Pretty Boy

Agent Beatrix Green stormed out of the Bourbon Street flat and raged under her breath to Agent Zechariah Beauchamp who walked beside her hastily and listened in a calm manner. “Who in the hell is this guy? What kind of maniac can accomplish this and not leave behind a single piece of fucking evidence? How are we supposed to investigate a case with nothing to chew on?”

Beauchamp lifted the police tape for the blonde FBI agent and nodded generally to a group of detectives and cops eyeing everyone’s movements wearily as if the murderer was any number of the tired law enforcement officials illuminated by multicolored florescent lights underneath the early morning sky. “I’d have to say he’s a genius,” Beauchamp said in response. He didn’t falter under the evil glare he received from Green. “As a matter of fact, if we could have a guy as smart as this one under our belt at the headquarters, we’d be in great shape.”

Stepping over a puddle in the middle of the street on the way to the vehicle, Green snorted, “Of course, if he wasn’t a crazy serial murderer after a bunch of fruitcakes, I’d rather see him giving orders rather than some of those assholes at home base. At least he has an idea about what he’s after and what he needs to do to accomplish it. I’m guessing he was an ex-cop who went nutty and likes to stab little boys with his pecker before he stabs them with a goddamned butcher knife.”

Beauchamp wrinkled his nose as he slid into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine. “I don’t think he’s an ex-cop,” he suggested when Green slammed the door moodily. Green looked at him curiously as they drove past the mid-night spectators haggling just beyond the police security border to see what the sirens and commotion was all about. Beauchamp and Green were barely fazed when a transvestite made rude gestures at the black vehicle with her hands and short skirt.

“I can’t stand this place. Katrina didn’t get rid of all the wackos apparently. So, why don’t you think he was ever in the law enforcement agency?” she asked.

Beauchamp shrugged his shoulders. “I never said he wasn’t in it. I just don’t think he is an ex-cop. He’s probably still in the business.” Both were silent in thought all the way back to headquarters in downtown New Orleans.
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~Two Weeks Later~

Adriel Tate arrived at his apartment on Decatur Street just after dawn from a long nights work at one of the local gay bars. The young green-eyed boy trudged up the stairs and used his key to unlock the main doors so that he could climb up three stories (only because of the absence of a functioning elevator) and crawl into his warm, clean, and comfortable bed. There was not a word for the exhaustion he felt at the moment as he slowly mounted the age-nawed iron steps, careful not to plunge over the flimsy railing to his untimely death. Adriel smirked at the thought. Not that he would really care or that it would matter to anyone else. Death wouldn't be the worst thing that had happened to him.

The tiny, olive-skinned jewish boy felt a certain animosity towards his shadowy rusty home. "This is a shitty place to live," he spoke outloud to the cracked and peeling wallpaper. The silence that filled the air seemed to prove his statement to be correct. Adriel sighed and continued past the second story and up to the third.

Upon reaching his destination, Adriel found that several middle-aged black men were huddled in a group in front of his neighbor's door. One looked up and brushed a dreadlock out of his face to glare at Adriel as if he were intentionally eavesdropping on this private conversation. His bloodshot brown eyes beadily watched Adriel cross swiftly to his door and he nudged one of his mates.

"Ev'a seen a wimp like dat one? He sho' is a pretty shit-eatin' faggot... I bet he got dat wimp shit from his daddy," he snarled. Adriel looked away and fumbled with the keys to his apartment. "Hey boy, I bet cho' mama need a man like me!" he called after Adriel and made a lude suggestion with his hips as Adriel slammed his apartment door shut and locked it. Druggies and thugs scared him, but there was hardly a day when he didn't have to deal with one walking to and from work.

He flipped the light switch beside the door so that his kitchen was dimly lit. Adriel slung his backpack across the small living area and half heartedly listened as it made a strange thud. Adriel thought it had landed on the couch, but the thud came from the other side of the room. Guess I have bad aim, he thought to himself. He looked down when he stepped on an empty bowl next to the counter as he walked past. Adriel had just realized that Abraham didn't bark at all when he arrived at his apartment. Normally he couldn't get the mutt to shut the hell up.

"Abraham! Here boy... Are you hungry?" he cooed as he filled the doggy bowl with assorted items from the refrigerator. "I'm sorry Abraham... I just don't have the money to feed you gormet dog food every day. I work at a fag-hut so the only tips I get from the walking dicks I serve are phone numbers." In response to the statement he had recited to Abraham (who was probably hiding) Adriel unsheathed pocket-full of napkin scraps with names and numbers written in various shades of ink and threw then unceremoniously on the stool next to him.

"Abraham?" he called again. This time he was worried. Abraham was hiding from him. Adriel hoped he hadn't taken a dump under the bed again. Abraham knew that was wrong and would give him good reason to sneak behind the coffee table in the living room, which was probably what the strange thumping noise was: Abraham scared of Adriel's flying backpack.

Adriel sighed, "Come on! I'm tired, Abraham, please come eat." There was still no occasional whine or familiar shuffle down the hallway. "Well... you can eat whenever you feel like it. You do whatever you want when you want anyway."

Slowly Adriel undid his belt and dropped it to the floor on the way to the one bedroom in the entire apartment. He was about to ease his shirt over his tanned shoulders when something caught his eye in the bathroom to his left. His heart caught in his throat immediately.

Something was dangling from the shower rod. It was moving slightly, hardly more than a twitch every few seconds. It was so dark only a faint outline came to him in the shadows. A roar developed in Adriels ears. No, I'm imagining it. Never. It couldn't be.

Adriel leaned in the bathroom, turned on the flickering light... and let out a heart wrenching moan. It was Abraham dangling from one of Adriel's work belts. His little black eyes were now blank and filming over with a sickening grey color and his little puppy mouth hung open slightly. The twitchings were after-death spasms.

He gasped as he realized that he was not alone. The thump in the livingroom was not Abraham. Someone was in his house. I'm going to die, Adriel thought in shock. I'm already dead.

He backed out of the bathroom clutching his tiny chest, trying to breath. Everything was blurring and spinning like a tornado in his mind and he wanted to curl up in a ball and wake up from this nightmare.

"You fucking bastard," he managed to mumble as he saw flickers of light dance before his eyes. Adriel knew he was blacking out. The colors of the background were mixing together and he started to go numb.

Suddenly he was overwhelmed with panic. The panic overode his desire to crumble to the floor and he looked back at the overwhelmingly omnious living room and sprinted the opposite direction. In a matter of moments, a huge black mass lunged after Adriel and he screamed at the top of his lungs. Already he was in his bedroom and he slammed the wooden door behind him. A mere blink of the eye had passed after he punched the lock on the door when a loud thud came from the other side and the silver knob rattled frantically. Scuffling noises and growls of rage came from the other side and Adriel backed quickly to his window and pulled back the shade causing his bedroom to be illuminated from the rising sun. He unlocked it and pulled down the iron stairs that came with some of the older New Orleans apartments, swung a leg out over the edge and willed himself to climb down without slipping.

Several people stopped to watch the small, fit, young man jump shakily onto the dew slickened pavement and race away, leaving his bedroom window open. Some just raised their eyebrows; others just kept walking.

As Adriel ran swiftly past early morning shoppers, he wiped away the tears that were streaming down his face. A few people tried to stop him, but he just pushed passed them, unable to even utter a word.

Oh, Elohim, was all he could think.

Elohim help me.

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Lieutenant Hanson of the New Orleans Police Department stretched moodily and leaned forward curiously as Agent Green questioned Tate.

"God, he's got to be no more than sixteen," he whispered to his secretary Elizabeth Mizelle. She nodded and pressed her thick round glasses gingerly against her nose so she could watch the frightened young man clutch a cup of coffee as if it were the only thing keeping him attatched to the world.

"He's nice looking though," she admitted in a cautious way so as not to disgust Hanson and his homophobic views.

Hanson snorted and narrowed his eyes. "He's one of those fags, so it doesn't matter what he looks like. Pardon me," he harrumphed.

Mizelle rolled her eyes and was suprised to see the handsome FBI operative Zechariah Beauchamp walk swiftly and purposely into the office with a frown plastered upon his face like someone had canceled his favorite television program.

"What do we have here?" he nearly growled at Green, narrowing his eyes at Adriel as if the little dark skinned boy had offended him in some way. Adriel's eyes widened and he slumped a bit in his seat. Green pursed her lips and pulled out a cell phone as she slipped an ear piece back into her ear.

"A potential victim of our friend, Mr. Pretty Boy Stalker. I'll let you handle the rest of this, I have a phone call to make," she said, handing the tape recorder to Beauchamp and walked out of the office.

Beauchamp didn't say anything for a few seconds and Adriel just stared at him, unsure as to what had caused this cop to be in such a bad temper.

Lieutenant Hanson gestured to Elizabeth Mizelle and both exited the office to leave Beauchamp and Adriel alone. Both the boy and the FBI agent watched shrewdly as the door clicked closed and then Beauchamp turned to face him.

"Agent Green, the woman you were just chatting with informed me that you have some information on a case we are trying to work. I would appriciate it if you would spit it out so I can go back to my apartment and go to sleep," he said rudely.

Adriel was suprised at the venom and curt attitude of Agent Beauchamp. It made him angry.

"He killed my fucking dog. There. You can go now," he snarled and spun around in his chair so that he wouldn't have to face Beauchamp anymore.

"Don't get an attitude with me. You have no idea what it's like to wake up with someone urgently requesting my appearance at six o'clock in the morning because some little..." Beauchamp paused, "boy is scared of his own shadow."

Adriel bit his lip in angered embarrassment. "Yeah that's right. Because my shadow is six foot four and likes to murder puppies and chase little boys out of three story windows. If you're supposed to be a cop, why aren't you acting like one?"

Beauchamp was silent. Adriel turned around in his chair to face the detective once more. He studied Beauchamp's features and was suprised to find that his face was devoid of all irrational and rude expressions. As a matter of fact he looked exhausted and seemed to be barely able to keep his eyes open. Adriel felt the anger still pulsing throughout his body, but it wasn't as red hot as the few seconds before.

Beauchamp rubbed at his temples tenderly and rested an arm on the table. "Let's start over, shall we?"

Adriel nodded. "But first I have to know something. You don't like homosexuals, do you?" Beauchamp looked up and his lips thinned.

"No," he answered. "Sorry, but I can't say that I've ever had any affection for them. Why?" Adriel wasn't taken back by this straight forward answer. He hadn't known the detective long and he already expected this attitude and fondness for the truth.

"I've just noticed, that's all. You don't want to work this case, I can tell. Your department made the choice because this investigation calls for the best. And you're the best, am I right?" Adriel asked.

"Of course I'm the best. But it might suprise you to know, Mr. Tate, that I offered to take over the investigation," he said, studying Adriel's reaction.

"But why?" Adriel asked tentively, not wanting to anger Beauchamp further. The detective just waved a hand and took out a tape recorder and a notepad.

"Let's discuss this some other time, shall we? I have a few questions that I need you to answer honestly and truthfully. Will there be a problem or can we finish this up?" he asked, maintaining his tired monotone voice.

Adriel shrugged, looking down at the table. "Sure," he said quietly.

"Today is October the twelfth, Saturday morning. Six thirty in the morning. Interviewing Mr. Adriel Tate at New Orleans police station, downtown. Original interview at six a.m. Beginning," Zechariah recited to the recorder. He wrote down the information as he spoke it.

"Tate. I am assuming you have given an account of what happened to Agent Green already?" he asked, looking over at Adriel.

Adriel nodded. Then he said "Yes" after a brief pause.

"Okay. Continued. Have you had a recent relationship?" he asked.

"I don't know if you'd call it a relationship..."

Zechariah rubbed his temple. "Please, Tate, just answer the question."

"Fine. Sure. I had been seeing someone about three weeks ago, but we broke it off," he said. Zechariah raised his eyebrow.

"What was his name?" he asked.

Adriel narrowed his eyes. "Why the hell should that matter?"

"Just answer the question. Name?"

Adriel sighed. "He was an asshole. A model for some rich agency out of New York. I don't know why I had anything to do with him. I guess it was all about the sex, you know?"

"Please, do go on," Zechariah said sarcastically with a yawn of disapproval. "I don't need the guy's life history. What was his name?" he demanded

"Mike Rice."

The detective's eyes widened slightly at the name. "Really? Do you read the papers, Tate?"

Adriel shook his head, confused. "No. I don't have the time to read much with my job. I sleep during the day and work at night. Why?"

Zechariah shook his head with mock concern. "He is dead."

Adriel was still. Silent. The numb buzzing was filling his head again like it had been before he was attacked in his apartment in the early hours of the morning. All he could murmur was, "What?"

The detective seemed to take a perverse pleasure in telling him that his once-gay lover was deceased. "Yep. Your ex was found naked in his house last night, stabbed nearly nineteen times. I'm sorry I had to be the one to relay the news."

Adriel saw the dark spots gathering on the outside of his vision. He was lightheaded and felt ready to scream and run out of the little grey office. Adriel looked sideways, gazing at his reflection in the window mirror that are always found in interrogation rooms. His face was ashen and the circles underneath his eyes were testimony to the horror and helplessness he felt at that very moment. Mike was dead.

He suddenly saw in his mind's eye the dark shadow charging after him. He imagined Abraham's feeble barks before he was gruesomely hung from a shower pole. Panic welled up inside of him. He wasn't safe. He was going to be killed, stabbed to death like Mike.

Suddenly, Adriel couldn't take it anymore. The detectives sneer drove him half mad and he lunged sideways out of the chair.

"Hey! Hold it!" Zechariah shouted as he leapt to his feet and wrestled Adriel to the ground. Tears coursed from Adriel's green eyes, flowing down his smooth cheeks.

"No!" he cried. "Is it the same guy?! Is it!?"

Zechariah sat up with one arm slung around Adriel's waist to keep the boy near so he wouldn't bolt away once more. He looked up angrily to see the chief of police, his secretary, and Agent Green standing helplessly in the doorway.

"I can't answer that right now. Get a grip! Stop struggling. We all need to be calm," Zechariah said, and tried his best to act sincere without grimacing.

Adriel didn't have any clue as to why he was acting in such a manner. Nothing seemed real and he was frightened to the point of hysteria, much like he had been when he found Abraham twitching from a noose-like belt in his own bathroom. Instinctively he knew that whoever killed Mike Rice was the same person who hid in his apartment, waiting for Adriel to return home. These people surrounding him were too calm, too methodical, too cold and ruthless. This was their job and he refused to be somebody's job. They wouldn't care if he died. It was just another day at the precinct. Another mess they would have to clean up and explain to superiors.

Zechariah wrapped his arms tighter around Adriel, pinning him to the floor in his fruitless attempt to get away. "Where the hell do you think you're going to go, boy?" he spat out, almost losing breath with the effort to keep Adriel from running.

Adriel crumpled, crying so hard that he couldn't breath correctly. His lungs gave short little gasps and hicoughing insued. Zechariah relaxed a bit and and Adriel collapsed against him.

"Don't let him kill me..." he sobbed. Zechariah asked everyone in the room to leave, including Hanson.

"Our job here is to keep this guy from doing further harm. You need to get a grip on yourself and stop acting like a..." he said but stopped before finishing his sentence.

Adriel sniffed and let Zechariah hold him. "Like a what?" he asked, frowning. 'If your about to say 'faggot', I swear to you I will leave this place..." Adriel said, but his voice shook with the ever present fear of this unknown killer. In my apartment, he thought. That monster was in my apartment!

Zechariah's lips thinned. "I was going to call you a 'baby' but I figured it would be too unprofessional for me to do so."

Adriel turned his head to look up at the detective. "Don't you understand though? I mean, you must have some idea of how I feel right now. I've been hearing about this serial killer for months now. The 'Pretty Boy Stalker'... Mike talked to me only a few weeks ago and he's been murdered. Now I find out that I'm the next target for one of the most dangerous murderers in New Orleans."

"Most dangerous serial killer in the south," Zechariah corrected him. Adriel nodded and wiped away at a new wet streak down the side of his cheek. "And you're not next. You're just one of the targets."

"How do you know that?" Adriel asked.

"The information is irrelevant. But you will need some protection. We are by law required to lend our special services to you untill the case is solved," the detective dismissed. "Are you calm enough for me to let you go, Tate?"

Adriel took a deep breath and nodded. As Zechariah let go of him, Adriel suddenly felt an undefinable cold chill his bones. In a twisted way, this heartless and rude homocide detective made him feel a sort of security. Now that he was sitting on the floor by himself, Adriel felt stupid and fearful.

"What's with the highlights?" Zechariah asked, standing up. Adriel looked up, confused.

"What?" he asked.

Zechariah angled his chin towards Adriel's head.

"Oh! My hair... Um, it is natural," he said and reached up to touch his scalp.

"Dark skin, brown and blonde hair with green eyes. It's just weird, that's all," Zechariah commented without a trace of insult. It was more out of bored curiosity.

Adriel continued to stare up at Zechariah and tilted his head to the side. "Uh, thanks?" he said.

Zechariah frowned. "I wasn't trying to be an asshole. It's just that I don't recall any jews having such strange hair."

Adriel almost nodded in resignation. He had been told many times before that he had unique features. But he stopped himself before he started to explain his ethnic background. Something was wrong with the comment Zechariah had made to him.

"How'd you know that I am Jewish?" he inquired. Zechariah began to rummage in his pocket for something. He proceded to pull out a pocket-sized Torah and handed it to Adriel.

"It has your name on it. The inscription on the inside says it's from your mother, and, as you well know, Judaism is concerned with the maternal lineage rather than paternal lineage. I just made the assumption based upon this book found at the crime-scene," Zechariah explained.

Adriel's eyes widened when he saw it. "I lost this old thing months ago! I was so upset. My mother died when I was very... And this was found in my apartment?" he asked with an unpleasantly sour feeling developing in the pit of his stomach.

The detective nodded and confirmed his suspicions. "We have already checked for fingerprints or other evidences of DNA, but it is clean. It's suspected that our dear Stalker may have had this in posession from an earlier interaction with you and either dropped the book carelessly or purposely in your home," he said.

Adriel fingered the pages in the book before placing it carefully in his back pocket. "Can you think of any wierd encounters with strangers in the most recent months?" Zechariah asked.

He gave a small laugh, "I work as a bartender in a gay bar. There are many strangers and wierd encounters every night."

Zechariah apparently didn't find any humor, but Adriel didn't expect him to. This cop was a hardened case. Adriel doubted Detective Beauchamp had ever heard of Comedy Central.

"Okay, we are going to send someone with you for your protection. We are kindly asking that you pack some of your things of needed nature and stay in a different location for the night. If and when you need to go to work, we require that someone stay near you at all times and you are to report back to us if anything strange happens," Zechariah said.

"Fine, I already assumed something of the sort would happen. Who will it be?" Adriel asked.

Agent Beauchamp shrugged his shoulders and pressed the stop button on the recorder. "I don't have any idea. My superiors will appoint a so-called body guard and we will decide later where you will stay."


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Not finished, but I would like some opinions... Should I keep writing this?- Kelso (James Geordie M.)