Full Release (10 page)

I had picture in my head of the delivery guy standing at my front door, knocking and knocking, while Eddie hung himself in the garage. It was a creepy picture, a disturbing picture, but a very clear one. Was his suicide really that spontaneous? I wondered. Did he really think, “Oh, I’m hungry, I think I’ll order some food”? And then killed himself before it arrived? That didn’t make sense. Why not wait and enjoy a last meal?

I wondered if there had been some kind of trigger event -- between ordering Chinese food and killing himself. Had someone in his family found out about how he made his living? Had they called him? Could someone be that ashamed of being gay in this day and age? Yes, they could. It was hard for me to connect with. I’d been out for a long time, more than a decade. Forgetting what it was like to be closeted was easy, I suppose. But there were always stories in the gay press about people so shamed, so closeted, that they’d hurt themselves.

And somewhere in there, between ordering food and killing himself, Eddie had peed on my bed. None of this made sense. I was exhausted, though, and knew I wouldn’t be able to figure anything out just then. I needed more sleep. I decided to give sleeping on my box spring a try. It would be hard and uncomfortable, but at least I’d be able to straighten out my neck.

I dragged myself into the bedroom. Without turning on the light, I shuffled in and slammed my shin against the bed frame. Backing up, I sloshed a couple gallons pine-scented mop water out of the bucket. Ankles wet, shins in pain, I turned on the light and saw that the bed wasn’t in the right place. I knew that. In my sleep haze I’d just forgotten. I’d noticed it earlier when I felt weird about someone being in my house. But that was silly; the bed probably got shifted when I pulled the mattress off.

I tried shoving the bed back up against the wall, but the imitation Oriental rug on which the bed sat got dragged with it and ended in a clump between the wall and the headboard. I pulled the bed out away from the wall and tried to get it centered on the rug again. The rug had curled up under the headboard, so I lifted the bed to let if fall flat again. That’s when I noticed a set of keys resting next to the footboard partially under the rug.

The key chain was a Pez dispenser with a small, yellow rubber duck at the top. Attached to the Pez dispenser were four keys. One was a car key, older, with a Lincoln logo. There were two jagged edged house keys. The fourth key, the final key, struck me as odd. It was a second car key. This one was for a Ford. It was much newer; in fact it looked brand new. The top was thick and black with an alarm switch and a panic button. Eddie had another car other than the dilapidated Lincoln.

Without warning, my eyes stung. Eddie was a real person who had likes and dislikes, who’d chosen an unusual profession, and had sense of humor when it came to key chains. In the panic of everything that was happening, it was too easy to forget that. I blinked my eyes a few times and tried to guess what kind of car Eddie had beside the Lincoln.

Probably a small truck, like a Ranger. An inexpensive truck made sense. Eddie wouldn’t want to put his table in the back unless he had a cover for the bed. Maybe he was saving up for one before he got rid of the Lincoln completely. It was a nice little story, except people who killed themselves didn’t save up for things. Did they?

Why were the keys on the floor? I wondered. How had they ended up exactly there? Had Eddie left them on the bed, and when I pulled the sheets off they’d ended up thrown onto the floor? But I hadn’t heard anything, and I would have. The keys were clunky. Noisy. They’d have made a sound landing on the floor, right? Not much of a sound if they’d landed on the rug, I admitted to myself. Had they been in his pocket? And when he’d thrown his pants onto the bed they’d fallen out. Later, he got dressed to go into the garage and…of course, he wouldn’t have been worrying about where his keys were then. Or had he put them there deliberately for some reason? What reason?

Dropping the keys into the lower pocket of my cargo shorts, I told myself I’d call Detective Tripp and let him know I’d found them. Not that it was urgent, I supposed. They’d probably already told Eddie’s family what had happened. They’d be dealing with his things in a few days. Selling his Ranger, or whatever his other car was. Selling the Lincoln, though dropping it off at a junkyard seemed a better choice. Either way, they wouldn’t need the keys until then.

After taking off my clothes, I laid the comforter down on the box spring hoping it might act as a cushion. I turned off the lights and lay down. The comforter wasn’t much help. I could feel each slat that made up the box spring. In fact, there was no spring to it at all; it was all box. I knew I’d never be able to fall asleep on something that uncomfortable.

And that’s the last thing I remember until someone pounding on the front door woke me up.

Chapter Ten

Quickly, I pulled on the T-shirt and shorts I’d been wearing the night before. I had no idea who might be at my door. It was just before seven a.m., making it too early for deliveries, and friends never dropped by at this hour -- actually I didn’t have friends who dropped by -- so I was clueless.

As I walked to the door, the fear that someone from Eddie’s family might show up crossed my mind. I had a moment of relief when I saw Detective Hanson standing there. Then I got a good look at her face. It was dark, like a malevolent cloud. Behind her was Detective Tripp, and behind him, a whole crew of other officers. Opening my screen door, Hanson shoved a folded piece of blue paper into my hands. As she pushed by me, I unfolded it and tried to make sense of it. It was a search warrant.

Tripp looked better than he had the day before, but not by much. He’d obviously gotten to take a shower and put on another nicely tailored suit, but he didn’t look like he’d gotten that much sleep. He took me by the elbow and led me to my dining table. Hanson barked instructions to the search crew.

“Why did you get a search warrant?” I asked. “I would have let you back in.”

“This is now a murder investigation,” Hanson snarled.

This was now a murder investigation. It was like a slap in the face, a slap in the face that made sense. All the pieces that hadn’t fit began to fit. Eddie didn’t deliberately pee in my bed. The bladder releases as part of the death process -- I knew that. It was the kind of thing Jeremy talked about. He’d toss out useless facts like that over dinner. Even though it always upset--

Oh my God, someone had killed Eddie in my bed. Someone had come into my house and killed him. Eddie hadn’t ordered Chinese food and then decided to kill himself. He’d ordered Chinese food, planned to have dinner with me, and instead he’d been murdered. By someone, someone he’d let into my home. Someone he knew?

I felt like an idiot. Why hadn’t I seen this before? If it was a TV show, I would have. But no one expects their own life to suddenly morph into an episode of
Forensic Files.
It’s real life. In real life, someone you barely know doesn’t get murdered in your bed while you’re at the gym. That happens to other people.

I looked down at the search warrant in my hand. It meant something. Something important. I tried to grasp exactly what. They’d gotten a search warrant because…they thought I might not let them in. They thought they had to have everything nice and legal to build their case. For when they arrested someone. Me? Was I the suspect?

Detective Tripp asked me to sit down. I didn’t. Then he said, in a voice smooth as silk, “Tell me again how you met Javier.”

I could tell from his face he already knew the answer. “On massageformen.com. I answered his ad.”

“You weren’t dating him. You hired him.”

“The first time I hired him. The second time was a date.” That seemed like a lie, even to me.

“People like Javier don’t date their clients.”

“Except he did.”

“Why didn’t you tell me how you met before?” He was obviously displeased with me.

“I thought his family might not know what he was doing. I thought maybe they shouldn’t find out. I was trying to be nice.” He gave me a hard look. I could tell he was trying to figure out why I was lying, even though I wasn’t. I stared right back at him and asked, “Why would I lie about things like that?”

Tripp smiled wryly. “Some people lie just to lie.”

“Tell me what’s going on. This isn’t making any sense.”

Before Tripp could answer, his partner came over and explained, “We’re searching your home, your garage, your car. We’re going to be taking your computer and your cell phone. It’s all in the warrant I handed you.”

“Why would you do that?”

Ignoring my question, Hanson set a briefcase down on my dining table and opened it. She pulled out a plastic evidence bag and held it up so I could see it. Inside was a brown belt I’d bought two years before at a discount store. “Is this yours?” she asked.

“Probably.” Well, mine wasn’t the only one in the world.

“Do you have any idea why Javier might have hung himself with your belt?” she asked.

I didn’t. All I could think to say was, “I don’t remember him wearing a belt. It must have been the only one he could find.”

“Wrong answer.”

“He was wearing a belt?” I guessed. I had the sensation of being on a surrealist game show. I wasn’t winning.

“Javier didn’t hang himself. He was strangled,” Tripp explained, earning himself a glare from Hanson.

“No…he killed himself,” I insisted.

“No. He didn’t.”

I sat down, struggling with the idea. Looking around my house, police officers seemed to be everywhere. Picking things up. Looking in drawers. Touching everything.

“You said you were at the gym?” Hanson asked.

“Yes. I got there about six or so. I left a couple hours--”

“You belong to Holiday Fitness?”

“Yes.” I wondered how she got this information. Were they that plugged in?

“They don’t have a record of your being there.”

“The scanner was down. Or the girl was being flaky.”

“Which?”

“I don’t know. I just remember she didn’t scan my card.”

“Convenient,” Hanson said under her breath.

“Did anyone see you there?” Tripp asked. “Anyone you talked to? Someone who might remember you?”

Obviously, I couldn’t tell them about masturbating in the shower with Stripes. “I’ll have to think about that. Why do you think someone killed Eddie?”

“The autopsy revealed bruises on his neck consistent with strangulation,” Tripp said.

Hanson cleared her throat in a dramatic way. “Can I talk to you a minute?” She pulled him away to the other side of my living room. They had a whispered disagreement. I wondered if they were setting up some kind of good cop/bad cop game, if this was all part of a strategy.

I heard Hanson say, “I’m primary on this. It plays out my way.” Tripp defended himself, though I didn’t hear exactly what he said. She responded with, “Don’t fuck this up for me.” Her voice sounded like an angry wife laying down the law to her husband.

It didn’t matter, though. As I listened, I relaxed. The whole thing was a misunderstanding, and they were about to figure that out.

When they came back I said, “You’ve made a mistake. You asked me about the bruises the first time you were here. Don’t you remember? Eddie...I mean, Javier...he had them already. He told me he tripped--”

“These are different bruises,” Tripp explained, and my stomach sank. “New bruises. Sometimes, after death it takes time for bruises to--”

“You have a history of violence,” Hanson accused.

“What?” I asked, completely shocked. “No, I’m not a violent--”

“You were arrested for assault last November.”

“The charges were dropped. It was a misunderstanding.”

“You beat up your boyfriend. He required stitches.”

The lowest point of my breakup with Jeremy had come just before Thanksgiving when I discovered he’d cleaned out the money market which held the funds from the second mortgage. I’d insisted he come over to discuss the problem, and after a great deal of shouting, I slapped him in the face. He slapped me back, and before I knew it we’d taken a couple swings at each other. It wouldn’t have been a big deal -- well, a big deal to anyone but us -- except that it had taken place on the front lawn and Mrs. Enders had called the police.

I tried to stare Hanson down, but didn’t do such a good job. “Jeremy fell. Hit his head.”

She smirked. “Do you have any idea how often I hear that?”

Then I realized what was happening. Yeah, I should have figured it out before. Maybe I should have even been expecting it. “You think I killed Eddie. Why? Why would I kill him? I barely knew him.”

“How long have you been into scarfing?” Hanson asked.

“I don’t know what that is,” I said truthfully.

“Yes, you do,” she insisted. The look on her face made it clear she found whatever it was disgusting.

“Erotic asphyxiation,” Tripp explained helpfully. Immediately, I flashed to what I’d done with Jeremy just the day before. I suppose I did know what it was, sort of. Was it just a coincidence that Jeremy wanted to do that? Or was there more to it?

Tripp continued, “It’s the kind of thing that sometimes gets out of hand. People make mistakes. Did you make a mistake?”

“What a minute. Which is it? Am I violent killer? Or pervert who screwed up? Maybe the two of you need to go figure out which one you’re going for.”

Hanson gave me a mean look. “We don’t know. That’s why we’re asking you.”

“Neither. I’m neither.”

One of the officers came over and pulled Hanson and Tripp aside. The officer held a fingerprint brush in one hand. They talked for a minute or so while I waited. When they turned back to me, Tripp asked, “Do you have a maid?”

“I can’t afford it. Why? Are you going to arrest me for poor housekeeping?” I almost bit my tongue after I said it. Being a smart ass wasn’t going to convince them of my innocence. Hanson glared at me.

“Surfaces have been wiped clean,” Tripp explained.

“You don’t have to give the suspect all the information,” Hanson hissed under her breath. “Let him answer.”

I struggled not to freak out. She’d called me a suspect. I couldn’t believe…I forced myself to focus. I’d cleaned the living room. Well, apparently that was a mistake.