Innuendo (3 page)

“That means we have a gay murder on our hands.”

Rawlins opened his mouth to confirm, then caught himself, remembering the thin line that divided them, and said, “Is that what the media's going to say?”

Clutching the green plastic
bag in his right hand, the unseen man crept through the dark and pushed through the thick lilac bushes. He trotted lightly over the first of the fall leaves as he made his way right up to the wrought iron fence and peered through the bars. On the other side and across the lush green lawn stood the yellow brick house, an enormous dwelling built in the 1890s for a lumber king who'd made a fortune hacking down the northern woods and floating the timber down the Mississippi. Searching the property, he turned slowly, his eyes following the front walk all the way to the gate that opened onto Mount Curve Avenue, a twisting street lined with any number of old robber baron mansions. He couldn't be sure, but when he'd driven slowly up Mount Curve, he thought he saw someone waiting in a car. Whether it was a fan, a stalker, or a photographer hoping for a shot, he couldn't tell, but he most certainly had to be careful.

Even though it wasn't that cool, he wore gloves, lightweight brown ones, and he tightened his grasp on the dark green plastic bag. He surveyed the house and its grounds one last time, then confident that he couldn't be seen, reached out with his left hand and took hold of one of the thick iron bars. Not wasting a moment, he put his right foot on a crossbar at the bottom, then started pushing and pulling himself up. In one quick swoop he was atop the iron fence, then jumping down on the other side. Landing on the soft ground, he hurried forward and sank behind an hydrangea bush. No, there was no way anyone had seen him. No way anyone would even suspect.

The house itself was one enormous rectangular box constructed of brick and covered with a slate roof, a structure built like a palace and meant to last the centuries. The place was dotted with any number of windows, all of which had their curtains pulled shut for privacy and many of which now glowed with light. The large piece of property, covered with a glen of oaks that swayed like exotic dancers in the light breeze, sloped downward from the street. At the rear of the house a basement-level room opened onto a terrace, and next to that stood the garage, built sometime in the teens or twenties and, with the Minnesota climate in mind, politely attached to the house. He just had to get there, just that far, just to the garage, and everything would be fine.

From his hidden spot, he checked the street one last time and tried to ascertain if they were up there, any of the dreaded paparazzi. He didn't doubt it, for they were always lurking around, hoping for that one photo that would make them rich. After the death of Princess Di things had quieted down, but now they were back, hungrier and worse than ever. A picture of Tim Chase and Gwen Owens kissing and holding hands wasn't even worth five grand, but a picture, say, of them fighting might bring upward of twenty thousand. And a shot of any star in the nude or perhaps kissing someone other than his or her spouse would bring dramatically more. With prices like those it was no wonder the photographers were as aggressive as they were. Just two months ago Gwen Owens herself had been nearly forced off a mountain road by three swarming photographers on motorcycles.

Like the best of spies, he crouched over and darted across the lawn, racing across the open space and right up to the edge of the house itself. Reaching several towering old arborvitaes, he paused behind their evergreen branches. Yes, so far so good. He was, he knew, just outside the living room window, and he listened but couldn't hear any voices from inside. That, however, didn't mean much because the six or seven people living here could be anywhere in the huge place. The kid was probably upstairs with either Gwen or the nanny, the personal trainer was perhaps either working out in the basement or was up in his room, while the cook was, as usual at this hour, probably watching the food network in perpetual search of new creations.

Moving along, he crept through the bushes planted along the foundation of the house. He passed beneath a series of high windows, then came to the rear corner of the house. Peering around the edge, he saw the lawn fall away and then, below, caught sight of the old patio, which was now submerged in darkness. Not far beyond stood the garage. From here, even in the faint light, he could see the side door.

More eager than ever to be rid of it, he clutched the plastic bag and felt the long, menacing blade of the hunting knife within. Yes, he thought, you've almost made it. You've nearly done it.

Knowing what he did
about Andrew, knowing without question that he'd most definitely been gay, Todd also knew that he had information no one else did. Which, in fact, was the ideal situation for any reporter to find himself in. Unfortunately, Todd was none the happier for it.

Once Rawlins had pulled himself together and returned to the small apartment in the basement of the building, Todd studied his competition, this circus of media activity zeroing in on the meat of their business. Cindy Wilson and her WTCN crew were claiming turf, setting up equipment so that the apartment building door would be right behind her. Another ENG truck had arrived, this one from WMDW-TV, the third of the local affiliates. And off to the side, Todd took note of a reporter, a tall thin guy from Minnesota Public Radio, who was speaking into a small digital cassette recorder slung from his shoulder.

So in the space of about fifteen seconds, Todd realized that if he broadcast live from here his coverage would be just like all the others. And that just wouldn't do when he possessed the opportunity to do something different, which of course was the name of the game.

Much to his relief, he finally saw WLAK’s big white ENG truck pulling up and parking on 25th. He then pulled his cell phone from his black leather jacket and dialed the station, getting immediately through to the assignment editor.

“Steve, it's me, Todd. I'm here at this murder scene—along with every other reporter in town. It's kind of a zoo, but I think I've got a way to come at this thing that's entirely different.”

His was a deep voice that was no-nonsense, no-shit, just-get-to-the-point. “So what do you want from me?”

“Another photographer—right away”

“Oh, come on, Todd, give me a break. Do you know how short-staffed we are tonight? Besides, you've already got Bradley, and he's the best. Plus you got the ENG van. That's more than plenty.”

It was all about resources and the limit thereof, Todd knew that only too well. To get what he wanted, therefore, he knew he was going to have to come at this one hard. And big.

Keeping his voice low, he said, “Steve, like I said, this is a very hot scene—and this is potentially a big, big story”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“Listen, I knew the guy who was murdered. I met him a few times. He was only seventeen.” He paused not only for effect, but to make sure no one else could overhear. “And he was gay, which is why I want to do the report from another scene.”

There was only an instant of silence. “Let me check this with Craig.”

Todd was parked on hold while Steve went to confer with the ten o'clock producer. It took all of five seconds.

“Okay, I'm sending Mark,” said Steve. “He's already on his way out the door.”

“Great.”

“Just don't leave until he gets there.”

“Of course not.”

That was one thing you never did, leave a site like this unattended, not at least until it was cleared. It might be hours and hours before the police left, but who knew what might happen during that time, and so you sure as hell didn't want to miss any shots. Or worse, leave something for one of the other stations to get.

“So where are you going?” asked Steve.

“I knew where this kid used to hang out. I want to get some footage from over there.”

“Okay, so what do you want to do, a VOSOT?”

No, thought Todd. A voice-over-sound-on-tape would require that at least part of the sound—say, an interview—would be married to the videotape. But Todd couldn't guarantee that, not with so little time. All that he could hope for was a simple voice-over.

“No, let's just do a VO.”

“Sure.”

Todd hung up, then searched the crowd for Bradley, finally spying him, camera on his shoulder, as he photographed the crowd. Todd wasted no time in working his way over there.

“You got it all laid down?” he asked.

“Yep, and then some,” replied Bradley, who was sure to have gotten extra footage. “The cops, the crowd, the real estate—all just like you asked.”

“Great. Let me take the tape over to the truck. You stay here.” In a low voice, he added, “We got another photographer on the way. As soon as he gets here, we're leaving.”

“Just say when.”

“Cover the front door in the meantime.”

“You bet,” replied Bradley, handing Todd the tape then loading another.

Todd wound his way through the crowd, a growing group of gawkers who were simultaneously stretching their necks and gossiping in whispers. As he neared the street, he saw that the ENG truck's mast, a towering pole with a microwave dish atop, was already fully raised. Even though they weren't all that terribly far from the Golden Valley station, everything would have to be bounced off their downtown antennae.

Todd came to the rear of the truck and knocked once. Jeff, the technician, immediately opened the door. A young guy with short red hair and a pasty complexion, he had a mountain of energy, which was usually what it took to get into this business. And last more than a few months.

“Hey, Todd.”

“I want you to feed this back to the station right away. We're going to do a VO, so they're going to have to edit it. I want fifteen of cops, ten of real estate, and ten of the crowd.”

“Sure, thirty-five seconds in all.”

“Right, and as soon as you've sent that, I want you to pack up and go to this address,” said Todd, taking out a pen and paper and writing it down. “Park across the street so we get full angle. And don't make any big deal about getting out of here either. Just do it as quickly as you can. We'll shoot live from there.”

“Yep.”

Todd turned back to the crowd, studied the scene, tried to get the story rolling in his head. Seeing a clump of neighbors gossiping, he thought he should drift over there, see what they were talking about, glean what they might know.

“Hey, Todd.”

He turned to see an attractive woman with big blond hair and a big fake smile. She wore a puffy olive parka that made her slim body look all the trimmer, gray pants, and black shoes. Todd bristled immediately.

“Hi, Cindy.”

Not so very long ago, during his days at WTCN, she'd worked for him. For a while they'd attempted to be a team and even pretended to be friendly. But then, of course, Todd had been accused of murder and she'd feasted on the story, hoping that Todd's demise would propel her rise. She had far less talent than she did ambition, though, and she was still groping for that career-making story.

“What do you hear about this?” she asked with a coaxing grin.

Todd shrugged. “A young guy was killed, not much more.”

“That cop over there—see the cute one with the light hair and mustache?—he says they're already calling it a
homocide.
That true? Was he gay?”

Yes. Yes, of course it was. Some poor gay kid whose family kicked him out because he was queer has ended up in some dump of a basement with his throat slit. But who in the hell had leaked that? Never mind, he thought just as quickly, for Cindy was a pro at using that smile and that figure. If she knew or even suspected, however, did that mean it was going to be all over her report? And would she press the issue, using Andrew's sexuality to paint him the deviant?

“That's news to me.”

“Really?” she said, studying his face, searching for the truth. “Say, I've been meaning to call you. Arsenio Hall's coming to town next month, and I'm going to do a piece on him. Is he gay? A friend of mine said he was, said there were all these gay comedians—Louie Anderson, Paula Poundstone. In fact, my friend says all the men on
Frasier
are gay except for Frasier himself. What do you think, that true too?”

The names of supposedly gay celebrities were continually flying—John Travolta, Richard Gere, Tom Selleck, James Spader, Kevin Spacey, Mark Harmon, Ellen DeGeneres, Rosie O’Donnell, Jodie Foster, Lily Tomlin—some of them true, some of them not. But as always, the media, which had left in the closet such greats as Rock Hudson, Barbara Stanwyck, Errol Flynn, Tab Hunter, Cary Grant, and Malcolm Forbes, was shy of such things.

“Cindy, you're walking through land mine territory, you know. You say stuff like that on the air and you're liable to get your ass sued, which actually would be just fine with me.”

“Well, I just thought—”

“That they were guilty of something?”

“God, Todd, you're so touchy.”

He didn't know why he said it, except of course that he remembered she was a huge fan of his, and it just came blurting out: “You know what, I heard that Tim Chase is definitely gay.”

“Him?” she said as if she'd been slapped. “Dream on, Todd. That guy's so gorgeous—don't be ridiculous.”