A Simple Suburban Murder (20 page)

For my money the Ohio Street off ramp at night offers the most beautiful view of Chicago's skyline. It led directly to the section of town we wanted. Even on a Thursday night there were lines of people trying to get into Ditka's, Ed Debevic's, and the Hard Rock Cafe. We had to park six blocks away and walk back.

A couple of quick hot dogs from a sidewalk vendor provided us with dinner.

We arrived at the house. Turrets and battlements jutted from odd corners. Bay windows and cupolas existed at strange angles. The thing had obviously been built in sections, none of which matched.

Cars swished toward the Ontario Street on ramp to the Kennedy Expressway as we examined the building.

A faint glow from a third-floor window was the only sign of life.

John North, the owner, was the most up-and-coming artist and photographer in town. Last January one of the papers

declared him this year's Renaissance man. He was the cutting edge of trendiness.

He was gay. He occasionally deigned to appear at fundraisers for gay community events, staying long enough to captivate the prettiest boy there and then leaving. He was a strikingly handsome man in his late twenties. The world was at his feet. The dishier parts of my information came from Neil. He hated him. Despite repeated promises, North hadn't shown up at an important fund-raiser Neil had organized. Neil neither forgave nor forgot.

There was no downstairs bell to ring, only the closed glass doors through which we could see some of his latest constructions.

Banging on the doors brought no response. "This is useless. Let's try the back," I said.

The alley that led to the back was unlit, shadows upon shadows flowing back into deeper dimness as we walked further in. Garbage spilled and scrunched underfoot. We heard vermin and critters hurry away at our approach. An occasional pair of eyes glared insolently from a garbage heap before winking out.

A wooden gate gave entry to the backyard of the house. We slipped inside. I closed the gate. The latch clicked. The backyard was a jumble of six-foot evergreens and taller, more distant trees. Broken bits of sidewalk poked at our feet as we tiptoed down the narrow path to the back porch. The chill November wind whistled above us, crackling the barren tree branches together. In the closeness of the backyard, sheltered by the evergreens, I could feel only the faintest traces of a breeze on my cheek. Total darkness emanated from the rear of the house. A porch ran the length of the back of the house.

I put a foot on the bottom step. Scott put a hand on my sleeve to stop me.

"We're going to get caught." His voice was low.

"No, we aren't." I, too, kept my voice down.

"I'm glad you're confident. What if someone catches us?"

"I thought six-foot-four baseball heroes didn't get scared."

"I'm not scared," he whispered fiercely, "I'm worried, that's all."

"Don't be." Where I got these calm assurances I don't know. My armpits overflowed with sweat.

We ascended the creaking and crumbling stairs. We stopped at the vague outline of the back door.

"Do we knock?" Scott whispered sarcastically.

"Why are we whispering?" I whispered.

"It's spooky back here, and we don't belong, that's why." Scott spoke next to my ear or I wouldn't have heard him.

"We knocked, or rather banged, at the front door," I said in an almost normal voice. "We'll simply knock." I raised my arm to do so.

A laughing and singing group turned into the alley.

I stood absolutely still.

"What if they're coming here?" Scott's whisper was angry.

As they drew closer several of the voices became distinct. Their obvious drunken state did not comfort me.

Their movement down the alley proceeded at a glacial pace. They stood outside the gate for an eternity. I held my breath.

The gate clicked open.

Scott grabbed me, prepared, I suppose, to sprint bullishly through them. Instead I wrenched him back into the deeper darkness of the porch corner farthest from the alley. I almost pulled him too hard. We nearly toppled off the edge.

The group walked swiftly now. They ascended the porch. The darkness, their good spirits, and their general state of inebriation kept us hidden. I listened to one of them fumble with a key in the lock. The door opened. A moment later a light sprang on in the house. I could see there were five of them. Bundled up as they were, I didn't recognize any of them.

"When are the rest going to get here?" the last one in asked as he entered.

"Couple minutes" came a deep voiced reply from inside the house. "They went to park their cars."

The door creaked shut. I found myself breathing for the first time in a forever.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Scott rasped.

"No, I want to see what's going on. If there are a lot of people showing up, we could simply join the throng."

"You're nuts. These people know each other."

I shushed him. I looked through a gap in the curtains in the window next to us. It was an entry room. After hanging up coats and scarves, the five of them quickly passed through a farther door and out of sight. They left the light on.

The gate clicked open again. Another group of five or six walked in. I could see them more clearly from the lights the first group had left on.

In a rush it dawned on me that they would be able to see us too. Scott gave a low moan. I assumed he had the same thought.

"What luck finding a parking space so close," one of them said.

I threw my arms around Scott and locked him in a fierce embrace. He started to protest, but I covered his mouth with my lips. His stifled mumble ended as he realized my plan.

Heavy footsteps ascended the porch.

"Look at those two." Someone tittered.

"How decadent," another added.

The door creaked open. They stomped into the house.

The last man stuck his head back out the door. "You guys will freeze your asses off out there. Better come in before the rest of the crowd gets here if you want to be up close." "Thanks," I mumbled. Whoever it was went in.

Scott broke the embrace. "Let's leave."

Let’s go in.

"You're crazy."

"We were invited."

"He thought we were one of them."

"There'll probably be a crowd. He said so. We can get lost among them." I tried to give my words a confidence and reasonableness I'm not sure I felt.

"We've seen ten maybe eleven guys at most," Scott said.

"Phil could be in some kind of danger in there."

"Fine, call the police."

"After all this your continued faith in the regular constabulary continues to amaze me. Remember, they don't want to reopen the case."

We heard another group coming down the alley.

"We'll look just as suspicious walking out past them."

"No, we won't," Scott said.

"I'm not going to stand here arguing. I'm going in." I walked to the door and reached for the knob. I looked back at Scott.

The gate clicked open again. Another group entered the yard.

"All right," Scott grumbled.

The back of the house was a warren of storage rooms connected by a twisting hallway. There was a narrow uncarpeted stairway leading up. The thumping from a thunderous stereo system beckoned us upward. The people we'd heard behind us caught up. They greeted us in a friendly manner, and made no remarks about us being unfamiliar, unexpected, or unwelcome. We let them pass and followed them upstairs.

As we entered the third floor the thudding of the stereo eased into an ethereal blues song, much easier on the ears. Eventually we discovered that the third floor consisted of two huge rooms. The back half, in which we stood as we entered, was essentially a kitchen-living-room area. The track lighting that snaked around the ceiling was turned quite low. The dimness deemphasized the jungle of gay gothic decor.

A new group had come in behind us. After depositing our coats in a pile on a couch in this room, we followed the crowd into the second room.

Here the ceiling and floor were flat black. Mirrors completely covered the walls. The only opening in the room was the door through which we entered. A bed, ten feet by ten feet, covered with a black leather spread, sat in the middle of the floor. The lighting came from soft white glows concealed in the floor in the four corners.

More than thirty men milled about the room, others rapidly entering. No one took particular notice of us. We drifted to a corner attempting to look at ease and as if we belonged.

The other furniture consisted of what you would find in any well-equipped dungeon—a torture rack, shackles and chains, a contraption that somewhat resembled a child's swing, and a table filled with a variety of whips.

The men formed a tight circle around the swing. One of them I thought to be John North. He was dressed in a conservative gray business suit, as were half the others in the room. Some wore jeans and casual shirts. A few were in full leather drag.

"I don't think I'm going to like this," Scott whispered.

"Predicting the future is a risky business," I whispered back.

From out of the center of the group a naked male climbed aboard the swing. The men around him murmured approval. I stifled a gasp. For a second I thought it was Phil, but the swing twirled and I saw the face clearly. It was a stranger. Although he had about the same build as Phil, he was considerably younger. If this kid was over fifteen, I was over ninety. He spread his legs and then reached over his head to grip the chains above. They shackled him by wrist and ankle to the swing.

"We have to put a stop to this," I whispered.

At that moment one of the guests walked up to us. A dozen cows may have died attempting to make him butch. It hadn't worked. His lisp and limp wrist showed through the leather. Thick greasy hair reached to his shoulders. He might have been around thirty. He had a pronounced beer gut, the source of which became evident when he breathed on us.

"Don't I know you?" he said to Scott.

"I don't think so," Scott demurred.

"Well, I think I do," the man stated, assuming the belligerence of a drunkard. In a minute he would get loud and draw attention to us.

He jabbed a finger into Scott's chest. "Anybody as pretty as you I'd never forget. I think you're some movie star." His voice began to rise. One or two of the other guests glanced in our direction.

With an aplomb that surprised me I heard Scott say, "Maybe you saw me on the cover of one of the national sports magazines."

"You mean one of those terribly virile magazines for the sweat-drenched set?"

"Sort of," Scott said.

"Oooh," he crooned. He smiled and put his hand on Scott's hip. "And why did they put you on the cover?"

"I pitched two no-hitters in the World Series."

"Oooh, how wonderful. Is that world thing football or baseball"—he scratched his head—"or hockey?"

Further explanation became unnecessary when one of the drunk's buddies came over and took his arm. Let's go, Edgar," he said, "it's time to start." He led Edgar away.

"That was fairly cool and collected," I said.

"I practice a lot with reporters," he replied.

All eyes were on the swing. Edgar picked up one of the whips. Deep, expectant voices murmured around us.

Obviously we couldn't grab the kid and run. Even if we could get to him, we'd have to unlock his shackles while fending off the mob. If we in some way could yank the boy down undamaged, there were fifty of them and only two of us. Most of them were far more burly, and probably more dangerous, than Edgar. I doubted we'd get information from North tonight anyway. Coming back during business hours tomorrow seemed a reasonably sane alternative.

I wanted to leave right then, but I couldn't. Not with a thirteen-or fourteen-year-old ready to be a plaything for what I presumed was tonight's orgy.

The one door to the room swung open again. Daphne marched in.

"Oh, shit," I muttered.

"Let's break for it," Scott urged.

I put a restraining hand on his arm. "Easy, casual. Let's slip over toward the door. They'll be concentrating on center stage." We inched our way around the walls. I figured we could ease out, get downstairs, and make Scott's dream come true—call the cops.

We started in the far corner of the room from the door. An inch at a time, as casually as possible, we made our way around the fringes of the crowd. We were halfway when I saw Daphne begin to turn her bulk in our direction. I swivelled around hoping to cover us both. I waited breathlessly.

Scott peered around my ear carefully. He nodded, jerked his head a quarter inch toward the door. I turned around again. Daphne, her face turned away from us, chatted amiably with one of the guests.

Five minutes later we were three-quarters of the way to the door. Then with only a few feet to go a voice shouted, "Hold it, you two." I recognized Daphne's commanding bellow. "Grab them," she yelled.

We bolted for the door. Too late. They grabbed us from all sides. We struggled mightily. Scott went down a moment before me, snowed over by the crush of strong arms and bodies.

"Take them downstairs and keep them secure," Daphne ordered.

I saw John North peer over her shoulder. "Who are they?" he asked.

"Creeps and fools," she hissed. "Get them out of here," she commanded.

Roughly and unceremoniously they shackled us and dragged-carried us downstairs. As they escorted us out of the room I heard one voice, I thought it was Edgar's, suggest they use us for the next show on the swing. They secured us to a couple of kitchen chairs in a storeroom on the first floor.

— 8 —

T
hey left us in the dark. In the dimness from the strip of light at the bottom of the door I could see Scott.

"Are you all right?" Scott asked.

"Maybe a couple bruises. You?"

"I'm fine."

Scott asked, "Now what, Sherlock?" I appreciated the lack of sarcasm in his voice.

"In the stories, Sherlock Holmes never got caught and tied up," I answered.