A Fountain Filled With Blood (24 page)

“You smoke?” McKinley asked, proffering the pack.

“Not anymore. But I always carry this lighter. Comes in handy.” He lighted McKinley’s cigarette and clicked the Zippo closed, running his thumb over his father’s initials, which were engraved on the case. A tiny reminder linking him to a world where beating men half to death wasn’t part of anyone’s recreation. “Go on. You were saying you did the man in the convertible. Did you know who he was?”

“Nah. But Chris said he knew he was gay, because there wasn’t anybody but queers staying at the inn that week.”

“Did Chris tell you that Bill Ingraham lived at that inn when he was in town?”

McKinley sucked hard on his cigarette, his eyebrows wrinkling together. “No, he didn’t. Ingraham was there? No shit?”

“You didn’t know?”

“How the hell would I know? It wasn’t like we socialized.”

“Okay. What happened next?”

“Chris said I probably ought to keep my truck out of sight until I could fix it. I got a cousin who does his own bodywork out of his barn over to Fort Henry. I parked it in there. Haven’t had a chance to straighten out the fender yet.”

“Who came up with the idea to hit the video store owner?”

“That was Jason,” he said quickly. “Jason had known him in school and knew he was queer. He said it would be easy, ’cause we would know right where he would be. Chris said he’d check it out, and then that Friday we all got together. His friend had said okay, but we couldn’t rob the place. And we were supposed to wear gloves so we wouldn’t leave any fingerprints around.”

Russ thought of the prints they had left on Emil Dvorak’s Chrysler. “Did you?”

McKinley made a face. “Hell no. It was a video store, for Chrissakes. There would be, like, hundreds of fingerprints all over the place. And there we’d be, walking in with rubber gloves on. Might as well come in and announce, ‘Call the cops,’ right? That’s when I knew his friend with the money was an amateur.” He glanced at Russ. “Not that I’m, like, a professional. I’m not.”

“It’s just your hobby,” Russ said.

“Hey, man, do you like queers? Do you like ’em shaking their booty everywhere, demanding their rights to make out in public and wear dresses? It’s sick. It’s a sick thing. I probably wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been so stoned all the time on Chris’s shit, but I just done what a lot of people would if they weren’t afraid.”

Russ looked down at the table. His hands seemed relaxed, except for the white pressure points under his nails. He reminded himself that wiping the floor with McKinley was simply not an option. Stay calm. Control, he told himself.

“So you hit Todd MacPherson’s video store.”

“Yeah. But we didn’t rob it!”

“You just gave MacPherson a lesson in straight pride.”

McKinley looked confused. “Huh?”

“Never mind. What did you do afterward?”

“We went back to Chris’s place. He gave us some poppers and then Jase and I each got five hundred bucks.”

“You three talk about your next hit?”

“A little. Jase thought we ought to go down to Saratoga. But Chris said to cool it, that he’d let us know. ’Cause why do it for free when we could get paid?”

“Weren’t you curious about who was bankrolling Chris?”

“Hell yeah. But he wouldn’t say nothing. Chris is way big into all that fake militia, need-to-know stuff, like he was the general and we were the grunts. Screw it. I figured Chris was probably taking his cut off the top, but why should I complain?”

“Did Chris make any suggestions as to a target? Say anything that made you think he knew something you didn’t?”

“Nah. He was mostly talking about getting out and buying some new gear with his money. He likes camping and all that healthful shit. Vitamins.”

“But he also deals?”

“Chris? Not normally. He smokes, but everyone smokes. He mostly stays away from the other stuff. He does steroids sometimes, ’cause he lifts weights.”

“Okay. What did you do after the meeting at Chris’s place?”

“Are you kidding? It was the weekend and I had five hundred bucks. I took off. Just got back this morning.”

“Have you seen the other two since Friday night?”

“Nope. Chris already had plans for the weekend, and Jase wanted to hole up with his new girlfriend.”

“Where did you go?”

“Lake George. Around. I crashed with friends, mostly.”

“You have any of that money left?”

McKinley laughed.

The door clicked open. Lyle MacAuley stuck his head in. “Burns is here. He wants to see his client.”

Russ slid sideways out of the bolted-down seat. “Elliot, I want you to give Officer Entwhistle a detailed account of where you were and who you saw this weekend. I mean a minute-by-minute account. This is going to establish your alibi, so I don’t imagine your lawyer will object.”

Actually, he figured Burns would be screaming his head off in five minutes. He just didn’t plan to be around to listen to it. He ducked through the narrow back corridor that was their supply closet and emerged by the squad room. He stuck his head in. There were voices raised by the reception desk, but he didn’t see Lyle anywhere. He slunk toward Dispatch and stuck his head in. “Lyle?” he whispered.

Lyle appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing? Why are you whispering?”

Russ tilted his head toward the sound of expensive shoes marching down the hall to the interrogation room. Lyle’s bushy gray eyebrows rose in comprehension. He thrust a manila folder into Russ’s hand.

“Chris Dessaint. Twenty-five. He’s been up on D and D, disturbing the peace, assault—a few fistfights. Small-scale stuff. He’s got a juvie record, but it’ll take some time to get that unsealed. Nothing to indicate he’s suddenly likely to step up to the big time.”

“Got a current address?”

“It’s in there. His next of kin’s listed as Alvine Harpswell; you’ll remember her.”

He did. Alvine had been in on numerous domestic charges, both as batterer and victim, and the speed with which she ran through her partners was astounding, considering her less-than-stellar looks. Lyle went on. “There’s a bunch of Dessaints living in Cossayuharie and in Warren County. I figure he’s related to them.”

There was a rising noise from the direction of the interrogation room. Lyle jerked his thumb toward the front doors. “Paul’s waiting in a black-and-white, and Dave’s out on patrol. You better hightail it out of here before Geoff Burns gets hold of you.”

Russ nodded, tucked the folder under his arm, and hobbled down the front steps and out the door as fast as his swollen knees would let him.

There was no problem finding Chris Dessaint’s trailer in Lyon’s Gate Mobile Home Estates. There was also no problem gaining access; taking a cue from McKinley’s flight, Russ and Paul went through the tiny front door to make the arrest while Dave stood out back, weapon drawn. There was no problem with a resisting suspect. There was no suspect. The place had been cleaned out. Dessaint was gone.

Clare wasn’t surprised when the office phone started ringing promptly at nine o’clock. She was kneeling atop her desk, struggling to open the window. She knew it could be done, because Mr. Hadley, the sexton, had taken down the forties era storm windows and hung screens in their place. When she had asked about an air-conditioning unit, he looked at her as if she had suggested installing a hot tub in the bathroom. “Waste of money,” he said. “Won’t get so hot an open window and a fan can’t handle it.”

And she had to admit he had been right, up until last week. The June temperatures had been balmy, and she had simply cranked open the narrow casements at the bottom of her diamond-paned windows for a little fresh air. But after the dismal Fourth, July had moved in like Sherman through Georgia. This morning, walking from the rectory to the church, she had already felt the heat rising from the pavement under her feet. Her sunny office would be an oven if she couldn’t get some cross ventilation.

Unfortunately, the rise in heat and humidity seemed to have caused the window to swell. Knees sliding on loose papers, Clare braced her hands under the sash and heaved. Nothing.

Her speaker phone buzzed. “Reverend?” Lois, the church secretary, hadn’t looked hot this morning. Lois never looked hot, or frazzled, or unkempt. Somehow, she managed to have two fans blowing vigorously in the main office without stirring a single strand of her perfectly cut bob. “It’s Robert Corlew on the phone.”

Corlew had taken over as the head of St. Alban’s vestry since the beginning of the year, after former president Vaughn Fowler had…permanently resigned. When replacing him, the vestry had decided Corlew should use the more traditional title of warden, perhaps to encourage the idea of stewardship, rather than Fowler’s approach, which had been more like Alexander Haig in crisis mode.

Clare grunted, trying the sash again. “What’s he want? And can we get Mr. Hadley in to pry this darned window up?”

“Maybe Mr. Corlew could do it for you. He sounds as if he’s ready to rip a window right out of its frame.”

Clare sank back onto her calves. “He read the newspaper.”

“He read the newspaper.” After the Monday-night broadcast that outed, as it were, Bill Ingraham, the
Post-Star
had taken the story and run with it. Yesterday, they had a piece on Ingraham’s death and the effect it might have on the Algonquin Spa development. Today, the Wednesday
Post-Star
featured a prominently placed story linking Ingraham’s murder and the Dvorak and MacPherson beatings, including comments from leaders of gay organizations. Clare’s name, and St. Alban’s, had also been mentioned in both the Tuesday edition and today’s. Lois had already cut out the articles for the church scrapbook. “It makes such an interesting change from all those community news stories about the Saint Martha’s Group tea and white-elephant sales,” she had said.

Clare clambered down from her desk. “Put him through,” she said with all the enthusiasm of an early Christian asking to meet the lions.

“Try not to sound so eager and upbeat,” Lois said before she clicked off and Robert Corlew came on the line.

“Reverend Clare?”

“Good morning, Robert. How nice to hear from you. I don’t think I’ve seen you in church more than once since Memorial Day. I’ve missed you.” She grinned to herself. Maybe she could land a preemptive strike and take the field before he recovered.

“Ah. Well, you know how it is—summertime, grandkids visiting, houseguests, sailing. And business is nonstop.” She could hear him collecting himself. “I’m calling about the article in the paper today.”

“Yes, I saw that. It mentions St. Albans. Did you notice? We’re really starting to get our name out.”

“That’s what I mean. I don’t think we want to ‘get our name out’ in a story about gay guys who get killed while cruising for anonymous sex!”

Clare leaned back in her old-fashioned office chair. It let out a satisfying snap. “Are we talking about the same article? The one that describes how a doctor and a video store owner were assaulted and then a highly respected businessman was killed?”

“In the bushes in the park, yes, that article. I can read between the lines as well as the next man. Gay man plus dark, secluded area in a park means one thing.” His voice dropped into a confidential tone. “Look, I can understand. You happened to be there; your name got into the paper as a result. What’s done is done. What I’m thinking of now is damage control. I want to make sure you aren’t getting involved, that’s all.”

“‘Involved’?” Clare’s resolve to treat Robert Corlew with teasing good humor was cracking under the strain of his conversation. “Can you expand on that?”

“Reverend Clare, we can’t afford to have St. Alban’s name linked to anymore…scandals. Not after last December. I’ve seen how you can get with these little pet projects of yours. The unwed teenage mothers. Those old drunks. Right? Let’s all get on the same page with this. Homosexuals getting attacked while cruising is unfortunate, of course, but it doesn’t have anything to do with us. I’m sure I’m speaking for the whole vestry when I say we sincerely don’t want to see you in the news again unless it’s the annual ‘What Is the Meaning of Easter?’ story.”

Clare felt the phone go slippery in her grasp and realized she had been squeezing it too tightly. “So this means you don’t think I should ride down Main Street buck naked, calling for all lesbian, gay, and transgendered people to join us in an interfaith service at St. Alban’s?”

There was a heavy pause. “That’s a joke, right?”

“Robert, are you deliberately trying to be offensive, or is it just accidental? My ‘little pet projects’? Do you really believe it has nothing to do with us? Since when does hatred and prejudice breaking out in our own community not concern us?”

Over the line, she could hear him groan. “I knew it. I told Terry Wright. I said you were probably chomping at the bit to save the gays.”

“You were talking about me with Terry Wright?” Terence Wright, senior vice president in the corporate loan department of AllBanc, was another vestry member. “Who else?”

“A few phone calls were made between members of the vestry. The situation was discussed. Some concerns were expressed.”

The passive voice was used. Clare rolled her eyes. “I’m curious. Was Sterling Sumner included in these discussions?”

“I didn’t happen to speak with him.”

“Ha.”

“What do you mean, ‘ha’?”

“I mean, ha, he’s the only gay member of the vestry.”

“Sterling is not gay! He’s just artistic!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Robert. Do you think he wears that scarf year-round because he’s cold?”

The developer, who was a good twenty-five years her senior and probably did think the flamboyant Sumner had an ‘artistic’ temperament, sputtered over the phone.

“Look,” she went on, “I had been concerned about the issues raised by the assaults on Dr. Dvorak and Todd MacPherson. But to tell the truth, I’ve been so swept away by events that I hadn’t been thinking about anything in any coherent fashion. Now I will.”

Corlew started to speak, but she steamed forward. “We’ll have a meeting. We haven’t gotten the whole vestry together since May. We’ll talk about what it means to live in a community where homophobia rises to the point of violent hate crimes and what we, as Christians, ought to do about it.”