Here Comes the Corpse

by Mark Richard Zubro

  Macintire’s show was a mixture of call-in vilification and extended rants by Macintire himself. There was no pretense of objectivity. If a left-wing caller was put on the air, it was always the most inarticulate or boneheaded representative of such views. And Cecil kept the cutoff button handy. If someone began to get logical or rational with him, they’d be silenced instantly. Of course, I think people who call these talk shows have to be pretty pathetic to begin with. Cecil would often permit an abusive caller to be on the air. I assumed this was done deliberately to set up Macintire as a sympathetic, put-upon victim. Such calls gave him a chance to launch into a wounded tirade. Frankly, sometimes I assumed they were all using a script, with fake callers and Macintire delivering hatred on cue.

  As we drove, I reflected that, over the years, a number of the right-wing nuts I’ve run into have had more than their fair share of troubles. While it is certainly not my fault these people had connections to right-wing political views, they did seem to keep dropping dead at my feet with disturbing regularity. If this trend was true, maybe I should think about visiting all the right-wing congregations and conventions around the country. Instead of “typhoid Mary,” I’d be “toxic Tommy.” I could change the course of history by just showing up. A tempting thought, but one not terribly well grounded in reality. Besides, I didn’t want all the right-wing people to die horrible deaths; just plain dying would be plenty good enough.

  At the radio station we met in Macintire’s office on the top floor, which had a spectacular view of the Lake Michigan shoreline. His secretary was a blond who might have been out of her teens. If the material from the clothes she was wearing was flattened out and stretched to its limits, it might have made a washcloth. I marvel at the right-wing moralizers who indulge in the hypocrisy of flaunting the sexuality of those near and dear to them or more likely those over whom they exercise control.

  Cecil Macintire stood stooped over behind his desk. On the wall behind him were a series of pictures. They looked like candid family photos. One showed Cormac in a pair of Speedo swimming trunks. He was surrounded by Cecil and a number of people I didn’t know. They were at the edge of a swimming pool. Cormac held a trophy high in his right hand. He’d obviously just won something.

  Cecil’s hands rested palm down on his desktop. His hair lay flat to his skull. His eyebrows were thicker, fuller, and bulged out farther than many people’s full beards. He gazed at us malevolently.

  “We’re sorry for your loss,” I said.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled.

  I continued, “We know there probably isn’t anything we can say or do to make your loss easier, but we are sympathetic to your pain. We want to find the killer of these two men because of our friend.”

  Macintire said, “My child is dead. I just wish there was something I could do. No prayer to my God is going to change the grief I feel.” He sighed deeply. “You asked for this meeting. What is it you want? I need to begin making preparations for my son’s funeral.”

  “We know this is a difficult time,” I said. “We just had a few questions. Were you aware that Ethan and your son had been receiving threats lately.”

  “The police told me so. My son and I were estranged.”

  “We found a picture,” I said. “It’s intense for a parent to see. If you’d like …” I held out the envelope.

  He nodded wearily. He only glanced at the picture for an instant, then dropped it as if it were a live coal. He put his face in his hands and moaned. When he finally looked up, he said, “I didn’t want to believe it was true.”

  “You had no idea?”

  “No. If I had, I would have been furious, but I am not so irrational that I would have him killed or murdered him myself over this. I am not a monster. Before yesterday I didn’t know of or care about Ethan Gahain. I still don’t.”

  Macintire’s heavy frame seemed to deflate as he lowered himself into the plush leather chair behind his desk. He rubbed his hands across his face. He whispered, “I did not want my own son to be dead. This is the worst thing that could happen to anyone. Losing a child is devastating. It hurts too much. I don’t expect you to understand. That’s something you and your kind will never understand for which I am grateful.”

  Scott said, “I don’t understand how you can go from grief for your son to a diatribe against us in the next instant. I would think the death of a child would pale when compared to politics. Gay people have children.”

  “Pah. That’s a sad imitation of what real people do.”

  “Gay people aren’t real?” Scott asked.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Actually, I don’t.”

  “It’s easier for me to make up conspiracy theories than to face my own failures. I’d rather try to believe that liberals tried to kill my son to cause me pain.” Macintire gulped. “I’d rather think about anything else than about the loss of my son. I’d rather have fantasy than reality.” He sighed. “I didn’t kill my son. Tell me why I shouldn’t think you did it? You found both of the bodies.”

  “You’re free to think whatever you wish,” I said. “How does hating us help your grief?”

  “I’d rather think about hating you than the fact that my son is dead.”

  I held any hostile responses in check. His child was dead and I’d rather get answers than trade pointed and probably useless barbs. I asked, “Did you have any contact with your son?”

  “No. I did not know he was a pornographer. Nor did I know of any problems he was having nor did I know of any enemies he might have had. I didn’t know enough about my son. I didn’t know how to raise a son. I had no father myself. I had no model to follow. I was lost. I wish we had been closer. I suppose I’m not much different from many fathers that way.”

  “Why did you agree to see us?” I asked.

  “Because you found his body. Because you saw him. Because I want to know everything about my son. If you actually had useful information, it might let me feel more connected with my son. If I learn more about his life, maybe I’ll feel a little less guilt.”

  “Why do you feel guilt?” Scott asked.

  “It was the great tragedy of my life to be estranged from him.” Macintire wasn’t ranting, and I didn’t detect a false note in this admission. “We will never be able to reconcile. We have no future. Can you or anyone give me that back?” He shook his head. I saw a tear on his face.

  I said, “We didn’t know him. I’m sorry. If you want to know what we found, we’d be happy to tell you.”

  “Yes, please,” he murmured.

  I told him about the circumstances of the death as I knew them. I finished, “The police can probably tell you more.”

  “The police won’t tell me anything. I’ve tried using my fame to get me answers. It hasn’t helped. What was the connection between this Gahain person and my son?”

  “All we know is that they were business partners. I don’t think they were lovers. I don’t know if your son was gay. Is that why you were estranged?”

  “Cormac never told me that he was a homosexual. When he was a teenager, he dated women. For God sakes, he was married to a woman. All the media are saying that he was a homosexual. That’s what all the homosexuals are saying, too. That my son hung around locker rooms taking pictures of men, so what else could he have been?” Macintire shuddered. “Where did I go wrong?”

  I said, “I suspect every parent asks that at some point in their lives no matter what their child’s sexual orientation.”

  “But few of them ask it after their child has been murdered, or after they learn their child was a pornographer.” Macintire sighed. “I knew nothing of my son’s life. I knew none of his friends.”

  “Would your wife have known?” I asked.

  “I’m divorcing my third wife. Cormac’s mother died ten years ago of breast cancer. They were reasonably close. He barely knew any of my other wives. The last time I saw Cormac was at my first wife’s funeral.” Macintire gave another big sigh. “I
’m sorry. My lack of closeness with my son is going to be a great burden to me for the rest of my days.”

  “How did the estrangement start?” I asked.

  “When he was growing up, we disagreed about politics and religion. He thought I was a lousy father. I thought he was a terrible son. He didn’t think I was attentive enough during his mother’s final illness. He would never listen to me just as I would never listen to him. Now it’s too late.” Macintire bowed his head and stared at the top of his desk.

  After several moments of silence, Scott asked, “If we find anything out, would you like us to call you?”

  Macintire met Scott’s gaze. “You would be willing to do that?”

  Scott said, “I understand the difficulties between fathers and sons. Yes, I’d be willing to do that.”

  “Thank you,” Macintire whispered.

  21

  We drove out to Barrington to meet with Ethan’s parents. To avoid the media, they were staying with one of Ethan’s uncles. My parents were there when we arrived. We met in an elegantly appointed living room. Mr. and Mrs. Gahain looked awful.

  Mr. Gahain asked, “Is all that we’re hearing in the media true?”

  “I don’t know what you heard,” I said. “Let me tell you what we found.” I told them everything. What was the point in lying or holding back? They might hear much worse. Better the appalling truth than the awfulness of wild rumors and media speculation.

  They listened to my recitation stoically. When I was done, Mrs. Gahain said, “Why would he do that? Why would he take pictures?”

  “I don’t know.” I wasn’t about to speculate in front of the Gahains or make flippant comments about making money. “Do you have any idea how long Ethan had the condo on the lakefront?”

  “Ernie called a few minutes ago,” Mr. Gahain said. “It seems like he bought the condo a while ago. I think maybe he was making trips to Chicago and stayed there. Trips he didn’t tell us about. Obviously we didn’t know our son as well as we think we did. We didn’t know anything about it. He just came to town Friday and asked if he could go to the wedding.”

  “He knew about the wedding already?”

  “Yes. We’d mentioned it to him,” Mrs. Gahain said. “We were a little surprised he hadn’t been invited. I know you weren’t as close as you once were. I hope there hadn’t been a quarrel.”

  I gave as neutral a response as I could. “We weren’t as close as we had been as kids.”

  “Who killed him?” Mr. Gahain asked. “Did this Cormac Macintire lead our son astray?”

  I didn’t say I thought their kid was plenty old enough to be making decisions of his own without having to rely on the old falling-into-bad-company defense.

  We talked about Ethan for a little longer and then left. In the car I phoned the answering service.

  Detective Rohter had left a message for us to call. He said, “One of the fingerprints we found in that bathroom stall was your nephew’s.”

  “How’d you know it was his?” I asked.

  “He had his hands all over the top of the table when we interviewed him. It might not stand up in court, but he was in that rest room. He told you he didn’t go in, but we figured we’d better be as sure as we could. Turns out he had.”

  Scott said, “Maybe he used it before the murder.”

  “The print was on top of the blood. The print smeared the blood. The print happened after the killing. It was Ethan Gahain’s blood. We want to find this kid, and we want to find him now.”

  “I think everybody does,” I said.

  “Have you talked to Donny’s parents?” Rohter asked.

  “Not today. The kid can’t have gone far. We have his money. He doesn’t know anyone in town.”

  Rohter said, “None of Mr. Carpenter’s relatives at the hotel admitted seeing him. I want to talk to them again, especially the cousins near his age. One of them could be harboring him.”

  Made sense. We’d put everyone up at the Hotel Chicago. We set up a time to meet at the hotel the next morning.

  Back home we called Scott’s sister Mary. We spoke with her over the speakerphone. She was closest to Scott of all his siblings. We filled her in on what had been happening and Donny’s possible role in the murder.

  Her first reaction centered on Donny hitting his mother: “My God, I don’t believe it. A child hitting his mother. That is an outrage.”

  “Has he done that kind of thing before?” I asked.

  “Not that I know of.”

  Scott asked, “Does Hiram hit Cynthia?”

  Mary paused to think for several moments. “I have no proof that he does. Daddy was never violent with us. He was gentle. I don’t know where Hiram would have gotten it. Aren’t abusers simply repeating what happened to them? Daddy never raised a hand to me.”

  “Me either,” Scott said.

  “Yes, but you were always the Goody Two-shoes in the family.”

  “Sometimes I just can’t help myself.”

  Mary said, “I’m not aware that Hiram ever did such a thing. Cynthia never mentioned Donny being violent. My kids went to school with him. They never reported him being the class bully or anything, although he did run with a rough crowd.”

  I asked, “Do you think Donny could kill someone?”

  “I can’t imagine why he would. The family dynamic must have been far worse than anyone ever let on. Hiram always was close-mouthed.”

  Scott asked, “What the hell is going on in that family?”

  “We get together for holidays. They don’t seem to fight any more or less than anyone else. I kind of like Cynthia. She’s very much in that Baptist adore-and-obey-the-husband tradition, but she’s got a good sense of proportion. She knows what is best for her kids. She fights for it. She’s no fool. She recognizes Hiram for exactly what he is. The Carpenter men from Georgia can be a stubborn lot.”

  I knew this to be true.

  “When our kids were younger, she was always willing to sit for them, especially on short notice. I did that for her as well. My husband and Hiram don’t get along much, but who does get along much with Hiram, except Cynthia? I’m not sure Hiram gets along with Hiram. Donny’s older brother, Darrell, is another story. He has been in all kinds of trouble. I would believe any report of violence done by him. Hiram and Cynthia have had to go to court several times about Darrell.”

  “How come I didn’t know this?” Scott asked.

  “They didn’t talk about it much. Cynthia would confide in me sometimes. I don’t think she’s got a lot of friends outside of the house. She goes to church a lot, but that’s about it. She’s usually so quiet.”

  “We’ve seen her near raving,” Scott said.

  “It’s her child. Her youngest. Undoubtedly she’s got powerful feelings. Maybe she believes Hiram has ruled the roost long enough, and she’s finally willing to put her foot down.”

  “What kind of kid was Donny?” I asked.

  “He was always very polite to me, very Southern gentleman. Then again, maybe he knew I wouldn’t put up with his crap. He used to sit for my kids. We came back early one time and found him talking to some girl on our porch. It didn’t seem important at the time. It wasn’t like he was trying to have a mad, wild party.”

  Scott said, “But Donny and the older brother were close?”

  “I’m not sure close is the right word. The younger brother adored the older. He emulated him. Wore the same kinds of clothes. Tried to hang around with the same friends. In fairly typical sibling fashion, the older boy sometimes permitted the closeness, sometimes pushed him away. Those two boys had some horrible fights.”

  “You mean physical confrontations.”

  “Knock-down-drag-out. Darrell sent Donny to the emergency room after several fights.”

  “Isn’t that abuse?” I asked.

  “By my definition it is, but nobody stepped in to stop it. I tried to talk to Donny about it, but he denied Darrell ever hurt him.”

  “How do you know it happene
d?” I asked.

  “My boys talk to him. They’re about the same age. They told me.”

  “When was all this?” Scott asked.

  “A couple years ago. Then Darrell got sent to that work-farm program for an accumulation of offenses.”

  “Work farm?” Scott asked.

  “It was the juvenile home when we were kids. Now it’s a ‘work-farm program.’ It’s kind of a boot-camp version of juvenile hall. You’ve heard of those.”

  “Was either one of them involved in drugs or pornography?” I asked.

  “I have no hints of anything like that. I think my kids might have told me that kind of thing, but I’m not sure.”

  “Where’s the older brother now?” I asked.

  “As far as I know, serving another term at the work farm.”

  “I don’t get a lot of family information,” Scott said.

  “You moved away. You were never close to Hiram. He’s been jealous of you since he was in first grade. You were older. You were always better than him athletically. He didn’t like that. You always got so much attention. He felt slighted. Even when he got older and got physically bigger than you, it didn’t help. Your coordination was better, your reactions faster. Your muscles might not have been bigger, but they were stronger or you were able to use them more effectively.”

  “But we never had fistfights,” Scott said. “He never sent me to the emergency room.”

  “Was that pure luck or just never getting caught?” Mary asked.

  “It didn’t happen,” Scott averred, then asked, “Why would Donny have run away to us?”