Chapter Fourteen

Ed was confused as he sat alone one night, waiting for Peter to come back from a late-night shift at the library. Outside, it was cold. Frost was predicted. Sleet was rapping against the windows with what sounded like sharp fingernails. Other than this sound, the apartment was quiet. And yet he stayed confused. It had been so long since he had dined upon anything other than heartache and loneliness. After Dan left, all Ed could do was fight his feelings—that he wasn’t worth the love of another, that if he had done something differently, things would have worked out with Dan. And then there was the quiet manner in which he tormented himself with fantasies of Dan with another guy. The two of them laughing together, their arms around one another, exchanging soulful looks. The fantasies would then turn X-rated, and Ed would watch, with mounting discomfort, the two of them screwing, doing things he had once thought only the two of them would do together. Dan’s lips moving down a hairy body, stopping to lick and suck genitals that were bigger than Ed’s, lifting his legs for a faceless man, the want in his eyes apparent, stronger than anything Ed had ever seen. And this other man, this faceless one, would always be a better lover, would always have more stamina, always have more tricks up his sleeve to bring ecstasy than Ed could ever dream of.

But now Ed felt guilty. Since he and Peter had met, over two weeks ago now, Ed’s thoughts had turned to Dan less and less. In fact, two whole days went by when Ed was certain he didn’t think of Dan once. And yet the feeling that he was being unfaithful continued. Part of him wanted Dan to know about Peter, to see how much younger he was and how much better-looking. The other part dreaded the inevitable run-in he would have with Dan when Peter was at his side, in a restaurant, theater, or bar.

Why did he dread such an encounter? Was he still hoping Dan might be able to work out his problems, to in effect grow up? Did Ed want a reconciliation? Intellectually he had long ago decided that Dan could never be the right man for him. All Ed had to do to remind himself of this decision was to recall the stress, the tension of their relationship. How the simplest statement could bring out in Dan a black mood, where silence and cold reigned like a subzero winter night in Chicago. All Ed had to do to know, intellectually, Dan was wrong for him was to conjure up all the months Dan had lounged around the house, not even looking for work, while Ed struggled to provide a living for both of them. But what exists in the brain does not always correspond to what exists in the heart. And in spite of these very rational realizations, Ed also knew there was a core of love for Dan that still burned. Indefatigable, it told Ed that things could work out and that the two of them could be together once more.

Peter changed all that. He showed Ed that a relationship could be comfortable as well as exciting and didn’t need tension to make it work. He demonstrated to Ed that another man could have an interest in life and work without being goaded into it.

Dan, and the feelings of torment he had caused for so many months, began to fade. When Ed was with Peter—and they had been together almost every night since they met—he seldom thought of Dan, other than to make comparisons between the two. And Peter always came up the winner. With Peter, unlike Dan, Ed felt free to say whatever was on his mind. Whether it was wanting to try something new sexually or a concern Ed was having or even Ed’s own private torment over the loss of his career, Peter was always there to listen objectively, never getting ticked off, never looking to find some way this would offend him, as Dan so often did.

Peter had yet to reveal the name of his friend. The one he said had been threatened with a knife after meeting some weirdo over an online hookup site. After Peter had told him what had happened, Ed had begged him to let him talk to this friend, but Peter was leery of betraying a confidence.

“The guy is completely in the closet,” Peter had explained. “His family would shit if they knew he was gay. That’s why he refuses to go to the police.”

“Doesn’t this asshole know the guy could be this killer who’s out there? Isn’t he selfless enough to swallow his own fears to maybe save a life? God, how can this asshole live with himself?”

Peter regarded him coldly. This was, after all, a close friend they were discussing.

“I’m sorry. But it makes me so angry that people can play with others’ lives because they’re afraid of being outed.”

“I’ve been there,” Peter said. “And I’m willing to wager you have too. He’s young, and he wasn’t brought up around anyone who was gay. At least that’s what he believes.”

Ed stared down at the hardwood floor. They were sitting in his living room. It was raining outside, and they were listening to a George Winston CD, Autumn. Ed didn’t want to lose his temper. This should be a pleasant moment, not one in which the first fight between the new couple broke out.

“Besides,” Peter went on, “I’m trying to convince him to at least talk to you. But he’s afraid. Afraid in a lot of ways. It’s not just the fear of being outed. He’s also afraid of getting this guy mad. He’s terrified he’ll come back and finish the job.”

Ed had understood the rationale. And he tried not to bug Peter about it, but there was so much this guy could tell him. Perhaps he could even lead him to the killer. It was frustrating, but Ed tried to put his confidence in Peter, who assured him he could eventually wear him down enough to at least talk to Ed, if not report the assault to the police.

The sleet finally turned to rain. Ed looked outside and watched as smears of it, heavy, fell down the glass, making the streetlights outside appear distorted, something out of a Salvador Dali painting. He got up and switched WFMT on so he’d have some company other than the sound of the rain and the clock ticking on his mantel. There was something unnerving, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, going on in his apartment tonight. Almost a feeling of being observed. That was ridiculous, but every time the wind blew and a floorboard creaked, he tensed. It was almost as if he were waiting for someone to appear, someone with a knife or hands outstretched to strangle him….

You need to find a new job, he told himself. You’re going crazy. He looked out the window, wishing he would see Peter’s red Sentra heading up his street, looking for a place to park. He knew Peter could bring him out of his brooding as no one else could.

Mozart’s Serenade No. 10 was playing, and Ed tried to close his eyes and let the music surround him. But every time he did that, images of knives and outstretched hands came at him. A blond-haired elf appeared, crying in the summer heat, a dead boy come back to taunt him and ruin his life.

And then finally, it hit him, the connection. This guy Peter knew, his friend, had met this weirdo online. Wasn’t it possible that other men had met their fate in the same way? That would explain why there were no signs of forcible entry. The guys, perhaps, had welcomed him into their homes, thinking this would be nothing more than a harmless tryst with a stranger, two males pleasuring one another. It happened all the time, although Ed had never availed himself of such easy measures. These websites were proliferating, so there must be plenty of guys who did.

He glanced up at the clock. Peter would not be home for another hour. Ed stood and went to the wicker basket he kept magazines in. There must be an old Gay Chicago in there somewhere…

At last he found what he was looking for and pulled the magazine from the stack. The back was loaded with ads for just such online services. Maybe it was time Ed found out for himself what these things were all about. Maybe it was time he found out just how easy it would be to lure someone into his home, or even better, how willing people would be to invite a stranger in, not knowing the first thing about him.

Ed moved his mouse to bring his computer monitor screen to life. He pulled Gay Chicago in front of him, pressed the blue e to launch Internet Explorer, and typed in the URL for the biggest ad he saw in the classifieds, the one for a site called Men4HookUpNow.com. Ed thought the name was ridiculous, and when he got to the home page for the site, he thought that was ridiculous, too, with its cartoonishly drawn pumped-up male bodies and its come-ons. He browsed a bit and found the site had a free trial period, and Ed clicked on the blue “Open a new account” button, which took him to another screen, where he had to enter the usual personal information. Ed made all of this up but paused when the system asked for a credit card. Even though he knew he should get with the times, he had never felt comfortable giving out his credit card number online, and he felt even less comfortable giving it to a site like this one. He gave up and hit Escape. Amazingly, another screen popped up with the words, “Welcome! Your account has been created.”

Ed guessed they wanted a credit card, but if they didn’t get one, they didn’t want to lose a prospective customer completely. They could ask again later, after the prospect was “hooked” on the easy sex the site promised. He also thought a killer could log in again and again without ever giving out any real personal information, just making up a new name each time he wanted to do the free trial.

Ed was then led to a series of screens where he could write a description of himself and upload a picture. He decided against that option.

And then he was in.

That simple.

He scrolled through pages of pictures of men, snorting with amazement at what some people chose to put up for public consumption, pictures like the one of EdgewaterBottom, a fat guy on his hands and knees on his bed, pulling his asscheeks apart for the camera.

“Subtle,” Ed whispered.

“Hey, what’s goin’ on?” A small blue-and-white instant message box popped up on his screen. The words floated, ghostly, in front of Ed. Ed imagined a tough guy, someone with a close-trimmed beard, bushy eyebrows, wearing tight jeans and a flannel shirt. He knew then that this was how it worked, the imagination filling in the blanks, hope usurping the role of common sense. He didn’t know enough yet to click on the guy’s screen name to bring up his profile.

“Not much,” Ed responded. “Just checking things out.”

“So what are you up for tonight?”

Ed was surprised at how quickly and how directly this worked. No wonder so many guys were online. This was just one service, and Ed noticed there were fourteen pages of men online, with about a dozen guys on each page. Why bother with going out when you could order in?

“Maybe just talk, maybe get together,” Ed typed, knowing he was lying, which made him wonder how many lies took place online. How many men, like him, were afraid to hook up with a stranger but enjoyed this sort of virtual window shopping, safe and anonymous, hiding behind their monitors?

“Yeah, well, I’m definitely looking to play. Whereabouts are you?”

“North Side. You?”

“Around Wrigley. What are you into?”

Ed thought for a moment. “Um, I’m pretty versatile, open to suggestions, you know?”

The instant message screen stayed blank at his response. Ed guessed the guy he was talking to was no longer interested. Did I say something wrong? Ed wondered. How could versatile not be what he liked?

What are you getting offended for? Ed asked himself.

For the next ten minutes, Ed scrolled through the pages of online profiles, seeing everything from normal-looking guys looking for relationships to hard-core leathermen looking to get fisted. The messages and photos ran the gamut from the sweetly innocent and naïve to X-rated hard-core come-ons, where safe sex was a dirty word and hungers went far beyond the pale.

There were a few more instant messages, but it seemed Ed always said something wrong. He didn’t party, or he didn’t want to “travel,” or he didn’t have red hair. He dogged on for a few minutes more.

Another IM box popped up. “Hey there! Nice profile.”

“Hi,” Ed keyed. “What’s going on?”

“Just trying to find someone real on this line. Are you real?”

What was this? Some sort of existential game? At least the guy didn’t start off by telling how “fuckin’ horny” he was or how he was “looking to get plowed.” These kinds of statements would be entered before the guy even had a clue as to what the person on the other end was like.

“As real as they come.”

“You’re not into games, are you? I’m getting so sick of all the bullshit that goes down on here.”

“Really? Actually, and this is not bullshit, I’ve never been on one of these sites before.”

“LOL. A virgin. That’s nice. You haven’t learned much about all the crap. Guys get on here and lie through their fuckin’ teeth. Post pictures of other guys or of themselves taken ten years ago. Invite one over, and the odds are against you that he’ll even show up, or go to their place and ring a buzzer that’s never answered.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t always work out that way.”

“No, once in a while it works. But for the most part, it’s sheer bullshit.”

“Have you met many guys this way?”

“I wouldn’t say many, but maybe one a month. On nights like this, when it’s shitty outside, it can be an easy way to scratch an itch. Sort of like ordering a pizza.”

Yeah, Ed thought, except what if the pizza is loaded with strychnine? “And you just invite a stranger over? I mean, I’m not trying to make you defensive or anything, but you don’t know what you’re letting in.”

“Hey, we all take chances, right? Go to a bar and pick someone up. Or get picked up. You don’t know what you’re bringing back home. Look at all the guys that went with Dahmer. You think they suspected they were heading to their deaths? No one thinks that way, man.”

“I guess I see your point. I’m still a little leery.”

“Aw, you’re full of shit too. You wouldn’t be on here if you weren’t a little interested in what could happen. Hell, last week I had this hot muscle boy over here. Cute? Fuck! And man, this kid knew what he was doing.”

“Good for you. But what if he turned out to be the nutcase that’s goin’ around killing gay guys in Chicago? Doesn’t that cross your mind?”

“Who the fuck are you? The Gay Guardian Angel? Listen, life’s full of risks. And gay men in particular are taking them every fucking day of the week. Sure, the guy you brought home over the weekend might not be a serial killer, but he might be positive. So where does that land you? The victim, maybe, of an innocent murderer, and the killing is a longer, slower process. What are you gonna do? Hide under a rock? Get security clearance before you put a dick in your mouth? Get with it, pal. Most of us are out there for hot sex, that’s it. The odds are against being killed by a psycho, y’know.”

“Yeah, but what about the odds of getting infected?”

“Listen, man, if it happens, it happens. Half my friends are poz. Nobody lives forever. You wanna hook up tonight or just shoot the shit?”

“I think I’m still in the checking things out mode,” Ed keyed in.

“Have a good one.”

Ed closed the IM box.

He clicked on the Log out tab at the top of the page and clicked on the X to close his Internet connection. He felt jittery. It would be so easy for the killer, so easy. Everything was working in his favor. Where else could you find such an easy pool of victims so ready to just let you in? No one would know of any connection between the killer and the deceased, and death could come quickly, surely, and quietly.

Without a trace.

It was like shooting at fish in a barrel. Hunting had never been so easy.

Ed stared at the computer. There was a very good chance that this was how he did it.

What should he do now? Call up O’Farrell and see if he’d be interested in what he’d pieced together? He wondered how seriously he’d be taken. Ed was sure the task force was taking all kinds of tips from the public; perhaps he should just phone in his hunch anonymously. Sad to think, but it might be taken more seriously that way.

And while the department was filing and cataloging his tip along with the hundreds of others Ed was sure they were getting, he could continue with his own investigation. He still had a couple of months’ severance, so he had the time and the resources.

Another idea: perhaps Peter could convince his friend to let Ed talk to him on the phone, without revealing to him who he was. Ed didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of this before.

Ed switched the radio from WFMT to Q101. Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus” was playing, and Ed suddenly felt energized, as if he had finally turned a corner and was now heading down the street to his redemption. He stood up and began dancing around the room, feeling better than he had in months.

Peter would arrive soon. Ed wanted to make sure the evening was perfect and that his good mood would not go to waste. After crossing to the bedroom, Ed shrugged into his jean jacket and donned a Sox baseball cap. There was a liquor store around the corner, and he and Peter both enjoyed a good bottle of champagne. He checked his wallet and headed toward the door.

The phone rang.

Ed picked it up, thinking and fearing at the same time that one of the men he had talked with had somehow deduced who he was and found his phone number. Irrational.

“’Lo?” He also prayed it wouldn’t be Peter saying he was too tired to come over tonight.

“Mr. Comparetto?” The voice was nasal, high, yet definitely male. Ed thought it sounded vaguely familiar.

“Yes? This is Ed.”

“This is Timothy Bright.”