Gossip (24 page)

The door buzzed and was opened from inside by a man with a mustache and shark gray suit.

“Mr. Eckhart?” He gave me a quick, cold, judging look. “Come in. Agent Loveless is expecting you.”

And it finally poured into me, the natural fear elicited by any police station. I stepped through the suddenly important door into a warren of chin-high cubicles. Most of the desks were empty, the computer terminals swimming with silent schools of screensavers. Following the crinkled gray shoulders down a mute, carpeted hall, I told myself that I had no business being afraid. My guilt was moral, not criminal.

We entered a narrow room. A blond man in pink shirtsleeves rose behind his desk. “Bob Lovelace,” he said, leaning forward with a sunny smile and firm handshake. “Thanks for coming down. You’ve met Pruitt, I see. I’ve asked him to sit in on this. We often work in pairs, you know. Like Jehovah’s Witnesses. Take a seat, Ralph. Would you like coffee? Soda? Spring water? No? Fine, this shouldn’t take long.”

Lovelace—I’d misheard his name—was not what one expected in an FBI agent, but sociable, easy, even humorous. He had a freckled complexion, an attractive pastel tie and french cuffs. When he scanned my face and body, I had to wonder about him, until I saw the photo of a woman and two little girls on the shelf behind his desk. The reflex of glances had a different meaning here.

He set a tape recorder not much bigger than a cigarette pack on his desk, with the lid open. “In case we need a statement later. Until then, we won’t tape anything.”

“Fine,” I said.

Pruitt stood stiffly against the wall to my right. A cipher with a half-inch of mustache across his upper lip,
he
fit the stereotype, his glumness making him seem older than Lovelace. It took a moment for the authority of both men to wear off enough for me to see that they were roughly my age.

“The case has been turned over to the FBI?” I asked.

Lovelace was glancing at notes hidden in a drawer. “Not really. We’re just helping out for now. Gathering data.”

“You got my name from the police in D.C.?”

“You’ve spoken with the Metropolitan PD?”

“I called
them
but nobody’s talked with me yet.”

“Really? Well, no need to worry about that.” He closed the drawer, leaned forward on his starched cuffs and smiled again. His transparent ice blue eyes, like well-sucked hard candies, gazed into me. “So. What do you have for us, Ralph?”

“Not much. Except that I don’t think this story that Bill O’Connor was killed by rough trade is convincing.”

“It certainly isn’t. We agree with you there.”

“For one thing, it’s such a cliché. And for another, Bill wasn’t into anything like that.”

“Anything like what?”

“Going home with someone rough or dangerous.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because—I had an affair with him.”

“For how long?”

Lovelace showed no surprise or distaste; Pruitt watched from the side with a bored expression. I was surprised that neither man took notes.

“It began in November, ended in February. So four months. But we saw each other only four times. Or no, three times.” I had counted our nights in Miami twice.

“When did you last see Bill?”

“In February. In Miami.”

“What were you doing in Miami?”

“He brought me down as his guest. He was there for a Republican conference.”

“How would you describe yourself? His friend, boyfriend, lover, what?”

I wanted to say “trick,” but a straight man might not understand, and it wasn’t the full truth. “It was a romance that almost happened but didn’t.”

“So it was just sex?”

Maybe he did understand. “That’s how it turned out. Yeah.”

Pruitt heaved himself off the wall. “Right back,” he grumbled. “Anybody want anything?”

“You sure you don’t want something to drink, Ralph?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

Lovelace nodded at him and Pruitt pulled the door shut.

“Don’t mind Pruitt,” Lovelace assured me. “Nebraska kind of guy. Gets uncomfortable around certain topics.”

I preferred being alone with Lovelace anyway.

“Do you think of yourself as gay, Ralph?”

“Gay? Yes.” I shrugged, surprised by the question.

“Did Bill ever give you anything? Gifts? Favors?”

“He arranged for my ticket to Miami.”

“Did he ever give you money?”

“Money? No. He didn’t pay me to sleep with him, if that’s what you mean.” I finally laughed. “I’m not a hustler. I’m assistant manager at a bookstore. I saw him because I enjoyed seeing him, and because I thought it might lead to something. He sent me flowers once. That’s all.”

“Just trying to get a clearer picture of your relationship. How did you meet?”

“In Gayworld. A computer chatline.”

“What is that exactly?”

“Like a phone sex line, only on computer. Gay Internet. People use it mostly to chat. About books and movies. And only sometimes to meet. For sex.”

“And that was in November?”

“Right. I was going to D.C. He suggested we get together, and we did.”

“Why did it end?”

“He wrote a book I didn’t like. You know about his book?”

“Controversial?”

“Not just that but ugly. Nasty. I got an advance copy and read it. I hated the politics but worse than that was the way he trashed women.” I did not need to mention Nancy.

“Do you consider yourself political?”

“No. Not really.”

“Do you belong to any political organizations?”

“I was with ACT UP for a while, but dropped out a year ago. No, Bill’s book just made me see that his politics were a symptom of deeper flaws. So I ended the relationship.”

“Badly? Amicably?”

“Badly. All by E-mail and phone and we were angry with each other. But he couldn’t get it through his head it was over.” I felt funny saying so much about
us.
“But that has nothing to do with why I think, this killer trick business is fishy.”

“Okay then. What can you tell me there?”

“Only that Bill wasn’t into sleaze or hustlers. He’d never casually pick up the kind of man who’d rob or kill him.”

“I don’t know, Ralph. Your description of how you met sounds awfully casual to me.”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “Except we talked on the computer first. And we met at the zoo.” I rolled my eyes and tried to laugh again, but humor sank like lead here. “Anybody with a computer can’t be too dangerous.”

“Did he like to get rough in bed?”

“Bill? No. He was very white-bread.”

“Meaning?”

How does one talk about sex with the FBI? “He liked to kiss. He liked to hug. He was—affectionate.”

“Active or passive?”

“We weren’t into anal sex, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Why not?”

He didn’t need to know each and every act we performed. “Because we weren’t into it. And because of AIDS.”

“Oh right,” he said, as if he’d forgotten that. “So if he wasn’t into rough trade, who do you think killed him?”

“I don’t really know except—” I took the plunge. “He came out on
Nightline
the night before. It may be coincidence, but there are people who wouldn’t want it known that their new star was gay.”

“People like Jeb Weiss?”

“That’s right.” They already knew about Weiss? “He insisted Bill stay in the closet. Weiss was courting the Christian right. When Bill came out the other night, it would’ve hurt Weiss with the Christians. And so he could have had Bill murdered. Maybe hired someone to do it.”

“What would he gain by that?”

I became more tentative. “Well, he’d get rid of an embarrassment. And making it look like it was done by a gay man, he could turn Bill into an asset. A martyr to that lifestyle. A dead sinner is easier to take than a live one.”

“Possible,” said Lovelace, leaning back to consider it. “But ruthless. Do you really think it’s plausible?”

“No,” I admitted. “But more plausible than his being killed by a trick.”

“You don’t think Weiss could’ve done it in the heat of the moment? Out of anger? Then faked the robbery to protect himself?”

“Maybe.” I hid my excitement; he not only took my suspicions seriously but improved them, made them more solid.

“You’ve met Weiss?” he asked.

“Briefly. When I was in Miami.”

“Do you know if Weiss was in D.C. the night of the murder?”

“No. I spoke to Bill Thursday night, after
Nightline.
But he hadn’t spoken to Weiss yet, so I don’t know if he was there.”

“You called him from New York?”

“No. He called me. In New York.” Should I say that I went down to see Nancy? No. It would confuse matters and I needed to leave Nancy out of this.

“Did he sound at all worried or frightened?”

“No. He sounded thoroughly pleased with himself.”

“But you were in New York all weekend?”

“Uh-huh.” An unreserved train, there would be no record of my trip. Only Nancy knew I was down there.

“Do you know a man named Renfield Whitaker?”

“Yes. He’s one of the Christian right people Weiss was courting. He’s involved in this?”

“His name came up. You met him?”

“In Miami. When I met. Weiss. We all went sailing one morning with Senator—” I couldn’t remember his name.

“Griffith?”

“Yes!” He already knew more about this than I’d ever guessed. “Do you think they’re all involved?”

“Just considering possibilities. Assembling a cast of characters. What would you say, Ralph, if I told you Jeb Weiss says he can prove that he was in Houston on Friday night?”

“He can? Then maybe he didn’t do it in the heat of the moment. Maybe he hired someone after all.”

“True. Only this did not look professional.” He picked up the phone and punched a button. “Tell Pruitt we need him back here. Sorry,” he said. “You were saying. Thursday. Bill called you. Why?”

“He thought coming out on television made everything all right. He wanted to see me again.”

“And what did you say?”

“That he was still a shit and I never wanted to see him.”

“Harsh words. Could he have gotten so upset he’d go out the next night and pick up just anybody for sex? Maybe rough sex?”

“Maybe. Only you have to be angry with yourself to do something like that. He was too in love with himself for that.”

The door opened and Pruitt returned, carrying a folder.

“Here we go,” said Lovelace. “Look at these, Ralph. Tell me what you think.”

Pruitt slapped the folder on the desk.

I opened it: a sheaf of gray photos on glossy computer paper. The first showed a pale figure against a dark ground. The resolution was sharp, but angle and perspective were skewed; it took a moment to make out a man in underpants sprawled on his stomach. Fleshy back and mussed hair. The brand name printed on the waistband. The face was wrenched away from the camera, but the next photo showed the body from the other side. The face was distorted by a shadow, no, a bruise. The lips were pale with white lip gloss, the eyes slightly parted. Under the bed behind him, a wadded sock lay on the carpet.

I knew that these were police photos of the crime, yet only slowly recognized Bill in the abstract patterns.

I closed my eyes and tried to swallow the knot in my throat.

Pruitt stood over my shoulder. “Why so pale, Eckhart? Can’t be the first time you’ve seen your pal like this.”

But because I had seen this, his undressed body an emblem of everything likable about Bill, his murder turned from a disturbing idea into a brutal physical fact.

But that wasn’t what Pruitt meant, was it?

A chair squeaked as Lovelace tilted back, dryly watching my response. I craned my neck up and around and saw Pruitt overhead, glaring down at me, so close that I noticed a tiny razor nick between his nose and mustache.

“See what I mean?” said Lovelace, still pretending we were merely speculating together. “Not professional. This was done out of anger. He choked to death after being beaten unconscious.”

I looked around for a window. A window would assure me that I was in a real place, but the walls were solid, the room sealed.

“Why did you do it?” demanded the voice above my head.

“I didn’t.” I was amazed by how calm I sounded. “If I did, would I have come down to tell you what I know?”

“Would you?” Pruitt snapped. “We don’t know how you think, Eckhart. Maybe you came down to throw us off track. Maybe you killed O’Connor to set up Weiss. So you could punish O’Connor, ruin Weiss and help the gay cause, all at once.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s no more ridiculous than what you just accused Weiss of doing. How could you come up with something so cockamamie unless you thought it for yourself?”

Pruitt took over. He knew everything I had said. He must have been listening outside the door the entire time.

“Look. Look at this,” he barked in my ear, spreading the photos on the desk, a half dozen dead boys, a massacre of Bills. “You proud of that? That’s what you wanted. That’s what you went down there to do.”

He jabbed a finger at a close-up of the face, lids open, Bill’s eyes dry and flat, as if air had been let out of them.

“No, I can’t believe that of Ralph here,” Lovelace gently disagreed. “He’s not someone who’d kill in cold blood. But maybe he had to go to bed with Bill one last time. Ralph got angry and the sex got nasty and the next thing you knew, he was dead. Is that how it happened, Ralph?”

It was as though he’d crawled around inside my imagination. I almost said, “Maybe,” but caught myself and said, “I didn’t kill him. I didn’t have sex with him. I didn’t even see him.”

I knew that they were playing good cop/bad cop. I was amazed by how clearly I understood what was happening. I remained keenly aware, eerily detached, even as fear raced through my nerves.

“Don’t look at us!” snapped Pruitt. “The answer isn’t on our faces. Look at the pictures. You proud of that?”

My body tensed, expecting to be hit. I told myself I was in an office with bookcases and a family photo and there could be no violence—we’d break something—but my body didn’t believe me.

You think irony can protect you. An ironic clearing remained in my head, a quiet place where I thought: This is ridiculous. I didn’t kill him, but I’ll need a lawyer. How will İ pay for a lawyer?