by Mark Zubro
Mrs. Talucci was in her kitchen. The ceiling fan was on low. She sat with a woman Paul didn’t know. A silver tea service was spread between them.
Mrs. Talucci stood and took Paul’s hand. “Are you okay? I heard they just missed you.”
“They missed Fenwick and me. A friend of ours, a beat cop we know, Mike Sanchez, was hit. He’s going to be okay.”
The woman who was a stranger said, “I believe I know his family. Good people.”
Mrs. Talucci said, “This is Florence Wolchevitz. She was involved in the Beat Representative program with the CPD back in the day, and the CAPS program. She’s been a neighborhood activist on the far southeast side for years, still is. We’ve known each other since before she began working with the police. We take some of the over-90 travel trips together. I talked to her. She’s willing to help you. I trust her implicitly.”
Paul said, “Thank you.”
Mrs. Wolchevitz had a bouffant of white hair. Both she and Mrs. Talucci wore white summer shawls over faded flower print dresses.
While Mrs. Talucci served tea, Paul asked, “You all came through the storm okay?”
Mrs. Talucci nodded. Mrs. Wolchevitz said, “Everything seemed remarkably clean after the rain, but the worst hasn’t passed according to the weather forecasts. At least another day of this.”
When everyone had a cup of tea, and they all had access to scones, Mrs. Talucci began, “Why don’t you give us a summary of what happened today? We saw you on the local news saving some kids. You and Fenwick deserve medals.”
Paul summarized for them. He finished, “The questions are two-fold, one about activists in the city, and the other about the police department itself.”
Wolchevitz put her teacup down, pulled her shawl a bit closer around her, and said, “Now, as for the activists. Andy Siedel, I’ve worked with a few times. He seemed reasonable. Adam Wolfe is an old charlatan. He’d be in the middle, or he always was back in the day, of every conspiracy, plot or plan.”
“Motivated enough for murder?” Paul asked.
“He’s a complicated man. I could never figure him out. I don’t really know most of the new crowd, and I know nothing about Shaitan and Bettencourt.”
Mrs. Talucci said, “I think she can help most with connections within the department.”
Paul nodded.
Mrs. Wolchevitz began, “First of all, you have to understand that power structures within the upper echelons of the department are fighting all the time.”
“About what?”
“Power. Influence. Jobs. Prestige. Reputation. Jobs they’d like after their own retirement. Or moving up in other cities if the way is blocked here. You probably already have some sense that this occurs.”
Turner nodded and said, “But I’m nothing to that.”
“Ah, my dear, I wish that were so. My guess from decades of observation, is that they are angry to the point of irrationality. You’re seen as thwarting them. And they don’t like to be thwarted by anyone, any time.” She broke a corner off of a scone and nibbled at it. “What you’ve got to realize is that anyone whom you have seen, you must presume is part of a conspiracy to get you.”
Turner nodded.
Ben asked, “But what is this about?”
Mrs. Wolchevitz sighed, sipped tea, and resumed. “What you and your partner have done is violate some of the most inviolate rules of the hierarchy. The most basic is, ‘I can make you.’ This is not new. The spirit of the Chicago police department, ‘do as you’re told,’ doesn’t happen by accident. From the silly orders to protesters, to ordinary encounters with civilians, too often too many of them have been irrationally harsh. This started long before the ’68 convention. The police in Chicago have treated the public as those who must shut up and obey.”
Ben said, “You worked with them all these years.”
“And some are good men and women, and sometimes I made things a little better for both sides. As you know, it’s not just this city. It’s all over. And the convention in ’68 just revealed for the world a real attitude of society, not just police.”
Ben said, “But there seems to be so much anger and rage these days.”
Mrs. Wolchevitz said, “I’d hate to make comparisons through the history of the city or down through the ages for that matter. If you were in the Park in 1968, you hated the police and Mayor Daley in equal measure.”
“You were there?” Ben asked.
She nodded. “Very much in the background. I didn’t get arrested or beaten.” She sighed. “Nowadays, with fake news fighting with real news, it’s hard to tell who is really more or less angry. And does it make a lot of difference? So the crazies don’t just march around some forest in the Rocky Mountains, now they’re at our doorstep. The attitude that created them has been with us for a very long time.” She shrugged. “Those whom you’ve met or know high up in the department, so many are among the newly aggrieved, hiding their need to cling to privilege and power behind a racist buffoon.”
Ben asked, “Can we do anything?”
Mrs. Talucci said, “We do what we always have. Whatever we must. Whatever we can.”
Paul said, “Anything specific about who we’ve met.” He gave her a list of names.
Mrs. Wolchevitz said, “DeGroot is not head of the investigation by accident. He’s been the head of the Carruthers investigations for years.”
“Our lawyer said that as well.”
Mrs. Wolchevitz said, “And the State’s Attorney who just happens to wind up with so many of his cases, gentleman named Brandon Smeek. That’s another name to check into.”
Ben asked, “Who the hell is Carruthers and why do so many people risk so much for him?”
Mrs. Wolchevitz said, “I can help you with that. The Carruthers family goes back a long, long time in this department. They first came to major notice at the time of the 1968 Convention. The grandfather and great uncle of your current asshole, both got reputations for beating up protesters but not being caught doing so. The mayor heard of it. They got rewarded. They continued to be loyal through the years. They got more rewards. Since then, it’s intertwined. Lucrative contracts for concessions at the airports to close relatives of theirs. For example, DeGroot’s father, who is a distant cousin of the current Carruthers iteration, got some of the biggest concessions at both airports for incredible bargains.” She sipped some tea. “I do believe the connections go deep into several Cook County departments as well. Those connections, I’ve heard, are on his wife’s side.”
Paul said, “Supremely connected. I got that impression about Carruthers and his wife, separate and together.”
“Yes.” She thought a moment. “You could follow the command structure above DeGroot, but my guess is, the higher up you go, the more danger you’ll be in.”
“Do we trust Commander Molton?”
“A good man and an honest cop. I would think so.” Mrs. Wolchevitz picked up her coffee cup, took a sip, put it down. “There is a rumor that things at home for Carruthers are deteriorating rapidly. His protectors may be abandoning him. He may be suicidal.”
“His wife mentioned that.”
“It could be true.” Mrs. Wolchevitz sighed. “Double and triple your vigilance. There is that much real danger. As for your basic questions. Remember it took a year and a new superintendent for a recommendation to fire seven officers for lying about the LaQuan McDonald case. They will play with time.” She smiled at them. “I know you know all of this.”
Paul said, “Everything you’ve said has been a help.”
Mrs. Wolchevitz said, “Your more important problem isn’t those who might or might not have lied for Carruthers about what happened at that scene. They’ve got to find a gun with the kid’s fingerprints on it.”
“They won’t,” Paul said. “There wasn’t one.”
“They can manufacture a great deal,” Mrs. Wolchevitz said. “I hope you’re right. No, I think what you’ve now run up against, or will be running up against are who
in the brass has been covering up for this Carruthers all these years. People have heard rumors about him probably in the whole department. You also might check into the influence of the church in this. I think at least a few higher-ups are smarting from your last case, and remember Carruthers was their spy in your camp. There is likely to be some loyalty there. I might be able to help you a tiny bit there.”
Mrs. Talucci said, “I’m not sure I can get you much information about that anymore. I spent a lot of years of built up good will on your last case.” She smiled. “My power is not infinite.”
Mrs. Wolchevitz smiled as well. She knew no more. Ben and Paul thanked them both. As they walked out of the kitchen, Paul turned at the door and asked Mrs. Wolchevitz, “Why do you still go to meetings?”
“Because in spite of it all, I still believe people are good at heart.”
Ben said, “Anne Frank in her diary.”
Mrs. Wolchevitz smiled. “Yes.”
Saturday 1:00 A.M.
When he got into his own house, Paul thanked the blessed air-conditioning. He and Ben checked Jeff’s room. Brian was asleep on his brother’s bed. His tall, athletic body sprawled wide, a copy of the third Harry Potter book open on the sheet next to his left elbow. Jeff was asleep in his wheelchair. If Brian had no date and Jeff had no late meetings, they spent many evenings reading to each other in Jeff’s room. Of late, they often fell asleep like this.
Upstairs, Paul clutched Ben. After holding each other for several minutes, they undressed, and got into bed. Propped on elbows, they faced each other.
Ben asked, “You okay?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You saved those kids and the old man. It was on the news.”
“Just doing my job.”
Ben hugged him and asked, “Do you know what you’re going to do next?”
“No. I’m just exhausted. I need to shut my mind down and get some rest.”
In minutes, they were both asleep.
Saturday 6:17 A.M.
Paul’s phone buzzed. Before getting into bed, as he always did, he’d turned it to its lowest level of sound. He glanced out the window. The first shreds of dawn’s light poked through heavy clouds. He looked at the phone. Mrs. Talucci’s number.
Paul got up as quietly as he could. He didn’t want to wake Ben. His husband snorted but slept on.
He pulled on jeans, shoes, and a T-shirt. He clipped his gun and Fong’s jamming device to his belt then hurried down the stairs and eased open the front door. He looked across at Mrs. Talucci’s front porch. He saw her rocking in her chair. She had her shotgun across her lap.
Paul hurried over. He heard morning birds chirping as if a great storm was nearby.
In the shadows of the porch, Paul saw another figure. He got to the top step of the porch before he could make out the figure in the shadow. It was Peter Eisenberg, the plainclothes cop from the protester encampment. He still wore the tight jeans, T-shirt, and athletic shoes he’d had on the day before. The jeans looked to have dried on him.
Mrs. Talucci said, “This man chose to disturb our neighborhood this morning.” Usually, Mrs. Talucci sounded like someone’s grandmother who was in a kitchen humming while making chocolate chip cookies. She had other voices. Today’s was what Paul referred to as her royal voice, that is, he could imagine Queen Victoria saying in just that soft, icy tone, “We are not amused.”
Eisenberg scuffed his shoe on the porch. “If we could talk please, and not so openly as this.”
Mrs. Talucci nodded. Paul opened the screen door. Eisenberg preceded him in. They sat at the kitchen table. Mrs. Talucci joined them for a minute. She put out pitchers of breakfast juices and glasses, and cups for coffee, made sure they took what they wanted, then left.
“How the hell did she know I was here?” Eisenberg asked.
Paul said, “Better not to know, I suspect. It’s her neighborhood.”
“Jesus, she scared the hell out of me. There was no one there and then there were these big, hulky guys, and I was on that porch.”
“You didn’t think it was odd to show up at this hour of the morning in any neighborhood?”
“Bad decision. Dumb. I’m sorry.”
“How’d you survive the storm yesterday?”
“Our tent is gone. Most of us ran. Two of the ones who stayed are in the hospital, but are supposed to be okay.”
Paul sipped the always excellent coffee. “What can I do for you?”
“I was a shit to you yesterday. I’m sorry. I should have been braver. I want to apologize.”
“I appreciate the apology.”
“I couldn’t say this in front of the guys.”
“Say what?”
“I think you and your partner did right, saving that kid, Tasing Carruthers. I don’t know him. I do know his reputation. I don’t get why everybody is rushing to hold up the wall of silence for him but not for you guys.”
“Why did you come see me now?”
“I’m still not that brave. I wanted to see you outside of work.” He adjusted his pants, pulled at his T-shirt. “Last night, we helped people. That took hours. Then we went drinking. I haven’t been home. I also came to warn you.”
“About what?”
Eisenberg sipped coffee. “See, I’m gay. There’s still a lot of prejudice in the regular rank and file. I mean nothing openly homophobic, but kind of casual-like. And we talked about you. One of the guys is connected to DeGroot and the Carruthers investigation.”
“Nothing about the death of the two protesters?”
“They think protesters are too disorganized to plan and carry out a bake sale much less a murder. The scuttlebutt I’ve got is that cops way up are behind planning everything that’s happened, no matter how weird and convoluted. That Carruthers, he’s too stupid to plan all this.”
“All that’s happened has been part of a plot to get me and Fenwick?”
Eisenberg said, “That’s what I’ve got. Some central point in the CPD. No way could it be the protesters.”
Turner said, “Some of them have been organizing for years. Many of them marched with the women after the inauguration and helped put that together. Some of them have been marching since the sixties.”
“But this is trying to get such disparate groups to come together. That women’s march was almost spontaneous and powerful. I think the intention here was right, but the road to hell here was exceptionally bumpy. I think everybody wanted to sabotage it.”
Turner asked, “Including members of your detail?”
“Acting on the orders of our higher ups.”
“Who?”
“Commander Palakowski for one. It’s not DeGroot’s assignment, but he hung around a lot. And that guy from the mayor’s office, Edberg, seemed to be at every debriefing. And Bortz, that idiot alderman.”
“How about the FBI, Homeland, or a rep from the 1%?”
“The FBI guys were all secretive and superior. I suppose you could call on the FBI, but I don’t think they’d give you much. Or, at least, they never gave us anything. The one we dealt with from the FBI was Chris Randall. We never saw Homeland, just the van we all assumed was theirs. The 1% guy was Danny Currington. He was secretive, superior, and a snot. He has a suite at the top of one of the towers at the Chicago Extravaganza Hotel on State Street.”
“Was anybody around pretending to be Fenwick and me asking questions about the murder case?”
“Not that I heard of.” He caught Turner’s eye. “That would be special bold. They trying to screw up you guys’ investigation?”
“Presumably.”
“I doubt if it was the protesters. They knew who we were early on. Before they knew who we were, some would talk to us and even after they knew, a few would still talk to us. Some wouldn’t shut up. A few were generally pleasant, trying to make peace with the world, trying to make the world a little kinder. I shouldn’t make fun. The gun-nut hate factions would go on at great length just like any other group. Endlessly, r
epetitiously. It seemed at times they were in a competition to come talk to us. As if they were afraid of some rival getting a leg up.”
“Nothing specific on Shaitan or Bettencourt?”
“The few that mentioned either one said they didn’t like Shaitan, and they liked Bettencourt, but it was only a couple people, and it was mostly passing references, but like I said, word I heard is that this is all being orchestrated from high up in the department.” He paused a moment and then his face turned red. “I should have told you this next bit already.” He hesitated again.
Turner waited.
“Some of the guys in our group were working with Shaitan. They gave him recording devices.”
“Why?”
“As far as I could tell, it was convoluted bullshit. Supposedly if we were nice to him, he’d give us inside information. I think there pretty much wasn’t inside information, not of the seriously criminal kind, more of the usual mix of kind and good hearted people trafficking with delusional morons.”
Turner thought, Shaitan was in it with delusional Chicago cops. He certainly wasn’t surprised. He asked, “Anything else?”
“That’s all I know.” He hung his head. “Well, except, you’re a gay cop and that seems to work for you. I’d like it to work for me.”
“It will.”
He glanced up and looked down. His hand inched towards Paul’s knee. “You wouldn’t be interested in…”
Paul drew his knee back an inch or so and said, “I’m flattered that you asked, but I’m happily married.”
“Okay.”
They walked out to the porch and shook hands on the top step.
Paul said, “Thanks for coming.”
“Be careful.”
Paul sat with Mrs. Talucci. Morning sun was trying to poke through the clouds. She moved her shoulder and winced. “Probably the worst storms coming today.”
He said, “Thanks for your help.”
“Just being a good neighbor. He was right. Please, be careful.”
“I always do my best to be.”