Murder in the Rue St. Ann

by Greg Herren

  The next shot showed a room with a wall-to-wall mat on the floor. The camera focused in on two bottles of baby oil, then switched over to a shot of Paul, who was sitting on the floor wearing nothing more than a black jock. He was stretching, and the camera zoomed in on his crotch. He continued stretching and showing off his muscles, while pretending the camera wasn’t there. The camera panned to a door swinging open as Joe Bob sauntered in wearing a cowboy hat, the same flannel shirt from the picture, and baggy jeans that didn’t disguise hour big his legs were. He stood watching Paul stretching for a minute, then took off his shirt.

  I gasped.

  Joe Bob was huge. He was built like someone you’d see on the cover of Muscle & Fitness. His muscles were huge and perfectly defined, striations popping out in each one of them with even the slightest movement he made. He undid his pants, and the baggy denim dropped away to show that his legs were perfectly in proportion to the rest of his body. He was darkly tanned, and as he stood there in his red jock, loosening up, I thought, Paul honey, you are going to get your ass kicked.

  Joe Bob took his hat off and I got a good look at his face. He looked like he was maybe nineteen, and had a kind of aw-shucks look to him—like a simple, sweet muscleboy from some rural area who had no clue how good he looked. Of course his name would be Joe Bob.

  They shook hands and started wrestling—and I could see immediately I had been wrong about the outcome. Paul was a good wrestler and Joe Bob didn’t know anything—it was obvious after just a few seconds. He was just big and strong, whereas Paul was quick and skilled. Joe Bob might get a momentary advantage but Paul would swiftly reverse out of it and get Joe Bob down.

  I found myself getting aroused.

  Wrestling was a lot more sexual then I’d thought. I’d never really paid much attention to it—we didn’t have a wrestling team at Cottonwood Wells High, so I’d only gotten brief glimpses of it while watching the Olympics. Or the pro stuff, which was always so silly I’d never bothered with it. The Beta Kappas who’d been into the pro stuff were jerks. I’d watched some of the TV shows with Paul, but really hadn’t paid a lot of attention. It just seemed stupid to me.

  But seeing two guys with great bodies in nothing but jocks wrestling— trying to establish dominance over the other—was very sexually arousing. Their bodies came into calmost constant close contact—especially their crotches when they would get locked in some hold where one was lying on top of the other.

  Paul finally pinned Joe Bob, and they lay on the mat side by side, laughing and joking and trying to catch their breaths. Both bodies were bathed in sweat. Then Joe Bob picked up a bottle of oil and squirted Paul. Paul got the other bottle and squirted Joe Bob back. Soon they facing each other on their knees and rubbing the oil in with steady, measured stroked. The camera focused on their soaked jocks, lingering as each of them began to stiffen.

  And then they were rolling and slipping and sliding over the mats, the slick oil making it harder to hold on to each other.

  Then somehow the jocks came off and you knew for sure that both were erect..

  I picked up the remote and hit fast forward.

  The images flew past. The two of them laughing and rolling around naked, grabbing at each other and slipping and sliding.

  Then Paul got on top of Joe Bob and kissed him.

  Joe Bob slid down on Paul’s body, and took him in his mouth.

  I hit STOP and sat there for a moment..

  I was turned on, but Paul’s voice echoed in my head.

  I never had sex on camera.

  Another lie.

  I got up and walked back to the bedroom.

  All my energy drained out of me and I was asleep the minute I hit the bed

  Chapter Thirteen

  I was startled out of a deep sleep by some noise I couldn’t identify at about seven in the morning.

  I blinked the sleep out of my eyes as the early morning sun was streaming through the iron bars on my bedroom window. I kept listening in the silence. Cars were going past on Camp Street, a dog was barking in Coliseum Square, but that was it. I wasn’t sure what it had been— just something out of the ordinary which jarred my mind into consciousness without warning. As I waited, I reflexively reached my right arm across the bed. Then as my questing hand continued to find nothing but pillow and comforter, I remembered the bed was empty and closed my eyes again. Paul wasn’t there, and I didn’t know where he was.

  We usually spent every night together, unless he had an early shift. Every morning we’d set the alarm for nine and wake up, our bodies in a tangled mess of arms, legs, quilt and sheets. Paul never woke easily. He’d moan and beg for at least five minutes, opening his eyes pleadingly and giving me a shy grin as I disentangled from the soothing warmth of his body and the bedclothes. I always let him have his extra time while I brushed my teeth, washed my face and started coffee. Some mornings, if I woke rup clear headed, I’d make him breakfast and bring it to him in bed. He never failed to be delighted, especially if it was pancakes. On those mornings it was easy to see what kind of little boy he’d been. I loved bringing that out in him. He’d eat, then get up and we’d go to the gym to work out.

  But this morning I was alone.

  I didn’t hear the sound again, so I swung my legs off the bed and got up. Sometime during the night I’d managed to get my shirt off and thrown it on the floor, but I didn’t remember doing it. I still had on my jeans, and walked into the kitchen and started coffee. I checked in the living room, and nothing looked out of the ordinary. Probably had just been something outside, just the neighbor’s dog.

  I looked like hell in the bathroom mirror as I brushed my teeth, but I felt better. Somehow, I’d managed to sleep deep and restful. The stress of the last day or so seemed under control. All I’d needed, I told myself as I washed my face, was a good night’s sleep.

  I showered, shaved and got dressed. I’d skip the gym this morning, figuring maybe I’d try to get down there in the afternoon. I walked into the living room and booted up my computer.

  Paul’s videotapes were still lying on the coffee table. I walked over and picked up one of them: Gods of the Ring 8. I looked at the label. Cody Dallas vs. Ronny Marshall. I set it back down. I sat down on the couch and picked up the remote, turning on the television and hitting play.

  I sat there, sipping my coffee and watching my boyfriend have sex with another man.

  When the credits rolled, I hit rewind, feeling like the biggest jerk on the planet.

  He hadn’t been my boyfriend when he made these videos. And who was I to judge him anyway?

  Paige was right. Again.

  It hadn’t been cool of Paul to lie to me, but I’d really left him no choice.

  Yeah, like he was going to tell me he’d done porn after I’d freaked about him posing shirtless on a magazine cover? I would have lied. The truth was I was overly jealous in an incredible self-absorbed, ugly way. I hadn’t questioned it when Paul lost interest in going out dancing, even though he’d loved it and looked forward every week to Saturday night. I just assumed he preferred our alone time more, but he’d been tired of me getting jealous every time someone smiled at him. Rather than calling me on it, he’d taken the easier way out. He’d always been willing to sacrifice something he loved to keep me happy.

  He’d loved flying, being in a different city every night but he’d also given that up to be ground based and with me every night. God, was I a piece of work. I’d been completely oblivious while I suffocated him, but in spite of the fact that I was a jealous untrusting ass, he’d loved me anyway, done everything he could to make me happy, and keep the peace. Every time I got jealous when someone smiled or touched him, I was basically saying to him, You don’t love me and you’re going to leave me as soon as you find something better. I hadn’t been able to accept his unconditional love for what it was. We’d never really talked about anything.

  Why hadn’t I realized all of this before?

  And now he was gone, I didn’
t know where. When he came back, I’d make it all up to him. I would tell him about T.J. and Ryan, why it was so hard for me. I’d never be jealous again, I vowed. I’d focus on making him happy for a change. And if he wanted to keep making these tapes, I wouldn’t complain. Just no more sex on camera. That wasn’t too much to ask.

  The blood in the kitchen was easy enough to explain. He could have slipped, hit his head and called an ambulance. Sadly, even the prints could be explained. The argument had started with me noticing for the first time the model was him. After I left, he could have gotten rid of the one and in an emotional rage of some kind, blacked out his face in the other one. It was all very logically explained—even the sperm spot on his bed. It wasn’t like him—at least not like the Paul I knew. But I didn’t know him as well as I should, and that was partly my own fault. I’d never taken the time to get to know him. All I’d really allowed him to be was my good-looking boyfriend.

  So why had Venus jumped into action the instant I called her?

  The patrol cop’s attitude, which had pissed me off so much the night before, was the proper reaction…nothing could be done for 24 hours. The reason for that rule is simple—why go to all the trouble of filling out a report when the person could have just wandered off for a while and might still turn up? Venus had also jumped jurisdictions—Uptown wasn’t her turf. Of course, Paul was a suspect in an on-going investigation of hers, but why hadn’t the Uptown detective pool shown up? Venus had to have called them off on her way, taking over jurisdiction.

  Had Venus thought Paul would leave town?

  Or did she think something was going to happen to him?

  No proof, Chanse, no proof, I reassured myself, heading over to my computer. I logged onto the Internet and pulled up my emails. Stop imaging things and focus on the facts.

  I was shocked to see I had thirty eight new messages. The header line of almost every one of them said things like I saw you (on this web-site) or You have email from (this person). And they almost all had attachments. I started reading.

  My God are you hot….I’d love to wrestle you sometime….I am coming to New Orleans in a couple of months and would like a match…what do you get into? I like to…I’m not into oil myself but would be willing to try it with you…do you ever get to dallas? We’d be a good match…have you ever tried being a heel…

  The pictures were a mixed bag: older guys, younger guys, overweight guys, guys with incredible bodies. Some were headless, some were naked, some were wearing thongs, jocks, bikinis, or underwear. Some looked like they were professionally done, in black and white with artistic poses and shadings; others were taken with digital cameras in mirrors so that the flash obscuring the face.

  There were about three left when I hit paydirt.

  Hey Chanse:

  So you’re the reason Paul retired from the business? He’s a great guy…we made a video together once…I think it was called Jocks 15…how’s he doing? Haven’t heard from him in a while…I’ll be in New Orleans for Halloween, maybe we could all get together for dinner or drinks or some wrestling... Hit me back with an email and let me know what you think..and tell Paul to email me.

  Jude

  I downloaded his picture and whistled. Jude was in his late twenties, with the look of a nice farmboy. Dark blonde hair, blue eyes and a strong looking face with dimples. He was wearing a pair of loose-fitting jeans. He had his fists in his pockets which pulled the jeans down far enough to show his tan line and the deep-cut lines from his hips heading gradually toward each other inside his pants. The big muscles in his arms bulged. It might have been the way the jeans were cut and hanging on him, but he looked like he was fully qualified to be a porn star. His head was tilted to one side, a piece of straw jutting out of his mouth as he grinned at the camera, one of his eyes closed in a wink.

  My computer dinged and an instant message opened on my screen.

  WRESTLEJUDE: Chanse? How you doing?

  I looked at the return address on the email. Yup, wrestlejude.

  CHANSEMAC: Hey Jude just read your email…thanks for the pic.

  WRESTLEJUDE: The ones of the site of you are hot, man. Got any others? Nudes?

  CHANSEMAC: LOL. No nudes, sorry.

  WRESTLEJUDE: I’ll send some of me…just a sec, ok? Don’t go away, ok?

  CHANSEMAC: OK.

  While I waited, I did a search for Judge Dahlgren and found one, a Times-Picayune profile.

  Judge Ronald Dahlgren was a native of New Orleans, born in Uptown, and had gone to Vanderbilt and Tulane Law. He married Miss Lois Dahlgren of Mobile right out of law school. He had joined a large firm, and had become active in politics, working for several local and state campaigns. The candidates he’d supported had one thing in common: conservatism. He was a deacon of his church. He worked hard, earning a reputation as a fierce litigator, while also rising in state politics. He was appointed to the local U.S. District judgeship by a conservative politician as a ‘thank you’ for all of his political help, presumably to steer the court in a conservative direction. He had three children: two sons, Darcy and Richard, and a daughter, Laura. He always gave out the maximum sentence permitted by law. Some critics felt he wasn’t impartial; he always favored the prosecution in his rulings.

  Not surprising he owns a gun, I thought. He probably belongs to the NRA.

  My computer dinged.

  WRESTLEJUDE: Sent. Hope you like….

  I unzipped the file he sent me and started opening pictures of Jude naked from every possible angle. Nothing was left to the imagination. He was definitely a well put together man.

  CHANSEMAC: WOW. Thanks…where you at?

  WRESTLEJUDE: I live in Dallas. Coming in for Halloween would be great to hook up with you guys…

  CHANSEMAC: Sounds great, man. Did you know Paul in Dallas?

  WRESTLEJUDE: Yeah, Paul was the one who turned me on to wrestling. LOL. It’s all his fault!

  CHANSEMAC: LOL. Know what you mean…

  WRESTLEJUDE: I’d always wanted to do it, you know, try it out, but was always afraid if I said anything people would think I was weird…

  The way I would have if Paul told me.

  CHANSEMAC: Yeah, who knew? How’d you two meet?

  WRESTLEJUDE: He was in the Dallas chatroom one night….hey, would you mind if I called?

  CHANSEMAC: No…my number is 504-555-8153.

  WRESTLEJUDE: Give me a sec…I have to sign off to call.

  The phone rang maybe a minute later. The caller ID read MUELLER, JUDE with a Dallas number. I answered. “Hello?”

  “Hey, man, how you doing?” His voice was deep, melodious but playful.

  “Good.”

  “It’s great to talk to you.” He laughed. “Hell, I’ve heard so much about you it’s kind of like I already know you, man.”

  Wish I could say the same, I thought, laughing into the phone and saying, “Good things, I hope.”

  “Oh yeah, man. Paul thinks you’re the second coming of Christ. I keep telling him, come on, nobody’s perfect and he always says ‘Chanse is.’”

  I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.

  But Jude apparently liked to talk, so he didn’t notice, just went on. “Paul’s a great guy. That night in the chatroom I read his profile and it says right there plain as day he’s into wrestling, so I sent him a message and we started chatting. I ended up inviting him over and it was so much fun, and he was such a great guy! He showed me all kinds of stuff.”

  “Really?” I swallowed.

  “”He taught me how to wrestle! Like he’s teaching you!” He laughed. “I was lucky he was the first wrestler I met, man—you too.”

  “Why?”

  “Hasn’t Paul warned you about the freaks and liars?”

  Freaks and liars? “Um, no.”

  “That’s weird—he warned me right off.” He sounded puzzled. “I mean, he had to know the freaks and weirdos would come out of the woodwork when you posted your profile.”

  “He—he doesn’t
know.” It wasn’t a lie. And it fit in perfectly.

  Jude laughed long and hard. “That’s pretty ballsy, man, especially when you named him in your profile! He’s probably already gotten a couple of emails from guys he knows who saw it. I know I did!” He got serious. “Oh, man, I hope I didn’t get you in trouble.”

  “Um, it’s okay.” I said, thinking fast. “He’s out of town and won’t have access to his emails for a while. I’ll tell him before.” I swallowed. “What about these freaks and weirdos?”

  He sighed. “Wrestling is so much fun, and there are so many cool guys into it—but not everyone is…you’re going to meet up with the lunatic fringe sooner rather than later, especially with those pictures posted.”

  “Lunatic fringe?” I prompted.

  “The liars. The freaks. The guys who don’t show. The guys who send you a picture of themselves when they had hair and teeth. The guys who send you a skinny pic. The guys who talk all big and then never show up. The guys who send other people’s pictures—that’s happened to both me and Paul, it’ll happen to you too—the ones who you meet and are fricking crazy; the ones who decide after one match you’re their boyfriend, the stalkers…there’s this one guy, in Mississippi, that scares the shit out of me.”

  “I can’t imagine why Paul didn’t tell me about this guy.”

  “Paul always laughed it off, but I think he was scared of the guy, and not in a wrestling sense, if you know what I mean. Paul could take care of himself wrestling, man. He’s one of the best. He only lost a match when he wanted to.” Jude said. “This guy was totally obsessed with Paul. He used to email him pictures all the time, offer to pay him to wrestle him, stuff like that.”