The Elegant Corpse

Roger dreamed of Patrick again that night.That feeling is like soaking in a hot bath, which is unstoppable.Pete's voice was ringing in his ears, and although he couldn't make out what was said, those eyes were shining so vividly.They stood in the warm water of the Bahamas, and Roger could see his feet on the white sand through the clear water.Patrick's feet were smaller than Roger's, with pinkish-pink nails.

They chase each other in their dreams.Patrick's white cotton shirt was left open at the neckline.As he turned and ran away from Roger, the leather lanyard with the encore pendant around his neck swung with his movements and he wore it at all times.

①Ancient Egyptian ritual vessel, a symbol of life.

Patrick ran.For some reason, Roger tore his shirt to pieces.The roar of the waves drowned out all Patrick's words, and Roger saw his lips move, but... "What did you say?" He turned his head away in disgust.

"No." In an instant, there was only the sea around, and the sound of the waves was deafening.The white sand under his feet turned into black mud, and the rough waves turned dark blue. He stood on the coast of Santa Monica Pier in California, and Patrick had long since disappeared.

Roger woke up suffocated by urine.

He stood in the dark bathroom, and the mirror behind the toilet reflected his figure vaguely: a big black-haired man.He knew he had formidable eyes, thick arms and shoulders, and a farmer's physique, all of which had been hardened by exercise and whiplash.

He climbed back into bed.Haven't dreamed of Patrick in a long time.Along with the loneliness and the dried-up sadness, the dream of him always made Roger want to die.He lay on his back in bed, hoping the feeling would pass, but it took him hours to fall asleep again.

***

"You look awful," Marianne said.

"Didn't sleep well."

"I said earlier, you should let them clean your house." She said, and put a glass of Starbucks on each of their desks.

"Thank you." Roger thanked her from the bottom of his heart.

"You're welcome, old partner. Let's get to the point. We received your on-site analysis report last night. Are you mentally prepared?"

Roger sighed.

Marianne picked up a cup of coffee.She leaned back on the chair, coffee in one hand and report in the other, and then began to read: "Fingerprints were collected at the scene of the crime, but because the owner of the house cleaned every day before going to bed, no fingerprint samples were collected. No hair, fiber , and did not find any signs of life, let alone DNA samples, unless the residents are suspected to be aliens..."

Roger snatched the report from a laughing Marianne.

***

"Is there a problem?"

"Nothing, Patrick."

"You keep saying that."

"That's because you keep asking. There's nothing to ask."

It was a pair of bright, serious eyes.Patrick is 28, but he sometimes looks 12.His face is fair and clean, with almost no beard, he looks very young, innocent and sincere, and all emotions are written on his face.Roger couldn't even remember if he had ever looked so innocent.

"There's nothing you can't say."

Roger smiled.Anger surged in this laughter, which seemed so harsh that he was a little frightened himself.

And Patrick's worried look, God knows what he came up with at the time.

Roger sat down in a large leather chair, the first piece of joint property bought for their apartment, which meant a lot to both of them.He buried his face in his fisted hands.

"Roger, did you... meet someone?" God, Patrick's tone, obviously so painful, but still trying to express his support and understanding.My dear, dear Patrick.

He couldn't just muddle through like this, he had to tell him.

"There's something about me that you don't know..."

And Patrick just listened.He put his palm on Roger's knee and listened quietly.

***

"you sure?"

The determined look on Patrick's face reminded Roger of martyred saints. "Sure."

"Patrick, I'm not doing this because I need it, it's because you need it."

"I understand." Patrick lay on the bed, his wrists and ankles tied loosely at the head and foot of the bed.He panted rapidly, like a frightened animal.Roger draped the light suede whip over his boyfriend's quivering buttocks.

"You set a safe word."

Patrick looked up at him, eyes full of compromise.He told Roger to start.

Roger grinned for the first time since hearing Patrick say he wanted to do it.He raised the whip and whipped Patrick's buttocks moderately, slowly increasing the strength and frequency.

"Is it enough?"

Patrick looked away.He clenched his fists and shook his head.

"Don't forget your safe word." This time, Roger used his real strength.When he stopped, he was sweaty and out of breath.Patrick's back was a tinge of pink and his hips were a deeper crimson.Roger's cock was also completely hard.

"Patrick," he gasped, "I want it."

"Come on." Patrick's voice seemed to be a different person, full of bone-destroying desire, longing and instinct. "Right now, Roger."

***

"Found a mutilated shoe print that looked like it was a size ten. Then there was nothing special about it."

"So it wasn't a woman who did it."

"It should be said that one of them is not a woman, or it can be a big woman."

While looking at the report, they discussed with each other across the desk.

"Drawn all the way across the carpet where they could have put him in the middle of the floor."

"And those two sticks?"

Roger rubbed his forehead with the ball of his thumb. "A loose-tailed whip and a horse-whip. The tail is missing, but the handle is still recognizable. The leather paddle at the front of that whip is wider than the usual equestrian ones."

Marianne stared past the pile of empty coffee cups and cluttered reports on her own desk, into Roger's immaculate area. "Not for equestrian use?"

Roger shook his head. "no."

"One represents the flail, one... What does the other one that the mummy is holding represent?"

Roger leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"Hey, Mr. Wikipedia!"

"The pharaohs held a crook and a flail in their hands. The crook symbolized that they were the shepherds of the people, and the flail was a farming tool for harvesting wheat, which symbolized that the pharaoh kept his people well fed."

Marianne examines the photograph. "I didn't think about it at first glance."

"Well, I know you didn't mean to confuse, but the corpse is indeed in this position according to the tradition of the ancient Egyptians. The pharaohs represented Osiris, and constituted a whole set of beliefs in immortality, which is what mummification is all about. meaning."

②Pluto in ancient Egyptian mythology is also the origin of mummies.

In fact, one thing has bothered him from the beginning: How many LAPD detectives keep a whip like that carefully in the back of their closet?How many murderers will know that he did this?

His phone buzzed. "Hello."

"Well," said a voice, "I've been reminded of something I've heard in recent weeks."

Roger put down his phone and looked at the caller ID. "Mr. Williams?"

The other party was silent for a while, then laughed a few times. "It's me, I think you probably get calls like that all the time."

not at all.People who make the call usually report their home first. "You said you remembered something?"

"My parents had fights with Gary — it was just the same fight as usual — and I guess I was just trying to keep my ears out of it and not remember it, but since they... ever since you guys found Gary, I've been thinking about these things. I know it's silly to worry about that now, but..."

"Mr. Williams," Roger interrupted him as patiently as possible, "what do you remember?"

"A little bit. Listen, it might be better if I tell you face to face. I don't have work tonight. I can just take a shower."

"I'm often out on the job, Mr. Williams. I may not be in the office." Roger said that he was uncommonly annoyed to be treated like his own policeman by the small townsfolk.

"Then I'll wait for you." Sean said happily, and then hung up.

Roger put the phone on the table and frowned.

"That Williams brother again?" Marianne asked, tearing off the wrapper from the bran muffin.It was a process that Roger couldn't bear to watch - she'd lick the crumbs off her fingertips, break off the top piece of the cake, eat half of it, and get bran crumbs and butter stains everywhere, They don't hoo until they get off work and go to the trash can together.

When he first erected a four-inch "screen" between their tables, she teased him for calling it "Hadrian's Wall."But Roger just couldn't bear the intrusion of Marianne's crumbs into his office area.

Now she licked her fingers and said, "I think he likes you quite a bit."

"what?!"

"Friend, that kid is salivating over your stalwart body."

Marianne was probably the only one who would have dared to speak to Roger like that, but even she should have known her limits. "Here is a very directional evidence that this matter should be related to the 'Leather Culture Circle'," Roger said stiffly, and picked up the on-site analysis report again, "I know an old man from the 'Avatar Club③' Seniors may be able to help."

③AvatarClub, a real old BDSM club in Los Angeles.

Marianne raised her eyebrows and took a big bite of the muffin cake, "Hey...I have to type up the pile of crappy witness reports from the shooting last week."

She put the paper towels and the unrecognizable muffins on the corner of the table, then turned to the computer and started working, with a look of pain on her face.Roger looked away and said to the person on the other end of the phone, "Please find Jay Lawson."

***

Up the concrete stairs, an old house stands on a high ground surrounded by birds of paradise and cacti.Roger rang the bell and waited for the door to be answered.

"Roger, long time no see. Come in!" Jay Lawson raised his head in a wheelchair, with a transparent plastic mask on his face, and the sound of hissing breathing came from under the mask. "It's oxygen," he said, pulling down his mask, "the result of years of smoking."

Some memories flashed through Roger's mind.In the back porch of a Hollywood bungalow stands a tall man.Skinny jeans, long leather boots, and a seductive red and white striped T-shirt wrapped his strong upper body, revealing his perfect chest muscles.His eyes were sharp, and a cigarette was always dangling from his smiling lips.

"Hey, look what the wind brings. Are you lost, my boy?"

"I'm here to borrow the toilet."

"Really?" His boots stamped on the hallway floor, chains jingling with his steps. "Then you'd better let me go with you, you don't want to be eaten alive, do you?"

"Thank you, sir?" Roger swallowed.

Jay let out a chuckle as he puffed next to Roger, the cigarette hanging from his lower lip. "That's right, kid."

"Avatar" is a gay BDSM club in Los Angeles, which is extremely secretive and implements an internal recommendation system.Gary Williams existed the year he disappeared.Jay is, among other things, the group's unofficial biographer and photographer.

"I've been thinking back since you called, but I don't remember a cross-dresser named 'Gary' or 'Gabriella,'" Jay said.He took a deep breath and covered his nose and mouth with a plastic mask.They sat down on the back porch, which Jay called "The Greenhouse," in a Betty Grabow fashion.This is a closed glass room, full of green plants.

④Betty Grable (1917-1973), an American female artist, the famous "pin-up girl".

"I think this young man should be quite flamboyant."

Jay studied a large split palm leaf next to his chair. "In the early 80s, there was nothing you couldn't have. Before the plague⑤, you had everything, or 'had' everything. You remember."

⑤ Refers to the outbreak of AIDS in the 80s, which severely damaged the thriving LGBT circle at that time.

As he spoke, a familiar look flashed across those blue eyes.

"I thought you might still have those albums of yours."

Jay took a deep breath into his mask, thinking. "Perhaps," he said.

Jay steered his wheelchair through the house, Roger following behind him.The room facing the front door is littered with books, periodicals and memorabilia.Although these various "waste products" are of historical significance, in Roger's opinion, the place is still extremely dirty and messy.Photo albums of all colors and sizes are stacked next to a bulging Queen Anne chair, on which are several issues of Leather Comrade magazine—the kind Roger found years ago in an abandoned barn. .Each album comes in a plastic sleeve with the date stamped on the cover.

Jay turned to a table in his wheelchair and put a few photo albums on his lap. "This is from [-] to [-]." He gasped.

They flipped through it together, and at this moment, a subtle and indescribable sense of loss rose in Roger's heart.

Then suddenly, he couldn't help laughing—he had found Gary Williams. "I found him." Roger said, pointing at a photo with his index finger.Jay carefully pulled it out of the sleeve and looked at the slip of paper attached to it. "It was one of our parties, and it was all in private homes. These people have no interest in drag queens, Roger."

"Who's that next to him?" A man is looking at young Gary, pure "possessive" written all over his face.

Jay studied it for a while, then said, "I'm not sure."

Gary was shirtless and had a collar on, but otherwise he was just like any other young man.He was strikingly similar in appearance to Sean.For a moment, Roger pictured the man he had interviewed wearing a narrow black leather collar.

He shook his head. "Recall it again, Jay."

"He's probably a member of some motorcycle club," Jay said, clearly avoiding the question. "I don't want to say."

"why?"

"This is a homicide investigation, isn't it?" Jay rubbed his thumb along the edge of the photo without looking at Roger.

Roger still clearly remembers the first time he felt the whip on his back, so clear that he could feel the rhythm with his eyes closed.Jay's sense of presence, his voice, his encouragement, his order; the aura that swept over everything, and the gentle hand of the man when he brought the water to his mouth afterwards.

"So, the successors trained by the Los Angeles Police Department are like you?"

"They didn't...I mean, I wasn't..."

"Don't worry, kid. Nothing gets out of here."

The tradition of protective secrecy had protected Roger's privacy.Right now Jay is just playing by the rules of the industry.

"This young man was beaten to death, Jay. His ribs were broken. Twenty-five years later, his body still has bruises." Seeing that Jay didn't reply, Roger said a little angrily. "Don't you think it's better for me to ask about him than anyone else?"

Jay took a notebook and a pen out of his pocket.He wrote something, tore it out and handed it over.When Roger tried to take it from him, Jay paused for a few seconds and said, "Prove it wasn't a situation."

A core tenet of the BDSM situation is trust.If a "lord" had killed the youth, he would have done so out of violence and lust, and not part of the context of S's interaction with M's.

At least Roger hopes that's the case.

"I'm not going to prove anything, Jay. I'm just going to let the evidence speak for itself and bring the villain to justice," Roger said. "Thank you for the information."

He had forgotten his appointment with Sean, so Roger was displeased and surprised to find the familiar red-haired kid slumped in a chair next to his desk.

"Get your feet off my chair," Roger said in a freezing voice.

Sean stamped his worn sneakers on the ground. "Sorry, wait until you're about to fall asleep."

Roger dusted off his chair and said, "If you're tired, go home and go to bed."

"It's still early. I often work until after [-] a.m., so I can't fall asleep when I'm not on the night shift. Sometimes I go to the studio to work, but I haven't been able to go lately."

"What are you busy with?" Roger asked, carefully looking at his table for signs of being trampled by the young man in front of him.

"Write poetry," Sean said, sounding annoyed. "You've seen it, performance art."

Seeing that Roger didn't respond, Sean took out a crooked business card, with a cartoon-style fist waving at someone on it, and a bright star on the back.

"My buddies and I still do a paid show at the 'Fondango' once a month," he said. "You should come and see."

"Fondango" is a high-end hot dance club, and it is the favorite place for those young meat who want to catch rich old men. "I'm not going," said Roger.

Sean snorted. "It's just a show venue. We'll have a whole poetry competition and an evening show there. It's awesome. It's political art."

Roger looked at him, "Didn't you say you remembered something about your brother's case?"

Sean's dark blue eyes were fixed on him. "Hey, your rainbow flag is very low-key," he said after observing his words, "hehe, then it makes sense, after all, he works in the Los Angeles Police Department."

Roger realized again that he was on the verge of losing his mind and bursting out.He pulled a statement form from his desk and said, "Yes. Now, tell me, what exactly are you trying to tell me here?"

Sean looked at the form.Roger noticed that for a moment he wanted to bring his hand to his mouth, but finally refrained from tapping his fingertips annoyingly instead. "Yeah. Well, I remember why they had a fight, because he took mom's shoes. At the time I thought I misheard, thought he just stole money or something. But she was definitely mad about the shoes ...and there is a man named Adam."

Roger stopped, the pen in mid-air. "Adam."

"Yes. My dad swore that if that man named Adam dared to show up again, he would definitely kill him."

"Is that possible?" asked Roger.

"What? My dad killed someone?" Sean laughed. "No, he doesn't even have a gun."

"Did you ever hear your father tell your brother about this man?"

"No. But I remember my dad told him not to come home one night after he got into another fight with his parents. It really freaked me out, you know? But Gary came home anyway. The next day When I went to school in the morning, he came back. But there is one thing: he was beaten up, his lips were cracked, and his face was painted."

Sean couldn't help it, and raised his hand again and began to bite the nail of his index finger. "You know, Inspector, I used to think it was because he had a showdown with my dad that night. I thought, that's how they broke up. But Gary was actually beaten by someone else, right?"

"Possibly. Did you see anyone suspicious then? Anyone suspicious among your brother's friends?"

Sean grinned, "I was only seven years old at the time. If a drag queen came to my door, I would definitely think he was a pretty girl."

"Is there any rough-looking man?"

Sean shook his head. "A man without a leather ring, if that's what you mean. Gary has a Harley, but I know it's not his, because I saw him try to ride it once, and the sight was unbearable." Look straight. He's just storing it in someone else's garage, he said it himself."

"motorcycle?"

"Yeah, huge, antique Harley. My dad covered it up with a tarpaulin after he disappeared. I sold it for $1 two years ago when I was short on cash. I guess it's still a classic."

"Do you remember the buyer's name?"

"That person? Of course." Sean took out a small book from his pocket, and when he looked down, Roger saw a blush flashing on his fair face. "That man is...well, handsome. You know that? So I always remember it, although I have never dared to contact..." He handed over the phone number.

Roger dialed the number, luckily it worked, and the buyer of the car still had it.Of course, Roger was going to find out.

***

"Mr. Williams, I can arrest you."

"Why?" Sean's eyes flashed with surprise, the color of those eyes was no different from the sky behind him.Roger parked the car outside the Harley owner's house in Tujunga, and he had just gotten out of the car when he saw Sean's battered red Honda Civic slow to a stop behind him.

"Interfering with the police investigation, that's one of them."

"What's the matter?" He pulled a pair of cheap black sunglasses down over his blue eyes, and shook his head at the house. "I'm helping you."

Why can't he control this annoying spirit?

"I just wanted to come and look at it again, and now I'm curious," Sean said, "and I won't interfere with anything you do." He held up his hands to indicate that he had no intention of interfering with Roger's work.

Roger almost laughed angrily. "Just stay quiet."

***

"Yeah, she's turned into a phoenix. Just gotta get a new muffler, the old one's rusted." The current owner is a tall, dark man with greasy Levi's wrapped around his muscular body. buttocks.He pointed to the new exhaust muffler, revealing the spider tattoo on his elbow.

He watched Roger observe the locomotive, then cast a wary glance at Sean. "The documents for this car are all legal," he asked, "isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," Roger said, "I just want to copy the serial number so I can find the first owner."

"Oh, don't bother. I wanted to verify it with the serial number last year, so I found the owner of the car. Well, anyway, the muffler has been replaced, and it's not original, so it can't be registered. Besides, anyway The performance of the car is very good, so I don't want to sell her for a while." He said while rummaging through a box of receipts.

"found it."

The owner's name was Adam Marchant, as Jay had given him.

"Thank you."

***

"Hey, Inspector!" Roger was about to get in the car when Sean ran up to his car, "You found something, right?"

Too many lines have been crossed. "Mr. Williams, you..."

"Sean."

"what?"

"You keep calling me Mr. Williams and it sounds like you're talking to someone. My name is Sean."

"You'd better go home, Sean, and leave these matters to us."

"Come on, you can't find a clue without me. That's the clue, don't you think?"

Roger opened the car door and got in, determined not to talk to Sean, even going to run over him if need be.

"Oh, well then," Sean said, "well, I'll see you at the police station."

"No, you don't see each other again," Roger said, and at one point he was about to slam the car door.And now, he was sitting in the car wondering if he should get up and get out of the car, and then... and then what?Slap this man leaning against his car window a few times to understand?Pale and freckled fingertips with chipped fingernails; battered cotton plaid shirts that look like they've never been ironed; crooked black sunglasses that look dirty and red hair that's too long .

"But I can help you," Sean said, with a reassuring smile.

Roger stared at him. "Please," he begged, "go home, Mr. Williams."

Sean pushed the sunglasses up and stuck them on top of his head.He stared at Roger, crossed his arms, and licked his lips.Thunderclouds filled the sky-blue eyes.

"Okay. I'll call if I remember anything."

An indescribable guilt surged in Roger's heart. "Please make sure to call."

***

"Are you Adam Marchant?"

For the current situation of the former leather lover and Harley rider, Roger really didn't expect much. 25 years is a long time.The time span from 1982 to the present feels like a full century.

It was an inconspicuous California-style low-rise bungalow in Moorpark. There were SUVs and a few children's bicycles parked in the private driveway; Little pink baby stroller toy.Roger was standing on the porch, and what he saw wasn't much of a surprise to him.

But the man who came to open the door still surprised him.

"I'm Adam Marchant." In his mid-fifties, well-dressed and with a gray mustache and goatee, Adam Marchant's eyes flicked from Roger's Inspector's badge to his. Face.He wore a gray sweater over a shirt with a stand-up collar that revealed the white clergyman's stripes.

Behind Marchant came the voices of children, a woman calling "Jimmy," and "Get down there right now!"

"I'm investigating an old case," Roger muses. "We think it's a homicide that happened in 1983." He catches the flicker of concern and subtle fear in Marchant's eyes. "Is it convenient to find a place to talk alone?"

"Okay," Marchant said, closing the door behind him, "come with me."

***

"The house is part of the parish," Marchant explained as they climbed the steps behind the church, and he produced his key to open the door and let Roger in.

It was a depressing and monotonous room.Most of the interior decorations are various donations from parishioners.Marchant sat down in a large leather chair with a desk piled with papers in front of him. "You said you were investigating a murder," he said.

"Yes, sir. I think you may know this man. His name is Gary Williams."

Marchant had an expression on his aged face as if he had been shot in the chest by an arrow. "Gary."

"Yes. You do know him?"

"We were lovers, Inspector. It's no secret." Marchant turned his chair around and turned the back of his head at Roger.

Roger got up and walked around the table so he could see Marchant's face. "Can you remember the last time you saw him?"

Marchant squinted his pale blue eyes out of the window, as if gazing at some distant place. "Don't remember. When I converted, I got away from that life completely."

The answer is not the question. "Then the last time you saw him was when..."

"Of course I tried to save him. I told him what we were doing was wrong. He wouldn't listen."

"So since Gary didn't listen to you, what did you do?"

Marchant seemed to wake up from his fugue. "Did nothing. What else could I do? He decided to go on with that life. I decided to redeem myself. I can tell you with absolute certainty that the last time I saw Gary Williams, Inspector, Just two days before my heart went to God, on June 28."

"which year?"

"June 1983, 28."

Gary's parents reported him missing two days later.

Marchant crossed his arms and clasped his elbows.His jaw trembled slightly, but his eyes were still staring out the window.The tension around him and some other inexplicable feelings made Roger vigilant, and he found himself calculating the distance between himself and the man and the door, counting the time and possible situations by the second.

"I know it's been a long time, sir. But does anyone remember where you were that day?"

"Ah, yes, yes. My wife, Inspector. Judy and I flew to Las Vegas to get married that day. Do I need her to come over?"

***

Judy Marchant was like a frightened bird.

The petite woman in a skirt and high heels looked nervously at her husband from time to time as she wrung her slender hands during the interview, like a mouse in a dress.She looked haggard and tired, but by any measure she was a little over 40, and Roger wondered how old she was when she got married.

Her voice was barely audible. "Yes, yes, I, I remember."

Marchant's expression was exasperated, and his voice was a little irritable, "The detective can't read minds, Judy. Tell me what you remember."

She almost curled up in fright. "Okay, okay." Her voice became quieter, never taking her eyes off her husband, who was always looking haughty and displeased. "Adam and I flew to Las Vegas...and the ceremony was...was..." Her voice was completely inaudible.

After a very laborious and slow conversation, Roger finally summed up what Judy wanted to say.As it stands, Adam Marchant had a good alibi for the duration of Gary Williams' disappearance, although Roger would very much like to know what she would have said if it hadn't been at her husband's behest, especially given that The bruises on her arms as she bent over to hug the children playing nearby.

"Leave him alone," snapped Adam Marchant.

Judy flinched, almost dropping the baby on the linoleum.

Marchant walks Roger to the door.

"My wife is worrying you, Inspector." He spoke so loudly that she could hear her too.

Roger thanked the woman with the same solemnity he had treated her husband.Marchant walked him all the way to the car.

"Judy's out of her mind," Adam said as Roger got into the car, "but she was also an obedient wife and mother, as the Lord required."

"Thank you both for your cooperation." All Roger could think of was this, and then he drove away.In the rearview mirror he saw Mrs. Marchant standing on the porch, and when her husband returned she hurried into the house.

***

Speeding down the Ventura Freeway, Roger wondered what might have happened in the final days of Gary Williams' life.There were still 10 minutes away from the exit he was going to, so he turned on the Bluetooth on the dashboard and said, "Pete."

Instead of going left, he then merged into the right lane and took the ramp onto Hollywood Freeway.

***

The purple-haired youth behind the reception desk was reading the Los Angeles Weekly with his feet up on the counter.

"Ah, Pete doesn't pick up customers on Wednesdays," he said as he browsed the newspaper.

"I know," said Roger, "can you tell him I'm coming?"

"No problem." The kid put down his feet and the newspaper, and dialed Pete's extension.

"Tell him I'll be right there," Pete's voice came through the loudspeaker, and the kid rolled his eyes, grabbed the newspaper and continued to peruse the private adverts.

Pete showed up a few minutes later.He was dressed basically the same as he was that night.The jeans had been replaced with khaki slacks, and a soft green cotton shirt matched his silky brown hair and light brown eyes.When shaking hands with Roger, he smiles happily, eyes