looked at the urn on the mantel.
“What’s that?”
“It contains my lover’s ashes,” I said.
“Open it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said.
He picked it up, shook it. “You could hide a knife in here.”
“I won’t open it.”
By now, attracted by our rising voices, Inez had come over. I explained the conflict.
“I could come back with a search warrant,” Gaitan said.
“Forensics can take it and x-ray it,” Inez said. “But you can’t open it.”
“I won’t agree to that,” I said.
“We’re cooperating here, Henry,” she said. “Remember?”
Odell had joined us.
“I want it back tomorrow,” I said.
“I’ll see to it,” Odell said.
“Well, that’s over,” I said to Inez, after the cops had left. “For now.”
She lit the last of her cigarettes. “I’m going home, Henry.”
“Thanks for coming to my rescue,” I said.
She waved it off. “Don’t thank me yet. You’re not in the clear.”
“I’m sorry you missed dinner with the Governor.”
Anger and pity flashed through her eyes. “When we were starting out, you were the one with all the promise. What happened, Henry?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Inez. I’m still here, sober, working, alive.”
“You were supposed to do a lot more.”
“We don’t live in the same world anymore, and in my world, where a lot of guys are dead or drunk, those are major achievements.”
“Well, then, do me a favor and hang on to them. Stay out of trouble.”
I opened the door. “Trouble finds me.”
“Only because you advertise,” she replied, and drove away.
The next day, a deputy returned Josh’s ashes to me. The seal on the urn had been broken.
Chapter 6
“T HESE NIGHTMARES ,” I said. “They’re like something out of Bosch. I wake up shouting because I’ve dreamed that something is in the bed with me eating my flesh. Or I dream of the police pictures of Alex Amerian’s body. Or Josh at the end. Wasted to his skeleton.”
“You’ve had a series of traumas,” Reynolds said. “It’s not surprising they’ve invaded your dreams.”
His pudgy face wore its usual beneficent expression. His gray-and-beige office was quiet except for the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. Above his desk a discreetly framed degree testified to his doctorate in psychology. It had been a long time since I’d sought out Raymond Reynolds, but I hadn’t slept in the three days since Alex’s murder, because when I closed my eyes I was plagued by nightmares. My waking hours were not much better. When I looked out the windows, I saw a police surveillance car parked at the curb. Every time the phone rang, I thought it was Inez calling to tell me the cops were on their way to arrest me. I felt like I was choking in my own skin.
“It’s more than trauma. I feel implicated in Alex’s death.”
He shifted uneasily in his chair. “You don’t mean …”
“Calm down. I didn’t kill him.”
“Then what do you mean, Henry?”
“This guy killed Alex in a particularly intimate way. He used a knife, the classic sex-crime weapon, an instrument of penetration and rage. … You should’ve seen the pictures. And afterwards, he bathed the body carefully. All that touching of Alex’s naked body wasn’t inadvertent or incidental. The killer got off on it. You know what that means?”
The clock ticked. “No, what does it mean to you?”
“It means he’ll do it again,” I replied. “I sent Alex off to a serial killer.”
“And that’s why you feel implicated?” Reynolds asked. “Because you didn’t stop him?”
“No,” I said. “I feel implicated because I understand the mind of the man who killed him. He’s gay, Raymond, like you and me, but he can’t deal with it, so he works out his ambivalence on the bodies of other gay men. I’m almost positive Alex wasn’t his first victim.”
“Why do you understand about the way his mind works, Henry?”
“I understand that it takes so much energy to
“What’s that?”
“It contains my lover’s ashes,” I said.
“Open it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said.
He picked it up, shook it. “You could hide a knife in here.”
“I won’t open it.”
By now, attracted by our rising voices, Inez had come over. I explained the conflict.
“I could come back with a search warrant,” Gaitan said.
“Forensics can take it and x-ray it,” Inez said. “But you can’t open it.”
“I won’t agree to that,” I said.
“We’re cooperating here, Henry,” she said. “Remember?”
Odell had joined us.
“I want it back tomorrow,” I said.
“I’ll see to it,” Odell said.
“Well, that’s over,” I said to Inez, after the cops had left. “For now.”
She lit the last of her cigarettes. “I’m going home, Henry.”
“Thanks for coming to my rescue,” I said.
She waved it off. “Don’t thank me yet. You’re not in the clear.”
“I’m sorry you missed dinner with the Governor.”
Anger and pity flashed through her eyes. “When we were starting out, you were the one with all the promise. What happened, Henry?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Inez. I’m still here, sober, working, alive.”
“You were supposed to do a lot more.”
“We don’t live in the same world anymore, and in my world, where a lot of guys are dead or drunk, those are major achievements.”
“Well, then, do me a favor and hang on to them. Stay out of trouble.”
I opened the door. “Trouble finds me.”
“Only because you advertise,” she replied, and drove away.
The next day, a deputy returned Josh’s ashes to me. The seal on the urn had been broken.
Chapter 6
“T HESE NIGHTMARES ,” I said. “They’re like something out of Bosch. I wake up shouting because I’ve dreamed that something is in the bed with me eating my flesh. Or I dream of the police pictures of Alex Amerian’s body. Or Josh at the end. Wasted to his skeleton.”
“You’ve had a series of traumas,” Reynolds said. “It’s not surprising they’ve invaded your dreams.”
His pudgy face wore its usual beneficent expression. His gray-and-beige office was quiet except for the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. Above his desk a discreetly framed degree testified to his doctorate in psychology. It had been a long time since I’d sought out Raymond Reynolds, but I hadn’t slept in the three days since Alex’s murder, because when I closed my eyes I was plagued by nightmares. My waking hours were not much better. When I looked out the windows, I saw a police surveillance car parked at the curb. Every time the phone rang, I thought it was Inez calling to tell me the cops were on their way to arrest me. I felt like I was choking in my own skin.
“It’s more than trauma. I feel implicated in Alex’s death.”
He shifted uneasily in his chair. “You don’t mean …”
“Calm down. I didn’t kill him.”
“Then what do you mean, Henry?”
“This guy killed Alex in a particularly intimate way. He used a knife, the classic sex-crime weapon, an instrument of penetration and rage. … You should’ve seen the pictures. And afterwards, he bathed the body carefully. All that touching of Alex’s naked body wasn’t inadvertent or incidental. The killer got off on it. You know what that means?”
The clock ticked. “No, what does it mean to you?”
“It means he’ll do it again,” I replied. “I sent Alex off to a serial killer.”
“And that’s why you feel implicated?” Reynolds asked. “Because you didn’t stop him?”
“No,” I said. “I feel implicated because I understand the mind of the man who killed him. He’s gay, Raymond, like you and me, but he can’t deal with it, so he works out his ambivalence on the bodies of other gay men. I’m almost positive Alex wasn’t his first victim.”
“Why do you understand about the way his mind works, Henry?”
“I understand that it takes so much energy to
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