Page 8 of Lethal Seduction

He nods. “Super nice guy. I knew he was gay; we both would often chat about who we’d love to hook up with here at the club. Other than that, we didn’t hang out after work or anything like that.”

I took notes while he spoke and then handed him my card. “If you happen to remember anything else or hear anything that might be important… even if it just seems like idle gossip, let me know.”

He takes the card and shoves it into his front pocket. “Sure thing.”

We part waysand I do my best to make my way out to the grounds behind the large club space. There’s no one between me and the crime scene so I hurry to the site of the double murder. While the CSI team processes the scene, I walk around the bodies, snapping my own pictures and taking notes. Rumor has it that the two victims met up last night for a sexual rendezvous. The age gap between the two men unnerves some of the staff I interview, but they’re both consenting adults, so what does it matter? I wonder if the age gap would matter to the staff if it were a hetero couple.

I tap the end of my pencil against my chin. There has to be more to this crime scene and scenario. An older patron in his fifties and a young staff member sneak back here in the middle of the night to have sex.So what?Why would they be murdered for it? According to the police who arrived first on the scene, there’s no sign of a robbery. Both victims have their wallets, cash, credit cards, and valuables undisturbed on their bodies. It’ll take a while to get the toxicology report, but I would bet dollars to donuts they’ll both come back clean—not a track mark on either man. Not even a pack of cigarettes was located amongst their personal items.

Hate crime? Jilted lover? There’s still a lot to uncover, but from what I’ve already gathered, both victims were single, which leaves a hate crime. Something about that conclusion doesn’t sit well with me either. This is California and two men having a quickie is anything but shocking in this day and age.

“Detective Borne?” A frantic man, appearing to be in his sixties, rushes over to me, hand extended in greeting. The man is short and stout, breathing hard and sweating from his march across the grounds. “What a terrible tragedy.”

I accept his handshake and say, “As you know, I’m Detective Michael Borne. And you are?”

“Oh, sorry,” the man says. “I’m the owner of the club. Stanley Crump’s the name. I got a call an hour and a half ago, and I jumped in my car and rushed over here as soon as I could.”

“What can you tell me about the victims?”

Stanley shakes his head and shrugs. “Not much, I’m afraid. Branson James is a former professional football player, widower, and very rich.”

“How about Gordy Herrera?”

Stanley fidgets in place like a scolded child waiting for his punishment. I cock my head to the side and watch him in silencefor a moment. He digs his heel into the grass and kicks away the clods but doesn’t answer the question.

“Sir?” I ask. “Did you hear my question?”

He nods and sighs, his shoulders slumping even further than his already terrible posture. “Gordy was a good kid.” His voice catches in his throat.

“Did you know him personally?”

“Of course, he worked for me.” Stanley sounds harsh and dismissive.

“I understand, sir. I believe most employers have a basic idea of who works for them, but there are very few who have an actual personal connection to them… a connection that would bring up such an emotional response, such as yourself.”

He doesn’t reply at first but looks off into the distance, the hardness in his expression softening with each passing second. “Gordy was special to me.”

I let the statement sit for a moment and then ask, “In what way?”

Stanley shakes his head. “Not like the way you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything, sir. I’m simply trying to understand who the victim was.”

Another long pause, but then Stanley seems resolved to open the door. “He was my son. No one around here knew it… lord knows the rumor mill this place has become.” Stanley clamps his hand down over his mouth and quivering chin, his eyes welling up with tears. He sniffs and wipes his nose on the back of his hand and shrugs. “Like I said, he’s a good kid.”

Needing to separate myself from the emotions running high, I press on for answers. “His relation to you was a secret? I don’t think I understand.”

“He found me on one of those family-ancestry websites. Just shy of a year ago, he contacted me. He wanted us to get to knoweach other… said he had proof we were family. Well… you can imagine how I reacted.”

I have an idea and find it best for the interviewee to tell me directly. “Keep going, sir. The more you tell me now, the more it could help lead to whoever did this to your son.”

“Turns out the affair I had two decades ago ended up producing a child… clearly it wasn’t something I was proud of, and I didn’t even know he existed until he showed up on my doorstep with the DNA results.”

“How did your wife react to the news?”

“I didn’t tell her. I’d already made peace with the affair, determined never to do it again, and pay for it when I meet my maker, whenever that should happen to be. I didn’t see a reason to ruin my marriage and hurt my wife since I was determined never to do it again.”

“Were you worried about the secret getting out since Gordy worked here? Why did you employ him to begin with?”

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