A Kind of Justice (37 page)

“He said he was taking it to the DA the day before yesterday,” I tell him. “I expected to get a call from them, or maybe a visit. Maybe even get arrested and charged.”

Phil doesn't know what to say. Me either.

“Thanks for telling me, Phil,” I say at last. “And thanks for the gifts.” I lean over and kiss his cheek again. He squeezes my hand.

“Merry Christmas, Bobbi.”

“Merry Christmas, Phil.”

T
HURSDAY
, D
ECEMBER
25

A
FTER
R
OBBIE SETTLES
in for the night, I collapse on the couch and Betsy tidies up around the Christmas tree.

“Oh!” she says. “You forgot to open this one.” She's holding the package that came yesterday. It got pushed behind the tree, somehow, maybe by Robbie who constantly sorted the gifts by color and size in the lead-up to Christmas. A plain brown box wouldn't rate very highly in her systems.

“It's addressed to you,” says Betsy, handing it to me.

The return address is a north-side apartment number and street, no name. I open it, joking to Betsy that I hope it's not a bomb.

There's no holiday wrapping inside, just a very thick book, like a photo album, but something much more businesslike. It takes a moment to understand what I'm looking at.

“Oh my God!” I exclaim.

“What is it?” There is alarm in Betsy's voice. I must have frightened her.

“It's from Detective Wilkins,” I say. I try to keep my voice normal, but my mind is on fire. I'm pretty sure I'm looking at Wilkins' investigation, what he called his “murder book.” It's a thick, three-ring binder notebook, brimming with pages and dividers. I open it and leaf through the pages.

“I think he sent me a duplicate file of his investigation,” I tell Betsy. I'm thinking it's a nice gesture. My attorney and I will see everything the DA sees and we won't have to wait for it while the prosecutor plays court tricks.

As I flip through the collection of photos and reports, diagrams and maps, an envelope falls out. There's a note inside. I read the first page.

Ms. Logan—

I decided you should have this. You've been through enough. I could have destroyed it myself, but that would have left you in doubt. You can destroy it and know it's gone. And you need to destroy this. If you don't, two good people will be destroyed by John Strand—you and the person who wouldn't let him kill you. I'm not saying you did the right thing, but Strand's destruction has gone far enough. Find a better way next time
.

“Oh my God!” I exclaim. I read the page again and keep coming back to the sentence, “You've been through enough.”

“What is it, Bobbi?” Betsy comes to my side this time, deep concern on her face.

“It's a message from the grave.”

“What?”

“It's Wilkins' murder book. The real one. All the evidence he put together on the Strand murder.”

“Why is it here?” she asks. “I don't understand.”

I'm struggling with the concept myself. Slowly, I look at Betsy.

“He didn't file it. He doesn't want me to confess.”

“I thought he was supposed to be a heartless bigot.” Betsy isn't being funny. There's real confusion on her face.

“This is unbelievable,” I say.

I leaf through the pages and pull out some of the photos. They all have names on the front and copy on the back about the person. I show Betsy the photo of me. It's not very complimentary, but girls like me don't photograph well. I turn the photo over and read the text to Betsy. “Roberta ‘Bobbi' Logan, owner of L'Elégance Salon, pursued Strand for the murder of Mandy Marvin, a transwoman beaten to death in 2003.”

I pull out another photo showing a strikingly beautiful woman, blond, stacked, perfect. I show it to Betsy. “Meet Barbi Dancer,” I say. “Strand's last victim. The girl he beat up the last night of his life.” I stare at her photo, wondering what it feels like to be so incredibly beautiful. “Can you even imagine what it's like to be someone like Cecelia or me?” I say to her image. The copy on the back of the picture tells me that Ms. Dancer is employed in the sex trade and she called Strand “a demon from hell.” Amen, Miss Dancer.

A few pages later I see an image that chills my soul. I show the photo to Betsy. “He's one of the men who raped me. His name is . . .” I read the copy, “Andive.” I look at his ugly mug for a moment. “It's better I didn't know your name back then,” I murmur. “You, I could have killed.” Wilkins' caption says Andive knew I set him up in the alley. Good.

I keep turning pages in mute astonishment until I get to the one that slaps me in the face. It's Officer Phil, wearing an expensive suit, addressing the media, handsome and hauntingly sexy. I turn the photo over and read Wilkins' note. “A BMW sedan with license plates registered to CPD police sergeant Phillip Pavlik was reported as a suspicious vehicle a few doors down from Strand's apartment a week prior to the murder. On the night of the murder, Ms. Dancer saw what might have been a black BMW pull away from the curb as she fled Strand's car.” My mind is racing. Phil? Are you kidding?

As I put the photo back in its plastic sleeve, I glance at Betsy. She's
holding Wilkins' note and looking at me in a strange way. “Is that Phil?” she asks.

I nod yes. She hands me the second page of Wilkins' note. “Read this,” she says.

I'm convinced you didn't know it, but Sergeant Pavlik followed you many times after you were raped, including the night of the abduction. He entered Strand's residence after you left to make sure no evidence was left behind. He found Strand alive. He knew the man would kill you as soon as he got free, so he took it upon himself to clean up your mess. I'm surprised he had it in him. He's not that type. He must think the world of you. For his sake, destroy this book. Let the rest of Strand's secrets die with him
.

I lose all strength in my legs. I sit heavily on a chair and stare gape-mouthed at Betsy. Can this be true? The things I've said to Phil? The names I've called him? The man who can't let himself love me, but he does this?

And Wilkins? To me, he was always a tranny-hating bigot. Now he gives me back my life.

I rock back in the chair, my mind trying to comprehend the meaning of this. Can this really be the original report? The only copy? I leaf through the book again, looking for original material. Everything from the old investigation files is a dry copy, of course—the summary of the original Strand investigation, the report on the alley mugging, the brief summary of Mandy's murder. As for pages relating to Wilkins' current investigation, it's impossible to say what's an original and what isn't. The pages and photos come from digital files on a computer somewhere.

I'm spinning between competing emotions: elation at the thought that I may not be going to jail or even to trial, and profound sadness that my freedom was the last act of a dying man. A man who was much better in life than I ever gave him credit for. A man I never got to thank.

You've been through enough
.

Wilkins' words echo in my mind. I try to picture him writing this note. I try to understand why he decided to let me off, and when he made the decision. The package is postmarked December 24 by a delivery service. The day he was supposed to have his surgery. The day he committed suicide. I guess the surgery was a journey he just couldn't make. I don't think I could have made it either. It's one thing to look awful to other people and be regarded as a freak. I know about that. You can learn to deal with it. But he wasn't going to be able to talk or eat regular food. He was going to be weak and emaciated. He was going to die slowly. A proud man living on an umbilical cord to modern science, his spirit housed in a small, dark place awaiting death.

I keep leafing through the investigation book as I ponder the Wilkins enigma. It's hard to recall the man I feared and loathed, the angry bigot who called me every horrid name you can call a transsexual. Something in his investigation changed him. Or maybe his illness. Whatever it was, he became civil and respectful, and in our last meetings, it was hard to dislike him.

The apartment is as silent as a graveyard. My mind careens wildly through the revelations of Wilkins' work. Not just the facts and speculation in the book, other things, too, maybe more remarkable. His journey and, to a lesser extent, mine.

Betsy squeezes into the chair and puts an arm around my shoulders. “Are you okay?” she whispers. I nod, too numb to speak. She kisses my cheek.

We thumb through the final pages of the notebook together. There
is an eight-by-ten photo of a dark BMW sedan, its license plate circled with a highlighter. A caption below says it's the car used to stake out Strand's apartment in the days before his murder. It looks familiar, an older vintage BMW than most of the ones you see on the street.

On the last page there are images of several 2005 license plate registrations. One is Cecelia's, for a black Seville. One is Thomas', for an ancient Nissan. The third has the same plate number as the one on the BMW photo and the complaint report. It's highlighted. So is the name of the license holder. Phillip J. Pavlik.

Wilkins' warning rings in my ears.
And you need to destroy this. If you don't, two good people will be destroyed by John Strand. You and the person who wouldn't let him kill you
.

*    *    *

W
EDNESDAY
, D
ECEMBER
31

I've been doing hair since seven o'clock this morning. Everyone but me has left for home. I would love to go home, too, but I have one more thing to do.

Stephen Wilkins, the teenage son of Detective Allan Wilkins, knocks on the salon door at exactly two thirty, our appointed time. He greets me as Ms. Logan and extends a hand. He is a tall, handsome young man and his hand is huge. I hug him instead of shaking hands and tell him I'm sorry for his loss. His face is sad. I think I did the right thing, even if a hug from a white transwoman wasn't exactly what he was hoping for today.

I usher him to my workstation, offering him a soft drink on the way. I gesture for him to sit in the styling chair where his father sat just days ago. He's a polite, quiet young man with little physical resemblance to his father. He is lean and angular. He has a lot of
structure in his face, prominent cheekbones, wide eyes, a chiseled jaw and chin line. Young Stephen will leave a trail of brokenhearted women in his wake if he chooses to, but the first impression he gives is that of a considerate and serious kid. He's certainly showing me a great deal of deference.

After we get settled, we look at each other uncomfortably for a moment, neither sure what to say. I'm the adult, so I break the silence. “Do you know why your father wanted us to meet?”

Stephen shrugs, his face a question mark. “I got a package in the mail with some of his things in it . . . that he wanted me to have. There was a letter to me about a lot of things. One was to call you and see if you'd talk to me.”

I blink. It's my turn to shrug. “I'm not sure what he had in mind,” I say.

“Were you . . . you know . . .” Stephen is asking if I was his dad's girlfriend.

“Oh, no, Stephen,” I say. “Your father and I weren't social acquaintances. Far from it.”

He exhales, with relief, I think. We look at each other in silence again.

“How did you know him?” Stephen asks.

Good question. Detective Wilkins didn't have enough hair to be a client. I pause a beat or two, trying to decide how to answer. Wilkins has left me no choice though. I owe him. This is what he wanted to happen.

“Your father was investigating me for a murder that happened five years ago.” No more lies. For some reason, Wilkins wanted his son to know about this. I tell Stephen it's going to take a while and ask again if he wants a soft drink. He accepts.

When Stephen is comfortable, I tell him the story of the Strand murder and investigation, including his father's treatment of me, my
actions against him. How he reopened the investigation last summer. How he started to change, and how I started to change, too. When I get to the part of him calling me “Ms. Logan” instead of a queen or a queer I start getting an idea of what Wilkins wanted his son to learn from me.

“I think your dad wanted you to know that he changed. He made a powerful case against me and decided to drop it. He figured out everything, even though there was no physical evidence. To do it he interviewed dozens of people. A lot of them were the kind of people he hated. Transwomen. Gays. Prostitutes. And, Stephen, I think what happened was, somewhere in there, he started seeing people like me as people instead of things. He started treating me with respect, and I don't think it was an act.”

Stephen absorbs this information quietly. “He left everything to my mom,” he says. “In his will.” I remain silent. I can't think of anything to say. “She couldn't believe it. She's been mad at him for a long time. A long time.”

“I didn't know your dad, Stephen. But at the end, I think we learned things about each other, he and I. Your dad believed in service, that was the most obvious thing about him. He believed he was on this earth to do good, to make people safe.”

“He told me once he was too much about the job and not enough about his family,” says Stephen.

“I can see him saying that,” I reply. I can.

We sit quietly for several moments. I'm thinking about Stephen and his father, and me and my father. “Your father had a spiritual makeover, Stephen.” I'm treading on dangerous ground here, butting into someone else's life. But I feel like I need to say this.

“The case file he gave me, it could have ruined my life if he gave it to the DA. It went against everything he stood for, not following through. I'm sure he never did that before in his life, never took a
bribe, never failed to do his duty. I keep asking myself, why now? Why me?”