Murder at Willow Slough

by Josh Thomas

  That night, with the help of a few drinks, Jamie thought about the friends he’d lost; an activist in Cincinnati; a composer in New York; the national political leader Steve Endean, who made Jamie his first stop in Ohio, only to discover that Casey was Black, handsome and had an apartment nearby. And Tom Stoddard, whose looks, brains and TV skills made him the Great Gay Hope, till he got sick. Jamie wondered how many people he knew at Gay Men’s Health Crisis were still alive.

  He thought of Kelvin, and Aaron Haney, and a young man dumped in a slough. He cried for his beloved Rick, whom he would never get over.

  Then his sweet, smart, formidable Thelma, source of life, whose strength of personality created him in grandiose humility; and finally, for the longest time, he cried for himself, the hardest sobs of all, exhausting him, cutting his abs anew, cutting his heart, with a vision of spurting, ineffectual blood; saving no one.

  Hours later, the prairie’s dawn was objectively beautiful, but he could not be consoled by it. He went to sleep finally, angry and depressed, unable to stop anything or be done with anything.

  11

  Slaughter

  Nighttime. He covered it up well, but Kent Kessler was in maximum disturbance.

  He stood straight, in pressed khakis and a crisp blue oxford-cloth shirt his mother had ironed; he got off the elevator at the top, 11th floor. He swiped his smart card, looked into the security camera.

  The door hummed, he opened it and stepped into a deserted corridor. He waited until he heard the door click shut behind him. Then he made his way past empty cubicles, a secretarial pool with screen-saving monitors, toward a light at the end right office. On the left was a door with a name plate: Office of the Superintendent, Col. Jackson R. Potts, Indiana State Police.

  He rapped lightly on the door of the Deputy Superintendent for Investigations. “Come in, Kent,” a bass voice boomed. Major George F. Slaughter was standing, back to his visitor, gazing out walls of windows to the left and in front of his immaculate desk. Beyond him, night lights burned at Market Square Arena, the City-County Building, the Hoosier Dome and Monument Circle. The new Conseco Fieldhouse had half a roof.

  Slaughter could make out the Kennedy-King Memorial, sculptures formed from melted-down guns turned in by citizens. He coordinated ISP’s role in the collection drive; the artwork gave him much satisfaction.

  Who in Indianapolis could forget that night in 1968? He’d been a rookie on patrol when the news came in about Dr. King, high alert, reports of looting in other cities. And there was the slain president’s brother Bobby, campaigning in Indiana for president and against the war; but screwing that, preventing a riot, being human with the people, announcing the murder, mourning with a sea of Black faces, American faces, his words lifting up hope for a better future by his own tragic, courageous example.

  Only to be shot down himself in California weeks later. With a handgun.

  And they shall beat their swords into ploughshares. And they shall make war no more. The sculpture made Slaughter damn proud.

  A high-intensity desk lamp was the room’s only illumination. Kent waited, noticing flags of the U.S. and Indiana in stands on either side of a carved etagere. On the wall were photos of the deputy chief with athletes, beauty queens, a famous native rock star, Republican and Democratic presidents.

  Slaughter turned finally, held out an arm in greeting, motioned to a chair. He wore a perfectly-tailored burgundy blazer, gray slacks, pink dress shirt open at the thick neck. He was only 5’11”, but his 215 pounds looked ready for a barroom brawl.

  “Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “Whatever you’re having, chief.”

  Slaughter opened a door in the etagere, pulled out two glasses, a silver ice bucket, a liter of chilled water, a bottle of Glenlivet. For his sergeant, a tiny splash of brown liquid over ice, with plenty of water. For himself, two fingers of neat Scotch.

  “Thank you, sir.” Kent sipped gingerly.

  Slaughter redirected the lamp to eliminate glare, settled into his black leather swivel chair. He reached into a drawer, withdrew an Arturo Fuente cigar, waved it in Kent’s direction. Kent shook his head. Slaughter waited until the first cloud of smoke climbed toward the ceiling. “You wanted to talk, son.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The strangulation case?”Kent nodded.“I thought so.Tell me about it.”

  “I had a visitor two days ago, chief. It shook me up a little bit.”

  Slaughter waited, studying his smoke.

  “A young man came in, he’d made an appointment to see me. He’s a reporter.”

  “Who is he with?”

  “A Gay paper in Columbus, Ohio.”

  Slaughter nodded, rubbing his cigar back and forth between his thumb and two fingers.

  Kent said, “I’ve barely gotten started, and all of a sudden Brad Pitt’s quizzing me about hyoid bones.”

  Slaughter laughed. “Jamie Foster of The Ohio Gay Times.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He does get around. Go on.”

  “I’m not sure how to handle him, sir.”

  “What’s the problem, Kent?”

  “I’m not even sure, sir. He’s very knowledgable, knows exactly what he’s doing. But something doesn’t feel right. I got the idea he’s obsessed with these cases, very determined, very… what? Dangerous, almost.” Kent chuckled slightly. “But he’s just this little guy, near-sighted as a maple tree. He’s pushy as all heck, but I checked him out, sir. Before I knew who my chief witness is, in walks my chief witness. But man, he’s pressure. He can blow the mercury out of a barometer.”

  “You can handle pressure. Mr. Foster’s the confidential informant I mentioned, for our friends in Ohio.”

  “I know, but I almost don’t want to work with him. I mean, I do, but I don’t. He’s extremely bright and well-informed, of course I want to work with him. So why do I hesitate? I can’t figure it out.”

  “I see.” Slaughter took another pull on his cigar, carefully deposited ash in a gleaming onyx ashtray. He gazed again at the curl of smoke he was making. “Because he’s Gay, I take it.”

  Kent looked down at his hands, folded in his lap like a schoolboy’s, then back up at his mentor. “I guess so, chief.” Slaughter looked him sharply in the eye. “Yes, sir. That’s the reason. Because he’s Gay.” Kent couldn’t believe his voice rose so high.

  “You told me you weren’t prejudiced.”

  “I ain’t, that’s the truth. I just never met nobody like him before.”

  “Good. I need you to stay open-minded.”

  “I am, sir. Up to now, anyway.”

  “What’s wrong with him, to you? What makes him difficult to deal with?”

  Kent sighed. “He ain’t at all what I expected. I didn’t know such a thing was possible. He’s… sir, he’s all guy.”

  “Indeed. What were you expecting, son?”

  “This sounds terrible, but… a sissyboy, I guess. Not a guy, aggressive and all. First thing out of his mouth, he wanted to know why I had the case when it ain’t Lafayette’s jurisdiction. Right to the heart of things. I tried to put him off, but he didn’t buy it for a minute. I almost lost control of my own interview.”

  “I’ve heard he’s quite aggressive. Is there something else?”

  Kent put his hands on his knees, looked to his left and then his right for an answer. He stood, walked over to the bank of windows where he’d found Slaughter. The chief heard him sigh three or four times. “Yes, there’s something else.”

  “Take your time, son.” Slaughter shaped his ash into a perfect cone.

  “If what Blaney at Indy P.D. tells me is true, Jamie is close. He lacks a few cards, but he’s holding an ace we don’t have. He’s got a pipeline to the killer in that paper of his. What happens if he gets too close? We’re dealing with a very successful killer here.”

  “The young man is quite vulnerable. But he’s not so naive as he once was.”

  “Naive? He ain’t naive
at all, sir. I mean, hyoid bones? Animal tranqs? In one interview he constructs a whole scenario on the victim—and I bet he’s right.”

  “Once he was naive and obsessed. Now he is skillful and committed. So perhaps he knows how vulnerable he is.” Slaughter adjusted a miniature death mask, crooked on its little pole; remembered the artist who presented it to him in Nairobi.

  Kent turned around, leaned over the desk. “Exactly. He’s committed. But chief, he can’t know what he’s in for. That body was dumped a mile from his home town. Why?”

  Slaughter read the face, reached up, clasped his junior officer’s shoulder briefly. “But he may lead you to your killer, son.”

  Kent’s shoulders slumped, he looked down at the desktop. “I know. But a Gay reporter who broke this story, looking like he looks, he’d make a great target to a Gay killer who dilates his victims’ rectums.”

  That got under even Slaughter’s thick skin.

  Kent sat. “Chief, I don’t know if I can do it. I want to, but…”

  Slaughter waited, then finished for him. “The rest of you doesn’t want to be responsible.”

  “Right.”

  “Doesn’t want to put him at risk.”

  “Right.”

  “Doesn’t want to work closely with a Gay man. Or be seen doing so by other officers.”

  “That too. Jeez, I’m gonna take some ragging. That’s okay, though. Let ’em rag.”

  “Doesn’t want, in short, to take down a killer who’s eluded us for fourteen years and twelve, no thirteen murders. Is that correct, sergeant?”

  Kent looked up, searched Slaughter’s face, which seemed disembodied now, surrounded only by blackness. A cold chill crawled down Kent’s back.

  The chief was challenging him;so his emotions changed.“No sir,I do want that. In the worst way. He’s taken out too many people. We’ve got to stop him, sir. I’ll catch the dude.”

  Slaughter leaned back out of the light. A red ember glowed in the dark. In his commanding voice, not quite matter of fact: “Then catch him, Kent. Put the son of a bitch out of commission for the rest of his miserable life. If you have to use your blond reporter to do it, then use him. Without pity and without remorse.”

  He let the words sink in. Then his arm reached for the Scotch on the desk, and his face, visible again, sipped for two seconds, savoring. His adam’s apple rose and fell. Kent saw a slight smile of satisfaction on his face. “Foster is willing to take the risk. So should you.”

  Kent frowned, looked away again. “Yes, sir.”

  Slaughter got to his feet, came around, sat on a corner of the desk. “Listen, Kent, let’s talk man to man. Not senior officer, not junior, just man to man.”

  Kent nodded. This was exactly what he needed.

  “It is no reflection whatsoever on your masculinity to associate with this witness. In fact, it’s the most macho thing you can do.” Kent memorized it. “If other officers can’t see that, well, they weren’t appointed Task Force Commander, were they?” Slaughter paused, saw the resolute body language he was looking for. “I don’t have to tell you how important this is, Kent. It’s the highest priority of this office.”

  He jabbed Kent’s shoulder. “I selected you for this job because you are young, smart, talented and flexible. You have shown me in a few short years that you can deal effectively with a wide range of people. You are a skilled investigator. You think on your feet. You stay objective. You are honest; I respect that. You are not some overfed trooper ripping off contraband from the evidence room till he can collect his pension and start double-dipping. Kent, you are the kind of investigator this department needs desperately. And you know, I don’t say ‘needs’ lightly. I don’t say ‘desperately’ to any son of a bitch.”

  Kent nodded, cheered by profane praise.

  “You’ve never shown me that you were intimidated by anyone before.”

  “Intimidated, chief?” Kent sputtered. “I ain’t intimidated by no killer.”

  “It isn’t the killer who intimidates you.”

  Kent thought. Who do you mean, then?

  Oh. “He’s just a little squirt, though. A hundred and seventy-five pounds. He’s a matchstick.” He laughed, but too nervously. Slaughter bored into him. Kent had to break the contact. “You’re right,” he said finally. “Intimidated. Oh, man, can you believe that?”

  Slaughter moved back to his chair, smoked. “Enlist him, Kent. He’s both Gay and a guy. Maybe that’s what these cases need. It’s all right to feel some fear about the Gay thing, but don’t let yourself be ruled by it. Or else the killer wins. And I won’t have that, Kent. I won’t have that in my department.”

  Kent’s heart beat faster.

  “Show me what you can do, son. Be cautious, but be bold.”

  “Yes, sir. I will, sir.”

  “You have to play this string out, wherever it leads. Including right smack dab into the Gay community. You promised me you could do that without judging people. That’s what I’ve seen tonight.”

  “I want to, believe me. It’s just… Him and me sparred a lot, but the guy’s so impressive. And he could get killed. Now that I know him—I have to prevent it is all.”

  “It’s a tough case. That’s why I put you on it. Do you know how many officers I cannot assign to a Gay case?”

  “Most, huh? That’s what Jamie said too.”

  “Most, as in 99%,” Slaughter spat. “Just hitch up your trousers like you do with the ladies and don’t think about it. You’ve got to have cooperation from the Gay community, and help just walked through your door.”

  “I know. Man, do I need a tour guide. Jamie’s great at it, though.”

  “Otherwise it’s just police work, which you’re darn good at. Don’t focus on the sex. Work the homicide.”

  “Thank you, chief. This was just a mental toughness issue, huh?”

  “Bound to happen when dealing with the unknown; you’re handling it effectively. Kent, you did the right thing to call me. It took guts. I’ve been there, staring down the barrel, and I know. Call me again if you need to, anytime. What we say will never leave this room. I’m proud of you, son.”

  “Thank you for this assignment, chief. And the talking-to. I appreciate your confidence. I won’t let you down.” Kent rose to go.

  “One other thing. Call him Foster. Use only his last name when we talk.”

  “Sir?”

  Slaughter looked into the future, tried to empty himself. “Objectify him, sergeant; depersonalize him. He’s not Brad Pitt, he’s a witness, a confidential informant. A thing. We objectify CI’s. When you talk about him, think about him, it’s Foster. Nothing but Foster.”

  “Sure, chief, right. Foster.”

  “Befriend him, but also objectify him. He’s only a means to an end. Use him; it’s what he wants.” Slaughter glanced at his cigar. “Otherwise his reputation is he intimidates everyone; you’re not the first officer who’s told me that. It’s his stock in trade. He uses it to get whatever he wants. I suppose that’s the mark of a good reporter, barreling in, Gay flag flying, asking about neck bones. All but daring you to make something of it. Even if he is a little squirt.” Slaughter smiled slightly; Jamie was very well-built, but “squirt” was still apt.

  Kent grunted. “He’s something else, all right.”

  “Not your typical Gay man. Not that I know what one is anymore, Kent. Times are changing, that’s for sure. It’s a new world and we’ve got to change with it.”

  “Takes all kinds, I guess. Thank you, chief. You’re fantastic. I’ll bring you the killer, sir. I swear it.” “Do that, son.” Slaughter’s eye found his peace memorial, nodded at it slowly. “Bring me his head on a goddamn platter.” ***

  Kent was halfway back to Lafayette before he realized he hadn’t told Slaughter that Jamie—Foster—was blond. But heck, the chief knows everything about everybody. He put it out of his mind.

  So doom set in; massive guilt. He drove, desperate, clueless, praying hard. The chief was ri
ght; the only solution was to get the killer’s head on a plate. ***

  Slaughter poured himself a second drink and returned to his meditation spot.

  It was a high-risk strategy, putting this young sergeant on the case. To get to a Gay killer, he’d assigned an investigator so handsome he was a Gay man’s dream. With him and Jamie working together, doors would swing open, they’d get access, entrée—an ideal pairing, fast, efficient, potentially lethal.

  It wasn’t just looks; Kent was the best he had. He could also impose police control on Jamie, who was tougher and more independent than ever. He now criticizes his Quincy County friends in print. And he’s hammered the FBI, rightly so.

  But the relationship had to work. Jamie wasn’t the problem, he’d even work with ignorant rednecks, as Bulldog Sauer proved. The potential problem was Kent. If he couldn’t control his feelings, all hell might break loose. Not only could it put Jamie in harm’s way, a new round of killings seemed sure to follow; while the department tried to pick up the pieces at square one. Again.

  Slaughter searched his mind one more time, his own devil’s advocate. The key to it all was how Kent handled homosexuality, handled Jamie, handled himself.

  Slaughter flashed back to the Academy five years ago: Kent a scrub-faced boy scout, eager, easy to train. Educated, smart, dedicated, competitive as hell; with physical skills the others could only marvel at. He could make his body do anything he wanted; he only had to be shown a move once. An excellent shot; by graduation almost as good with a baton as Slaughter himself, and Slaughter was a master.

  The faculty had to back off to keep Kent from knowing how good he could be. Yet he was never cocky, only confident, eager to learn more. A man’s man, as popular with the men as the women; which meant damn popular.

  Yet a caring guy, not macho-stupid when someone hurt. Great with kids. He knew when to let his compassion come out, and when not to.

  With that personality, plus some political seasoning, he could go anywhere in policing. He could take over the department one day.