Ring of Silence

by Mark Zubro

  Turner said, “Normal protocol is for a complaint to be filed and an investigation to be held. And yet, you’re here in what strikes me as an unofficial capacity.”

  Palakowski sneered at Turner. “I expect you to cover for him.”

  “Cover that some asshole beat cop turned traitor on a couple of detectives? I thought the Code of Silence worked in favor of cops. Or are there sides of silence?”

  “Fuck you, asshole. You’ll be in as much trouble as your fat partner.”

  Fenwick said, “Yet, it’s our word against your guy.”

  Palakowski pointed at Turner. “He just admitted it.”

  “You wearing a wire?” Fenwick asked. “I doubt it. Wires have to be made official, and if it involves cops, has to go through the Internal Review Authority, and you haven’t had time for that. You’d have had to talk it over with Molton, and we’d have heard about it. Did you or your beat cop file paperwork or an official complaint?”

  Neither detective was about to tell him about Fong’s jamming devices they wore.

  Palakowski looked down.

  Turner asked, “Are you part of covering for Carruthers and why?”

  “Fuck you.” Palakowski stood up.

  “How’d you find us here?” Fenwick asked.

  Turner said, “Why would you be having us followed? How are you connected to all the cover ups?”

  Palakowski put his fists on their table, leaned close, and rasped, “You two have no idea the forces you’re dealing with.” He whirled around, stood up, and twisted into a passing member of the wait staff. The resulting tumult of broken crockery drew the attention of all of the patrons. Palakowski stomped off.

  After Palakowski was gone, Fenwick tasted his food then added more hot sauce. He looked at Turner. “That was bullshit.”

  “Yep.”

  “He’s in on the cover up.”

  “Yep.”

  “We don’t have to talk to Blawn or Arnold. We know they came from Palakowski.”

  “Two less assholes.”

  “Either one of them trying to kill us?”

  Turner drew a deep breath, took a bite, and sipped coffee. He said, “His minions, no, but Palakowski has now moved to among the top suspects. We’ve got to find out who his clout is. Doesn’t anybody move up in this department on merit?”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “Sorry. Too long to be asking a question like that.”

  “We’re in deep,” Fenwick said.

  “Hope we get out of it.”

  “I intend to, and if I don’t, a whole lot of people are going down with me.”

  Saturday 2:15 P.M.

  When they got outside, the gloom of the day had increased. Bits of misty raindrops, blasted by the wind, blew against them.

  In the car, Turner said, “Let’s start with the beat cop on guard in the hall. There must be a straight path from that guy to whoever is running things.”

  Fenwick shook his head. “It won’t be a straight path. There will be layers of protection on this. Layers of deniability. Guy we want is this Officer Bruce Deaton from my room and DeShawn’s.”

  Turner put on their siren and started the Mars lights rotating.

  With the light Saturday traffic and bells and whistles clanging, they roared faster than usual down the Dan Ryan to 111th Street and headed west.

  It was a typical Chicago bungalow. The cop answered the door. He wore madras shorts and a too tight T-shirt.

  Fenwick said, “We need to talk to you.”

  Deaton growled, “Get the fuck away from my door.” He reached back to grab it. Fenwick guessed quicker than Turner that he planned to slam it in their faces.

  Fenwick kicked the door as it swung toward them. It flew backward and bashed against the wall.

  Fenwick marched in. Turner followed. They stood in a short hall.

  Deaton said, “Fuck you guys. You’re toast.”

  Fenwick said, “Not according to the Superintendent.”

  Deaton looked confused.

  Fenwick went on. “We just met with him at the station. He seemed pretty supportive.”

  Turner asked, “Who told you to spy on us?”

  “Molton.”

  Fenwick sneered, “Bullshit.”

  Turner said, “Why would you tell us such an easily disprovable lie? Why bother?”

  No one else had appeared in the hallway behind the cop. The home had decent air conditioning.

  Fenwick said, “You are going to answer questions. We can do a great big showy arrest. We might even throw in one of those stupid perp walks the press loves.”

  “You can’t arrest me.”

  “But we can make it look like it.”

  “And your career will be shit.”

  “You’re part of trying to make ours shit only drip by drip. If we’re going to make it shit, we’re going to have one great flood of shit, a great big splashy flood of shit.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “But amazingly enough, not as disgusting as you.”

  Deaton took out his phone. Fenwick grabbed it. “No phone calls.”

  “If I’m under arrest, I get a call.”

  Fenwick laughed. “Does this look like a normal situation to you?”

  Turner said, “If you’re so confident of your positions and your support, why don’t you answer our questions? If we’re so friendless, what have you got to lose? And if we have support, and your side might be the ones to lose, shouldn’t you get out in front of all this and try to save your butt and even at this late date, show that you’re on our side?”

  Deaton shrugged, “Fuck it. We were all just talking.”

  “We who?” Turner asked.

  “The guys in the locker room before the shift. Most of us don’t know Carruthers, but he was one of us. You can’t be Tasing your own.”

  Fenwick lost it. “He was shooting at us, you numb nuts dumb fuck! Are you suggesting we should have just stood there! Are you the most brain dead person on the south side?”

  “It was just us guys talking.”

  Turner said, “There wasn’t an organized conspiracy? There wasn’t one guy taking the lead?”

  Deaton shook his head.

  They left.

  In the car, Fenwick said, “It’s all bullshit about that locker room crap. Somebody gave him direct orders. How stupid does he think we are?”

  Turner said, “They’ve all lied their way out of so much.”

  Fenwick remained in high dudgeon. “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.”

  Turner said, “If he knows who is next higher up in the anti-us conspiracy, he’s calling him right now. They’re all going to be expecting us.”

  “Maybe they’ll bake a cake. Or hell, we can go in with guns blazing. We keep going, or we give up and go home and wait for the end.”

  “You ready to give up?”

  Fenwick shook his head.

  Turner gripped the steering wheel. “Who’s next?”

  Saturday 3:15 P.M.

  The light rain had stopped. Clouds still loomed above. The wind howled.

  Back in the Loop they stopped at the extraordinarily plush Chicago Extravaganza Hotel on State Street. In the lobby, they took note of the high-end furnishings, the waterfall, and the glass-enclosed elevators that went up fifty floors.

  This was the headquarters of Danny Currington, the protester infiltrator for the 1%. He had a suite on the top floor.

  They showed their badges and were brought to the office of the head of security. He cooperated completely without the slightest hesitation. Turner found this refreshing. He gave them Danny Currington’s room number and wished them well. In the elevator, as they hit the fiftieth floor, Turner glanced down and asked, “What do they do with guests who’re afraid of heights?”

  Fenwick said, “Take them out and shoot them?”

  They knocked at the door.

  Fenwick asked the man who answered, “You Danny Currington?”

  “How did you
get up here past security?”

  They held out badges. Currington made a show of inspecting each one then opened the door wide.

  They walked in. Adam Edberg from the Mayor’s office sat on a couch next to a man they didn’t know.

  Edberg stood up. He said, “I’m out of here.” Without another word, he walked out.

  Currington nodded toward the other man, “This is Chris Randall from the FBI. What can we do for you gentlemen?”

  “What was Edberg doing here?”

  “Liaising from the mayor’s office.”

  “The mayor’s office is in charge of infiltrating?”

  Randall spoke up. “We’re all interested in keeping terrorists from taking over the city.”

  Fenwick went to the window and gazed down at the streets below. He said, “I see six terrorists running up State Street right now. Shouldn’t you be on it? Or them? Or maybe they’re hurrying to go shopping before the storms hit?”

  “You joke about terrorists?”

  “I’m not a right-wing propagandist. I believe in dealing with facts. Are you saying, in fact, there is a terrorist plot to take over the government of the City of Chicago? Are you delusional? How would they do that? Why? What difference would it make if they sat in the mayor’s office? Or they took over the city council chamber?”

  “The city would look ridiculous.”

  Turner said, “You’re supposed to be ferreting out plots. My guess is you’re still looking for cells willing to set off bombs and kill somebody. You find any of those with those protesters out there?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Who’s in charge of all this?”

  They both sat silent.

  Fenwick said, “You don’t know who your boss is? You don’t know who you report to?”

  Currington said, “My bosses are not part of the city employees.”

  Fenwick said to Randall, “And you report to your superior at the FBI. Who is that?”

  “I’m sure if you check with the local office, they’d be happy to talk to you. We are not answerable to you.”

  Fenwick asked, “You learned anything about the killing of the two protesters?”

  Randall said, “No, just another example of Chicago violence run amok, your inability to protect your own citizens.”

  “Why does the 1% have a rep here?” Fenwick asked.

  “I don’t remember saying who my employer is.”

  “Any of you guys or the organizations you represent have people going around the tent city pretending to be detectives investigating the murders?”

  They got nothing from them.

  Saturday 3:49 P.M.

  In the car, Fenwick said, “Assholes.”

  “Who’s next?”

  “The friendly State’s Attorney.”

  Up Lake Shore Drive, the wind buffeted the car.

  Turner had set up a meeting with Robert Cardin, the State’s Attorney they both knew. They’d worked with him before. He’d been helpful and friendly in a number of cases.

  They met in a darkened pub on the far north side of the city, on Howard Street a few blocks west of Sheridan Road. They were only a few feet from Evanston.

  Robert Cardin was short and thin. When the cops entered, he raised a finger. Turner caught the movement. Cardin led them to a back booth.

  He said, “I shouldn’t be meeting you. I shouldn’t have agreed to this.”

  Fenwick asked, “Carruthers is worth all these careers?”

  Cardin glanced around the room, wrung his hands, leaned forward, and whispered. “You want to draw attention to yourselves, I don’t give a shit. I’ve got a wife, kids, and a mortgage.”

  “You’ve helped us before.”

  “Not with something this big.”

  “What is it about Carruthers?” Fenwick asked.

  Cardin’s voice was an exasperated whisper. “Jesus, you guys are dumb. You think this is about Carruthers? Hell, I heard he was going to use the ‘delusional disorder’ defense.”

  “He is that,” Fenwick said.

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  The detectives nodded.

  “Probably his only chance of winning,” Cardin said.

  Fenwick said, “The video shows he was in the wrong.”

  “They’ll have experts trying to turn that into a third-rate horror film.” He leaned close to the table. “The silence on this one is complete. Complete. No one knows anything. We’ve all been told to mind our own business, and as far as I know, that was before anyone asked any questions.” Cardin gulped, ran his finger under his collar. “I’ve always thought I could trust you.”

  “Yes,” Turner said.

  “No matter whose name is on the paperwork for Carruthers cases, only one guy ever handled them, Brandon Smeek.”

  Fenwick asked, “Who’s Smeek, and what’s his game? Why would he stick his neck out for Carruthers?”

  “I’ve already stuck my own neck out too far.”

  “How do you know about him?” Turner asked.

  “One of them was my case. I was going through some filing, and I found the name change. I took it to my immediate supervisor and brought it to her attention.” He shook his head. “Just for noticing, I did bullshit in Hegewisch for two years. I was told to forget it. That it was a mistake. I certainly did that. Until today.”

  He sipped his beer, ran his gaze around the room, then said, “You ask what this is about? You know what it’s about. They’ve all been lying for years. All the lies are going to come out. Normally, the low level cops who get caught lying on forms are the only ones who are fired. This time, it has to involve the higher ups. They’re all going to lose their jobs. Maybe their pensions.”

  “Who is going after the higher ups?”

  “I’m not sure. Most likely is the office of the U.S. Attorney for the Northern District of Illinois.”

  “The people protecting Carruthers don’t have friends there as well?” Fenwick asked.

  “I don’t know who has friends anywhere any more. I gotta go. This is too much. You won’t say anything, please?” Cardin leaned over the table. “I wish you guys all the best of luck, but frankly, I think you’ll be lucky to be alive in a few weeks. If you try to talk to Brandon Smeek, you won’t last the week.” He scuttled out.

  Saturday 4:22 P.M.

  In the car, Fenwick said, “He’s frightened out of his mind.”

  Turner said, “How about this for a notion? The ones who aren’t frightened are the ones who are behind it all.”

  State’s Attorney Brandon Smeek was at home on Lake Shore Drive just south of Fullerton. The wind howled through the canyons between the buildings. Smeek lived on the fifth floor of a century old, five-story luxury condo building. The detectives entered. The walls were all dark wood with framed paintings exquisitely lit. No outside noises filtered in. The air-conditioning was perfect.

  They identified themselves. Smeek didn’t seem surprised to see them.

  He led them to chairs, offered them drinks. The detectives declined. He poured himself a finger of Scotch from a cut-glass crystal decanter into a cut-glass crystal tumbler. From his seat, Turner could see across the street to Lincoln Park. The tops of trees twisted and swayed in the harsh wind.

  Turner said, “We’re here about Carruthers.”

  Smeek said, “And you’re both heroes. How far do you think that’s going to get you?”

  Fenwick said, “About as far as you trying to change the subject.”

  “Yeah, you want to get Carruthers.”

  “Just following the case. Carruthers’s complaint cases got assigned to one guy in the department, Ken Coscarelli. The ones that all just disappeared or got buried or went nowhere.”

  “You two have been running around making fools of yourselves. You’ve got a case. Two dead protestors. And you’ve got Carruthers having problems which is not up to you to investigate.” He looked at the two of them. “Wait a second. What the hell is going on here? You think these are connected? You
think that top cops planned the killing of two activists? You think State’s Attorneys are afraid of a few protesters? And then somehow before all that happened Carruthers, what? Took potshots at you. You guys are nuts.”

  “We haven’t completely figured out how the two incidents are connected,” Turner said, “Right now, we’re just following the facts.”

  “Whose facts? Don’t you know we’re living in a post-fact world?”

  “I’m not,” Fenwick said. “So right now, you need to talk to us.”

  “No, I don’t. You have no idea what you’re doing.”

  “Why don’t you tell us?” Fenwick said.

  Smeek’s smile held more sneer than humor. Smeek sipped his drink. It was at moments like this that Turner wished he was a violent person. If he was, he’d bash the glass out of the man’s hands and enjoy wiping the smirk off his face.

  Smeek said, “Tell you? As you wish. Since your buddy Rodriguez was Carruthers’s partner on most of these cases, they were in it together. If Carruthers goes down, your buddy goes down.”

  “Rodriguez doesn’t have the complaints against him that Carruthers does.”

  “Carruthers doesn’t have complaints.” He looked at them with another smirk.

  Turner said, “We have all the original complaints.”

  Smeek snapped, “Those shouldn’t exist.”

  “Ah, but they do,” Fenwick said. “You the one that made all those complaints disappear?”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  Turner said, “You had help. DeGroot for one. You must have been colluding. Why is Carruthers worth so much that you’re willing to lie and risk your career?”

  Fenwick added, “Why keep up with this Code of Silence for such a dumb fuck?”

  Smeek’s sneer didn’t waver. “It’s just peers protecting peers, which you should have learned long ago.”

  Fenwick said, “One thing I don’t get, if peers are supposed to be protecting peers, why the fuck aren’t they rushing to silent-up on our side? Why be on Carruthers side?”

  “By saving the kid and Tasering Carruthers, you broke the Code of Silence.”