Murder at Willow Slough (41 page)

49  

Rule #1

“Hey, buddy, what’s wrong?” Kent asked the next afternoon after Jamie woke up crossly from his nap. Connie, Thelma’s longtime hairdresser, had driven down from Battle Ground and cut Jamie’s hair; he looked better than he had since the incident, even had his swoop back. But the air was clearly negative.

“Don’t get me started,” he warned. I look like shit, for one thing. Connie had me look at my hair in the mirror. Half my face is melted away. I knew the rest was skin and bones, but God, I look like a corpse.

Kent couldn’t stop himself, he was so eager to help. “You’d think that a guy who’s on the front page of every paper in America would…”

“Be supremely, royally and permanently pissed to have all these fucking Straight hacks scoop me on the best story of my career.” Jamie was feeling better, all right.

“Everybody in the country knows about you now.”

“They know that I fucking got stabbed! Four years I work this fucking story—no one cares. ABC called me two years ago, two calls and out, Dennis Rodman’s in drag or some bullshit, so they chased that instead. We even Fed-Exed my reportage to The New York Times. All they saw was that it was coming from a Gay newspaper, so it must have an axe to grind, there’s no serial killer worth their vaunted, self-righteous, bigoted attention. Five years ago they offered me a job!” Kent, wide-eyed, sank into a chair.

“Now every fucking hack in the country’s got my story while I fucking sleep through the fucking thing. I’m supposed to be fucking happy about it? Give me a fucking goddamn motherfucking sonofabitching fucking break!”

Kent’s face twisted. It was an awful lot of fucking.

“In other words, I’ve been r-r-reading,” Jamie said, rolling the R, head high. “Straight reporters can’t get the story right. Didn’t you see that homophobic crap in the Sun? The AP’s no better, it’s homosexual this and homosexual that. The story isn’t sex, it’s murder! When a man kills a dozen women is he the new heterosexual killer? No-o-o. I don’t know who’s worse, these motherfucking homicidal losers or the goddamn ass-hole-sucking media.”

A nurse walked in, unannounced of course—the same nurse Jamie had tangled with over flashcards, and again yesterday over keeping his room door closed, like there was an actual person inside with privacy rights. “What’s this disturbance here?” she sneered.

“Out, you bitch!” Jamie reached for something to throw at her. “Learn to knock!” He cocked his arm and threw the little tissue box. He missed.

Kent was on his feet in a shot. He motioned Jamie to calm down and signaled the nurse sympathetically. “He’s upset right now, nurse, nothing personal, nothing I can’t handle. Delayed reaction to all the trauma he’s been through. Let me talk him down.”

She stared daggers at Jamie, stamped her foot—and beat it, but not before finding something nursey to adjust in the room. “If you think you can handle it, off-i-cer!”

Kent watched the door close behind her, then turned to face the man in the bed. “Please, James, just one shootout a week, okay?”

Laughter erupted in Jamie’s chest. “Oh! Oh, don’t say funny things. Laughing hurts.” But he laughed anyway.

He faced his buddy. “Sorry. I’d like to be back at the office having a fight with Louie. Not that the old hag didn’t have it coming. At a time when I don’t even have control over my own body, it would be nice to control this jail cell of a living space. They freak out when I demand that they knock.” His nose started running again, some kind of medication reaction. “Um, do you think I could have one of those tissues?”

“If you promise to get a permit before you fire again.”

Jamie chuckled, blew his nose. And that was when he formed the plan.

“Get me a pencil,” he ordered. “Where’s my laptop? How am I supposed to get anything done without my Macintosh? Find me some paper, if you would.”

“Maybe the nurse’s station. If you promise not to use the pencil to stab someone.”

“Apologize to the nice nursey for me,” Jamie grinned evilly. “Just roll your eyes and say something vague about queers.”

Kent got writing supplies.Jamie wrote furiously. “What are you going to do?”

“Hand me the phone. How do I get an outside line in this joint?”

“Who are you calling?”

“Manhattan,” Jamie told the phone. “CBS News, ‘48 Hours.’” He wrote a number down. “Thank you.” He pressed a button, dialed again. “There’s only one way for a working reporter to get back in the game.” To the receiver he said, “This is Jamie Foster of The Ohio Gay Times, calling from Indianapolis for Dan Rather. No, I won’t talk to his assistant. Give me the man himself or I’m going to Jane Pauley. Of the Indiana Pauleys.”

Kent gasped, wondered if some of his conversation had gotten through; decided he needed some air. When he came back, the deal was done.

In the space of fifteen minutes, Jamie reached the manager of Chez Nous, lauded him for his cooperation, got a referral to the best makeup artist in town, manipulated that guy into giving him an outcall just before the live TV show, sweet-talked a dietary aide into disobeying doctor’s orders so Jamie could smuggle in chateaubriand, coquilles saint jacques and a bottle of wine, ordered in French from the best restaurant in town—all by variations on Diva Rule #1: Expect it, demand it, make the bastards give it to you.

Kent worried about hyperactivity, but Jamie felt the power of adrenaline pump. Kent shook his head. “Is there anybody you can’t talk into doing what you want?”

“My mother, used to be. But then, I learned it from her.” He hung up, kept his finger on the button, but couldn’t think of anyone else to call.

Soon he was exhausted. Kent woke him when the maitre d’ arrived with hot boxes. Jamie could only be mellow and pick at his coquilles, watching Kent stuff his face with tenderloin, raving about sauces.

Slowed down, medicated, glad to be working again, Jamie was deeply pleased to have his partner enjoying good food. It’s the first time it feels like normal life.

He wished he had more dishes he could serve the big guy; he visualized rows of plates, removing lids with a flourish. “Try some of this. And some of this. And this!”

But maybe it was a dream. He woke up the next morning to find dried scallop sauce in his hair. Shuddered to think of the ignominy in front of Kent—who gleefully presented him with a photograph of seafood in his swoop.

50  

Showdown

“Three minutes to air,” intoned a mousy young producer in red-framed glasses and a brown maxi-skirt. A sound man adjusted a microphone on Kent’s suit jacket. “This is live, people, I want it mistake-free.”

Jamie shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Ow.”

Kent, beside him, got concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“It just hurts a little. Let’s get this over with.” It had taken Jamie two minutes to step into the 501’s Kent bought him. They were the right size, 27s, but big as a house. Kent had to fasten the buttons because the holes weren’t broken in yet, and Jamie’s fingers didn’t work very well. He looked away in maximum embarassment.

He’d wanted his most elegant suit, but it was back in Ohio, so Kent substituted a gold sweater with Purdue University on the chest. “It sets off your hair,” he said. “And it’s an improvement over the last thing I bought you. You chucked that IU sweatshirt out the car window, remember? We found it on the side of the road with the dead mic still on it.”

Jamie didn’t remember, but he said, “Ha! I wouldn’t wear that thing to a dogfight.”

A monitor was set up next to the bathroom. The segment with Davey at home ended, and Dan Rather stood in front of the nurses’ station, promoting the next segment. Music. The producer said, “And we’re away. Clear the room!”

Kent searched Jamie’s face. “You all right, partner?”

Jamie saw hope and warmth and worry in dark eyes. His back started to ache. Hoped to make it through this; had to, it was his career. “We beat a killer, Commander. We can sure as shit beat this.”

“Five. Four. Three,” two fingers, one. Dramatic music, logo, segment title (“Stud Reporter”) on the monitor; Dan in the hallway, speaking without script.

“Homicide experts like Dr. Steve Helmreich agree: despite sophisticated computer technology, DNA testing and the latest gadgets, tracking serial killers still comes down to people—police and other investigators: their commitment, contacts, street smarts and ability to work together as a team. Let’s meet the men who nailed these vicious killers, one of whom almost gave his life in the effort.” And he came through the door. “James

R. Foster, chief correspondent for The Ohio Gay Times, in his first interview since the stabbing; and Sgt. Kent Kessler, task force commander for the Indiana State Police.” Handshakes, macho with Kent, then much softer with Jamie. “Mr. Foster, thank you for getting out of your hospital bed tonight to be with us.”

Jamie nodded, conserving strength.
***

Watching at home in Golden, Colorado, Danny Foster found it gripping, and not just because his little Bro was the subject. Danny had followed Jamie’s reportage for years, then gobbled up every factoid he could get about the stabbing. What made the live interview edge-of-your-seat was Jamie’s rising out of bed, amazingly articulate, a week after the coma. He was every bit a match for the toughest reporter in television.

Still, Danny had to turn away at first. Jamie had lost 35 pounds. His handsomeness was still obvious, but he looked horribly gaunt, like Rock Hudson a few months before death. It took courage for a supermodel to look like that on TV, when two weeks ago the world stared at the Hot Face with the Hot Bod.

Here was Jamie salvaging his career, giving the performance of his life. In the same circumstances Danny would have crawled under a rock till the world forgot him. But not Jamie; Jamie competed always.

He praised Casey, Louie and a stringer named Kenny Dyson, the Task Force agencies, personnel and especially the Commander in the superlatives they deserved; then he demolished every homophobic myth about the crimes. He denied that Gay men disproportionately become serial killers and proved the perception was a media-created distortion. He had choice words for the wild, hysterical coverage of the murder of Gianni Versace.

He made the case for Gay and Lesbian cops and got Kent to endorse them. Jamie lay the blame right where it belonged, on Ford and Crum first, then Gay-ignorant media, Gay-intolerant police and Gay-hating politicians—on Gay men too, who compromise their own safety “and jump in any stranger’s car for a quickie”—and finally on the public for turning a deaf ear to Gay-bashing, when polls showed Americans opposed discrimination as long as they didn’t have to do anything about it.

He was hard-hitting, intense; no different from what he did every week in print, but this went out live, electronic and national. Rather never mentioned the modeling work, because James R., as part of the deal, refused to address it; but still, this was a very handsome guy, and Jamie used his battered good looks to run his eloquent mouth.

The victims needed a Gay spokesman and he excelled at it; a cop critic,a media critic,above all a reporter of facts.“No one looks at Agent Carson and wonders why so many Straight men are serial killers. No one looks at Ted Bundy and wonders.”

Equally striking was the rapport between the Gay reporter and the Straight cop; their deep mutual respect, their teasing each other, their celebratory fist-pounding. Danny thought back to the funeral, wondered if there could be more between them than friendship.

For the first time he got an emotional feel for Jamie’s sexuality; a butch little number who liked a big butch number. A close-up on Kent’s face made Lynn notice masculinity, intelligence, sensitivity.

“Man,” she said, “that Kent’s a cutie. I wouldn’t mind seeing him in some underwear ads.”

“He isn’t blond,” Danny replied. “Besides, I’m starting my diet on Monday.”

“You better, or I might have an affair with a man in uniform. Gosh, look at those eyes.”

Still, the inescapable point was Jamie’s courage; discovering the story, following it for years, going on to the motel to try to prevent further loss of life—living to tell the tale, to defend his Untouchables and to demand their fair treatment. He was an angry young man, but too intelligent, analytical, balanced and fair to dismiss as a mere hothead. What did he think of Gay guys who murder their own kind? “Don’t stare at the stink, just flush the toilet.”

“His career’s going national,” Danny predicted. “Gosh, I wish Mom had lived to see this interview.”

He covered his eyes. Lynn held her husband, who didn’t deserve to lose his little Bro so soon after their Mom.

Then Rather said,“Before we go,there is someone who wants to meet you, Jamie.”

The producer nudged Davey Shuey inside the hospital room. He was a poor, mop-haired youth who tried to dress up for the occasion. Jamie blinked at him, then realized he should stand. Kent assisted him.

Davey walked up. “Thank you for saving my life.”

Jamie just looked at him. Kent punched Jamie’s shoulder, “Now you understand what you did, partner. Don’t ever deny your heroism again.”

Jamie shook Davey’s hand. “You are well? Please be.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“I’m glad. But it’s not I you must thank. It is he.”

Davey reached out to Kent. “Thank you, officer.”

“Man, we’re glad you’re okay.”

Then there seemed little more to say, so Jamie hugged Davey, a Gay guy too. “Jamie, you saved this man’s life.”

“Kent, you did.”

Dan Rather settled it, “You both did, as America witnesses the results.” He shifted position to camera three and the TelePrompter. “Another serial killer caught at last, through the efforts of brave men like these, one Gay, one Straight. Devastating charges of FBI misconduct, police and media neglect, prejudice—and evidence of stunning police professionalism. Americans trapped by fear for their safety. And somewhere on our nation’s streets tonight, another fifteen confirmed serial killers, maybe as many as one hundred, lie in wait to lure the innocent, the powerless, the too-trusting.

“And the FBI, thought to be in charge of apprehending serial killers? Tonight one senior official and three agents sit in jail, charged with masterminding a snuff film conspiracy, a story we’ll track like Texas bird dogs.

“That’s ‘48 Hours: Circle City Showdown.’ Now stay tuned for your late local news. We’ll be back next week with another edition of ‘48 Hours.’ Till then, Dan Rather, CBS News, live from Indianapolis.” A suddenly earnest pause. “Good night.”

Theme music. “And we’re away,” the producer cried. People whooped or applauded. Jamie sat and slumped.

“Thank you, sergeant. Excellent work. We meet heroes every day in this business, but you are outstanding.” Rather pumped Kent’s hand, and Kent grinned. Jamie opened his eyes and watched.

“And you, Jamie Foster,” Rather said, deciding against a handshake, “make dynamic television. Call me the next time you’re in New York.”

“I will. Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

Rather smiled. “I mean it, Jamie. Give me a call.”

Credits flashed by, with stills from the show: Glenn and Gary; Davey Shuey; Major Slaughter; Bulldog and Hickman; Schmidgall’s lawyer; Casey writing; Doc, Phil, Jack; the Red-Haired Boy’s pauper plaque; LeRoy Walker, his parents and a very important paper; Crum in handcuffs; Carson in jail; Tommy Ford strangling—Kent holding up a fist and Jamie pounding it.

Kent watched circles form under Jamie’s eyes. The TV people, eager for beer or bed or a latenight phone call, scurried to clear the room. Major Slaughter strode in, dodging cables and technicians. “Kent, Jamie! Excellent.” He grasped Kent for a big bear hug, and slapped his back so hard Jamie cowered for fear he’d do it to him.

Instead George took Jamie’s hand in both of his and held it tenderly. “You looked good, son.”

“That was the make-up man.”

“You spoke well too. As always. I’m glad you’re back.”

Casey entered, snapping photos, as Louie hung by the door. They waved. Chief Melvin Watson barreled in, clapping Kent on the shoulder and congratulating him. Someone said the governor was coming. Jamie hoped he’d make it snappy. Still, it was the governor; Jamie wondered where his equipment was. How am I supposed to get any work done around here?

Oh, Casey’s got it covered. Thanks, bud.

Someone at the door asked to see Jamie. It was Gary Tompkins, Mr. Ferguson’s lover. The earth stopped spinning for a beat.

Jamie stretched out a hand to him. Kent introduced him to the room. Gary solemnly shook Kent’s hand, thanked him “for killing my lover’s killer.”

Kent frowned, spoke a few lame words of comfort.

Gary shook hands with Major Slaughter and the police chief. The governor leaned against the doorway, watching.

Gary came to Jamie last, stood for a moment looking unsure. His eyes filled with tears; he looked away. Jamie murmured, “Come, let me touch you.” Gary crouched. They held each other as Gary cried.

Even Slaughter had a hard time. His voice shook as he said, “Well, guys, that’s what it’s all about. Right there.” He shook Kent’s hand. “It’s been a privilege to work with you, son. You’re one hell of a man.”

Kent didn’t know what to say and wouldn’t even try.

“Governor,” Slaughter called.

The governor started working the room, “Hi Melvin. Great work! George, you old dog, congratulations. You know who I want to meet, though. Sergeant, I’m Brad Pendleton.” Jamie savored the moment; Casey got it. “I want to thank you on behalf of the people of Indiana. You and all the task force members make us very, very proud.”

“Thanks, governor,” Kent gulped.

Jamie whispered, “Do you want to meet the governor, Gary? He’d very much like to offer his condolences.” Gary sniffled, said yes. Jamie gathered his last strength. To Casey he said, “Switch to tape.” Casey found his recorder, pressed On. When it was Jamie’s turn, he blew past Pendleton’s congratulations to ask, “When are you going to issue an executive order banning anti-Gay discrimination in state employment? Indiana’s the only state in the Midwest without one.”

The governor sputtered, “Well, that’s an interesting question. I’m not sure this is the time or place to…”

“I’m a reporter, governor, this is the time and the place. Are you going to tell me that Gary Tompkins here, or his late lover who was a marketing whiz for an NBA team, is unfit to work for the state of Indiana?”

“Well, I… No. I’m not going to tell you that.”

“Then ban discrimination, governor. Just in state employment. We’re talking about people’s jobs here, hiring the most qualified employees. Gay ones don’t need you, they can move to Illinois.”

Pendleton frowned. “Now I know what Dan Rather just went through. I’ll think about it, okay?”

“Your father would have done it. Why don’t you?” Zing! The governor’s father was governor before him.

Pendleton eyed him. “I agree, he would have. And I’d like to. I’d also still like to have my scalp the next day.”

“If you work it right you will. Talk to Dick Celeste in Ohio. He did it a dozen years ago with no political consequences at all. Will you talk to him?”

“Will it get you off my back?”

Jamie smiled. “For now. Not for long.”

“Bastard,” Pendleton grinned. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Thanks, governor.” Jamie looked at Casey, who held up his tape recorder and his thumb.

Then someone strode into the crowd, all 400 pounds of him, smiling, white-haired, vital—attractive, regardless of weight. Didn’t care about TV people or governors or other shoo-flies. Jamie cried, “Kenny!”