A Simple Suburban Murder (6 page)

It's not something I talk about. I killed some human beings who were trying to kill me. A lot of screwed-up politicians tried to convince us this was a sane thing to do. Was it right or wrong? I prefer never to look back. I survived.

Robertson continued. "I like that about a guy. We've got to be tough in this day and age. We can't let these fucking intellectuals and faggots run things."

Big mistake on his part. I was furious, but held it in check for the moment until I knew what he wanted.

"What is it I can do for you, Detective?"

"I wanted to mention a few things. I have a couple questions." His demeanor remained placid, but I detected an increase in the harshness underneath. I might be a good guy because I was an ex-marine but as he shortly revealed, I was also a member of the pain-in-the-ass public getting in the way of his job.

He said, "I hear you've been taking quite an interest in this case."

"I don't see that as surprising."

"No, Mr. Mason, but it's usually the police who take care of asking questions and interviewing suspects. It's our job. We prefer not to be interfered with." The harshness in his voice increased. "Look, Mason, I'm telling you to back off. You're a veteran and all, but I want you to butt out. If you dare defy me—"

The front door opened. Scott walked in carrying dinner. He looked at the two of us. Scott solved the problem of recognition simply and without hesitation. He introduced himself. By shifting the packages, he could shake hands.

"Never thought I'd meet Scott Carpenter." Robertson sat back down slowly.

"Let me put these away and then I'll join you, if it's all right?" Scott asked.

"No problem," Robertson said. He gave me a surprised and confused look and gazed at me carefully. What he wanted to ask, I guessed, was why one of the biggest stars in baseball was in my living room.

Scott returned from the kitchen. "Can I get you something to drink, Detective, a beer maybe?"

"No, that's okay. I'm on duty, maybe another time."

"Sure thing." Scott gave him his dazzling smile and sat down next to me on the couch.

Robertson blurted out, "I'll never forget that second no-hitter in the World Series. It was fantastic. I watched every pitch on TV. I wish I could have been there."

"If we go to the Series again maybe I can get you tickets," Scott said. "I came in on the middle of something. How can we help you?"

"I came because Mr. Mason seems to have been conducting his own investigation of the Evans murder." His voice was more hurt than threatening, now that he was talking to a sports star. "We can't have interference, Mr. Carpenter."

"Call me Scott."

The cop swelled with pride of nearness to a hero. I figured him for a stroke in two minutes. I could already hear him telling the boys at the station house about his friend Scott Carpenter.

I hadn't liked his nasty tone when he started. I hated his fawning tone now. But I figured with him in this mood maybe I could get some information from him.

Scott said, "You see how it is. Tom's naturally concerned about what happened, knowing the family and the body being in his room."

"Of course," Robertson agreed.

I tried a question. "I was wondering, I never did hear, what exactly was it that killed him?"

The cop gave me a brief suspicious look.

Scott said, "When Tom described it to me I couldn't believe it. I kept trying to figure it out myself. I'd kind of like to know too, if you can tell us, that is. I know police seldom give out such information, but if you could see your way clear?" Scott's southern drawl was seldom more humble or persuasive.

The cop smiled. What I saw in that smile was—I'll do anything to please my hero. I might as well not have been there.

Robertson said, "I guess it wouldn't hurt to tell you a little. Although, really what I'm telling you gets sent to the press later today."

"We'd appreciate anything," Scott said.

Robertson began, "He'd been dead several hours when you found him. He was killed with a heavy blunt instrument. Whoever did it crushed his skull with repeated blows, but the medical people think the first blow probably was the one that did it. The killer kept hitting Evans long after he was dead."

"Do they know where he was killed?" I asked.

His expansive mood continued. "No. We haven't been able to trace his movements that night. He left home at nine P.M. He never came back. We haven't found his car or figured out what the hell he was doing in your classroom, or how he got there." He scratched his head. "He also had three thousand dollars on him when we examined him."

"Who do the police think did it?" I asked. The instant after I said it I knew I'd goofed.

He answered stiffly, "We're checking leads. We don't have anything firm yet."

"I'm sure you'll get something," Scott soothed quickly.

"We'll catch whoever did it, that's sure." He added, "Mr. Mason, you have to promise not to do any more interfering."

Scott spoke up. "I'm sure there won't be any problems."

I gave an ambiguous nod.

Robertson stood up. "I don't want to delay your dinner any longer." He spoke to me. "I'm glad I got this chance to talk to you." Then to Scott. "And got a chance to meet you."

Scott got up and shook the cop's hand. "And it's been a pleasure for me too." He walked the cop to the door.

Scott came back into the room. "I promised to get his kids an autographed baseball."

I said, "That son-of-a-bitching asshole."

"Don't let yourself get all worked up about him. He's an ordinary guy with a job to do."

"How can you defend him? He practically drooled all over you."

"You do that sometimes." He gave me a weak grin and sprawled his lanky frame next to me on the couch.

"At least I didn't start drooling the instant I met you, like he did. That fawning bullshit drives me nuts."

"You've seen it before."

"Yeah, and it usually doesn't bother me, but you weren't here for the first part of the conversation." I told him what Robertson said.

"He's an asshole," Scott agreed when I stopped.

He put his arm around me and drew me close.

"He'd be less impressed if he saw us now," I said.

"Should I ask him back? We could have him, his wife, and his kids over for a party. We could all be best friends."

I ignored his comment and said, "You handled him well."

He passed it off. "I've been handling fans and reporters for years."

"I meant the introduction, being here with me."

Scott shrugged. "What was to see? We didn't neck in front of him. Let him think what he wants."

I looked at him carefully. "You've changed. A couple years ago you'd have gone into a panic with what you walked in on."

Scott said, "This is your home. I shouldn't have to be scared of being gay here."

Scott and I met eight years ago. I remember it clearly. It was four-thirty on a gloomy November afternoon. It had alternately rained and sleeted since 8:00 A.M. I was in Unabridged Bookstore up on Broadway in Chicago in the gay section of town. It's my favorite bookstore in Chicago. I had two plastic bags crammed full of purchases. Halfway out the door I turned around to say good-bye to the owner. Not watching where I was going, I stumbled out the door and smacked into someone sheltering in the doorway. We both pitched over onto the pavement, the stranger on the bottom. I cursed. I tried getting up and fumbling for my scattered books at the same time. Rain poured down. Three of the books lay face open to the downpour. Then I noticed the blood on my victim's face. It seeped into his eyes faster than the rain could wash it away. He sat on the sidewalk looking dazed, riot trying to get up. He must have hit his head hard, especially with me on top of him.

"You're bleeding" were my first words to him.

He touched his hand to his forehead, brought it to his eyes to look at the bloody mess. "Shit" was his first word to me.

The owner let us use the washroom in the store to clean up. When we finished cleaning, I apologized again. I buttoned my coat, put on my gloves, and picked up my packages. I turned to go.

At this point he said very softly, "Wait, please."

I noticed how deep the voice was, along with the southern drawl. I remember turning around and gazing into his deep blue eyes for an eternity. Eventually his face turned red in embarrassment.

"Are you gay?" he blurted out.

"Are you taking a survey?" I answered.

He looked bewildered. "I'm asking because—" He stopped. "I only—" He stopped again. He hung his head like a first grader in trouble with a favorite teacher. "Forget it," he mumbled.

I guessed he was a severe closet case, and I didn't know if I wanted to be involved in his coming out. But he was good-looking, and it was cold and raining, and I was responsible for his injury. He looked like a bedraggled puppy. I felt sorry for him.

"Let me buy you a cup of coffee," I said.

"Nah, it's okay," he said.

But I insisted and reluctantly he agreed. We walked the half block to the Melrose Restaurant. It wasn't odd when he asked to sit far in the back away from the windows.

From that first cup of coffee, once he relaxed, he was a lot of fun to be with. I've never felt more relaxed and at ease than when I'm with him, and it started that day. Besides, he makes me laugh. He's the funniest man on earth.

People have asked if I recognized him right away. I didn't. Even when he told me his last name I didn't associate it with a baseball player. He was known, of course, but he wasn't anywhere near as famous then as he is now. In fact, it was three months before he told me what he really did for a living. At first he said he was a part-time manager of an exercise club, which was true. The imminent arrival of spring training and his need for leaving precipitated the revelation of his actual occupation. I told him I wasn't prejudiced and didn't care what his job preference was. Even after three months, I think he feared I'd call all the media and announce our relationship.

For the first few years, even before fame and its attendant difficulties, Scott was paranoid about us being seen in public together. I pointed out to him that lots of guys who aren't gay go to movies, have meals together. He'd gotten better over the years, but I think he still worried when we went out around my place. Usually we went out in Chicago. There were more and better places to go, and I think he felt more comfortable there. For some reason he was less likely to be recognized for who he was in the city than around River's Edge.

"What I want you to explain to me," Scott said, "is why you didn't tell him about Sylvester or any of the rest of what you know?"

"He pissed me off."

"Yeah, me too, but he's the cop. They're supposed to handle this stuff."

"I know but"—I sat up from his embrace—"he made me so damn mad. Besides, I don't really know anything. I've got some information maybe, but really, it's mostly rumor. I've got no hard evidence."

"The stuff you know could help them," Scott insisted. "You've got to tell them."

"All right, I'll call Frank Murphy tomorrow and tell him."

He eyed me warily. "You're planning on doing more than looking for Phil?" It wasn't so much a question as a statement.

He knows me well. "Yeah, I guess I am," I admitted.

"I was afraid of that. Look, Tom, there's only trouble in this for you. You might get hurt. The police don't want interference. Somebody took a shot at you. Your boss is pissed."

"My boss is petrified out of his mind, but I can't figure out why yet."

"Maybe he killed him."

"An administrator? Be serious. One of them wouldn't have the courage to kill anybody."

"It was a suggestion," Scott replied with some asperity.

"Sorry," I said.

He took my hand and continued. "Tom, I really am worried. I wish you wouldn't start." "I've already started. I'm going to find Phil and the murderer."

His shoulders slumped in discouragement. "There's no way I can talk you out of it?"

"No."

"Okay," he said, "but if you're going on, I'm going to stick with you. One of us has to be sensible in this."

"Thanks, I appreciate that, I think."

Over dinner we discussed the conversation with Robertson some more.

"You know," I said, "what I find curious is that he didn't mention about Phil being missing."

"Maybe he doesn't know."

"When they find out the kid's gone his rating as a suspect will soar."

"Yeah," Scott agreed. "What I wonder is where the car is?"

"That one I think is easy. I bet it's in some alley in Chicago soon to be covered with tons of snow, never to be heard of again."

When we finished cleaning up after dinner Scott asked, "What's next?"

"I'll make some phone calls to my gay friends. They should be able to give me some leads on runaway gay kids. Neil Spirakos has his fingers in every community pie. I haven't talked to him in a while. He paid his way through college by hustling. He ought to be able to help, or point us in the right direction if nothing else."

Neil was in when I called. He agreed to meet us at nine-thirty that night. At Scott's insistence, I tried to call Frank Murphy. He was off duty. I left a message.

We met at the Melrose. Neil announced in a loud voice, "I want to sit right down in front so I can watch all the gorgeous boys walk by."

The corner booth, where you could gaze through the broad front windows, was empty. We settled in. Scott and I on one side, Neil on the other.

"I want you both to know how unchic it is these days to be seen in the Melrose before two
A.M
. The reigning queens meet here at two-thirty each morning. You can't imagine what a favor I'm doing you boys. I don't know what this will do to my reputation."

Years before I'd worked with Neil on several gay activist committees. Gone were the pretty-boy looks of youth that paid his way through college and ultimately into the business world. At forty-three his hairline had receded as rapidly as his paunch expanded. His looks came more often now from a bottle. Years ago a grateful client left him a bankrupt company in his will—a waste disposal operation. Neil took it and made it a million-dollar business. He knew the dirt on half the prominent closeted gays in the city, and all the dirt on the uncloseted ones.