Richard Stevenson - Strachey's folly

"It's just too ironic," Timmy said miserably. Even though we were both charged and alert from having drunk too much Ethiopian coffee, Timmy looked exhausted, haunted, suddenly older. It was an indication of how wounded he was that he seemed only dimly aware that his shirt and khakis were stained-caked in some places-with Maynard's blood. I had held Timmy's hand for some minutes but automatically let go when two elderly black women entered the waiting room and seated themselves.

"What's ironic?" I asked.

"You know."

"That Maynard survived Africa and Asia, but he might not survive Washington?"

Timmy grunted. Mounted on the wall across from us was a television set tuned to what looked like a self-esteem-industry in-fomercial. A muscular man rapturous with self-confidence was pumping up an audience whose faces were full of yearning for an end to self-doubt. The man's tapes, they wanted to believe, would bring clarity into their lives, and perhaps belief. The pitchman had a good thing going and he looked as if he knew it.

I said, "Maybe Maynard will make it. It's not over yet. You've been telling me for years how resilient he is."

Timmy sat slumped to one side of his chair, slating into space, his Irish eyes vacant and ringed, his ordinarily silky blond wave-he was the only man I knew with a kind of naturally art deco hairstyle-wet with sweat against his skull. He grunted again and shook his head hopelessly.

A gaunt, hollow-eyed man with both eyes and hair the color of lead and a sport coat of nearly the same shade entered the room and peered around. The two DC Metropolitan PD patrolmen who had responded to my 911 call had not asked many questions about the shooting, and something told me that this was the detective assigned to the case tracking us down. He walked over to Timmy and me.

"Are you the two that came in with Maynard T. Sudbury?" the man asked tonelessly.

"Yes," Timmy said. "How is he?"

"That I couldn't tell you." He continued to gaze at us with eyes that were cold and unrevealing.

"Are you a police officer?" I said.

The man produced his wallet, flipped it open and shut, put it back in his jacket pocket, and said, "Ray Craig, Detective Lieutenant, MPD." He looked at me, then at Timmy, then back at me. He made no move to extend his hand, and unsure of how to react to Craig's chilliness, or just rudeness, neither of us offered ours.

Timmy said, "We're really worried about Maynard. The resident said he was in tough shape. 'Tough shape' were the words he used."

Ray Craig did not reply. He studied Timmy and me for a moment longer. Then he turned and dragged a molded-plastic chair up to us, its metal legs snagging bits of carpet as it moved, and seated himself in front of us, his knees nearly touching ours. He leaned forward, and now I was within range of his powerful odor, stale nicotine and tar. Had I once smelled like this? I knew I had.

"Which one of you is Callahan?" Craig said dully.

Timmy said, "I am."

Then Craig looked over at me and said, "You're Starch?"

"Starch? No."

Craig got out a small notepad and read, "S-T-A-R-C-H, Donald."

"It's Strachey. S-T-R-A-C-H-E-Y. As in Lytton."

"Lyndon?"

"Lytton. L-Y-T-T-O-N. Lytton Strachey, the brilliant English biographer and fey eccentric. There was a so-so flick about him and his sort-of wife last year called Carrington. Maybe you caught it."

I felt Timmy tense up beside me, but Craig just colored a little, which suited him.

He stared at me appraisingly for several seconds. Then he said, "Tell me exactly what happened on E Street tonight." He leaned back a little-a mercy-and continued to look at me as if I were the one who needed airing out.

I explained to Craig that Timmy, Maynard, and I had dined at an Ethiopian restaurant in Adams-Morgan and that from around ten on we had been hanging around Maynard's house watching television news and talking. I said Maynard had left something in his car, he had gone out to get it, and seconds after he went out the front door, Timmy and I heard sounds that could have been gunshots. We also heard a car speed away. We ran outside and discovered Maynard bleeding and unconscious on the sidewalk alongside his car. I said I immediately went inside and telephoned the police while Timmy tried to stanch the flow of blood from Maynard's body.

Craig continued examining me in a way that felt both hostile and somehow prurient. I was not touching Timmy, but I was aware that his respiration had increased.

Craig said, "So, what'd Sudbury go out to his car to get?"

"Maynard went out to bring in a name written on a piece of paper," I said. "We had all gone to the AIDS quilt display during the afternoon. We ran into an acquaintance and wrote her phone number on a Names Project brochure Maynard was carrying. He had left the phone number in his car and had gone out to retrieve it when he was shot."

Craig seemed to roll this information around in his mind. Then he shifted, shot Timmy a surly look, and said, "What's your connection with Sudbury? You don't live around here. You live in New York State." His tone suggested that anybody residing outside the District of Columbia might be of a different species from those residing within the District and whose associations with Washingtonians went against nature.

Timmy croaked out, "Maynard and I are old Peace Corps friends. We were in the Peace Corps together in the sixties. Donald and I stay with Maynard whenever we come to Washington. We're-we're just old Peace Corps buddies."

Timmy might as well have announced to Craig that he and Maynard had been members of the corps de ballet of the 1965 Fonteyn-Nureyev Giselle tour. Craig sniffed once, then looked Timmy up and down in the way he had just looked at me. He said, "Talk to me about your… buddy." He gave buddy a pronunciation that was somewhere between a sneer and a leer. "Does Sudbury have enemies?" Craig asked. "If so, who?"

Timmy went through the motions of mulling this over. "I can't think of any enemies Maynard has. He's generally well-liked. Of course, Maynard has been PNGed out of a number of countries. But I assume you mean domestic enemies. Personal."

Craig's eyes narrowed. "What's PNG?"

"Declared persona non grata. Maynard is a foreign reporter and travel writer.

Some officials in some countries didn't like what he wrote about their governments. But I doubt any of them tracked him down to E Street in Washington and shot him."

"Skip the opinions," Craig snapped. "If I want your opinions, I'll ask for them. Just tell me what you know." He had his pen and notebook out but he wasn't writing any of this down. "Married?"

"Maynard?"

Craig's eyes flashed for a brief second. "Yes, Maynard. Maynard T. Sudbury.

That's who we're talking about here, isn't it? Maynard T. Sudbury, the shooting victim."

"Not married," Timmy said, jaw clenched.

"Sudbury is gay," I added. "His lover died in 1993"

Craig's face tightened. "I'll bet you two are that way inclined also. Am I right?"

"Are we gay? You bet."

He snorted dismissively. He looked at me and at Timmy, then shook his head, as if our being gay was the most preposterous thing he had ever heard. "I want the names of family, friends, and associates. Start with family." Now his pen was poised.

Before I left for the hospital, I had grabbed Maynard's address book off his desk.

If he died, I knew it was possible Timmy or I would have to notify his family. I had glanced through the address book quickly to make sure it included some Sudburys in Southern Illinois-it listed six-but I didn't take it out of my pocket for Craig. Timmy and I fumbled through our memories and named a number of people, in Illinois and in Washington, whom we thought the police would be duty-bound to notify and/or question. Neither of us mentioned Jim Suter.