MEN, MUSCLE, and MAYHEM (20 page)

Believe me, I understand the seriousness, and I understand the ridiculousness of this.

Go on.

How did the letter make me feel? At first I was disturbed, and then I felt sorry for his wife. I predicted then and there that after ten years, she would catch him with a man or he would eventually come out after not having sex with her for a long time. And, I was angry at him. Not for what he did to me. I had long forgotten about that, and as I said earlier, never cared. I was angry because here was another gay man, using a woman to find happiness and fucking with her emotions, not to mention her life. I wondered how much he told her. Was this part of some ex-gay ministry and she was a former lesbian? If so, then more power to them. But, if he married her without being open and honest, what a selfish prick.

You were angry?

At the situation.

That is the second time you’ve called him a selfish prick.

He was one.

You were angry at him.

OK, I was angry. You want to know why? This guy dumps me, sends me a letter telling me I could never be happy, tells me that sex with me is like jerking off, then marries a woman, sends me this smiling bullshit picture, and again tells me I am not happy. I haven’t seen this selfish prick in five or so years, and he assumes I am not happy. Who the fuck is he? Seriously, who the fuck is he?

So, you killed him.

Please. He would not be worth the energy. I was angry for a minute, then I forgot about it.

Did you respond to the letter?

Fuck no. I didn’t want anything to do with him.

So, that’s it? Then yesterday you see him again.

There was another letter?

Really?

Yes.

When?

I moved to DC in 1997. And, I think a few months after that another letter came via my parents. There’s your proof I never responded. He would have known where I lived.

Unless you told him you moved to DC?

No … I didn’t.

What was in the letter?

It was a picture of him running a marathon – shirtless. In it, he said something like, I hope you are happy. My life is wonderful.

And, did you respond?

No. I was dumbfounded. Why would he send me this picture? Shirtless no less? Wasn’t he married to a woman? I threw it out. End of story. The guy had no effect on me.

And the next time he contacted you?

Never again.

Until yesterday.

At the book signing. He was about halfway through the line. I recognized him immediately.

Was he alone.

No … he was standing there right in front of me with his lover … male lover … and his son … his twelve-year-old son.

Were you in shock?

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t.

Who else did you expect to find in Missoula?

I had no idea he lived here. However, my predictions came true. He introduced me to his partner, Mark, and his son, Harry. Mark was all smiles, but Harry. I looked into that boy’s eyes, and I saw nothing. No soul. Nothing. It was also clear that Mark had no idea who I was. Paul told him I was an old friend from his days in Virginia. Old friend. We were never friends. But in those fifteen seconds, I figured it all out. His life was one big lie. He never told his wife about his past, and as far as smiling Mark was concerned, Paul’s first sexual experience was with him. But, the boy? I will never forget the look on the boy’s face.

So, what happened next?

I signed his book, told him it was nice to see him and meet his family and that I couldn’t chat because we had to keep the line moving.

Did you tell him where you were staying?

No.

Then how did he find your hotel room?

Come on Detective Anthony. How hard can it be to find out where a minor celebrity is staying in Missoula? Besides, I didn’t want to see him. The man means, I mean, meant nothing to me.

What happened next?

The signing was over around five o’clock. I went back to the hotel to shower and change, and my publicist and I had dinner in the hotel restaurant around six. After that, I went back to my room to watch some television and relax.

Where was the gun?

What gun? I have never owned a gun in my life. This is my first time in Missoula. I came off a plane, went straight to the hotel, checked in, then to the book store, then back to the hotel, dinner and back to my room. I carried on my luggage, so I wouldn’t take a chance on it being lost. Do you really think I carried a gun on the plane with the intention of killing someone I had no idea was living here? Be real.

You had time to buy one.

Where? I didn’t even rent a car. I have never bought, nor handled, nor shot, nor touched a gun in my life.

You expect me to believe that?

Believe what you want.

Why haven’t you asked for a lawyer?

I didn’t do anything wrong. Besides, my lawyer is in New York, and he is on his way.

Did he tell you not to talk?

Yes, but I have nothing to hide.

Fair enough. When did you invite Paul to your room?

I didn’t invite him. He showed up. Around ten, there was a knock on my door. I peeped through the hole, and who is standing there? Paul Tucker.

How did he find your room?

Seriously? You are asking me that again?

OK. What happened next?

I opened the door and asked him what he wanted. He said he wanted to talk. I said I had nothing to say, and he should go home to his happy family and leave me alone because I could never be happy.

So, you were angry.

No, I was being a smart ass. He insisted, so I let him in, but I told him he had ten minutes to talk and that would be it. So, he talked.

What did you talk about?

Not what I thought we would. I honestly thought he would apologize for trying to make me feel less than human all those years ago, but then I realized an apology wouldn’t matter anyway. None of us are the same person we were twenty years ago. Instead, he proceeded to tell me what a wonderful life he had and how happy he was, and how happy he wished I could be. Oh my God, it was the same bullshit. This selfish prick, who destroyed so many lives with his need to be so-called normal, was still the same asshole. At that moment, I felt sorry for his partner, his ex-wife, and especially, the kid. Now, I know why that kid looked so … I don’t know … soul-less. I mean gay or straight, he was so convinced that nobody else was happy and only by creating a pseudo-happy existence and rubbing everyone else’s nose in it could he be happy.

Did you tell him that?

No. I told him I needed a soda. I left the room to go to the vending machine down the hall. When I came back, there he was. Sitting in the chair with blood coming from his crotch and a hole in his forehead, and his brains all over the back of the chair and the wall behind that.

What did you do next?

I called you guys. Or at least I tried. My 911 on my cell phone wouldn’t work, and I didn’t want to touch anything in the room, so I ran downstairs and had the night manager call you.

That’s pretty incredible. You leave to get a soda, and conveniently, he gets murdered in those five minutes. Where did you hide the gun?

Again with the fucking gun.

Who else would have known he was there, Mr. Sagman?

Maybe someone followed him and waited for me to leave the room.

How did that person get in the room?

Well, I never took my key or locked the door when I went to get the soda. I figured Paul for a lot of things, but a thief was never one of them.

Are you sorry he’s dead?

No. Why should I be? I am indifferent. I couldn’t care less. But, I didn’t kill him.

Then, who did, Mr. Sagman? No one else had motive. No one else had opportunity.

Now, who should watch more crime dramas? First, I didn’t have motive. I didn’t know he lived here. I didn’t have opportunity. Besides, where in the fuck would I get a gun? As I said, I have never shot a gun. I have never owned a gun. I have never been to Missoula in my life, and I didn’t know the selfish prick lived here. But, I can think of three people who had motive … and opportunity.

Humor me.

The ex-wife for obvious reasons. The smiling partner because I represented Paul’s pre-straight-marital past – a past it would only take a moron not to figure out – and that would just ruin their picture-perfect existence. Imagine a famous writer knowing the real Paul.

Sure, he’d frame the writer. The problem with this theory is I didn’t know how either one could have known he was going to pay me a visit until I gave it more thought.

You see people like Paul make my favorite subjects for my books. They live a double existence. On the outside, they are so moral and just, but they have a side that is just as skeevy as everyone else out there. They think they have everyone fooled, but they don’t. And, do you know how I know these people so well?

How?

My mother was one of them. She thought she had everyone fooled. She fooled no one. So, my guess is he had visited a lot of people from his past. A guy like Paul leaves a trail that is hard to cover up. I wasn’t the first guy he visited in a hotel room. Or, the only guy he sent letters to over the years. I wasn’t the only guy he tried to belittle. But, none of us would have the inclination or the desire to kill him. To us, he wasn’t worth it. The wife, I’m not so sure. She had motive, but did she want her son to grow up without a father? And, the smiling partner? Murder would have ruined their perfect life. If anything, he would have murdered me.

Then who does that leave, Mr. Sagman? You?

Not me. Have you questioned the son?

How would a twelve-year-old pull something like this off?

Very easily. No one would pay attention to a kid going into a hotel and entering a room. Besides, don’t all your kids out here have guns?

Someone would have noticed the kid.

I’m through talking.

Detective?

What, Baker?

You’re going to need to let Sagman go.

Why?

The kid confessed.

I’ll send you and your wife tickets to the premiere – both of them, Detective Anthony. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have plane to catch.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Residing in Rockville, MD, with his rescue beagle, Esmeralda Stern, Milton Stern is a writer, volunteer, and antique car collector. You can read more at
www.miltonstern.com
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