by Josh Thomas
“Whew,” Kessler said, as the turnoff to Ade and Brook passed by. The gas station that used to be on the corner was long gone. “You’ve thought a lot about this stuff.”
“I’ve had to. These murders would have been solved a decade ago if they’d had a Gay cop. The last twelve victims have died for lack of a Gay cop.”
Kessler stared straight ahead.
“I respect the job you do. Bulldog, Hickman, Blaney are doing their level best, and I’m terribly grateful. But overall police performance has been pathetic, ignorant, underfunded and bigoted, except for them. With them it’s just been ignorant and underfunded. Which has played into the killer’s hands repeatedly. No wonder he’s never been caught. Police homophobia keeps him free to kill again.”
Kessler’s ears burned. “How else have the cops screwed up?”
“Quincy tried to go it alone. Twelve Gay victims, two cops who know nothing about Gay people, and they tried to go it alone.”
“Machismo. ‘I can handle it, I don’t need help.’”
“Quincy’s one county west of an organized, visible, sophisticated Gay community in Dayton. But did they talk to Gay leaders there? No. They talked to the town barber.”
Thus did Kessler understand how deep a hole he was in.
“Small, rural counties lack the resources. When the Son of Sam killed six women in New York, 200 detectives were assigned. Here, with twice as many victims but no money or publicity, you are the sole fulltime investigator. If you don’t find anything in a week or two, we’ll go right back to zero.”
“It ain’t fair, Jamie. I feel what you’re saying.”
“The social status of the victims matters profoundly. If Gay people were high on the list, these cases would have been solved. As it is, we’re only slightly ahead of prostitutes and migrant workers. So we have to take responsibility for changing that. It’s significant that these murders happened in Indiana. If they happened in Ohio, I’d have 50,000 people marching on police headquarters.”
Kessler thought. “If it’s done right, a march like that could really help.”
“So now you’ve got this case, sergeant, and you’re all alone. To solve it, don’t be ruled by ignorance and fear. Seize the advantage from the killer. If you’ve got a question about Gay life, please, just ask me. Don’t beat around the bush like your macho quotient will automatically go down. Open your mouth and ask. It takes a lot to offend me. No, we don’t all wear dresses. And please don’t worry about your terminology. For the duration, whatever your question, I guarantee I’ve heard it a thousand times before. I won’t put you down for it—I’ll praise you for asking.”
A video of Slaughter’s face, cigar smoke and shadows played in Kessler’s mind. “Why did you become a reporter?”
“It’s what I’ve wanted to do all my life. It’s the most important public service I can perform.”
“Why a Gay paper, then? You’re smart enough you could work for anyone.”
“Because someone’s got to organize the migrant workers and whores.”
“Yeah. Good for you.”
“I’m trained for mainstream journalism; I’d love to return to it. But I’ve learned the lesson of Ronald Reagan and AIDS: Gay media save lives. Silent, Straight media take them—including Glenn Archer Ferguson’s.”
“Man, you’re powerful.”
“I don’t have nearly enough power, sergeant. Turn left on State Road 114, the next major intersection. Or as major as these intersections get. That blinking light.”
Kessler eased up on his speed and said, “Jamie, if we’re gonna work together, do you suppose you could call me Kent instead of sergeant all the time?”
Blood and embarassment rushed to Jamie’s head; so did pleasure somewhere. Still, he didn’t want to offend, officers like to be properly addressed; and he didn’t want to get in too deep either, investing hope in some damn police officer. That was how Bulldog co-opted him years ago.
“Sure, Kent. Whatever you like. But I don’t want to be your friend.” They both started at that harshness. “I’m sorry, I’m sure you’re a worthy friend. But I’m not here to be co-opted or manipulated or to make friends. I’m here to do a job. Nothing gets in the way of that. Nothing. Same for me as for you. You’re the cop, I’m the CI.”
“All right. If that’s how you feel.”
There was an old green directional sign, Willow Slough Fish and Game Area, with an arrow pointing west. The sign for Morocco was down, hit by a car and bent double. It was rusted, looked like it’d been down for years. No one in Morocco bothered to call the highway department. No one in Morocco figured it would do any good.
15
Quicksand
They came to a town of a thousand souls. “So this is Morocco. Don’t look nothin’ like Humphrey Bogart.”
Jamie chuckled, “The town founder’s trademark was his Morocco leather boots. He impressed the Hoosiers, but that joker wasn’t a world traveler, he organized a town on top of a swamp. He was good at the con.”
Kessler laughed. “Thieving land speculators.”
“Oh, there’s my grade school. I used to play on that ballfield—softball, every day during recess. I led off my first Little League game there.”
“Gee. Gay guys play Little League?”
Jamie was shocked; but he’d just promised not to be. “We’re raised Straight. Which shows you it’s not in the raising. Gay guys play Big League.”
“Not openly, they sure don’t.”
Jamie’s eyes blazed, “Then whose fault is that?”
Kessler couldn’t quite bring himself to answer.
“Oh, there’s our house. Goodness, it’s tiny.”
“We’re practically out of town already. We didn’t miss a sign somewhere, did we? We’re going to be in Illinois any minute. This ain’t how the other trooper came.”
“There’s a gravel road up ahead, on the state line. My grandfather took great delight in driving up the middle of it—‘half the car’s in Illinois, and the other half ’s in Indiana.’ That’s entertainment in a place like this. He always drove up the middle. He’d have shared the road if someone else wanted some, but no one ever did.”
Especially after a tense moment, there is something about sharing a laugh; it promotes forgiveness.
They found State Line Road, turned north. Kessler realized he was driving smack up the middle. Jamie said, “It’s paved now. I’m surprised Indiana paved both lanes.”
They found the entrance to the Slough. Everything was quiet, the place was deserted. Jamie couldn’t see the geese yet, but he could hear them, “Aranh! Aranh! Aranh!” Kessler parked, they entered the administration building. Officer Suzanne Myers was a compact woman, maybe 36, with long brown hair tied up to fit under a ranger’s hat, and generous hips that filled her pants. She was a law enforcement officer too, her uniform brown, her weapons a citation and a rifle. Her smile was immediate and friendly. “Sergeant Kessler. I see you found us all right.”
Kessler removed his hat, they shook heartily. “Officer Myers, I brought me a native scout who’s familiar with this here territory. Otherwise I don’t think I’d have made it. This is Jamie Foster. We’re partners on this case.”
Jamie shook hands too. “I’m originally from Morocco, but I’m not much of a scout. I can claim to have once nearly drowned here, though.” She gave him a quizzical look. “Ice skating. Thin ice. I fell through, but they got me out. Damn near froze to death.” It occurred to him that maybe that was why he was so averse to cold; he was afraid of dying because of it.
“Happens every year or so,” she warned. “We post signs about the ice, but some folks think they know more about it than we do.”
“There didn’t used to be signs—or conservation officers. Anyway, I do all my ice skating now at the mall. I don’t ever want to be that cold again.”
Kessler began, “Thank you for taking the time to see us today. I know you’re supposed to be off at three, but this was the soonest I could make
it and I really appreciate it.”
She frowned, “No problem, glad to help. That poor guy, did you ever find out who he was?”
“Yes. His name was Glenn Ferguson. He was from Indianapolis.”
“What was he doing up here?”
“That’s what we’d like to know.”
“Where do we start?”
“At the scene. Tell my partner what you saw.”
She reached for her hat and grabbed a windbreaker. They headed outside, Myers locking the door behind her, and crossed a parking lot. Her vehicle, a late model black and silver pickup, sported a World Wildlife Fund sticker and a ribbon decal, pink and red, for breast cancer and AIDS. “Over here, in the camping area,” she said, leading the way. “Site 16.” They passed a children’s fishing pond, picnic tables, in-ground cooking pits, gravel trails to the campground, a comfort station. “This way.”
Jamie hadn’t noticed the wind before, but a stiff breeze off the lake whistled through his ears. The air was warm, but the wind made his hair stand up. He wished he had a windbreaker and a hat.
They came to picnic table 16, and Myers stopped, pointing again. “Right there, behind the woodpile.” Jamie dug out his camera, took a photo.
Behind the pile he noticed a shimmer on the ground that marked the sloughland. There was nothing between the end of the gravel trail and the stacks of tree branches. “He didn’t have to drag the body. He just
drove right up to it. Popped the trunk and dropped his load.”
“Easy as pie,” Kessler agreed.
They walked thirty more feet to the woodpile. “He was right back here,” Myers said, pointing and turning away.
Jamie took another shot with the wide angle lens, then changed to the zoom. “What caused you to come back here? This isn’t your busy season. Were there any campers back here?”
“No, fall’s when it happens here, hunting season. We’ll be busy in another two months, trying to keep the hunters from shooting each other. Summers, there are a few people boating on the lake, fishermen mostly, very few campers. The campers usually go back yonder, as far as they can get from the entrance, so’s they feel like they’re escaping from the world. The road that way ends in a turnaround, and there’s fencing to keep people out of the woods. Course, the wetlands will stop them if they try to go further, unless they’ve got waders. Take one wrong step and you’re in muck to your ankles just like that.”
“Quicksand,” Jamie said. “River muck.”
“Course, it’s not the dangerous kind like you see on those old TV Westerns. There’s plenty of trees and vegetation you can grab a-holt of, and the soil composition is such that it doesn’t suck you in very far. But it scares outsiders real quick, and they learn to steer clear of it. Didja ever see ‘The Big Valley?’ Miss Barbara Stanwyck got sucked into the sand once. She’d’a took one look at this stuff and thumbed her nose at it.”
“Insufficient scenery to chew.” Jamie and Officer Myers laughed at each other.
“I checked the records like you asked,” she said to Kessler, “and we haven’t had any campers here a’tall since late July—registered ones, any-ways, and see, it’s all voluntary—and the last ones signed into a couple of sites in the 60’s, back yonder like I said. And that was over a month ago.” Jamie took a photo of them conversing.
“There isn’t a gate at the main entrance,” he said. “So there’s nothing to keep people out of here at nighttime?”
“No. There’s not much population in this county, and what there is is figuring out how to move to Layfayette or Portage or Chicaga.” Jamie’s father had pronounced the big city that way too, when he wanted to annoy Thelma—or Jamie. “We’re so isolated, we don’t get any tourists to speak of. Hell, there ain’t nobody driving 41 anymore except the locals. The folks that live here, the young people need jobs. The farmers that are making it, and not that many of them are anymore, they’re too busy to come out here. Or they’re too old. There’s people in Morocca and Lake Village ain’t never been here in their whole lives. And you,” she smiled at Kessler, “a state trooper had to have a native scout to even find this joint.”
“I coulda found it if I had to,” Kessler pouted cutely.
“What brought you back here that day?” Jamie asked.
“Had a load of wood to dump, no other reason. I let down the load, Ralph—that’s the other wildlife officer here—he and I were stacking it, and I noticed a lot of squirrels chattering behind us, some big old crows and a couple of Canadas squawking, so I went to see what all the chat was about.” She stopped, recoiling at the memory.
Kessler said, “Lunch.”
“Chowtime. Welcome to the boofay table. They hadn’t started yet, but you could tell they was taking a notion.”
“Have mercy,” Jamie groaned.
“So I shooed them off and threw a tarp on the body, then I called Rensselaer, and you know the rest.”
“A tarp,” Jamie frowned. “I suppose you had to.”
“Why not a tarp?”
“Disturbed the crime scene perhaps. But you had to protect him from the animals. I appreciate your honoring his humanity.”
She looked away. “I never thought of that.”
Kessler said, “You did the right thing. Anybody else around here see anything?” He knew the answers but wanted to see if she told her story the same way a second time.
“Who’s to see? This is a pretty lonely life. Course, I like it like that, too. That’s why I’m here, the woods and the geese and the deer and everything else we got. Humans, them we ain’t got. I don’t miss ’em.”
“And no physical evidence, sergeant?”
“We figured what you said earlier. All he had to do was drive up and pop the trunk. He could have come in late at night, no one to see him, no one to stop him, no one to know.”
They surveyed the scene in silence. Kessler said, “Well, shall we go back? There’s nothing else here for us to see.”
“One more thing,” Jamie said. “Officer Myers, tell me about the sloughland here. It’s been rainy this month? Is the water higher, more spread out than usual?”
Kessler clarified, “In other words, did he dump him behind the woodpile to hide him, or in the water deliberately, or both?”
“You are from here, aren’t you?” she said to Jamie. “You’re right, the slough is always changing. We’ve had moderate rain, a little bit more than usual, one and four-tenths inches since the first of the month, and it’s been a relatively wet summer. The slough has been getting wider the past few weeks. Ordinarily, we keep our powder dry—keep our woodpile away from the wetlands, because we burn wood in the fireplace inside in the wintertime. Still, this is a slough, it’s bound to change on us. This water has been pretty close to the edge here for a month or so. Ralph and I talked about whether we’d have to move the wood to another location, but it didn’t seem that bad. It hasn’t changed that much, just slowly creeping up.”
The killer seemed to want water, concealment and the ease of off-loading.
“Anything else?” she asked. She plainly wanted to go.
“No, no. It’s good of you to show us again,” Kessler said. “I know it’s no fun for you, finding that poor guy. I really appreciate all your extra time, Officer.” She liked being addressed that way by a state trooper.
Jamie shook her hand and whispered, “Thanks for the ribbons.”
They headed back toward the parking lot. She said, “Someone bags a deer in season, no problem; it’s nature’s way. They want beavers, we got beavers. Squirrels, pheasants, quail? Just check your calendar. And fish year-round. But don’t hunt the humans, dammit. Not in my park.”
No one dared to cross Miss Stanwyck, either.
16
Picnic
They sat on a picnic table. Puffy clouds scudded above Lake Murphey as the wind made whitecaps on the water. Willow Slough was lovely in its loneliness.
“I’ve heard there’s a suspect. But I’ve stayed away from that, I didn�
��t want to fit my facts to a pre-existing theory.”
“How logical your approach is. Your job isn’t to find some serial specimen, but the killer of Glenn Archer Ferguson.”
“Now that it does seem connected, it’s time to examine all available data. Do you know anything about their suspect? Who is he?”
“I don’t know much. Other people know more.” Jamie fiddled with his camera bag. He wanted mug shots of the sergeant, but now wasn’t the time.
“Tell me what you know, how you think about him.”
This headed onto dangerous ground. Why should I tell this cop about the phone calls?
Half a dozen maple seeds had blown off a nearby tree. Jamie picked up a seedpod, turned it over in his fingers, tried flipping it into the water.It pooped out after three feet. “When we were kids we called these whirlybirds.”
Kessler picked up a seed and with a sidewise flip, sent it spinning. It landed in the lake thirty feet away like it was supposed to. “We called them helicopters. I wonder how the wing helps the seed take root.”
“It doesn’t. It disperses the seed beyond the tree’s canopy.” If Jamie didn’t share his information with this cop, he would find out about it soon enough from Bulldog or Blaney. Maybe he already had, and he would never be able to trust Jamie again.
If he did share it, and Kessler misused it somehow, Jamie might end up dead.
He looked at the cop, sailing another maple seed. The sun and breeze made whitecaps on the black waves of his head. He was dazzlingly handsome.
I won’t make this decision based on that. I refuse to.
Jamie thought of Aaron Haney, of Kelvin, of Riley Jones—of Glenn Ferguson lying 200 yards away in the muck.
Jamie had no choice. It could be the break that Kelvin needed. Young and handsome, a miniature Casey. The trooper had shared a lot of information with him, more than most cops would; Kessler deserved to know everything if he was going to catch the Strangler. “Quincy County has had a suspect for years. Two guys, Tommy Ford and Jerry Lash. They’re friends, and there’s one other thing. Ford is Roger Schmidgall’s ex-lover.”