Outburst (22 page)

“There's been a dramatic breakthrough in the murder of Minneapolis Park Police Officer Mark Forrest,” began Todd, his voice somehow smooth, somehow belying his racing heart. “And what you're seeing is a live shot of the arrest of a suspect by the name of Christopher Kenney, who was apprehended not more than five minutes ago by a barrage of Minneapolis police. As you can see, officers are leading Mr. Kenney away as I speak. In a few moments he'll be taken by squad car to the main Minneapolis police department in City Hall, where he will be formally booked for the murder of Mark Forrest. And while Mr. Kenney is now cooperating and everything appears to be going smoothly,” continued Todd, as Kenney was placed in a car, “that most definitely was not the case just a few minutes ago.”

As the squad car took off, its lights twirling but its sirens silent, Bradley brought the camera back over, now completely focusing on Todd, who went on to explain how an anonymous caller had telephoned the WLAK station late this afternoon. The caller, reported Todd, claimed to have seen a strange car by the Mississippi the night Mark Forrest was gunned down. Todd went on about how the license-plate number, provided by the tip caller, had led him and the police here. What started out as simple questioning, however, turned quite dramatic when Kenney fled and then battled the police. Todd relayed nearly everything in a crisp, sharp manner, but failed, for some reason even he didn't understand, to mention one important thing. No, he didn't want to unleash that. Perhaps later. Perhaps on the 10:00 P.M., once he had more information. But not now.

“I'm sure there'll be more information coming within the next few hours,” concluded Todd, getting ready to toss it back to Tom Rivers, “but for now—”

“He's in drag!” shrieked Nan into his earpiece. “Jesus Christ, you gotta tell them that! That's the best part! The juiciest! Todd! Todd, you couldn't tell from the visual that Kenney was in drag!”

“—that's the latest information. Tune in to the Ten at Ten report for the very latest. For WLAK, this is Investigative Reporter Todd Mills.”

He heard it, her screaming. Via the microwave connection, Nan Miller's voice was perfectly clear, cursing Todd for what he'd left out. Todd, however, just stood there, staring at the camera in silence, waiting for the signal that he was off-air. And eventually they had no choice, for Todd just stood there motionless and quiet, forcing them to cut him. As soon as the red light atop Bradley's camera ceased burning, Todd plucked the earpiece from his ear and tossed that and the mike at Bradley.

“Hey,” said the photographer, catching them both in his left hand, “you all right?”

Todd shrugged and turned away. Off to the side were two cops, shaking their heads and trying to make sense of all this. One of the other squad cars was now backing up into the alley, turning, and heading slowly away. But where was he? Where was Rawlins? Todd scanned the small backyards, searched for him, yet Rawlins was not to be seen.

Of course. Todd must have missed it, but Rawlins, as the arresting officer, had certainly taken off in the same squad car as Kenney. Shit.

And then Todd just stood there, his mind shifting. Looking around, running it all through his head yet again, from the phone call to the moment of the arrest of Christopher Kenney, he should have been pleased, even thrilled. Any reporter would kill for something so hot. Yes, once again, he'd witnessed virtually every critical step in this bizarre story, from the murder on the Stone Arch Bridge, to the discovery of the body in the Mississippi, and now the arrest of a suspect—a guy in drag, no less—who'd already been once arrested and charged in a cop-killing.

So what felt so wrong?

He couldn't tell, not yet, but every part of Todd's body began to flood with dread. He might be a good investigative reporter, even a great one. But he knew this was way too easy.

Way too insanely easy.

So what
was
so
wrong about all this?

All the way back to the suburban station of WLAK, Todd couldn't shake it, not just the sense that something was off, but that it was flat-out wrong. Nor could he ignore those thoughts even when Nan berated him as soon as he walked into the bunker-like, satellite-dish-enshrined building, where she demanded to know what the hell he'd been doing. Hadn't he heard her? Hadn't he realized how hot this whole thing was? And why, why, why the hell had he ignored her?

“I mean, what were you doing, cutting off early like that?” the producer had screamed. “We're talking about a goddamn drag queen gunning down a cop, for Christ's sake! These are some hot buttons, and that's what you're paid to do: Hit those buttons as hard as you can!”

His voice even and deep and hotly restrained, all Todd could say was, “I'm working on something.”

“Yeah, so are the rest of us, and it's called news, big news!” She shook her head. “You realize you blew it, don't you, Todd? You could have scooped this whole thing, been the first to tell the world that this guy is a drag queen, but now you're going to be last. I mean, I'm sure all the other stations are going to feature that on their ten o'clocks. I bet you dollars to doughnuts even that fool Cindy Wilson at Channel Seven is going to beat your ass on this one. And now you know what you're going to have to do? Run like hell just to keep up with her and everyone else, when you could have won this whole thing hands down!”

As he reached his office with her yelling and trailing after him, he stopped at his door and said, “Lay off, Nan. Trust me, something's wrong here, and I want to proceed with just a bit of caution.”

“No shit something's wrong! And I know what it—”

Todd put a finger to his lips and said, “Shh.”

“Todd—”

Ignoring her, he slipped into his small, glass-walled office just off the main newsroom, closed the door, turned the wand of the white miniblinds so that they shut completely, and stood there rubbing his brow. Stories like this didn't just come your way. No one just gave them away either. And yet … yet he couldn't stem the sense that he was being given all this. He witnessed the murder. He found the body. He not only helped find a suspect, but he reported live from the scene of the arrest. As a matter of fact, he'd captured two out of the three major events of this case on film, which was unbelievable.

Exactly: unbelievable.

And, no, it didn't just happen like this.

Todd would have liked to think he was that great, but events over the past few years had left him permanently humble. And wise enough to know that there were two types of truths: the spoken one versus the real. Just last week, Marcia, an old friend from Northwestern University, had shattered yet another one of those supposed truths, this one held not simply by Todd, but by billions around the world. While she'd once been an aspiring actress at Northwestern, she'd eventually abandoned that dream, pursuing something more practical, namely a career as an accountant in suburban Chicago. An instructor of hers from the drama program had finally made it, however, going on to become not a superstar, but certainly a major star in his own right, and this past Tuesday the two of them had reconnected and gone out for a lengthy and gossipy lunch. When the star started talking about one of his more recent films, an action-adventure movie where he'd played the bad guy opposite an actor who was one of the top hunks and biggest superstars in America, Marcia couldn't help but ask.

“I know Tim Chase is married—and, God, his wife's so utterly beautiful—but every now and then you hear those rumors,” Marcia began. “I mean, forgive me my ‘idol’ curiosity, but tell me, is he or isn't he gay?”

The star looked up from his poached-chicken sandwich, shrugged, and said, “I spent something like two months on a set with Tim. And you wouldn't believe what a wonderful person he is—smart, kind, caring. His wife, Gwen Owens, came for a while too—she brought their son for a couple of weeks, and, man, those are the two most devoted parents I've ever seen. They love that little boy and they really love each other, but …”

“But?”

“Tim had a same-sex lover, a guy by the name of Rob. A nice guy too. He was on the set for a good chunk of the filming, and Tim and he shared a trailer and were completely open about it on the set. Everyone from the gaffer on up knew.”

“But … but …” Marcia's mouth dropped open. “But what about Gwen Owens?”

“She must know that he likes guys, there's no way she couldn't. There was some kind of big blow-up though. She came down, Tim and Rob had a huge fight, and then Rob left. I think it went like that anyway.”

“Yeah, but, I mean, just last week there was a big article in the
National Enquirer
—okay, I didn't buy it, I just read it in line at the grocery store—with Tim Chase on the cover. They said he wasn't gay, and then they had a long quote from his wife, who said he was the straightest man she'd ever met.”

“That's Hollywood.” The star had smiled. “I'm sure his public-relations person wrote the whole thing, her quote and all, and just fed it to them. That's the way these things go.”

That afternoon Marcia had called Todd, giggling and saying, “Oh, Todd, I got somethin' real hot here.”

When Todd had first heard that story he'd been titillated, as every person—gay and straight, male and female—in the world would be. But now, days later, Todd was pissed. No, his anger had nothing to do with a judgmental belief that since he was out the entire world should be. Rather, now that Todd was out he saw the crime of the closet all the more, a crime he himself had committed until recently by broadcasting an image of someone he was not.

No, Tim the megastar was not nice. He was not caring. Nor was he smart. In fact, he was anything but, for he was perpetuating a lie. And that lie wasn't simply that you couldn't be gay and make it in the movies, nor that Middle America didn't want its movie stars anything less than “perfect,” nor even as simple as being gay meant you couldn't be a good parent. Rather, via the silver screen it telegraphed to both straight and queer people this larger-than-life hateful message:
You won't be loved if people find out you're gay.

This territory was all too familiar. And horrible. Todd remembered—for God's sake, he'd wanted to die too—the night Michael was killed and Todd was hauled in for questioning. As if it weren't bad enough that his lover was dead, in the following days Todd became instant fodder for a media roast, with the world jumping to the conclusion that Todd Mills was guilty of murder simply because he was gay.

So was that what was happening here? Was Todd's reporting about to unleash upon Christopher Kenney exactly what had been unleashed upon Todd? And could he morally do that to another person? More horribly, would the media rush to portray Kenney as a killer simply because of his gender expression, simply because he was so very queer? Absolutely, and the fire and brimstone they were sure to bring down upon a drag queen accused of murdering a cop would be crushing, of that Todd had no doubt.

So how was Todd supposed to do this? Yes, he had a job to do. Yes, this was a most shocking case. And, yes, Todd was right at the epicenter. But as a gay person in the media he had definite, distinct responsibilities. So how could he push this further, how could he add another dimension to this story without exploiting the sizzle and gossip of a transgendered person's life, not to mention the fears and stereotypes of straight America as well?

And just what obligation did he have to Christopher Kenney, if any?

Not thinking if he should or shouldn't, only knowing that someone had to do something, Todd picked up the telephone and dialed her office number. Fortunately, she picked up right away.

She answered, “Janice Gray.”

“It's me,” said Todd. “You're working late.”

“Oh, hi,” she replied with a yawn. “Would you believe I'm just revving up for a late night? I'm going to be here for hours.”

“You sure don't sound like it. Say, I don't suppose you were watching TV this evening?”

“Sorry. Were you on? Did I miss something?”

“Kind of.” He hesitated—who else could he turn to?—then said, “Janice, I need some advice on transgendered people.”

“What's that?” she said, sounding suddenly awake. “You got a question about trannies?”

Rawlins began to see
his error not long after they arrived at City Hall.

Back at the scene he'd been anything but clearheaded, and there'd been, of course, no time to think. And now, given the rigidity of the law—let alone the intensity of the situation—there was no going back. While Officer McNamee escorted Kenney into City Hall via the sally port—the police entrance on the east side of the building—and up to the CID on the second floor, Rawlins slipped away, unable to shake a sense of dread of where this thing would go over the next thirty-six hours.

No longer pressing the bloodied handkerchief to his neck, Rawlins went into the men's room and headed straight for the mirror over the sink, where he examined the scratches, three of them, on the left side of his neck. The bleeding had stopped long ago, thank God. And really there hadn't been that much blood, for the scratches weren't that deep. It wasn't as if Kenney had gouged him or anything. There'd been no spurting artery, no spray of blood. Now thinking about it, he really doubted whether Kenney himself had been exposed to Rawlins's blood. For starters, Kenney would have had to have open wounds on his own fingertips, which was doubtful, though somehow Rawlins would have to check on that.