Chapter 2
© 2013 by the author
Monday, ca. 8:30 a.m., June 7,
2010
“What are you?” The harsh
whisper came from off screen.
The image on the monitor was centered
on a kneeling man. He was isolated in the glare of spotlights that revealed
only a small area of the uniformly matte black space surrounding him. He
appeared to be in his fifties. He wore a charcoal gray business suit, a white
shirt, and a tie with diagonal blue and red stripes. The sharp edge of a white
handkerchief protruded from the breast pocket of his suit coat. The cuffs of
his shirt extended a uniform quarter inch beyond the sleeves of his jacket and
gleamed in the bright light. His body was bent slightly forward at the waist so
that he could rest the tips of his fingertips on the floor. A watchband was
partially visible on his left wrist. His black hair was flecked with gray and
cut short. It clung to his head like a helmet. It was flawlessly and expensively
styled. He was clean shaven, and he glowed with health. Obviously he had never
gone hungry or lacked for good medical or dental care. Everything about the
man’s clothing and appearance exuded the subdued look of power that success,
wealth, and privilege can give a man. High-powered lawyer, a CEO of a major
company, successful politician—the man could easily have stepped into any of
those roles.
None of that mattered, however.
It was the expression on his face that captured attention. His eyes shifted
from side to side, as if looking directly into the camera would acknowledge the
presence of viewers on the far side of the lens. He was almost in tears; his body vibrated
with tension. He had the look of a man from whom everything had been taken, even
the last wisp of self-respect. The man’s chin dropped and he closed his eyes,
shutting himself away from the camera’s remorseless gaze. He looked guilty.
“I am a faggot.” His voice was
almost inaudible.
“Louder. Don’t mumble. Speak
clearly.”
“I am a faggot.” The man
briefly looked directly into the camera before his eyes darted away again. His
voice trembled, and he gnawed at his lower lip with his teeth. For a moment he
looked like a student who hadn’t done his homework the night before and was
worried that he might be giving the wrong answer.
“Correct. You are a faggot. And
what sort of faggot are you?”
“I am a worthless, pathetic,
old faggot.”
“That is correct. You are a
worthless, pathetic, old faggot. And what is a worthless, pathetic, old faggot
like you good for?”
The man suddenly looked
relieved. He knew the correct answers after all. The warmth in the hidden
speaker’s voice showed that he was doing well. He knew that he was pleasing the
man. He no longer had to worry about being punished because he was getting
things wrong. He raised his voice and almost shouted his response. “The only
thing that this worthless, pathetic, old faggot is good for is to worship other
men’s assholes by rimming them.”
“Correct. And does the
worthless, pathetic, old faggot like to rim other men’s assholes?”
“This worthless, pathetic, old
faggot loves to rim other men’s assholes.” For the first time, the man looked
hopeful and enthusiastic as if a promised reward was in view. He smiled and
looked directly into the camera.
“Yes, you do. But do other men
want you to rim them?”
“No, other men do not want me
to rim them.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am a worthless,
pathetic, old faggot.” The man suddenly
began to cry. Noiseless tears welled up along his lower eyelids and then brimmed
over and ran down his cheeks as his mood plummeted from jubilation to despair.
“That’s right. No one wants to
have anything to do with a worthless, pathetic, old faggot like you.”
“No. No one.” The man’s voice
caught on an anguished sob.
The camera slowly circled
around the man until it showed him from behind. Another man sauntered passed
him and into the shot, with his back to the camera. He was shirtless and
visible only from the shoulders down. Taut muscles fanned out symmetrically
from both sides of the deep groove of his backbone. His jeans were old—the back
pocket on the left had a hole in one bottom corner where his wallet had worn
through the fabric. The dark brown belt that circled his narrow waist was dry
and cracked and scuffed. Not that he needed a belt to hold the jeans up—his
muscular legs and ass filled them and stretched them tight—the belt was a
character statement rather than a necessity. He stopped about a yard away from
the kneeling man and reached around to the front of his body. The microphone
caught the faint clink of metal against metal, and for a moment the belt
tightened across the man’s back as he unbuckled it. The man slowly peeled his
jeans off his ass until they came to rest about two-thirds of the way down his
buttocks.
The kneeling man licked his
lips and looked hungrily at the second man. The camera moved past the first man
to focus on what he was regarding with such desire. Gradually the camera panned
in until the shot was centered above and slightly to the second man’s left
side. The lens looked down into the crack between his buttocks. The top of the
crack was a shallow, elongated oval. Below that the crack plunged into a shadow
leading downward toward a dark triangle formed by the belt line of his jeans
and the rounded arcs of his glutes. The kneeling man moaned hungrily.
The second man pushed his jeans
down until his entire ass was visible. Strands of fine black hair feathered the
crack. The man bent forward at the waist and used his hands to spread his
buttocks apart. His fingertips dug into his flesh, dimpling it. The camera
moved in, focusing on the wrinkled slit of his asshole. It was surrounded by
hair. As the camera lingered on it, the man flexed it so that it appeared to
wink at the camera.
“Would you like to rim this
man’s asshole?” The voice sounded amused, like someone teasing a pet with a
treat held carefully out of reach.
“Yes, yes.” The man spoke with
longing. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please let me rim this man’s
asshole.”
“But no one, certainly not this
man, wants anything to do with you. You are a pathetic, worthless, old faggot.”
The man slumped. “Please,
please don’t torture me. I’ll be good. I’ll do what you want. Just let me rim
him.” He looked as if he were about to start crying again.
“But you know that he feels
nothing but contempt for you. No real man would want you.” The voice grew stern
and hard. “With a body like that, he could have anyone he wants. Someone far
more desirable than you. Unless,” the whisper continued, “Unless, of course,
you pay him handsomely for the privilege. That’s the only reason a real man
would let a pathetic, worthless, old faggot like you rim his asshole.”
“I’ll pay. I’ll pay.” The man
eagerly reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a long wallet bulging with
money. “Here, I have money. I can pay.” He straightened up and began pulling
bills from the wallet.
“It will cost you $5,000.”
“Yes, $5,000.” The man grabbed
a handful of bills from his wallet and began counting them out, laying each
bill on the floor. “100, 200, 300 . . . 1,000.” When he reached 1,000, he
picked the pile up and straightened the edges to form a neat stack. He repeated
the count and the action four more times. Then he picked the five stacks up one
by one, joined them together, and then reverently laid the bills on the floor.
“Count them again.”
“Yes, Sir.” The man hastened to
obey. He was so eager and anxious to please. When he finished, he looked toward
the camera with a plea in his eyes. “It’s all there. $5,000.”
“Yes. You have purchased five
minutes. Time starts now.”
On the bottom right-hand corner
of the screen, a clock appeared. It briefly read “5:00” before shifting to
4:59. The man wasted no time, He crawled on all fours over to the other man and
shoved his face into the man’s ass and began licking. The camera zoomed in. His
nose disappeared into the crack. The thrusts of his tongue were visible as
convulsive movements of his cheeks and throat. His face shook from side to side
as he tried to force it deeper between the other man’s buttocks, his eyes
closed in ecstasy. His grunts and moans of pleasure formed a rhythmic
counterpoint to his movements. From time to time, he gasped as he pulled back
briefly to fill his lungs before resuming his onslaught. The second man’s
buttocks quivered from the impacts of the man’s head against them.
A bell sounded. “Time’s up,” the
voice giving the orders said.
The second man straightened up,
fastened his jeans, and walked off. The first man’s face shone with sweat and
spit. He had drooled so much that the front of his shirt and the collar of his
suit coat were wet.
“What are you?”
“I am a faggot.”
“What sort of faggot are you?”
“I am a worthless, pathetic,
old faggot.”
“And what are you good for?”
“The only thing that this
worthless, pathetic, old faggot is good for is to worship other men’s assholes
by rimming them.”
“What is the worthless faggot’s
name?”
“John Rossiter.”
“And where does the pathetic
faggot live?”
“22 Nyland Heights Drive.”
“And what will the old faggot
do?”
“The worthless, pathetic, old
faggot will worship the asshole of any man who shows up at his home.”
“Stand up.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Turn around and drop your
pants.”
The man quickly undid his belt
and unzipped, letting his pants drop to the floor. He dug his thumbs under the
waistband of his dark blue boxers and bent forward as he pushed them down. For
a brief second a smudge was visible on his left buttock, but as he stood up the
tail of shirt and his suit coat fell down and covered his ass.
“Show your ass. Immediately.”
For the first time the hidden speaker spoke in anger.
“Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir.”
The man grabbed at his coat and shirt and jerked them up. “I’m sorry, Sir.”
The camera moved in until the
tattoo on the man’s left buttock filled the screen. A clown stuffed into a
small cartoon car with oversized wheels sped away from the viewer. His upper
body was twisted around so that he looked backward over his shoulder. His left
arm was raised and waving good-bye. Large arches had been painted over his eyes
in lurid orange and yellow inks, and a red ball was fixed to his nose. The tip
of the thumb of his right hand was pressed against the ball and the fingers
were spread and wriggling in a rude gesture. The skin around the tattoo was red
and puffy. The tattoo was fresh.
The video of the man ended and
a message in white letters against a black background appeared: “Another
korporate kriminal punished by The Carma Klown. Join The Carma Klown in the
fight against korporate assholes. Help punish John Rossiter and others like
him. Use the comments section below to expose the guilty. The Klown makes the
punishment fit the crime.” The message dissolved as a picture of a grotesque,
evil-looking clown came into focus on the screen. A tiny car appeared in the
upper left-hand corner and then sped toward the clown, growing larger and
larger. When it stopped, the clown leaped into it. As the car raced off, he
looked back over his shoulder and waved, mimicking the tattoo on Rossiter’s
butt. The image remained on the screen for several seconds before the video
stopped.
Detective Michael Chang stirred
uneasily in his seat. When he arrived at work, he found a manila file sitting
on his desk. Attached to the cover of the file folder a penciled note from
Captain Altmann gave a URL followed by “Have a look at this. Meeting with
Redding and Baker at 9:30 in the conference room next to my office.” Inside the
folder was a two-page printout of an internet bio for a John Rossiter.
According to the biography, Rossiter was 58 and the CEO of an investment firm
bearing his name. He had an impressive résumé. Harvard undergraduate and
Harvard Business School. Employed at several major financial firms before
branching out and founding his own company. The company had apparently
weathered the 2008 collapse well and come out even stronger. Its holdings were
estimated at around $42 billion. Rossiter had been married twice. His first
marriage had ended in divorce in 1998. He had two daughters from that marriage.
He had remarried in 2001 and had a seven-year-old son by wife number two.
As soon as he saw the name on
the printout, Michael knew what the case was. Rossiter’s name and face had been
splashed across the front pages of all the newspapers in the city that morning.
He was the latest victim of The Carma Klown’s campaign against those who had
caused the 2008 recession and then profited from it. Michael hadn’t stopped to
read the story, but he had overheard a remark on the subway that spoke of
Rossiter as if he were dead. Clearly Rossiter and/or The Carma Klown had done
something that had led to the involvement of the Midtown Major Crimes Division.
The URL Altmann had left for
him was for a site called Star in Your Own Porn Video. It seemed to be The
Carma Klown’s preferred venue for posting his videos. The controls on the
police computer network tracked visits to X-rated sites; even though Michael’s
job often required him to do that, he wanted to avoid the paperwork he would
have to file to acknowledge and justify such a visit. He quickly searched the
Internet for a copy of the latest Carma Klown video. The difficulty was not
finding a copy but choosing which one to watch. In the day since the video was
first posted on the Star in Your Own Porno Video website, it had been reposted
dozens of times on many different sites. He selected one of the versions on
YouTube that didn’t as yet require a viewer to log in to attest that he was an
adult. As he began watching the video, he noted the time and the case number so
that, if necessary, his activities could be documented in court.
Michael was alone in his
cubicle and was sitting so that the computer screen faced the wall behind his
desk. Even so, he positioned the cursor over the minimize screen button in the
upper right-hand corner so that he could hide the display quickly if anyone
came over to check on what he was watching. His posting as one of the resident
computer crimes specialists at Midtown Major Crimes required him to view a
great variety of websites, but as far as his colleagues were concerned, he
spent his day watching only one thing—porn. Last Friday Sergeant Ryan had
shouted at him as the daily briefing broke up, “Hey, Chang, the wife’s going to
be gone for two weeks to visit her mother. Ya seen any good porn lately,
something with big boobs? I’m gonna need something to keep me occupied while the
wife’s away.” It hadn’t helped that some beat cop Michael had never seen before
had shouted back, “Why are you asking him? The only reason he gets to watch
dirty movies all day long is that he’s gay. Chang don’t get excited and jerk
off under his desk like you, Sarge.” Her remarks were greeted with whistles and
catcalls that halted only when Captain Altmann told everyone to knock it off
and get back to work. So even the beat cops thought he spent his days watching
porn. His record in solving so many computer crimes in the four-plus years that
he had been at Midtown and in aiding the other detectives to use the resources
opened up by computers and the Internet to solve theirs were lost in the
joking. At least she hadn’t said that he was good only for recommendations for
gay porn—although there were days when he wished that gay porn was all he had
to watch. He had seen enough pictures of the female body.
He had time to look at the Carma
Klown video only once before he had to join Altmann and the other two men. The
latest comments on the video made it clear that Rossiter had committed suicide
the previous night. Baker and Redding were both detective sergeants, and
Michael assumed that they must be leading the investigation. His job would be,
he guessed, to advise them about the possibility of using the Internet and
computers to analyze the videos and identify The Carma Klown.
As Michael scribbled a few
notes on his laptop about points he might make at the meeting, his thoughts
were drawn in another, familiar direction. He had to look at so much filth and
junk in his work, and in so much of it sex was used to humiliate one of the
participants. It still disgusted him. He hoped it always would. But what if it didn’t?
What if it ceased to disgust him or, worse, he accepted it as normal and wanted
to replicate it in his own sex life? Sometimes he caught himself wondering how
it would feel to indulge in some of the activities that filled his screen
daily. The day when he moved from wondering to acting—thankfully—hadn’t arrived
yet. At least, he hoped he didn’t treat Jeff that way, even in the smallest
way. With vigilance on his part, he would never cross that line.
To judge from some of the
remarks in the comments section, however, many fans of the Klown’s videos were
already so far on the other side of that line that they weren’t even conscious
there might be a line. Some commentators expressed disappointment that the
Klown hadn’t gone further—Raunch Dressing had complained: “Too vanilla. Check
out this site.” Scatluver had advised: “The asswhole shld b durty.” Others even celebrated Rossiter’s
death—“Another korporate kriminal offed, thousands left to go. Good work, CK!
Keep it up!”
It wasn’t the rimming itself
that revolted Michael. Jeff and he had done that and enjoyed it. He hoped that
they would do so again. No, it was the way that the word “faggot” was used to
mark Rossiter as sub-human and immoral and deserving of punishment and the
delight with which the Klown had forced him (Michael noted to himself that he
was already assuming that Rossiter hadn’t been acting freely when he made the
video) to engage in acts the Klown clearly expected viewers to find repulsive.
The video struck Michael as intentionally cruel and the humiliation as meant to
be understood as no more than just deserts for Rossiter. Michael was repelled
but not for the reasons that the Klown intended. But then, he thought, I’m not
the audience at which this is aimed.
Michael hadn’t had to read far
into the comments section to find widespread approval of the Klown’s efforts.
There were almost no negative reactions. Indeed there were many proposals of
candidates for his next victim. To judge from the obvious glee with which so
many people nominated their boss, the Klown was exploiting a popular desire for
revenge. He’ll soon have imitators, thought Michael. We need to stop him so
that we can deter others. But as soon as that thought occurred to him, he knew
it would be futile. An arrest would stop the Klown, but his fans would learn
from his mistakes and be even more successful. There probably was even a
reality show in the offing—Real Korporate Kriminals of Wall Street competing to
see who could break the most laws in one hour, or Real Korrupt Politicians of
Washington, DC—that was a program that could run forever. He dragged his mind
away from these musings and back to the meeting with Altmann. It was almost
time. He grabbed his computer, picked up his coffee cup, refilled it from the
pot in the break room, and then headed for the meeting.
Michael was the third person to
arrive. Detective Sergeant Jerry Baker sat at the table, hunched over a
computer keyboard and peering into the monitor. Captain Altmann was standing
behind him and leaning forward to squint at the screen over Baker’s shoulder. A
cable snaked across the table from the computer to the AV control panel
embedded in the table. Both men looked up when Michael walked in. Baker’s right
hand was poised over the wheel on the mouse, his index finger about to move the
cursor.
“Great. Just the person we
need,” said Altmann. “Can you get this thing to work?” He gestured at the wall
screen. “We’re trying to link to the video so that we can view it on the big
monitor. I couldn’t activate the link. Jerry’s got the link going, but now we
can’t get it to run up there.”
Baker quickly stood up and
pushed the chair back, motioning Michael to take over. “Be my guest.” Altmann
and Baker took a few steps away from the table and began talking about the
Yankees’ win over the Blue Jays the previous night as Michael sat down. It struck
Michael that they weren’t really interested in the game. Typical, thought
Michael. Rather than watch what I do and learn how to do it themselves, they
leave the technical details to me and stand there chattering away, indulging in
“men’s talk” to pass the time while they wait. He quickly typed in the commands
that activated the monitor and then linked it to the original video. “All set,
Captain.” Altmann barely interrupted his conversation with Baker to nod his
head in acknowledgment. Michael thought about moving to another chair, but then
mentally sighed. He would undoubtedly be called back to do something else with
the computer; so he might as well stay put. Besides it was the best seat at the
table for seeing the monitor.
When Phil Redding walked in,
the captain greeted him and then said, “Okay, let’s get started.” Baker pulled
a notebook and a pen out of the inside pocket of his jacket and tossed them on
the table before he sat down. The pen skittered to the middle of the table, and
Baker had to lean over to retrieve it. As usual, Baker had pulled his tie loose
and opened the top two buttons of his shirt. As he bent over, the shirt
puckered open and Michael glimpsed a tuft of grizzled hair. Jeff has hair in
the same place, he thought. He wondered if it would grow gray and wiry looking
like Baker’s when Jeff reached the sergeant’s age. The reminder of Jeff
instantly brought to mind the image of Jeff kneeling in the shower this
morning, his curly brown hair plastered to his scalp by the shower spray, and
the water coursing down his back and between his buttocks. And his lips on
Michael’s cock. His mental images were like a video of his cock being sucked in
and out of Jeff’s mouth. Jesus, what had gotten into Jeff? He hadn’t done
something that spontaneous in months. Michael’s cock stirred, and he suddenly
became aware of where he was. He shut down the image stream and forced his mind
back to the meeting.
The captain closed the door and
pulled down the shade to cover the window in the door. “I don’t think we want
anyone to see what were about to watch. Do you two know Mike Chang? He’s
joining the team as our computer guy.”
That was the first indication
Michael had that he had been assigned to the investigation. His joy at finding
that out was tempered by Altmann’s mispronunciation of his name. The captain
still pronounced “Chang” as “chayng.” Michael was always careful to pronounce
it as his ancestors in China had—“Jahng” with a j sound at the beginning and broad ah in the middle. He always introduced himself as “Michael Jahng”
and answered his work phone with “Detective Jahng,” but trying to get his
colleagues to pronounce his name correctly was, he had concluded within a few
days of arriving at Midtown Major Crimes, a hopeless effort. The first time he
had met Altmann, the captain had said “Good to have you on the team, Mike,” and
then turned around and shouted to the crowded squad room, “Hey, guys, this is
our new guy in computer crimes, Mike Chayng.” And Mike Chayng he had been ever
since.
Phil Redding took the chair
next to him and smiled, “Hey, how’s it going, Michael?” Baker and the captain
sat further up the table, nearer the screen. Altmann motioned to Michael, who
clicked on the triangle to begin playing the video.
Altmann and the other detectives
watched the video carefully until Rossiter begin rimming the second man. Then
they begin twisting uneasily in their chairs, and their eyes darted away for
seconds at a time. When the video ended, no one wanted to be the first to
speak. Nor did they want to catch one another’s eyes. They stared at the table,
trying not to look at the image of the clown frozen on the screen.
“Turn that off, Mike.” Altmann
stood up, opened the shade on the door, and looked out at the squad room as he
spoke. “This video was uploaded to a website called Star in Your Own Porn Video
Sunday morning by this creep who calls himself The Carma Klown. He also emailed
copies of the video, along with a videotaped confession purporting to be from
Rossiter admitting to various financial crimes, to all TV and radio stations in
the metro area as well as all newspapers, even local shoppers’ guides. Friends,
family, neighbors, colleagues—anyone who might know Rossiter was sent a copy
too. This is the sixth video this Carma Klown nut has posted. The others are
similar to this one. A prominent businessman is humiliated and taken through a
series of admissions and actions like the ones in this video. Then he gives his
name and address and invites anyone who wants to, to show up on his doorstep. The
men in the first five videos have all gone into seclusion. All of them deny
involvement in the videos and claim that their bodies and faces were inserted
into the videos by computer manipulation. None of them is willing to press
charges or cooperate in the investigation. That hasn’t prevented them or their
lawyers from calling the mayor and demanding that he do something. Which is why
we are here. We’re the something the mayor’s promising them.”
“Why are we handling this?”
Michael asked. “Isn’t this a job for Vice or the FBI?”
“I’d like to say that it’s
because we’re the best,” said Altmann, “and the brass have confidence in us,
but it’s because yesterday evening John Rossiter was found dead at his home and
now it’s our case. The coroner is 99 percent positive that Rossiter committed
suicide, but we’ll have to wait for her report. Even if it’s ruled a suicide,
if we can find The Carma Klown, the District Attorney’s Office thinks we might
be able to charge him as an accessory because he precipitated Rossiter’s death.
If Rossiter’s tox screens come back positive for drugs, we may be able to
charge this nut with possession and use of controlled substances if we can
prove that he and not his victims administered the drugs, not to mention
kidnapping, false imprisonment, coercion, and extortion. We don’t have an exact
count, but Rossiter’s neighbors said that there was a constant stream of
visitors to his house beginning in the afternoon yesterday—just a few hours
after the video became available. Several of the neighbors called the police
when they heard the sound of a gunshot around 9:30. When the police arrived,
the front door was open, and a man who had shown up for his free rim job was
taking pictures with his cell phone and posting them online. Rossiter was found
dead in his living room. Our job is to identify the Klown and put a stop to his
activities.”
Altmann paused to let the three
men chosen to head the investigation consider his remarks before continuing:
“The mayor’s been hearing from a lot of corporate executives, not just those
featured—make that allegedly
featured—in the videos. Evidently many of them are worried they might be
next—guilty consciences maybe. The comments sections on the videos are full of
suggestions of other men who deserve to become members of what people have
started calling ‘The Carma Klown’s Asshole Lovers Club.’ There’s even an
abbreviation now so that you don’t have to waste so many characters typing the
full name—CKALC. Several million people have viewed the videos. The mainstream
media aren’t showing the videos, but they’ve been posting the links on their
websites. So there’s going to be a lot of pressure on us to get results. The
mayor and Chief Branson are holding a press conference downtown,” Altmann
paused to look at his watch, “in just about an hour—in time for the mid-day
news broadcasts—to announce the formation of a task force. I have to be there
and make the usual ‘we’re pursuing several active leads, but have nothing to
report at the present time’ statement. Jerry, Rossiter’s widow and son are
returning from a trip to California to visit her brother. Meet her at the
airport and escort her to wherever she’s staying. Try to find out if she knows
anything that will help us. Phil, you get back to Rossiter’s house and supervise
that investigation. Tomorrow, I want the two of you to begin contacting the
previous victims and trying to persuade them to talk to us. Chang, you get the
‘enviable’ job of watching all the videos for clues where they were made and
trying to trace them. Any questions?”
“This can’t be voluntary,
right? Nobody in their right mind would willingly take part in a video like
this, especially if they knew it was going to be made public. But what’s
happening? Are they drugged? What sort of drug would make someone do this? Can
Rohypnol make people do things like that? Or is this some kind of sex club
stunt gone wrong? Jesus, you should have seen the crowd at Rossiter’s home last
night, Captain. Some of those guys were disappointed that they couldn’t get a
rim job. Others started cheering when they heard Rossiter’s dead.” Baker’s body
language betrayed his disgust. “Is this something that gay guys do?” The last
question was addressed to Michael and to Phil Redding. Both of them shook their
heads to indicate that they had no answers to Baker’s first series of
questions. Both chose to ignore his final question.
“Those are things we need to
find out,” said Altmann. “Rossiter’s blood is being analyzed right now for
drugs, but we won’t have preliminary results until tomorrow at the earliest.”
Chang looked up from his
laptop, where he had been keying in notes. “Who was in charge of the
investigations of the earlier videos? Have we got the files yet?”
“There was no earlier
investigation. As I said, none of the other victims would press charges. And
rimming’s not a crime. Nor is posting a video of a rim job. The only reason we
can get involved now is because Rossiter is dead. So we have to start from
scratch.”
“Steve, is there some
significance to the fact that Michael and I are part of this team? Is there
some evidence The Carma Klown is gay? Is that why we were picked for the team?”
Redding gestured with his hand to include Michael in his remarks. He spoke
aggressively. His beef with the department about his frequent assignments to
crimes involving gays was of long-standing.
“No, Phil. It’s just a failure
of imagination. One man licking another man’s ass—it’s gotta be gay, right?
That’s the way they think downtown. And who better to investigate a gay crime
than gay cops? They’d really like to pretend this is some sort of underground
gay club getting out of hand. That way they can forget about it.”
Redding shook his head. “I
don’t see this as a gay crime. It’s more like The Carma Klown thinks punishing
someone by making him rim another man is a way of humiliating him or maybe that
. . .”
Altmann held up a hand to stop
Redding. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We need more information before we
can start reaching conclusions.”
“But . . .”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong,
Phil.” The hint of impatience in the Captain’s voice made it clear that he was
restraining himself from saying more. “In fact, I hope you’re right. But we’ve
got work to do. And I have to get downtown to the press conference. We’ll talk
later. Let’s get the investigation started.”
Altmann signaled the end of the
meeting by opening the door and speaking over his shoulder as he left. “Mike,
would you shut that thing off for me?”The other two men stood up and filed out
of the room. They hadn’t stepped two feet from the door before they began
calling to members of their teams and organizing their part of the
investigation. Michael sighed and clicked on the buttons that initiated the
computer’s shut-down sequence—once again, he was part of the computer clean-up
crew.
