by Leroy Clark
Slate laughed. “You need to wait until Tiffany comes back for that one. Wait until she takes a bite of her sandwich, then bring up the pigeon vomit.”
“It’s fascinating,” Remy went on. “They organize into flocks for hunting for food and roosting. They really help the urban environment. They’re like vacuum cleaners. Clean up all the food that’s dropped on the ground. Hell, if we didn’t have pigeons, we’d be overrun with rats.”
Tiffany returned just in time to hear the word “rats.” “I’ve known a few of those,” she laughed.
“We are not talking about the men in your life,” Remy commented snidely. Tiffany gave Remy a look that should have turned a lesser man into a pillar of salt.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized with a chuckle, “but you opened yourself up for that one. I couldn’t resist.”
As the waitress brought their orders, Tiffany ended the conversation. “No more pigeon shit,” she demanded. “Let’s talk about something more fun—rape, stabbings, bodies cut up in pieces and boiled.” The waitress’s mouth dropped open. She looked wide-eyed at Tiffany and hurried away as fast as possible. Everyone at the table burst out laughing as soon as the bottle blond was out of sight.
Jerry filled them in on the drive-by shooting. When he got to the part about the displaced values, Tiffany joined in. “Black males are seriously fucked up. They are. Most of them grow up in single parent families. They have no father, no model. Their mother works her ass off just to pay the bills. The kid is left alone too much with no discipline. What do you expect? They do not see a future. They only see now. Unless they’re into sports or church or music, they have no direction. They can’t understand that to get from A to C you have to do B. If B means they have to work hard, get an education, that’s out of their realm. They can’t get a job except at McDonalds, but their friends would laugh at them for that. So what are they gonna do?”
Slate knew the source of Tiffany’s perspective. Her father had left home when she was eleven, soon after her brother had been born. Her mother had worked hard and done her best but her brother was a troublemaker. Tiffany had worked all through high school and college. She had been at the Police Academy when she learned her brother had been shot and killed during a robbery at a convenience store.
They were nearly finished with the last bites of their food when Slate’s cell phone crackled. Jerry grabbed it and held it up to Slate’s ear while he stuffed the last of his sandwich into his mouth. Slate took the phone and listened to his boss. He gave a brief response, and stood up, grabbing some bills from his pocket. “We got a hot one. Pay the tab for us.” Jerry added a five and two ones to the pile, grabbed his Diet Coke, and followed Slate to the car.
“What is it now?” Jerry asked.
“Murder, what else? Commander wants us on it. Says the case could be politically sensitive.”
“Why us?”
“Because we’re so damn good.” Slate grinned and did a little dance in the parking lot.
“Okay, where we going?” Jerry laughed as he slid behind the wheel.
“To the university,” Slate answered as he climbed in the passenger side. “We got a dead body hanging above the stage in Duncan Auditorium.”
CHAPTER 2
MURDER ON STAGE
“Talk about values. Jesus, what kind of a world is it when kids aren’t even safe in school.” Jerry took the wheel, jamming his drink between his once muscular legs and mashing his foot down on the accelerator. He zipped down 29th street, turned east on Oliver.
When he turned the corner on to 17th street, the lid on his drink popped off and the dark liquid splashed on his crotch. “Shit, I’m gonna look like I pissed myself.” He grabbed the cup, drank the last of the Coke, and threw the cup into the back seat.
“That should look great in front of the big wigs, and they’re all there waiting. They’ll all be looking at your zipper.” Slate chuckled. Jerry glowered.
“Christ, tell me it’s not gonna be one of those.” Jerry didn’t have to finish the thought. Slate knew he meant this would be a high profile case with the university administration wanting it solved as quickly as possible.”
Jerry pulled into the campus. The entrance was impressive, a split drive with hundreds of red flowers in the median. Duncan Auditorium was on the left, a large brick building with white columns across the front. Straight ahead was a huge mural on the front of the art building. Jerry drove around the median a little too fast and squealed to a stop in front of the old theatre building, behind a blue and white squad car. They hurried up the hedge-lined walk. There was yellow crime-scene tape across all the doors. Slate pulled one end loose, sticking it back after he and Jerry went through. As they entered the lobby, they spotted a beat cop. Slate didn’t recognize the officer, a tall, slim, freckle-faced redhead.
“I made everyone stay out of the auditorium. They’re all in there.” He pointed to a door on the right. “It’s the Commons —a big lounge and study area.” Slate recognized that though the cop was young, he knew the proper procedure and had kept people out of the crime scene.
“Good. Keep them there.” Slate ran his hands through his hair. “Who found the body?”
“One of the students. Name is Aaron Biggs. He’s in the lounge with the Dean and the President and a bunch of others.”
Slate and Jerry decided to look at the crime scene before talking to the waiting herd. They opened the door to the auditorium and went inside. Another young cop, looking edgy, waited halfway down the aisle. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the dim light. “George Wells,” the uniformed cop said as they approached him, extending his hand. Slate and Jerry introduced themselves and shook hands with the guy. He had a strong grip.
“George.”
The man was well built with a straight nose, amazing blue eyes, and an attractive smile. Slate felt an immediate stirring deep inside. He ignored it and pushed it aside as he always did. He just wouldn’t think about it.
“It’s spooky as hell in here,” the cop noted. He kicked some gray and white chunks on the floor. “The plaster’s falling off the ceiling up there. You’d think they’d fix this place up, make it decent for the students. Hell, they pay high enough tuition. I know. I went to school here.”
Slate took out his notebook and nodded toward the body hanging above the stage. “He got a name?”
“Yeah, the kid that found him said his name’s Steven Davis. I’ve seen him in some of the plays here.” Slate wondered if the victim had been gay. The stereotype clicked in his head; something he’d heard another officer say. “We know about those types in the theater.”
“Anyone been up on stage?” Slate asked.
“No, not unless the kid who found him was up there. We’ve kept everyone away. There was a bunch of people in the back when we got here. We moved them into the lounge.”
“Good work. Don’t let anyone else in unless they’re from the crime lab.”
Slate walked down to the stage behind Jerry. He jotted down the time in his notebook and wrote down everything he saw. The theatre looked like the shabby, cavernous auditorium he remembered from his high school. He knew this was one of the oldest buildings on campus. It made him angry. He’d been angry since the funding for the arts in the schools had been cut in half when his oldest daughter reached the sixth grade. As he reached the front of the theatre, he tripped over something and his foot momentarily stuck to the floor. Looking down he discovered one of the tiles was loose. He’d kicked it and stepped on the cement beneath. It was hard but still sticky in one place. “Goddamn it.”
Jerry sized up Slate’s predicament immediately. “They spend millions on sports facilities but the arts always get as little as possible,” he muttered.
Slate’s mouth dropped in surprise. “I didn’t know you cared anything about theatre. I thought you played football.”
“I did, but I also played King Arthur in Camelot when I was in high school.”
Jerry was at least ten years Slat
e’s senior. He had been Slate’s partner for just about a year. Slate was still learning about his older partner.
He was about to express his admiration when the young cop interrupted. “The President is really eager to talk to you. He said to let him know as soon as you got here.”
“Well, he can wait. I’ll get to him when I get to him.” Slate replied over his shoulder.
“He’s not happy.”
“Who is?” Slate retorted with a devilish twinkle in his eye. George smiled back. His mouth was wide, his teeth even and bright. Slate liked his full lips. “Bet he’s a great kisser,” he thought to himself. As George returned to stand by the entry way, Slate turned his attention back to the stage.
“My wife and I used to go to the theatre,” Slate said to Jerry as they continued taking in the scene. “She loved it. We went to a bunch of shows at the Wichita Music Theatre. She got really pissed when I’d get a call and have to leave.”
Slate took out his flashlight and shined it up at the naked body. His stomach tightened into a knot. There was a smiley face sticker on the victim’s chest. The feet were only about eighteen inches above the floor. He could see that the face was bloody. He’d evidently been bashed in the face with a hard object. Slate knew from past experience that almost always meant the killer knew the victim well.
As he looked closer, he could see massive bruises on his back. They were long and about a couple inches wide as though he’d been hit with a baseball bat. The hands were duct taped together in front. A noose had been slipped over his head, and the body had been pulled up by the rope, which was tied to a metal bar suspended over the stage. His tongue was protruding and his expression grotesque. His neck was really stretched out. “He’s been hanging there for quite awhile, probably all night.”
Slate wondered at the horror this young man had experienced. “Well, it’s not suicide.” He noted softly. “There was dried blood on his legs, which had run from his anus to the floor, leaving a dark pool under him. It was definitely what they referred to as overkill. And the cause of the crime was personal. Slate suddenly found himself burning with rage. He thought of this young kid’s life so brutally ended, and he thought of his two daughters. How would he feel if this were his kid? A life with so much potential ended before he had a chance to really live.
“Whoever did it must have really hated him.” Jerry added, shaking his head.
“Probably the understudy.” Slate’s comment sounded flippant in the empty auditorium, but it came from the pain he was trying not to feel.
“No, that would be too easy. Great performance though, don’tcha think? Dying center stage. Naked.”
“Yeah, great, but what does he do for an encore?”
Slater and Jerry examined the area in front of the stage, and checked the stairwells on each side. Nothing stood out. There was a crumpled program in one stairwell, a candy wrapper under one of the seats. The only light came from some dim work lights at the back of the stage.
“George, I can’t see for shit.” Slate yelled out to cop in the aisle. “Go find somebody who knows how to turn on the lights.” George nodded and went up the aisle and into the lobby. Slate turned his attention back to the stage, looking at Jerry.
“This is going to be hell,” Jerry said matter of factly. Slate nodded.
They had both worked enough crime scenes to know that each one had its own smell, its own distinct characteristics. They were like photographs etched in the mind. Each vision had its own sound, taste, smell. This one smelled bad.
They went up on stage. Slate pulled on a pair of latex gloves. There was a chair near the body. Slate figured the victim probably had been made to climb up on it. The murderer had moved it once the rope was secured. A pile of clothes lay on the floor nearby. Black jeans, a smart looking Arrow shirt, white T-shirt, white socks, white sneakers, no under shorts Slate noted. He checked the pants pockets and found car keys, a couple of house keys, a wallet with a few bills and credit cards, driver’s license, and two condoms.
The young cop returned with a young man, dressed in old, torn blue jeans, a grungy looking black T-shirt, and paint-spattered sneakers. Slate came down the steps into the aisle as George introduced him to Aaron Biggs—the guy who found the body.
About six feet tall, Aaron had sandy blond hair and blue eyes. He looked like a handsome model. He wasn’t pretty. He was masculine with a strong jaw, a straight nose, and a wide, full mouth. He had lost his baby fat and was slim, but not thin. Slate could see that he had muscular arms and pecs. Slate shook his hand. He had a good grip.
He looked at Slate for a moment when he said, “Hi,” but other than that he couldn’t take his eyes from the victim.
Slate nudged him. “Can you give us some light?”
“Oh, sure.” He went carefully up the steps on the right side of the stage, and disappeared for a moment. About a dozen bright lights aimed at the stage came on, followed by the lights in the auditorium. “How’s that?”
“Great.” Slate was blinded for a moment.
Jerry took out his Polaroid camera and began shooting pictures of the body and the crime scene. Even though the staff photographer would take official photos, Jerry and Slate liked to have their own.
The young man retraced his steps and stood beside Slate in front of the stage. “Jesus, it’s awful, isn’t it? I mean—I still can’t believe it. Steven was really going places. We all thought so. He was already accepted at Julliard for his masters.”
“You found him like that?” Slate asked.
“Yeah. I’m the stage manager for the show we’re doing now. Angels in America. I was going to get some props for the rehearsal tonight. Jeez, wonder what they’re gonna do. He had one of the leading roles.”
“Where’d you come in?”
“What? Oh, over there, the stage door.” He pointed to stage left. “We keep it locked up most of the time. I have a key.”
“Did you see him right away or was it dark?”
“No, we always keep a light on stage. I saw him as soon as I came in. I couldn’t believe it. I ran into the juice room and called 911.”
“The juice room?”
“Oh, it’s the loading dock really, but we call it ‘The juice room.’ I don’t know why. There’s a phone there.”
“So after you called 911, what did you do?”
“I went around to the main office and told Dr. Hariot. He’s chair of the department. He called the Dean and told me to go out front to wait for the police. That’s what I did.”
Slate liked this kid. He seemed straightforward with a good head on his shoulders. “Must be a senior,” Slate figured. He had a certain amount of maturity that seemed unusual for a person his age.
The young man continued to stare at the body. “Okay if I sit down? I’ve never seen anyone dead before.”
Slate looked at the boy. He had turned white.
“I’m not feeling too good.” The boy bent over and put his head between his legs, breathing in and out heavily. Suddenly, he leaped to his feet and ran to the stairwell, opening the outside door. He held the outside door open, stuck his head out and puked. When he’d finished and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, Slate guided him back to the front row of seats. They sat on the side so that the body was not directly in front of them. “You okay?”
The boy nodded. “Sorry.”
“Happens to all of us. Never gets any better.” Slate took out his notebook. “You didn’t touch anything, move anything when you came in?”
“No. I mean, just the door handle. The phone. And the light panel backstage. I don’t think anything else.”
“Did you know Steven very well?”
“Well, I’ve worked with him on half a dozen shows. I guess you could say we were friends.”
“You an actor too?”
“I like to do both. I act in some and work backstage on the others. I’ve stage-managed two. This is my second. Ran the lights for Romeo and Juliet, did sound for The Crucible, and props on—ah�
��Picnic and Lost in Yonkers.” Aaron became very animated when he talked about his work. Slate could tell that he loved it. “I didn’t hang around with him, you know,” Aaron continued. “I mean outside of rehearsal, but he was really nice. Always polite and professional, you know. Terrific actor, but off stage really nice to everyone. Not like some of them.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, some actors are just assholes. Prima donnas. They treat techies like we have a bad smell.”
“Do you know anyone who had a grudge against him? Anyone who might do this?”
“No. Steven was the best. Some kids were jealous, you know; they wished they had his talent, but Steven was really special. If you had a cold or something, he’d also ask how you were feeling. He reached out to people. Some actors, they just want to talk about themselves. He wasn’t like that.”
“Was he dating anyone?”
“Not girls. He’s gay. Last I knew he was having a thing with Joe Moss. They play lovers in the...well, they did. That’s how they got together.”
“Who else did he hang out with?”
“Tim Wheeler, Derek Colson, David Hart, Jonny—ah—Janelle Purkey. That’s P-u-r-k-e-y, not Perky.” As he said Perky, he did a theatrical pose with a big smile. “I think those are the main ones.”
Slate wrote down their names. Aaron seemed still in shock, still finding it hard to believe, and shook his head. “God, I wonder if they’ll do the show now.”
“So you don’t know of any enemies? Anyone ticked off at him recently?”
“No, not that I know of. God, this is so unbelievable!”
“Why don’t you go out to that lounge now? I’m going to look around the stage. I’ll be right out in a few minutes.” Slate stood up, and offered his hand. “Thanks for your help. I know this is difficult.” His tone was sympathetic. Aaron shook his hand, gave him a nod, and went up the aisle. George opened the lobby door for him.