Murder in the Magnolia State

Episode 1: The Ice Pick Cometh

By Rachael Robbins

© 1996 Transgender Forum & Rachael Robbins



Prologue

  The Mississippi heat was a smothering blanket as Merilee left her parent's house and climbed into her rented Toyota. It was nine-thirty at night and still eighty-five degrees. Locusts sang endlessly -- or were they crickets? Whatever they were, she just wished they'd shut up for a change. She couldn't understand what made songwriters and third-rate poets yammer on and on about their droning music. If she had to, she guessed she could get used to it in time.

  The evening at her parents' house had gone about as well as could be expected. They were simple, deeply conservative folks, but in truth hers was a condition difficult for even the most sophisticated to comprehend. After all, she had left Mississippi a son and returned a daughter. Now, as she returned to her hotel in the steamy night, she felt drained, devoid of emotion. She was no longer sure why she had come home -- perhaps for some connection, some link with the past, a remembrance of family, or a last reminder of what she'd given up to ease her pain. She had expected . . . what? Acceptance? Understanding? What she'd gotten were furtive glances and barely suppressed scorn, covered by a terrible veneer of Southern politeness. She inserted the key in the lock and it turned without resistance. Funny how the South lulls you into complacency, she thought. She would never have left her door unlocked back in Seattle.

   He came at her in the bathroom, as she turned on the shower. The first slashing blow caught her in the right breast, sending her staggering back against the sink. Almost immediately, her sight grew dim, and a buzzing sound filled her ears. Curiously, she felt little pain as he continued his grim work. When it was almost over, he bent close and placed his mouth to her ear, smiling.

   "Faggot," he hissed.

   Then darkness overtook her.

The Ice Pick Cometh

   I was staring at the screen of my personal computer, tuned into the transgender news groups, when I heard about Merilee Parker's encounter with the ice pick. Yet another on-line battle had erupted between the transsexual thought police and avatars of the great, unwashed masses of heterosexual crossdressers. The arguments were as old as the first time ancient man had put on falsies and sashayed across a runway. Transvestites were not really women, just men playing at it, and not much better than perverts or nasty old drag queens. Transsexuals were elitist snobs who thought they had a lock on womanhood. TVs were chicks with dicks, TSs had $20,000 vaginas. And on and on, ad nauseam. I toyed with the idea of finding a more peaceful newsgroup, such as "soc.skinheads" or "alt.aryan.nation", but continued to read the transgendered groups with kind of a sick fascination -- caught like a bug in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

   I'd just read the heartfelt farewell from one of the old-timers in the group ("this is no longer a safe space for newcomers") and the sensitive reply ("don't let the door hit your ass on the way out") when I heard the phone ringing in the outer office. I called for Frenchy to answer it before remembering that she was out for the afternoon, attending the First Annual Take a Lesbian to Lunch Day at the Seattle Center. Somehow, she'd been given TV weather-bimbo Sandy Carpenter as her "date", and I would have given my right breast-form to be there when those two mixed it up over crabcakes and sushi. Grumbling, I tore myself away from the battling hussies on my computer screen and stalked into the anteroom to pick up the phone.

   "Benedict Investigations," I growled in my best tough-guy P.I. voice.

   "D-Dawn? Is that you?"  I recognized the frightened voice of Heather Monét, the president of the "Ballard Belles". Heather was not her real name. Neither was Monét.

   I switched to my female voice, which is lilting yet sexy, somewhere between Carly Simon and Eartha Kitt. "Hi, Heather. What's up?"

   "It's about Merilee . . ."

   "She back from her trip home? How'd she like it?"

   "She's dead, Dawn."

   Like a bad cliche from a "B" movie, I groped behind me for Frenchy's chair and sat down.

   "How did it happen?" I asked.

   "Someone stabbed her with an ice pick," she replied, her voice catching. "Twenty-three times."

   "Jesus. Do the police know who did it?"

   "They're saying it was robbery . . . do robbers usually stab their victims so many times?"

   "Not usually," I replied. "But anything's possible, I guess . . . how'd you find out?"

   "She had her shrink's letter in her purse. The Police Chief called him, and he called me so I could let the group know." Like many pre-operative transsexuals, Merilee carried a letter explaining that she was transgendered, and that she was cross-living as part of her treatment, supposedly to smooth over awkward moments with the authorities. It hadn't seemed to do her any good, though.

   After offering Heather what consolation I could, I hung up and sat there at Frenchy's desk, remembering. Merilee Parker was the first transgender I'd met other than street hustlers on First Avenue. She conducted my entrance interview for the Belles, and I remember the wonder I felt as I talked with this elegant woman. She wasn't wearing hot-pants and thigh-high boots, or even a see-through fishnet top -- just simple jeans and flats, topped with a Seattle University sweatshirt. Her wide-set, intelligent eyes regarded me calmly as I poured out my story of closet dressing, and my days as a vice detective busting people I knew I should be helping instead. She taught me that it's OK to be the way I am and that I'm not a pervert. She also nurtured the development of my female persona, although she could never quite cure me of my love for miniskirts and heels.

   It must have been around four P.M. when the outer door opened and Frenchy bustled in, scattering water everywhere as she shook out her umbrella.

   "Goddamn rain," she grumbled. "You'd think it'd keep assholes like Sandy Carpenter from moving up here. You know what she said to me? She said `I just think you people are so courageous, living the way you do.' Then she had the gall to put her hand on mine and say `I understand what you're going through . . . I have the same problem of patriarchal oppression in my business.' The same problem?  When was the last time she was raped by some redneck who thought all she needed was a good fuck? When was the last time . . ." She trailed off when she saw my face.

   "What's wrong?"

   "Merilee Parker's been killed," I said tonelessly.

   She moved swiftly around the desk and laid a hand on my shoulder. "Oh, Dawn . . . I'm sorry."

   "She was visiting her folks in Mississippi. They're not exactly tolerant of TGs down there in the Bible Belt, but her sister told her that her parents had mellowed. She had high hopes that her family would finally accept her." I paused, and clasped Frenchy's hand tightly. "She was scheduled for surgery in February . . ."

   "How'd she die?"

   "She was murdered, stabbed in an apparent robbery. The police don't know who did it -- probably got some hick detective working on it who wouldn't know a crime scene if he stepped on it." I paused, and stared thoughtfully at the desktop. Frenchy looked at me shrewdly.

   "What are you thinking?" she asked.

   "I'm thinking that they could probably do with some help from Up Nawth," I replied. "Maybe I ought to go down there . . ."

   "I'm coming with you. Merilee was my friend, too." She stated it as a given, as if there would be no argument, and there was none. I knew I'd be grateful for her company and support as I ventured into unknown, perhaps hostile, territory.

  

   It was sixty-five degrees and raining when our Northwest Airlines flight took off from Sea-Tac two days later; Sandy the weather bimbo had said that this was one of the rainiest Junes on record. Frenchy and I had debated at length about whether I should go as my female or male persona. Surprisingly, she had been in favor of the former, arguing that it was bad enough that us Northerners were going down to teach the Southern boys a thing or two, without getting into a macho pissing contest. Like I would ever do that.

   As much as I wanted to go as Dawn, I was leaning toward Don for legal reasons. "My driver's license is in my male name," I argued. "I get away with using it crossdressed in Seattle, but I can just see some good-old-boy Sheriff pulling me over, then running us out of town on a rail because the picture doesn't match the package."

   "Oh, come on . . . you've got fake I.D.s coming out the ass. You just never use `em."

   "Using a fake I.D. is the quickest way I know to get thrown in the slammer. And some Bubba named Billy Earl, sent up for moonshining or whatever they get sent up for down there, will decide that I'm close enough to a woman for general purposes."

   "Look," she said. "I like Dawn better than the Donald. I can't even imagine travelling with him twenty-five hundred fucking miles." She looked smugly satisfied, as if that settled it.

   "We're the same person, goddammit!" I shouted, my voice dropping an octave.

   "See? That's what happens when you let your testosterone take over."

   I could see that further argument would be fruitless (and I really did want to go as Dawn), so it was my female self who sat on the 727 watching Seattle disappear into the mist. I wore a pair of white shorts, a scoop-necked t-shirt and white sandals. Anticipating the hot weather, and because Frenchy had assured me they love blondes in the South, I'd chosen a short, fluffy golden wig. The day before our flight, I'd paid a visit to a friend in the forgery business, who'd supplied me with a fake driver's license with my present appearance, and for good measure, phony PI credentials. Although Washington State doesn't license investigators, I counted on the fact that the rubes wouldn't know that. An official-looking "Investigator's License" could lend a little more weight to my probing.

   We'd bought our tickets at the last moment and couldn't get seats together; I was seated next to a polite young businessman from Memphis. His eyes kept straying to my bare legs.

   "My name's Chad," he said. "What's yours?"

   "Dawn Benedict. Nice to meet you." I took his extended hand.

   "You too. What're you headin' to Memphis for, Miss Benedict?"

   "Actually, I'm going to New Jerusalem, Mississippi. And please -- call me `Dawn'."

   "I take it that's Dawn as in `morning', not as in `Knotts'" he said with a twinkle.

   I slapped him playfully on the shoulder. "It's spelled with an `a-w', silly." This was getting good.

   "Well, Dawn with an `a-w', you goin' to Mississippi on business or pleasure?"

   "Business . . . I'm a private investigator."

   His eyes widened in surprise. "A P.I.? I've never met a P.I. before, especially one as pretty as you."

   "Well, it is  my first case . . ." I said, blushing prettily as I lied. I was glad Frenchy wasn't around.

   "I'll bet you've got a gun in that purse, don't you?"

   "You know you can't bring a gun on board an airplane. Besides, I don't even own a gun." Another lie -- my 9mm automatic was checked as baggage.

   "Well, that's good to know," he said patronizingly. "Say, can I buy you a drink?"

   I let a smile spread slowly over my face, and looked him in the eyes. "I thought you'd never ask."

  

   When we got to Memphis, we found that our connecting flight left from the furthest possible gate. To top it off, Northwest, which advertised the best on-time record in the business, must have been having an off day -- we had only twenty minutes to catch the connector. By the time we reached the gate, my wig was plastered to my forehead, and my all-day deodorant had given up half-way. I felt wrung out, like a drag queen after a Rockettes number.

   Our connection was on a small commuter airline, and as we descended a flight of stairs and onto the runway, I got a taste of things to come -- the heat smacked me in the face like a vat of ninety-degree Jello. The air had a dank, viscous quality which, combined with the oppressive smell of jet fuel, made me slightly queasy. I turned to the flight attendant, who was holding us at the bottom of the stairs until all the passengers could gather.

   "Where's our plane?" I asked.

   She pointed to a tiny propeller-driven craft that looked like someone had stuck wings on a drain pipe. I thought she was kidding.

   "No, I mean the airplane that's going to New Jerusalem."

   "That's it, Ma'am," she said in a soft drawl, "that one right there." She was still pointing at the drain pipe.

   "You've got to be kidding,"  I said, glancing at Frenchy, who looked equally horrified. "I'm not riding on that thing."

   "Suit yourself, Ma'am. But that's the only one going to New Jerusalem." And with that, she started across the concrete toward the dinky thing. I had no choice but to follow.

   By the time I'd gotten half-way across the concrete to the plane, my legs were slick with sweat. I must have look like I was oiled for a home-video production of "Susie's Sexy Surprise". Even the sounds seemed hindered by the thick, torpid air -- a 737 taking off overhead sounded strangely muffled and subdued. I looked over at Frenchy and saw that her t-shirt was plastered to her body, giving her a complex, not-unpleasant set of motions as she walked. I had to remember not to watch too closely -- after all, I was supposed to be a woman, and I was sure folks down here hated lesbians almost as much as transvestites.

   Once on board, all my fears were confirmed -- the damn thing was a drainpipe with wings. Even though I'm not particularly tall at five-foot seven, I had to stoop while making my way down the aisle. And when I got to my seat, I found that the it was proportioned for a hunch-backed troll with two-foot legs. My knees ended up almost touching my breast forms.

   Blessedly, the overhead air was cool and plentiful, and I directed the nozzle full in my face. Frenchy squeezed into the seat beside me.

   "Are we there yet?" she asked.

   "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto . . ."

   "Who was that bozo I saw you with on the plane? You two were looking awful chummy . . ."

   "That," I replied, "was Chad."

   "Chad? What kind of name is that? Sounds like somebody on a soap opera."

   "He was a perfect gentleman," I said. "Even offered to carry my bag off the plane. How was your flight?"

   "I was squeezed between a preacher and an old woman. The preacher tried to convert me, get me to mend my sinful ways. The old lady fell asleep on my shoulder." She stared out the window as we taxied down the runway. "How long is this flight supposed to be, anyway?"

   "Let's see," I said, digging into my purse for the ticket. "We're supposed to take off at twelve-forty, and arrive at two-ten . . . an hour-and-a-half."

   We both groaned at once. It was going to be a long ride.

To be continued . . .


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