Coach Richie Crenshaw crossed the locker room, stepping over strewn sneakers, jockstraps, and long legs. The Knicks were in Seattle’s Kingdome, preparing to play a preseason scrimmage against the Supersonics. “Just what I said. Michael is making a statement at the start of NewsFlash.”
“What kind of statement?” Reece asked.
“Hell if I know.”
Jerome Holloway exchanged a confused glance with Reece. “And it’s being covered on national television?”
“That’s right,” Coach Crenshaw replied.
“I don’t get it,” Reece said. “What the hell could Mikey have to say that a primetime news show would want to cover live?”
“Something about his hepatitis, I guess.”
Reece shook his head. “SportsChannel or ESPN might be interested in covering something like that but not CBS.”
“Besides,” Jerome added, “the press already knows about his hepatitis.”
Coach Crenshaw shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. Turn on the TV, Jerome, and we’ll find out.”
The rookie walked over to the set and flicked the switch. Michael’s teammates and coaches stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to the screen. Most of their faces displayed a sense of relaxed curiosity. But not Reece’s. Something didn’t make sense to him. An athlete, no matter how popular, does not make a live statement on a news show unless it is big news. Really big news. Something that transcended sports.
As Reece Porter watched Michael and Sara walk toward the podium, an awful feeling of dread flooded his chest.
GEORGE was in the middle of doing his third set of one hundred push-ups, his muscles bunching and swelling with each repetition, when he heard the advertising teaser:
“Stay tuned for a very special episode of NewsFlash. What’s the connection between a surprise statement from basketball great Michael Silverman, the Gay Slasher, and the story of the year about the AIDS epidemic? Watch NewsFlash and see. Next on CBS.”
George froze. Michael Silverman, husband of Sara Lowell, son-in-law of John Lowell. Silverman had been at the charity ball on the night that George killed Bradley Jenkins. Now he was going to make a surprise statement on live television.
George wanted to hear what he had to say. He wanted to hear very much.
Of course, an announcement by someone like Michael Silverman was hardly reason for concern, but what else had the TV blurb said? Something about a connection to the Gay Slasher. Well, that should be interesting. And then there was the last thing that voice on the TV had said—the story of the year on the AIDS epidemic. George shook his head. It was too much of a coincidence. Michael Silverman, the Gay Slasher, the AIDS epidemic.
Someone had tied a few loose ends together.
The real question for George concerned Michael Silverman’s announcement. The police already knew about the connection between the murder victims and the AIDS clinic, so it had only been a matter of time before it leaked to the press. But what did it have to do with Sara Lowell’s husband? Was Michael Silverman connected with the murders? And if so, how?
Careful, George. Your job is to eliminate them, not figure out why.
True, but a man had to watch his back. George was being forced to take greater risks than normal. The Gay Slasher had become high-profile stuff. Now that the scrutiny was intensifying, logic dictated that he should learn more about the “why” of these killings in order to protect himself.
Damn it, why hadn’t he checked this whole thing out beforehand?
Sloppy work, George. Very unprofessional.
George sprang up off the floor as the commercial ended. He sat on the edge of the large bed and watched as Michael and Sara walked toward the podium. Sara Lowell was very beautiful. Incredible looking. Turning his gaze to Michael, George felt a sharp pang of envy.
That lucky son of a bitch slept with Sara Lowell every night.
George shook his head. Sometimes life was just not fair.
“I’M home,” Max Bernstein called out.
“I’m in the bedroom,” Lenny replied. “Did you pick up some milk?”
“Yep. And a six-pack of Diet Coke.”
Lenny walked into the den and kissed Max lightly on the lips. “Tired?”
“Exhausted. How about you?”
Lenny nodded, taking the bundle from Max’s arm. “I spent seven hours in court for a case that was never called.”
“What happened?”
“My client didn’t show.”
“Skipped his bail?”
“Seems so.”
Bernstein shrugged. “We cops catch them. You lawyers let them go.”
“Yeah, but without us you’d be out of a job. By the way, I ordered a pizza. I figured you wouldn’t want to go out.”
“You figured right.”
Lenny carried the bag to the kitchen. “Are you going to be working this weekend?”
“Huh?”
“Stop biting your nails for two seconds and listen. Are you going to be working this weekend?”
“Probably, why?”
“It’s my weekend with Melissa.”
Melissa was Lenny’s twelve-year-old daughter. “I’ll try to be around.”
“I’d appreciate it. Oh, I rented that movie you wanted to see.”
Max picked up the phone and dialed. “Can’t watch it tonight. NewsFlash is on in a few minutes.”
“I almost forgot.” Lenny came out of the kitchen. “Max?”
“What?”
“Get your fingers out of your mouth before I shove them down your throat.”
“Sorry.”
“And who are you calling?”
“My apartment.”
“Such a waste.”
“Lenny, don’t start.”
“Why have you kept that empty apartment for six years? All you have in there is a telephone and an answering machine.”
“You know why.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re afraid someone is going to find out you live with—gasp-oh-gasp!—a man. That you’re an honest-to-God screaming faggot.”
“Lenny . . .”
“So you keep your swinging bachelor pad on Eighty-seventh Street for show—no, because you’re paranoid. Wouldn’t it be cheaper just to tell everyone that we’re two single, homo studs who happen to live together? Something like in Three Men and a Baby.”
“What are you babbling about?”
“Three Men and a Baby. You remember the movie. Tom Selleck, Ted Danson, and Steve Guttenberg were all single and sharing an apartment and nobody worried about their sexual preferences. And what about Oscar and Felix on The Odd Couple? Murray the cop never thought they were getting it on.”
No messages on the machine. Max hung up the phone. “You’re a nag.”
“And trim your mustache already. You look like Gene Shalit.”
“Nag, nag. Did you feed Simon yet?”
“A few minutes ago. He ate eight goldfish the other day and he’s downing another half dozen now. Want to watch?”
“I think I’ll pass.”
Lenny shrugged. “He’s your snake.”
Max had bought Simon, a harmless garden snake, on a whim two years ago. He thought it would be kind of cool to own a pet snake. Max, however, had overlooked one small problem—he was scared to death of snakes. He loved Simon, liked to watch him slide about his cage and slither up to the screen on the top. But he was afraid to touch him—or go near him, for that matter. And worse, the only thing Simon ate were live goldfish, which he caught in his laser-quick mouth and swallowed whole. You could actually see the outline of the struggling fish as it slid down Simon’s thin body.
Gross.
Luckily, Lenny had taken a liking to Simon—a rather sick liking, as a matter of fact. Lenny enjoyed inviting friends over to watch the feeding; they bet on which fish would be the last one eaten.
Very gross.
The doorbell rang. Lenny opened the door, paid the delivery boy, and brought the pizza into the d
en. Max watched him, remembering how his life had changed when he first saw Lenny’s gentle eyes seven years ago: 1984, a year of transition. The nights of anonymous sex, orgies in SoHo, leather bars, and Caligula-like bathhouses were beginning to melt away under the blistering heat of the AIDS epidemic. Though he had lived in constant fear of being found out, Max had participated in it all. How many lovers had he had? He had lost count. How many friends had he lost to the AIDS virus? On that number too he had lost count. So many taken away, and now the dead were little more than a blurry blend of faces, vivacious young men whose lives had been suddenly, painfully, snuffed out. They were gone now and too often forgotten.
Why, Max wondered, did we all gorge ourselves on nameless, faceless sex? Was it merely for the physical thrill or was there something more? Were we trying to rebel? Or were we just releasing the pent-up anxieties of living too repressed for years in a straight society? What were we looking for in that mass of flesh? Or more important, what were we running away from?
Over the past seven years Bernstein had had more than twenty AIDS tests performed on himself—all under assumed names and all negative. A stroke of luck and yet sometimes he felt guilty for not having contracted the virus, like an Auschwitz survivor wondering why he was still alive.
Lenny, on the other hand, had come from a conservative family. He married his high school sweetheart at the age of nineteen and they had a daughter a year later. He tried to suppress and deny his true sexual orientation, and for a while it worked. But by the fourth year of their marriage, he and his wife, Emily, knew that the heterosexual facade had finally cracked and broken away. The truth was revealed to their families, and Emily and Lenny parted as friends.
Max turned on the television. The two sat quietly on the couch, watching the television and holding hands.
Lenny leaned his head on Max’s shoulder. “I’m the best thing that ever happened to you, you know.”
“Yeah, I guess you are.”
A few minutes later they watched Michael and Sara walk toward the podium.
“DAD?” Cassandra called.
John Lowell did not respond. He continued to stare down at the old photograph.
“What are you looking at?” she asked softly.
He sighed deeply and placed the photograph down gently as though it were delicate porcelain. “Nothing,” he replied.
Cassandra crossed the room. As she suspected, her father had been staring at a picture of her mother. Tears flooded her eyes. “I miss her too,” she said.
“She loved you very much, Cassandra. She wanted you to be happy.”
Cassandra nodded, reaching out her hand and touching the image of her mother. “Sara just called.”
“Where has she been?”
“She wouldn’t say. She said we’d find out on NewsFlash.”
“On NewsFlash? What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
John reached out, and for the first time in many years father and daughter embraced. Cassandra snuggled closer, feeling the wool sweater brush up against her. For a moment she forgot about the letters she had found in his desk. She forgot about Reverend Sanders’ voice in her father’s study, and she even forgot her own crazy suspicions. He was her father. She felt so right in his arms, like a small child again, so safe and warm and content and yet . . .
“You’re my whole world,” he whispered. “You and Sara.”
They clung to each other with an odd sort of need. The need was surprisingly strong, like a ravenous hunger that grew as you ate. Neither spoke, but they both knew that they were thinking the same thing. They could not say how they knew each other’s thoughts, nor could they explain the awful feeling of doom that permeated the room. This should have been a happy, tender moment, but something was lurking around the corner, something that wanted to rip and shred and destroy.
Cassandra broke away and they looked at each other uncomfortably, as though they shared an embarrassing secret. “The show’s coming on.”
“Right,” he said.
They left the room then, no longer holding hands or even touching. Still, the warmth of his embrace stayed with Cassandra like a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She watched her father turn on the television and felt a wave of love overwhelm her. He was such a gentle man, she told herself, a man who had dedicated his entire life to healing others. He would never hurt anyone. Never. She was sure of it. Positive. Her suspicions were nonsense. After all, a couple of letters and a meeting with Reverend Sanders hardly meant he was guilty of some sort of wrongdoing. As a matter of fact it meant nothing at all. She was glad that she had not told Harvey about the letters, that she had not betrayed her own father’s trust.
Cassandra sat back now, relieved, confident, and trying like hell to ignore the irritating voice of doubt that still echoed in her head.
FLASHBULBS worked like a strobe light, giving the illusion that Sara and Michael were moving in slow motion. They reached the podium together. Michael stepped forward while Sara stood behind him and to the side. Michael’s head was lowered, his eyes closed. A few moments later he lifted his head high and faced the crowded room of reporters.
Sara watched him. He looked handsome in his gray suit with a solid blue tie, but the clothes were just not him. There were no wild splashes of color, no yellow and green paisley, no purple floral pattern, no funky polka dots—so drab and . . . and lifeless for him. His face, somber, ashen, tired, matched the look.
He took a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. His fingers unfolded it and his palm smoothed it out against the podium. He glanced down at the statement, but he did not read the words. His hand pushed the paper to the side and slowly his face tilted upward. Then he just stood there for a few moments and said nothing.
Through the glare of flashbulbs, Sara could sense the unease in the audience. Murmurs began to stir and strengthen through the press corps. She moved closer to Michael, took his hand in hers and squeezed. The coldness of his hand startled her. Then he did something very strange. He turned toward her and smiled—not a fake or tired smile, but a genuine, beautiful Michael smile. It comforted her and frightened her at the same time. The smile slipped away from his lips slowly as he turned back to the microphone.
“Yesterday,” Michael began, “I learned that I have contracted the AIDS virus.”
Immediate silence. The murmurs ceased as though they had been on a tape recorder that had been switched off.
“I am entering a private clinic which you will hear more about during this program. That’s all I have to say. Thank you.”
He stepped back, smiled anew at Sara, and took her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
The press attacked with both barrels. “How long have you been gay, Michael?”
“Sara, how long have you known your husband was homosexual?”
“Is the marriage a farce?”
“Have you had sex with any of your teammates?”
With each question, Michael involuntarily winced. Finally, he stepped back toward the podium to set the record straight. When he reached the microphone and the room fell silent, Michael turned away without saying a word. He bent down and kissed Sara’s cheek.
“Like I said before, let’s get out of here.”
HARVEY watched the report alone.
Being alone was fine with him. That was how it should be. Cassandra had been a mistake from the start. Talk about your basic self-delusion—he must have been taking major mind-expanding drugs to think someone like her could be interested in someone like him. Besides, he had the clinic. He could not afford distractions that would hinder his concentration and affect his work negatively.
He shook his head. Enough of this. There were much more important things to worry about than his creature comforts. Harvey pushed Cassandra clear out of his mind and focused on the NewsFlash report.
Donald Parker was doing an excellent job, presenting the facts without too much innuendo. To help the clinic keep its anonymity, the report did not
give the name or address of the Pavilion. Thank God for that. Harvey could just imagine the riots if the clinic’s name and address were used in the report. Talk about bedlam.
Better still, only Eric’s name was used in the report. The name of the “chief researcher” was left out. Perfect. Couldn’t be better. Parker had even given an 800 telephone number and an address for those who wanted to make donations to the clinic and suggested writing or telegramming Congress to approve additional grants for the “unnamed” AIDS clinic.
Donald Parker’s blue eyes swerved forward, making contact with millions of viewers. Harvey could see why Parker was considered the best in the business. His intensity made you forget that you were watching television. He became a houseguest, just a member of the family seated in the den instead of a studio.
“Even more glaring,” Donald Parker’s deep voice continued, “is the clinic’s connection with the so-called Gay Slasher who has been terrorizing New York City’s gay community for the past two months. In reality, the Gay Slasher might better be called the AIDS Slasher. Here’s our report.”
His voice was now on tape. “Young men found stabbed and mutilated—they had everything to live for.” Several snapshots of bloodied sheets draped over bodies, an arm or leg jutting into view, flashed across the screen. “The world at large believed that a psychopath was hunting down members of the gay community. But new evidence has come to light which blows that theory right out of the water and draws a more devastating conclusion.”
A proper pause. “The so-called Gay Slasher is murdering AIDS sufferers. In fact, the murder victims all had one thing in common—they were patients at the clinic we have been discussing tonight.”
After another proper pause, Parker continued. “The first victim was Scott Trian.” A smiling photograph of Trian came on. “Trian, a twenty-nine-year-old stockbroker, was murdered in his apartment in the most grisly fashion imaginable. He was tortured and mutilated with a knife before he finally bled to death.”
Bill Whitherson’s image replaced Trian’s. “William Whitherson, a vice president at First City Bank, was the Gay Slasher’s next prey. Over twenty stab wounds were scattered across Mr. Whitherson’s face, neck, chest and groin. He was found in his apartment by his roommate, Stuart Lebrinski, who had left the victim only an hour before. The blood was still flowing from Mr. Whitherson’s wounds when Mr. Lebrinski came back from the supermarket.” The picture of Bill Whitherson faded away . . .
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