by Leroy Clark
“It sounds awful.”
“Well, about that time—“Flora laughed, “this pretty young nurse comes waltzing in. As soon as he saw her, he was smiling and flirting. Just as calm and cool as he could be. Just like he was about five years ago. So we left.”
“She should have taken him there long before this,” Slate noted.
“Yes, she should have,” Flora agreed. “He was too much for her to handle. He was two much for both of us.”
“Well, I hope he’ll adjust.”
“He will,” Flora assured him. “He’ll be fine. He doesn’t remember things, you know. Every day is a new day.”
Slate knew exactly what she was really saying. His father was now like a child. His needs and wants simple. Like a child he was happy watching TV or being read to. He was happy when someone took him outdoors to see the birds. He had tantrums when things didn’t go his way, but he promptly forgot them. Slate continued to chat with his aunt about the weather and other mundane things. He promised to call his mother tomorrow and finally said his goodbyes.
CHAPTER 30
DON’T GET SHIT-FACED
The day was gray, the dark clouds marching overhead in an ominous foreboding manner. The wind was picking up as Jerry drove east on Kellogg. Suddenly the rain came, a blinding downpour.
“Shit,” he complained, turning on the wipers that quickly became an irritating metronome.
“It’s just a shower,” Slate reassured him. “It won’t last.”
“Since when did you become a meteorologist?” Jerry muttered.
Slate couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re in a pissy mood.”
Jerry said nothing. As he pulled into a space in the parking lot by the Charter Clinic, he finally said, “And we’re gonna get pissed on. The angels are flushing the toilets of heaven.” They made their way to Building D and found Suite 404. Slate told the receptionist their names and that they had an appointment with Dr. Gardiner. She picked up the phone and punched a button. She announced that they had arrived and turned to them with a smile. “He’s expecting you. A moment later a tall, thin man entered, offering his hand.
“I’m Dr. Gardiner.”
They shook hands and introduced themselves. Dr. Gardiner led them to his office. He was dressed in a navy jacket and tan chinos. His tie was a blue paisley. His round spectacles, thinning sandy hair, high forehead and aquiline nose gave him an imposing look which was tempered by his broad smile. “Now what can I help you with?” he asked as he gestured for them to sit and closed the door.
“Information,” Jerry replied.
Slate jumped in. “As I said on the phone, we’re investigating the murder of the two university students. We recently learned that Robin Lightfoot was one of your patients.”
“I read about the murder. Terrible thing,” said the psychiatrist. He opened a folder on his desk. “For a very short time. I only saw him for two visits.”
“You have his record?” Jerry asked.
The doctor paused a moment. “I don’t feel—”
Slate could tell he was reluctant to give up the file.
“I know. Years of respecting doctor-patient confidentiality. It’s hard.” Jerry interrupted, “But let me remind you of our statutory rights to the record.” The doctor nodded and handed the folder to Jerry. He glanced through it and then shared it with Slate.
“He tried to commit suicide?” Slate was surprised.
“That’s why he was referred to me. It’s a requirement for anyone who ends up in the hospital.”
“Drugs and alcohol?”
“He was depressed, but it didn’t seem that serious. I don’t think it was really suicide. He had just broken up with his girlfriend. He didn’t get a part in some play he’d auditioned for. So he went to a party and overdid it.”
“You don’t think it was serious?”
“I’d say he was somewhat socially isolated. He was a loner from a dysfunctional family, but he had goals, hopes and dreams. He wasn’t clinically depressed.”
“Did he ever discuss homosexual feelings?” Slate asked.
“No.”
“You’re file isn’t very detailed.” Slate prodded. “Is this all you have?”
“He wasn’t particularly open. He came to see me because he had to.” The doctor’s face hardened into a forced smile.
“Do you remember if he mentioned any other students? Friends?”
“I’m afraid I’m drawing a blank.”
Jerry looked at him coldly. “It was only six months ago.”
“Well, I see lots of patients. I hear lots of names. I don’t remember.”
“What about the name Joe Moss?”
“I don’t remember—”
Jerry cut him off. “Look we’ve got two fucking homicides.
Joe Moss is a suspect. Was he one of your patients?”
“I have three hundred patients at any one time. I—”
“He was here one day at the same time as Robin Lightfoot. Robin ran into him as he was leaving. Was he a patient?”
“I can’t tell you anything about other patients.”
“I’m not asking you to tell me about your other goddamn patients. I’m asking if Joe Moss was one.”
“Yes, and that’s all I’m going to say.” His mouth was set in a thin line.
“Don’t piss me off, doc. I don’t like being jerked around. Are there any other of your patients who are students at the university?”
“I assure you I don’t know offhand.” The doctor said condescendingly, his posture rigid.
“You have a lot of patients aged 18 to 24?” Jerry was sarcastic and pointed.
The doctor sighed and his mouth twitched, but he continued to smile his slick smile and said in his overly polite tone, “We have all ages. I’ll see what we can find on the computer.”
“You do that, doc.” Jerry said, his voice dipping with acid.
“Thank you,” Slate said.
“We’ll be right here,” Jerry added.
The doctor left the room, shutting the door behind him.
“Not very cooperative,” Slate acknowledged.
“Fucking doctors. They all think they’re gods. They collect their gigantic fees, write prescriptions for a shitload of drugs, drive around in their red corvettes, and fuck bimbos. But they don’t know any more than we do. It’s a little knowledge and a lotta guessing.” Jerry laughed after his tirade. “That’s what I think.”
Slate grinned at his partner with understanding. He knew that Jerry had experienced numerous encounters with psychiatrists and other doctors because of his wife. “Well, let’s hope he has a name we know. I’m sick of this running around in the dark.”
“I’m with you, pal.” Jerry replied.
“It has to be one of the students. Has to be. It’s someone we’ve talked to.”
“Yeah, well who?” Jerry shook his head. They both fell silent, waiting. Slate racked his brain going over in his head the interviews they’d had with Steven’s friends.
Dr. Gardiner came back with a name. Aaron Biggs.
They stopped at an Arby’s for lunch. Slate washed his sandwich down with a cup of coffee, hardly even tasting it. He was feeling frustrated because the case seemed to be going nowhere. “It has to be one of them,” he said to himself. “Someone in the cast of the show or working on it. There’s a connection somewhere.”
Jerry talked about Karen. He’d been to visit her and was feeling guilty. Back in the car, Jerry drove in his usual aggressive manner to the university.
Aaron Biggs was working in the costume shop when they found him. Florence Muncie, wearing another stunning outfit that set off her golden red hair was helping him cut cloth for a period costume. Slate couldn’t tell what it was. They took Aaron into the empty classroom across the hall for a talk. He was as affable as ever.
“So, did you like the show?”
Slate told him he had, mentioning several scenes which he especially liked. Aaron beamed.
“I
was scared as hell opening night. At least during the first two scenes. But after awhile I was so totally into it, I didn’t think about the audience until it was over.”
After the small talk, they got down to business. Slate watched him closely. “You ever have any emotional problems?” He asked.
Aaron gave him a bewildered smile. “What are you asking? Sure, I mean, I’ve had bad days like anyone. If I don’t get cast or a get a poor grade, that’s a downer.”
“Anything more serious?” Slate pushed.
“No, I don’t think so.” Aaron said seriously, obviously confused by the questions.”
“Serious enough to see a shrink?” Jerry explained.
Aaron looked blank for a moment. Finally a light seemed to go off in his head. “Oh, yeah, I did. Mary Jo and I went to see a doctor last spring. I went with her. She was pregnant. It was—it was one of those—it was an accident. We got really drunk at a cast party. Had sex. It was a one time thing. She wanted to have an abortion, but she wanted to make sure it was the right decision. She’d been seeing him—Dr. Gardiner—for a while so she thought it would be a good idea to talk to him.”
“And?” Jerry added.
Aaron shrugged. “He supported her. I mean we didn’t even know each other, not really—and well, I’m not really cut out for a hetero lifestyle.”
“That was it?” Slate encouraged.
“Yeah, she had the abortion. It was over. We felt bad, but it was the best thing.” Aaron shook his head. “I made a vow right then. Never to get shit-faced again.”
Slate nodded.
“So d’you think I was the wacko that killed Steven?”
Slate put on his official business face. “Just checking out everyone.” Then he added, “Just doing our job.”
Aaron gave him a sympathetic look. “It’s a shitty job.”
“In some ways.” Slate agreed. “But not all. Catching the bad guys is the up side of it.”
Slate and Jerry ate lunch at the All-American Diner with Tiffany and Remy, finding it cathartic to bitch and moan with fellow detectives who understood their frustration. That afternoon they returned to the office, going over the evidence in both murders again, reviewing their notes and trying to find something—anything—that they had missed. Bleary-eyed, they finally decided to re-interview everyone in the cast and called it a day.
Alone that night with his daughter safely ensconced with Phyllis, Slate called George and invited him over. After that he called Phyllis’ house to check in with Jeanne. He was happy to hear her voice. She was enjoying being with Emily. All was fine.
After eating a TV dinner, Slate took a shower. He rubbed the masculine scented body wash over his chest and the rest of his body. As the water ran down his naked torso, he thought of George, his strong muscular arms, his firm buttocks. Just thinking about him made Slate’s dick tingle. He even thought about masturbating to George’s image but decided to wait for the real thing. He pulled on a pair of shorts after drying off, fixed himself a whiskey and coke, and sat down in front of the TV. George arrived about nine o’clock. Slate was glad to see him. As soon as the door was closed, he pulled George into his arms and kissed him.
George was wearing his signature snug-fitting jeans and a black T-shirt. His long kiss, his touch, his smell was just what Slate needed to forget everything but his handsome lover.
“You want a drink?” Slate asked.
“Sure, whatever you’re having.” George smiled.
“Put on some music.” Slate went to the kitchen. While he was fixing the drink, he heard Ray Charles at the piano. It was one of CD’s he bought after seeing the movie Ray.
Slate handed George his drink and they sat on the sofa, listening to the music, talking and slowly stroking and touching each other. Slate gave himself to the moment. He focused on the pure sensation of George stroking his thigh, listening to the sound of his voice as he shared moments of his day and his thoughts. He ran his hand over George’s chest and rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand. After a while they put aside their glasses and embraced. The heat of the kiss, the pure sensation of mouth upon mouth, tongues darting in and out, fired his body with need. They continued kissing as they slowly made their way across the living room. Slate peeled off George’s shirt and unzipped his jeans. George unbuttoned Slate’s shirt. They touched and caressed each other.
Slate groaned, enjoying the sensations stirring through his body. George grinned and stripped off the last of his clothes frantically, his gaze on Slate’s face. Quickly he was naked, starkly, boldly, aroused. “Come here.” Slate took a step toward him and was suddenly pressed against him, his chest pressed hard against his. They kissed. He rubbed against him, making low, choked sounds deep in his throat. George’s lips moved down his body. Slate’s was on fire. He pulled George up to kiss him again. He wanted to devour him. There was something wildly exciting about the intensity of his lust. He pushed George back onto the bed and climbed up beside him, kissing him and slowly caressing his body. After a while his hand moved down to stroke George’s ass.
After their love-making was over, they lay on their backs, breathing heavily. Slate moved to embrace him, his flesh hot against the younger man. “That was incredible! It was—I don’t know. I’ve never experienced anything like that before.”
George’s breathing gradually steadied and slowed. His hands playing over Slate’s chest, “You have a wonderful body. I’ve wanted you since the first night we met at the bar.”
They continued to talk and stroke each other until George drifted off to sleep. Slate watched George sleeping, his chest rising and falling. The pale light that filtered in through the windows bathed him in silver. Slate’s heart was full. He thought of their future—together—what the possibilities might be. He wished he could see his whole life—like a glimpse into a photo album or a video. What would the future bring? Would they still be together next year—in ten years? He felt good—happy—and he fell asleep hoping for more of life with George.
CHAPTER 31
JASON JAMES AND A BREAK-THROUGH
The next morning Slate woke early, twenty minutes before the alarm went off. He looked over and smiled to see George lying on his side still asleep, snoring lightly. It felt so good to wake up with someone. His warmth, his smell, his whole being made Slate happy. He reached over and stroked George’s round, firm ass. “Time to get up,” he whispered on his ear.
George groaned and stretched as he woke up. Turning to see Slate, he grinned. “Morning.”
While he took a shower, Slate cooked a breakfast that included bacon, eggs, and fried potatoes along with coffee, juice and toast. After they ate, George took care of the dishes while Slate showered and dressed for work. They left together.
Slate met Jerry at the office and together they went to the university. Joslyn allowed them to use his office again and they set up interviews with the actors and crew of the show that had been involved in the early rehearsals. Randy Grant played Joe Pitt. He was the first one they saw. They’d interviewed him the first day. Both Slate and Jerry felt he was obviously innocent. A small young man with dark hair and a baby face, he had only acted in musicals. This was his first real acting role. He was fairly new to the department. He was not close to Steven, had not been seduced by him, and he didn’t know Lightfoot. He also didn’t notice anything strange at rehearsals.
Damion Rochester, next on the list, was playing Belize in the show. Slate remembered how charismatic he had been in the role. The young man who came to the interview was far more subdued and didn’t seem to be gay. He admitted not liking Steven and called him a prima Dona, but nothing about his manner or comments sent up any red flags.
Joe Moss, Tara Ferguson, and Aaron Biggs came and went quickly since they’d been questioned extensively. None of them remembered anything new.
Next came Jason James, a tall, older student who was playing Roy Cohn. Slate remembered how powerful he had been in the play. Again he was amazed to see how different he looke
d without the makeup and costume. He was just some sandy-haired guy about thirty with glasses who planned to attend Catholic University in D.C. for his masters. However, once they got into the conversation and asked specific questions about Steven, Jason James exploded.
“I hated the son of bitch,” he growled. “I mean, he was the teachers’ little darling. It really went to his head. He was talented sure, but hell, he wasn’t any better than some of the rest of us. We got really sick of him getting all the best roles.”
“I take it you didn’t socialize with him?” Slate said with an inflection that turned his statement into a question.
“I’m straight.” Jason gave him a withering look.
“And what about the night he died? You were here at rehearsal? Jerry asked.
“Yeah, I was here. I never miss a rehearsal. That’s just not something you do. Not if you take acting seriously.”
So did you notice anything different—strange that night?”
Jason thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t want to sound bitter. I don’t want to be bitter, but he was an asshole that night. He kept goofing off in the wings during my scenes. Grabassing Joe. Laughing. Making a fucking noise. I was pissed.”
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. I gave him a look both times when I was on stage. After my first scene I asked him nicely to cool it. The second time I told him to fuck off.”
“That was it?” Slate pushed.
“That was it.” Jason grit his teeth. ‘He just laughed, said ‘Sorry.’ He didn’t give a shit. He never gave a shit about anyone else. Totally self-absorbed.”
“So you came back after rehearsal and teach him a lesson!” Jerry growled.
“No, I didn’t. I went home with my girlfriend, but I’m not sorry that someone else did. I can’t tell you how much better things have been since Aaron took over his role.”
“You have any other exchanges with him? Any nasty arguments?” Jerry continued.
Jason’s eyes flashed with anger. “A few times. He stole some of my makeup once. I saw it in his dressing room so I asked him about it. First, he lied. I knew he was. I told him so to his face. Finally he admitted he borrowed it. Asshole.”