A Caduceus is for Killing (13 page)

    Krastowitcz got up and headed toward the booking room. Did McNaughton do more than just an occasional toot?
    "Sarge, have you seen Trent?" Krastowitcz addressed the crusty old booking room superior. He'd been a tough street-cop in his day, but now he coordinated headquarters, making sure everything went smooth. He also gave out assignments. Plus, he knew everything.
    "Gone on another body run." Krastowitcz's heart sank. "Homicide on the north side. Gang related. The hotter it gets, the more they love to fight. Some Bloods invaded Crip territory and you know the rest. The gang war is on. Several of the Bloods became targets and Trent is in charge of scraping them up now."
    "Know how long it'll take?" Krastowitcz pulled out his unsmoked Marlboro and rolled it between his fingers. He'd sworn off the weed, but nervous habits were hard to break. He kept one lone cigarette in his pocket at all times. For emergencies.
    "Probably another hour or so. Has to get witness statements, like he could find anybody to talk to him. Amazing how many folks get blind when something like that happens."
    "They're scared."
    "Yeah, but they sure know how to bitch to the brass about how we're not cleaning up their neighborhoods fast enough. Glad I'm not on the street anymore. Times have changed, boy, they really have."
    The Sergeant pulled out a flask and took a long pull. He offered the bottle to Krastowitcz, who shook his head.
    "Used to be a cop was respected. Now, the gangs have better artillery than the military. Yeah, times have really changed." The sergeant droned on and Krastowitcz rolled the cigarette between his fingers, occasionally putting the cylinder under his nose. "How can we arrest anybody when we don't have any witnesses?"
    "Hey, Sarge," Krastowitcz interrupted, "get hold of Shimokowa and tell him I need to know if he has some sources who can tell me about the clientele at Joey's."
    The Sergeant grimaced. "That fag dive? I'll call, but you know how he is. What you want him for? Help you find you a date for Saturday?"
    "Y'know, if there's one thing worse than dragging the queer club it's dealing with a smart ass supervisor. But if you must know, your home phone number was discovered in the john there."
    "Oh, funny, Sasquatch. You're a friggin' comedian. Too bad you're so ugly, you gotta look for phone numbers in the john."
    "Just get Shimokowa. Okay, Sarge?"
    "Sure, sure, big-guy, darlin'." The Sergeant bussed a kiss in the air. "I didn't hire on as your private secretary, y'know. Shimokowa's downstairs in the locker-room gettin' ready for the street."
    Krastowitcz gazed at the Marlboro long and hard. He'd tried to stop smoking so many times he'd lost count. This attempt had lasted three months.
    He ran his fingers along the soft white shaft. There was something incredibly sensual about a fresh cigarette. The filter tip's roughness on his lips, scraped against his tongue. Trouble was, this one wasn't fresh. It was three months old. Some of the lure was gone, but it still felt good against his tongue.
    He pulled out his lighter and flicked it on, staring at the blue-yellow flame. He wanted that cigarette--God! How he wanted it--but he couldn't throw three months away... not now. He could hold out a while longer.
    Jim Shimokowa, long-time buddy, worked vice, spending his days and nights rubbing shoulders with pimps, whores, and fags. Krastowitcz admired the hell out of the guy's guts, what with the cross-dressing required several times a week.
    Krastowitcz lumbered down three flights of stairs onto a long hallway opening onto a large room filled with metal lockers and benches. He entered the locker room just as Shimokowa was pulling up his panty-hose.
    "Ooh-la-la, Jimbo. That's one set of sexy gams. What'cha doin' Saturday night? My sister-in-law could use some pointers."
    "Up your ass, Krastowitcz." Jim shot him a good-natured grin.
    "You're more than slightly nuts to pimp around a pimp." Krastowitcz patted Shimokowa's rear.
    The other man immediately straightened. "Hey, man. It takes a special brand of humor and a helluva lot of taste to dress up like a hooker. Not like you serious snobs in homicide. You guys need to lighten up--get some gaiety in your miserable lives."
    "You better mean happiness." Krastowitcz plopped down next to his friend and pulled out the Marlboro. "Besides, I've been meaning to tell you, change mascara. What you've got runs down your face."
    Shimokowa smiled. "You ought to try it. These panty-hose kinda' grow on you, and there are differences in mascara. The cheap stuff just doesn't stay on, especially when somebody slams you in the headlights."
    Krastowitcz laughed and slapped his friend on the back.
    "You're something else, Shimokowa. I'm beginning to wonder if Vice isn't wearing off on you, Sweetheart."
    "Well, don't worry your pretty little head about it. What
do
you want? You never look me up unless you want something. What? Or did you just come down here to watch me get dressed, Big Boy?" He hefted a broad shoulder in a Mae West style. "Well, wipe those nasty thoughts right out of your mind. You don't have what it takes to get close to this bitch."
    Not in the mood for many more jokes, Krastowitcz ignored the remark. "Actually, I've got a tough one, Jim. The murder over at Dorlynd looks like there might be a homosexual connection. Know anything about an M.O. where the perp cuts the victim's wanger off and shoves it in his mouth?"
    Shimokowa crossed his wrists in front of him and cringed. "Ouch! Not a whole lot. Most homo crimes involve some S & M carried way too far. You know: beatings, stuff getting stuck up the rectum, mutilations, suffocations, that shit."
    Krastowitcz placed the cigarette shaft between his lips and rolled it around with his tongue. Much more of this conversation and he'd smoke his friggin' brains out. "This one might be right up your alley. A long metal staff shoved up the victim's butt causing death."
    "My alley? Hmm, might be." Shimokowa looked blatantly pensive. "So what can I do?"
    "Get me some snitches. I need to know who is and who isn't gay in Omaha's professional community."
    "Hold it, Gary. It's damned hard to get a good reliable snitch in Omaha. This town isn't New York or Chicago, where there are thousands of cops and snitches. I want to help you, but I don't know–"
    "--Hey, man, you owe me from the Chief's party."
    "God, Krastowitcz, we were rookies. You still rubbing my face in it?"
    Krastowitcz smiled. They'd been rookies and flat ass drunk. Shimokowa had no idea the gal he was banging at the party was the chief's daughter until Krastowitcz literally pulled him out of her. He would've been charged with rape for sure.
    She'd been so drunk, she'd passed out. Krastowitcz picked her up with one hand and placed her in the bedroom, then left in a hurry. She reported an assault, but couldn't identify her assailant. It hadn't been mentioned between them until now, fifteen years later. Shimokowa's eyes flashed anger, then instantly cooled.
    "Everybody owes everybody," he said. "If I turn you on to this guy, you're gonna owe me big time. But I'm going along and I'm doing the talking. Understand?"
    "Sure, sure. Sorry, Jim, really, but this is too important to let slide. We'll do it any way you want."
    "Okay. A guy named Jackie is my best informant. Works the streets for runaway boys to pimp, but he's not into S & M. He's considered the "godmother" of queers and knows everything and everyone that's happening. If he comes on to the violent type, he lets me know. We've solved quite a few autoerotics and homo-sexual love triangles with his help. If your suspects have any connections with the gay community, Jackie'll know. But he's flighty and scared as shit, so I've got to do the talking."
    "It's a deal, buddy. Is tonight all right?"
    "Meet me at Joey's around eleven and dress the part."
    "W--what?"
    "You know, wear some "closet-tight" jeans and a muscle shirt."
    Krastowitcz's mouth hung open, but damned if he could close it.
    "Understand?"
    "A little dangerous, isn't it, me dressing like that? I might take some of your boyfriends away."
    Shimokowa slapped the back of his head. "Typical cheap date. Always complaining." His friend's humor had returned. "You'll be popular at Joey's, Krastowitcz. They like big ones and the place is hot, if you get my drift."
    Krastowitcz stood towering over his friend. "I can't wait."
    "Don't worry, Krastowitcz, you'll blend in. Your normal cheap polyester suit and wrinkled Columbo-overcoat would tip everyone off, even the fags. This way, you won't have to do anything, just follow my lead, okay?"
    "Thanks, Jim, I really appreciate this."
    "Yeah, don't appreciate it too much. You used coercion to get me to do this."
    "I know." Krastowitcz hoped he'd used Shimokowa wisely. He hadn't wanted to use the fifteen-year favor. He'd filed it away, never wanting, never dreaming to use it.
    He had to find something, anything that'd help in the case. It'd be a shame to waste it on a dead-end.
Chapter X
    
.. . .AND ABSTAIN FROM WHATEVER IS DELETERIOUS AND MISCHIEVOUS. . . .
         The day had been too long already and Krastowitcz was too tired to play macho dress-up all evening in some gay bar, but here he was at Joey's. His jeans were too tight and he never wore sleeveless shirts.
    He had to be here, especially after he'd forced Shimokowa's hand. And Krastowitcz knew how cops were about their snitches. He had his own and recognized their worth. He'd play out the scenario, get the information he needed, and get the hell out. He hoped it was worth jeopardizing a good friendship for the slim possibility of information. He prayed his hunches were right.
    Picking the darkest corner he could find, Krastowitcz hunkered down in the booth and cursed the tight jeans. To add to the night's discomfort was the worry of being recognized.
    He didn't work undercover. His size and too-easily recognizable features made it impossible to blend into the surroundings. He looked like he belonged in Joey's about as much as E. Gordon Liddy would, and was just as red-necked. He glanced around the room trying to understand the type of person who frequented this scene. Joey's wasn't much different than any other bar: stools, tables, booths, rows of bottles stacked in layers behind the bartender. Only, here, it was darker.
    Even Krastowitcz's trained night-duty eyes had trouble seeing, but slowly, shapes materialized. The customers seemed ordinary, nothing unusual: business suits, jeans, work uniforms. Several men sat around a sunken bar. Unnaturally quiet, heads down, they concentrated on their drinking.
    Shimokowa, interrupting his daydream, slid into the booth next to him and punched his arm. Following Shimokowa was a small, well-built, black man dressed in skin-tight leather. He perched at the end of the booth on a cane-back chair.
    "This is Jackie," Shimokowa said.
    The man flew to his feet. "That's Jacques, Man!"
    "Sit down, Jackie. Put on your show some other time."
    The man shrugged and slid back into his chair.
    "This is Sergeant Krastowitcz. He'd like a little information."
    The small man's hands shook. He fumbled for a cigarette and flicked his lighter. Krastowitcz longed for the feel of smoke in his lungs.
    "Hey, I don't give no freebies. I got my reputation. What if I'm seen with you?"
    "Don't worry, you'll be taken care of, as always."
    "What kind of information you want, man?" Jackie gave Krastowitcz a phony wide-eyed look. Gary stifled the urge to punch this faggot. He began, "There have been some murders involving sexual mutilation."
    Jackie squirmed in his seat, ready to spring. "What kind of mutilation?"
    Krastowitcz gauged Jackie's reaction. Did this guy know about Grafton's appetite for severed penises? This was too good to be true. "Let's just say these mutilations may be homosexually related."
    "
What
? Man, you got to be crazy. I don't know nothin' `bout no murders."
    Jackie stood up knocking over his chair, but Shimokowa gripped his arm with his hand and yanked him down next to him. Krastowitcz righted the fallen chair.
    "We know, Jackie. Just answer the Sergeant's questions."
    "Okay, okay," he said, dejected.
    Krastowitcz pulled out several photos, "Ever seen any of these people before?"
    "Yeah, maybe. What for?"
    Krastowitcz held up one of the pictures of Milton Grafton. "Know him?"
    "Sure, man. The doc who takes care of me and my brothers. He be one of the brothers, himself, man."
    "What do you mean? Brothers? He's not black."
    "One of us, man. You want me to draw you a picture. It be
po-no-gra-fic
. He come here, with that other guy." He pointed to the picture of the young man Andrea identified as Peter Mueller.
    "You sure?"
    "Man, that one's his bitch. He come here `bout once a week. `Cept I ain't seen him for `while. This, here, is one of the few places a brother can feel safe. Besides, man, he takes care of us when we be sick. Lets us come to his clinic for free. Take our blood and always talkin' on safe sex. Talkin' `bout AIDS. But in Omaha, man? AIDS ain't no epidemic. Why you askin' `bout the doc, man?"
    Krastowitcz studied Jackie's face. Did he know anything? "He's dead."
    "Oh, man! What's this shit? The doc be one of the good guys. How'd he get wasted?"
    "That's what we're trying to find out. How about this guy?" Krastowitcz held up a picture of Hardwyn. "Know him?"
    "No, but I'd remember him." Jackie paused studying the picture. "He ain't one of the brothers and he don't like young boys, `cause I ain't seen him."
    "Tell me about this guy." Krastowitcz held up Peter's picture.
    "Nothin' to tell. He came with the doc a few times, then he didn't." Jackie pulled out another cigarette and lit it from the smoldering butt.
    "Anyone else?"
    Jackie sorted through the handful of photos. "Yeah, but not in these pictures."
    "Who?" Krastowitcz grabbed the photos.
    "Not sure. Some. Mostly young. Students, I guess. Don't know no more."
    Dead end.
         A MESS OF papers cluttered Grafton's desk. Andrea wished she could find a clue somewhere in all of this. There must be a reason for the perversity surrounding his murder.
    She wondered about Peter Mueller. Especially since discovering the pictures. Had Milton and Peter been involved in sadistic murder? Now she wondered about herself. Had she really been so naive? So stupid?