Outburst (26 page)

“Hi, my name is Todd Mills,” he said, deciding that brevity—i.e., leaving out that he was a reporter—was perhaps the best way to catch this guy's interest. “I'm sorry for calling so early, but I'm trying to reach Ron Ravell, whose brother was Dave Ravell. I'm assuming that's you, and I'm hoping that we can talk regarding Christopher Kenney. Would you please call me collect?”

Todd left his cell-phone number, then hung up. Perhaps the guy was in the shower. Perhaps he'd already gone to work. Or perhaps the poor bastard was still asleep. So should Todd wait around, say a half hour or so, to see if he called back? No, he couldn't afford to waste the time.

He slammed down the last of his coffee, then took off. As always, no one inquired where he was going, what he was doing. For all management knew, Todd was going to the gym.

As it was, he drove back into town, heading directly to south Minneapolis. Pulling up to the house where Mark Forrest had lived on Young Avenue, Todd hoped he'd find Forrest's landlady, Anna Johnson, at home. It was only last night that Todd realized how slanted he'd been thus far in his thinking, namely, how focused he'd been on one thing and one thing alone when he'd come here before.

His realization started last night not with the arrest of Christopher Kenney, but with his phone conversation with Janice. Like other times before, he'd been looking for more than an answer to a specific question. No doubt about it, he often called her wanting one thing and one thing only: her nurturing.

Not just gay men but all men were shit at it. At soothing. At stroking. At giving.

If Todd had a specific problem, a complex question of any sort, he turned to Rawlins for his opinions. But when his confidence was waning he turned to Janice, not simply for her schooling, but for her mothering. Increasingly, Todd was realizing that guys, including himself, just didn't get it, didn't know how to do it. Giving selflessly wasn't a natural, an automatic.

And that was what he'd come here this morning to ask Anna Johnson. Todd had been so focused on Mark Forrest's sex life, so preoccupied with the guy he might have been sleeping with, that he'd overlooked the other possibility altogether. Namely, if Anna Johnson didn't know if Mark Forrest had a boyfriend, what about a close, close female friend? A close female friend to whom he might spill all?

In other words, did he have a fag hag?

He climbed out of his truck and headed up to the tall clapboard house, the warmth of the day quickly embracing him. Squinting, he peered up at the Palladian window right below the peak of the house and tried to imagine Forrest's life up there. No, regardless of how out he was, Todd didn't think he'd bring anyone home either, not with a landlady sleeping right beneath you.

Opening the screen door, he crossed the porch and rang the doorbell. A few moments later she again came to the door, pulled aside the lace curtain covering the glass. This time, recognizing Todd, she opened the door right away.

“Hi, Mrs. Johnson,” began Todd. “I'm sorry for bothering you, but—”

“I saw you on TV last night. Saw the whole thing live,” she said, interrupting. “So they got the guy who did it, did they? Arrested him, huh? My, my, my. Poor Mark, what a shame.”

“Well, the police do have a suspect, but they're still trying to decide if—”

“And dressed up all like a girl—heavens!”

Todd said, “Did you ever see her here?”

“Heavens no! Never saw anyone like that thing, that's for sure. I mean, I'd remember her, no doubt in my mind about that.”

“Certainly.” Todd glanced to his left at the assemblage of old porch furniture, then looked back at her. “Last time I was here I asked if you remembered any guys coming around to see Mark.”

“That's right, and I still can't recall a one.”

“I'm sure of that. But what about any women? And I'm not talking about her, the one you saw on TV last night.”

“Well, like I said, she wasn't here, that's for sure. But, no, I can't really recall any other girls coming over.” She put her hand to her chin, thought a moment, then shook her head. “Nope. Like I was telling you, nobody really came over. I mean, it's a nice little apartment, but it's just one room. One room, that's all. Not much for entertaining.”

Oh, crap, thought Todd. Why hadn't he just called? Why had he come all the way over here?

Out of desperation he asked one last time, “So you don't remember seeing him with anyone? You don't even know who his friends were?”

“No, Mark wasn't here much except to sleep. He worked a lot, you know. And he was always going to the gym. And he did stay out late. I mean, when he wasn't working he usually didn't come home until the bars closed, you know, after one.”

“I see.”

So, thought Todd, she knew of what she spoke. More of a snoop than she actually let on to, she really did keep tabs on Forrest's comings and goings. What else did she know, and how could Todd get it out of her?

“Didn't anyone help him move in?”

“Say now,” she said, her eyes widening, “there was this young girl. Cute thing. Dark hair, big smile. He came to look at the apartment twice, and she was with him the second time.”

Bingo, thought Todd. He'd brought her along for her approval.

He asked, “Do you remember her name?”

“Well, no. I mean, that was so long ago, last fall, and …” Stumbling into thought, she stopped, put her hand to her mouth. “Wait a minute. I think he put her down on his application. Come on.”

For the first time she swung the front door wide, then turned and bustled through the house. Todd followed, passing from the small entry, past the oak staircase, through the living room with its dark-oak built-ins and fireplace, around and through the dining room, and finally into the kitchen. It wasn't that large a space, with an electric range, a large porcelain sink, and cabinets painted a pale yellow. Looking at the linoleum and the countertops, both of which had been cleaned so many times that their patterns had been scrubbed away, Todd guessed that the kitchen hadn't been remodeled since the early sixties.

“I've got it all over here,” she said as much to Todd as to herself.

Anna Johnson went directly to a brown accordion-type file that sat on a shelf beneath an old wall phone, a rotary one. Licking her right index finger, she thumbed through the file, came to one pocket, reached in, and pulled out a piece of paper. Through her plain glasses, she squinted at the writing, flipped it over, then smiled.

“Yes, Mark did put her down as a reference. He wrote her name right here—Maureen Shea. Of course that's it, I remember now. See? This is his handwriting, and here's her name, Maureen Shea. He wrote that she's a friend. And look, here's her telephone number.”

Shea? Why the hell was that name familiar? He couldn't place it, not right offhand, but he was sure he'd heard of her before. In any case, he was thrilled. He didn't know where it would lead, but, grinning, he was sure that Rawlins and his crew hadn't come up with this.

“I wish I were as organized as you,” said Todd.

“All you have to do is file things, that's all.”

“Can I see it?”

Anna Johnson proudly handed it to him. “Sure.”

He took the rental application, ran his eyes over it, and found an odd sensation running up his spine. This was Mark Forrest's handwriting, small and neat and tight. Recalling the handsome young man he'd so briefly met on the Stone Arch Bridge, Todd realized that while Mark projected a bold, broad image, this writing indicated someone who was inwardly careful, perhaps even meticulous, which meshed of course with Anna Johnson's description of him and the apartment he kept here.

Todd took a pen and paper from his shirt pocket, jotting down not only Maureen Shea's phone number, but also the address of the apartment where Forrest had lived for, he claimed, two years. Scanning the application, he saw nothing else of interest.

“This is very, very helpful,” said Todd, handing it back to her. “Thank you.”

“Oh, you bet.”

As she escorted him out, Todd ran through it all in his head. He'd start with Maureen Shea and see what he could learn from her. If his crude theory was even partly correct, she'd definitely have some insights into Forrest's personal life. And then after he spoke with her, he'd swing by the apartment where Forrest used to live. So why had he left there—perhaps to save money by moving into a smaller place? Or could he possibly have been living with some guy and walked out on him? A guy who might be consumed with anger?

“Say now, Mr. Mills,” said Anna Johnson, just as Todd was heading out the front door. “There is just one more thing. Actually, I was talking with my neighbor friend and she mentioned it.”

“What's that?” asked Todd, turning around on the threshold.

“Well, I think there's another fellow down the street. On the corner, you know.”

“Another fellow?”

“You know, another gay fellow. He lives down in the little white bungalow on the corner. I didn't mention him before because he never came over, not here anyway.”

Another gay man down the block? Todd didn't know whether to be interested or offended that someone's sexuality was neighborhood gossip.

He asked, “Do you know if Mark ever went down to see him?”

“No, I don't, but my friend thinks she saw them talking once.” She thought for a second. “You don't suppose they knew each other, Mark and this fellow?”

“I don't know, but I'll keep that in mind.” Todd held up the piece of paper. “Thanks for Maureen's name and number.”

She leaned toward Todd and half whispered, “Just don't tell her you got it from me, okay?”

“Right.”

Walking down the concrete walk, Todd glanced at the billowing clouds in the sky, saw one huge puff atop another. He headed straight for his car, got in, and immediately reached for his cellular phone. Glancing at the number, he dialed it immediately.

After four rings her answering machine picked up, and her voice, bright and energetic, said,
“Hi, this is Maureen Shea. I'm away from the phone, but leave a message and I'll get back to you, hopefully within the hour. Thanks, and have a great day!”

Todd cleared his throat and after the beep said, “Hi, this is Todd Mills from WLAK TV. I was wondering if I could speak to you about Mark Forrest. Would you please call me at your earliest convenience?”

Todd left his cell number, folded up the compact phone, then started up his Jeep. At this point there wasn't much else he could do but return to the station. And then? With any luck he'd get calls from both Maureen Shea and Ron Ravell.

As he started down the block he glanced at the small yards in front of the houses, saw the vibrant green grass and the shrubs, mostly lilacs and evergreens. Midwesterners still weren't among the most creative gardeners, their roots stemming from corn and wheat, but then again whatever grew here had to withstand more than a 125-degree temperature swing.

The house on the corner stuck out not only because, unlike the other tall farmhouse-like clapboard houses, it was short and stuccoed, but because there were roses, lots of them in a variety of colors, in the front yard. Thriving roses, which in this climate was no small feat, since not only did they have to be tended to all summer, but buried beneath straw every winter. Okay, thought Todd as he pulled to a stop, so maybe a queer person does live here. In any case, it was someone making an effort.

But wait a minute. Just because this person might be gay—yes, the flowers are fabulous, the house perfectly maintained—doesn't mean he knew Mark Forrest. Not by any means. And it doesn't mean he knew anything about either Forrest's life or end. Yet …

In spite of himself, Todd turned off the Cherokee and got out. Whoever gardened like this was dumping all their love into these flowers, and it showed. Along the walk to the front door, an extravaganza of red and yellow and peach-color roses blossomed, and Todd admired them all as he went up to the house. It was the only structure on the block without a front porch, and to the side of the arched door was a mail slot with a few outgoing letters and a doorbell, which he rang. This could be entirely stupid, but on the other hand it couldn't hurt.

Nothing happened and no one came to the door, however. Todd stood there for a minute or so, rang again. And waited. Evidently whoever lived here was already at work, which made complete sense. Todd peered through a small window in the door, next leaned to the side and looked in the living room. No one, not a sign of life. He glanced at the house next door, then turned around and checked to see if anyone was out and about. Confident that he was unobserved, he plucked from the mail slot the stack of three or four letters left there for pick-up. Quickly sorting through them, he saw that one was a gas bill, another an electric, the others just plain white envelopes. Written in the top left corner of all of them, the handwriting even and perfect, was the return address for this house on Young Avenue and the name of the sender, Douglas Simms.

Todd stuck the stack of envelopes back in the slot, then headed to his car. He'd make a note of this guy and his address. After all, who knew. Perhaps it wasn't such a far stretch that two gay guys on the same block knew each other.

Shortly before noon Rawlins
headed through the broad, dark tunnel that swooped beneath Fifth Street from City Hall to Government Center. Clutching a file that was sure to grow thicker by the day, he focused ahead on the dramatic wall of water that tumbled from an overhead plaza into the middle of this subterranean passage.