Down to the Sea with Dawn

Episode 1: Hey, Sailor . . .

by Rachael Robbins

© Transgender Forum & Rachael Robbins

Popeye ©King Features Syndicate, 1979


Episode 1: Hey, Sailor . . . 

  1994 will always be remembered as the year of the Wallingford Whacker, a serial killer that plagued Seattle for the first half of the year. The killer's nickname came from the district in which the first victims (or more accurately, the victims' parts)  were found. For seven months, everyone in the Great Northwest breathlessly followed the progress of the police investigation -- every lead, every suspect, every dead end. Bernie Petersen, my old partner on the force, was heading up the investigation. Along about March, he called to cry on my shoulder.

   "Whoever this is, Donnie," he said, "He's slicker than dog shit. We don't have a thing on him."

   Ever the feminist, I said "Him or her , you mean."

   "Come on -- you know  there's a 99% probability it's a guy. Women just don't run around hacking other women to pieces. Besides, there's the other, ah, evidence found on the victims' remains . . ."

   "True," I said. They didn't call him the "whacker" for nothing.

   "Anyway," Bernie continued, "Nobody's seen anything, nobody's heard anything. There's been no physical evidence other than the body parts. Makes a guy wanna give up police work and open a bar or something."

   "Yeah, right," I said. "You'll retire the day I give up my pumps and join a rugby team."

   "I guess so." He sighed. "What're you working on these days, anyway?"

   "Oh, you know . . . the usual P.I. bullshit. Following a cheating husband around with a camcorder, digging up dirt on a witness, doing background checks on rent-a-cops. High class stuff like that. I had one woman wanted me to stake out her backyard the other night. Wanted me to catch the aliens that were inseminating her dog while she slept."

   "Did you catch `em?"

   "Turned out to be a perfectly ordinary pit bull. Almost ripped my leg off."

   "You mean you actually took  the case?" he said.

   "Hey -- I needed the money. She was so relieved she gave me a five-hundred dollar bonus."

   "Jesus Christ -- dog-screwing aliens. Don't you ever miss the force?"

   "Not in the least. What I'm doing now, pit bulls are the most dangerous things I have to worry about. There's not much chance I'll get sliced up by some axe-wielding maniac in my business."

  

   I walked into the Captain's Club dressed to kill in the proverbial little black dress, smoky black stockings and high-heeled pumps of the variety so tiresomely equated with the act of sexual intercourse. The balmy July night made a wrap unnecessary, and my dark brown wig just brushed the top of my bare shoulders. In short, I looked like one hell of an alluring woman, which was just the image I wanted to project.

   On this particular occasion, I was laying a little honey trap for a client's husband. She'd sailed into my office nearly a week before, haughty and proud, saying her spouse, a prominent Seattle attorney named Phil Atwater, was seeing another woman. She wanted me to get the goods on him so she could take him to the cleaners. Trouble was, I couldn't catch him at it. I tried stalking him at lunch, but there was no rendezvous at a seedy motel. His frequent late-night meetings were just that -- late-night meetings. He met no one on his early-morning constitutionals through the streets of Laurelhurst, nor was there any hanky-panky at the downtown fitness club he went to three times a week. From all appearances, he was a model husband, guilty of nothing more sinister than overweening ambition and spousal neglect.

   There was one more line of investigation to try before I admitted defeat. Atwater was an avid yachtsman, and sailed his 44 footer every Saturday out of Shilshole Marina. Afterwards, he was known to stop in at the bar of the Captain's Club to knock a few back and hash over the day's adventures with his buddies. I figured he might be meeting his paramour there, so I donned my girl-on-the-make outfit and settled myself in a dim corner of the bar, hoping to catch him in the act. For extra insurance, I stationed Frenchy out in the Marina parking lot in my Opel Cadette with a low-light video camera. She'd bitched and moaned about the assignment all day.

   "Why do I always get the shit jobs?" she asked. "I  could stake out the inside, and you could sit out here in the parking lot . . ."

   "Yeah, sure . . . you're Captain's Club material, all right. They just love  dykes in there."

   "Hey -- I can look straight when I want to. Whaddya think I do, wear a sign?" I raised my eyebrows skeptically and stared at her "Lesbian Avengers" t-shirt. "Well, anyway," she continued, "It's just not fair. Dawn gets to drink in the Captain's Club, Frenchy gets coffee in the Opel. Dawn gets to flirt with the sailor boys, Frenchy gets to play with herself."

   "Dawn pays the paycheck, Frenchy works for Dawn." For once, that shut her up.

  

   I sat at the bar, crossed my legs seductively and ordered a mai-tai. My purse, in addition to its usual contents (lipstick, blush and 25-caliber automatic), carried a small tape recorder and a miniature camera, the better to record any of Phil Atwater's amorous advances for posterity. There were several unescorted women in the place, any one of which could be my Atwater's paramour. They looked interchangeable -- miniskirts, vacuous smiles, and too much makeup. I fit right in.

   The sun set in flame and glory behind the Olympic Mountains, turning Puget Sound the color of shimmering gold. Through the large picture window, I could see the fleet of powerboats and sailing craft heading for the Marina and its protective rock jetty. Before long, their owners started to filter into the place -- 90s versions of the men who go down to the sea. If they had one thing in common, it was an aura of power and authority. Although Shilshole was home to boats of every class -- from small, open sailboats to sixty-foot power yachts -- owners of the smaller craft tended to congregate at Walt's Place down the docks about a quarter mile. The Captain's Club was a members-only place, and you could only get in if you paid the steep dues. Or if you knew somebody -- the manager was a guy I'd helped out on a pandering beef back in my vice cop days. When I'd come to him earlier in the day requesting a temporary membership for one Dawn Benedict, he'd given it to me, no questions asked.

   I spent the evening pleasantly enough, fending off the advances of drunken sailors and nursing my drink, until about a quarter to ten, when Phillip Atwater walked in. He was about fifty years old and extraordinarily distinguished, wearing khaki pants, Izod shirt and boat shoes. With his snowy white hair and dignified mustache, he could have been the star of a road-show production of "Inherit the Wind". If I wasn't all man under my feminine finery, my heart would have gone pitty-pat.

   His grey eyes swept the room as if seeking a tactical advantage, seeming to linger on each solitary woman in turn. When they reached me, I turned away -- no use giving him a good look. Finally, as if coming to some sort of decision, he strode over to a booth and seated himself, alone.

   The bartender, an anxious little man with a crew cut, rushed solicitously over to Atwater's booth with a drink and bent low as my quarry whispered in his ear. I saw him nod almost imperceptibly, cast a quick glance my way, and scurry back to the bar. Uh, oh, I thought, that's all I need -- it looked as though Atwater had decided on me! 

   My fears were confirmed when the bartender mixed another mai-tai and brought it over to my table. "Complements of the gentleman in the corner booth," he said. I could see Atwater smiling over at me. "He wonders if you would join him?"

   I thought fast. On one hand, I didn't like to become involved in my clients' cases, especially when it might mean being pawed by their inebriated husbands. I could see the headlines -- "Prominent Seattle Attorney Caught with Transvestite." Film at eleven.

   On the other hand, this might be the only chance I get to nail the bastard. My pride as a detective, not to mention a fat bonus, was on the line. Besides, my involvement needn't become public knowledge -- just the threat  of exposure should send Atwater diving for his checkbook. I made my decision.

   "I'd be happy to," I told the bartender.

  

   The naugahyde felt cold against my thighs as I slid into the booth opposite Atwater. I extended my hand and said "Dawn Benedict."

   "Phillip Atwater," he said, and took my hand and raised it to his lips. A shiver went through me (the air-conditioner must've been up a little high).

   "I haven't seen you in here before," he said.

   "I'm new in town -- a friend of George Bartholemew," I replied, quoting the name of a member I'd been told was safely out of the country.

   "Well, you're a welcome addition to the Club," Atwater said. "It's nice to see such a lovely new face."

   "Why, thank you, kind sir," I said, blushing. This was going rather well, I thought. "Do you have a boat here?"

   His eyes lit up. "Forty-four foot Bayliner. Sleeps six. She'll do twenty-five knots . . ." He continued to babble on about his boat, and I let him, inserting "oohs" and "ahs" where appropriate. Finally, he got up to use the restroom and I reached into my purse to flick on the tape recorder. Now all I had to do was to ratchet up the heat a little -- get him to say something incriminating. My plans changed when he returned.

   "How about coming out to see my boat?" he asked. "It's just a little ways down the dock . . ."

   "I don't know, Phil . . . "

   "Oh, come on," he said. "We can have some champagne and get to know each other better. We could even take a little moonlight cruise, if you want -- the Sound's beautiful at night."

   Why not? I thought. Frenchy would surely see us exit, and I could trust her and the low-light camera to get all the incriminating evidence I needed. I could take care of this little weasel if things got rough.

   "All right," I said, "But only for a little while."

  

   I stole a glance over at the Opel as we left the club, and Frenchy was nowhere in sight. Not that I'd expected her to be -- she was too experienced an operative to be caught in a rookie mistake. I faked a little shiver, and was rewarded when he wrapped an arm protectively around my bare shoulders. He'll be less likely to spot Frenchy skulking around behind us if his mind was on me, I thought. I leaned into him and smiled up at him -- my hero.

   After about a hundred yards, we reached an iron-mesh gate topped by barbed wire. He unlocked the gate and led me out onto a dock lined on either side with boats. I heard the gate clang shut behind me, and hoped that Frenchy remembered what I'd taught her about scaling barbed-wire fences. A heavy coat thrown over the top and voilá  -- you're over.

   Water lapped quietly at the dock and the scene was bathed in brilliant moonlight. The pungent odor of brine assaulted my nose, mixed with the scent of Atwater's Calvin Klein for Men   and my own Charlie  perfume. It was a strange combination. It seemed we'd walked a half a mile when we arrived at a huge motor yacht moored at the very end of the pier. He bounded ahead and scrambled up a step ladder onto its deck, then reached out and handed me on board. I could feel my skirt riding up, and knew that I'd given him a good look at my thigh.

   "Welcome to the Wallingford Belle,"  he said. "What do you think?"

   "Oh, Phillip," I said softly. "It's lovely." I wasn't faking my admiration -- even at night I could see that she was immaculate, with teak decking and gleaming brass fittings. Apparently, corporate lawyerhood paid a lot better than being a sleazy private eye. I would never have guessed.

   I turned slowly around in a 360-degree circle, ostensibly to check out the boat, and saw a furtive movement in the shadows of the dock. Apparently, Frenchy had made it over the gate. Now all I had to do was maneuver good old Phil into a compromising position.

   "I'm a little cold," I said. "Could we go below and have some of that champagne?" I moved very close to him and placed my and lightly on his chest. Without a word, he took me by the hand and led me toward the hatch. Behind us I heard a sound that could have been the dock creaking with the waves. But I knew better.

   Once below, he seated me on a small divan and turned to a tiny wet bar, his back to me as he poured the drinks. This was just as well, because he didn't see me stare out the open window to my right. He also didn't see Frenchy peering in at us, camera to eye. She ducked down quickly as he turned from the bar and sat down close beside me, handing me a full glass of champagne as he did so.

   "To us," he said, raising his glass.

   "To us," I said softly, and took a ladylike sip. I might not be able to afford good champagne, but I know it when I taste it -- and this was very good champagne. I took another sip, larger this time. Atwater smiled at me, reached over and took my glass, and placed it on the small coffee table. Then he cupped my face in his hand (I sent a silent prayer of thanks for my electrologist) and kissed me full on the lips.

   Now, this wasn't the first time I'd been kissed by another man in the line of duty, and so I wasn't particularly shocked. After all, what had I expected when I agreed to accompany him to his boat -- a discussion of the theological implications of War and Peace? And with Frenchy getting all this on tape, it ought to just about sink his ship, so to speak. So I returned his kiss ardently, leaning into him and placing my arms around his neck. He wasn't a bad kisser, as sleaze-bags go.

   But then, just as I felt his hand exploring my thigh, something strange happened -- a wave of dizziness swept over me and my stomach did a slow roll. I broke contact and leaned back against the couch. My vision started to blur, and I heard him ask what was wrong.

   Suddenly, I broke into a cold sweat and was nauseous. I staggered up off the couch and took two steps toward the gangway, then lurched sideways into the wet bar and slid down its front. The last thing I remember was Atwater's leering face gaping down at me, a drop of spittle running down its chin.

To be Continued . . .

You can write to Rachael Robbins about this story and others in the Dawn Benedict series.