goes into health care and medical research. X amount. Period. Some goes to the Heart Association, some to my own Cancer Center, and then there is muscular dystrophy, rheumatoid arthritis, senior citizens, whatever. We all compete for funds. Now AIDS comes along and gets an astronomical — not to mention disproportional — slice of that pie.”
“You make it sound like some sort of contest,” Sara said. “Doesn’t compassion—”
“This is the real world,” her father interrupted. “In the real world you have to deal with economic realities. Fact is, every dollar spent on AIDS is taken away from those other organizations.”
“Wrong,” a voice pronounced. John Lowell turned. Harvey Riker stood in the doorway. “Donations toward AIDS research are often raised separately,” Harvey continued.
“Some, perhaps,” Lowell replied, “but Liz Taylor and her friends can just as easily hold garage sales for the Heart Association or the Cancer Center. And let me ask you, Dr. Riker, who is the major contributor to your clinic here at the hospital?”
Harvey paused. “The federal government and the hospital board.”
“And where would that money go if not to your clinic? Toward the cure of cancer or arthritis or heart disease, that’s where. Many people will die of AIDS this year, but how many thousands more will die from either cancer or heart disease? Innocent victims who do not indulge in self-destructive and immoral activities—”
“Listen to yourself,” Harvey interrupted. “You sound like Reverend Sanders.”
Lowell stepped toward Harvey, his eyes blazing. “I don’t know Sanders personally, but don’t you ever compare me to that money-hungry pig, do you understand? And stop playing the naive academic. You know that there have to be priorities in medical research — to deny that is to deny reality. Some illnesses have to take precedence over others.”
“And you don’t think AIDS should be a priority case?”
“The disease is almost one hundred percent preventable, Dr. Riker. Can you say the same about cancer? About heart disease? About arthritis? That’s why I voted against funding your clinic at the board meeting. Innocent people — people who weren’t screwing strange men behind sleazy bars or jamming needles filled with poison into their veins — are killed in horrifying ways. People who weren’t engaging in sexual acts that boggle the mind — you’re not stupid, Dr. Riker. You know that the gay community ignored all the warning signs. Epstein-Barr ran rampant through them, but they ignored it. Cytomegalovirus and a host of other viruses infected a frighteningly high percentage of the gay community, but they chose to maintain their wanton lifestyles.”
“So promiscuity should be punished with death?” Harvey shot back. “Is that what you’re saying? Then a lot of heterosexuals better beware too.”
“I’m saying simply this: they were warned. Anyone who spoke out against their wild sexual behavior — anyone who tried to tell them to slow down — was labeled a bigot and homophobic. With viral infections plaguing the entire gay community for years, what did they expect to happen?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Weren’t these men responsible for their narcissistic and dangerous activities? Weren’t they in some way asking for this?”
“Dad!”
Harvey’s voice was cool. “They never asked to die, Dr. Lowell. Try as you might, you cannot get rid of this disease by denying its existence. We’re not talking about something that affects animals or strange creatures or some sort of subhumans. Thousands of living, breathing human beings are dying horrible deaths from AIDS.”
“I know that,” Lowell said, “and Lord knows, I hope those boys are cured. But the money being spent on AIDS is outrageous when self-control will stop its spread.”
Harvey shook his head. “You’re just plain wrong, Dr. Lowell — even economically speaking. Do you know how much AIDS is ultimately going to cost us if we don’t find a cure for it? Do you have any notion of the enormous expense in treating AIDS patients? Every social and medical program will be drained. Whole cities will go bankrupt from the medical bills.”
“The patients should foot the bill themselves,” Lowell replied. “There are other priorities, other ways the board could have spent that money.” His voice began to crack and Sara knew what was coming next. She closed her eyes and waited. “I watched cancer kill my wife,” he continued. “I watched it eat away at my Erin until…” He stopped then, his head lowered, his face anguished.
“And your commitment is admirable,” Harvey replied. “I, however, never got the chance to see my brother die. Sidney suffered alone while lesions and infections engulfed and destroyed his body. He was shunned, made an outcast by his own family — including me. Most of these young men — boys in their twenties and thirties, for chrissake — die the death of a leper. If this disease had hit any other segment of the population, the government would have reacted quickly and with lots of money. But everyone thought it was merely a ‘fag’ disease, and who cares about a bunch of fags anyway?”
“They should have shown some self-control.”
Harvey shook his head. “You can’t play God, Dr. Lowell. While part of me agrees with your harsh statements on cigarette smoking, I have to ask you, sir, where do you draw the line? Should thin people get priority over obese? Should people who ignore their doctor’s warning about high cholesterol be told that they ‘asked for’ their heart attack? Where do you draw the line, Dr. Lowell? And who gets to play God?”
John Lowell opened his mouth to continue the argument, then closed it. His face was etched in exhaustion. “The sad fact is that resources are limited. That means that tough choices have to be made.”
“And who is going to make those choices, Dr. Lowell?”
John waved his hand as though dismissing the question. His voice took on a nervous, shaky edge. “Enough of this now,” he said. “I want to hear about Michael’s condition.”
Police Lieutenant Max “Twitch” Bernstein hated New York in the summer. Too damn hot for a human to be in the city this time of the year. Not that Max knew anything else. He had been born and raised in Manhattan, went to college at New York University in Manhattan, lived with Lenny in Manhattan, worked as a cop in Manhattan. Homicide. Business was always good when you worked homicides in a place like Manhattan, but in the summer the whackos really came out of the woodwork.
Max parked his unmarked Chevy Caprice squad car (unmarked, his ass — like a criminal wouldn’t know it was a cop’s car at a glance) and moved toward the police barriers. He did not look like a homicide detective. He was too young, his hair too long and curly, his mustache too bushy, his nose and face just a little too long and thin. Actually, he looked more like he should be delivering pizzas than chasing killers.
He walked to the side of the building with a sign above the door that read “Black Magic Bar and Grill.” Max had visited the Black Magic in more liberated, fun-loving days when it was called the Butt Seriously. More than once, actually. Always in disguise. Used an alias too.
He flashed his badge at a couple of uniforms and proceeded down the alleyway. Sergeant Willie Monticelli greeted him.
“How’s it going, Twitch?” Willie asked.
Bernstein did not care much for his nickname. First of all he did not have a twitch. Yes, he fidgeted a lot, gestured wildly, bit his fingernails past the cuticles, played with anything he could get his hands on, blinked too much, never sat or stood still. Sure, everybody was always asking him when he had quit chain-smoking.
But there was definitely no twitch.
“Better before I got this call,” he replied. “Looks like you put on a little weight, Willie.”
Monticelli patted his stomach. “Nice to meet someone who’s not all caught up in the diet craze, huh?”
“Great.” Bernstein took out his pencil, put it in his mouth, and chewed. It already looked like a much-used dog toy. “What’s the story here?”
“A garbageman found him half an hour ago. Wanna take a look?”
Already feeling his stomach churn, Max nodded and bit down harder on the pencil. He hated this part. “Have to. It’s why I’m paid the big bucks.”
“Yeah, I can tell by your fancy set of wheels.”
Willie walked over to the still form sprawled in the garbage. He pulled the sheet back. Max swallowed away his nausea. Then he bent down and examined the mess that was once a living man.
“Jesus.”
“Looks like the Gay Slasher is back,” Willie said. “Same M.O. as the other two.”
