William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

“So we tried to pick out who it was. Tony always had the most absurd theories. ‘That mild-mannered grandmother is really a twenty-five-year-old male Lebanese bodybuilder in drag.’ That sort of thing.”

“Sounds like a great boss.”

“He was. And a great friend. I could tell Tony anything.”

“Did you have any… hint? ’Bout what happened?”

“Not at all. Sure, sometimes the frat boys acted like assholes. But I never dreamed-” She looked down, squinting to fight back the tears. “I mean, everyone knew Tony was gay. So what? I didn’t think anyone cared about that anymore. And then-” She pressed her hand against her mouth. “And then you blink for a minute, and one of the loveliest men to ever walk the earth has been killed. Just because of what he was.”

“Tony was lucky to have a friend like you.” Loving waited a moment before proceeding. “Has anythin’ bad been going down here at the club lately?”

“We still have frat boys, if that’s what you mean.”

“I don’t know. Mob contacts? Hit men?”

“No. My boss won’t have anything to do with the mob.”

“Gambling? Illicit sex? Drugs?”

She shook her head. “We don’t permit any drugs in the bar. Zero tolerance.”

“You sure about that?”

“Roma won’t stand for it. If he gets even a hint, he’s all over it.”

That was the official policy, anyway, and she seemed sincere about it. “If you think of anything else that might help, ma’am, gimme a call, would you?”

“I will.”

“One more thing-would you mind if I ask how you hurt your arm?”

Shelly tensed. “It-it isn’t relevant. It happened after Tony…”

“Still. If you wouldn’t mind.”

Shelly took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself. “You already know, don’t you? I can see it in your face.” She tossed her rag down on the bar. “Well, you’re right. I tried to kill myself. Slashed my wrist. Had to go to the hospital. The sling is just to cover the wrist bandages. I didn’t want it to be obvious.”

“Was this after Tony was killed?”

She nodded. “I just… I didn’t understand how anyone could have so much hate. So much cruelty. How they could torture a good, sweet man. When I read in the papers that Tony begged for mercy, pleaded for his life, and they ignored him, I-I-” She pressed a hand against her forehead. “Well, I didn’t want to live anymore. Couldn’t.”

“And how do you feel now?”

“It still hurts, but… I’m not suicidal.”

“That’s good. Thank you for your time.”

“Sure. Oh-”

“Yes?”

“I know you’re working for the lawyers representing that Christensen kid, but-they are going to convict him, aren’t they?”

Loving shrugged. “Certainly looks that way.”

“Good. Good.” She peered down at a tiny point on the floor. “I don’t want to sound vindictive, but someone has to pay. When someone as beautiful as Tony is taken, in such a… brutal way. He suffered so much. And we’re still suffering-all of us who loved him. Shouldn’t the bastards who did it have to suffer, too?”

Special Agent Swift raced into Mike’s cubicle, waving a message slip in the air. “Woo hoo!” she squealed. “I got lucky!”

“Why am I not surprised?” Baxter groused, sotto voce.

Mike raced to her side. Baxter arrived at a somewhat more leisurely pace.

“Can I cook, or can’t I?” Swift continued. Mike noticed that her Southern accent seemed to become more pronounced in moments of great excitement.

“We got a positive print ID on the photocopy,” Swift ex-plained.

Baxter squinted. “I don’t understand. There was a fingerprint on the photocopy we found in the victim’s pocket?”

“No. The photocopy was a fingerprint.”

“I’m lost.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Mike interjected. “A lot of people-including those in law enforcement-don’t know that photocopiers leave a fingerprint-due to the tiny scratches and dirt on the copier’s glass and optical system.”

“And this can be traced?”

“You bet your sweet bippy,” Swift said enthusiastically. “The odds against two copiers having exactly the same pattern are astronomical.”

“Our victim didn’t have a copy machine in his apartment,” Mike explained, “so I sent plainclothes officers to all the copy shops in town, checking for the same pattern. And it paid off.” He glanced at the message. “Kinko’s. Memorial and 51st. Shall we?”

Mike was not surprised to learn that Sergeant Tomlinson was the man who had tracked down America’s Most Wanted Photocopier, or that he had pored through three months of credit card receipts before Mike arrived. Tomlinson had always been the king of go-the-extra-mile. That was how he had ended up as Mike’s partner, until Kate Baxter came along.

“Actually,” Tomlinson said, “I’ve been through them twice. Working from the approximate date and cost. But nothing even comes close.”

“If he just made a single copy, he wouldn’t use a credit card,” Mike reasoned. “Probably just small change.” Which was too damn bad. Because a credit card receipt would’ve given him a name. And, more than likely, an address.

He addressed the clerk, a pimply teenager named Sid. “Any record of cash purchases?”

The kid shook his head, stiff-necked. Mike couldn’t decide if he was intimidated because this was his first encounter with law enforcement-or because it wasn’t. “People come in all the time to make one or two copies. There’s no way to trace them.”

And you’re not likely to recognize any of them, either, Mike thought, but he was going to give it a try, just in case. He pulled out a digitally reconstructed photo of the victim. “Ever seen this guy before?”

It didn’t matter what the kid said, because Mike could tell the moment his eyes lit on the photo that he had.

If nothing else, the boy had the sense not to lie. “Yeah. I recognize him.”

“He’s been in the store before?”

He hesitated only a moment before answering, but it was a moment that told Mike everything. “A few times.”

“But that’s not how you know him.”

Sid glanced over his shoulder, as if hoping some photocopy emergency might extract him from the interrogation. “I’ve just… seen him around.”

“You’ve bought drugs from him, haven’t you?” Agent Swift asked, out of the blue.

“What? God, no. I don’t do drugs.”

“What about Ecstacy? You probably don’t consider that doing drugs. Right?”

“Well…”

“Come clean, kid. It’s the smart thing to do.”

The kid looked at her, but didn’t answer, which spoke volumes. Mike was impressed. Chalk up one for the FBI.

“It’s all right, son,” Mike said. “We’re not looking to make a drug bust. We need information about this man.”

The boy remained silent.

“Of course, if you don’t help us, I’ll have to consider what I might do to persuade you. Like maybe a search of your work locker. Your car. Your apartment.”

“His name’s Manny,” Sid said. “Manny Nowosky. And I’ve only seen him a few times.”

“You know anything about him?”

“Not much. He was holed up in a rental house not far from where I live. Used to run into him at the pool parlor. I haven’t seen him lately.”

And there’s a reason for that. “There must’ve been something else,” Mike said.

“I wouldn’t know what it was.”

“Did you hear any rumors? Even hints? Maybe about something big going down. A big score. A big bust. Manny coming into a big wad of dough. Anything.”

Sid shook his head adamantly. “No, nothing. I never had that much contact. We just… did business a few times.”