William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

“In his statement, the defendant has always claimed that his friend, Brett Mathers, was the principal actor.”

“And that may well be. But what difference does it make? I wouldn’t have done what he did, or permitted it to happen, no matter what a friend did. Neither would you. But John Christensen did. Not out of insanity. Out of cold-blooded hate.” He shook his head, at once moved and disgusted. “John Christensen isn’t crazy. But he is evil.”

“Objection!” Ben said, rising.

Judge Lacayo craned his neck. “The man’s an expert, and he’s entitled to his opinion.”

“But that had nothing to do with psychiatry. I hardly think that’s common jargon in his field!”

“Overruled,” Lacayo said. “Please continue, Mr. Drabble.”

Ben sat down beside Christina and whispered into her ear. “I’m not going to cross this guy.”

“Agreed. Just get him out of the jury’s face as soon as possible.”

Drabble continued his direct. “And you’re sure about this conclusion, Doctor?”

Pitney paused, gathering his thoughts. “Remember that the beating is acknowledged to have taken something like half an hour. Now imagine being beaten, knifed, hammered for that long a period of time. You know that poor boy cried out for mercy. The defendant has acknowledged that he did. Probably offered to do anything if his assailants would only stop hurting him.”

Pitney wiped his brow, visibly shaken. “Frankly, most people, even if they started, couldn’t have gone on after that. Even most deranged psychopaths couldn’t have continued. John Christensen wasn’t fueled by insanity in any way, shape, or form. He was driven by his selectively sociopathic hatred. Even now he believes what he did was justified. Maybe even believes it was some sort of divine intervention. Someone like that isn’t crazy. But he is absolutely without question the most dangerous element in any society. The one capable of unspeakable evil. The one most important to stop.”

Roger changed my life. He really did. I can’t claim that he was my first lover, or even my first male lover. But he was the one who mattered. He always will be.

He came in on Friday night with a bunch of other guys from a drag racing strip. Most of them grabbed one of the video consoles and started scanning the pictures, not so much looking for love as entertaining themselves. But Roger held back. I saw him, sitting at the table, quietly sipping a margarita. And the more I watched him, the more I had a sense that although he was part of the gang, he wasn’t. That he didn’t belong. And that started me thinking…

As I’ve mentioned before, I don’t have perfect radar, but it didn’t take me long to figure out that he was gay. I waited on his table attentively, made a few casual remarks, dropped the names of a few gay haunts, felt him out. When the rest of his buddies left, he stayed. I went off duty, had Shelly make us another round, sat down with him and talked. And talked and talked and talked. It was easy-we had so many of the same interests and preoccupations. We agreed on almost everything. And made a date to meet the next Thursday for lunch. So we could talk some more.

The first time Roger spent the night, I thought that might feel strange, but I was wrong. It felt terrific, calming, thrilling. Not just sexually, although that was certainly part of it. But it was more. It was feeling, for the first time in my life, that I didn’t have to hide anything, that I didn’t have to put on a show. That I could just be who I really was, without repercussions. That’s a wonderful, freeing feeling.

Roger wants to meet my parents. Well, I have to be honest-I’m not ready for that. And what would be the point? My father wouldn’t speak to him any more than he will speak to me. I’m not sure my mother would be much better, no matter how hard she tried. Roger isn’t just gay, he’s black. Not that that should have anything to do with anything. But I lived with those folks for seventeen years. I know how they think, and I’m very afraid of what they might say. It’s sad that I can’t share the most glorious thing that has ever happened to me with my parents, but that’s the way it is. You can take the hard line with your kids and feel very self-righteous about it, but it always results in a division. A lack of closeness. And a lack of trust. And things are so good with me and Roger right now, I just don’t want that intruding upon our happiness.

Knowing Roger has been such a transforming, liberating experience for me. I don’t know if I can possibly explain it to someone who hasn’t been there. But before Roger, no matter where I went, no matter what I did, indeed, no matter how happy I might have been, I always felt… apart. Alone.

But not now. With Roger, I know I’ve made a connection, one that matters. I know we are together, that we will always be together. No matter what happens. How can I not? I’m in love. For the first time in my life, I am truly head over heels in love. And it feels great.

It wasn’t as bad as visiting the scene of a homicide, Mike told himself, trying to bolster a sunnier outlook. It wasn’t as bad as a trip to the coroner’s office. It wasn’t as bad as root canal surgery.

But who was kidding whom? It was pretty damn bad.

“Contents of a dead man’s apartment. If you can call it that,” Baxter said, dictating into an imaginary recording device. “Two half-eaten pizzas. Sour milk. Tacky shag carpet. The pungent aroma of human waste. Cockroaches. Lots of dirty-make that stale and crunchy-underwear. And here in the cupboard, more sex toys than can be found in most adult bookstores.” She slammed the cupboard shut. “Charlie the Chicken was one class act, wasn’t he?”

Mike tilted his head. “He was working with a limited income, I think.”

“That,” Baxter said, “plus he was slime. Bad combination.” She got too close to the sofa and the smell of-she didn’t want to know-almost gagged her. “Thank goodness he had a rent invoice in his bag. Otherwise, we would’ve never found this hellhole. Although at the moment, I’m thinking it’s a dubious blessing.”

Special Agent Swift entered from the rear bedroom. “Hey, kids! Back here! Water bed.”

Mike winced. “Too trite.”

“How could this guy afford a water bed?” Baxter wondered aloud.

“Maybe he got it from an old lady as a tip.”

“It’s the only thing I could call actual furniture,” Swift said. “All indications are that he hadn’t been here long.”

“And didn’t plan to stay long, either,” Mike added, “judging from the bus ticket in his pocket. He knew someone was after him.”

“You’re sure of that, Sherlock?”

“Sure enough. See the muddy footprints beneath the front window? The wear on the floorboards? He knew his killer was after him. He was watching for him. Probably scared to death.”

“Hey!” Baxter shouted. “Over here!” From an open drawer on a spindly end table that looked as if it would collapse if you blew on it hard, she withdrew a framed photo. “I think we have a shot of our victim.”

Mike scrutinized the photograph. He was a young man, probably early twenties, if that. He had dark hair and slightly chubby chipmunk cheeks. It conformed in all respects with the face they’d found in the bus station men’s room. What was left of it.

“This is excellent,” Swift enthused. “It may not be all that current. But it beats running around with another one of those computer-enhanced jobs.”

Baxter nodded. “Pretty unlucky that both our victims had half their faces erased.”

“It’s not luck,” Mike said firmly. “It’s design. Our killer is smart-probably experienced. He’s trying to hide the trail. Prevent us from identifying the victims. So we don’t recognize the connection.”