stories checked out. Every once in a while they collar a perp who's been doing gay men this way, picking up tricks in the leather bars on West Street and giving them more excitement than they wanted, and they trot out all their open files with a similar MO and try them on for size. So far Carl Uhl's still an orphan. Why? What do you know that the One-oh doesn't?"
"Not a thing," I said. "Is that how the killer got to Uhl? He picked him up on West Street?"
"Nobody knows. Maybe he came down the chimney carrying his bag of tricks. As far as finding out who he is, that's not gonna happen. Unless he gets picked up for doing it again, and he won't, because you know what? Odds are he's dead."
"How do you figure that?"
"How do I figure it? I figure that twelve years ago he was engaging in high-risk sexual behavior at a time when AIDS was spreading through the bathhouses and backroom bars, but before anybody knew what it was, let alone gave the first thought to precautions. Guy who did Uhl, he probably killed fifty times as many people by giving them the virus as he ever did with his little knife, and when he was done spreading it around he went and died of it himself."
"Did he leave semen behind?"
"No, he took it home in a doggie bag." He picked up the report and scanned it. "Semen traces on victim's abdomen, it says here. Probably Uhl's. His blood type, anyway. Of course this was before DNA testing. Forensics has come a long way, my friend."
"It certainly has."
"And that's why nobody gets away with murder anymore. Where'd that question come from, did he leave semen behind? What have you got?"
"Nothing," I said. "I just wondered if there was any concrete evidence that they'd had sexual relations."
"Well, it doesn't sound as though they were talking about the weather. With these leather boys, though, what they call sex might not be what you and I would call sex. One case I had, these two boys had a relationship, and how they worked it, the one would come over to the other's apartment and be told to strip naked and clean the toilet. Not with his tongue or anything, just grab a can of Comet and a roll of paper towels and clean the toilet. Meanwhile the other one sat in the living room watching Oprah. who cleaned it some verbal abuse and send him packing. It'd be like you or I having the cleaning lady come, an' when she's done instead of paying her you tell her she's a stupid cunt and to get the hell out."
"I wouldn't dare," I said. "It was bad enough the time I asked her to do the windows."
"As far as Uhl's concerned," he said, "somebody had sex, because the semen on Uhl's belly didn't just grow there. Either it's his semen because he had a good time before his friend got serious with the knife, or it was the killer's and he had the same blood type. Does it make a difference?"
"Not to me," I allowed.
"Then can we move on? Six years later, 1987, and we've got Boyd and Diana Shipton murdered in their loft downtown on Hubert Street. Two theories on that one. One's they walked in on a burglary in progress."
"That was my impression from the news coverage."
"Well, there were things the press wasn't told. The brutality of the crime suggested a more personal motive."
"He was beaten to death, she was raped and strangled."
"He was beaten, but not just to death. His head was mashed to a pulp, the skull fractured beyond restoration, the face completely unrecognizable."
"But it was definitely him."
"Yeah, they had fingerprint ID, but what prompts a question like that?"
"Nothing in particular. When somebody tells me a corpse's face is completely unrecognizable, the first question that comes to mind-"
"Yeah, I see what you mean. But there's no question it was him. As to the wife, she was garroted with a strip of wire. Her head turned purple and swelled up like a volleyball. As for the rape, well, I don't know if you'd call it that, but it was certainly a violation. She had a fireplace poker thrust up her vagina and well into the
"Not a thing," I said. "Is that how the killer got to Uhl? He picked him up on West Street?"
"Nobody knows. Maybe he came down the chimney carrying his bag of tricks. As far as finding out who he is, that's not gonna happen. Unless he gets picked up for doing it again, and he won't, because you know what? Odds are he's dead."
"How do you figure that?"
"How do I figure it? I figure that twelve years ago he was engaging in high-risk sexual behavior at a time when AIDS was spreading through the bathhouses and backroom bars, but before anybody knew what it was, let alone gave the first thought to precautions. Guy who did Uhl, he probably killed fifty times as many people by giving them the virus as he ever did with his little knife, and when he was done spreading it around he went and died of it himself."
"Did he leave semen behind?"
"No, he took it home in a doggie bag." He picked up the report and scanned it. "Semen traces on victim's abdomen, it says here. Probably Uhl's. His blood type, anyway. Of course this was before DNA testing. Forensics has come a long way, my friend."
"It certainly has."
"And that's why nobody gets away with murder anymore. Where'd that question come from, did he leave semen behind? What have you got?"
"Nothing," I said. "I just wondered if there was any concrete evidence that they'd had sexual relations."
"Well, it doesn't sound as though they were talking about the weather. With these leather boys, though, what they call sex might not be what you and I would call sex. One case I had, these two boys had a relationship, and how they worked it, the one would come over to the other's apartment and be told to strip naked and clean the toilet. Not with his tongue or anything, just grab a can of Comet and a roll of paper towels and clean the toilet. Meanwhile the other one sat in the living room watching Oprah. who cleaned it some verbal abuse and send him packing. It'd be like you or I having the cleaning lady come, an' when she's done instead of paying her you tell her she's a stupid cunt and to get the hell out."
"I wouldn't dare," I said. "It was bad enough the time I asked her to do the windows."
"As far as Uhl's concerned," he said, "somebody had sex, because the semen on Uhl's belly didn't just grow there. Either it's his semen because he had a good time before his friend got serious with the knife, or it was the killer's and he had the same blood type. Does it make a difference?"
"Not to me," I allowed.
"Then can we move on? Six years later, 1987, and we've got Boyd and Diana Shipton murdered in their loft downtown on Hubert Street. Two theories on that one. One's they walked in on a burglary in progress."
"That was my impression from the news coverage."
"Well, there were things the press wasn't told. The brutality of the crime suggested a more personal motive."
"He was beaten to death, she was raped and strangled."
"He was beaten, but not just to death. His head was mashed to a pulp, the skull fractured beyond restoration, the face completely unrecognizable."
"But it was definitely him."
"Yeah, they had fingerprint ID, but what prompts a question like that?"
"Nothing in particular. When somebody tells me a corpse's face is completely unrecognizable, the first question that comes to mind-"
"Yeah, I see what you mean. But there's no question it was him. As to the wife, she was garroted with a strip of wire. Her head turned purple and swelled up like a volleyball. As for the rape, well, I don't know if you'd call it that, but it was certainly a violation. She had a fireplace poker thrust up her vagina and well into the
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