in his office early, as I expected he might be.
'I gave John Rutka your advice, Chief, but he didn't take it.'
'No, I feel real bad for the boy. He had a hard life and he died in a way nobody should have to. It's a blessing Charlie and Doris are gone and don't have to see this.'
'What do you mean, John had a hard life? I wouldn't have thought of it that way.'
'I don't mean to say he was disadvantaged or he'd been abused. John was always just a big, odd, nice- looking kid who told tales and never fit in very well. His mom and dad never knew quite what to make of him. It was good when John went off to find himself in the city. I admired the boy for coming home when Charlie and Doris went into their decline, but after they died I could never figure out why John stayed on.'
'Has the body been positively identified?'
'No, I should hear by noon, the M.E. says. I told him-I suggested he be extra certain on this one.'
'That went through my mind, too.'
'The circumstantial evidence was there, the wallet and the note. And a body that was the right size and sex- what was left of it.
It was a sickening sight. There was little left of John besides the chains that bound him.'
'Chains?'
'At the wrists and ankles, and padlocked. There's no way that boy could have gotten loose. He wouldn't have suffered from the fire, though. The preliminary exam showed he'd been shot in the head. This will all be in the paper, by the way, so I'm not giving anything away here that I shouldn't. Though, come to think of it, maybe there's something you could help me out with.'
'What's that, Chief?'
'I talked to a colleague on the Albany force last night who keeps his ear to the ground down there, and he says John was supposed to have kept files on all the people he wrote about or was planning to write about in his column, and these files were supposed to have all kinds of dope in them about who's gay in Albany. Do you know anything about this?'
'I've heard that story too.'
'But you have no firsthand knowledge of these files?'
'I would hope that any such files would have gone up in flames with their keeper. It's an abominable thing to have created.'
'That doesn't answer my question, Mr. Strachey. Do you know about the files and where they might be located? As you know, these files could be critical in investigating John's murder.'
I grasped the receiver tightly and said, 'John mentioned the files, Chief, but he never showed them to me or told me where he kept them. They're probably at his house. Have you searched it?'
'I'm heading over there soon, but I can't seem to get hold of Edward Sandifer. Do you know whether he's still in the Rutka house?'
'No, he's not. I picked him up last night and brought him into Albany.'
'Yes, I saw your car.'
'He's staying with a friend-on Washington Avenue, I think he said. I dropped him off at Johnny's Hot Dogs on Central around eleven-thirty.'
'Well, this complicates matters. I asked him to be available and he hasn't done it. If you speak to Sandifer, tell him to phone me immediately. I'll need access to the house for a thorough search, and questions are bound to come up.'
'Maybe Ann could let you into the house. She'd probably have a key, wouldn't she?'
'She may well. I'll check.'
'Chief, I'd like to think that whoever killed John is not an immediate threat to other people, but I know that anybody who has killed once is capable of killing again. So good luck to you.'
'You're not going to interfere with my investigation, are you, Mr. Strachey? When I mentioned your name, my colleague in Albany said you would probably interfere. He put it less politely than that.'
'No, I'm not going to get in your way, Chief. I might ask around some, and if I come up with anything I'll certainly pass the information on to you.'
'Well, I would certainly expect you to.'
'I'll dig up what little I can,' I said. 'Have you checked Rutka's wallet for prints yet? And what about prints on the note left with the wallet?'
'Yes, that would be standard procedure in an investigation of this type. The note and the wallet are on their way to the state lab for analysis.'
'The note seems to rule out any motive except revenge for Rutka's outing campaign. What was it the note said?'
' 'This is what happens to, uh, quote, assholes, unquote, who invade people's privacy.' Yes, the motive is clear enough. Unless the note was supposed to steer investigators away from the real motive. We have to remain alert to that possibility.'
'True. Has any other motive suggested itself yet?'
'No. John seems to have made an awful lot of people mad enough to kill him. But they were all mad at him for the same reason.
That's why it's imperative that I get hold of those files he's supposed to have kept. My suspicion is that the files will turn out to be the key to the investigation. You're sure you know nothing about them?'
'I'm afraid not.'
'Well, I believe you. You have the reputation of being an honest man, Mr. Strachey. And meeting you yesterday only confirmed that reputation in my mind.'
'Thanks. Having your confidence is something I value, Chief.'
'Let's stay in touch.'
'We'll do that.'
I hung up, grimacing, grateful no mirror was nearby to look into. Was I turning into John Rutka? 'Ethically these things evened themselves out over the long run.' Could you catch bad character from a client? Or had I done this before? It felt too familiar.
Now I had another call to make, and this one would be easier. Gay Albany-unlike, say, gay Istanbul-is composed largely of otherwise conventional middle-class male and female couples whose lives center around, not Queer Nation actions, but work, ordering from seed catalogs, and motoring over to Schenectady to see touring companies of Cats and Les Miz.
Like straight Albany, however, gay Albany has its racier underside, and as with straight Albany, there's a certain amount of traffic back and forth between respectable Albany and not-so-respectable Albany. I was among those who loved unrespectable gay Albany back in the years before it could kill you, and for both professional and nostalgic reasons I maintained connections to some of its more accomplished living practitioners. It was one of those I phoned now, to set up an appointment for later in the morning.
Back in the kitchen, Timmy was finishing up his porridge and tea and Sandifer his eggs. I ate mine cold.
'I spoke with Bub Bailey,' I told Sandifer, 'and he wants to get in touch with you. You might want to show up out at the house today. There's no need to mention you spent the night here. I told him you were with a friend on Washington Avenue.'
'That's cool.'
'He got wind of the files, or at least that such files exist. I said I'd heard that, too, but didn't know anything about them. How will you handle this when Bailey asks?'
'I don't know. What should I say? Should I lie?'
'You'll have to. We're stuck with that for now.'
Timmy got up, flung his napkin on the table, and left the room.
'Is he pissed off?'
'He'll get over it. This is hard for him. It's not how he operates.'
'He's strange.'
'Maybe you could just tell Bailey the files used to be in the house but that John moved them after he was threatened and he didn't say where. How's that?'
'Okay.'
