Death of a Transvestite Read online

  CHAPTER ONE

  INTRODUCTION TO FATE

  We entered Glen Marker's cell, a bleak, cold arrangement of bars and solid cement, at seven thirty p.m. It wasn't a pleasure visit, and even as we entered the cell Glen could be seen visibly shaken by the finality of our presence.

  The same situation hadn't happened in several years - that a man was to be executed in the State electric chair in our eastern city. But the facts were all in and any last minute appeals had been completely exhausted. There was to be no executive clemency. Glen already had a small spot shaved in the back of his once curly black hair. A shaved spot which would in a few short hours be attached with electrodes.

  I looked down to the former top Syndicate killer and considered the crimes for which he had been condemned. The slight young man was apparently resigned to his judged fate. Naturally he wasn't overjoyed at the prospect, but then he wasn't crying about it either. For a time, in the past, Glen had thought he'd escaped justice for ever - as in all such cases, it was a fool thought.

  "How was your night?" I spoke in dry tones; not unpleasant, but official.

  Glen grinned at me. "Got a cigarette, Warden?" I produced the cigarette but the uniformed turnkey lit it for him. He let the smoke drift up around his head. "Want me to say fine, the hotel service is great?"

  "You're the star of this show, Glen. I suppose you can say just about anything you want."

  "Why do you guys do it?" Glen's eyes were solid.

  "That's all according to what you're referring to."

  "A year ago I was so shot up it was a miracle anybody could put me back together again. All that patching just so I'd live to see the inside of your little green room. Wouldn't it have been better, and less expensive, to let me pass out of the scene while I was blacked out and going fast? All those doctors, the hospitals, the cops and courts, the extradition across the country ... seems to me everything could have been so much more simple the other way."

  "The State must always attempt to claim its own."

  "What kind of an answer is that?"

  "Stock."

  "That figures." Glen drew on the last of the cigarette, then crushed it out on the cement floor with the toe of his felt slipper. "Stock answers seem to be a format for all things in this world."

  I shrugged.

  Glen grinned. "That's another stock bit – the old shrug. The loss of words. The fall of realistic communication. The non-commital." He leaned back against the cold, bleak wall, still grinning. "Warden, I've lived in a realistic world all my life. There were no stock answers - no ifs, ands or buts - it was all fact. When I was issued a contract, the subject of that contract was as good as dead the minute I hung up the phone. There were no stock answers to my subjects. Oh, I suppose they had lots of questions, only they couldn't talk me out of what I had to do, so why waste the time listening? Now I find myself in the position of my subjects and I have a lot of the same questions and I don't get anything but stock answers. It makes me want to laugh." And he did.

  "Let's figure it this way, Glen. Maybe there are times when only stock answers are the answers."

  "Like right now."

  I nodded my head. "There are certain things you must be told ... from the regulations."

  "I'd bet you've got regulations for everything - except how a man must take his own demise."

  ''Are you planning to give us trouble, Glen?" His tone troubled me.

  "Far from it. Not in the least. Not a bit. You've got all the power on your side." He paused, then looked directly into my eyes. "Tell me something, Warden - without your usual stock answers."

  "If I can."

  "You can if you want." Glen indicated he wanted another cigarette and he waited until the lighting procedure had been completed before he spoke again. "Is it true, after I'm strapped in and hooded - the second before you pull the switch - one of your men will smash my testicles?"

  I'm sure the shock showed plainly on my face as I looked to the others. I wished the padre was with us but there was no man of the cloth in the cell as Glen had requested.

  "What gave you an idea like that?" I sputtered, after the first shock subsided.

  "Sounds logical, doesn't it? At least it does to me. In the Oriental countries, if a guy has a headache they stick pins in his ass - transferring the pain so to speak - wherever the hurt is more painful at that particular time. But to answer your question more directly. I've met a few guys who spent some time on death row and escaped the eventual big show - even got out of prison finally. One of them, after getting off the row, served another five years as assistant to the prison Medical Examiner. He was present at the autopsy of thirty-two executed men. Electrocuted men. Every one of them, according to this man, had crushed balls."

  "You can rest assured no such thing occurs."

  "Can I?"

  "Of course. First of all there are witnesses to every execution, some of whom the condemned man requests himself."

  "I'd thought of that. But there would be ways if you wanted ... perhaps a trap in the seat itself."

  "That's unthinkable."

  "Sure, I couldn't agree more. However, from your tone, something does it. Am I right?"

  "If such a crushing exists, and I'm not admitting it does, it's because of certain constrictions to the body as the electric currents pass through. There would be honest medical reasons for the condition, reasons I am not qualified to explain, and reasons with which, at such a time, you should not be concerning yourself."

  Glen laughed a short burst. "Not concern myself? If I shouldn't concern myself at such a time, who should?"

  One of the guards, my turnkey, spoke up almost fatherly. "Take it from me, Glen - and you know I wouldn't steer you wrong - there's nothing to it."

  Glen glanced across to the uniformed turnkey.

  "Okay, Uncle Charlie. I'll take your word for now! After all, it won't be long before I find out firsthand, will it?" Glen inhaled deeply from the cigarette. "We'll let the whole thing drop." Then he quickly changed the subject. "I understand I do have some sort of distinction in this whole mess, however?"

  I nodded. "The pickets against capital punishment have been parading in front of the main gate since noontime. Hundreds of them."

  "The first person to go in your chair for," he cocked his head, "how long has it been?"

  "Six years."

  "Well now. That is some kind of a record. Somebody must have really had the finger in after me."

  "Remember a guy named Rance Dillon?" I lit one of my own cigarettes as I spoke.

  "Sure. The court said I put some holes in him. What they didn't like to point up was what an ass-grabbing louse he was. He made sure he had his finger in every racket in the state. Only the Syndicate didn't like it when he didn't turn over their cut. They don't approve of such things as that. Let one get away with it and they'll all try, then where would any kind of an organization be?"

  "Be that as it may. But what you don't seem to know is he was the Governor's brother in-law. Now maybe you do realize how much pressure is put on the Governor by other state officials. Then add to that how much pressure his wife could put on him, against you, when it was you who took her brother's life."

  "Guess nobody could fight against those odds."

  "Nobody!"

  Glen, as before, crushed the cigarette out on the cement floor with the toe of his felt slipper. "Remember what I said before - about your regulations and how they cover everything except how a man takes his own death?"

  "I took no offense by the remark."

  "How could you? There was no offense intended! I was merely referring in my mind, to a pointed conversation the killer and I had during our shoot-out back in Hollywood that last night."

 
"I don't understand."

  "You couldn't, Warden! You weren't there! And it's about things that didn't come out during the trial. Why should I have told that story and added more fuel to their already blazing furnaces?"

  "And you want to tell something now?"

  Glen shrugged. "What harm can it do now? Besides, isn't it the old saying, 'confession is good for the soul'?"

  "Do you want a priest, Glen?"

  "I'm not a Catholic. No, I won't need any representative of the hereafter. Besides, I don't think it would do my case any more good there than it would have in court. No ... no ... you and old Uncle Charlie there and your other men, you're all that's necessary ..." He stopped abruptly. "How much time is left?"

  "Three hours."

  "Just about time enough to read a novel." Glen grinned. "That is if one reads fast enough." The grin was short-lived. "I've got a last request I suspect?"

  I gave my official nod again. "Anything within reason." I kept my voice quiet, but there was a definite attempt at being official. I felt something about the other man's words whereby I wanted to hear more.

  "Again the regulations - always the screwin' regulations! And I'd bet my last request isn't covered by any of your regulations."

  "That would have to be pretty far-out!"

  "I've always been a pretty far-out character."

  "I'd say that's on the record. You had quite a gimmick going for you."

  "I finally tried to get out - get away from the Syndicate. That's why they sent another killer after me. I was a KILLER IN DRAG, so it was only natural they sent another drag to kill me. They figured I knew too much about them to live. You've got to give the Syndicate a lot of credit it's not run by a bunch of schnooks and dunderheads. They are brains all the way down the line. Figure the facts. I'm a transvestite, so they send another of my kind after me. It's the only way I could have been tracked down - only another drag could think the way I would - know the kind of places I'd eventually go. Guess that sort of makes me the stupid one, doesn't it?"

  "You've dressed that way a long time?''

  "So my mother told me, God rest her soul. Long before I have any memory. I guess you have to put it down as girls' clothing has been my first love since before I can remember."

  "There's a great number of men, known and unknown, running around wearing girls' clothes who haven't taken up a gun. Laws are pretty liberal these days about what someone should wear or not wear. You took up a gun and used your transvestite desires as a cover."

  "The gun was simply a means to quick, easy cash. A lot of cash. Do you know I got five grand a contract, and not once was I tagged by the cops for any of the contracts? Until this last time. Even that wasn't for a contract. An old man got murdered by his homosexual lover, and I'm tapped for the thing simply because I was in the room." Glen grinned sardonically. "Once I was brought back for that investigation - simply a word into the District Attorney's ear by those who wanted me out of the way and all the rest of it fell into place. Which gets me to the request. My last request. It's not for a big, special supper as I suspect all your 'go out's' have wanted in the past. The foremost thought in any honest transvestite's mind is to die in female attire."

  My eyes flashed to the guards then back to Glen as he continued. "And to be buried in such clothes. That's my last request, Warden. I want you to get me a blouse, a soft cardigan sweater, a skirt, high-heeled shoes and the proper undies. And don't tell me regulations forbid it because I doubt if such a request has ever been made before, so there can't be any regulations for a precedent."

  I was shocked into speechlessness. It was true, I never had such a request. There was no precedent to make any decisions by. But I was top man in the prison. The whole thing would be up to me for a decision.

  Glen spoke up again as if reading my thoughts. "You're top dog around here, Warden. All you have to do is say yes. Besides! What should it really matter to you what I'm wearing when I go out - as long as I go out? Of course, the witnesses and the press might make something of it all later on. But you can always stand on the last request routine. How can you refuse such a simple last request?"

  "That really isn't the point. I suppose there's no harm in it. But we don't have any clothing like that around here. This is a man's prison. Maybe a couple of old prison dresses left over from the old days, but nothing as fine as you've described."

  "Tell you what," Glen persisted. "Let's make a deal. You find what I so desperately need and I fill you in completely about my Hollywood escapades. Now there's a real feather in your cap. Nobody's gotten that story out of me all the way through this thing. I would have gone to my grave with the story untold, and I will if you don't go along with the gag."

  "I guess everybody connected with this thing would like to hear that story of yours. But it's just about impossible to get the things in time. There wouldn't be a store open in fifty or more miles at this time of the night. It's just out of the question."

  "And I won't settle for some old prison dress."

  The guard whom Glen had referred to as Uncle Charlie moved in close to me. "Pardon me, Warden. But maybe I might be able to help. You know my oldest daughter is just about his size. She's always buying clothes and don't wear half of them. Shoes-sizes I mean - might be the only problem. But I reckon he could squeeze into them. He won't have far to walk."

  I thought for a long, silent moment as my eyes traveled from Glen to Charlie, then back to Glen again. Finally my mind was made up. I certainly wanted the story. Then I could really lord it over those who could not get it out of the condemned man. "By God, Charlie, I'll go for it! Your place is just outside the South Gate. Shouldn't take you fifteen minutes."

  "Better say half an hour. I may have a little trouble explaining what it's all about to the kid..."

  "Make it as fast as you can. And bring the tape recorder from my office."

  Glen leaned back. His fondest desires were to be fulfilled.

  *****

  WARDEN'S NOTE

  I taped Glen's story in its entirety but the holes he couldn't fill firsthand left much to be desired. However, what he had related so intrigued me. I decided to follow through as far as possible to get all the facts - to search this man down. The only way to accomplish that was to trace each of the people he had been intimate with during his West Coast escapade.

  Then, in a last step, each of their stories had to be put into proper sequence, as they happened, until the complete character and story of the man himself could be exposed.

  We take exceptional notice of the fact that, on the tape, when Glen talks of Glenda he speaks of her in second person, but when he refers to Glen it is always with the first person I.

  CHAPTER TWO

  L.A. POLICE REPORT #794 - AIRPORT EMPLOYEES

  The Killer got off the jet airliner from New York at Los Angeles International Airport: a tall, extremely thin, shapeless man in his early twenties. He had a hawk-like nose: the only distinguishing characteristic impossible to deny. And it was to this nose the foul, sour-egg odors of the Los Angeles smog presented itself. The Killer screwed up that nose at the faint smell, and couldn't help but marvel at those Californians he had suddenly become involved with, who seemed to take it as a natural, everyday occurrence.

  Since he was the last to disembark from the airliner, he took a long pause, standing just outside the hatch. The mechanical canopied ramp had long since been moved into place, and it was difficult to see any terrain beyond.

  It had been an interesting sight from the air, all the night lights of the great expanse of the city - a drive-in movie, where the cartoon ending with "That's All Folks!" spread across the giant screen, visible even at that altitude. The fantastic high-rise hotel which rested on the very edge of the airport, and more so, the vastness of the air field itself - the blue, smog-cutting lights which indicated the runway. The Killer marveled at the sight. He wanted to see it more clearly...

  He walked the length of the mechanical ramp, the disgusting smell of jet f
uel invading that hawk-nose along with the smog and other fumes.

  The Killer liked the sights of the airport he had witnessed from the air, but the stench on the ground - that was another matter!

  N.Y. POLICE FILE #010 - HARRY 'THE MOUSE' KIMBOY

  Just under five hours ago he had been in New York City in a place, a dive called Jake's Place. He had been wearing a green jersey dress under a light coat; his brunette wig had been a bit straggly due to the urgent nature of the call, and not enough time to get it property prepared. The Mouse, a Syndicate runner, had given him a name. That name was top on the list for extinction ... GLEN MARKER, HOLLYWOOD. The Mouse had given him a picture of Glen as he looked as a man, and Glenda as he looked as a girl. A Syndicate killer who did his extermination duties dressed in female attire.

  "I don't like you, and I don't like none of yer kind," The Mouse had said.

  "Jam it up your gigi," the Killer had thrown back at him. "Just give me the cash money, runt." And with a deepest venom his words sunk in.

  The Mouse had started to stand up. He was stopped by the low, pointed words of the Killer. "Sit down, Mouse..." The Mouse sank back to his chair. He took a large envelope from his pocket and shakily slid it across the table.

  "Your fee and tickets," said The Mouse nervously.

  L.A.POLICE REPORT #794 - AIRPORT EMPLOYEES

  That had been nearly five hours before. Then the jet trip from New York to California, following the setting sun across the continent.

  There was a job to be done - a job he liked. The Killer intensely liked his job of death-dealing.

  After finding his luggage had not been delivered to the dock as yet, he made his way up the escalator to the airport lounge where he ordered a whiskey and soda, and took a long time to drink it ... a very long time, as he looked out to the airport activity beyond and his mind began to wander.

  N.Y. POLICE FILE #960 - TEXAS LOUIS SYNDICATE MEMBER

  It had been the theory of the Syndicate: it takes one to know one. Thus he had been hired for the job. But what a job it would be. Los Angeles was a big city. This would be like trying to find the proverbial needle in the haystack. And even after he found him, Glen was not going to be an easy bit of work. Glen had been the top Syndicate drag killer until he had pulled out for parts unknown. Even the widespread tentacles of the Syndicate couldn't trace him, until a girl he had befriended in the Midwest turned up in the big Island City looking for an old girlfriend of Glen's. She had been persuaded to reveal all she knew ... the story of how he had escaped two crooked highway patrolmen who had been finally killed in a crash. Now he was on his way to Los Angeles, driving a small grey convertible which he had purchased in Colorado.