The scene

The Scene

The night was hot, with humidity so thick that it felt like I was swimming. I arrived to the scene 20 minutes after the incident, I had just gotten the call from one of my contacts in the local precinct while writing a story in the bullpen. They knew my tendency to work late nights and thought that I was the perfect one for the story given the situation.

                Situation… that’s a way to describe it. This whole crime scene seemed like a real mess when I arrived. Flashing red and blue lights dancing on blood spatters in an alley behind the club named “Our Little Secret.” A cold body covered in a black bag while a man cried over it. I looked around trying to find my contact for a few minutes in the sea of confused bystanders and working officials. Finally I scouted him out. He was in civilians, no uniform, Detective Bryan Wallace. A young, gorgeous, blonde that was taking to his newly appointed status in the precinct with some gusto. He looked at me and shifted uncomfortably, then gave an awkward smile waving me over. I came to him, my memories slightly holding me back, but this wasn’t the first one night fling I had to get information out of. Still, he was so young.

“Stanley,” he hesitated for a split second trying to move past the air surrounding the two of us and find the words. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too Detective, thank you for calling me.” He shifted uneasily when confronted with a more professional demeanor than he was expecting.

“Look, I meant to call but I was working on this promotion and-“

“Stop,” I had to interrupt before he tried to make our relationship more personal than it was. “We both had fun, we are both adults, we can both move on. Just give me the particulars here.” The young blonde smiled a half-hearted smirk back at the curt tone of my response, and continued.

“Right, sorry Mr. Hall” I rolled my eyes at his attempt towards professionalism.

“Who’s the body?”

“License has him as Miguel Garcia. Aged 44. Brown hair. Brown eyes. 5’7. 200 pounds.-“

“Yeah, maybe when that license was made.” I snickered and felt a twinge of shame taking potshots at the deceased. My pen scratched the details as Bryan continued.

“Address: 2972 Martin Luther King Blvd. Miami, Fl  33144. He’s also an organ donor.”

Bryan knew my proclivity towards detail better than I thought with him only knowing me for one night, or maybe he was just being thorough so I wouldn’t have to come back. “What’s your computer have on him?”

“Next of kin Rebeca Garcia, he has two paid off speeding violations where they cited him for having the wrong address on his license.”

“Rebeca Garcia?”

“His wife, she’s already been called for questioning. She was out on the town with friends while his parents watched their children.”

“Information on the children?”

“Miguel Garcia, Jr. Aged 4. Hector Garcia aged 10.”

“That all you could get on them?”

“For now.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, he had a military ID in his wallet, pictures of his family, a debit card for Bank of America, 9 rewards cards to different service industries, and a receipt to Walmart.”

“Rank on the ID?”

“Specialist, the ID was two months from needing to be updated.”

“Specialist? Isn’t that rank a little low for someone in his age bracket.”

“Not really, he could have just got in.”

“Right, and what rank did you get out again?”

Stanley paused as I got more personal, “Sergeant… why?”

“Just wanted to see the correlation between someone that got out of active service with 6 years, and a reserve member with an unknown time in.”

“You think he is reserve?”

“Just a hunch.” I looked at him as he started shifting awkwardly. Seeming uncomfortable in his own skin. I touched his shoulder and he stopped. “Thanks for this Stan.”

He blushed at the unwarranted physical contact and said “Of course.”

I scouted around for more sources as the team of medical professionals and CSI glossed over the crime scene. I looked at the scene and my thoughts raced trying to piece together the moment where this happened. I let my mind get back to scouting for someone to go on the record, and found a reliable source. A bartender who was just getting over being questioned by the police. He may still be a little raw for me to give him another round of questions but I need someone, and the bereaved man with the best knowledge of the situation is being detained.

I saunter over to the bartender, he’s tall, muscular, has short hair that’s jelled into short spikes, and still standing outside only wearing underpants.

I pull out a cigarette and give it to him, he takes it without a moment’s hesitation.

“Stopped trying to quit I assume?”

“Yeah, given the situation Stan.”

“So you willing to go on the record for me?”

“C’mon man, it’s been a pretty shitty night.”

“Right, and you know my need to get a story out as soon as possible.”

“What story? Another gay guy killed at a night club?”

“Well what are my stories usually about?”

“Look everyone has a lot of respect for you in the community for doing what you do, but this isn’t a bill in Washington or a troubled homeless teen.”

“Right, this is just someone’s life.”

He took a long inhale from the cigarette than said “fine” he sat on the curb and I joined him with my digital recorder sat in between us.

“First,” I began, like all stories, with a tad bit of anticipation in my voice “as much as I appreciate the free show, do you want pants?”

We chuckled “sure, you got any?”

I signal over to the deputy nearest us and he comes by, “hey, you mind getting this trauma victim a set of slacks… any would do?”

The deputy scurries off to the back of a squad car and pulls out some police pants. I mouth the words “thank you” to him while the bartender puts them on.

“Better?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Of course. Now down to business. Name?”

“You know my name…”

“Yes, I know that your name is Jeff. I do not know, however, your full name or if the name you give people is used for professional reasons. I also need you on the record, so… name?”

“Jeffrey Ray Wilson”

“Occupation.”

“C’mon”

“Would go a lot faster if you just answered, Jeff. Be as descriptive as you can as well.”

“Bartender at “Our Little Secret” Monday thru Thursday 6pm to close, Dancer at “Sticks and Stones” Friday and Saturday whenever I want.”

“Busy boy.”

“I try.”

“Did you have a relationship to the deceased at all.”

“No, he showed up here around the same time every Tuesday. Always looking for a fling.”

“So he was a regular.”

“Very. I started working here 2 years ago, he was coming in before that.”

“What happened when he couldn’t find “Mr. Right Now?”

“He would usually get belligerently drunk and start to harass the bartenders, or dancers, or both.”

“Did this ever upset you?”

“Sometimes. He didn’t keep his hands to himself for any of this, and he warranted an escort out by security a good amount of the time. For the most part I didn’t mind because he left a healthy tip regardless.”

“How healthy is healthy?”

“50%”

“Jesus. No matter what?”

“Yup, and he usually stacked up about 100 dollars just on himself. Not to mention the amount he would spend on the people he was trying to have sex with.”

“So it’s fair to assume that he was a man of means.”

“No, not really.”

I raised an eyebrow in return.

“Well, we get a lot of people like him. They give themselves one night to let go, the rest of the time they are living on Ramen noodles.”

“What gives you that impression with him?”

“His style. Also, he has the look of man that works construction. Not for nothing, it’s a great job, and you can make good money at it. Just not the type of money he was fronting.”

“Understood. Did you ever…?”

“What? Give in to his request?”

“Well this bar doesn’t necessarily have a great reputation for professionalism.”

He rolled his eyes and said “no, I recently started dating someone.”

“Can you give me a name?”

“Jessica Holmes.”

I steamrolled past the gender association, “how long have you and her been dating?”

“3 months.”

“Live together?”

“No, mainly just physical thus far. Taking it slow.”

“How does she feel about her boyfriend working here?”

“She’s fine with it.”

“Really, no reservations about her supposedly straight boyfriend working at a “fag bar” with men that ogle and sometimes fondle her man?”

“Nope, she knows that I won’t go home with anyone here, and she stays away so she doesn’t have to see me getting fondled or ogled.”

“Fair enough. How do you like your job here?”

He hesitates “it’s ok.”

“Just ok?”

“Well, I am put on the worst days to work at a club, and I don’t really care for others invading my personal space.”

“Is it safe to say you had something against the deceased?”

He hesitated wondering what I was getting at. “No… of course not. Look I may not like being touched when I am trying to work, but I know what I signed up for… and horny, drunk men are just that.”

“Understood, what about the bereaved?”

“The crying guy?”

“Yeah, do you know anything about him?”

“Yeah… I mean he works here. He’s one of the reasons our club has the reputation it has.”

I squint and look to see if I recognize the man. After going through a portfolio of faces in my head I finally match it. Joel. He goes be Joel when he’s dancing. I must not have noticed him through the sobs. He has a going rate for sexual favors. Very young, but I guess it pays the bills.

“Ahh yes, I recognize him now. So he took him to The Alley.” Making sure to stress the two words so he knew the infamous alley I was talking about. “Did you happen to hear the arrangement?”

“No, I just heard him giving the prices and walked off.”

“Angry?”

“What?”

“Were you angry when you walked off?”

“No.” He paused. “I guess I was a bit annoyed by it.”

“Why?”

“Well he’s in that crew of guys that gives this place a bad reputation. It’s because of guys like him that a lot of people stay away, and the ones that do come here think it’s ok to touch the staff whenever they want.”

“I see… so it is safe to say you hold something against the bereaved?”

He shoots up from the curb, irritated at me for the second unsaid insinuation. “Look man… yeah. Ok. Yeah, I had something against the 20 year old little whore, but it wasn’t anything big. It’s his body, his decision. If he wants to suck off every guy from here to Orlando that’s on him.  If I really had an issue with him or working here I could always quit, there are tons of bars looking for someone like me.”

“Don’t get defensive I’m just trying to get all of the facts.”

“Really? To me it sounds like you’re trying to build a case. This interview is over. I hope you’re satisfied.”

I was satisfied. I got what I wanted out of him and I had my eyes on the next target. As the bartender walked away I looked at the traumatized dancer by day, hooker by night. Joel.