The Three Krystals

The Hair-raising Conclusion

by Rachael Robbins

© Transgender Forum & Rachael Robbins

Catch up by reading Part One


The Hair-raising Conclusion

   It took the police twenty minutes to get to the church and three-and-a-half hours to complete the crime-scene investigation. We were all required to wait until it was done; consequently, there were some pretty hairy faces by the time the cops got around to questioning us. Once again, I thanked God for electrolysis -- I'd replaced my wig, freshened my makeup, and once again looked like the Belle of the Ball.

   The lead investigator, a simian man by the name of Flores, stood in the middle of the Fellowship Hall with a quizzical look on his face. "Okay," he said, "Which one of you, ah . . . people found the victims?"

   "I did, Detective."

   He walked over and looked me up and down, eyes lingering on my legs. "And you are?"

   "Dawn Benedict. I'm a private investigator."

   "A P.I., huh? Well, Miss P.I., what are you -- some kind of fag hag?"

   "Certainly not," I replied. "These people are not, for most part, homosexuals. They are crossdressers and transsexuals, and this is a support group meeting."

   "Uh-huh . . . can I see some identification?"

   I reached into my purse and handed over my ID. Flores took it, glanced at it, and then did a classic double take. "This ID belongs to a Donald Benedict."

   "That's what I said -- Don Benedict. I'm under cover."

   "Sure you are." He sighed. "Well, Mr. Benedict, why don't you tell me what happened?"

   I described the scene of the three Krystals' demise in detail while he listened carefully, occasionally taking notes. When I was finished, he had me go over it again; this time he interrupted with frequent questions. I had to admit he was good at his job -- he managed to squeeze every last drop of story out of me in a remarkably short time. When we were finished, he had a look of grudging respect on his face.

   "You've got a good eye, Mr. Benedict. Ever do police work?"

   "I used to be on the force," I said. "First Precinct -- Bernie Peterson was my partner."

   "Bernie Peterson?"  Now he looked impressed. "He's a legend on the force . . ."

   I laughed. "In his own mind, you mean."

   "Anyway," he said, "we found something funny in the bathroom. I'd like you to take a look at it and tell me what you think." He beckoned to a patrolman, who brought over a large evidence bag. Flores held the bag open under my face; I looked in and saw a pile of men's clothes.

   "Where'd you get those?" I asked.

   "In a garbage can. And that's not all. Look." He held out what looked like a pile of matted fur.

   "What's that?"

   "Unless I miss my guess, it's a fake beard. See the spirit gum?" He pointed to specks of translucent, grayish material on some of the hair.

   Suddenly, it all became clear. "Can I see those clothes?"

   "Be my guest -- the belt buckle's already been dusted." He handed me the bag, and I pulled out a pair of sports slacks and a short-sleeved shirt. Although I couldn't be certain, I was pretty sure who they belonged to.

   "Bill . . ." I whispered.

   "What's that?" said Flores.

   "Bill. They belong to a FTM named Bill." I paused thoughtfully. "Or, what I thought was an FTM . . ."

   "You're not making a bit of sense," said the detective. "Who's Bill, and what's an FTM?"

   "An FTM is a female to male transsexual. A genetic female who's convinced she's a man, and wants or has gotten a sex change," I said excitedly. "There was a new guy named Bill who left the room right after the Krystals . . . I knew  his hands were too big."

   "Too big for what, for Christ's sake?"

   "Too big for a genetic woman. When I shook his hand, I noticed that it was huge.  I remember thinking that he was lucky to have such an ideal bone structure for an FTM. I was standing in the back with him, watching the program, when he followed the Krystals out of the hall. He said he had to go to the bathroom."

   "Lemme get this straight . . . you think this Bill  person was an actual guy pretending to be a girl who wanted to be a guy?"

   "Yes." I had to admit -- he caught on quickly.

   "Just like fucking Victor/Victoria."   He shook his head in wonder, then continued. "And you think he . . . she . . . whatever  . . . followed the victims into the bathroom, shot them, and then took off his clothes?"

   "Not just took off his clothes, but changed them."

   "Why? There's no blood on `em. And why would he wear a fake beard?"

   "So we wouldn't recognize him. He must have been someone we'd recognize. And he changed his clothes so he could make his escape out the back."

   "I got news for you," Flores said. "Nobody made their escape out the back. There are only two ways out of that hallway -- through here, and through a back door. And the back door's one of those emergency exits . . . if it had been opened, a siren would have sounded. Did you hear any siren?"

   I shook my head.

   "Then the killer must've left through here," he said.

   "Well, I know how to find out. Come on." I took his arm, ignoring his sudden blush, and led the way over to the main entrance of the hall. Jennifer Wilde was still at her post.

   "Jennifer, I'd like you to meet Detective Flores. Detective, this is Jennifer Wilde, our security girl."

   Wilde's eyes slowly roamed over Flores' body. "Why, hello there, Detective. What can I do for you?" Her voice was deep, yet seductively feminine.

   Flores looked distinctively uncomfortable, so I answered for him. "Could you tell us if a man, about five-eight, five-nine, with sandy blonde hair, left here between ten o'clock and the time the police arrived?"

   She answered promptly. "No. Is he the one . . .?"

   Flores cut in. "We're not sure, uh, Miss. Can you tell us if anyone left since that time?"

   "Nobody, of any gender, left through this door since Dougie began his program."

   We thanked her and turned away. In a low voice, Flores said "Can we trust him?"

   "Her," I said. "It's considered impolite to refer to a crossdresser as her biological sex. And you can trust her with your life -- Jennifer's a cop."

   "Another one? Jesus, what kind of cops are the academies turning out these days, anyway?"

   I stopped, and turned to him, hands on my hips. "Look, Detective, transgenders come from all walks of life and are productive members of society. Just because they like to wear dresses . . ."

   He held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Okay, okay . . . I get your point. But, you know what this means, don't you?"

   "What?"

   "It means the killer's still in the building."

   "Oh."

   He continued. "Seems to me there are a two possibilities. One, he's hiding in one of the rooms off that back hall. Two, he's right here in this room." He paused, looking thoughtful. "Now -- here's what we're gonna do. I'll send a couple of uniforms to search the rest of the building. I want you to assist me in interrogating the people in this room."

   "Ooh, Detective . . . I just love it when you're forceful."

   He shot me a dirty look and went to organize the search.

  

   We cleared Doug's wigs off of the long table in front and began the interviews. Flores sat in the center and I sat off to one side as an observer. Frenchy leaned on the podium behind us, watching with an amused smile. I don't know what she found so funny, unless it was the sight of forty crossdressers with faces like sandpaper standing in line like schoolchildren.

   But first came the four FTM transsexuals. Flores asked each to state his name (much muttering from the queued crossdressers) and asked to confirm it with positive ID (even more muttering). Then, each was asked a series of questions designed to elicit the required information in the shortest possible time. The answers were virtually the same for each FTM: did he remembered "Bill" (yes); did he see where he went (no); did he know of any reason why anybody would want the victims dead (no).

   The first of the crossdressers, a petite girl wearing a stringy blond wig, advanced nervously to the table.

   "Name," Flores said, hand poised over his notepad.

   "H-heather Robinson," she said. Her hands dry-washed against her skirt.

   Flores looked up. "Is that your real name?"

   Her eyes jittered from side to side like a cornered speed freak. She finally stammered "No . . ."

   "Look . . . ma'am,  you have to give me your name." Flores was clearly irritated. "Either here, or down at the station. It don't matter to me."

   I pushed back from the table and stood up, laying a hand on Flores' shoulder. "Ladies, may I have your attention?" I waited until all eyes were on me. "Believe me, I know how nervous it makes you to give your real names. But it's got to be done -- this is a murder investigation. As a former cop, I can assure you that your names will not be revealed outside of this case. Right, Detective?"

   "Of course," he replied. I sat down, and he looked up at Heather expectantly.

   "Fred Kozlowski," she said.

   After that, the process went smoothly, albeit exhaustingly, until there were only three girls left. Jennifer Wilde brought up the rear, having just vacated her post by the entrance, and Rita Boyles was at the head of the line. She stepped up to the table and saluted smartly.

   "Rita, aka Rodney, Boyles, at your service. And I do mean service, honey." She waggled her eyebrows.

   Flores just sighed. "Let's have some ID, Miss Boyles." He was improving -- at least he had the right gender for the honorific.

   "I thought you'd never ask," she cooed, and proceeded to march all the way around the end of the table, giving me a good look at the next girl in line. I recognized her as one Roberta Shales, a member I knew slightly. She was thin, pretty and a blonde, and with better makeup could have been quite convincing. It might also have helped if it weren't four o'clock in the morning. She was extremely nervous, and I smiled pleasantly to reassure her.

   "It'll all be over with in a moment," I said. For some reason, that didn't seem to cheer her much.

   Meanwhile, Rita was showing her ID to Flores, leaning over so her breast forms rubbed against his shoulder and breathing in his ear. "Now, darling, you know this isn't my best side, but it's the best that nasty ol' DMV could do. Here's a much  better shot. See, it shows off my green eyes . . ."

   While Flores was occupied, I studied Shales, a smile still on my lips. She was becoming more and more nervous under my gaze, standing first on one foot and then the other. There was something about her that was troubling, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Then, a slight current of air brought a scent to me, tantalizingly familiar, yet just out of reach. Where had I smelled that before?

   Flores finished with Rita ("You have  my phone number, sweetie," she said), and turned irritably to Roberta.

   "Name," he snapped.

   "Robert Shales."

   "Identification."

   Shales fumbled in her purse, pulled out a driver's license, and handed it across the table to the detective. As she did, the movement carried another whiff of scent to me, and suddenly I had it. I leapt to my feet, sending the folding chair screeching backward.

   "It's her!"  I yelled, pointing at Shales.

   She twisted away, and began a wobbly run toward the unoccupied front entrance. I kicked off my pumps at the same time she did, and crawled in a very unladylike manner over the table in pursuit. Jennifer Wilde made a leaping grab for her as she passed, but missed by inches, and now there nothing between Shales and the doorway but thin air.

   To my right, I heard the squeaking of rubber soles on linoleum. Turning, I saw Frenchy closing on Shales at an incredible pace. She was almost to the front doorway when Frenchy put on a final burst of speed and tackled her from behind. They went down like two sacks of feed, and Roberta's wig skittered away on the floor.

   When I reached them, Roberta was flat on her stomach with Frenchy kneeling on her back. Without the wig, I could see that she and "Bill" were one and the same.

   "I didn't know you could run like that," I said to Frenchy.

   "Nike," she said, breathing heavily. "Just fucking well do it."

  

   Robert Shales didn't wait to be Mirandized, but spilled his guts in great, sobbing detail as soon as he was in custody. It was the age-old story of unrequited love -- Krystal Waters had dumped him for another lover, specifically, Krystal Larson. Shales had never even crossdressed before several months ago, when he first came to the meeting to spy on his former lover. When he heard that the two Krystals would be together at the meeting, he came prepared to kill them.

   "Why did you come dressed as a guy named Bill?" I asked.

   "I wanted to throw attention away from myself. I thought that if some mysterious FTM was suspected, I could dress as Roberta and get away." When he saw the skeptical looks on our faces, he added "Well, it could have worked . . ."

   "Why'd you kill Krystal Knight?" I said. "Not that I haven't had that idea from time to time . . ."

   "When I got into the bathroom, I heard somebody breathing heavily in one of the stalls and I panicked. I didn't mean to kill her . . ."

  

   After a patrolman led Shales away, Flores turned to me with a puzzled frown. "It might have worked, you know, if you hadn't figured it out. What tipped you off?"

   "Brút," I said, looking him straight in the eyes.

   "Now, Miss Benedict, there's no call for that. I only want to know --"

   "Not brute as in beast," I cut in. "Brút the aftershave. He had enough on to smell up the entire Sixth Fleet. So did `Bill'."

   He shook his head in admiration. "Not bad for a pervert."

   "I bet you say that to all the girls." I slapped him playfully on the chest. "Besides -- I told you I was undercover . . ."

   "Yeah, sure. And I'm the Queen of the Nile."

   "Detective," I said. "What you do on your day off makes little difference to me."

The End


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