by Josh Thomas
Kessler’s jaw set. “Fair enough. I won’t stop till I’ve got the guy. Or guys. I don’t care what the victim did with his personal life, he didn’t deserve to die. It ain’t no crime to be Gay. Therefore he’s a citizen. I investigate the murder of citizens.”
“Thank you, sergeant, very much. Gay Indiana thanks you.”
“So you’re the famous CI. Man, you sure work fast.”
“The famous one?”
“When I got this assignment I was told there was a very interesting informant. I sure never expected you to walk into my post before I even found out your name. Jamie, it was only one inch in the newspaper.”
“It’s happenstance that I’m here; any Gay reader might have wondered, with a naked male victim. Now then, you’ve got photos?”
“I’m Mr. Kodak.” Kessler pulled out eight-by-ten glossies, laid them on the table.
This was the part of the job Jamie hated the most. Looking at murder victims, Gay murder victims, made him feel vulnerable, a feeling he loathed.
When he was a rookie, the victims haunted his dreams. Now he slept okay, but still, he knew he over-empathized with them.
He hesitated a minute, steeling himself, spacing out. This part meant having Casey on his back, arguing facts and phrases, libel and space limits; and Louie too, bitching about budget. While Jamie got to examine popped-out eyes, decomposing bodies.
I know you weren’t a sweet little kid, Kelvin, but you sure looked that way in the photos.
God, help me get through this. I’m stalling. Jamie picked up the stack of photos, swallowed, started to study. John Doe’s skin had a slightly bluish cast—except for his neck, where he had black, even bruises an inch wide on both sides of his windpipe, an eye-burning, horrific sight.
Jamie remembered Dr. Steve Helmreich, the serial murder expert, making him look at pictures of multiple gunshot wounds, dismemberments, splayed brains, poisonings, strangulations, heads bashed in, shaken baby syndrome. “Cops have to look at the gore to comprehend the evil that people inflict on each other, and how they did it in this case. Jurors, too. And reporters, if you’re going to get good at this.”
Jamie was such a sissy about violence he couldn’t even watch the Indy 500.
Mr. Doe was sprawled on his side with his eyes closed, in water and weeds, legs tilted to his left, where he fell probably. The socks and sneakers looked ratty as hell.
The biceps were large, chest and shoulders well-defined. Good abs, small of waist, thinner in the thighs and calves. Nice tan line, bikini boy. You’re Gay, all right.
He studied Doe’s face. Young, but not hustler age anymore. Mildly handsome, in a Midwest farmboy kind of way. It was hard to judge whether he was poor or prosperous; muddy, matted hair splattered every which way, the mouth closed, no evidence on dental care. The hair wasn’t hustler-long, though.
In a third photograph he noticed an untanned line where a wristwatch had always been.
He searched more pictures until he got a good angle on the left hand. Another little untanned stripe, the width of a missing wedding ring.
He rubbed his forehead, wondering how much death he had to go through. He handed the pictures back. “He’s Gay. I can tell you several things about him.”
“You can figure out his sex life from a photo?”
“Tan line.” Jamie traced it as Kessler watched. “European-cut bikini. It shows a bit of the buttocks. That’s not considered proper for men in this country, it glorifies the male body too much. It’s a definitive
marker, because the only Americans who wear them are Gay men.”
“Gee,” Kessler said, staring at the photo. “I never even noticed that.”
You weren’t looking at his ass. “The tan line on his wrist says he always wore a watch, so he’s middle-class or higher. The two facts together suggest where he may have lived. Look for an upscale home near downtown Indy: Lockerbie, Chatham Arch, those apartments on the canal; or Riley Towers, I know it’s got a pool.”
Kessler made more notes. “Where do you get all that?”
“He sat around the pool all summer in those little bitty trunks. Could have owned a suburban home with a pool, but downtown near other Gay people is more likely.”
“What makes you think that?”
“There’s no theater in suburbia.”
But the cop looked blank. Jamie said, “Look for a place within walking distance of the entertainment district, the galleries and nightspots and Gay bars.”
“Gee,” Kessler said again.
“Either he was heterosexually married, or he had a lover he was committed to. The killer stole his wedding ring. Call Indy P.D., missing persons. The wife or lover probably filed a report. If not, the significant other probably did it.”
“Man oh man, are you a certified crime scene technician?”
“Hardly,” Jamie smiled. “What about comparing these ligature marks with other known victims?”
“Haven’t got to that yet. The counties have the photos and I have to obtain them. What are you looking at?”
“Memory tells me they’re all the same width.”
“Possibly indicating the same murder weapon?”
“I was looking at an old, narrow tie in my closet the other day. And I thought, wrap a tie around the neck and yank on the ends. Instead of relying on hand strength to choke someone, the perp puts shoulders, arms and chest into it. Much more strength—hyoid crushed.” Jamie showed the move. “Bizarre thing to think about as I dressed for work.”
“Added strength is a reason people use ligatures. A tie might be the right width.”
“Doesn’t Dr. Webster have photos too? Why should you hassle with the counties?”
“Sure, he’s got photos, but only from this state, not your ones in Ohio. I’ll pay him another call.”
“Good job. How are the victim’s teeth?”
“One well-maintained filling, plus evidence of a recent root canal on a back molar.”
“Terrific. Root canals are expensive. So he’s certainly middle class, had a good job, health care benefits, access to money. Therefore other people knew him and you’ll get an ID. Do you have a victim sketch?”
“We’ll have one tomorrow, headquarters does that. You want one when I get it?”
“We can print it in our next issue, pending your confirmation that he even belongs in my paper. When you locate survivors with a photo, we’ll run it, urge our readers to call you with any information. Do you have an 800 number? If he’s from Indianapolis, it’ll be a long-distance call to West Lafayette for your informants, whether they’re in Naptown or Morocco. You have to give them an incentive to call.”
Kessler handed over a card with an 800 number. “I sure appreciate all your help.”
“If he is Gay, if it’s related to the others, you’re going to have to overcome both paranoia and denial in the Gay community. Afraid of the cops, plus some of them know there have been a lot of killings there. We’ll reassure them, but it won’t be easy. The last time we tried there were no results. Some people will be eager to help, but others will never have heard of the murders, they think being Gay is only what they do in the closet. And the rest will say, ‘It could never happen to me, I’m always careful.’ Right. Like they’re so much smarter than this guy with a good job, a root canal and pasta salad for lunch.”
“Gee,” Kessler said, trying to picture more than one homosexual reaction.
“If you get a match, will you give me an advance quote that you won’t discriminate against informants? On the record, sergeant.”
“Sure. But don’t even print it unless you hear from me. We don’t want to imply the guy’s Gay or anything till we know. We could get in big trouble for that.” Jamie agreed. “You ready? The Indiana State Police actively requests the help of all citizens…”
“Slow down, please, you talk faster than I write.” Jamie never used his tape recorder on the first cop interview, it scared them off.
Kessler gave a very good sta
tement, then asked, “How was that?”
Jamie finished scribbling, folded up his notebook. “Great. But ‘lifestyle’ is the wrong choice of words. Sexual orientation is the right way to say it, makes you sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
“Huh?”
“‘Lifestyle’ implies a choice,” Jamie recited. Homo 101, yet again. “How many people do you know who choose to have TV preachers call them the devil incarnate? Nor is it a ‘preference,’ like ketchup on your hot dog instead of mustard. ‘Orientation’describes the biological causes of sexuality, which isn’t a choice. Even the Catholic bishops agree, it’s biological, and therefore morally neutral.”
“Okay, um, sexual orientation then,” the officer corrected, but with a look on his face, almost doe-eyed, Jamie couldn’t figure out.
“Will you do it? Not discriminate? I don’t assume you will, but three-quarters of my readers in this state will be scared to death you’ll get their names, call their employers and say, ‘Did you know this employee is queer?’”
The trooper shook his head. His black hair reflected little flecks of light. Jamie looked away again. “I’m sure you wouldn’t, sergeant, but it’s often been done. You know that. So I’m bound to let you know, not a threat or anything so please don’t take me the wrong way.” Jamie faced the man. “I’m simply stressing the importance of this. Only an idiot would turn in his own informants. Today’s officers are so much better trained and better educated. But if you do discriminate, which is what those informants are afraid of, I’ll spray your name and ‘Indiana State Police’ in 200-point type all over my front page. And I won’t let up till they hand me your badge.”
“You have the power to do all that?”
“No, sir. But I write for the public, and readers do have that power.”
Kessler’s face paled a shade, and doe-eyes came back. Jamie had used these words before with cops, but this time he felt guilty all of a sudden. All cops know discrimination exists, what’s with this one? Is he trying to co-opt me with a sincerity act?
Or is he really sincere?
The moment passed, Kessler’s color changed and he said firmly, “I will never in my life discriminate against anyone on the basis of their sexual orientation. Or any other basis. Not race, not color, not creed, none of it. You get me? It’s not the policy of this department, period; and it’s not who I am either, no matter what you think. This is murder, for heaven’s sake. You think cops don’t care about victims too? You think we don’t go home every night and love on our families every chance we get, ’cause we know how fragile life can be?”
Jamie found himself taking a dip in dark brown, long-lashed, fiery pools. He’d hurt the guy’s feelings, pissed him off if this was genuine.
That wasn’t my intent, man. I know you’re human. But given how much crap cops pull on us… You seemed so dispassionate. Jeez, I don’t want to screw this up.
He became aware of more sweat under his arms. Broke the stare. Shook his head to clear his brain, felt like he’d just shit on the Queen of England. Get control of yourself! What the fuck is going on here?
He stood up to get distance, pushed away from the table. Kessler got to his feet too. Jamie, taller than both his parents, felt short all of a sudden.
“I’m sorry,” he stumbled. “But I had to know you won’t discriminate. My readers have to know—or you’ll get nowhere. Now I can tell them to trust you. We all want you to succeed.” He stuck out his hand.
Kessler looked at him for a long moment, shook his hand solemnly, firm as a state trooper. “It’s all right. Guess you’re just doing your job. Maybe I’d be suspicious too, if I was in your shoes.”
“May I offer the slightest tip for future reference? Don’t ever lie to a reporter. I’d rather hear no comment than an untruth.”
“Here’s a tip for you. Don’t ever lie to a cop.”
“I haven’t.”
“Said you were five-ten.” Jamie started to protest, but Kessler grinned and grasped him by the shoulder. “Seriously, if you play ball with me, I’ll never lie to you again.”
“Batter up. But why do you tease me? You don’t even know me.”
“I always tease my teammates. Helps ’em play loose.”
Jamie growled, “Bring on your height chart, sergeant.”
“Right this way.” They went into a prisoner receiving room. Most arrestees were taken directly to the county jail, but occasionally one wound up here. Jamie stood next to the chart on the wall.
Kessler looked at him skeptically. “I guess I’d say 5’10”, but half of it’s blond hair.”
Jamie laughed, immediately stepped away. “Thank you for your dedication and skill, sergeant. Thank you for caring about the victims. Good luck in the investigation. I hope it turns out to be easy, routine and unconnected. So you can go home and love the ones you’re with.”
“So do I.”
“May I call you in a couple of days?” Get the agreement, then get your ass out of here, fool!
“Please do. Call me if you come up with something. If it’s important they can page me.”
“I will.” Jamie beelined for the exit, toward humidity and the other kind of heat.
Kessler gathered his papers. Trooper Julie Campbell leaned into the doorway. “Whatcha think, Kent? Did he have anything? I didn’t get in till the middle of it.” Kessler, back toward her, picked up Foster’s business card, eyeballed the color mug shot and turned to answer one of his best buddies at the post.
He smiled sheepishly. “He gave me a ton of things to think about. Otherwise, that’s about the toughest little banty rooster I ever met. And to think he’s…” He shook his head and dropped the card into his chest pocket.
“He’s a cute one, though, goodness. Handsomest man I ever laid eyes on! Can you get me a date? You know I go for good-looking blonds, and he’s just about my perfect size, age, shape, looks, you name it. That body, those clothes—that face! The way his hair swoops across his forehead? Like he just stepped out of ‘The Bold and the Beautiful’ and wound up in my state police post. Ooh, gorgeous, come to mama!”
He laughed. Julie rubbed her palms together and grinned lasciviously. She was in perfect profile; pretty face, round but not too broad hips, firm pert breasts stretching out the pockets of her trooper’s shirt. A real fantasy girl, a “Women in Uniform” photo-spread for Playboy. He half-expected to see her there someday.
“Throw that one back, Julie. He’s good-looking, all right, but he’s also Gay. Not exactly your catch of the day.”
“Oh, no, you’re kidding. He’s a queer?” Her face puckered, but only for a moment. “Hey, maybe he just hasn’t met the right woman. I might be the one who could show him a thing or two.”
“I’ll make you a deal. You fill out that FBI questionnaire for me and I’ll fix you up with him.”
“Ain’t no man in the world worth that, sergeant. Fill out your own darn paperwork.”
“Well, ya can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“Or a woman neither,” she shot back, disappearing down the hall.
Kessler went to call Dr. Webster to ask about ligature widths, animal tranqs, tan lines, Gay neighborhoods and the sociology of pasta salad.
8
Junior Miss
Jamie drove to the hospital. He put on his cheerful mask, then tossed it away when he saw how good his mother looked. “Hey, what an improvement! Another couple of weeks and you’ll be our Junior Miss again. Do you feel as good as you look?”
“A little better. Not much, but maybe a little.” She accepted a kiss, smoothed blond hair over her ear.
He liked that, wanted her to take an interest in her appearance. “Shall I call Connie, ask her to come up here in a few days? You’ll feel better, like a beauty shop visit.”
“The beauty shop comes to me? That would be fun. You think of the nicest things.”
“You should get out of that gown, too, put on those satin pajamas I bought you.”
; “Such a pretty maroon.”
“It would help your mood just to feel them on your skin. And every day I’ll spritz your jammies with perfume.” She giggled. “Let’s get back to normal life, honey.”
“I want to.”
“Did you have lunch yet? Did they have anything that appealed to you?”
“Mashed potatoes. They were out of the box, but they had gravy and I think I ate all of them. Otherwise, not much. Maybe some Jell-O. They have me on a soft diet.”
“I’m glad you’re eating, you have to build up your strength. But potatoes out of a box, that’s ridiculous. I can make real ones at home and bring them in.”
“I know.” She coughed. He frowned. She was having a hard time clearing her lungs.
He said, “Homemade mashed potatoes, maybe a little hamburger gravy?” Her eyes smiled at that one. Hamburger gravy was repulsive to Jamie, but his mother grew up poor and still liked the foods of her youth. “If there’s any food you want that you can’t get here, just name it and I’ll bring it. How does a banana split sound?”
“Yummy, but too much.”
“A strawberry sundae then.”
“Okay. Nice.”
Behind her, the monitor started to beep again. Nurse Terry was there in ten seconds. She shushed the monitor, started fiddling with an IV line. “I think we got our tubes crossed up here, Thelma,” she called out, loud enough to be heard in Peoria. Thelma was not hard of hearing, but Terry was talking, treating her like a person. Jamie liked that. “There, that’s better. I see you’ve got your son here again today.”
“Yes, he’s been up every day. He’s staying at my house,” Thelma had to cough again, “and he mowed the yard yesterday.”
“Where are you from?” Terry asked him.
“Columbus.”
“Indiana?”
“Ohio. It’s a big enough city, a million people, that we try not to say what state anymore.” He smiled, “But we always have to.”