Murder of a Moral Man - 2. Chapter 2

Sam Anderson: Canceled

After the shock of seeing a news report about the scene at Chateau du Gateau, Robby and I expected a certain amount of media attention. One busybody with a cell phone can turn a trivial incident into news. Unfortunately for us, Mrs. Anna Dolan had dragged us along for the ride as she enjoyed her fifteen minutes of fame.

On Sunday, several reporters tried to reach us by phone, one tried to contact me through my school email address, and two actually came to the house. My response was the same to all of them: “No comment.” All things considered, it was a fairly quiet day.

Monday, however, was rough. Just as I’d begun to hope the media would decide the incident was a nothing burger of a story, Keys and DOCC (Defenders of Christian Consciences) decided to escalate matters with a press conference. The DOCC representative was an oily, unctuous piece of shit when talking to right wing pundits. To anyone who challenged him, however, he displayed the annoying aggressiveness of an old lady’s Chihuahua. His name was Randall Pierson.

Though I compared him to a chihuahua, he wasn’t a small man. Pierson was tall and paunchy. He had a double chin and had begun to develop jowls. The ruins of youthful good looks were apparent despite the extra weight he carried.

He was both a lawyer and an ordained minister. His dual professions provided unique opportunities for mischief making. He was among the most vociferous of the school board meeting protesters. He was against mandatory masks in schools. He was against critical race theory being taught in schools. He was against any number of books that dealt with race and sexual orientation being represented in the English curriculum or included in the library. He was against transgender students being allowed to use the restroom they felt comfortable using or playing on sports teams. He was, however, in favor of teachers who refused to use the names that transgender and nonbinary students chose for themselves.

His specialty was turning bullies into victims. It wasn’t surprising Tom Keys had turned to him. Pierson had already attached himself to similar causes on behalf of a florist and a reception hall. After the Supreme Court had ruled same-sex couples have a Constitutional right to marriage, he’d promised to represent any clerks who refused to issue licenses. (None in this area had bitten, though.)

He was an adept with both traditional media and social media. By lunch, several colleagues had warned me two out of three of our local TV stations were covering his press conference. It was also trending over various social media platforms, including several I’d never heard of. Robby had also left me numerous texts to which I had no time to respond.

The gist of Pierson’s press conference: Tom Keys was a wronged man—a modern day martyr—and he, Randall Pierson, intended to fight Robby and me and various sinister forces to ensure justice for Tom Keys. Since no one had filed any lawsuits or registered any complaints, Keys had no possible need for representation. Nevertheless, Pierson railed for a good half hour about cancel culture, leftist bullies, the homosexual agenda, the erosion of free speech and attacks on religious liberty. He suggested that Robby was a violent, unhinged, dangerous man who’d threatened Keys’ livelihood and safety. Keys was the embodiment of all that was good and decent, on the other hand: a God-fearing owner of a small business standing firm against the tyranny of deviants. The “tyranny of deviants”, as best I could tell, consisted of people expressing an opinion in favor of Robby and me.

By the end of the day, I was the only one who’d been “canceled”. The principal of the high school where I teach, Ms. Whittaker, called me in to say I was on administrative leave indefinitely. I felt a strong urge to tell her to shove her job, but I bit my tongue. I would still receive pay on leave. Giving into the rage I felt bubbling up from the pit of my stomach was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

Public interest would probably have died out quickly once Keys had enjoyed his fifteen minutes of fame, but his murder changed everything.

Dylan Keys: He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes

The fourteen-year-old boy woke with a sense of unhappiness, but it took him a moment to connect the emotion to the reason for it. Dad was dead. Dylan’s eyes filled with water, but he managed to choke off the tears. His relationship with his father was complicated. Even his grief was complicated. His father was not an easy man to love. Dylan’s conscious mind quashed any recognition of the relief he felt.

He hadn’t discovered the body, thank God. His mother had suffered that shock. Dylan by now knew all the details. The press coverage had been ghoulish and graphic.

Even though Mom had kept him out of school today, his brain was programmed to wake at 7am. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep. He needed a piss. He sat up and winced as he put his weight on his bottom. Dad had died sometime in the very early hours of Tuesday morning. It was now Friday. Almost a week had passed since the whipping, but the bruises had survived longer than the man who’d inflicted them.

Dylan stripped off the underwear he’d slept in. Then he twisted his body in front of the full-length mirror on his closet to assess the damage. It was healing. The bruises were no longer black. They’d reached the green, purple, and yellow stage. Still tender but bearable. He continued to the bathroom, where he relieved himself and showered. It was odd to be home like this when everyone else his age was in school. He wasn’t used to being idle.

“Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”

Even when the schools had closed because of the pandemic and the online classes weren’t yet geared up, he’d spent his days helping at the bakery. He wasn’t used to much free time except when he was supposed to be asleep.

*****

Dylan thoughts drifted to the two men who’d come in last Saturday. He’d known right away they were gay and had a strong suspicion their appointment was to discuss a wedding cake order. His stomach had churned with anxiety, anticipating what Dad would say and do to them. Dad had been spoiling for an opportunity to turn away a gay couple. Perhaps there were Christian bakers out there who really felt they would commit a sin if they baked a cake but still felt bad about turning someone away. Not Dad. He’d rehearsed speeches, not only in his own mind but also on his family. Those hateful speeches had replayed themselves in Dylan’s ears, even as he’d tried to concentrate on boxing up orders, ringing up purchases, and taking money. Dylan had found he couldn’t drown out their memory:

“If they come into this bakery, I’ll tell them flat out I won’t do it. I’m not going to aid and abet sodomites making a mockery of marriage. God defines marriage, not the Supreme Court.”

Dylan jerked himself out of his reverie, only to find himself thinking about his father’s body. He’d not yet been allowed to view it. Violent death had to be made respectable first through the art of the undertaker. Mom, even the cops, meant well, but Dylan doubted the reality could be worse than his imagination.

He could visualize the lifeless body whenever he closed his eyes. The tableau that had put his mother in shock Tuesday morning was as vivid for Dylan as if it were his own memory: Tom Keys’ body, bound to a chair, nose pinched shut with a binder clip, eyes bulging through half-closed eyelids, cake spilling from the mouth. He shuddered. He knew his father had had cake forced down his throat until he’d choked to death on it. It was a gruesome way to die. He must have suffered horribly. Dylan had once choked on a bite of hamburger. His father would have felt the same panic and fear of being unable to breathe. Surely, no one deserved that.

His mind wandered back to last Saturday again. It had been a horrible day. Dylan had attempted to disassociate himself from the scene between his dad and those two men by serving other customers lined up at the display case and cash register. The customers had been much more interested in the dispute than their own purchases. Dylan had seen one old bitch recording it on her phone. After the men had left, Dad had gone to the counter and waited on the remaining customers himself. He’d made an elaborate apology to each one for the unpleasantness they’d witnessed, but he hadn’t felt sorry at all. He’d been delighted with himself. Dylan had kept his peace until Dad had told him to mind the shop while he contacted DOCC.

Most kids would have had no idea what DOCC was, but Dad was a great admirer of their zeal. Now that Dad’s Christian Conscience was under attack, he was eager to enlister DOCC’s support. Imagining his father in front of cameras acting the role of martyr had filled Dylan with dismay.

He’d begged, “Just let it go, Dad. Please, don’t get anyone else involved, at least not until you actually need to. I bet those men don’t sue you. They can’t even file a complaint in this state. Please, just leave it alone.”

Dad had been displeased. He’d not appreciated Dylan’s questioning his decisions. He’d set his jaw.

“I know what I’m doing. I’m going to get my side of this out to the public before they do. I’m not letting those homosexuals destroy my business.”

The words had tumbled out before Dylan could stop them: “Why couldn’t you just sell them a cake? They’re not hurting anyone!”

“Not hurting anyone! Not HURTING anyone! Dylan, they’re hurting everyone! They’re spreading their poison in the streets, in the schools, and in businesses. They spread deadly diseases among themselves, and they endanger innocent people who come in contact with them. Young children now aren’t safe from seeing them in public places, mincing about, holding hands, kissing one another. I don’t want to see that behavior normalized!”

“Dad, I—”

There’d been a dangerous silence. Then: “You what?”

Dylan had said lamely, “I have gay friends. They’re not bad people.”

The admission he had gay friends had been enough to earn him the whipping that night. Tom Keys’ religious beliefs insisted on the chastisement of children. He wasn’t one to spare the rod. Of course, he hadn’t used a literal rod. His thick leather belt had been sufficient for doling out the chastisement he’d felt was his fatherly duty.

His father had started using that belt a couple of years ago. In the past year, the whippings had increased in both severity and duration. Dylan had known better than to argue or resist. The buckle end was worse than the leather, by far.

He’d learned it was better just to get it over with. Faced with a whipping, Dylan’s mind retreated to a safe space where it was only dimly aware of the violence done to his body. Left to its fate the body knew what to do: jeans down, shorts down, bend over the side of the bed.

There had never been a set number of licks. The whipping would go on until his father was satisfied. The doubled belt had lashed his bottom over and over, laying fresh welts over older ones. It had hurt like hell from the first lick and gotten steadily worse. Dylan’s mind had been aware of the pain, but it was someone else suffering it. The body had endured the pain. It had understood that sooner or later, the agony would reach a plateau or the whipping would stop. The body had willed itself to cooperate but made no show of stoicism, which his father saw as defiance. The body hadn’t exaggerated its suffering either, as that would only have spurred Dad to give it something to yell about.

After the whipping had ended, Dylan had lain on his stomach until he’d cried himself out. When his mind returned from its safe space to the body, there was no lonelier feeling in the world than lying in pain and knowing the punishment hadn’t brought forgiveness. What he’d have given for a tender word!

He wondered why he had loved his father. Had he loved his father? Worst question of all, he wondered if his father had loved him.

Then he thought of his father gagging on that cake and laughed.

Sam Anderson: Troubled Times

It never rains but it pours. Mom called Tuesday afternoon to say Pop was in the hospital. He’d had a mild heart attack and wasn’t in danger, so I didn’t have to come. I could hear Mom’s plea for support, despite her cheerful tone. Robby and I had a quick consultation, which resulted in our deciding he should remain at home. He had a full schedule, with essays and exams looming—his own, as well as his freshman comp students’. Thanks to recent events, my time was my own. I booked a ticket for an early evening flight, Robby drove me to the airport, and we said our goodbyes.

I was visiting Pop at the hospital Wednesday morning when my phone rang. It was Robby, so I excused myself to Pop and took the call. I was worried Keys and Randy Pierson had stirred more shit. Otherwise, Robby would and should have been gnashing his teeth in a seminar on deconstruction criticism.

I asked quietly, “What’s up?”

His voice verged on panic as he told me, “I’ve been brought in for questioning by the police, Sam. Someone murdered Tom Keys, and I think I’m the Number One Suspect.”

Robby Wishart: Number One Suspect

I can’t imagine myself winning a lottery or catching a tropical disease. I can’t even imagine myself tweeting something that goes viral. Even less did I imagine I would wake to the sound of the police knocking on the front door to inform me a man I’d recently had words with was dead and requesting my presence to “help clear up the matter”. My life had taken a surreal turn since Saturday. First, a private altercation that had consisted of nothing more than a few harsh words had become news. Then Sam’s school had put him on administrative leave. Now I was mixed up in a murder.

The two detectives, Johnson and Grimes, were polite and patient. They were also quietly insistent. They invited themselves in and kept me under watch. They declined my suggestion of coming to the station on my own after I’d had an opportunity to wake up properly. They were eager to provide me companionship and transportation. They said little, which raised my anxiety through the rooftop. I wished they’d just ask a few questions, get a few answers, be satisfied, and get the hell out. I wondered what sort of third degree awaited me at the station. I covered my anxiety with a running stream of commentary.

“He’s dead? Really? I’m sorry to hear that. I mean, I obviously don’t, um, didn’t, care for the guy, but I’m sorry anything happened to him. Uh, what happened exactly?”

Grimes looked at Johnson, who shrugged. Grimes told me in a toneless voice, “We’re not at liberty to say right now. If you could get some clothes on, Sir, we’d appreciate you coming down to the station to answer a few questions. Also, where’s your fiancé?”

I was panicking, but I tried to be casual. I babbled, “Sam? He had to fly to Houston. His dad had a heart attack. Is it all right if I start the coffee brewing?”

Johnson said, “Sure,” and followed me to the kitchen. Our coffee maker is the cheap kind without a timer, but I’d set it up last night. All I had to do was flip a switch.

Grimes asked if I minded if they had a look around. I did mind. Very much. I said, “No problem.”

The two of them concentrated on their snooping, but I had the feeling they were well aware of my every move. After I’d dressed, I got a cup of coffee and followed them around, feeling it necessary to make even more stupid comments.

“Those are Sam’s dirty clothes. This is my hamper. Those are just some freshman comp papers I have to mark. That stuff is personal. Really personal.”

Johnson was prowling through a footlocker we use to store a few sex toys and lube. I felt my face burning with anger and embarrassment. I was stupid to give them permission to search our house, even if there was nothing illegal or with evidentiary value. Grimes casually picked up my laptop, asking if I minded if they examined it. Once again, I stupidly consented.

It was a relief to leave for the police station. I got the thrill of riding in the back seat of an unmarked police car that reeked of tobacco and vomit. They herded me into the station and sat me down in an interrogation room where a Sergeant Hicks read me my Miranda rights. Sgt. Hicks assured me I wasn’t under arrest, but I was pretty sure they don’t read people their rights unless they’re at least under suspicion.

Hicks looked a high school athlete gone to seed in middle age. Foxy hair now fading, freckles, stocky, powerful-looking, shrewd hazel eyes. After some preliminary questions, he began to ask me about the argument with Keys. I described what had happened over and over. If I varied in even the slightest detail, he focused on the discrepancy. I felt myself growing less rather than more certain as the questions kept coming. Every time I stumbled over a detail, I panicked. I was afraid I sounded like a liar struggling to keep his story straight.

After a lot of questions about the argument at the Chateau du Gateau, Hicks asked the question that truly scared me:

“And where were you last night, Mr. Wishart? Can anyone confirm that?”

“I was home by myself” is the world’s worst alibi. I told Hicks the truth: I did some work on an essay for one of my courses, marked part of a class set of papers from my freshman writing students, and went to bed. To my great indignation, they told me they intended to keep my laptop for the time being.

I demanded to call Sam, and Hicks made no objection. Instead, he watched me closely, apparently hoping I’d reveal something damning. Just hearing Sam’s voice calmed me down. Though he advised me to call my cousin Carole, who’s a lawyer, I decided not to. Carole practices tax law and I doubted she’d be of much use. Anyway, I was innocent and thought it better to appear candid. They questioned me for hours. Same questions, over and over.

By the time they let me go, leaving me to work out my own transportation home, I was exhausted, demoralized, and terrified. I wanted Sam. Even though I’d been sitting for hours on an uncomfortable, plastic chair with a bruised bottom, I’d barely noticed the discomfort. Saturday’s events, which had seemed so traumatic, now seemed like nothing. God, how I wished I could take back what I’d said about Keys choking on his own cake. Someone had apparently used my words as inspiration and, wittingly or unwittingly, put me in the frame.