by Mark Zubro
“Where’d he get it? You don’t walk into any average bank at get that much cash.”
“India?”
“US currency in India?”
“Why not?”
Turner said, “I’ve got a better question, what for?”
“Crime scene folks only counted and inventoried. We also have cell phone records. I had time to go though some but not nearly all. Nothing suspicious so far. We’ll have to get to all of them later.”
Fenwick moved his monitor so Turner could see it. “I set up a grid of the shooting. Both buildings. I traced the most logical movements of their routes to the building and to the top of the building, both for the victims and the shooter in their respective buildings. Beat cops are finishing calls back on the canvass in both places. Nothing in interviews of all the people in the building.”
“That map is kind of good.”
“I got a new app on my phone.”
“I’m still getting used to you making peace with technology.”
“It’s more a fragile coalition.” Fenwick tapped for several seconds. “I’ve also got all the major players placed in terms of geography and time.”
“If they were telling the truth, if someone can verify them, and, of course, maybe one of the major players didn’t kill them.”
“I can do minor players.”
“You’re just showing off. And there are too many of them. I think they should rise to suspecthood before we add them.”
“Is suspecthood a word?”
“It is now. You’re not the only poet in this bunch.”
“Is two a bunch?”
“If we want it to be.”
“That’s all I’ve got.”
“We should check in with Fong. Any information on who shot at our car?”
“Nothing.”
Friday 3:44 P.M.
Downstairs, Fong was in front of his main monitor. He looked over and smiled at Turner and Fenwick. “I’ve been waiting for you guys. I wanted both of you to be the first to see this. It’s so cool.”
He clicked several keys on his keyboard. All the lights dimmed and then every wall and even the floor and ceiling showed what had until a second ago been on just his monitor. Fong said, “The whole room is a monitor now, walls, ceiling, floor. I’ve been working on it forever. Finally got the linoleum replaced yesterday. The floor is of polycarbonate plastic in case something heavy needs to be on it.”
He looked at Fenwick then pointed to the far wall. “The driver circuit board is concealed behind that old fire extinguisher emergency holder box. It draws on a separate power source than the whole rest of the building. I had to hack into the electric grid to set it up.” Turner thought he recognized the new ambient hum as the soundtrack from The Hobbit movies.
Turner said, “Congratulations.”
Fenwick murmured, “Wow.”
Fong said, “I just wish it guaranteed we’d catch more criminals.”
Fenwick said, “You found anything so far?”
Fong cut the monitor back so the image was only on the large one above his desk. “Let’s start here. Took some leg work, but I’ve been to every place between the two crime scenes. I’ve got tons of video footage. Here’s what we’ve got from police dash cams, the public, any random cameras from businesses around. It’s going to take you a while.”
Fenwick said, “Doesn’t everything?”
Turner bit down any comment about how fast Fenwick could devour a pint of chocolate-chocolate chip ice cream. A high powered vacuum cleaner would be slower.
“You got time to go through it now?” Fong asked.
“Now is as good as ever,” Fenwick said.
“You’re not going to get continuous action from camera to camera. This is from the time of the Carruthers incident to the time of the shooting, between the two venues. So far I haven’t found anything that looks suspicious.”
Turner and Fenwick sat together to look at footage. Fong assisted them. After half an hour, Fenwick said, “We got nothing.”
“Sorry,” Fong said.
“Not your fault,” Turner said.
“For the actual Carruthers incident, I’ve checked CPD dash cams and all the footage from the people at the scene.” He motioned them closer. “The official investigation seems to be missing a few. I, however, got all of them from everywhere and made copies. You know Carruthers claims the kid had a gun?”
“That’s what he told me, too,” Turner said.
Fong shook his head. “Ain’t no gun. Nowhere. No how.” He showed them the DeShawn Jackson footage he had. “No gun.”
Turner said, “They had the perimeter set up pretty quick, and I trust Roosevelt and Wilson to find that kind of thing.”
They checked the footage. The Taser didn’t reappear after the first few seconds of use on Carruthers. There was only footage of what they had reported. Nothing with someone walking off with the Taser. They finished and sat back.
Fong said, “I traced the call threatening Rodriguez.” He paused. The detectives waited. “It came from this building.”
“Who?”
“I can only get to here. Beyond that, I haven’t been able to trace it. I’m still working on it.”
“Bullshit,” Fenwick snapped. “Double and triple bullshit.”
Turner asked, “Anything on that recording device from Bettencourt’s room, and those wires and shit?”
“All I’ve got so far is that it’s not a standard issue for the CPD. If it’s ours, it’s either very new or very old. I’m voting for new.”
“FBI? CIA?” Fenwick asked.
“Or none of the above. I’ll tell you when I’ve figured it out. As for the wires and shit.” He shrugged. “Right now, they’re just wires and shit.”
The detectives nodded.
Fong said, “There’s another thing.”
They looked at him.
“You guys seen these sites?”
“What sites?”
“You know those pissed-off-cop sites?”
They nodded. Angry cops could post anonymously, snarling and snapping back at those who dared to criticize them.
Fong said, “There are cops pissed at you for tasering Carruthers.”
Turner said, “There’s all kinds of those sites. They go in and out.”
“These mention you specifically. The Commander has me monitoring them. If I find anything, I’ll let you know.”
They left.
As they walked to the car, Fenwick said, “This is not the day I’m going to start worrying about what the Internet says about me.”
“Still, I’m glad Fong is monitoring it. We don’t have the time.”
Friday 5:31 P.M.
It was late afternoon, long before sunset, but the sky had continued to darken. The wind was now gusting gale force from the south. Turner checked the local radar on his phone. A ragged line of storms from the Wisconsin border to down past Peoria was just beginning to cross Interstate 39 in a number of places. Summer storms covered some of the far north and west suburbs.
A few stray wisps of illumined cloud seeped out of the cloud banks. The branches and leaves swayed in the breeze that did little to ease the humidity.
In deference to the heat, they wore short sleeve shirts and had their ties undone. As far as Turner could see, Fenwick wore a size tent shirt.
The protesters’ encampment spread over several acres and included the commons of the college, a part of a neighborhood park, and then ran around and down an old alley with trees that met overhead. A large parking structure, where they left their car, served as boundary at the south end of the complex of tents. They walked from there.
The first thing Turner noted was there seemed to be numerous clots of unsupervised little kids running up and down all over everywhere. One of the larger groups was in a circle seeming to try and twirl with the wind. Another cluster jumped up and down to music Turner didn’t recognize. He couldn’t see an adult who was actively supervising any of them.
Vendors dotted the area selling everything from scones and vegetables to untraceable phones.
As they approached, they saw a row of news vans from all the local stations posted along one side of the nearest street. Reporters and camera people bustled about in and out of van doors.
As they walked closer to the nearest tents, a few fat drops of rain studded the sidewalk. The black clouds hurried through the early evening dimness.
The grass was trampled to mud.
Fenwick sniffed. “It kind of stinks.”
Turner pointed. “Port-a-potties line the sidewalk over there.”
Fenwick added, “And unwashed people.”
Ian stood at the entrance as they neared it.
The short fat man he was talking to was speaking in a voice just short of a shout. “You don’t know anything about our real goals and ambitions. You don’t know what’s wrong with the world. You haven’t gotten beyond your own ego.”
Ian said, “You are so right,” and turned his back on the guy. He spotted Turner and Fenwick and strode over. In one of the rare changes in his attire, instead of long pants, Ian was in khaki cargo shorts. The shorts revealed his extremely hairy legs which Turner knew matched the fur on his stomach, chest, shoulders, and back. Ian still wore his slouch fedora, clamped low on his head against the wind.
The short fat guy scuttled after Ian and got between him and the detectives. The short man wasn’t through. He said, “You will be sorry if you write anything about us. We have powerful friends. We won the election. You’ll be sorry.” He wagged a finger in Ian’s face. “So, so sorry.”
“Thank you,” Ian said.
In the face of such benignity, the man ran down, looked at Turner and Fenwick, and with a last sneer at Ian, harrumphed away.
“People threatening you?” Fenwick asked.
“No more than usual. Then again, for as many here who think you are heroes, there are those who wish you two had been shot.”
“Who?” Fenwick asked.
Ian checked his notes. “How much good is this going to do to give you those names?”
“Probably none,” Fenwick said.
Turner kept his residual annoyance with Ian at bay. He asked, “Anything helpful to an investigation?”
“I can’t tell. If you try to talk to them, mostly they rant about their cause or causes.”
Turner said, “We’re looking for Andy Siedel, supposedly second in command to Bettencourt.”
Ian said, “I haven’t heard of him. I’m not sure these people have a structured hierarchy.” He pointed to a circle of people a third of the way down the alley of trees. “If there’s a leadership council, that’s it. I got pitched from their gathering. It wasn’t pretty. That last guy was the final remnant of snarl I got from them. Oh, and be careful of everything you say or do. Assume these people have phones out recording things.”
Fenwick said, “We always do.”
Turner nodded in agreement. He thought anyone who didn’t presume so and act accordingly was some kind of special stupid. Although he wondered what 24-7 cop cameras would really show. How helpful would it be for the world to see them doing tedious paperwork, or watching Fenwick eat gargantuan quantities of food?
Ian said, “You’ll be seen as police outsiders.”
Fenwick said, “Try to tell me something I don’t know.”
As they strode down the alley, Turner noticed underneath all the nearby odor was the scent of fresh rain.
As they neared the circle of people, they heard shouts and saw people waving fists.
Fenwick sighed. “I wonder what great philosophical argument has brought them to this point.”
They stood just outside the circle and listened. Various members of the group were screaming and hurling accusations about sanitation.
After a few moments, they stepped forward and introduced themselves as detectives and showed ID. They were quickly circled by about fifteen protesters.
A tall, young guy spoke loudest, “Can’t you do something about the washrooms?”
Fenwick said, “We’re looking for…”
But the young man interrupted him, “They keep moving the port-a-potties back making us go farther and farther to use the washroom, and those aren’t really washrooms.”
A young woman standing next to him said, “And they’re jammed. The lines are immense. And they reek. There’s a washroom in the parking garage. The guy says he won’t let us use it because they didn’t repeal that part of the Affordable Care Act.”
Fenwick said, “Huh?”
“He told us that the Affordable Care Act mandates all washrooms must be handicap accessible and any ones that are not can’t be used by anybody.”
Fenwick said, “You do realize that’s a bullshit excuse? There is no such provision repealed or unrepealed.”
“Fine. You do something to help us.”
Fenwick called Barb Dams at the station and asked her to find out who to contact. She put him on hold for a minute then got right back on the line. She said, “I’ll call. I’ll get someone in charge to you fast.”
While they waited, they asked for Andy Siedel. Pointing, murmurs, and shrugs occurred.
Dams was as good as her word. A few minutes later, a hefty man in blue bib overalls strode purposefully from the parking structure. He walked up to the circle of protesters and said, “I won’t have you people using those washrooms.”
Turner and Fenwick identified themselves as detectives and asked him to step inside a nearby tent.
Once inside, Fenwick said, “You’re under arrest.”
“Wha! For what?”
“Gross stupidity. Causing a public nuisance. Blatantly lying when you have no knowledge of the law.”
“Wha! You can’t.”
Fenwick pulled out his handcuffs. Turner pulled out his cuffs and moved to the other side of the man.
Fenwick got up close to the man and whispered in his ear, “Unless you’d like to find a way to let these people use the washrooms in the parking garage.”
“They’ll make them dirty.”
Fenwick rattled the handcuffs and said, “We’ll assign a male and female beat cop to be right outside the doors. They can monitor any difficulties.”
The bib overall guy said, “Fine.”
They stepped outside the tent. Fenwick looked at the crowd and nudged Mr. Biboveralls. Fenwick whispered, “Tell them.”
The guy said, “You can use the parking garage washroom.”
The protesters cheered. Cameras flashed. Video was taped.
Fenwick mumbled, “This is nuts.”
He got hold of Sanchez and Deveneaux to organize shifts of beat cops for the washrooms.
Moments later, a short thin man who hadn’t been present came forward and said, “I’m Andy Siedel.” He wore a T-shirt that said, “Human Rights for Jesus.”
They introduced themselves and asked to talk to him.
He nodded and led them twenty feet away to a tent with its canvas flapping in the wind. They stepped a few feet inside. Without waiting for the questions from Turner and Fenwick, Siedel began, “You’re the first cops who actually identified themselves. Sometimes I think there are more cops here than protesters. I know we’ve seen FBI guys and Chicago police in plainclothes.” He waved his arm toward the parking structure. “Homeland security has a van in there. They might as well have labels on the side panels.”
Turner said, “We’re investigating the murders of Shaitan and Bettencourt. We were told you were Bettencourt’s second in command.”
“You could call it that. It was more we agreed on a lot of issues and worked together often.”
Turner asked, “How did Shaitan and Bettencourt get along?”
Siedel scratched his head. “This place is as rife with gossip as a Peyton Place. You get all kinds of rumors. Before yesterday, it was they hated each other. Now it’s like they’re martyrs to the cause.”
Fenwick said, “We thought Bettencourt was the leader of the peac
e and light faction.”
“He was. Shaitan was leader of the idiots and egomaniacs. If you can call what he did ‘leading.’”
“Did they clash openly?”
“Bettencourt didn’t do a lot of open clashing. He worked like mad behind the scenes to get people to come to agreements.”
“Did Shaitan prevent some of those agreements?”
He sighed. “Depends on who you believed and how much power they thought they had, how much power other people thought they had, and how much power they really did have. Shaitan was reasonably delusional. He was in the camp that believed the dictum, ‘if I write for a website, therefore I am,’ which is sort of true in our world here.”
“You know where they were yesterday?”
“Giving small talks to groups of people in their tents, outside their tents, in rooms at the university, and around the city in people’s homes. Hell, if you held still long enough, they’d find you and talk to you. It wasn’t just those two. People just kept trying to talk. That’s what we all do. Most of us are good people trying to make the world a little bit of a better place. Other than that we sweat. Try to find water, and stay just outside the tents. The interiors get pretty ripe in this heat. Might not be bad if we had a real storm. Now that we can use those washrooms in the parking structure, we can at least take sponge baths. Thanks for that, by the way.” He shrugged. “Much of the time, most of us ran off to anything that looked remotely like a demonstration. People would hear about something on their phones and go running. Then people got wise that there were a lot of fake postings.”
“Fake postings?” Turner asked.
“Yeah, like a confrontation with police at some random spot, and people would rush to cars, or buses, or trains, or taxis. And they’d get there, and there’d be nothing.”
“Sabotage,” Turner said.
“Yeah. Or triumph by exhaustion, wear us all out. Or just keeping people confused. Then again, I don’t think some of these people care which cause, or what side they are on in that cause.”
“Must be some true believers,” Turner said.
Siedel nodded. “Sure. Lots of those.” He shrugged. “What most of them were doing specifically, I have no idea.”