They drove back to the city, looping through the mistake in the suburbs where traffic from three major highways converged into just three lanes of the Eisenhower Expressway. Even with the light holiday traffic, there was a delay. In the city, they took the Ashland Avenue exit off the Eisenhower north to Belmont and then east to Broadway. The offices of the paper were on the east side of Broadway where Buckingham dead-ended. The three-story building was built in the last year by the owner of the paper, who discovered the Gay Tribune had turned into small gold mine. The owner rented out a third of the top floor to a gay law firm. During the Pride Parade last June, they draped what they claimed was the largest rainbow flag in Chicago from the roof.
They parked in the bus stop at Melrose and Broadway. The walk to the paper chilled them thoroughly.
A secretary directed them up two flights of stairs to Ian’s office. Computers were strewn amid the modern polished chrome-accent pieces, all softened by the deep gold carpeting, recessed track lighting, and pleasantly overstuffed chairs grouped around solid oak coffee tables. Even on the holiday, several people were hunched over computers. Thursday was deadline day.
Ian met them at the top of the stairs and led them to an office that was the opposite of the pristine neatness outside. Before
he opened the door, he said, “This is not the guy who talked to me first. I found someone more reliable.”
“How?” Turner asked.
“Sources,” Ian answered.
Turner frowned. He hoped they didn’t get into a fight about who was getting information from whom and what needed to be revealed.
They entered Ian’s office. Tattered posters of long-closed art exhibitions covered two of the walls. Huge maps of the city covered another wall. One map had congressional districts drawn on it, another had the state legislative districts outlined, and there was a third with all the wards in the city indicated. Corkboard covered the wall around the door. Messages crammed all the space around all three sides of the opening. On the edges of the chaos were several beefcake calendars, not all of them from the New Year. All but one were turned to months with pictures of extremely attractive men. The newest one had Mr. January in western gear. Turner liked the one from June of 1987. That picture showed a slender, bare-chested man in tight black, leather pants, straddling a sleek, black motorcycle.
When they entered the room, a lanky young man stood up. Ian introduced him as Billy Geary.
Ian sat in the nicked-and-scarred wooden swivel chair. With his right index finger he shoved his slouch fedora far back on his head. Billy perched on the edge of the desk. He wore black warm-up pants, a white hooded sweatshirt that said Oxford, and black running shoes. The bulky clothes did not hide the fact that he had broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Fenwick leaned against a file cabinet on the far side of the room. Turner rested against a blank space on the corkboard wall. The four of them filled the small room and made the atmosphere seem close.
“You guys are cops?” Geary asked.
They showed their identification.
Geary nodded. “I wasn’t sure about this. I’m still not definite,
but once I heard that Judge Meade was dead, I figured I’d better tell somebody. Then Ian called.”
“I’ve been tracking down everybody I know who had any connection with the courts. I met Billy at …” Ian hesitated.
Geary said, “I’m not doing anything illegal, and I’m not ashamed of what I do. I’m a dancer at Au Naturel, and I go to law school at Loyola.”
“How does that work?” Fenwick asked.
Geary looked confused. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“They don’t seem like compatible professions,” Fenwick said.
“Why not? I don’t dance on the tables at the school. I don’t bring my books to study at the bar.”
“Just curious,” Fenwick said. “But why do you do it?”
“I need a job to get myself through school. My parents threw me out of the house when I told them I was gay. The money is good. I make more than anybody I know on their side job. It’s better than toting barges and lifting bales and I like the attention. It also helps that I’m an exhibitionist.”
“What’s your connection with Judge Meade?” Turner asked.
“I had a project last spring in one of my classes. It was on federal appellate decisions. They’ve got that terrific library in the new Kennedy Federal Building so I was down there a lot. I stopped in a few of the courtrooms and I wound up listening to the arguments in the Du Page County case. You know the one about the gay rights?”
“We know,” Fenwick said.
Geary looked surprised.
Turner said, “So you knew Judge Meade by sight?”
“Yes. The important thing is, I saw him last night.”
“Where?”
“In Au Naturel.”
“You’re sure?” Turner asked.
“It was only a quick glimpse. Some guy had just dropped a
ten dollar bill in my Gstring. That’s ten times what we’re used to so I’d given him a little more than a hug and a peck for his efforts. He offered me …” Geary looked at Ian.
Ian said, “You can tell them about the offer. Don’t go beyond that.”
“You his lawyer?” Fenwick asked.
“Go ahead, Billy,” Ian said.
Geary nodded. “I was startled at the amount of money he offered me to go home with him later that night.”
Ian said, “The dancers are often offered gifts and favors.”
“And money,” Turner said. “Let’s get on with it. We’re not here to bust you for prostitution.”
Geary said, “This was about eleven. I wasn’t sure where I was going after work, and he offered me more than the going rate. I told the guy I’d have to let him know. He was nice about it. I gave him an extra nuzzle or two and he, well, never mind about that.”
Grabbing the crotch of, pulling the G-string out and catching a peek at, and rubbing the front of the dancers were not uncommon practices. Turner always figured the owners must pay a high amount of graft to keep from being hassled by vice.
“I got done with that guy. I was standing up, and right behind him was Judge Meade.”
“What was he doing?”
“He wasn’t looking at me. He was trying to get past the dance floor area. It was really crowded so it took him a while. I doubt if he would recognize me. He couldn’t possibly know me. There was always a crowd in his courtroom, besides I was wearing a lot less last night than when I was in his courtroom.”
“Did he give you money?”
“No. I don’t know where he went, how long he stayed, or what he did. I only saw him that once. He disappeared, and I kept dancing. I didn’t see him the rest of the night.”
“When did you find out he died?”
“After Ian called. I didn’t get up until after one today. I ate
breakfast and watched some football games. I turned on the local news during halftime.”
“Billy was my nineteenth call. I was deep into my list of sources. Luck.”
Turner asked Billy, “You sure it was him?”
“I’d testify to it in court.”
“Did you mention it to anybody else last night?”
“When I got back to our dressing room, I made a general announcement. I couldn’t believe that a notorious homophobe was in Au Naturel. I assumed it meant that he was a closet case. Typical, one of our own persecuting us the most. Thank you J. Edgar Hoover.”
“What did the other dancers say?”
“Not much. Most of them aren’t very political. We’re all pretty young. The guys are out for a good time and to make money. I had to explain to a couple of them who he was and that he was antigay.”
“Tell me about the dancers,” Fenwick said. “I need some sense of who they are or who they hope to become.”
“They’re just guys. Some are straight. Majority are gay.”
“I mean, what do they do when they aren’t dancing? They all aren’t in law school or visiting courtrooms?”
“I don’t know a lot of them. A few are in school like me. Most of us do a little hustling on the side. Lots of them live in cheap apartments. They spend all their money on partying, alcohol, and drugs, especially drugs. A lot of them sleep until three in the afternoon. After you get up, if you’ve got half a brain, you go to a gym and work out or at least jog or run—do something to keep in shape. Then you dance and party and go nuts. It can be lots of fun.”
“How do they get out of the business?”
“Some become full-time hustlers. Most just drift into other things. A few try to be those dancers for hire at parties. It’s a life that doesn’t have a lot of benefits or a pension program. A rare few find, and are able to settle down with, a sugar daddy.
Doesn’t happen often. I’ve heard of it but I don’t know anyone that has actually happened to.”
“At Au Naturel do the guys run into problems with customers being too forward or too friendly?”
“A few clients get a little rambunctious. Mostly not.”
“The pay is worth it?”
“Sure. I like money. As for Judge Meade, if he was a closet case, the dancers would have loved him.”
“Why?”
“One of the guys said it for all of us, ‘those closet cases may be a pain, but they pay the most money.’ Which is true. Closeted guys tend to pay a lot.”
“Blackmail?” Fenwick asked.
Geary laughed. “A prostitute has some honor. Do whores and their clients really even know each other’s real names or care much even if they do? Unless they’re long-term clients or long-term whores? In which case, the relationship is different. Why bust up a steady meal ticket?”
Turner stuffed the blackmail possibility high on his questions-to-ask list.
“If it isn’t blackmail, why do they pay more?” Fenwick asked.
“Stupidity? Desperation? Gratitude? Maybe it’s a sort of blackmail pay-off in their own minds, or a making up for guilt, a way of salving their consciences? You’d have to ask them or someone who’s a prostitute. At Au Naturel, you pay a dollar for at most a few seconds of touching. If you figure out why men go to prostitutes, you could write a book and be famous.”
“Somebody probably already has,” Fenwick said. “Anybody mention to you if they saw him the rest of the night?”
“No, but I didn’t ask either. I don’t know any more than I’ve already told you. It was such a crazy night, and he’s not the first politician to be in there.” He paused, then said, “This is big-time news, isn’t it?”
Turner nodded. “We’d prefer it if you didn’t talk to the press.”
Fenwick said, “We could become a lot less understanding of your recreational activities if this becomes a front-page headline.”
“Ian’s a reporter and he knows.”
Everybody looked at Ian.
Ian said, “We’ll have to see. Leave Billy out of it. You can deal with me on that.”
They took down Billy’s address and phone number. After he left Ian said, “What a tangled web we weave.”
“Why are we quoting Shakespeare?” Fenwick asked.
Ian said to Turner, “You owe me ten bucks.”
“Why?”
“Last night—I didn’t pay the guy.”
“I don’t see any proof.” Turner explained the bet from the night before to Fenwick. Then he said, “Ben and I were in Au Naturel last night. So was Ian.”
“So were half the gay people in the city,” Ian said.
“But most of that half is not investigating this case.”
“Did either of you see the judge?” Fenwick asked.
“I didn’t,” Turner said. “I wouldn’t have recognized him if I did.” He pulled the photo of the judge out of his regulation-blue notebook and gazed at it. He shook his head. “The face doesn’t ring a bell. I was more concerned with Ben.”
“You bring a date to a dancing bar?” Fenwick asked.
“You mean a bar with dancing men or women?” Ian corrected.”
“Either.”
“Why not?” Ian asked.
“I wouldn’t bring Madge to a place like that. I can picture her hooting as the men put money in some floozy’s crotch.”
“You wouldn’t take her because she’d laugh, carry on, and make fun,” Turner said.
“She’d have too damn good of a time,” Fenwick said.
“It was a place to go and have fun,” Ian said.
Turner added, “Although it is none of your business, neither
Ben nor I put money in any part of anybody’s clothing last night.”
“I think they’re both too shy,” Ian said. “I’ve been trying to get them over their hang-ups.”
“Is my being there going to compromise the case?”
“Don’t see why it should,” Fenwick said, “You didn’t see anything. It was a coincidence, pure and simple.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences and neither do you, Buck.” Turner sighed. “I am more concerned about Ben. I don’t want him involved in an investigation.”
“I think this blackmail angle has real possibilities,” Fenwick said. “I don’t care what Billy said about the nobility of whores not blackmailing their clients.”
“I can see the headlines,” Turner said, “notorious homophobe in love nest with male prostitute. We’ll have to keep it in mind.”
“You guys remember Geary from last night?” Fenwick asked.
Turner shook his head. Ian nodded.
“So, now what?” Ian asked.
“I thank you for the big tip. We find out the name of the owner of the bar. Interview him or her …”
Ian said, “Owner is Dana Sickles. Has a solid reputation in the community. Supports a lot of good causes. I can try and dig up some information on her for you.”
“Thanks. We’ll see her and all the employees of the bar, including the dancers.”
Ian said, “You want to stay on the case because secretly you’re a lech. This way you get to talk to all the guys up close and personal.”
Turner ignored him and continued, “Then see if anybody else saw him. Don’t figure on a lot of people coming forward to volunteer that they were there last night.”
It was an odd thing about the gay community. Many of the people who were at the bar last night would say they were openly gay, at least to varying degrees. However, there would
be enormous hesitation about coming forward and admitting they were present—especially if something criminal was known to be involved. This was a historical problem in the gay community everywhere, although there had been specific local difficulties over time. Not more than a year ago in Chicago, there had been a negative incident. Every patron of a gay bar, more than fifty, had been ordered by the police to lie on the floor. They were then searched. The police claimed they had evidence that one of the patrons possessed drugs. The ACLU was interested in helping with the case, thinking that the suspected patron could have been searched but not every person in the bar, and that the constitutional rights of all the others had been violated. The difficulty had been in getting any of those who’d been present to come forward and testify. Other than the employees of the bar, only a few brave souls had been willing to speak out. Fear and mistrust of the police among gay people went back much further than just to the Stonewall Inn in New York back in 1969.
Turner and Fenwick left the newspaper offices.
In the car Turner said, “Well, that about tears it. How many cops do you know who were at a possible crime scene before it happened? It would add me to the suspect list. If I pursue the case, it’s like I’m trying to let myself off the hook.”
“We don’t know it’s the crime scene. Did you kill him?”
“Thanks for asking. No.”
“Did Ben?”
“No.”
“Did Ian?”
“He’s a little radical, but not nuts. He takes out his anger in the editorials and columns he writes.”
“So nobody you know did the killing. What’s the problem? Having you on the case might give us important information. In fact it already has.”
“Gay people, cops, or both could accuse me of selling out.”
“Or you could just do your job and stop whining.”
“I am not whining.”
“You’re coming closer than any time since I’ve known you.”
“If I ever whine, just pull out your gun and shoot me.”
“I can live with that.”
“Figured.” Turner looked at his watch. “It’s after five. Why don’t we stop at the bar? We might catch the owner there, or we can find out where she lives. We can start the questioning. At least we’ve got a notion on where Meade was last night.”
“And blackmail as a possible motive.”
“Does this clear up the paid-for plane ticket problem?” Turner asked.
“I dunno,” Fenwick said.
“If he was a closet case, the whole trip could have been an elaborate deception designed to fool the wife and kiddies.”
“People are that desperate to hide?”
“Lots are. He might have been. If somebody ever outed him after all the grief he’s caused gay people, it could be a major scandal. At the least, his marriage would be in deep trouble, most probably over. Just realizing he was gay could have been enough stress to put him over the edge.”
“You went through a hell of a lot of stress, but you handled it.”
“Took a long time, and I was no saint.”
Turner’s wife had died when Jeff was born. In the months before his second’s son’s birth, Paul had come to accept being gay. He’d come to love his wife as a friend and her death had pained him deeply. He sometimes wondered what would have happened had she lived and had he come out to her. Certainly their marriage would have been over. It was one of the great “what ifs” of his life.
“I want to check in with Roosevelt and Wilson before we do more questioning,” Turner said.
“Murder victims need to get organized,” Fenwick said. “A little timetable of their movements would be helpful, or a few more witnesses to the dastardly deeds.”
“You’re hallucinating again, Buck.”
Fenwick banged his fist on the dashboard. “Ah, reality. I feel so much better.”
They called the station. Roosevelt and Wilson’s last known location was on Lincoln Avenue near the coffee shop at the end of Montana Street.