15. The Final Tango - 2.

Peejay came out of the library with two other guys. They were in deep conversation, probably relating to some legal topic, or the size of some poor girl's breasts. So deep was their discussion that he never even registered my existence as he walked straight past the bench on which I was sitting.

I smiled and followed them. One of the others dropped some cellophane from a cigarette packet he was opening.

“Hey you, pick that up!” I shouted.

All three turned round in some surprise.

I flashed my shield.

“This isn't a garbage dump, pick that up, or I'll give you a citation for littering.”

The man stammered an apology at the same time as going red with a mixture of embarrassment and anger.

Once he got over the shock, Peejay grinned, ran forward and literally picked me up in his arms.

Totally mistaking his intent, his friend screamed, “Peejay, nooo!”

“Hi honey!” said my lover, as he kissed me.

The kiss went on a long time, so his friends' embarrassment was compounded somewhat.

“Hi!” I managed to say when we came up for air.

“You rat, you never told me you were coming.”

“I haven't, not since we last met,” I said with the nearest thing I could get to a leer.

“You know what I mean.”

“It was a last minute thing. I've been attached to help investigate the series of attacks, one of them being Chrissie.”

“Really? Wow, cool! So you're here for a spell?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Double cool. Where are you staying?”

“I thought I'd find some guy who needed his bed warmed, do you happen to know of anyone?”

He simply grinned. Then he noticed his friends' glazed expressions, so he introduced me to them.

“Uh, guys, this is my fiancée, Sherri. Sweetie, this is Brad and Guy, they're in my class.”

“Are you really a cop?”

“Yeah, she is. So don't argue with her,” said my beloved.

We returned to his house and I met an embarrassed looking Matt in the kitchen.

“I've been to see Chrissie. She appreciated your visit. Thanks.”

He reddened slightly. Peejay excused himself and left us alone for a while.

“Look, Sherri, did she say anything?”

“About what?”

“About us?”

“You?”

“Yeah. I mean, did she mention that we weren't, you know, going out?”

“No. She just was pleased to have one visitor. Look, Matt, what you and Chrissie do or don't do is none of my business. I just know that she is very alone at the moment, so it might be helpful if you hang up your hang-ups for the duration and just agree to be a friend, she's precious few of them, right now.”

He nodded.

“Yeah, you may be right. I just gotta sort myself out.”

“Matt, forget yourself for a while, help sort her out first, please?”

He smiled and nodded in a noncommittal sort of fashion.

“Yeah, maybe,” he said and wandered off.

Peejay and I enjoyed renewing our relationship. Snuggled together in his big bed, we made love and then chatted for much of the night, just adoring being together again.

We drifted to sleep in the small hours and by eight I was back in the Detectives office.

Grant was eager to take me round the victims, because it got him out of the office before the Lieutenant got in. I couldn't understand how a department could exist with an individual like him on the payroll, as it had a completely destructive effect upon the officers.

I called on the female first, as I suspected she had just been unlucky, but couldn't discount anything at this time. Her name was Julia Burton; she was twenty-six and single.

I found her at her place of work, as she was a Pilates instructor at a local health club. I stood by the door, watching her put her victims through their stretching and breathing exercises. I tended to work out in a gym three times a week and swim a good deal. This looked different, maybe I should try it.

The class finished after ten minutes and the women rolled up their mats and filed out to change. I walked into the room and approached Julia.

“Miss Burton, I'm Detective Sherri Brewster. I'm working with the local detectives on the series off attacks, of which one was against you. I appreciate you've already spoken to my colleagues, but I need to get a little background. Would you mind if I asked a few questions?”

She drank some water from a small bottle. She was a big girl, nearly six feet tall and broad across the shoulders. There was nothing masculine about her figure, but her short hair and general build was certainly imposing.

“Sure, anything to catch the creep. I was just so shocked, I thought I'd have it together to react, but it was so damn fast!”

I imagined she would be quite formidable when angered, and said so.

She laughed.

“I have a goddamn black belt in karate, for Crissakes. I spent five years in the military, but he just came at me so fast and was gone before I could react.”

“That's quite normal. I'd hate to think what damage you'd have done had you reacted.”

“Yeah, so what do you want to know?”

“As you may know, the other victims are all transgendered, we believe that the same suspect is responsible for these attacks. Can you think of anywhere you go or anyone you know that has connections with the transgendered community?”

She sat on the bench, pulling on her tracksuit pants.

“How much do you know about the transgendered, detective?”

“Quite a lot, as it happens.”

She laughed with little humour and shook her head.

“No, you think you do, but really very few people know what hell these people go through.”

“Miss Burton, I was brought up a male. I became female in my teens, after going through my own small version of psychological hell.”

She stared at me, strange expressions flitting across her face.

“You?”

“Me. I was baptised Sheridan by my parents. That's why I've been brought in on this case. You see, I believe that I am one person who really does know what the Transgendered feel.”

“I apologise, but I'd never have guessed.”

“I was inter-sexed, Miss Burton, so I am now a normal female. Others, like the last victim were not so fortunate and face enormous difficulties. Just what is your connection?”

“I've been helping at a support centre, which offers counselling and coaching for transsexuals as they undergo transition. I had a relationship with a guy who was a TS. I helped him through it, but then he decided he fancied men as well, so we drifted apart. We're still friends, but it made me realise just how alone some of these people are.”

“Did you know the other victims?”

“I know Chrissie and Erin, or rather I knew Erin. Poor kid, she didn't deserve that!”

“How about the others?”

“I don't know, the names haven't been released in the press.”

I opened my notebook and told her the male names. Richard Fenner and Bruce McAllen.

She shook her head.

“That doesn't mean anything, as the TVs always used their femme names at the centre. Are they married?”

“Richard is but Bruce isn't.”

“I'd have to see them dressed. I never meet many of them in their male personas.”

“How far were you from the centre when you were attacked?”

“Five hundred yards, I guess. Why?”

“Did you tell the police about the centre when they first spoke to you?”

“No. Look, at the time, some guy, dressed all in black, grabbed me from behind and started to pull me backwards. He grabbed a breast and then I screamed. He froze for a second and then took off. It was hardly a sustained and vicious attack! I didn't think where I'd been was relevant, and besides, they didn't ask.”

“I not only think it's relevant, I believe it is the key. Is there anyone who has been attending or still attends the centre that you feel uncomfortable with?”

She shook her head.

“How about friends or relatives of anyone going through transition?”

“Not that I recall. We run a help group for relatives to cope with the transition. But I can't think of anyone who has taken things that badly recently. I mean, they all feel a mixture of emotions, but not to the level of wanting to attack everyone.”

“Can I ask a personal question?”

“Sure?”

“What was your initial reaction when your boyfriend told you he'd rather be a woman?”

Julia smiled.

“At first I thought he was kidding me. He was an all-American guy, and damn good in bed too! Then I was angry, as I'd wasted my time falling for someone who was dumping me. I felt guilt, as if it was somehow my fault, and had I been more of a woman for him, he'd have been fine. I realise now that was stupid, but I also felt inadequate.”

An idea was dawning on me.

“So, if you felt all that, it's reasonable to assume that a parent or partner of someone else could be feeling the same things?”

“Sure, we get it all the time - hurt, anger, guilt, inadequacy, fear and a sense of failure. It's almost like going through the death of a loved one. Why?”

“I believe we may be looking for someone who is feeling all these things, but is unable to cope with them rationally, so is resorting to violence to somehow compensate for their loss.”

“That would make sense. But I can't think of anyone we've had at the centre.”

“The chances are that if they've been through the centre, they'll be better able to cope. No, this one hasn't coped with the situation at all, and probably hasn't sought help.”

“How can I help?”

“Could you get me a list of all those who've been through transition recently, whose partners or parents haven't been supportive and have been actively opposed to the situation?”

“Under our confidentiality clause, that wouldn't be possible.”

“Then could you contact each one, ask them if they would be willing to have the details disclosed to me, and see what we come up with?”

“I could try. I'm going in this evening, so I can make a start tonight.”

“Could I meet you there?”

She looked at me.

“I think that would help, particularly if you would be willing to share your story. Real success tales are so welcome at the centre, it gives them hope and something to aim for. Though I doubt that many would ever hope to be quite as attractive as you are!”

I left Julia feeling that I'd made some progress. The Transvestites would prove harder ground.

Richard Fenner was a car salesman. He worked at the big Ford dealership on the main street leading out of town. As with many towns, all the car dealers seemed to congregate to one strip, so when we pulled onto the lot, Grant seemed quite pleased.

“I wanted to look for a new pickup, in any case,” he said with a grin.

No sooner had we parked that a salesman in a suit appeared.

“Good morning folks, how can I help you today?”

“I'm looking for Richard Fenner,” I said.

“You found him, what can I do for you?”

“Mr Fenner. I'm Detective Brewster and this is Detective Glover. We're investigating the attack you reported a few days ago and have to ask you some more questions.”

Richard Fenner looked very different; it was as if a switch had been turned. He was of medium build and relatively innocuous. His brown hair was short and slightly receding. Dressed in a suit, there was nothing to suggest he was anything other than a regular guy.

“I asked you not to speak to me here!” he said, looking around, furtively.

“Oh, you suggest we come by your home this evening?”

“No, my wife….”

“Then, how do you suggest we speak to you, by crystal ball?”

“There's a telephone!”

“Mr Fenner. The telephone is not a safe medium of communication and you know it. Anyone could claim to be you, say by covering for you taking an illegal break. Then they know your secrets, is that what you want?”

“No.”

“Then I suggest you let me ask my questions and we'll leave you alone. My colleague is interested in a new pickup, so why don't we take a walk towards them?”

Richard was less than cooperative to start with, but he had been to the centre on two occasions. One to help in applying makeup, and once for coaching with walking and his voice. He was clearly embarrassed at being ‘outed' by the attack. He had been walking from the centre to his car, which he'd parked some way from the centre so as avoid being associated with it.

The attack had followed the same pattern as the others, and although he had attempted to fight back, the assailant used surprise to affect a sound restraint technique so as to be able to attack and force penetration of some object into the victim's anus.

I had read about the attacks, but hadn't discussed the actual details with Chrissie, as I felt it would be too painful and recent to be constructive.

“Have you any idea as to the nature of the object that was inserted into you?”

Richard shook his head.

“How about the suspect, did he say anything?”

He shook his head again.

“No, that was the weird thing, not a word. The whole thing was over in seconds. Someone walking past saw what was happening and shouted. They called the cops, who were there before I could leave. It was so embarrassing!”

“I can understand that. I appreciate your position, but this person has killed once and nearly a second time. It is imperative we at least get some idea of who it is. Did you smell anything or hear anything during the attack?”

He frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“Some people smell of sweat, you know, - body odour. Others wear after-shave, eau du cologne, antiperspirant, or perfume, while others use mouthwash and chewing gum, or put garlic or curry in their food. Is there anything you can remember?”

“One thing.”

“Yes?”

“The guy had small feet!”

“How small? Like a child or a woman?”

“I notice feet. I have size eight, so it's no big deal, but I have TV friends with size elevens. I guess that this guy's feet were smaller than mine.”

“There weren't any footprints found at or near the scene.”

“That's because he had socks pulled over the shoes.”

“You're sure?”

“Now I think about it, the feet were the only thing I saw. He came round by my head when he put me on the ground. I wondered why he wasn't wearing shoes, but he was, just he'd put socks over the top.”

“Anything else?”

“No, the hood was a woollen thing, with eye holes cut out. It smelled kinda musty, though.”

“How so?”

“You know, like you put stuff away for several months, and when you come to get them out, they need an airing.”

“On your two visits to the centre, do you remember anyone hanging around, or anyone strange?”

“Strange? You have to be kidding me, we're all strange there, detective!”

I smiled.

“Okay, but you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know, but I can't remember anyone. I would have as I was unsure enough about going in the first place, so if there was anyone or anything that seemed unusual or out of place, I would have run!”

“How are you, now?” I asked.

“Scared. The attack wasn't that serious, but it's scared me enough. I've a wife and young daughter, I realise that my little hobby could have cost me my family and my job. I've stopped, for good this time!”

“Mr Fenner, I appreciate your time. You've been helpful, but I advise you to do two things.”

“What?”

“Firstly, tell your wife about your femme half, and secondly - take counselling. This isn't going to go away, it'll come back in cycles, and each time the risks will be the same. You have to control it and you need to be open and honest with yourself and those you love.”

“Like you know!”

“Actually, I do. Goodbye, Mr Fenner.”

“Where to next?” asked Grant.

“Salon du Paris, know it?”

“I know of it,” he said, grinning and pointing the car in the right direction.

We pulled up outside the hairdressing salon. Grant grinned at me and stayed with the car.

I walked in and saw six chairs with ladies being treated by a variety of hairdressers. A young girl with red dreadlocks was filing her nails at the reception desk.

“Mr McAllen?” I asked.

She barely glanced at me, but turned and shouted, “Brucey, customer for ya!”

Bruce McAllen was about as camp as a male could get. He had long dark hair tied back in a ponytail, and wore a teeny tee shirt that accentuated his very slender physique. His tight hipster flared jeans had roses embroidered on the back pockets, and his movements were more feminine than any of his clientele. I guessed he was a little older than me.

“Can I help you, dear?” he said.

I showed him the badge.

“I'm detective Brewster, is there somewhere we can go to talk?”

His eyes opened wide and both hands flew to his face. He was so theatrical; I knew I'd get annoyed with him if I wasn't careful.

“The back office, follow me.”

I followed him as he minced to the office, closing the door behind us.

He sat in the large swivel chair, crossed his legs and pointed to another chair with a languid hand. He had longer nails than I did. I sat.

“What can I do for you, detective?”

“I'm assisting in the investigation of your attack and the others that have occurred. I'd like to go over your story, if I could?”

“I told you people all I remember, it was very awful, I was so frightened, you have no idea!”

“Would you call yourself a transvestite, gay queen, a transsexual or trans-gendered?”

He smiled.

“Sort of all, I guess.”

“Please explain,”

“How much do you know about these terms, I mean, I find most straights haven't a clue about us?”

“Assume I know more than you,” I said, a hard edge creeping into my voice. I was finding his patronising attitude slightly annoying.

“Okay, then I have known I was different since I was four. I wanted to be a girl all my life, but as I grew up, I found that some boys liked a boy who was nearly a girl. I liked the attention, and have found where I can exist in relative happiness. I'm not sure if I want to be a real girl, with all the plumbing and breasts, but I just love to dress up and have fun that way. I've thought about having boobs and even a full sex change, but, well, I'm not sure I'm ready for it yet. I'm having a ball!”

“Do you have a partner?”

“A regular one?”

“Yes.”

“No, but I have many friends, if you know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean. Why were you at the centre?”

“Oh, that night, you mean? I went with a friend. It was his first time, so I was holding his hand. He stayed on for counselling afterwards, so I left. I had a date.”

“How often have you been to the centre?”

“I suppose I've been six or seven times. I found that some guys into T-girls hang around to see if they can pick up someone afterwards.”

This was news to me, and I hadn't read about it in the file.

“Was there anyone, that night?”

“No, but I left early.”

“I know what you told the police after the attack. I want you to think about what you could smell and hear during the attack.”

“Smell or hear?”

“Yes, for example, what do I smell like?”

He leaned over, sniffing delicately as if I might fart in his face.

“Oh, Channel!”

“Right, now, think back, was there anything about your attacker?”

He closed his eyes, as his hands and fingers formed a praying position.

“Butterscotch!”

“That's it?”

He opened his eyes and nodded.

“Definitely, butterscotch!”

“Okay, how about hearing. Did you hear anything?”

“Like what?”

I stood up and shook my hair with my right arm. I was wearing a bracelet on my wrist, so it jangled slightly and my earrings tinkled delicately.

“Oh.”

He closed his eyes again.

“Sorry, nothing.”

“Okay. Now about the attack, did you see anything of your attacker?”

“I told you before, nothing. It was dark, he was in dark clothing.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw the clothing, it was dark.”

“Dark as in black or dark green, dark blue, dark grey, which?”

“I guess, black, it was all so quick!”

“Okay, was it one piece, two piece or what?”

“Two piece. I saw a belt in the pants' loop.”

“What type of belt?”

“Leather, I guess.”

“Buckle?”

“Black. It didn't shine, I remember that.”

“Okay, feet, tell me about the feet.”

“Small. I mean they looked small.”

“Go on.”

“That's it, just small.”

“Shoes then?”

“I can't remember.”

“Try.”

He was beginning to get peeved.

“I can't!”

“Okay, you said he was wearing dark clothing, we've established it was two piece and a belt was through the loops. Tell me about the top?”

“The top? What about the top?”

“What did you see?”

“It was a top, dark. It had sort of little pockets down the front.”

“Was it like a sleeveless jacket?”

“It could have been. The sleeves were thinner, I think.”

I looked at my copy of the original statement.

……he was in dark clothing, with dark shoes and a dark hood with eye holes.”

“Okay, thanks, you've been helpful. If you do remember anything else, here's how to reach me.”

I scribbled my name and number on a piece of paper. I made a mental note to get some cards printed.

He looked at it.

“Can I ask you a question, detective Brewster?”

“How is it you think you know more than me?”

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