Detective Carl Horvath’s POV

Chris Hobbs ends up surprising us, starting from the moment we meet him.   We expected arrogance, attitude, and resistance.  Instead, he was polite, nervous, and quiet.  He said he would only talk with us back at the precinct.  Not a problem, we actually preferred that, too. 

That’s a nice little surprise, him cooperating.  Normally, shitheads like Hobbs always seem to cause us problems. 

Later that day, while I review my notes on Taylor’s case, I mentally file away a sad realization.  Though all of my suspects on the case - Gold, Kinney, and Hobbs - seem to be very different because of their looks, background, and achievements, they all share similar personality traits.  All three men are arrogant, self-centered, and controlling… and all have a hidden dark side that is too close to the surface.

Okay, Justin… I get you now.  You were – are – one of those types that ‘sees the trees instead of the forest.’   You overlook people’s flaws and love the person that they “really” are inside, right?   Well, unfortunately buddy, many of the victims in my cases are just like you.  Maybe you should have stood back and looked a little longer at the forest.

Hobbs shows up at the precinct alone, without friend, family, or representation.  If I had his history, I would’ve had a fucking lawyer strapped to my back.  Right off the bat, he informs us that he has nothing to do with the disappearance of Taylor.  He regrets “getting mixed up with that faggot” and he doesn’t “do trouble” anymore.  He’s a changed man.  He’s got a new life, has a new girlfriend, and now “walks with the Lord”… yada, yada, yada.

After Hobbs’ little speech, Barney settles in for the long haul and lets me take over. 

I intentionally stare long and hard at Hobbs; just stare at him, for a good twenty, maybe thirty seconds.  I’m trying to make him nervous; he looks a little too smug and comfortable.  My little trick works like a charm and within minutes, the smugness has slipped off his face and he’s struggling to maintain eye contact.  But the ex-jock and former high school bully hasn’t given up the Host.  Nope, he’s still trying to be a tough guy and put on a brave show.

I’m poking the bear today. 

“So, Hobbs, you’ve got serious history with Taylor.  I read all the police reports and trial records about your attack on him.  Let me get this straight, he gave you a hand job.  You liked it.  Then you hound the guy, and finally bash his brains out at the prom, ‘coz he wouldn’t dance with you.  Right?”

Hobb’s face takes on a sour sneer.  He pops out a “Fuck you” at me.

“No sir.  I’m no fag, but you are, aren’t you?”  I lean across the small table and get into his face and get snarling.  “You tried to kill him before, and then you went back to finish the job, didn’t you?  What did he do, turn you down again?  Did you want more than a hand job this time?  He told friends and family that he saw you at some AIDS house and you threatened him.  Or, did he threaten you?  Was he going to go to your parole officer and turn you in?”

During my entire attack, Hobbs is frantically shaking his head ‘no’ and trying to interrupt me with his own version of events, “He’s lying!  No fucking way!  He wanted me; he was always coming onto me!  I haven’t seen him since then. He’s lying – I never said anything to him at that shitty place.  He has nothing on me!  He wanted me, ‘coz he’s a sick-“

I shout in his face, banging on the table, “WHERE IS JUSTIN TAYLOR?  I don’t have time for this shit, Hobbs!  You killed him, didn’t you Hobbs?  He said ‘no’ one too many times?  Or was he twisting a knife in your gut… he flaunted his ass at you, but this time, he was setting you up!  He wanted money, right or just to get back at you;… you finally had enough, didn’t you?” 

I lean in closer, just inches away from his face, and then try a new tactic.  I’m now cool-hand-Luke intense and but I keep my voice lowered, “You killed him, didn’t you son?  Come on, we can help you.  Let us help you.  I don’t blame you, who could?  The faggot wouldn’t leave you alone, so you took matters into your own hands… it’s okay… we get it… hell, some faggot coming onto me – fuck that!  You had to kill him, didn’t you, son?”

I can’t believe it, his lips starts to quiver, and he starts swallowing hard, like he’s trying not to cry.  I have to admit it; I’m surprised that Hobbs is breaking down so soon.  I thought he was a lot tougher than this…I thought he would last through at least an hour of interrogation…

He starts to sniffle and wipe unshed tears out of his eyes.  Shit… It looks like he’s got a big emotional struggle going on. 

“No!   You don’t understand… I never wanted to hurt him.  It just happened… that older guy and he started dancing, it was like nobody else mattered, and they’re showing off… fucking assholes… it just happened – back then.  But at that house… he just…he just stood at that fucking AIDS place, just looking at me.  Acting like he fucking didn’t know me!  Like he didn’t know ME!  Then, he gets scared!  Yeah!  He’s fucking terrified… and it felt good!  I wanted… wait… wait, I didn’t mean that… that didn’t sound right... I didn’t do anything to him… I’m not talking anymore.  I want my lawyer.  I’m not answering any more questions until I get my lawyer.”

I look at Barney; he’s shocked now, too.  Are we close to something here?  Am I about to be further surprised by Chris Hobbs?

I lean back, “Chris, you’re not under arrest.  You don’t need a lawyer.  You can go at any time, we’re just talking here.  Just guys talking.  No worries, right?” 

I’m back on the offense again, but now trying a new tactic.  I’m going to be the “kinder, gentler” interrogator.  I punched through his defenses, now I need to carefully pull down the wall, one brick at a time, if necessary.

I reach over and place my hand on his arm, squeezing it in a reassuring manner.  I retract it as before it makes him uncomfortable.  I’m now going to be his friend, loving father, grandfather, or uncle – whatever the fuck it takes.

“Son, I think there’s something you want to get off of your chest… Am I right?  Listen, I mean it.  If you talk now, I may be able to get you a deal.  But hey, buddy… Chris… you have to take this opportunity now, because it probably won’t come again.  You know how this works.”

Hobbs is chewing on his nails and is fixated on the table top.  He’s not looking at me, but I know he can hear every word I’m saying. 

I continue on, calmly coaxing, “Come on, just talk to Barney and me.  You don’t have to talk to anybody else; we’ll handle it all for you.  Just tell me what happened between you and Justin last Wednesday night.  Come on.  You can do it.  Tell me now, Chris, before it’s too late.”

Hobbs looks confused and is blinking rapidly - then his face freezes for a moment.  He chuckles, but there’s no humor in his voice.  Instead, I hear frustration and anger.  He seems to have gotten a second wind and now he sits up and with a wry smile and an understated, belligerent attitude. 

“Wednesday?  Shit… Wednesday night?  I was working the night shift at the construction site, from four p.m. until four a.m.!  I’ve got twenty guys that will tell you where I was every, fucking single minute.  Wednesday?  Damn… And Thursday, I was with Judy, my girlfriend, all morning.  I slept at her house after I got off my shift on Wednesday.  Then, I stayed at her place and went straight from her house back to the site, just like Wednesday!”

He flops back in his chair and rubs his eyes, quietly cursing.  “I didn’t fucking do anything to him… you’re just trying screw to with me, get me to confess something… pin it on me, so that you can close this case.  Well, fuck you!” 

He looks tired but relieved.  Oddly enough, he doesn’t look happy.  I wonder why, especially if he’s got such a strong alibi.  I watch him withdraw into some thought or memory.

Barney pipes out, “Chris, would you take a lie detector test swearing that you don’t have anything to do with Justin Taylor’s disappearance?”

He nods his head and tersely responses, “Yeah.  Not a problem.”

A few minutes later, as Hobbs is leaving, he snidely asks, “His boyfriend… did you talk to him?”

I respond with, “Which one, his old one or new one?”

Hobbs’ face twists in confusion, “New one?”

Barney quips back, “Yeah, he got himself a new one.”

Hobbs’ face twists again, but now into an insinuating, ugly smirk, “Older and richer?”

Barney replies, “Nope, young and poor.   Like you.”

Wonder fills Hobbs’ face.  He rapidly blinks as if he’s trying to clear his vision, “Like me?”

Barney smiles at him, though coming from a bulldog face, it doesn’t look very friendly.  “Well, not really like you.  He’s all artsy.  The boyfriend’s a musician.”

Then something happens, it happens fast – but Barney and I both catch it.  We see Hobbs’ true feelings flash on his face like someone turned on a neon sign.  He quickly shuts it down and replaces it with a well-practiced mask of hatred.  He spits out, “Fucking faggots!” 

Too late tough guy, we saw you. 

We clearly saw jealousy and yearning.  Hobbs still has feelings for Justin Taylor.  Feelings that are still strong.  He still is struggling with them and himself.

Later, as Barney and I clear out our things from the interrogation room, I hear Barney mutter, “Nothing worse than a fucking hypocrite.” 

“What?”

“Hobbs, he’s a fucking hypocrite.  I have no respect for that shit.  Who’s he trying to kid?  You could tell that he’s still ‘jonesing’ for Taylor!  He’s like one of those damn ministers; they condemn fags to Hell and then get caught getting their dicks sucked in a public toilet.  At least the Taylor kid had a backbone.”

I respond before I think, “Yeah, well look at what it got him.  Someone already tried to kill him once because of it.  Maybe the second time was the charm.”

Brian Kinney’s POV

I pulled out my cell phone and dial his cell number.  I just want to hear his voice. 

“Hi, this is Justin.  Sorry I missed you.  Please leave a message and your number, and I’ll get back to you.  Thanks!” 

An automated message comes on, telling me that his message center is full.  I’ve lost count how many times I’ve called that number now.  I seem to call it almost every couple of hours - sometimes more, especially at night. 

I ignore that tape playing in my head; it’s my father’s voice telling me that I’m pathetic.  I don’t need to be reminded. 

I’ve called Horvath so many times that he’s on the verge of wringing my neck.  There’s been an interesting triangle of blame and accusations that’s developed.  I suspect and blame the fiddler and Hobbs.  They blame me and each other. 

Under what cup is the magician’s little red ball hidden?   Actually, that would be a blond ball…

It’s been five days and nothing.  No word from Justin, no leads, nothing.  I seek out family but as soon as I’m around them, I can’t stand it and have to leave.

It’s evening, at twilight time.  I get out of the jeep and decide to walk to the nearby liquor store before I head up to the loft.  It’s a warm evening, but there’s a light breeze.  It’s actually pleasant.  I momentarily imagine that Justin is by my side. 

Then I hear it and stop in my tracks.

It’s a horrible, screeching sound.  It sounds like a cat is being tortured.   Rage begins to build in me as I head towards the noise.  I cross the street and go into the park.  Off in the distance, I see him.  He’s playing under a wooden gazebo; a few people have stopped to listen to him.

There he is… Fucking Ian… you motherfucker!

I start walking faster, but after a few seconds, I break into a jog.  Some sixth sense makes him look up in my direction and I can tell that he immediately registers that it’s me.  He slam-packs his shit together in seconds and then scurries away in the opposite direction of my approach.

Fucking rat!

I yelled out, “Ethan!  ETHAN!!!”

I see him break into a full run and I follow suit.  He’s got a good lead on me and he’s a fast little fucker, but I’m gaining on him.  He zooms into a crowd and I’m now getting close enough to him to read the cheesy stickers on his violin case. 

I lose sight of him.

 SHIT! 

I’m pissed, but not giving up the hunt.  I run down an alley, it looks like a place that a rodent would want to hide.  I trip and stub my toe on a paint can.  In a full fury, I pick it up and smash it into the side of a dumpster.  I then go on a rampage.  I kick in boxes, trash garbage cans, break crates – I’m smashing everything in my path. 

Every time I smash something, I image Ethan’s face.  Every stomp is on his backbone, and every kick is to his ribs.

Exhaustion finally stops me.  Without any care or concern for my Armani silk suit, I lean against a slimy wall and slowly slide down it.

 Sweat is pouring down my back, arms, face – just everywhere.   I just now notice that my hands are cut and bleeding and my suit has stains on it and is torn in places.  I just don’t give a shit.

I feel a burning sting in my eyes and I swallow hard.  I push back against the pressure building in my throat.

 Fucking crying like a fairy, huh, Sonny Boy?  Fuck you, Pops…

I look up at the sky.  Streaks of color adorn the sky, beautiful purples, pale pinks and oranges. 

He would love it.  He could capture it perfectly in a painting.

Why did I do those things to you?

Yeah, I thought I would throw you from the cliff, give you a couple of days to re-think things, and then quietly accept you back.  What a wiser twink you would be…

But, it didn’t happen that way.  Nope, instead, he came, that greasy haired weasel… and he took you away from me…

Why did I get so mad?  What was I thinking?

Why did I do that?