The Next to Die

She slowed down to a trot, then pulled off the earphones. “Cush? Come here, boy!” she called. She felt so alone and vulnerable without her dog. She approached the clearing, then stopped suddenly. She thought she heard twigs snap, rustling noises. “Cushman?” she called in a shaky voice.

The dog answered with an odd, abbreviated bark.

“Where are you, boy?” As Wendy came into the clearing, she noticed several tire tracks in the mud. Then she realized why Cushman’s response had been nothing more than a distracted grunt. He was too busy sniffing at something by the shrubs. From where she stood, it looked like a dead deer. “Cush, get away from there!” she called. “You heard me….”

As Wendy stepped closer, she saw that bits of the animal’s white flesh had been nibbled away by hungry forest creatures. Whimpering, Cushman repositioned himself to poke his snout at the poor thing from another vantage point. “Stop it, Cush! Stop that right now! Stop—”

Wendy choked on her words. The dead thing was a naked young man. He had flaxen blond hair, and his eyes were fixed open in a horrified grimace. Her dog lapped at the blood from a slash across his throat.

She couldn’t scream, she couldn’t even breathe.

Cushman backed away from the body. He let out a couple of barks. Something else had caught his interest. Wendy tried to call to him, but no words came out. She stood paralyzed in the forest clearing.

The dog trotted over to an oak tree and started sniffing. Tied to the trunk was another corpse, slouching against the ropes, now slack from hours of holding his deadweight. He’d been tortured and mutilated beyond recognition.

Wendy Lockett didn’t know she was staring at someone she’d seen several times before—in the movies.

The Oregonian, Saturday, September 20

FILM STAR TONY KATZ MURDEREDThe nude bodies of film actor Tony Katz, 35, and a male companion were discovered in a forest preserve in St. Helens, Oregon, on Friday morning. Both men had been beaten and repeatedly stabbed. St. Helens police are still searching for clues in the double murder that has been described by one witness as “ritualistic.”Katz’s friend has been identified as James C. Gelder, 32, a salesman with Kingbee Diagnostics in Seattle. Katz and Gelder were last seen Thursday night outside a Portland gay bar, Vogue Vertigo. Katz had been shooting a film, “Gridlock Road,” in Portland for the last three weeks.The two bodies were discovered along a popular nature trail by Wendy Lockett of St. Helens, OR. Lockett, 33, said that the murders appeared to have been “some kind of cult killing.“They were tied up,” Lockett said. “It reminded me of pictures I’ve seen of lynchings of black people back in the thirties. These two were tortured. It was gruesome, an absolute nightmare.”Portland’s Director of Citizens Against Hate Crimes, Vera Stutesman, announced her intentions to “thoroughly investigate if sexual orientation of the victims was a factor in these brutal murders.”In the quiet community of St. Helens, citizens expressed shock and outrage over the double homicide.Katz’s wife actress-model Linda Zane, 26, was unavailable for comment, but the couple’s publicist, Shannon O’Conner, issued the following statement: “Tony Katz was one of our finest, most talented actors. He was a loving, devoted husband, and a thoughtful humanitarian, who gave his time and talent to several charities. His terrible murder is a shock to us all…”

Linda Zane made only one public appearance in the wake of her husband’s death. A bodyguard accompanied Linda to Tony’s memorial service. Two hours later, she boarded a private jet to Greece, destined for the secluded villa of a millionaire friend.

Over two dozen “protesters” also showed up at the funeral. Picketing outside the church, they carried signs that declared TONY KATZ BURNS IN HELL, and GOD HATES FAGS. Some protesters bought their children along.

Jim Gelder’s widow told reporters that her husband wasn’t a homosexual. But everyone already had him labeled as the boyfriend of Tony Katz, so her claims fell on deaf ears. Tony’s agent, Benny Gershon, insisted that the two men couldn’t have been romantically involved, because they’d met for the first time just hours before the murders. No one believed him. After all, Benny also swore up and down that his famous client wasn’t gay.

Several quickie paperback biographies of Tony Katz were thrown together in the wake of his death, and two networks announced different forthcoming TV movies about Tony and his “secret life.”

Despite having earned two Academy Award nominations during his brief yet distinguished career, and despite his devotion to several charities, Tony would always be most remembered for the bizarre, shocking death that exposed him as a homosexual.

At 7:13 P.M., Saturday, September 27, the following Internet dialogue appeared on the Dog Lover’s chat line:

COOKIE’S MOM: My 18 yr old schnauzer, Cookie, has bad arthritis & is now going blind. The vet sez I should think about putting her to sleep. Anyone else out there ever had to do that to their dog? Can’t imagine killing Cookie.

PAT: It’s for the best…keeping her alive would be cruel.

SPARKLE’S OWNER: i’ve had to say goodbye to 2 other doggies that way—it isn’t easy—B brave.

RICK: Sorry about Cookie…Request Private Chat w/Pat.

Dialogue from a private mailbox, between “Rick” and “Pat,” at 7:15 P.M., Saturday, September 27:

PATRIOT: What’s up?

AMERICKAN: Re: Portland job last week…Congratulations to you & your team…Updating you on plans for L.S., like old Cookie, that black bitch needs to be put to sleep…Will B another Portland job…Details to follow… God Bless U…SAAMO Lieut. signing off.

One

“Stay tuned for Common Sense with Elsie and Drew Marshall!”

The tiny portable television was propped up on the desktop of a young film executive. Dennis Walsh was thirty years old, chubby but handsome with dark blond hair, dimples, and a killer smile. Despite his girth, he wore clothes well and had an Ivy League look uncommon in southern California: oxford shirts, pleated pants, and penny loafers.

At the moment, Dennis paid little attention to the TV. Instead, he was updating his Franklin Planner and getting ready to see his boss. Helena, his assistant, wandered in and tossed a fax on his desk. “God, Dennis,” she said, frowning at the TV. “How can you watch that garbage?”

“It’s time for a little Common Sense!” the TV announcer boomed, over a swelling of patriotic music. “Ladies and Gentlemen, Mrs. Richard Marshall!”

He sighed. “Well, I don’t have any passion in my life. So I have to settle for hating Elsie Marshall.”

“We need to find you a girlfriend soon.” Helena slipped out of his office.

“Hello, everybody!” chirped the woman on TV. Sixty-five years old, slim, blond, and rather pretty, she looked and dressed like a Republican First Lady. “God bless you!” she said, waving to her studio audience. Then she looked into the camera. “I’m Mrs. Richard Marshall, but you can call me Elsie.”

“Hi, Elsie!” her studio subjects chanted.

She wandered back to the set: a desk in front of a bookcase, crammed with copies of A Little