Murder at Willow Slough

by Josh Thomas

  Lynn poured coffee. Danny came behind her, put his hand on her shoulder. “String quartet,” Lynn told her husband. “And Julie Andrews. Is that Jamie or what?”

  “Mom deserves it. She loved Julie, he does too. I remember the day, he was maybe five, when he realized Eliza Doolittle sounded just like Queen Guenevere and Mary Poppins and Maria von Trapp. The little shit ran around screaming, ‘See, Mommy? See, Danny? Juwie Andwews, Juwie Andwews!’

  “He was so cute—and so obnoxious. He played Mary Poppins so much I told him I’d shove that spoonful of sugar up his ass. Mom finally banned ‘Super-Cali-Fuck-You-Julie’ every day but February 29th.” Danny clapped his hands, dissolved in laughter. “It took him years to catch on. He got totally pissed. Then every leap year, the goddamn cast recordings blasted 24 hours a day.”

  Lynn loved hearing stories about Danny’s childhood. “The quartet will be nice. I’m glad he thought of it.” Sadness came quickly back; they were talking about Danny’s

  mother’s funeral. Lynn said, “I wonder if he’s heard from Stone.” “Don’t know. With Jamie, maybe Stone doesn’t return messages.” “You call, then.” “No,” Danny spat. “He finds out from Jamie, or he doesn’t fucking

  find out.”

  24

  Trophy

  Stone made the funeral. So, to Jamie’s surprise, did Casey. Danny met him and said, “I know Jamie gets the credit, but the Pulitzer finalist was The Ohio Gay Times. It goes on your résumé too.”

  Kent wore a dark blue suit; Jamie asked him to keep Arnie company. Arnie, a retired Army colonel, appreciated having the trooper there. Jamie asked them to sit with the family, but Arnie preferred the row behind. Jamie wrote Thelma’s obituary in the Union-Gazette and the paid ad, where he made Arnie a “special friend.” Arnie liked that. He’d gone with Thelma for fifteen years. Casey glommed onto Kent the minute they met.

  The big, stained-glass church was half-full. As the liturgy began, an older couple took a back pew, looking uncomfortable. At the passing of the peace, the Fosters found them and brought them up to sit with the family.

  The string quartet was lovely, the pipe organ was impressive, Father Jim was pastoral, and the Book of Common Prayer took care of the rest. A life was celebrated; a death was solemnized. Everyone moved to the parish hall, while the family stopped in the side chapel to make their communion and, as asked in the letter “My Dear Sons,” say together a favorite prayer of thanksgiving for their mother’s life. The older couple were there, but not Arnie, so not Kent.

  ***

  In the chowline, the first number was “Crazy World.” Casey told Jamie, “You should have flung yourself.”

  “I still might. He didn’t have to come today. This is pure kindness.”

  The worst of the reception for Jamie was having to talk with Thelma’s friends. If he knew their names, they had good stories to tell. If he’d never heard of them, they slapped him upside the head with the same 10¢ greeting card. But he was grateful they came, and they had a need to express themselves. Finally he broke away and joined the family party.

  A few minutes later he came and got Arnie and Kent, and proudly introduced them to Norman Nowak, a homely man in a suit that didn’t fit and dentures that slipped. But inside him a gentle radiance could only be called beauty.

  Kent smiled, shaking hands, “Hello, Unca Deed. Henry Walker in Hopkins Park sends his respects.” Jamie set about taking photos of his close people with Unca Deed, who wanted to know how Mr. Walker’s corn was doing, ten miles away in that foreign country, Illinoise.

  Kent learned that Thelma became Deed’s stepsister as young adults, that he’d watched the Foster boys grow up; in high school Danny was a farmhand under Deed, and once little Stoney ran away from home by riding his 16-inch bike ten miles from town to the farm; but Jimbo always stayed in the house with his Grandma, and was scared of the pigs. He didn’t even like gathering eggs from under the hens, easiest job on the farm. “He could do it, but he didn’t like it. He was scared of the chickens too! But why do you think they’re called chickens?” Deed’s eyes lit up, laughing. “My Jimbo’s smart, though. Went to college at 13 years old, up in Chicaga, all by himself. I couldn’ta done it; neither could you. It ain’t right to keep a boy like that on the farm. A boy like that, you got to do right by him.”

  “He’s still got a lot of farm in him. He’s got a lot of his Grandma, and his Unca Deed.”

  “The smart one spent his time with my Mom. That proves how smart he was. I’m sorry these boys have to go through losing their mother. I know what it’s like.”

  Kent had his mother but not his Dad. Then Deed had to get back, so Danny talked sports with Kent, told Arnie who Kent was. Arnie was more interested in law enforcement. Then he cut out too, and though Jamie was disappointed, he knew that was Arnie’s way.

  So Danny and Kent got to talk more, and afterward Danny came up to Jamie. “I want to do a column on him, he’s a heck of a guy. The last thing most retired jocks do is put their butts on the line for 26 grand a year.”

  “I’d love to see that column. He utterly deserves it.”

  “He had an offer to anchor sports on local TV. Didn’t take it, and the way he explains it I don’t blame him. He asked himself what he most missed about baseball—his teammates, the camaraderie. Should he work at this lousy entry-level TV station, or fall back on his other career like he always planned? Lots of teammates with the State Police; challenges every day. Besides, maybe it was time to give something back, after all the free rides athletes get.”

  Jamie looked away. “Values. Clear-headed thinking.”

  “He’s a typical athlete, an overgrown kid, always ready to play. But there’s more to him, an intelligent adult who wants to contribute. TV wouldn’t have satisfied him.”

  “I’ve seen his intelligence. He’s working a serial murder, but won’t fit his facts to a pre-existing theory.”

  “He told me how poised you were at the hospital, making the toughest decision a son can ever make. He thinks the world of you, Jamie.”

  “Don’t make me cry, Bro. I don’t go for Straight men.”

  So Danny understood what Jamie was struggling with. “I respect what you do, Bro. I could never do it. Be safe for me, okay? And thanks for taking care of Mom. I know you excelled at it. You always excel. Thanks for being with her. I’m sorry you had to do it alone.”

  They hugged hard, as Danny made them both cry. Jamie loved being held by his brother. ***

  Stone and Jamie didn’t talk, till Stone crooked his arm around his little brother’s neck, “You done good, Bro,” as Stone headed out the door for southern Indiana.

  They were the first words he had uttered to Jamie in a dozen years. “Bye, Bro!” And Stone, escorting his chippie-of-the-month, threw him a little wave over his shoulder. Poor Stone. You’re the most bereft of all.

  Then dancing broke out, Casey and Jamie together for “Le Jazz Hot.” Kent grinned, watching them. For the first time he figured that Gay must mean happy.

  Or sad, just trying to dance through it. ***

  At Father Jim’s suggestion, the family toured the garden where their mother’s ashes would be buried. A small but grand Gothic arch separated the courtyard from Ferry Street, and a plaque on the church wall recorded people’s names. There would be room to lay flowers when the time came.

  Back inside, Jamie sipped tea until the music got much louder, commanding attention. The song’s opening flutes made him wince. Jamie broke away, his back to everyone as he felt every note. At the dramatic change in the third verse—no more breves, building up to the climax— Danny clasped him on the back and they sang together, while in London Julie gave the stereophonic performance of a lifetime, “I Could

  Have Danced All Night.”

  After that, there could be no more music.

  Kent finally approached Jamie. “I know it’s family time, but I’m the only person you didn’t talk to.”

  “I’m sorry, I wanted to. I’m d
eeply pleased you came. This adds even more to the hospital and the camping trip.”

  “You put on a beautiful service, Jamie, a work of art. I’ve never been to anything like it.”

  “Thank you for being with Arnie and Unca Deed.”

  “I liked them. Deed’s never lost his innocence.”

  “He’s the closest thing we have to Grandma. What I wouldn’t give to have back those days with Grandma.”

  “What was best about her?”

  “Her kindness. She was selfless. She loved children.”

  Kent glimpsed a child who wasn’t always loved.

  “Unca Deed lost his dad at a young age, the middle of five sons; but he took over as Grandma’s breadwinner. He never left her. We see her purity of heart in him.”

  “We’re lucky in our families, huh?”

  “For the most part.” Jamie’s eyes shone moistly. “And our friends. Very lucky.”

  Kent hugged him, a few seconds of bliss in male arms. “I’m not like you, Jamie. I want to be friends.”

  “Stupidest thing I’ve ever said. Man, you’re priceless.”

  They stepped apart, and Kent went to shake hands with Danny, say goodbye to Lynn. Casey handed Kent a copy of The Times with Jamie’s story. “Thanks, I’ll read it as soon as I get home.”

  Jamie watched Kent go; then Lynn came up and said, “How ’bout we all get drunk?”

  So they went home and told Mom stories and laughed and cried and ate casseroles and cherry pie and got totally wasted. Maybe they had to get drunk to get through the final ritual—watching an old video of the pageant. Her sound didn’t compare to the great star’s; it was throatier, without the amazing range. But by changing the key and the phrasing, and visualizing her joy if she got to go to college, Indiana’s Thelma Rees nailed the high note and brought down the house with “I Could Have Danced All Night.”

  Danny and Jamie bawled like little boys. ***

  The next day they visited the lawyer and signed new signature cards at the bank, but Danny wouldn’t take anything of Thelma’s, had no interest in profiting from his mother’s death. Finally Lynn shyly admired the fancy sewing machine and stand, which Jamie, in charge of the trust, gave her on the spot. It was a good few days for the brothers, but soon Danny had to get back home to cover the Broncos game. So everyone left and Jamie sat alone in a La-Z-Boy all weekend, staring into space. On Monday, all he could do was work.

  He woke his PowerBook as Casey called to say that a report of Jamie’s story moved on the AP state wire for Sunday morning, but only the Dayton Tribune and a second-tier chain printed it. The Tribune credited The Times and added original reporting, which was fine; Casey read him the wire version, which mentioned The Times in the second graf, along with the serial connection.

  They hung up so Jamie could check the Indianapolis Sun—nothing; amazing. The Lafayette paper had two grafs in the agate, page A-8:

  Slough Victim Named

  A body recovered in Willow Slough State Fish and Game Area a week ago is that of Glenn Arthur Ferguson, 29, of Indianapolis, according to a published report quoting Indiana State Police Sgt. Kent Kessler. Ferguson, a marketing manager for the Indiana Pacers, was strangled, and police believe he was murdered elsewhere, then transported to the isolated Newton County park.

  The report, in a newsletter catering to the Gay community in Columbus, Ohio, could not be directly confirmed, but a state police spokesman in Indianapolis told the Associated Press it was “substantially accurate.” Kessler, of the West Lafayette post, could not be reached for comment.

  “‘Substantially accurate’?! A newsletter? Try getting the victim’s name right. And no mention of the serial connection! How can you call yourselves reporters?”

  He called Casey back for a joint fume session. “There’s only one thing to do, Jamie.”

  “Right, man. Go out and beat ’em.”

  “That’s m’boy.”

  ***

  “I read it right after the funeral. You reconstructed his movements prior to the crime,” Kent said, setting the clipping on top of the fast-growing Ferguson file. “One day after your mother dies? That’s awesome.”

  “There’s a lot more to learn, and for that I need to go back to Indy. What have you been up to?”

  “Taking phone calls from reporters. Your article really had an impact. Papers in Dayton, Cleveland, Toledo, Cincinnati, Akron, I don’t know where all. TV and radio stations. A ton of people from Columbus. Oh, and the paper in Richmond, but they’re the only ones in Indiana.”

  Jamie frowned, “Richmond is in Dayton’s TV market.”

  “The reporters all know you. The AP guy said, ‘What’s Jamie onto this time?’ You’re famous there, aren’t you.”

  “I report news, not make it. Who called from the Dayton Tribune?”

  “Josephine Hansen. She knew a lot more and asked much tougher questions. She congratulated you on your scoop—then complained about it. ‘I’m a police reporter, when did that turn into the Jamie beat?’”

  “Go Jo. She’s a dynamite writer, the only one who’s cared.” She was also Bisexual and working on a series of detective novels featuring a beautiful blonde Lesbian insurance investigator. “Any other progress?”

  “Two things. We have proof that Mr. Ferguson was not killed on-site. Um…”

  Jamie shuddered. “Forensic entomology?”

  “A guy at Purdue’s a national expert in it. Those were southern Indiana bugs.”

  “Southern? Start from Indy, kill him south, then drive him north?”

  “The hills down south have a different soil composition.”

  “Gruesome. Go to point two.”

  “Trooper Campbell and I interviewed everybody who lives on State Line Road; Mr. Walker and LeRoy gave us separate positive I.D.s on the photos of Ford. Plus we found a teenaged girl who remembers an old, brown Toyota without prompting.”

  “Great. Did she have the date?”

  “Day after Labor Day,” Kent said emphatically. “Not bad, huh? He was out late. That and White skin made him noticeable. Nobody else goes into the park at night.”

  “Great work.” Jamie made a fist and blew into it. “I find myself wondering why he picked Mr. Ferguson. He doesn’t fit the pattern. This killer has relied for years on the obscurity of his victims, it’s part of his plan.”

  “We’re getting a lot more data on him than we’ve ever had before.”

  “Given the pattern, why divert from it? Why take a chance with a rich guy?”

  “Physical type?”

  “I don’t believe in the physical type explanation. Too Hollywood. It’s more a feeling that he can get away with killing this one.” Jamie paced. “Just because Glenn was young and handsome doesn’t answer why him. Most Gay men are attractive. A million of them are his type.”

  “If a man’s handsome, he’s Gay?”

  This was provoking, and also off-goal. Jamie confronted the undercurrent. He looked Kent full in the face. God, what a face.

  Jamie said gently, “No, Kent. There are plenty of handsome Straight men and plenty of ugly Gay ones. But Straight men get married, take sex for granted and start putting on the pounds. Gay men work on their grooming, their clothes, and increasingly, their fitness; as a group we’re good-looking. Can we focus on Mr. Ferguson now?”

  “Sorry. I just don’t always know what you mean.” Kent’s cloudy look came back. “So answer me this. I always heard Gay guys are sissies. You ain’t. Why not?”

  Of the 5,000 possible replies, first of which was Yes, I am, Jamie said, “All people combine softness and hardness in individual ways. You do; I do. I hope we can still work together.”

  “We can. Are there many masculine Gay guys?”

  “Depending on your criteria, all Gay guys are masculine. Some of us toughguys even hate opera.”

  Kent laughed, “Thank God, I hate that opera crap.”

  Jamie backhanded him again, for disrepecting opera, and got pounded back. “Let’s move on,
buddy. What was different about Mr. Ferguson that night? Let’s see the clothing list.” Kent shuffled through photos, notes, handed over a list, “Gray, summer wool suit by Perry Ellis, sports cut,” Jamie read. “Blue and gold tie. Black Italian loafers. Kent, this isn’t right.”

  “He wasn’t wearing that?”

  “If he was wearing Perry Ellis the killer wouldn’t have touched him in a hundred years. Rich guy, too many clues. Glenn disappeared on a Tuesday. Where are the white socks? He lifted weights three days a week, Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. Gary said in blizzard or tornado, Glenn always worked out.”

  “If they’re his, the socks prove he changed.”

  “Maybe Gary can identify them. How did it go? After work, Glenn’s downstairs in the weight room, he’s showered, he’s getting dressed, going out for a beer. Would he put his business suit back on to go to a Gay bar? No. He keeps casual clothes in his locker to wear home, he and Gary are going out to dinner the next night so he doesn’t have to wear the suit. What is this list, anyway?”

  “Tompkins’ initial missing persons report.”

  “Is there another list with the last known witnesses’ description? The bartenders and anyone else who saw him? I didn’t ask them, did you?”

  Kent shuffled through his papers again. “White crew-style socks, mid-calf. Blue and gold stripes around the top. That’s the description of the body on discovery. None of our witnesses saw what the guy was wearing?”

  “You don’t think the killer put those socks on him, do you? What kind of police work is this?”

  “It’s possible the killer put the socks on him, but not likely. Forensics said the socks had been washed multiple times before, they’re a better brand. Maybe the witnesses’ descriptions are just contained in the interview reports. There isn’t a separate document.”

  “Have we interviewed the other customers or just the bartenders? Did we take Ford’s photo in to show people?”

  “Indy PD interviewed bartenders. Nobody showed any photos.”