Unhinged (4 page)

“You didn't throw up, did you?” He sat next to me.

“No. Almost. I'm sorry about that.” I looked out at the decay and litter in the street. Lying was a habit I didn't want to start, but if he knew, I would probably never have his total respect.

“Don't be. Like I said, you'll learn to deal with it. What's important is you face it head-on. Let me fill you in on what Gordo found.”

I gave him my full attention. “Shoot.”

“There wasn't any visible semen found in Gant's ass. The best Gordo could tell was that he hadn't had any dicks up there recently, being that he found no tears or blood vessels ruptured in the interior lining, or some shit like that. Mr. Happy wasn't bitten off like the nipples. Gordo thinks the killer could have used the same knife he stabbed the first vic with, but since it wasn't recovered at either scene, he can't be sure. Blood loss is the probable cause of death. Bruising on the arms and chest indicate he was restrained at some point. He must've fought until he couldn't anymore.” Ron paused, staring at my notepad.

“Is that it?” I asked.

“That's it on the guy.” He flipped the page. “I believe you heard everything on your friend.”

I nodded, taking my notepad back. “How long before we get lab results?”

“It depends. It could be several days. I'm sure Gordo will call John and he'll call us.” Ron huffed and shook his head. “Can you believe this government? The coroner's office used to be open twenty-four hours with a staff of over forty, and now they open at eight and close at four. Hell, people can't come here at night. Look around.”

“I know. It sucks. What about Josie Caldwell?”

“I told her Greenwood would keep her informed. She's okay, but I don't need another pencil pusher on my back.”

“Should we go to Breaux's?” I noticed my watch read 3:30 p.m. I pondered where I might get a quick snack.

“Yeah, let's go get this over with. If I were you, I'd watch my ass in that place. You're the kind of cutie they like.”

Ron and I were uncomfortably hot as we drove silently down Bourbon Street toward Breaux's. It was only fifteen minutes from the coroner's, so the air stayed off, and all the windows remained down. The sun created some shadows on Bourbon, but it was still fantastically humid.

I pulled over in front of the door, and we entered the popular gay bar. Some visitors who didn't know better were surprised when they walked into a room of gay men hugging, kissing, and dirty dancing. Ron and I knew what to expect.

The establishment was dark, except for a few lights showing off an empty dance floor. “Relax” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood vibrated through the speakers. The bartender, who looked like a Gap model, was talking to a couple of guys, otherwise the place was deserted. We approached one end of the counter, where a television aired the latest campaign ad for the reelection of President Robert Vorhees.

I stood in one spot, careful not to touch anything. Not that I considered myself a homophobe, I just had the absurd notion that sexual activity had occurred in some unlikely places.

The bartender cut his conversation short and walked over. He looked about seventeen, with a narrow face, and a tight, black T-shirt that read “So?” in little white letters. He had the thin eyebrows of a woman.

“What can I get for you, gentlemen?” He gazed at me. I thought he was waiting for me to give him a sign, but I didn't soften my stare. His eyebrows raised slightly; then he looked over at my partner.

Ron swung his badge close to the bartender's face but didn't give the guy a chance to get a good look at it. “We need information. I'm Detective Lacey; this is Detective Dupree. What's your name?”

The kid tilted his head back, as if he had just remembered the name of a song that had been on the tip of his tongue. “Oh, this is about Ryan.”

“Why don't you tell us what you know?” Ron asked.

The man-boy smiled, knowing he had our attention. “We've been expecting cops to show up. A report about the double murder just came on the news.”

“Tell us something that hasn't been on television,” I snapped. “What's your name, anyway?”

“Roger. I was one of the bartenders working that Friday night. But I couldn't tell you anything about it.”

“We'll decide that. You knew the victim?” I asked.

“Everyone knew Ryan. He came here to dance all the time. It's a real shame.” His face didn't show any pity, however. He only seemed eager for tabloid-worthy news. Perhaps Ryan had turned this kid down. He seemed like he'd have sex with a barstool if it showed interest.

“Do you remember seeing him leave with anyone Friday night?” I said, then waited for some inappropriate slur to fly out of Ron's mouth.

“No.” Roger picked up a tall glass to clean. He gently stroked it with a rag. “I said hi to him when he came to get a drink, but I didn't see him leave.”

“What was Ryan's drink of choice?” Ron asked.

“Seven and Seven.”

“He ever drink absinthe?” I asked.

“No. Our bouncer does sometimes. I mostly serve it to people who want to try it or just want to get totally hammered.”

I glanced at Ron. “All right. Who else was here?”

“Josh, the other bartender, just called in a few minutes ago. He saw the news, too. He told me he didn't see Ryan leave with anyone, either.”

“Can we get the full names and addresses of everyone who was here, so we can ask them ourselves?” I asked.

Roger grabbed a pen and paper.

“Who owns this place? We'll need to talk to them, too,” Ron said.

“Well, the owner is en route to Key West. I'm managing while he's gone. I'll give you his voice mail. He can call you back.

“The bouncer, Kenny Toliver.” He reached under the bar for what appeared to be an employee address list. “He'd be your best bet. There's another bouncer who roams around as a spy and cleans stuff up, but he's new and doesn't know Ryan. I think he's straight if that info helps the case at all. His name is Kyle Singleton. It was just Kyle, Josh, me, Kenny, and the DJ, Lamar, working that night. But we have a tight little community here. If anyone saw anything, it's sure to come out, whether they tell one of us or go to you directly.”

Roger delicately wrote down all the addresses and handed the paper to Ron, who gave him a police card. Roger then looked at me, expecting another card. I nodded, and we turned to walk out when I heard him say, “Oh, Detective Dupree? Stop by sometime when I'm on duty and you're not.”

“You're a little too desperate for me.” I winked as we left.

Ron just shook his head.

“Toliver doesn't live far,” Ron said when we got into my Jeep again. “His place is on Decatur near Esplanade Avenue. We can stop at Cafe Du Monde afterward.” He wiped his face and neck with a handkerchief.

Being hot and tired myself, I was surprised that Ron wasn't bitching about the weather. He accepted the humidity with no mind. I hated my Jeep in the summer. Everything in it was blistering hot to the touch unless it was raining or dark out. Most times, I could barely keep my hands on the wheel.

“That Roger guy liked you.” Ron smiled as we drove among tourists at a snail's pace. “You two would make a sweet couple.”

“He wasn't my type,” I responded. “Besides, I like older guys with potbellies who carry a gun to overcompensate for their little peckers.”

“Ow. I'll be feeling that one tomorrow.” Ron laughed, then fell silent for a moment. “I've been seein' a bunch of reelection commercials. Who are you gonna vote for for president? Vorhees or Cornell?”

“Vorhees,” I said with certainty. “He's homegrown, ya know? He'll do the most for us here. I think he comes off as a badass sometimes, too. You kinda need that in office, right? Cornell seems like a flake. Unless I personally know the candidate, how do I know which one is full of shit? Odds are, both of them. They make their promises during the campaign and their excuses later.”

Politics. I hated politics.

Ron, on the other hand, apparently got some energy back with the subject. “I met Vorhees a couple of times when he was our senator. I'll vote for him ‘cause I met him and we talked. I like having a Louisianan as president. Lord knows this state needs some good publicity.”

“How'd you meet him?”

“I first met him about twenty years ago when he spoke at a policemen's banquet. We talked a bit about the crime rate and whatnot. About three years later, I ran into his entourage at a Saints game in the Superdome suites. He remembered me, and we talked about how the Saints sucked that year and every year before that. Now we hear his ideas on rebuilding New Orleans. He's not letting it drop, and that means something. He's had my full support every year.”

“That's cool,” I said as we found ourselves in front of Kenny Toliver's apartment.

I stood by a fire hydrant, while Ron ambled to the main door of the yellow four-story building and rang Toliver's buzzer. I slowly closed the distance between us, feeling the sweat run down my forehead and back.

“Hello?” blared from the intercom.

“Is Kenny Toliver in? This is the police.” Ron looked through the metal gate into the small courtyard.

“Come on up,” squelched out of the box, and a buzz came from the gate.

Ron and I entered the courtyard, decorated with flowers, bushes, small trees, and a brick birdbath directly in the center. As we climbed the stairs, the door of apartment 2C opened, and a man in shorts and a tank top looked down at us.

“Kenny Toliver?” I asked.

He nodded, stepped out, and closed his door. I guessed that he didn't want us going inside.

“I'm Detective Dupree, and this is Detective Lacey.”

Ron began asking questions when we got about eight feet from him. “Your pal Roger told us you heard about Ryan Gant's death.”

“I saw it on the news. Do you have a suspect?” Kenny had a bodybuilder's physique, thick, with barely any body fat. He wore Coke-bottle glasses and sported a crew cut with a thick mustache. He could pass for Freddie Mercury's less talented brother. In no time, I became well aware of his lack of deodorant.

“Did you see Ryan leave with anyone Friday night?” Ron asked as I was trying not to breathe.

“No, sorry. I've been thinking about it for a while. I saw him once. But I couldn't tell you when he left or with who, if anyone.”

“Does he usually leave with strangers?” I tried to accelerate the questioning.

“Sometimes. It's usually the same type of guy. Good build, looks.”

“So, he's not into relationships?” Ron asked. We seemed to alternate questions to allow each other to find some fresh air.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“What were you doing Friday night into Saturday morning?”

“After work at 2 a.m., I came home . . . alone.”

“Anything easier? No ATM withdrawal? Anyone on the block see you? Did you stop at the A&P for some absinthe?”

“Absinthe?”

“What's your favorite brand?” Ron asked.

“Man, I gave the stuff' up a year ago when I tried to beat up five assholes on Royal. Drink enough of that shit and it'll make you think you're invincible.”

“No one can verify your whereabouts?” I asked.

“I doubt it.” Kenny suddenly slouched as if he were fatigued.

“You ever date Ryan?” I threw out.

“A couple of times. Probably ‘cause I'm usually the last one at the bar.”

“You like him?”

“Yeah, but he's not my taste.”

“You gonna tell us why?” Ron asked.

Kenny frowned and glanced behind him, then said, “I like certain things, and he likes certain things. All I can tell you is that he likes to play rough.”

“Rough how?” Ron asked.

“He liked to be the dominant one, with me anyway. He got mean sometimes. He was into S and M and whips and shit. I didn't like that too much, so we stopped hanging out. He was a good guy outside the bedroom, but I was afraid some man whore might do something like this to him one day.”