Good Day to Die by Stephen Solomita

was entirely naked except for the infamous leather strip holding his thoroughly gray penis erect.
    On impulse, I plucked a second photo (this one snapped in happier times) from the file and laid it next to the crime scene photo. Despite the removal of the eyelids and eyebrows, Kennedy’s almost girlish face was clearly recognizable in both photographs. The killer had ripped his chest and abdomen to pieces; chunks of bone were visible through ragged tears in the flesh. Yet the face had been, at least in terms of potential identification, virtually untouched. Of course, Kennedy, with his police record, would have been identified through his fingerprints, but the killer couldn’t have known that. Just as he’d wanted the bodies to be discovered, he’d wanted them to be identified.
    I skimmed through the DD5’s, hoping to find the name of John-John Kennedy’s pimp, assuming he had one. Coworkers put Kennedy on the stroll at the time he was taken, but nobody had seen him at the point of contact. The name of his pimp wasn’t there, either. In fact, it didn’t look like the investigating detectives had any interest in Kennedy’s pimp. They were looking for that license plate I mentioned earlier. That physical description of the killer.
    It wasn’t exactly by-the-book police work. In fact, it was piss poor. I didn’t believe in Bouton’s theory, but I found myself offended by the reports I held in my hand. It was easy to imagine several dozen field investigators chasing after leads generated by a hotline and filtered through a profile. One gigantic, vulgar circus, with the cops occupying center ring, the reporters and politicians as ring masters, and the public for an audience.
    (I was tempted to put the word “terrified” in front of the word “public,” but the mood of the citizenry was closer to the early days of AIDS than to, for instance, the Son of Sam era. Faggots were being killed, not human beings. It was all very interesting, but not especially relevant. In fact, if it weren’t for the bizarre nature of the murders and the furious reaction of the gay community, the homicides probably wouldn’t have been newsworthy at all.)
    A detective had visited Kennedy’s two living relatives: his brother, Robert, an upstate deputy sheriff, and his father, James. The father, as it turned out, was lying comatose in a Lake George hospital, a victim of lung cancer. The doctors had described his condition as terminal. The brother, backed by his wife, had claimed to be ignorant of John-John’s life in the Big Apple, though not of John-John’s sexual preferences. The two brothers had been estranged for years.
    I put the files down and fetched a mug of black, bitter coffee from the ever-dirty pot near Pooch’s desk. He looked up and grunted as I passed, but I made no effort to begin a conversation. I wanted to get finished and out on the street.
    The fifth file was even thinner than the fourth, but it did contain a surprise. Sitting right on top was an article from American Psychology, entitled “Sexual Murder.” I glanced over at Pooch, but he was pecking away at his computer. Had he put the article there to bust my chops? Was its presence a simple accident? Had he thought it somehow relevant? I skimmed the article quickly and just as quickly discovered the same bleeding-heart bullshit I’d been hearing for years.
    Physical abuse; sexual abuse; psychological abuse. They beat me, whipped me, kicked me, gouged me. They sodomized me. They made me feel inferior.
    My first reaction was, “Gimme a fuckin’ break.” Followed quickly by, “How many times do I have to hear this crap.” Lots of kids go through hell without turning into criminal psychopaths. I oughta know.
    Two or three times a month, as I’m drifting off to sleep, I have what amounts to a recurring vision. I don’t call it a dream because I’m not really asleep. But I’m not awake, either.
    In the vision, I’m low to the ground. Perhaps I’m a child; I