Murder on Channel Eight

Conclusion: Reality's a Bitch -- And Then You Die

By Rachael Robbins

© 1996 Transgender Forum & Rachael Robbins



Conclusion: Reality's a Bitch -- And Then You Die

  The day was as grey as my mood, and I could barely see to drive for all the spray thrown up by the semis on the interstate. Frenchy and I had finished our lunch and slogged through the downpour to the Opel in a stony silence. By that time, the mist had turned into a downpour, and with three shoeboxes balanced precariously in front of me, I'd managed to step in every puddle between door and car. My feet sloshed around uncomfortably in my shoes, and my best wig was plastered unflatteringly to my head.

  Frenchy, on the other had, was burdened only with a small bag from Payless Drugs, which contained her purchase of feminine hygiene products ("It's a girl thing," she'd sniffed. "You wouldn't understand.") She seemed to float over the wet concrete like some water sprite from an eighteenth-century romantic painting.

  We'd said some things to each other that weren't particularly pleasant, and both felt a bit wounded. She had an annoying way of seeing right through me, and deep down I suspected that she was right -- my insistence on heterosexuality was probably based on some deep-seated fear of being labeled gay. To top it off, the murder investigation wasn't being helped by the fact that I was attracted to a suspect who just happened to be of the same biological sex. Who just happened to make as beautiful a woman as me. (Well, almost , I corrected myself.) Talk about complications.

  It wasn't until we were heading back South on I-5, toward downtown, that we spotted the car on our tail. More accurately, Frenchy spotted it -- I was too wrapped up in my own conflicting emotions to be very observant.

  "Uh, Dawn," she began. "There's was a late-model T-bird behind us coming out of the parking lot."

  "So?"

  "So, it's still behind us."

  I checked the rear-view mirror. Sure enough, a dark maroon Ford was several car-lengths in back of us in the outside lane, just far enough to keep us in view in the light mist. The traffic was light, and the Ford's driver could keep us easily in view where we cruised in the inner-most lane.

  "Could be just coincidence," I told her. "Let's check."

  I accelerated smoothly and cut suddenly in front of a Safeway truck and into the center lane. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the Ford was keeping up. Matching speeds with the truck, I waited for the `Bird to pull up on my right; when it didn't, I pulled back into the inside lane and dropped back even with the grocery van. I saw the Ford ease back into its former position. Sure enough, we were being followed, and by someone who didn't give a damn whether we noticed or not.

  "Now what?" Frenchy asked.

  I wasn't sure -- the Opel wasn't a match for a T-Bird, either in terms of acceleration or raw speed, and its four-cylinder engine was already wound up about as far as it could go. I couldn't divine the intentions of our followers -- they may have wanted to deliver a singing telegram for all I knew. But I doubted it.

  "Well, seeing as how I'm not a big fan of high-speed chases . . ."

  "And not exactly Mario Andretti, either," Frenchy cut in.

  I shot her a black look, then continued. "I think we'd better just keep going as if we didn't notice. Maybe we can lose them downtown."

  She looked at me incredulously. "Keep on going? Lose them downtown? That's your plan?" 

  "All right . . . what do you want  me to do -- shoot their tires out?"

  "How the hell would I  know? You're the P.I. I'm just your faithful companion."

  "OK, I'll do something." And with that I slammed on the brakes, sending the car careening into a slide on the damp roadway. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the `Bird sail past in the outside lane, a look of idiotic surprise on the face of the driver. I fought the steering wheel as it bucked and shook in my hands, and managed to bring the little car to a shuddering halt on the inside shoulder. The car died with a lurch, belching a cloud of black smoke, and I looked over at my companion with a triumphant grin on my face.

  "Not bad, huh?" I said, and angled the mirror down to peer into it. Chases are so  hard on a girl's makeup.

  "Uh, Dawn?"

  "Mmm?" I replied, fumbling in my purse for some lipstick.

  "The car has stopped on the other side of the road."

  Sure enough, I could just see the brake lights of the other car in the mist ahead. Then, it's backup lights flicked on and I realized it was getting closer at a high rate of speed.

  "I got a bad feeling about this," Frenchy said, and I had to agree.

  The `Bird eased to a stop directly across the freeway and its door opened to reveal a very large character in a black turtleneck and chinos. His right hand was grasping something tucked into his waistband. Somehow, I didn't think he was just glad to see me.

  I reached over and rummaged around in the glove box for my 9 mm automatic. It wasn't there.

  "Shit!" I shouted, and slammed the steering wheel. "Must've left it in my other purse." I looked over at our pursuer and, sure enough, a gun had emerged from the his pants. He was holding it discretely at his side, waiting for a break in the traffic.

  "I think we'd better get out of here," Frenchy commented, her voice strangely calm. I turned the key, only to be greeted by a sick grinding noise. Be calm, I told myself, it'll start. But it didn't -- the motor ground on for a few seconds, and then stopped. In its place was only an ominous clicking noise.

  "When's the last time you had the battery checked?" asked my companion. Assuming it was a rhetorical question, I merely glared at her. Beyond her, out the window, the T-Bird's driver had raised his pistol, and it was pointed at us. I clawed frantically at the driver's side door, and it banged up against the guard rail, opening only a few inches. No escape there.

  "It's been nice knowing you," I told Frenchy, and closed my eyes to wait for the bullets to slam into my body. I kept expecting my life to pass before my eyes -- the furtive stealing of my mother's pantyhose, my father's misguided attempts to make me a man -- but it never did. There was only a terrible dread coupled a deep sense of sadness and loss.

  I don't know how long we waited like that, caught between this life and the next, but it couldn't have been more than a few minutes before I heard a tapping at Frenchy's window. My eyes sprang open, and I saw the solemn face of a Seattle cop, bent over and peering in the window. A black-and- white was parked just in front of us, blue lights flashing.

  "Are you ladies all right?"

  Frenchy rolled down her window and stammered "T-that car over there . . ."

  "Yeah, they left when we pulled up. Just as well . . . it would've been dangerous for them to cross the highway. Nice of them to stop, though." Incredibly, he thought the guys in the `Bird were just good Samaritans, out to help a couple of damsels in distress.

  "Oh, Officer . . . thank you so  much for stopping," I said breathily, before Frenchy could say anything else. "The car just quit, and we have no idea  what's wrong." My companion stared incredulously at me, but kept silent.

  "Well, Miss, why don't you turn her over and we'll see what she sounds like." He listened gravely to the solenoid as it clicked away, and then continued. "Sounds like a dead battery. We've got some cables in the trunk -- have you fixed up in a jiffy."

  He maneuvered the cruiser so that it faced us, somehow managing to not get hit by the hurtling traffic, and Frenchy turned to me with a frown.

  "Why didn't you tell him what really  happened?"

  "What good would it have done?" I replied. "Those guys are long gone by now -- probably got off at the next exit. Besides, I'd just as soon the cops not get involved right now."

  "How come? To protect your little honey?"

  "If by `honey' you mean Ashley, the answer is yes."

  "Don't you think by now they know  who he is? I'm sure they've talked to everyone on the show that day. Everybody in the North End knows his dirty little secret anyway . . ."

  "Maybe so, but all the same, I promised Cassie I'd try to keep her brother out of it . . ."

   Just then, the patrolman returned and asked me to unlatch the hood, and I fumbled around under the dash until I found the release. He raised the hood and connected a set of jumpers to the battery.

  "You mean," said Frenchy, a note of exasperation creeping into her voice, "that you'd risk our lives for your boyfriend?  Christ, Dawn, those guys may be back."

  "He is not  my boyfriend!" I shouted. I heard the cop call out, telling me to turn the engine over, and the car came alive with a rattle and a belch of smoke. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Back at our office, I headed into the inner room to change out of my soggy pantsuit while Frenchy checked the messages on our answering machine. I stood in front of the closet where I keep several changes of clothes, trying to decide what to wear, and heard her voice from the other room.

  "There's a message from David -- he wants to see you. Something about having some information on Baker's death. Says its important, and that he'll be around all afternoon."

  I groaned inwardly at the thought of driving all the way out to Bothell, but felt a strange thrill at the thought of seeing Ashley. When Frenchy came in the door a few minutes later, I was holding two outfits up by their hangers.

  "Which one?" I asked. "The red mini-dress? Sexy, shows off my legs, but maybe a little too much for mid afternoon. Or the long silk dress? Cool, feminine, and hinting of womanly pleasures underneath."

  She stared in silent astonishment, then slowly shook her head and backed out of the room.

  I chose the mini-dress, and a pair of matching pumps.

  I rounded the curve on Beardslee Boulevard, and parked in the lot of the "Wind n' Fir", next to Ashley's Miata. The rain had finally ended, and the sun blazed through a rent in the clouds, causing the late afternoon to be sullenly steamy and close. As I approached her doorway, I could see that it was open slightly, and something made me reach into my purse where it hung off my shoulder, and grasp the reassuring handle of the pistol. At the door, I rapped softly and called her name.

  "Ashley?" No response. I tried again. "Ashley? It's Dawn . . ."

  When there was no answer, I eased the 9 mm all the way out and pushed gently at the door with my other hand. It swung slowly inward, and in the dim interior of the apartment I could see a form on the floor in front of the couch to the right. I didn't have time to investigate further, because I caught a slight movement from the dark hall directly ahead, and my police-trained instincts took over. I threw myself to the left, a deafening roar erupted simultaneously from the hallway, and a bullet splintered the doorway where I'd stood just seconds before. A jolt of pain seared my left shoulder as I landed, and I remember thinking that my vanity was going to kill me one of these days as my high-heeled feet struggled for purchase on a bare linoleum floor.

  Finally, I was able to squirm my way into the small kitchen and prop myself up against a dishwasher, facing the entryway. My left shoulder hung uselessly at my side, and the pain was so intense that I fought to maintain consciousness. I could hear movement from the living room as my assailant approached the doorway, and I raised my gun arm, which shook alarmingly. A shadow appeared and I pulled the trigger; the gun bucked against the palm of my hand. A strangled cry and a thud announced that my bullet had found its mark.

  Somehow, I managed to struggle to my feet, and wobbled out into the living room to where my attacker lay. Vaguely, I noticed that it was the man from the Thunderbird, and that his raspy breathing, coupled with a bloodstained shoulder, indicated that he might live. I really didn't care one way or another. I approached the still form in the living room, shoulder throbbing and with colored lights dancing before my eyes.

  Ashley lay on her back, in panties and a bra, with one cup filled with a breast form and the other flat against her smooth chest. The other form lay in a crushed gelatinous mass on the carpet beside her. My eyes went to her wig, cocked to one side to expose short black hair, then to her face, frozen in a grimace of pain and fear, and came to rest on her throat, swollen and angry above the clothesline that had choked out her life. He must've come up behind her while she was dressing, I thought dully. How he got in without her hearing was one for the crime-scene boys. Maybe she'd been in the shower.

  I sank onto the couch behind me, consciousness almost gone, and groped for the phone on the end table. Dialing 911, I reported a homicide and a shooting, and requested an aid car. Before the darkness came, I remember thinking that my mother would be proud that I put on clean underwear, and then giggling at the absurdity. The paramedics would surely find something more embarrassing than dirty panties between my legs.

  Two days later, I sat in my desk chair staring out the window at the elevator crawling up the Space Needle, carrying tourists to an overpriced, undercooked lunch in the revolving restaurant on top. Elliot Bay sparkled to the West, and the Olympics (the mountains, not the games) were dark in their summer nudity beyond. The weather had returned to its usual late-summer beauty, which only served to deepen my gloom.

  I heard the door to the outer office open, and swiveled my chair around to see Bernie Peterson, my old partner, grinning in the doorway.

  "Hey, partner -- I see you're Don today, not Dawn."

  "What the hell are you talking about, Bernie?" I asked, irritably.

  "You're not in a dress, old friend. Although you make a great-looking babe, I like you better this way." He paused, and then added hastily "Not that there's anything wrong  with you dressin' like a woman, or anything. Whatever floats your boat, I always say."

  "Yeah, you're a real model of sensitivity," I said, not a little sarcasm in my voice. It was unfair, and I knew it -- I'd never seen him treat any of the street trannies with anything but respect when we'd served together on the vice squad. I grimaced and gestured toward the other chair. "Sorry. What can I do for you?"

  He flopped heavily down in the proffered seat. "Just thought I'd let you know what happened on that homicide you were involved in the other day. That guy you shot is out of the ICU and singing like a bird. The D.A.'s offered him a deal for squealing on the guy that hired him."

  That piqued my interest a bit. "Who did  hire him?"

  "Some bozo named Niles Marceau, a `business associate' of Johnnie Baker. Seems he'd been blackmailing Baker for months."

  "Over what?"

  "Apparently, Johnnie had been embezzling from Channel Eight's parent company, Emerald Northwest Communications, for some time. Part of Marceau's payment was inside information on Emerald's stocks."

  I remembered Tiffany Diamond telling me about an angry conversation she'd overheard between Baker and an unknown individual. Something about "stocks and bondage", she'd said.

  "Why'd he want Ash -- uh, David Baker killed?" I asked, although I thought I already knew.

  "Our boy doesn't know for sure, but he thinks that David got wind of something or another."

  "She called me that day to say she had some information about his brother's murder."

  "She? She who?" 

  "Oh . . . sorry. When I met David, he was dressed as Ashley. After that, I always thought of him as a she." I paused, then continued. "Anyway, that's why I went to her apartment that day. Maybe if I'd gotten there a little sooner, she'd still be alive."

  "Don't count on it, Donnie. Maybe you'd both  have been killed," he said, and stood up. "Well, I'm sure we'll have more questions for you . . . we're cooperating with Bothell P.D. on this one, and the D.A. will probably want you to testify at Marceau's trial. We picked him up yesterday." He turned to go, then looked back.

  "Hey Don?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm sorry, man."

  I smiled wanly, and swiveled the chair back around to the window, and continued to brood. There were many unanswered questions about the case. Why had Johnnie Baker told his sister the blackmail was over Ashley's transvestism? What, and more interestingly, how  had Ashley found out about Marceau? Finally, if I hadn't flitted about trying to find the most fetching outfit, would she still be alive? I knew that question would haunt me to the end of my days. Just then, the door creaked open, and turned to find Frenchy peering in.

  "Hey, Dawn . . . I gotta go to the mall. Wanna come?"

  "Jeez, I don't know . . ."

  "They're having a dress sale at `The Gap' . . ."

  I perked up at that. "Really?"

  "Yeah, and everything's half off at Vicky's Secret."

  "Just let me get dressed and I'll be right with you," I said, and headed for the closet.

  After all, a girl can't mope around forever.

The End


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