38

It wasn’t as bad as visiting the scene of a homicide, Mike told himself, trying to bolster a sunnier outlook. It wasn’t as bad as a trip to the coroner’s office. It wasn’t as bad as root canal surgery.

But who was kidding whom? It was pretty damn bad.

“Contents of a dead man’s apartment. If you can call it that,” Baxter said, dictating into an imaginary recording device. “Two half-eaten pizzas. Sour milk. Tacky shag carpet. The pungent aroma of human waste. Cockroaches. Lots of dirty-make that stale and crunchy-underwear. And here in the cupboard, more sex toys than can be found in most adult bookstores.” She slammed the cupboard shut. “Charlie the Chicken was one class act, wasn’t he?”

Mike tilted his head. “He was working with a limited income, I think.”

“That,” Baxter said, “plus he was slime. Bad combination.” She got too close to the sofa and the smell of-she didn’t want to know-almost gagged her. “Thank goodness he had a rent invoice in his bag. Otherwise, we would’ve never found this hellhole. Although at the moment, I’m thinking it’s a dubious blessing.”

Special Agent Swift entered from the rear bedroom. “Hey, kids! Back here! Water bed.”

Mike winced. “Too trite.”

“How could this guy afford a water bed?” Baxter wondered aloud.

“Maybe he got it from an old lady as a tip.”

“It’s the only thing I could call actual furniture,” Swift said. “All indications are that he hadn’t been here long.”

“And didn’t plan to stay long, either,” Mike added, “judging from the bus ticket in his pocket. He knew someone was after him.”

“You’re sure of that, Sherlock?”

“Sure enough. See the muddy footprints beneath the front window? The wear on the floorboards? He knew his killer was after him. He was watching for him. Probably scared to death.”

“Hey!” Baxter shouted. “Over here!” From an open drawer on a spindly end table that looked as if it would collapse if you blew on it hard, she withdrew a framed photo. “I think we have a shot of our victim.”

Mike scrutinized the photograph. He was a young man, probably early twenties, if that. He had dark hair and slightly chubby chipmunk cheeks. It conformed in all respects with the face they’d found in the bus station men’s room. What was left of it.

“This is excellent,” Swift enthused. “It may not be all that current. But it beats running around with another one of those computer-enhanced jobs.”

Baxter nodded. “Pretty unlucky that both our victims had half their faces erased.”

“It’s not luck,” Mike said firmly. “It’s design. Our killer is smart-probably experienced. He’s trying to hide the trail. Prevent us from identifying the victims. So we don’t recognize the connection.”

“Which is?” Baxter said, eyebrow arched.

Mike didn’t answer. He stared at the photo. It gave him a much better picture of what the deceased looked like than he had gotten from the shattered remains in the men’s room. “You know, I’ve seen this face before. But I can’t quite place where.”

“Ever work vice?” Swift asked.

“Not for any length of time.”

“Drugs? DEA files?”

Mike batted his fingertip against his lips. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’ll come to me. I hope.”

“Maybe you should see the department hypnotist,” Baxter suggested.

Mike shook his head. “Memories recalled under hypnosis aren’t reliable. You can almost never get them admitted in court. Judges are really down on it.”

“Where do they stand on massage therapy?” Swift asked, her full-lipped grin spreading. “I’ve heard mine is very stimulating.”

“I’m not surprised,” Baxter said, “given how much practice you must’ve had.”

“R-r-r-r-ar.” Swift made a cat claw in the air. “So whaddaya say, handsome? Haven’t you held me at bay long enough?”

“Not that I’m not tempted,” Mike said, “but I’m heading back to your office. Give me enough time, and possibly enough beer, and I’ll remember.” He tucked the photo under his arm. “This could be the break we’ve been waiting for.”

39

After the disastrous testimony from the psychiatrist, Ben comforted himself thinking that it couldn’t get any worse, not with the innocuous list of witnesses left to the prosecution. Once again, he was dead wrong.

“The state calls Gary Scholes.”

Ben whispered to his client. “You sure this is going to be okay?”

“I’m tellin’ ya-nothing to worry about,” Johnny insisted. He seemed more upbeat than he had since the trial began. “Gary and I are brothers. We took a pledge of loyalty. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.”

“Then why is he testifying against you?”

“He was subpoenaed, man. He can’t help it. But he’ll make ’em sorry, once he’s up there. We Betas stick together.”

Ben watched as the gangly college student ambled to the front of the courtroom. All witnesses were nervous, but he seemed particularly unhappy to be where he was. And Ben noticed that the man did not look at his pal Johnny as he passed by their table.

In the first few minutes, Drabble established that his witness knew Johnny Christensen, that he was a member of the same fraternity, and that he had attended some of the meetings of the Christian Minutemen. “Were you a member of that organization?”

“Yes. Have been for years.”

“Even though it’s an antigay group?”

“The Christian Minutemen aren’t anti-anything.” Scholes ran a hand through his hair. He was wearing a suit and tie-standard courtroom attire-but looked ferociously uncomfortable in them. “We are opposed to homosexuality. Homosexuality is a sin, as the Bible makes explicitly clear. But we embrace all people. We try to help gay people find the way. We help them find a cure for their problem.”

Drabble tilted his head. “A cure?”

“Yes. The Christian Minutemen believe that homosexuality is a disease, possibly a mental disorder, and I might add that many well-known and respected authorities support our position. We believe that with therapy and conditioning and spiritual counseling, people can overcome this disease and lead wholesome, natural lives.”

Ben tapped the end of his pencil on the table. He never liked it when he was unsure where the prosecutor was going. Why was Drabble going to such pains to establish his witness’s position on gay issues?

“So you bear no enmity toward the homosexual community.”

“No. I may not approve, but I bear them no malice. I believe in counseling, therapy. I do not believe in violence. The Minutemen do not officially promote violence, and we’ve done our best to squash the rumors that some of our members were involved in… gay-bashing.”

“How long have you known the defendant, Jonathan Christensen?”

“Since he joined the fraternity.”

“Were you friends?”

“I’d say so. We spent a lot of time with each other, along with the other frat guys.”

“Did you ever hear him express his opinions regarding gay men?”

“Oh yeah. He-”

“Objection,” Ben said, approaching the bench. Drabble followed. “Hearsay. Not relevant. More prejudicial than probative.”

“Goes to motive,” Drabble replied. “Obviously.”

“My client’s position regarding homosexuals is well established,” Ben rejoined. “Anything more on this subject is just cumulative. Worse, the prosecutor is implying that Johnny’s disapproval of homosexuality proves he committed murder.”

“It does seem to me as if we could skip this part,” Judge Lacayo said. “Let’s move on to the heart of the man’s testimony.”

Drabble grudgingly complied. “Mr. Scholes, were you with Johnny Christensen on the night in question?”

“Part of the time, yeah.”

“Which part?”

“I saw him around eleven P.M. in a club near campus called Remote Control.”

“And not before?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why were you at Remote Control?”

“It was a regular hangout for the guys in our frat house. You could probably find some of us there any night of the week. An e-mail had gone around inviting members to meet there after a sorority function taking place earlier that night.”