“Looks like these ropes were cut and everything’s oily. Chains and ropes all have some kinda oil on ‘em,” the investigator said.
“What do you mean, cut?” Ransom asked.
“Cut,” insisted the investigator. “As in somebody took a sharp implement and sliced through the ropes just enough so they’d fail at some point. Looks intentional.”
“Whaddaya know,” Ransom said, glancing over his shoulder at people he now considered suspects. He sauntered over to me, a satisfied look on his face. “We got a hot one here, Fontana. You guys are in it now. Looks like somebody wanted to win this contest real bad. Or maybe there was another reason.” He stared a moment, chomping his gum, and shook his head. “This contest mean so much that your boys are gonna murder each other to get ahead? Or, was there a lovers’ spat?”
“You think somebody did this on purpose?” I didn’t want him to know I’d overheard and probably agreed. I wanted to see how he was thinking.
“It was murder, Fontana. You’re a smart guy, you probably already had it figured that way. Turns out somebody tampered with the ropes the victim was tangled in. Maybe even oiled some’a the chains so he’d be sure to lose his grip.”
“Somebody cut the ropes?” I asked, even though I knew he was right.
“And oiled everything up.”
“Wade was oiled up for his routine. Oil on the chains probably came from contact with his body.”
“Well, the ropes were cut. No doubt about it. The kid was murdered.” Ransom chewed on his gum and jiggled the change in his pocket. “Probably a lotta motives right here in this room.”
“Anybody could’ve done it. This contest was advertised around the area for weeks. Your murderer could be some homophobic nut case.”
“Aww, you people are always moaning about discrimination. Don’t you guys ever commit crimes? You’re telling me that gay people are more crime free than the rest of us mortals?”
“Maybe. There’s a lower rate of crime among gay people, for a lot of good reasons. We don’t even have sodomy laws to break anymore.”
“Save it.” He looked around ominously and placed a hand to his chin as if he were thinking. “We’re finished with the staff of this… what’s the name of this place?”
“Uh, Bub-, um, Bubbles, sir.” A young officer standing nearby blushed as he blurted out the name. I recognized him as a regular, every Wednesday and most weekends like clockwork, watching the dancers and trying to melt into the crowd. He looked so different in his police uniform, I almost didn’t recognize him. Obviously he hadn’t told everyone about his after-hours activities and I was sure things on the force hadn’t changed so much in the short time that had elapsed since I’d decided I’d had enough of their games.
“Yeah, okay, right,” Ransom said. “Bubbles. Whatever.” He jiggled the change in his pocket, peered around the place again. “The staff can go… for now. Stick around. No sudden vacation plans. Got it?” He frowned as he looked over the crowd, and everyone nodded.
The bartenders, shot boys, clean-up crew, and barbacks beat a hasty retreat. Once that group was gone, whoever was left must’ve begun feeling the imaginary heat. Ransom stood around, employing his silent ‘sweat ‘em out’ tactic, and it was easy to see some of them react with guilt, real or imagined. Shifting their feet nervously, wiping sweat from their face, glancing around as if looking for an escape route. Nervous tics and gestures became exaggerated, as Ransom’s silence stretched from minute to minute.
The detective allowed this to go on, watching how each of us reacted to the force of his accusatory silence. Obviously, most of these characters weren’t used to a little pressure. Ransom was good, I’d give him that. It was a neat technique and one I’d used now and then, which gave me an advantage. I suppressed a laugh and waited him out.
Finally, Ransom cleared his throat. Everyone let out a collective sigh of relief.
“The rest of you….” Ransom paused and scanned the room looking at each person in turn. “We’ll finish with the basics. Then we’ll see who gets to stay and who gets to go.”
“It’s late, Detective. Can’t we do this in the morning?” The voice came from the back of the pack of judges and I couldn’t see who it was. Didn’t recognize the voice either.
“Okay, then,” Ransom said, and ignored the plea. “A nice officer is gonna come get information. You give him what he wants and you might get to go sooner.” He flicked a finger and several officers moved to the groups people had sorted themselves into.
The contestants in their leather get-up looking like a rag tag band of post-apocalypse survivors, torture chamber masters, and Stormtroopers, occupied one corner. Though the way they huddled together as if they were about to be sold at auction, gave the lie to their appearance. I even thought I saw a stray tear tumble down the cheek of one of them.
Most of the judges stood straight-backed and silent, trying to appear important and aloof. Each of them looked anywhere but at Ransom or the officer who approached them. But Howie Sider, florist and bon vivant nuisance, looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Eyes wide, he fidgeted, coughed and generally allowed himself to stand out from the rest. The others, Rosa, Fitz, Carlton, Wayne, and Milton stood their ground showing no emotion.
I wished my staff, such as it was, would follow Anton’s example. Tall and solid, he stood, arms folded, and calmly observed the police. He seemed at ease and unworried. The rest of my staff hung on me like orphans waiting for the mean warden to do something awful. I remained silent and unmoving, hoping they’d catch my confidence and calm down while Ransom finished his act and let us all leave.
One of the CSIs approached Ransom, spoke briefly to him and moved along. The detective looked up as if he’d been given a piece of key information. He turned his eyes on us and smirked. Another intimidation tactic guaranteed to have everyone wondering what he knew and what he’d do with the information.
He stared silently a second longer, then, “If you’ve been questioned, you can leave. And don’t make plans to go anywhere, boys. You’ll hear from us. That includes you, Fontana.”
Everyone scattered. Even the judges lost their cool in their attempt to vacate the bar as quickly as possible.
***
The phone screamed me awake at seven. Which meant I’d gotten three hours of sleep. For a minute, I wasn’t sure whether I was awake or still dreaming. Nothing seemed familiar. The phone kept ringing, though, and that was no dream. Groping for the receiver, I grudgingly opened my eyes, and even the gentle morning light seemed too bright.
“Hello?” My mouth was dry.
“Marco? Is that you? Marco, you’ve got to help him!”
“Who is this?” The voice was vaguely familiar but I wasn’t awake enough yet.
“Liam. From last night? The contest?” He paused. “Remember?” There was a note of desperation in his voice.
“Liam. Studded leather harness. Fishnet thong. I remember,” I said, the image of Liam standing backstage brought me fully awake. I sat up and leaned back on a pillow so my head would stop spinning. “What’s the problem?”
“The police,” Liam said. “They were here almost an hour ago and arrested Ben.”
“The police? Arrested Ben?” I swiped a hand over my face and tried to absorb the news. “Arrested him? Why?”
“They took him out in handcuffs.” Liam paused. “They asked him a few questions and then put handcuffs on him and took him. You can help him, right?”
“What’d they ask him? What’s the charge? What did they say when they took him?” My mind snapped to attention.
“They asked him where he was the night before the accident. I mean the… you know. But he didn’t have an alibi.”
“The night before? That’s all they asked? Then they cuffed him?”
“They said he’d been seen backstage. Alone. The night before the competition. After everyone else was gone for the night.”
“What did Ben say?”
“He said he was meeting s
omeone that night. I believe him. Ben’s no murderer.”
“Meeting someone. All right. That person can be Ben’s alibi.”
“But he won’t.” Liam sounded frustrated.
“The witness won’t talk?”
“No. Ben won’t talk. He won’t say who he was meeting. The police said that wasn’t good enough. Then they arrested him for the murder.”
“Did the police say who it was that saw Ben backstage?”
“No. Just that somebody saw Ben. What’re we gonna do?”
“Keep your shirt on and wait for my call. Don’t go anywhere and don’t do anything until I talk to you.” I hung up, dialed police headquarters, and asked for the detective who’d been there the night before. I knew they’d probably only taken Ben in for questioning and hadn’t officially charged him with the murder. But better to stop things before they went any further.
“Ransom.” His voice was gruff.
“It’s Marco Fontana, Detective. I was…”
“You’re off the hook. At least for now. We think we’ve got our guy.”
“So I’ve heard. And you’re right when you say you ‘think’ you got him. Because you’re wrong.”
“Izz’at a fact?” Ransom said.
“Facts are what’s gonna prove you wrong, Ransom. So, how about you give me some information.”
“Like what, Fontana? This ain’t the public library.”
“Like who claims he saw Ben backstage?”
“You know better than to ask for that kind of information. This investigation…”
“I’m acting on Ben’s behalf.”
“How? He hasn’t had time to call a lawyer and you’re no lawyer.”
“But his friends made some calls as soon as you left his place. So, I’m working for him now.”
“You people work fast. Guess I should believe what I’ve heard.”
“So, who saw Ben?”
“One of your judges. In that contest. Who knows who else? We’re just gettin’ started.”
“Which judge? No one was permitted in after rehearsals that night.” I’d been there until rehearsals were over. The bar was closed at two in the morning, as usual. Staff hung around to clean up. Then everyone had left. So I’d been told. “Everyone cleared out by three, after they cleaned up for the night.”
“Well, this guy, name of Fitzpatrick, was there after youse all left. He says your boy Ben Tadeo was hanging around backstage lookin’ nervous. One of the barbacks says he heard Tadeo making threats earlier in the evening. The kid says Tadeo claimed he wouldn’t let a straight guy win the contest. No matter what.”
“That’s pretty slim and circumstantial. You got other witnesses? Other evidence?”
“We’re workin’ on it, like I said. But two’s a good number to hang a preliminary charge on as far as I’m concerned. I think the DA can make a case. And we’re working on trace evidence. Prints, micro-fibers, epithelials, whatever we can find. There’s a real mother lode on that stage.”
“You think? It’s a bar, Ransom. There’s hundreds of customers and several shows every night. Gonna be a lotta trace to sort through. I’d say it’ll all be useless, even if you find something.”
“All we need is what we need, Fontana. Stay tuned.”
I’d stay tuned all right, I’d stay more than tuned. I didn’t know Ben well, but I remembered him. Square-jawed, muscular, green-eyed Ben. Cuffed and thrown into a cell. Poor guy had probably never been in real handcuffs. I made a list of people I’d need to see. John Fitzpatrick, Chair of the GLBT Concerns Committee, was at the top. I needed to know what he’d been doing at Bubbles after hours. I had to wonder how Fitzpatrick had gotten into Bubbles after it’d been locked up. I’m sure he thought that because he was the Mayor’s token gay darling, he could do what he pleased.
I’d also definitely need to talk to Howie Sider. He’d looked too undone the night before, while waiting for the detective to let him go. That was guilty behavior and I wanted to know what Howie felt guilty about.
Aside from the judges and others who’d have to be questioned, the nine remaining contestants were at the top of my list. Liam, Bri, and Ben shared a condo in a decent building in town. From what I’d been told, Ben was Liam’s closest friend, the nearest thing he had to family, and a former lover. Liam would probably need a lot of handholding until this thing was settled. Something I wouldn’t mind doing.
Then there was Michael, who I guessed would not be easy to deal with, considering his attitude. I was sure he now assumed we’d decided to kill the straight contestants to keep them from winning. Crazy as that sounded, Michael might just believe it. I wasn’t looking forward to talking with him.
According to Ransom, the remaining contestants were supposedly in the clear, because all of them had solid alibis. One of them had even been out of town until the day of the competition. I’d check in with them anyway. Who knows what they might have seen or heard?
A cool shower to wake me up, some strong coffee, and half a muffin I found sitting in the fridge helped propel me into the day. Once outside, I felt better. Locust Street bustled with people on their way to work, some of them springing forward, some of them sleepily dragging their feet. A bicycle cop rolled by on the street and the neighborhood dry cleaner pulled a rack full of plastic-wrapped clothes into one of the condo buildings. The fresh, cool air had me feeling almost normal. I headed east toward Washington Square. The stroll would give me the chance to plan and think.
Walking through the gayborhood never gets old, not for me. Each time I pass a bar, I wonder what kind of secrets it’s keeping, what conversations it’s overheard, what arguments, what clandestine meetings? There’s at least one story everywhere, sometimes more than one, and everywhere you go, there are plenty of secrets. The gayborhood has more than its share. At least I liked to think so. When I walk through it, I always expect something good, something surprising, something unanticipated.
Washington Square’s mix of business and residential property is like most of Philly’s central district. Huge condo towers and office complexes border the historic centers. The area is littered with the remnants of a flourishing business past, now transformed and trying to make it in the new economy. Ghosts of old businesses are scattered throughout the area, like the Lippincott publishing company, which was once a gem in Philly’s tussle with New York for dominance.
Liam and company rented a condo in one of the newer buildings. How they afforded it was anybody’s guess. It wasn’t cheap, and they weren’t stockbrokers. I took out my cell phone and called ahead, just in case they’d ignored my request to stay put. Liam and Bri were both at home.
I made it through the front desk security hurdles and zipped up to the twenty-fifth floor in an elevator that gave the impression you were in a hotel rather than a residence. Liam’s apartment was the last door at the end of a long, classy corridor.
Bri came to the door when I knocked. Golden-eyed, shaven-headed Bri tried looking tough when he opened the door. But the Australian rugby shorts, a skin tight see-through tee-shirt, and flip-flops, did not communicate “dangerously tough.” He let me in, shut the door, and trotted off into another room.
Liam stood in the living room and waved me in, his cargo pants and a loose tank-top making him look like an ad for a high end clothing line. He’d tied a yellow bandana around his neck and it played well against the bronze skin tone he obviously kept with the help of tanning parlors. Liam’s eyes were red, and it wasn’t allergy season.
“They say he— he probably did it.” He stared at me, and I’ve never yet seen a better lost-puppy look.
“I know, Liam, but…”
“You’ve gotta do something, Marco.” Liam said as he stepped close, wrapped his arms around me, and lay his head on my shoulder. “Ben needs you.”
“I’m working on it, Liam,” I said and rubbed his back with my hand.
His body pressed closer. He felt warm and needy. Pleasant as Liam’s embrace was, I needed to talk about
the case. I gently disengaged so we could talk face to face. “You need to pull yourself together and do what you can to help.”
“I will, Marco, but you’re the one who really knows what to do. Besides you sort of got us all into this in the first place.”
“How do you figure that?” I asked, already knowing what he meant.
“You encouraged us all to sign up,” Liam said, without sounding angry. Then, his face close to mine, he looked me in the eye. His eyes were a warm brown and very seductive. “But, I forgive you. Maybe I was a little rough on you last night.”
He placed his hands softly on each side of my face and pulled me into a kiss. A long deep kiss, during which he pressed his body against mine, and I couldn’t resist. I didn’t want to.
Finally, drawing himself away, he looked at me, smiled, and wiped at his eyes. “I’ll make some coffee.” He padded off on bare feet and left me standing there.
I knew manipulation when it stuck its tongue down my throat. What Liam didn’t know was that I was already invested in the case, and he didn’t need to try manipulating me. But I wasn’t about to stop him from employing more of his brand of manipulation.
After a few moments, during which I heard Liam working around in the kitchen, Bri barreled into the room with Liam in tow looking confused. Bri was lots taller than Liam and carried more muscle.
“Liam said you’re gonna take the case? Did you talk to Ben?” Bri demanded.
I could smell coffee brewing. “I’ve asked around. Spoke to Detective Ransom and I think I’ve found—”
“You found out who really did it?” Bri asked.
“I—”
“I knew he didn’t do it. I know Ben. He couldn’t have.” Liam said.
“I didn’t say I’d found the killer. But I’m trying and you guys can help.” I had to slow them down before they derailed.
“How? We didn’t see anything,” Bri towered over me like an old-growth Redwood. “Besides who’d believe us if we did? A straight guy dies and we take the fall for it. Simple. They have a fag in prison and they’ll roast him.”
Crimes on Latimer: From the Early Cases of Marco Fontana Page 34