The Craigslist Killer Chronicles

Ron never dressed up as Caroline again.

* * *

A cold front came through after the storm, and the weather had turned bitterly cold. Ron insisted that I wear my sable fur to Dexter Boyd's office, and I was hardly going to argue with him. I might never get to wear it again! I also snatched one of Caroline's Gucci purses, and I must say I made quite a sight as I emerged from Ron's BMW and entered the lobby of a skyscraper on LaSalle Street. Ron drove off - he told me to call him when I was finished - and I ignored the stares of some envious women as I rode up in a crowded elevator. The doors opened into the smartly furnished lobby of an exclusive law firm, and after presenting myself to the receptionist, I spotted a copy of the Tribune and sat down in a cushy chair to read it. There I was, on page one, above the fold:

SUSPECT IN HOTEL KILLING ARRESTED

Chicago - Police arrested a Los Angeles man last night in connection with the November slaying of Greggory Alford at the Intercontinental Hotel. Xxxxx Xxxxxxxx, 32, had just entered an uptown restaurant, dressed as a woman, when he was taken into custody. According to sources within the Chicago Police Department, Xxxxxx was confronted by detectives after Alford was found dead in a hallway near Xxxxxxx's hotel room, but he was dressed as a male and denied any involvement. Subsequent evidence linked Xxxxxx to the killing of Alford, who is believed to have been involved in a number of assaults and burglaries involving transgendered women at Chicago hotels.

A woman approached me, and asked me to follow her. She led me to a small conference room, and offered to take my fur. I was a bit uncomfortable, watching her take it away, until Dexter Boyd greeted me and asked me to sit down. He studied me carefully, then went to work. "Sorry to keep you waiting. I was on the phone with the District Attorney. He's not very happy with me."

"Were you talking about my case?"

"Of course. By the way, how shall I address you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"According to the police, your name is Xxxxx Xxxxxxx. The reason I asked you to dress as a woman today is that Mr. Xxxxxx is somewhat notorious in Chicago at the moment. But you make an uncommonly attractive woman, and as a blonde, you look nothing like your booking photos. It's obvious to me now that if you stay as you are, you'll have no trouble living a normal life until this matter has been resolved."

"I guess that depends on what you describe as a normal life."

"Point taken. I've represented two transgendered clients over the years. One is a professional athlete from California, who is married to a famous actress. The other was a troubled young man who just graduated from Northwestern as a beautiful young woman. It seems to me that society is redefining normal, every day. So let me ask it another way: who do you want to be?"

"This is the me I want to be," I told him firmly. "Please call me Missy."

"Excellent. Now that the world knows your secret, you don't have to try to hide it anymore. My guess is that's why you lied to the police in the first place?" he asked. I nodded yes. "Now, tell me everything that went down between you and the police. Please leave nothing out." I closed my eyes and played back my nightmare to him. He raised an eyebrow when I told him about the altercations in the holding cell. "Now I know what the D.A. was talking about," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"First, he chewed me out for tricking them into setting a bail that you could easily pay. He still has no idea who was behind it - I had Ron get a cashiers check through my law firm - and he never will. Then he launched into me about the beat down you gave some punks at the jail. He wondered how in the name of God you put two of them in the hospital? It proves how dangerous you are, he told me. To which I replied that he just made my case for the defense: any man, even one wearing a dress and high heels, will defend himself if he's attacked."

"When do I have to go back to jail?" I asked him.

"Never. The DA knows that the cops made a mistake by arresting you the way they did, and throwing you into that cell. He says they were really pissed off that you lied to them, and they want to know what happened that night. But they're prepared to reduce the charge against you to involuntary manslaughter, and recommend no jail time, if you give them a complete statement."

"Involuntary manslaughter?"

"That's a felony, and I told the DA that was unacceptable. After some hemming and hawing, he agreed to take it down to a misdemeanor, obstruction of justice. I told him I'd have to talk to my client."

"So you got me off?"

"If you take it. We could go to trial if you want - imagine what a spectacle that would be - and I'm sure I could beat the murder charge, but you never know."

"I'll take it."

EPILOGUE

Ron and I spent five glorious years together. Although we never married, for all intents and purposes we were man and wife, and we did everything together: season tickets to the opera, Cubs games every summer, all of the wonderful festivals that Chicago is famous for, and of course dinner at Morton's every Saturday night when we were in town. We traveled around the world together, several times (I managed to get a photo ID as Mrs. Right) and I even met Ron's son, which was awkward at first, but became very precious near the end. When the disease finally caught up with him, Ron was very brave, and incredibly considerate towards everyone who cared for him. It took a terrible toll in its final stages, and I don't know how I managed, but I insisted on setting up hospice care for him at the townhouse, and I was with him, holding his hand, when he died.

Ron was a very generous person. Dozens of charities were the recipients of large bequests, and of course his son was extremely well taken care of. Although he had settled with his ex-wife years ago, she was also a substantial beneficiary in his will. Ron left the rest - half a billion dollars - to me. I'm still living in the townhouse - the memories are good here, and I've come to love Chicago. I haven't worn a stitch of male clothing since the day I got out of jail, a lifetime ago. Whether I'll actually transition, or simply stay the way I am, I'll always be a woman, and thanks to Ron, I'll never have to worry about the discrimination and hardships that plague so many of my sisters. Dexter Boyd was right: once my secret life was out to the world, I had no alternative but to own it, and over time I've become a minor celebrity in Chicago society. I go to work every day, immaculately dressed, at a foundation I've set up in Ron's name to provide financial assistance to transgendered women in crisis. It will be his lasting legacy.