In a Strange City Page 16

  "So what does "Alone‘ tell us?"

  "What do any of Poe's poems tell us? He was technically brilliant, an exacting craftsman. Wait, I love this." He put down the first book and went to the shelf for another. "Poe wrote this, in a preface to his poems:

  These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected while going random at "the rounds of the press."

  "Clearly, Poe knew the press well," Tess said. He continued to read.

  If what I have written is to circulate at all, I am naturally anxious that it should circulate as I wrote it. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon me to say, that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have prevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice.

  Daniel looked up. "I love that. It's so… naked. He's trying to be self-deprecating, but his ego really comes through, as well as his resentment of the material circumstances that prevent him from writing full-time."

  "Yes," Tess agreed, then tried to prod him back to the topic at hand, ever so gently. "But the poem? My poem? What does it mean?"

  "I haven't a clue. My guess is he wants you to know he's not a dilettante or a poseur, who knows only "The Raven‘ and "Annabel Lee," or even "The Bells," with their tintinnabulation. But I can't see any other real significance. He left a few lines out, assuming it's a he—" His index finger pointed to four missing lines on the page.

  From the same source I have not taken, My sorrow I could not awaken, My heart to joy at the same tone, And all I loved, I loved alone.

  "I can't see any significance to those," Tess said.

  "Neither can I, other than the fact that he was worried about fitting it on one piece of paper. I'm sorry. I'm not much help, am I?"

  "Don't be sorry. It's probably just some sick twist, playing a game with me. For all I know, it's the homicide detective working the case." Or Arnold Pitts. Or Gretchen O'Brien. Or Jim Yeager, trying to ignite his own story. After all, he had been outside her home the day the first note appeared. "My boyfriend says he's trying to tell us he's not like other boys."

  "But that's it!" Daniel Clary closed the book with a triumphant thump.

  "It is? What is it?"

  "He—she, whoever—is trying to get you to look into Bobby's life. The red cliff of the mountain. I don't know western Pennsylvania, and the mountains there probably aren't red, except at sunset, but I think someone wants to get you to go see Bobby Hilliard's parents, talk to them, see if Bobby told them anything in the last months of his life. The poem is about Bobby, not Poe. "From childhood's hour I have not been/As others were." If ever a poem were written about Bobby Hilliard, this is it."

  "You think?" Tess asked, not quite convinced. "What could possibly be there?"

  "A demon-shaped cloud, I guess. I don't know. I know you came here for my insights into Poe, but I knew Bobby too. This rings true to me. Whoever this is wants you to go talk to the Hilliards."

  "Well, that rules out Rainer."

  "As in Rilke?"

  "As in homicide cop." Tess checked her watch. "I'm supposed to meet my boyfriend in a bar and watch our friend Cecilia on one of those cable shows, Face Time. They're doing a segment on the murder. You wanna come?"

  Daniel Clary shook his head. "Television stresses me out, even good television. I'm a reader, I want to make up my own pictures. You know what? I couldn't even watch Ken Burns's documentary on the Civil War. That's when I knew it was over for television and me."

  "Do you go to the movies?"

  "Hardly ever. Although"—he grinned—"I did hear the rumor that Michael Jackson wants to play Poe in a movie about his life. That I'll go see."

  "Well, let's do something sometime." Tess was still calculating how she could bring Daniel and Whitney together—but passively, unobtrusively, just a test. "Us beer-drinking bibliophiles have to stick together."

  "Okay," he said. "But don't think I'll tell you my secrets."

  "What secrets?"

  "Where I go to buy old books. You're going to have to find those places on your own."

  Chapter 18

  The patrons who had gathered at Frigo's tavern had assumed they would be watching the Maryland Terrapins play basketball, a reasonable expectation on a winter's night in Baltimore. But cable-less Tess commandeered the remote and began searching the talk ghetto at the far end of the seventy-five-channel spectrum. She clicked past pontificating head after pontificating head until she finally came to an oversized one with shaggy curls.

  "Tess," the bartender said, a note of pleading in his voice, "you're killing me."

  "It won't be for long," she assured him. As a Frigo's regular and, more important, the daughter of a former liquor board inspector, Tess enjoyed a potentate's privileges. "I really need to see this."

  "We'll buy"—Crow looked at the crowd, which was large for a Thursday night—"we'll buy a round for everyone along the bar, because they're most likely the ones who were counting on watching the game."

  They were, and free drinks did little to appease them when the channel changed to Face Time with Jim Yeager.

  The live broadcast was normally done from a Washington studio, but Jim Yeager appeared to have taken over the set of some long-forgotten Baltimore talk show for this special edition. Not that one saw much of the 1970s-era set, with the outdated silhouette of Baltimore's skyline in the back. For Face Time was aptly named: It was all face, mainly Yeager's face, shot large enough to fill the television screen.

  "I always heard the camera added ten pounds," Crow said thoughtfully, "but I didn't think they meant the head."

  "It's even bigger, and his face is even redder, in real life," Tess said. "They ought to do this in three-D. He looks as if he's about to lunge out of the screen at any moment."

  As the show wore on, Yeager's face grew redder still, his lunges toward the camera more frequent. Tess had assumed Yeager was a cookie-cutter far-right conservative, but his anti-everything views brought to mind Groucho Marx's anthem from Duck Soup: "Whatever it is, I'm against it." Those guests who attempted to argue with him were dismissed with ad hominem attacks, usually a double-noun combination featuring police or Nazi.

  "Oh, you're with the nutrition police," he sneered at a man in the first segment, a vegetarian who wanted to put federal excise taxes on junk food while providing tax breaks to those who exercised regularly. "Oh, here come the thought Nazis," he sang out, when a syndicated columnist criticized a basketball coach for making racist comments about his own players. "When do we start burning the books, Herr Commandant?"

  "So are you going to go?" Crow said, during the next commercial break.

  "Go where?" Tess asked, replenishing their bowl of popcorn and ignoring the bartender's anguished looks. What could she do? She had assumed Cecilia would be the first guest, and here they were, two Rolling Rock drafts into the dreary hour.

  "To visit Bobby Hilliard's parents, the way Daniel suggested. I think it's a good idea."

  "I'm not so sure. Why not tell me that directly? Why doesn't he—or she—tell me what he knows?"

  Crow thought about this. "Because I don't think your visitor knows everything. He has a few pieces of the puzzle and wants to share them with you. He trusts you, for some reason. He thinks you can do this."

  "Trusts me or wants to mislead me," Tess said. "Hey, Cecilia's finally up."

  Even on the less-than-stellar resolution on the Frigo bar set, Cecilia looked lovely, as did Miata. Television doted on Cecilia's big eyes and fine bones, highlighted every muscle in the Doberman's coiled body.

  Unfortunately, the producer used far more shots of Yeager. You couldn't call them reaction shots, for that would imply Yeager listened. When he wasn't talking, he was like an orchestra player who cared only for his own part, counting impatiently until he could come i
n again.

  "Cecilia Cesnik is a local advocate who was one of the first to insist the murder at Edgar Allan Poe's grave was part of a more sinister tale, something Poe himself might have written—if he had lived another hundred and fifty years. Of course, if Poe had lived another hundred and fifty years, I imagine he would be haunted by the permissive attitudes of our culture, the idea that anything is all right as long as it feels good."

  Cecilia's face was so thin that the camera could catch the brief flicker at the bridge of her nose when she frowned. Yeager's intro was not promising. Then again, he wasn't openly baiting her, not yet.

  "So, Ms. Cesnik"—Yeager made Ms. buzz, until it sounded like an epithet—"you've made quite a fuss, insisting this homicide is related to a so-called hate crime against a prominent Baltimorean. Could you tell us what proof you have of this allegation?"

  Cecilia frowned again, probably at the use of the word "so-called," but plunged in gamely. "A source at the police department had given us information that the homicide detectives were looking at Bobby Hilliard's death in connection with a violent assault on Shawn Hayes, a man who is well known in our community—"

  "When you say "community‘ do you mean Baltimore at large or the sodomite subculture?"

  "Sodomite!" Crow echoed in wonder.

  "I know," Tess said. "I thought that word was exclusive to one of our local hate-mongers."

  Cecilia, thrown off balance, tried to keep her composure. "Yes—I mean no. I mean—Yes, Shawn Hayes was gay. Is gay. He's still alive. He's also a rich prominent citizen who appears to have been attacked by a violent sociopath who had no agenda other than the desire to inflict pain. I have to think if another rich Baltimorean was beaten under similar circumstances—but with the protective coloring of a different sexual orientation— police might have taken the crime more seriously from the beginning."

  "Interesting." Yeager's expression indicated he found it anything but; he was simply waiting to pounce, to make his next point. "But you overstepped, didn't you, in trying to push your agenda?"

  This brought a quick reaction shot of Cecilia's puzzled face, then Yeager was back, filling the camera and looking smug.

  "You went too far, you and the sexuality police. You heard there was a connection and because Shawn Hayes was a gay man and the next victim"— Yeager made rabbit ears in the air, to indicate the words gay and victim should be placed in quotation marks—"and because the next victim was "gay‘ as well, you added one plus one and got three. But there are at least two other cases involved, are there not?"

  "You'd have to ask the police about their investigation," Cecilia demurred, her face still, her eyes wary.

  "I have, and I haven't gotten many answers. But I have my sources too. My sources tell me they're looking at some routine burglaries, and at least one of the victims—a real victim here, not some cruising carnality-seeker who got what he deserved—isn't gay. I hope your group has a defense fund, because you might wind up facing a slander suit."

  "I don't consider it slanderous to say someone is gay."

  "Well, you—I suppose if we had to depend on people like you to set community standards, we'd all be running around in dog collars and mesh stockings."

  "What you do in your leisure time, Mr. Yeager, is between you and your partners. Assuming they're consenting adults."

  Tess and Crow exchanged a quick high-five. Point for Cecilia. Really Face Time was better than Maryland basketball in some ways.

  But this game was rigged in the home team's favor.

  "You were wrong about the link. Are you ready to admit that?"

  Cecilia shook her head. "I can't explain the police's work to you. But nothing you've said, or they've said, would refute our point: Shawn Hayes was attacked because of his sexuality. Bobby Hilliard may have been killed for the same reason, I don't know. I do know we should not wait until we have three, four, five victims. I think one is bad enough."

  "Maybe it was just kinky sex play that got out of hand. Did you ever think of that? It wouldn't be the first time a wealthy decadent man has gone looking for rough trade and found he couldn't handle it."

  The intake of Cecilia's breath was sharp enough to be audible, even though she was off camera at the moment. When the camera found her, her brows were drawn down tightly, her expression clearly furious. Miata also appeared to be frowning, as if she didn't like hearing her master discussed in such unflattering terms.

  "If you read the police report—"

  "I have, and that's not all I've read."

  "If you read the police report, you know there was no evidence of sexual activity. Mr. Hayes was beaten brutally by someone who appeared to be frenzied."

  "Well, I guess if you're a straight guy, and a gay man comes on to you, you'd get a little frenzied."

  "Mr. Hayes was in his own home. Whoever came there did so voluntarily."

  Yeager nodded eagerly. "Finally we're on the same page. Yes, the man who killed Shawn Hayes did come to his home voluntarily—premeditatedly you might even say. And I would like to take a moment here to reveal the exclusive details of my investigation into this case."

  Exclusive. Tess would like a dollar for every time she had heard that word misused by television journalists.

  Yeager turned to the camera, and any pretense that this had been a dialogue vanished. "Because you see, contrary to what Ms. Cesnik and her sexuality police would have you believe, the attack wasn't the testosterone-fueled rage of some hulking heterosexual. Hayes's attacker, in all probability, was Bobby Hilliard himself, who visited the Hayes home the night of the attack."

  He paused, as if expecting to hear the gasps of his audience, only there was no studio audience for this show. "Yes, Shawn Hayes was the victim of a hate crime—a hate crime perpetrated by a self-loathing gay man who preyed on gay and straight men alike, insinuating himself into their lives, then burglarizing their homes. As a waiter in the city's best restaurants, Bobby Hilliard had endless opportunities to meet such men, befriend them, and then rip them off. It's my supposition that Hilliard was enraged by the quiet dignity of a man like Shawn Hayes, who at least didn't flaunt his deviancy So let's talk about hate crimes now, Ms. Cesnik. When it's a gay man who's doing the beating, is it still a hate crime? Or do you have to be a white heterosexual"—he gave the last word so much spin it came out with at least eight syllables—"to perpetrate hate?"

  "You have no proof of what you're saying," Cecilia said through gritted teeth, "no proof at all. This is all conjecture, and irresponsible conjecture at that."

  "I have as much proof as you did when you stood up at Sunday's press conference and declared Bobby Hilliard was killed because he was gay. Why does my agenda require a higher standard of proof than your agenda?"

  Tess had tried to tell Cecilia the same thing yesterday morning, in a slightly more diplomatic fashion.

  "Besides, I do have proof." Yeager brought out a small black datebook, the kind available in any stationer's shop. "Bobby Hilliard kept a datebook. It was this book that may tell us of his visit to Shawn Hayes's home. It could also establish his social comings and goings with the men who were burglarized over the past year. So I maintain Bobby Hilliard was conducting economic hate crimes, preying on men who patronized the restaurants where he worked, driven mad by his inability to own the things they took for granted. But that's not—excuse the term—sexy enough for you, is it, Ms. Cesnik? You distort public discourse by dragging everything through your prism of sexual politics, until all meaning has been wrung out of it."

  Cecilia was so angry—and perhaps so humiliated— that she was shaking visibly. The dog's fur ruffled a bit, as if she sensed some menace at hand, and Tess thought she heard a low growl, but that might be the poor sound quality of the bar's old Sanyo.

  "Whatever you think about the choices people make—"

  "Aha, so it is a choice, isn't it, not some biological destiny? An unhealthy choice that motivated people can overcome? Finally, something we can agree on, Ms. Cesnik."


  "Whatever you think," Cecilia continued, as if Yeager had not spoken, "Bobby Hilliard is, unequivocally, a victim. He's dead, remember. Someone shot him."

  "Maybe he deserved to die." Yeager flapped the datebook in Cecilia's face. "He had progressed from petty burglary to an outrageous act of violence. It was only a matter of time before he killed someone and the state had to kill him. I think the police should close the investigation into Bobby Hilliard's death, unless they're trying to track down his shooter and give him a reward. We're all better off that he's dead."

  The datebook was only inches from Cecilia's nose, but she didn't flinch, although she clutched the arms of her chair as if trying to hold herself there. Miata, new to television talk shows, showed less restraint. Her growls now unmistakable, the dog leaped toward Yeager, toppling him backward in his chair and grabbing the black book from his hand.

  "Hey, that's mine," Yeager protested from a heap on the floor.

  Cecilia was off camera, but her voice was still audible. "Then you take it away from her."

  The confused producer kept calling for different shots, trying to get an angle on Yeager that didn't reveal his broad backside as he crawled around on the floor, making tentative motions toward the dog, who growled every time he came too close. Finally, Yeager righted his chair and slumped into it, his face the color of a beefsteak tomato.

  "This is Face Time with Jim Yeager," he said. "And we'll be back after these commercial messages with an update on the trial of the Philadelphia police officers."

  At Tess's nod, the bartender quickly switched the channel to the Terps game, only to find a small rebellion on his hands.

  "Turn it back, turn it back," one of the regulars shouted in a slurred, furry voice, much to the outrage of the other bar birds. "This is better ‘n pro wrestling."

  "And about as real," Tess said to Crow. "I find it hard to believe that Jim Yeager could have a piece of evidence as crucial as Bobby Hilliard's datebook."