He stared at me appraisingly for several seconds. Then he said, 'Tell me exactly what happened on E Street tonight.' He leaned back a little-a mercy-and continued to look at me as if I were the one who needed airing out.
I explained to Craig that Timmy, Maynard, and I had dined at an Ethiopian restaurant in Adams-Morgan and that from around ten on we had been hanging around Maynard's house watching television news and talking. I said Maynard had left something in his car, he had gone out to get it, and seconds after he went out the front door, Timmy and I heard sounds that could have been gunshots. We also heard a car speed away. We ran outside and discovered Maynard bleeding and unconscious on the sidewalk alongside his car. I said I immediately went inside and telephoned the police while Timmy tried to stanch the flow of blood from Maynard's body.
Craig continued examining me in a way that felt both hostile and somehow prurient. I was not touching Timmy, but I was aware that his respiration had increased.
Craig said, 'So, what'd Sudbury go out to his car to get?'
'Maynard went out to bring in a name written on a piece of paper,' I said. 'We had all gone to the AIDS quilt display during the afternoon. We ran into an acquaintance and wrote her phone number on a Names Project brochure Maynard was carrying. He had left the phone number in his car and had gone out to retrieve it when he was shot.'
Craig seemed to roll this information around in his mind. Then he shifted, shot Timmy a surly look, and said, 'What's your connection with Sudbury? You don't live around here. You live in New York State.' His tone suggested that anybody residing outside the District of Columbia might be of a different species from those residing within the District and whose associations with Washingtonians went against nature.
Timmy croaked out, 'Maynard and I are old Peace Corps friends. We were in the Peace Corps together in the sixties. Donald and I stay with Maynard whenever we come to Washington. We're-we're just old Peace Corps buddies.'
Timmy might as well have announced to Craig that he and Maynard had been members of the corps de ballet of the 1965 Fonteyn-Nureyev Giselle tour. Craig sniffed once, then looked Timmy up and down in the way he had just looked at me. He said, 'Talk to me about your… buddy.' He gave buddy a pronunciation that was somewhere between a sneer and a leer. 'Does Sudbury have enemies?' Craig asked. 'If so, who?'
Timmy went through the motions of mulling this over. 'I can't think of any enemies Maynard has. He's generally well-liked. Of course, Maynard has been PNGed out of a number of countries. But I assume you mean domestic enemies. Personal.'
Craig's eyes narrowed. 'What's PNG?'
'Declared persona non grata. Maynard is a foreign reporter and travel writer.
Some officials in some countries didn't like what he wrote about their governments. But I doubt any of them tracked him down to E Street in Washington and shot him.'
'Skip the opinions,' Craig snapped. 'If I want your opinions, I'll ask for them. Just tell me what you know.' He had his pen and notebook out but he wasn't writing any of this down. 'Married?'
'Maynard?'
Craig's eyes flashed for a brief second. 'Yes, Maynard. Maynard T. Sudbury.
That's who we're talking about here, isn't it? Maynard T. Sudbury, the shooting victim.'
'Not married,' Timmy said, jaw clenched.
'Sudbury is gay,' I added. 'His lover died in 1993'
Craig's face tightened. 'I'll bet you two are that way inclined also. Am I right?'
'Are we gay? You bet.'
He snorted dismissively. He looked at me and at Timmy, then shook his head, as if our being gay was the most preposterous thing he had ever heard. 'I want the names of family, friends, and associates. Start with family.' Now his pen was poised.
Before I left for the hospital, I had grabbed Maynard's address book off his desk.
If he died, I knew it was possible Timmy or I would have to notify his family. I had glanced through the address book quickly to make sure it included some Sudburys in Southern Illinois-it listed six-but I didn't take it out of my pocket for Craig. Timmy and I fumbled through our memories and named a number of people, in Illinois and in Washington, whom we thought the police would be duty-bound to notify and/or question. Neither of us mentioned Jim Suter.
A surgical intern walked into the lounge we were waiting in, and our eyes went immediately to him. But he did not approach Timmy and me. He went instead to the two elderly black women, looked down as they looked up, and shook his head sorrowfully. The women said nothing, just stood quickly and walked with the doctor out into the corridor as he spoke to them in a low voice.
Craig looked up from his notebook and said, 'Did Sud-bury have any recent arguments or disputes with any of these people?'
Timmy said, 'Not that he mentioned to us.'
'That's a no?'
'Yes, that's a no.'
'What about you, Starchey?' Craig stared at me and didn't blink.
I said, 'I had no argument with Maynard, no. It's Strachey. S-T-R-A-C-H-E-Y.'
'You weren't the asshole who shot your buddy Sudbury?'
'No, I wasn't.'
'What about you, Callahan?'
His face radiating heat, Timmy said, 'Of course not.'
Craig's eyes came briefly to life again, and he said, 'Did you suck his dick?'
Neither of us answered. Craig's gaze flicked back and forth between us. Finally, I said, 'Neither of us has a sexual relationship with Maynard. He's a friend. In New York State, friends don't normally suck each other's dicks. Maybe the customs are different south of the Mason-Dixon line, and that's why you asked the question. If so, I'm happy to be able to clear up any misconception about sexual customs in the North.'
Craig's mouth tightened and he stared at me hard. One of his loafers had begun to jiggle at high speed. It was apparent that he was making mental notes, and he was looking at me as if he wanted me to know it. After a moment, Craig lifted his pen again and said, 'Sudbury's a travel writer. Where's he been to recently?'
After seeming to consider this carefully, Timmy said, 'Maynard has been to Swaziland, Botswana, and Zimbabwe in the past year, I know.'
Craig noted this with no apparent interest and said, 'Where else?'
'Mexico,' I said, 'within the last couple of months.'
'Mexico?' Craig's nose twitched and a light went on in his eyes and stayed on in a way it had not stayed on before.
I said, 'Maynard was in the Yucatan researching a travel piece for the Los Angeles Times. He talked about enjoying the trip and he didn't mention any incident there-or any incident anywhere else-that might have led to his being shot tonight on a Washington street.'
'Uh-huh.' Craig waited, and when no one spoke, he said, 'Did Sudbury go to Mexico frequently?'
'Not frequently, no,' Timmy said.
'I think you know,' Craig said, 'this shooting doesn't look anything like a robbery.'
'I know,' I said.
'The shooter never stopped. Sudbury's wallet wasn't taken.'
'No.'
'The perp apparently had no interest in robbery,' Craig said. 'Somebody drove by, popped Sudbury, and drove away. Drive-by shootings in the District are seldom random. Normally that's something gangs do to members of other gangs. That's drug gangs, to be specific. Do you have any reason to believe that Sudbury is part of a drug operation?'
Timmy flushed. 'I think not.'
Craig said, 'Yeah, I think not, too. Not some street-punk operation anyway. So you don't know who might have wanted to shoot your buddy in the head and in the gut?'
His face purple with anger now, Timmy said, 'No. I do not.'
'When did you say Sudbury was in Mexico the last time?' Craig asked.
