by Dorien Grey
He was quiet a moment, then sighed again. “I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but Jesus, to think it would come to this! A policeman’s funeral is almost a sacred thing in the department. For anyone to boycott or instigate the boycott of a fellow officer’s funeral would be…inconceivable. There is already enough tension in the ranks and there are more than enough truly good cops not to take a boycott quietly. This would be close to declaring civil war within the department, and it would be an insult the gay community could hardly overlook—and who could blame them?”
“I’ll spread the word about the memo,” I said. “I really do think the majority of the community believes Chief Black is trying to do the right thing, and are on his side. But somebody is obviously on a kamikaze mission to take him out at all costs.”
“Thanks, Dick. I…we…appreciate it. I’ll keep you posted if anything else develops, and you have my home phone number. Don’t be afraid to use it.”
When we hung up, I went to get the list Mark Graser, Lee Taylor, Glen O’Banyon and I had made up after the meeting, of key leaders to call for constant updating on the situation. None of us, when we called the meeting with Chief Black, had any idea it would mushroom to the size it did. We did not want to make that mistake again.
I was glad I’d volunteered to take the list to my office and make copies for all of us, or I wouldn’t have had it available after Richman’s call.
I went to the kitchen, made another pot of coffee, and sat down with the list and the telephone….
*
Don’t ask where the rest of weekend or Monday went: I couldn’t tell you. I somehow found myself in the totally unwanted position of liaison between not only Lieutenant Richman and community leaders, but between the leaders themselves. Endless phone calls; endless visits to and visits from people on our contacts list; endless rumors needing attempts at damage control; several visits with Lisa and Carol, and a long phone call with Tom’s dad, who would be returning home to Florida on Wednesday with Tom’s body, for burial beside his mother and brother. Tom’s sister had flown out for the funeral. Under any other circumstance, I would have really looked forward to meeting her. But….
Though the issue of Tom’s sexuality was never mentioned during our conversation, it didn’t have to be. His dad knew; he’d probably always known. And while I’d fairly much steeled myself against my own emotions, I found I was totally unable to not respond to the emotions of others. Talking with Tom’s dad practically pulled my heart out. To have lost two sons he worshiped…I could not comprehend how he could hold up as bravely as he did.
Like father, like son; like son, like father, I thought.
Bob and Mario called late Sunday afternoon, I remember, and asked if I’d like to go out to dinner. When I told them I was practically nailed to the phone, they asked if it would be okay for them to bring dinner over to my place, and I readily agreed. I needed some sort of break, for sure. I suppose I could have gone out, but the steady flow of phone calls, to and from, allowed us all to keep close track of what was going on. The Journal-Sentinel’s story on the boycott would probably have been a lot more damaging had I not been able to relay Lieutenant Richman’s report of the chief’s memo. Still, it was clear that if a boycott should take place, all hell might very well break lose.
Was it just Tom’s death that brought everything to the point it was? No, not really…not totally. The current situation was a distillation of the conflict between the police and the community throughout the years. The community needed a hero, and the shooting incident outside Ruthie’s had provided it. Tom represented something to the community—a sense of progress, an odd sense of being a part of the mainstream; the Cochran element of the department represented the status quo which had existed for longer than anyone could remember—a status quo which was no longer acceptable to a community which realized it didn’t have to be pushed around anymore.
The situation was a Grimm’s Fairy Tale; an Aesop’s Fable; a morality play. And I was in the middle of it all.
*
And as I thought that, I was forced to address the one thing I’d tried so hard to repress since the night of Tom’s death and my meeting with Richman, Offermann, and Chief Black: What in the hell was I doing about all this? I mean, really doing? I’m a P.I., for chrissakes! I’m supposed to be out there solving cases, not just sitting around with my finger up my nose! And if I can find out who killed people I don’t even know, why the hell wasn’t I out there looking for whoever killed Tom?
I recognized, of course, when I let myself look at the situation more logically, that this case was very different from any other I’d ever dealt with. For one thing, it wasn’t really a “case” at all—it was a murder, yes; it was a mystery, yes, but it was also a part of my life like no “case” could possibly be. I was involved on a totally different level.
And I was in fact lucky that the circumstances were totally different here; there was just too much going on to allow myself to give in to my own feelings. Trying to help keep the lid on a potentially explosive situation had turned into almost a twenty-four-hour-a-day effort. The “usual suspects” pool wasn’t really there: Tom was a cop, and chances are that despite what Richman and the others might want to believe, he was killed by another cop. But I had to let Richman and Offermann have first shot: there’s no way I could start sniffing around without getting my nose flattened by slamming doors.
Gang members? A possibility, but also a world in which I hadn’t a clue as to how to work my way around. There was always a way, of course.
I decided, with a hell of a lot more reluctance than I can possibly convey, that I simply had to concentrate on first things first: preventing an open war between the police and the gay community, giving the police a chance to do their job, and taking the time and effort to put myself in a mental state where I could, if the time came, set out on my own without the emotional baggage I was carrying at the moment. I’d give the police the time Richman asked for, but it wasn’t an open-ended agreement.
I’d be a P.I. solving a murder later. Right now….
*
Maybe that’s why I was so relieved to hear the buzzer ring and, when I opened the door for Bob and Mario, to see Jonathan with them.
We ate the pizza they’d brought, and drank some beer—luckily I had some Coke in the fridge for Jonathan—and talked (between phone calls) and tried to pretend it was just a night of pizza and beer. When they left—I have no idea what time—Jonathan did not ask if he could stay, though I could see he wanted to. A little bit too much of me wanted him to, too. But I just couldn’t do that to him, and it had nothing whatever to do with his age: I hadn’t really had a chance to get to know him, but I could tell he really wanted someone and because I had helped him when he needed it, it was logical that someone would be me. The age thing was becoming less and less important to me, but if I were to in effect lead him on and then find out that it couldn’t go anywhere…well, as I say, I just couldn’t do that to him.
Probably all this introspection was a good thing, because it took my mind off Tom for a while.
*
Lisa had asked me to accompany her and Carol to the funeral, which was to be held at St. Dominic’s Cathedral about three blocks from the City Annex. The body was to be brought by hearse from Stenson’s Funeral Home to the Annex, from which point it would be accompanied to St. Dominic’s for the service, with Tom’s fellow officers either lining the route or, if the boycott materialized, however many officers did show up would march behind the hearse from the Annex to the church.
Have I mentioned that I do not like funerals? I think I have. Of course, outside of the movie “Harold and Maude,” I can’t recall anyone who did enjoy them. Still, the only way I could get through them was to simply turn my mind off the minute the service started and turn it back on when I considered it safe to do so.
Tom’s father and sister had arranged to pick us up in a limo. We would go directly to the church and await the arrival of
the body.
It was going to be a very, very long day.
*
The boycott did not materialize—at least not in significant numbers—either because of Chief Black’s memo or simply because the vast majority of the force were decent men paying last respects to one of their own. As we drove past Warman Park on the way to the church, the streets were lined on both sides by I have no idea how many people: Gays, straights, the curious. I saw at least two large rainbow flags being held by groups on the curb, and spotted a number of smaller, hand-held flags not being waved…just held. I was told later that, as the hearse drove down the street, those with flags simply raised them over their heads in tribute. And as the hearse passed the uniformed officers lining the route, they fell in step behind the hearse and marched with it to St. Dominic’s, where they formed into long ranks in the street, facing the cathedral.
Lisa, Tom’s father, his sister Maureen, Carol, and I were in the front pew. We sat in leaden silence until the organ announced the arrival of the coffin. We all stood and…I shut my mind off.
It was, from what I understand, a very…well, one can hardly use the word “nice” when talking about a funeral: I can’t, anyway. But it was very dignified and I’m sure very comforting to Tom’s dad and sister, who were both devout Catholics. I’m sure Tom would have been impressed. Jake Janzer, the officer whose life Tom had saved from the burning squad car, said a few words, which I of course did not allow myself to hear, but which made Lisa cry. Then Chief Black got up and said, I understand, pretty much what he had said at the meeting at the M.C.C.
Tom’s dad got up and read a poem Tom had written in college. I remember when he wrote it, and I’d never forgotten it. And while I would not let myself listen to Tom’s dad’s voice as he read it, I saw it clearly in my mind. It was called “Questions of Valor.”
Had we been aboard the Birkenhead
could we have held our ground;
giving up our chance to live
so the weaker would not drown?
Were we in the Titanic’s band
as her stern rose in the air,
could we have kept on playing,
to soothe the doomed souls there?
If we were one of the Sullivans,
five inseparable brothers,
could we choose, as the Juneau sank,
to perish with the others?
To give one’s self for others
is more than bravery:
It illumines words like “selfless,”
And defines humanity.
And then it was over, and when we were back in the limousine, I turned my mind back on. Well, not totally, I guess, because I’m really not too sure on the rest of the day. Needless to say, it passed.
*
Tuesday’s evening newscasts, I heard, covered the funeral not as a lead story, but in a very responsible manner, as did Wednesday morning’s papers. Even the Journal-Sentinel seemed, if one just gave a quick glance at the headline (“Honoring Their Own”), to be showing some journalistic responsibility. But the photo which occupied two-thirds of the front page was not of the ranks of uniformed officers following the hearse or lined in front of the cathedral, or of Chief Black speaking from the pulpit. It was a color photo of one of the groups standing at curbside holding a large rainbow flag.
I’d managed to oversleep by nearly an hour on Wednesday morning; not that I needed it, of course. But now that the funeral was over, and the boycott had not occurred, and the community had not been slapped in the face, and the police department had not fragmented, I was confident that Offermann and the pro-Black faction could turn their full attention to finding Tom’s killer.
I also felt fairly confident that my phone would finally stop ringing except for the normal back-and-forth with friends. I even managed to fool myself into thinking that what I’d been going through the past few days, from the minute I got Richman’s call telling me of Tom’s death, was just something like a severe bout of emotional flu, and I’d be my old self in no time. Then as I walked into the lobby of my office building, I glanced at the clock and felt as though I’d been kicked in the stomach. It took me a second to figure out why, and then I remembered: It was at precisely that moment that the plane carrying Tom’s dad, his sister Maureen, and Tom’s body was scheduled to take off. And I realized, maybe for the first time, that Tom was really dead and….
Shhhhhh! my mind said quietly. It’ll be all right. All right eventually, maybe, I knew; but never the same again.
*
The Gay Pride parade was only four days away, and while Tom’s death would undoubtedly make it somewhat less joyous and exuberant, and the tension with the police would remain high until his killer was caught, it would be a chance for the community to relax a bit, which it very much needed.
That, of course, was my hope until I stopped Thursday morning at the lobby newsstand on my way to my office and saw the Journal-Sentinel’s latest depth charge: “Police Gun Killed Gay Cop!”
My immediate reaction was to wonder how in hell they had found out about that: I was sure the police would not have released such potentially damaging information. I wasn’t about to spend a cent of my money on buying the rag to find out if it was total speculation or if it was attributed to the ubiquitously anonymous “reliable source” in the department.
When I got to the office, I had a message to call Mark Richman, which I immediately did.
“You saw the Sentinel?”
“Yeah.” I didn’t tell him Tim had told me that it had been a .38 which had killed Tom. “Is it true?—though I know the words ‘true’ and Journal-Sentinel are almost never used in the same sentence.”
“Between us, it was a .38 slug, yes. But we don’t know that it came from a department service revolver. We’re zeroing in on the gang connection—retaliation for Brady’s having killed two gang members, any run-ins he may have had while on the Gang Control Unit. But we are very concerned about how this might appear to the gay community. We’d hoped the funeral, following after Chief Black’s being at the M.C.C. meeting, would bring the community to our side. Will you keep your ear very close to the rail on this one? If it might trigger a strong reaction from the community, we’d like to be prepared for it.”
I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by being “prepared for it,” and I didn’t think I’d like it if I was sure.
“I’ll definitely keep you posted. How is the investigation going?”
“We’re on it,” he said, a little noncommittally.
“Anything solid?”
“Not yet. We’ve been tracing Officer Brady’s movements since he left his father at the Montero. We know what time he left and though it’s impossible to be completely accurate, taking into consideration the light traffic flow at that time of night, we’ve timed as closely as we could how long it would have taken him. He had a full tank of gas, so we think he may have made a quick stop either for gas or to get something to eat, and if he did, maybe somebody saw something. We’re checking every gas station and convenience store along the route. We do have a witness who saw a late-model car going pretty fast down Evans near Beech at about the same time, but no make, specific model, or other features other than it was not a squad car.”
Not a marked one, anyway, my mind observed, but I didn’t say anything.
And I for one didn’t exactly relate gang members and late model cars.
*
At 2:36 a.m. Thursday morning, my phone rang.
Oh, Jeezus, not again! I thought, instantly awake.
“Dick, it’s Jared. You might want to come down to The Central.”
“What’s going on?” I asked, considering all the possibilities, none of them good.
“The new police substation’s on fire. It looks bad.”
“I’ll be right there.” I hung up, jumped out of bed and started looking for my pants.
And what the hell was I supposed to do when I got there? God only knows: I didn’t. All I knew was that lately my
whole life had become a series of knee-jerk responses.
The substation was at the corner of Ash and Beech, and as I turned down Ash I could see the flames from several blocks away. A police car, strobes flashing, blocked the street a block before Beech, and I turned the corner and parked as soon as I could. Despite the late hour, there was a large crowd on Beech, mostly standing against the buildings as close to the fire as the police would let them get. Several fire trucks were pouring huge streams of water onto the two-story substation which was completely engulfed in flame, and another truck several doors down was trying to put out a sizeable blaze on the roof of a clothing store, apparently started by sparks showering down from the substation fire.
I spotted Jared and made my way through the crowd to him. He saw me, nodded, and returned his attention to the fire. Suddenly one of the fire engines gave three sharp blasts of its horn and began to back up quickly, running over one of its own hoses and pulling others as the firemen standing closest to the building moved back into the street. With a muffled roar, first the roof caved in and then the entire front of the building collapsed onto the sidewalk.
I made it a point to look carefully around the crowd to see if there was anyone there I knew or recognized—I was especially looking for guys I knew to be militant activists. I was mildly relieved not to see any.
“What happened?” I asked Jared as the firemen moved again toward the fire, continuing their efforts, though it was clear there was now nothing to save. The fire on the clothing store roof appeared to be under control and the billowing smoke was changing from black to white.