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finally a left. Two blocks down, on the same corner where it had stood for nearly sixty years, was Oak Drugs. And above that neighborhood fixture of medications and Hallmark cards was the neighborhood newcomer, the Domain of Queers, which had moved there just over a year ago. To the surprise of many, there had been no resistance to a gay youth center opening in the neighborhood, and the DQ now included a small handful of meeting rooms, a coffee bar, and a large, old ballroom used for Friday night queer teen dances. It was here that Todd and Rawlins had first spoken to a group of young gay people, and it was here that they had first met Andrew.
    As Bradley pulled up, Todd looked at the second floor windows draped with rainbow flags, saw the big pink neon triangle framing the initials DQ. Yes, it would provide a great backdrop. And their ENG truck, the mast raised high, the microwave dish aimed toward downtown, was parked exactly opposite the building, just as Todd wanted.
    “Perfect,” said Todd as the truck came to an abrupt stop.
    “Looks like I lost,” said Bradley with a laugh. “We've got all of about fifty seconds.”
    Todd liked to have anywhere from eight minutes to a minimum of thirty seconds, although the latter was cutting it rather tight. And now leaping out of the Cherokee, Todd and Bradley went into armylike action, charging across the street, and then, with the help of Jeff, who emerged from the ENG, setting up. Cables were dragged out from the rear of the truck. Cords were attached. A single light stand thrown up. And then seconds later Todd was standing in front of Bradley's camera, which was now poised atop a tripod. As Jeff hopped back into the ENG and started to adjust the transmission levels, as Bradley placed a small monitor at the base of the tripod, Todd simultaneously grabbed a stick microphone and an earpiece, which he slipped into place. No sooner had he gotten the small plastic thing in his ear than the news director called out.
    “Voice check, please.”
    Todd lifted up the mike, said, “Good evening, this is Todd Mills reporting live from—”
    “Got it.”
    The line producer came on next, saying, “What's your roll cue, Todd?”
    He glanced at his pad. “Ah… ‘Night of darkness and mystery.’”
    “Check: ‘Night of darkness and mystery.’” A moment later he advised, “Ten to the top.”
    Todd rolled his neck from side to side, gave it a small crack. Just as he couldn't reveal Andrew's name until the authorities released it, nor could he come right out and say Andrew was gay, at least not at this point. Yet while he didn't know if Andrew's sexuality would ever prove to be relevant to his murder, he couldn't ignore it tonight, not simply because he had to give viewers a reason to watch him, Todd Mills, but because Cindy Wilson and WTCN were already clued in. Which left Todd precious little room in which to maneuver. Therefore, it would be best, not to mention safest from a legal standpoint, to speak from his personal contact with Andrew.
    Via IFB transmission, Todd heard the line producer give his final count, “Five to the top.”
    Todd adjusted his black leather coat, then glanced down at the monitor that was aimed up at him from the base of the tripod. The screen flashed from an herbicide commercial—after all, this was the Midwest and this was the late news, when every farmer tuned in if not for the news, then certainly the weather—to the
10@10
logo. Next filling the screen was the face of WLAK’s star anchor, an indisputably handsome man with a long face, dark hair gone quite salt and pepper, and an unwieldy ego that was, fortunately for WLAK, invisible on television. Gaining stature as the most valued and watched anchor in the Twin Cities, he'd recently demanded and gotten a new contract paying him just over a million bucks a year. Such was the value of those white teeth, the even cadence of his speech, and the trust that he could, with cool professionalism, turn on