past my friends, hoping they’d agree it was a good idea but intending to pursue it whether they did or didn’t.

  But before I had a chance to bring it up, the three of them exchanged glances.

  “We’ve got the perfect job for you.” Bob said. “I was talking with other members of the Bar Guild, and they agree.”

  “What? I should open a bar?”

  “No,” Tom said. “We all think you should seriously think about becoming a private investigator. I always told you you’re a nosy bastard, and this way you could be nosy and get paid for it.”

  Don nodded. “If it hadn’t been for you, Chief Rourke might have been our next governor, and God only knows what would have happened with the fires.”

  “I’m sure the Guild members will be able to keep you supplied with referrals,” Bob added. “Will you think about it?”

  I took another quick mental inventory of the current situation.

  Chris was happy and well in New York.

  Bacchus’s Lair had closed.

  T/T had moved to New Orleans to take a job at a world-famous drag club.

  Salvation’s Door was closed, its flock transferred to a new city-run shelter three blocks down on Boyle.

  Construction had begun on a drive-through dry-cleaners on the site where the Dog Collar had stood.

  The times, I thought, they are a’changin’.

  I smiled at Don, Tom, and Bob in turn.

  “Funny you should mention that…”

  Author’s Note

  On Tuesday, June 27, 1967, New York City police conducted a routine raid on a popular Greenwich Village gay bar, the Stonewall Inn. Gays were easy targets and a source of income for cities, which engaged in active harassment. But this time, for the first time, the gays refused to submit to the raid, and fought back. A crowd of two thousand gathered on the street outside the bar, and police reinforcements were called in.

  The next night, even more gays and lesbians gathered at and in front of the Stonewall, necessitating that the police call in the riot squad.

  On Wednesday, July 5, one thousand protesters met in front of the Stonewall and began a protest march.

  With those actions, gays and lesbians across the nation realized that they did not have to be submissive anymore. The battle for gay rights had begun.

  The Butcher’s Son, as do the rest of the first five books of the Dick Hardesty series, reflects the hostile relationship and struggle between the gay community and the majority of local law enforcement agencies across the nation, which upheld laws and attitudes that saw homosexuals as little more than criminals deserving of punishment. The gay community’s smoldering resentment of these attitudes and actions committed by police, whose job is to “protect and serve” all citizens, finally burst into flame with Stonewall.

  The fire is nearly out, but burning embers remain.

  —Dorien Grey

  About the Author

  If it is possible to have a split personality without being schizophrenic, Dorien Grey qualifies.

  When long-time book and magazine editor Roger Margason chose the pseudonym “Dorien Grey” for his first novel, it set off a chain of circumstances that has led to a comfortable division of labor and responsibility. Roger has charge of day-to-day existence, freeing Dorien―with the help of Roger’s fingers―to write. It has reached the point where Roger merely sits back and reads the stories Dorien brings forth on the computer screen.

  It’s not as though Roger has not had an uninteresting life of his own. Two years into college, he left to join the Naval Aviation Cadet program. Washing out after a year, he spent the rest of his brief military career on an aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean at the height of the Cold War.

  Returning to Northern Illinois University after service, he graduated with a BA in English and embarked on a series of jobs that worked him into the editing field.

  While working for a Los Angeles publishing house, he was instrumental in establishing a division exclusively for the publication of gay paperbacks and magazines, of which he became editor. He moved on to edit a leading LA-based international gay men’s magazine.

  Tiring of earthquakes, brush fires, mud slides, and riots, he returned to the Midwest, where Dorien emerged, full-blown, like Venus from the sea. They’ve been inseparable (and interchangeable) ever since.

  Roger—and Dorien, of course—moved back to Chicago in 2006, where they now devote full time to writing.