by Leroy Clark
The Wichita Eagle featured the “Smiley Face” murder on the front page again with the news that the Theatre Department was going ahead with the production of Angels in America. A statement from the Chief of Police was the lead. He praised Slate’s unit, noting that the CAPB (Crimes Against Persons Bureau) was the most successful in the city. In the last year they had solved 26 out of the 27 murders and 127 of the 174 rapes.
The Chief was very complimentary of his Investigations and basically said they were doing their job well. Most of the article was a rehash of the previous day with new quotes from faculty and students and a comment from the Chief putting a positive spin on the work the police was doing. He ripped out the article and put it in his pocket. Slate skipped to the Living section and read his horoscope. He was a cancer. The message for the day was to be prepared for a surprise. Slate laughed and threw down the paper.
CHAPTER 9
COMPLAINTS ABOUT THE THEATRE PROGRAM
Slate and Jerry clocked in just before nine o’clock. Slate talked to the Chief about arrangements for psychiatrist Dr. Wallace Channing to serve as a consultant on the case. The Chief pissed and moaned about the expense, but finally gave in because of the pressure to solve the case. Luckily because of a last minute cancellation, Channing was available for an hour at five. On the bulletin board near his desk, Slate pinned up the newspaper articles about Steven Davis’ death next to the photos Jerry had already posted. Next he added a copy of the list of students supplied by the Dean.
From the notes they’d taken the day of the murder, they began to put together a time line of the victim’s activities the day of the murder.
They had just finished posting the timeline on their bulletin board when a call came from Dr. Hariot. Seven minutes later they pulled into the parking lot behind Duncan Auditorium and found their way to his office. Hariot was wearing typical university garb. A rather beat-up gray jacket with leather patches on the elbows.
His white shirt was open at the neck with no tie. His pants were tan Dockers, and he wore shiny black shoes.
Slate wished he could avoid wearing neckties. He hated the damn things and frequently pulled on the neck of his shirts to give himself breathing room.
Hariot told the detectives that he had some letters and newspaper articles that might be important. Jerry had asked why in hell he hadn’t mentioned them before, but the old professor said he hadn’t thought of them until he had just received another letter.
“It came in the mail this morning,” Hariot explained. He started to hand Slate the letter, but Slate slipped on a pair of latex gloves before he took it. “That was when I remembered the others.” Hariot continued. “We often get letters complaining about the language in a show or sometimes the subject matter. Occasionally we even get a letter of praise. I’ve kept them all in this file. That’s everything I’ve gotten in the last six years since I’ve been chair.” He put the folder on the desk in front of the detectives.
Slate handled the letter gingerly.” Anyone touch this besides you?”
“Just the secretary. Heather. She gets the mail everyday and puts it in the student and faculty boxes.
Slate looked out into the main office and saw the secretary at her desk, an attractive woman about fifty with shoulder-length sandy blond hair and a green and white suit. Secretaries knew everything. They knew more than their bosses, more than everyone they worked with or for. He made a mental note to talk to her later about Steven.
“This has been such a terrible thing,” the professor sputtered. “Every night it’s on the news. The reporters and television crews are everywhere. Yesterday they were all over the building, interrupting classes, interviewing students in the halls. We had to have Campus Security move them across the street.” Slate read the letter while Jerry looked over his shoulder. It was addressed to President Harmon.
“I am disgusted by the despicable play your theatre department is producing. Our children should not be exposed and encouraged by such perversion. A university should promote mankind’s highest ideals, not show homosexual acts on stage. Homosexual sex is an abominable sin. The Bible says in Leviticus ‘Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womenkind: it is an abomination.’
Slate was quickly filled with anger as he finished the first paragraph. He particularly despised the so-called Christians who condemned everyone who didn’t agree with them. He felt that anyone who was a true Christian should be as open and tolerant as Christ. He read on:
God hates all workers of iniquity. Palm 5:5 says ‘The foolish shall not stand in thy sight, thou hatest all workers of iniquity.’ By presenting this abomination, you and your faculty are all workers of iniquity. Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and He came to earth to die for those who believe. Only God’s elect have the capability to believe. The only hope homosexuals have is to have the truth preached to them, and perhaps God will soften their hearts and grant them repentance to depart from their sin. There is a hell where all unrepentant sinners will reside for all eternity. Sodomites are wicked and sinners before the Lord. They deserve death for their vile, depraved, unnatural sex practices.
Slate could tell that Jerry was having as hard a time with the letter as he was. Jerry kept heaving deep sighs and muttering under his breath.
I am sorry for the family of Steven Davis, but he was a sodomite and his death was God’s punishment. In Deuteronomy homosexuals are called dogs because they are filthy, impudent and libidinous, and they produce by their very presence in society a kind of mass intoxication from their wine made from grapes of gall from the vine of Sodom and the fields of Gomorrah. This is a warning to you of the evil that Dr. Powers and the other theatre faculty are promoting at the university. They are sick people and ought to be stopped.”
It was signed, “A concerned friend.” Jerry and Slate looked at the other letters in the file. Most of them were complimentary and congratulatory letters about specific shows with a few clippings of letters to the editor. Slate glanced at them. Two had to do with a disgruntled student who called the theatre department racist. He was evidently angry because he had not been cast. There was also a letter about budget cuts in the arts. Only one other personal letter seemed significant. It was addressed to Judy Blalock who had directed As Is two years before. The letter read:
“You are a teacher who is suppose to teach programs of value, not immorality. Homosexuality is a deviate lifestyle, with a hard price to pay for the sinful acts you do! i.e. HIV, AIDS, not to mention eternal damnation in hell! You’d know this if you ever read the Bible! Evil can never be justified or made correct. You think you are a modern thinker. Ha! And you probably think your smarter than God. So did Adam. He learned the hard way too.
Teachers are suppose to be a role model for students, not perverts and scum. We’ve had enough of fags and nuts! Sodomy is filthy and an abomination in God’s eyes. NOT OUR EYES. GOD’S EYES! This is a moral state. We don’t need your perverted way of life taught in our schools, especially by a disgusting sodomite like you.
It was signed “A fag haten BIBLE READER!” with a P.S. that read: “Get used to Hot Weather!!!” The letters made Slate feel depressed. With all of the discussions and awareness preached in his lifetime about civil rights, equality, sexual harassment, this kind of hate was disturbing. “We’re supposed to be a civilized society,” he thought to himself, “but we’re a long way from it.” What also ticked him off was the obvious religious bigots. People who considered themselves Christian, but were self-righteous, judgmental, and unforgiving wrote the letters. “Why the hell can’t people just live and let live,” he wondered.
“The second one has a lot of misspellings. Similar views, but different people I think,” said Hariot.
Slate wasn’t sure he agreed. “But it could be that it’s the same person. Maybe he just got help with the spelling on the first one. Some of the phrases are the same.”
Jerry’s answer was that churches fostering hate used the same language. “The wording is probably from wha
t they’ve heard in church and in Bible study. I think it’s pretty typical stuff. Members of the religious right would all say just about the same things.”
That made sense to Slate. He told them what he had seen on the Phelps’ web site the night before. Jerry was quick to remind him, “I told you so.”
Since the letters weren’t threatening, Slate and Jerry weren’t sure the letters had any connection with the murder, but they took them anyway to have them checked for fingerprints. Slate also got directions to where Steven Davis had lived.
“It’s at 3343 Greenwich Street.” Hariot said. “It’s the same house George Duncan lived in—the man who founded this theatre program. They’ve divided it up into apartments. He lived with Andrea Ball on the second floor. I went over there once to a cast party.”
As they thanked the professor and said their good-byes, Jerry’s cell phone went off. He looked at it and excused himself. “It’s my wife.” He went out by the front door and called home. It was a brief call. Moments later as they walked to the car, Jerry told him he had to go home.
“My fucking wife’s gone ballistic. She’s hysterical. I don’t know what the hell it is. I couldn’t understand half what she was saying.”
Jerry drove Slate back to the station.
“What do we do about our appointment with Dr. Channing?” Slate asked. “Do you want me to postpone it?”
Jerry thought a moment, weighing the possible scenarios at home. He decided, “I’ll try to get back. If not, just do it without me. No sense in waiting.”
As they neared the station, Slate tensed up because there was no sign that Jerry was going to stop. “Hey, you gonna let me out or take me with you?”
Jerry’s grimace turned into an evil grin as they neared the station. “I’m just gonna slow down a little. You open the door. I’ll give you a little push.”
“No frigging way.” Slate yelled.
Jerry laughed and slammed on the brakes.
“You goddamn fool. One of these days you’re gonna kill me—“
“After I kill my wife!”
Jerry was gone—burning rubber as the tires screeched on the pavement. Slate was momentarily stunned. Jerry’s wife had paged him or called him many times. Slate had heard Jerry numerous times on the phone giving his wife support, trying to calm her fears and anxiety. He’d never seen Jerry react like this before.
CHAPTER 10
STEVEN’S ROOMMATES
Slate found another unmarked car from the carpool, a slime green Ford Focus with dents and scrapes that looked like it had side-swiped a fence or guardrail. As he drove to see the victim’s living quarters, he was glad the motor was in tip-top shape.
The large two-story frame house had an L-shaped porch that ran across the front and wrapped itself along one side. There were two front doors. Slate could see through the window of one door that it led upstairs. He punched the doorbell and waited. He heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Finally she came into view. The door opened. “Andrea Ball?” A young woman in a tight T-shirt and blue jeans nodded and gave him a wan smile. Her eyes were a little puffy and red as though from crying, but it didn’t hide her obvious beauty. Green eyes. A pert nose. Full lips. Not tall, but well-proportioned. Slate was struck immediately by her presence. There was something about her that was striking. He showed her his badge. “Detective Slater. I’d like to talk to you about Steven.”
“Sure. “Come on in.” She gestured for him to go up the stairs, closed the door and followed him up.
At the top of the stairs was a hallway. He could tell from layout that what had once been four bedrooms was now two bedrooms a living room and kitchen. Andrea led him into the living room. It was furnished in typical student style with second hand junk. The old sofa was covered with a blanket to hide some of the stained and ripped upholstery. The coffee table was an oddly shaped slab of gray stone that once had been partition between two stalls in a rest room. Two comfortable looking but worn and torn armchairs provided other seating. The sofa and chairs were a set, probably handed down from another generation. They were a dull green but the fabric had once been nice. Slate could tell that from his many trips to the fabric store with his mother years ago.
The walls were decorated with a half a dozen oil paintings that Slate would have been proud to own. “I like the paintings,” he told Andrea. “Really nice work.”
“They belong to my boyfriend Andy—Andrew Tyler—he’s an art student. He painted them all.”
“Are they for sale?” Slate asked.
“Maybe. You’ll have to ask Andy.” Andrea settled into one armchair, pulling her bare feet up. Slate sat in the other. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.” She smiled. Slate smiled back.
“That’s a tall order. How much time you got?”
“Let’s just start with the basics. Did you like him?”
Andrea threw her head back, closed her eyes for a moment, and sighed deeply.” “Yes, I liked him. I loved him. He was really like a brother. I never had one, but…God, he was so talented. Really special.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“He was—well, there’s sixty or seventy of us in performance. Some of us are more talented than others. He was like—well, sort of like the student who spoils the curve. You know, like on a chemistry exam, everyone in the class ranges between forty and sixty except one who gets a ninety-eight. Steven was the ninety-eight. He could play anything.”
“Must have made other students jealous.”
“Sure. He got every role he wanted. But he should have. He deserved to. And he didn’t take it lightly. I mean, he worked hard. It’s just that he could do whatever he tried.”
“Anyone you know who really hated him?”
“No. Sometimes I’d hear complaints, you know, from guys who didn’t get cast, but people liked Steven.”
“What about sexual partners?”
“What about ‘em?”
“Look, I know he was gay. I don’t have a problem with that. I need to know who he dated, who he slept with.”
“Jesus, he slept with half of Wichita.”
“Anyone stand out—anyone who may have held a grudge?”
“Probably. Steven was a genius or close to it. He had an IQ somewhere over 150. He got tired of people easily. You know, the dumb pretty boys. If they weren’t intelligent and interesting with more than just sex on their minds, he moved on. He wasn’t always nice. He tried, but sometimes you just have to tell people to fuck off.”
Slate liked her directness. “He bring them here?”
“Sure. Sometimes. Sometimes he went home with them.”
“I’d like to see his room.”
“Sure.” Andrea got up and led him down the hall past the bathroom to the last door.
“How did you feel about him bringing guys home?”
“Hell, I didn’t care. He paid his share of the rent. Besides, a lot of ‘em were in the theatre, either at school or working downtown at Mosley or Cabaret or the Crown. I knew most of ‘em.” She opened the door. It was unlocked.
Slate stepped into the room. The double bed was unmade next to an old nightstand painted crème with a lamp, a clock radio alarm clock, and a couple of theatre books. The cheap pine dresser was also painted crème, as was the bookcase that overflowed. There was an armchair, a floor lamp, and other piles of books in one corner. The off white drapes at the two windows had a touch of the same crème color as the furniture. On the papered walls Steven had pinned posters of a dozen or more shows. Slate could tell at a glance that he had performed at every theatre in town.
“No one has touched anything. It’s just the same as when he left it.”
Slate moved to the nightstand and opened the drawer to find more books and a couple of Freshman porn magazines. Slate flipped through each one. The magazines featured colored photos of naked young men sporting hard ons or showing their asses to the camera. Slate dug deeper, taking out some of the books. Underneath were condoms, a
tube of KY, a box of junk—old keys, a pair of wire rimmed glasses, a whistle, a bag of washers.
Andrea fidgeted while he took his time looking around. Finally she said, “You need me to stay. I’m trying to learn lines for an acting scene.”
“No, go ahead. I won’t be long.”
Andrea disappeared down the hall. Slate went to the dresser. The top drawer was filled with socks—all neatly rolled into balls--and underwear, mostly jockey shorts, a few boxers and some T-shirts. The second drawer was stuffed full of sweaters. The third had summer shorts, pajamas, tank tops and other shirts. The closet contained blue jeans, Dockers, nice dress slacks, a couple of suits, a leather jacket and an array of shirts—all of which indicated Steven had good taste in clothing and chose wisely. The only items out of the ordinary were a sword, a pair of leather pants, a cape, a black evening dress—obviously a costume—and a box of hats.
In the desk Slate finally found something he thought might be useful—packets of photos from each play Steven had performed. Slate looked through them. He heard a door slam and footsteps coming up the stairs. A moment later loud voices.
Slate grabbed the photos from the last two years and started down the hall. As he neared the living room, he heard a man’s voice say, “Why d’you let him in? I hate cops.” Andrea spoke in a whisper, but Slate could still hear her say, “I had to.”
As he entered the room, Andrea and a young man with long black hair, paint-spattered blue jeans and polo shirt were glaring at each other. “You must be Andy.” Slate offered his hand.