The staked Goat

interrogation training.
    I also remembered why Murphy’s name meant something to me. Some years ago, the word was that a city councilor had vowed never to see a black reach the grade of detective lieutenant. Oh, it was all right to have them in uniform, and strut them on appropriate holidays in the poorer, blacker neighborhoods. But a plain-clothes lieutenant, especially in homicide, never. Well, it seemed that some liberals had enough pull to get Robert J. Murphy’s name on the lieutenant’s list and to get it, because of the Irish last name, past the councilman’s informal, backroom veto. At the promotion ceremony, said councilman hit the roof. He later saw to it that said Murphy was assigned to Beacon Hill, residential area of many liberals and rich folks, where said Murphy could fuck up royally in front of those who thought they knew more than the councilman. As it turned out, however, said Murphy knew his stuff, and said councilman was eventually defeated for reelection for a hundred other reasons.
    Said Murphy now sat across from me, or, more accurately, I sat across his desk from him. A female detective named Cross had replaced the exhausted young Daley. Murphy didn’t look exhausted, maybe because of his environment. His office was a degree or two colder than the morgue had been.
    I repeated for Cross the background information of how I came to know Al Sachs, his phone call to me, and my futile visit to his hotel.
    ”You realize, Cuddy,” said Murphy, ”that this has all the characteristics of a gay killing, either a ritual or a psycho.” It was not a question.
    ”I haven’t seen Al for years,” I replied, ”but I am certain he wasn’t gay. He had plenty of opportunities in Saigon, including me, and he never hinted at it.” Murphy sighed. ”The medical examiner’s preliminary actual cause of death, despite the mutilations, was smothering.” Murphy flipped open a folder on his desk, scanned for a second, then read, ”Probably a pillow impregnated with a chemical, tentatively identified as a men’s cologne called Aramis.” Murphy closed the folder. ”A lot of gay men use Aramis.”
    I watched Murphy carefully. No hint of discrimination or distaste. Just a fact. Many Beacon Hill residents were gay. Murphy probably grew up in a neighborhood like I had, where a mere allusion toward homosexuality would cost a kid his teeth. Along the way he had learned to change, if not an attitude, at least the appearance of an attitude.
    I shook my head. ”No, the method of it is just a cover for something else.”
    ”Like what?” said Murphy, quite reasonably.
    ”I don’t know. I’d had only one call from the guy in the last year. I have no idea what reason somebody i would have for singling him out.”
    His phone rang. ”Homicide, Lieutenant Murphy j speaking.” Good telephone manner, an executive j evaluator would say.
    ”Be right over. Nobody in or out. You included.” Murphy told Cross to get her coat. As she left the room, he grabbed his from a worn coat tree of indeterminable wood and said to me, ”Uniforms have secured Sachs’ hotel room. You wanna come?”
    I thanked him and fell in behind him.
     
    The three of us entered the lobby. A uniformed cop was flirting with an attractive blond desk clerk who stood in place of the kid I had dealt with last night.
    ”Keller,” said Murphy, beckoning to the uniform, j Keller trotted over to us.
    ”Yes, Lieutenant?”
    ”Which room?” asked Murphy.
    ”Three-oh-four.” Keller gave me a once-over. ”Mackey’s guarding it.”
    ”Come with us.”
    ”Yessir.”
    ”If you can be spared here,” Murphy said.
    ”Yessir,” said Keller. I couldn’t tell if Keller had caught the sarcasm.
    After two corridor turns, we reached Room 304. Another young uniform, a black man with a thin mustache, was standing four rooms down.
    ”Mackey,” barked Murphy. Mackey trotted to us. I had the feeling that a lot of people trotted to Murphy. ”What the hell are you doing down the hall?”
    ”You told us to secure 304, sir. From where I was, I could watch 304 and maybe someone would approach it, thinking I was doing something else.”
    A smile began on Murphy’s lips before he banished it. I figured a small star would go next to Mackey’s name in a ledger book somewhere.
    ”Fill us in,” said Murphy to Mackey. Mackey stated they’d received the call from Murphy through the dispatcher to come here, arrived at 12:06 p.m., checked with the desk clerk, had