Murder of a Moral Man - 5. Chapter 5

Dylan Keys: Blocked

He’d set the alarm on his phone to go off at 3am, but the alarm hadn’t been necessary. He’d been unable to sleep. With his heart pounding, he balanced his laptop on his knees and opened it. He was desperate for contact, but he had little hope of making it at this hour. It was a pointless risk.

It was even more pointless than he’d anticipated. The Hicks family had software that blocked him from the sites he wanted to access. He wept in frustration. He and Mark had both been too afraid to risk exchanging cell phone numbers. Mark’s father was vigilant about monitoring his devices. Fortunately, Mark was savvy enough to circumnavigate blocking software and cover his tracks on the internet. Dylan wished he knew how it was done. He’d had no need at home. Tom Keys had been oblivious to the possibilities of the internet until that asshole Pierson had put him wise, necessitating a panicked attempt by Dylan to cover his tracks.

After Keys had rebuffed the two men who'd wanted to buy a cake, he’d set up a meeting with Pierson to strategize an approach for destroying the lives of Robby Wishart and Sam Anderson. Dylan had lurked uneasily in the background as Pierson had stuffed himself with offerings Dad had brought home from the bakery and lectured Keys on the necessity of spying on teenagers.

Of course, Pierson hadn’t put it quite like that. He’d made it sound like it was all about protecting kids. Dylan acknowledged to himself there were predators out there. He’d run across a few. But what were kids like him and Mark to do when they had to talk to someone and dared not talk to anyone at home? If he hadn’t needed to hide things from Dad, he’d never have ventured into frightening, risky spaces.

Detective Sergeant Aloysius Hicks: Tough Day

If there’s any job that proves the well-known maxim that shit rolls downhill, then homicide detective is it. My day started out well with an ass reaming from the captain about the lack of progress in the Keys homicide. There was no point in defending myself. I was at the bottom of this particular hill and not even Sisyphus was going to roll the giant shit boulder back up the hill.

I did the only thing I could do, which is go over the same ground again. The autopsy on Keys showed a contusion on the back of his head, so it seemed likely his murderer had knocked him unconscious before tying him up and shoving cake down his gullet. No drugs were found in his body, unlike his wife, who had died from a toxic combination of antidepressants, alcohol, and benzodiazepines.

I sifted through interviews and came up with nothing. Robby Wishart remained the only suspect, and we had nothing on him beyond his lack of alibi. We were treating Leah Keys’ death as a suicide, despite my private doubts. If someone had murdered Leah, I guessed it was the same person who’d murdered Keys. Still, I considered the possibility of two murderers. It was possible someone might have killed Leah to protect Keys’ murderer. Did that point to a murderer who was vulnerable?

I could see Sam Anderson killing to protect Robby Wishart, but if Leah had known anything damaging to Wishart, she’d have surely told us. All Leah’s death had done was further inflame Pierson’s mob against Wishart.

I supposed someone might have killed Leah to protect Dylan. Dylan was in school when Leah took her fatal overdose, so he certainly didn’t kill his mother to protect an accomplice in his father’s death. I doubted very much whether Leah would have been a danger to Dylan, even if she’d personally witnessed him kill his father anyway. Of course, an accomplice might have killed Leah to protect himself. It sounded pretty thin to me.

My head began to ache. The more I tried to think, the more confused I became. I hoped something would turn up. Grimes and Johnson were going through hours of surveillance video captured in the area of Keys’ murder. No joy so far.

I came home to find Mandy watching the news. Randy Pierson was giving yet another press conference, and I couldn’t fucking believe what he was saying.

“…After Mrs. Keys’ death, it’s imperative the police make an arrest unless they want to be responsible for another suicide. Justice is the only thing that will bring Dylan Keys a degree of closure and peace.”

Mandy turned the TV off and turned to me. “What an odious man! I don’t want to risk Dylan’s hearing that. He’s up in Trevor’s room right now, thank God. And speaking of Trevor, I need you to have a word with him. He got a day of in-school suspension for disrespecting one of his teachers. I’m sorry to lay this off on you, but when I tried to talk to him, I got the benefit of his very best teenage sarcasm.”

I trudged up the stairs to Trevor’s room. He and Dylan were working on a school project—something apparently to do with the pandemic and masks. Trevor was enjoying himself.

“KN95 sounds more like a radio station than a mask.” He altered his voice to sound like a professional disc jockey. “KN95 is your station for the very best in pandemic music. Here’s an oldie but a goodie: My Corona.”

Dylan laughed and joined Trevor in singing, “M-m-m-my Corona!” I hated to interrupt the fun but Trevor clocked me lurking in his doorway.

“Oh, shit.”

The mild profanity seemed to shock Dylan. He looked uneasily from Trevor to me. I frowned at Trev. “Language, son.” Then I turned to Dylan, asking, “Will you excuse us for a few minutes?”

Dylan hurried past me with a panicked expression. I closed the door after him.

“Trevor, what did you do to get ISS?”

“I called Coach Johnson an empty jock strap.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It just seemed like the thing to do.”

I growled, “I want to know what precipitated the name calling.”

Trevor rolled his eyes. “He chewed me out in front of everyone because I couldn’t make a free throw unless I took a granny shot. He embarrassed me, so I embarrassed him.”

“I see. I also see from your stubborn expression that you’re not the least bit sorry. In fact, you’re pleased with yourself. I might have more sympathy for you if I hadn’t myself been on the receiving end of unfair criticism this very day. If I’d told Captain Cox he’s an empty jockstrap, I’d have got an official reprimand in my service jacket and possibly an unpaid suspension.”

Trevor’s eyes narrowed. “Well, don’t take your job problems out on me. I’m not getting paid to take shit from Coach Johnson.”

When Trevor gets in his obstinate mode, it’s pointless to have a discussion with him. I went to his closet for the Attitude Adjuster and saw a trace of doubt in his eyes.

“Okay, I get it. I shouldn’t have said that. I won’t do it again.”

I slapped the paddle against my left palm a couple of time. “I hope not. However, you said it this time. You know how I feel about ISS. If the school had busted your butt, I’d let that stand as your punishment. ISS is a joke to you, though, so I’ll take care of the swats myself.”

Trevor hesitated, looking like he was tempted to argue further.

“Just drop ‘em and bend over. It’s four right now. You don’t want to talk yourself into more.”

Trevor said nothing, but he rewarded me with an eye roll before resigning himself to his fate.

Paddle swats are loud. The Attitude Adjuster is made of lightweight cedar, so it sounds worse than it is—not that it doesn’t sting plenty. Trevor yelped with the first swat but took the second one quietly. As I was lining up the third, Dylan threw the door open, yelling,

“Stop it!”

Trevor groaned quietly, “Oh, God!” Embarrassment had made him forget about the sting.

I could see Dylan was nearly hysterical, so I quashed my first impulse to order him to go to his room. Instead, I quietly told Trevor to stand up. He was still bending over the desk, though he’d covered his head with his arms. When he stood, he was scarlet from his hairline all the way down his neck.

I asked Dylan, “What’s the matter?”

In a trembling voice, he said, “Stop beating him.”

Trevor put in a word for me, to my surprise. “He’s not beating me, Dylan. It was just a couple of swats.”

I put a hand on Trevor’s shoulder. “It was meant to be four, but I guess we’ll call it a day now.”

Then I turned to Dylan. “I’m sorry I scared you, Dylan.” Choosing my language carefully, I asked him, “Was your dad very hard on you?”

“He used a belt. Sometimes he used the buckle. I’m sorry…. I heard you hit Trev and….”

He began to cry with abandon. Trevor looked aghast. I would need to have a long talk with him later, but at the moment, taking care of Dylan was a more pressing concern. If Keys hadn’t already been dead, I would have enjoyed beating the shit out of him. I've seen a lot of abused kids in my work. It's something I've learned to deal with. This time I'd become personally involved.

Dylan Keys: Letting Out the Skeletons

It had been so humiliating—for him and for the Hickses. He wasn’t sure how he could have done such a stupid thing as bursting into Trevor’s room like that. It was just that the Hicks family had seemed so different from his, he’d idealized them. Then, when he’d heard the CRACK of that paddle, it had triggered something inside him. He’d wanted to protect Trevor, only to realize Trevor didn’t need protecting. He also recognized he’d felt Sergeant Hicks, whom he now shyly called Al, had betrayed him. In the space of seconds, he’d gone from protector to just another hypocritical adult who only pretended he was good.

Despite the humiliation, the incident had been cathartic. Al had taken him back to his own room and listened as Dylan had described his father’s twisted ideas of discipline. Al hadn’t defended his own use of corporal punishment. Instead, he had assured Dylan he would never be struck in the Hicks home; nor would he ever witness Trevor being struck again.

There was one secret Dylan had not told Al. He was afraid of experiencing that sense of betrayal again.

He washed his face and gathered his courage to give Trevor an apology. While he’d wished many times someone would have burst in and stopped Dad from whipping him, he understood Trevor had not welcomed the intrusion.

He knocked on the door. “Come in!”

Trevor was seated at his desk doing something on his laptop. He stopped and turned his chair to face Dylan. Trevor tried for a blasé air.

“Hey!”

“Hey. I’m sorry for busting in here like a fool, Trev.”

“Don’t worry about it. You saved my ass two swats. Dad was pretty pissed off at me.”

“It just sounded so loud, I thought….”

“The Attitude Adjuster makes a lot of noise, but it’s not as bad as the one Mr. Patterson uses at school if you choose swats instead of detention. That one hurts like a bitch, even if you’re wearing your thickest jeans. If he ever offers you the choice, take the detention.”

Dylan sat on Trevor’s bed. “You don’t mind Al paddling you?”

Trevor made an incredulous face. “Of course, I mind. And I make sure Dad knows I mind, though that doesn’t seem to matter much to him.”

“You’re really not hurt?”

“Not really. I only got two before you came in. If I’d had all four, my butt would be sore now.”

Trevor stood up and grabbed the waistbands of his shorts and underwear at the back. He pulled them down enough to expose his bottom. Twisting to see himself in the mirror over his dresser, he said, “Not much to see that I can tell.”

Dylan had to agree. Two areas of pink, one across the middle of Trevor’s bottom and the other right above his legs, were all that remained of the punishment that had made such a dramatic noise.

“You’re okay with Al now? Really?”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t usually be. I want him to feel bad about it for a while. At least until my ass stops stinging.”

"Does he feel bad?"

"Yeah. Dad's pretty soft, though he acts like a tough guy. I can usually work it to my advantage."

Dylan couldn’t imagine that would have ever worked with his own father. Tom Keys’ anger had left no space for his son to be angry in turn. He couldn’t imagine what it was like not to live in fear of not just beatings but the rage that went with them.

Dylan gave Trevor a weak smile. “Well, Al told me I don’t have to worry about seeing anything like that happening again while I’m here.”

Trevor’s eyes lighted up with mischief. “Yeah? I hope you’ll stay here with us permanently... though he'd better not get on another grounding kick.”

After a moment of reflection, he added, “I mean that, Dylan, and not just because you’ll keep my ass safe. I hate being an only child.”

Robby Wishart: Something Ventured, Nothing Gained

I’d promised Sam I wouldn’t try to make contact with Mark_Cain at The Walk-In Closet, but after a couple of days, I began the necessary mental gymnastics to do it anyway. I convinced myself that I’d only promised not to use the Fairy_Cakes identity to masquerade as Dylan. I saw no reason not to lurk in the chatroom there. By letting Sam think I was working, I was able to steal time late at night. I created a new identity that I hoped would suggest a connection to Dylan: CupCakeBoy. The first night was a waste of time. My next opportunity was two days later.

I logged in even though the chatroom was empty. In less than five minutes, I had company, though it wasn’t Mark_Cain.

NaughyNicky99: Hi, CupCakeBoy.

CupCakeBoy: Hi, NaughtyNicky99. Mind if I call you NN?

NaughtyNicky99: That’s fine. Can I call you CCB?

CupCakeBoy: Sure

NaughtyNicky99: Been here before?

CupCakeBoy: Under a different name, but I don’t come much.

NaughtyNick99: How sad for you! If you come here more often, you might come more often.

CupCakeBoy: LOL.

NaughtyNIcky99: What names have you used before?

CupCakeBoy: Rather not say, NN.

NaughtyNIcky99: Oh, well. I thought maybe we’d chatted before.

CupCakeBoy: Not unless you were using a different handle.

NaughtyNicky99: Nope. Sorry. I was hoping you were someone I know. Worried about him. Anyway, I need to go. Bye.

He then left abruptly.

I thought it could easily be a coincidence, but maybe NaughtyNicky99 was Sam’s student, Nick. If so, maybe he was looking for Dylan. I hated this shadow world, where nothing was straightforward. There were too many people with too many secrets to hide and too many reasons for their concealment.

Mark_Cain: X

I knew Dylan’s real name. He only knew my first name. We’d never met in person, but we’d established enough trust I thought we were both ready for that step if we could figure out a way to do it safely. We knew what each other looked like. We’d turned our webcams on a couple of times.

The two of us had so much in common. Our fathers were both toxic Christians and homophobes. Mine had made me undergo conversion therapy when I was thirteen. He hadn’t caught me with another boy. I hadn’t even done anything so colossally stupid as coming out to him. He’d just decided I was too effeminate. He didn’t like the way I talked, or walked, or dressed. He didn’t like the way I combed my hair. He didn’t like my interests. He even criticized my face for being too delicate. At that age, I'd tried to please him. I'd tried to suppress my “tendencies”. I didn’t fool him or myself.

Conversion therapy worked, but not the way he’d expected. The place he sent me to was “faith-based”. I didn’t lose my attraction to other boys, but I did lose my faith. Since then, I’ve had to split myself into two different people. One is the straight Christian boy Father expects me to be. The other is the real Mark, who meets boys online and talks about sexual fantasies Father thinks are sinful perversions.

The real Mark has a lot to hide and a lot to fear. Lately, the fear has been not just for myself but Dylan also. Father told me more than once that he’d kill any boy he finds me with. He knew that threat would be worse than if he just threatened to kill me.

Do I think my father capable of killing? I not only think he is capable of it. I think he has done it. He is the most dangerous sort of man: a bad man who believes he is good.

Robby Wishart: A Skeleton in the Closet

Night after night, I returned to The Walk-In Closet in the hope of finding Mark_Cain again. NaughtyNick99 didn’t return, either. Just as I was about to abandon my efforts and count myself lucky Sam hadn’t caught me, Mark_Cain reappeared. He asked again for a private chat, which I agreed to.

Mark_Cain: Hi, CupCakeBoy.

CupCakeBoy: Hi, Mark.

Mark_Cain: I’m looking for Dylan.

I hesitated a moment and then went for it. The worst that could happen is Mark_Cain would realize I was an imposter.

CupCakeBoy: Found me.

Mark_Cain: Will you turn on your webcam?

I thought, “That tears it.”

CupCakeBoy: Don’t think I should tonight. Not enough privacy.

Mark_Cain: Okay. Where are you anyway?

CupCakeBoy: At a friend’s house.

Mark_Cain: Are you still in the city?

CupCakeBoy: Yeah.

Mark_Cain: You feel safe there?

CupCakeBoy: Yes.

Mark_Cain: Good. Just be careful, Dylan. I’m afraid my father had something to do with your father’s death. If he knows about you and me, you might be in danger.

My blood ran cold. I got a grip on myself, though. I needed to learn more.

CupCakeBoy: But why? Why would he go after my father instead of just me if he knows about us?

Mark_Cain: I’m not sure. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.

CupCakeBoy: What’s a coincidence?

Mark_Cain: I’ve got to go, Dylan. Please take care of yourself. I couldn’t live if anything happened to you.

Mark_Cain left the chat and Sam walked in and asked me what the hell I thought I was doing.

Sam Anderson: Too Hot to Hold on to

I could not believe I’d just caught Robby in The Walk-in Closet chatroom again. I was furious, but I could see he’d found out something he thought was important. It wasn’t the time to deal with discipline issues.

The chat between Robby and Mark_Cain was still on the screen, and my hair stood on end as I read it. Nevertheless, I thought I needed to bring Robby down to earth.

“Robby, this could all be a big nothing burger. We don’t know who Mark_Cain is, we don’t know who his father is, and we don’t know why he suspects his father. Maybe he has sound reasons for suspecting him. Maybe he’s taking some empty threats much too seriously.

“Regardless, you’ve now found something we have to give to the police. I don’t relish explaining your role in this, Robby. Still, the police have to know. They have powers we don’t, and they have to know if Dylan’s possibly in danger.”

Robby took a screenshot of the chat and printed it. We needed all the corroboration we could get when we took this wild tale to the police.