A Fountain Filled With Blood

“Russ! That’s a terrible thing to say about your own—” She let go of the dogs and stood abruptly, glancing around. “At the protest this afternoon. I heard something.” She looked up at him. “It was right after you had ordered the demonstrators to disperse. I was trying to leave, and as I was making my way through the crowd, I heard someone say, ‘He’s not gonna be a problem after tonight, is he?’ ”

“Uh-huh. Look, it’s common to put all sorts of ominous meanings into ordinary things when a murder—”

“Don’t make me sound like I’m a few chimes short of a clock. This voice was creepy. Threatening. It made me stop where I stood to try to see who had said it.”

He held up his hands. “Okay. I’m not saying you didn’t hear something. But even if you did, it’s not going to be of any use to us.” Lyle was walking toward them, gesturing questioningly with his arms. “There must have been two hundred people in the park at that time. Maybe more. Whoever did this could have walked right past you, me, the mayor, and Officer Entwhistle, and there wouldn’t be any way of knowing it.”

Lyle ambled up between them. “What’s up?” He bent over and scratched Bob’s head and was rewarded by a tail thump. “Doc Scheeler’s here, and Morin’s waiting with his Baggies to catch anything good. Thought you might like to sit in.”

“Yeah, I do. Reverend Fergusson didn’t see anything.”

“But I heard something,” she said.

Lyle raised his bushy gray eyebrows. “You did? Great.”

Russ shook his head. “Don’t get all excited. She heard someone with a threatening voice say, ‘He’s not gonna be a problem after tonight’ at the demonstration this afternoon. After the race.”

“Oh.” Lyle turned to Clare. “I’m sure it sounded scary, but it really doesn’t tell us anything.”

“If it was the man who killed Bill Ingraham, it tells us this wasn’t some case of gay cruising gone horribly wrong. This was planned out in advance.” Clare folded her arms, her posture challenging them to prove her wrong.

Lyle and Russ looked at each other. “Ingraham was gay?” Lyle asked. Russ nodded. “Well, that puts a different spin on things.”

“A bad pickup was the first thing that popped into my head,” Russ said to him. “Although I think Payson’s Park and out by the old cemetery are the only places we’ve chased off guys cruising before.” He frowned and swung back to Clare. “How do you know about cruising?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Russ, I didn’t spend my entire adult life locked in a seminary. When I was teaching at Fort Rucker, there was a strip where men would cruise for anonymous sex. With other men. There was a murder there, too—a young man from town. Two privates on leave picked him up and then beat him to death.” She looked from him to Lyle and back again. “But if I heard someone talking about murdering Ingraham this afternoon—”

“Reverend, you probably heard someone talking about his blister, not planning a murder,” Lyle said. “That park was filled with the whole crowd from the race and a lot of folks who were going to stay on for the bands and fireworks. The chances the perpetrator was hanging around making threats within earshot are slim to none.”

“You mean it’s unheard of for someone intending murder to follow his victim around? Keep an eye on him? Scout out the best place to do it?”

Lyle looked at Russ and shrugged. “She’s got a point.”

Russ pinched the bridge of his nose. “She always has a point, trust me. Maybe we are looking at a premeditated murder.”

“Which would mean it’s tied in with the two other assaults,” Clare interjected.

“Which would mean no such thing,” Russ said, speaking more loudly. “We don’t have any indication the attacks on Emil Dvorak and Todd MacPherson were planned. In fact, they seem to be pretty clearly crimes of opportunity. Which would argue that if this murder is connected to the previous assaults, it’s more likely to have happened spontaneously as part of a pickup.”

“Why would Bill Ingraham come to a cold, wet park for sex?” she asked. “He’s staying in a comfortable inn run by hosts who wouldn’t blink no matter what guy he brought home with him.”

“Why do guys get trussed up in leather and let someone walk all over them with spike heels? I don’t know! That’s how they get their jollies!”

Lyle broke in: “This is getting real interesting, but if you want to see what Doc Scheeler finds, we’d better get over there now. I get a feeling the body could be bagged and slabbed before you two finish up.”

Russ sighed. He grasped Clare’s upper arms and gave her an imperceptible shake. “I don’t want you walking back to the rectory alone,” he said. “You understand? Stay here and I’ll get someone to take you home.”

“Yes, I understand,” she said, a tinge of exasperation coloring her voice: “Believe me, I don’t have any desire to go wandering off by my lonesome in the dark. Even with these two tagging along.” She glanced down at the Berns, who had risen when Clare had and now stood leaning their broad heads against her blotchy sweatpants.