“The goddamn prick is dead. Except for lighting bonfires, shooting off fireworks, and having parties, why should we care?”
Fenwick asked, “If he was hated in the gay community, why wouldn’t somebody here have reason to murder him?”
“Why here? There’s lots of gay establishments in the city.”
“We have a witness who says he was here,” Turner said.
“Here! Before he was murdered?”
Turner explained about Billy Geary.
Steinwehr looked at Dana. “Who’s he?”
“Dancer. Sensible. Never had any problem with him.”
“We need to question the employees who were working here last night. We need to know if anybody else saw him, when, what he did, who he was with? You should know the drill.”
“You probably don’t have a lot of choice, Dana, but I’ll stay around to make sure everyone inside isn’t strip searched.”
Dana said, “Having murder connected with the bar might or might not be good for business, but having cops hovering around the place is a death sentence. You really think you’re going to find somebody who saw him?
“We already got one we didn’t expect.”
“I don’t know how much good it’s going to do to talk to my employees, but I’ll do what I can. Most of them aren’t going to want to talk to you.”
“Why not?” Fenwick asked.
“The gay ones are going to be suspicious because they’re gay and you’re cops. Plus they’re going to be glad, unlike me, that the judge is dead. The straight ones …”
Fenwick interrupted, “The straight ones? Geary mentioned that. At the time, I thought it was odd.”
“Yeah, two of my bartenders and a few of the dancers are straight.”
“But they all let the guys paw them?” Turner asked.
“You’ve been here?”
Turner nodded.
She gave him an appraising look. “A gay detective. Are you both?”
“Would it help if we were?” Fenwick asked.
“I don’t know. Straight guys, or at least those who say they are, can be just as exhibitionist, just as in need of attention, and just as in need of money as gay men. I pay well. The customers are generous.”
“Why are the straight guys not going to want to talk to us?” Fenwick asked.
“You should be able to figure that out. They may work here, put up with the pawing, as you put it, and make decent money, but I bet it’s not something they tell their girlfriends or moms and dads.”
“Why aren’t you glad the judge is dead?” Turner asked.
“I’m a lesbian Republican. I think there are three of us in the country. Talk about endangered species. I agreed with a lot of the judge’s decisions. I believe protecting the dignity of the individual should be the highest aim of government. I also think we need lower taxes, less government interference in our lives, and no tax money for abortions. I’ll skip the whole list.”
“Did you know him?”
“Nope. Never met him. Wouldn’t have known him if I passed him on the street.”
They called in to Area Ten for a couple of uniformed officers to help them. Sickles worked the phones and called in the employees. Some were reluctant to come in. Turner listened to Sickles’s half of the first few conversations and heard her reassure them that the bar’s lawyer would be present.
It would be a wait before the first employees showed up so Turner took the time to drive to pick up Jeff from his overnight trip. While Fenwick waited, he would check the bar carefully. If the killer did the murder in the bar, they doubted if they’d find a convenient spot still covered in blood and gore. They’d probably have to have Crime Lab people in to go over the place.
9
Paul’s younger son burbled in the car all the way home. “It was great, Dad. I was better at the video games than everybody except Harold, you know the one who’s on my basketball team? He’s three years older than me, so I didn’t feel too bad losing to him. He took a header in his wheelchair.”
“That’s terrible,” Paul said.
“No, Dad, it was funny. He’s such a jerk and a show-off. He was trying to do a wheelie. Two of the adults saw what he was trying to do and tried to stop him but they were too late.”
“They should have been supervising more closely.”
“We’re not helpless, Dad. I told you about the wheelchair races we have. It’s cool.”
Paul made appropriate parental warning noises about Jeff racing in his wheelchair. Jeff had been bugging Paul to let him join some of the outdoor races in the summer where wheelchairs were allowed. Paul suspected he was going to say yes, eventually. He knew once he said yes, Jeff would probably begin lobbying for a modified, racing wheelchair. Turner asked more about the sleep-over, and Jeff talked excitedly on.
Jeff had the birth defect spina bifida. That meant that at birth his spinal cord and nerves protruded in a sac from his back, near the bottom of his spine. He was born with bladder and bowel dysfunction and paralysis of his legs. Except for a brief scare a year before, when his shunt had to be unclogged, there had been no major health problems in recent years.
Paul drove up to Mrs. Talucci’s house. He had called her before he left the bar. Rose Talucci lived next door to the Turners. She had the ground floor of the house to herself. On the second floor lived Mrs. Talucci’s two daughters and several distant female cousins. At ninety-two, Mrs. Talucci ruled this brood, her main concern being to keep them out of her way and to stay independent. Numerous times she’d confided in Paul that if they weren’t family, she’d throw them all out. She did her own cooking, cleaning, and shopping, as she had for seventy-four years. To her daughters’ horror, she took the bus, El, or subway on her own throughout the city and even to suburbs to visit friends, relatives, attend shopping-center openings or anything else that struck her fancy. Paul loved Rose. She cared for Jeff after school whenever Paul or Brian couldn’t be home, and often wound up giving the boys and their dad dinner. This was prearranged on a weekly basis. For several years after it started, she refused all offers of payment. Being neighbors and having known Paul and his family since before he was born, precluded even discussing such things. But one day Mrs. Talucci couldn’t fix a broken porch. Paul had offered, and since then he’d done all repairs and had even made several major renovations on her home.
A few weeks ago, she’d been diagnosed with cancer. She had refused treatments, which the doctor said would almost certainly be painful and debilitating, and, at her age, wouldn’t prolong her life much anyway. She insisted that the quality of her remaining time was what was important, not prolonging her ninety-two years. The only significant change she’d permitted in her lifestyle was that she didn’t organize the Christmas dinner for her family. She announced at Thanksgiving she was going to Bermuda for the holiday. She’d taken a week-long cruise that included a three-day stay on the island. She’d returned two days ago with a magnificent tan. She claimed she pinched the butt of her steward just for the hell of it.
Mrs. Talucci answered the door and hurried them inside. She offered to give Paul dinner, but he told her he had to get back to work.
“I heard Judge Meade died,” she said.
“Buck and I have the case.”
“Almost wish I’d read more law when I went back to school. Never saw much point in it. Didn’t want to argue with a bunch of morons. I did read a few of his decisions.”
“You did?”
“He was against everything I was for. I try to keep up. I found the reasoning in what he wrote good, if you accepted his basic premises.”
“I heard he was stupid.”
“Could have been. It usually says who writes the decisions. Maybe his clerks wrote them for him or something. Seemed about average-bright to me.”
After her husband had died over twenty years ago, Rose had started back to school. She graduated magna cum laude from three different universities, accumulating one bachelor’s and two master’s degree
s. She was proudest of her degree in philosophy from the University of Chicago.
Paul stopped at his own house to call Ben, who had already planned to stay the night at Paul’s. Ben offered to pick up Jeff later from Mrs. Talucci’s. Paul appreciated the offer.
10
When Turner got back to Au Naturel, only five employees had showed up, but Sickles had managed to get hold of over ninety percent of them. A steady stream of some of the most attractive men in town began trickling into the bar.
Before they got started, Fenwick took Turner on a brief tour of the premises.
“I know you’re familiar with this place,” Fenwick said. “I checked around in back. I found nothing suspicious. I think the back doorway should be gone over carefully. There is no blood anywhere on the pavement out back. Not sure how you’d clean it without the cleanser itself freezing. Unless you had a personal blow torch you happen to bring along with your gun when you’re doing murders.”
“Could be all the rage with killers.”
“You ever been through this whole place?”
“I’ve been waiting for your guided tour.”
The dancers’ dressing room looked like a high school locker room for the overly butch: skimpy, slinky, filthy, sweaty, smelly clothes were strewn on most every surface. The lighting ran to the more lurid shades of pink and purple. There were a series of small offices behind Dana Sickles’. No windows were large enough to shove a body through. Nothing leapt out at them and said, “Hi, I’m a clue.”
Over the next hour, what the police basically did was show each person the picture of the judge, then ask if they’d seen him last night. All of them that Turner and Fenwick talked to were solemnly quiet. Each looked at the picture. Some looked thoughtful before answering. They all gave the same answer—none had seen the judge.
Only a few said they remembered Billy’s announcement about the judge being in the bar. On such a busy night it was possible for a dancer to make over a hundred dollars during each set for only a few minutes of bumping and grinding. Their thoughts were concentrated on that. The few who remembered what he said hadn’t seen the judge and didn’t know what he looked like anyway.
Turner and Fenwick took down all their names and asked Sickles for the names and addresses of those whom they had been unable to interview.
They got done just after nine. A brief walk in the cold got them to their car.
“Must be at least twenty below zero,” Turner said.
“Know what really fries my socks about this weather?” Fenwick asked as he started the car.
“Long winter underwear sticking to your crotch.”
“Hey, you’re good.”
“You told me that earlier.”
“Sounds like me. I mean in addition to that.”
“I’m paralyzed with anticipation. When I woke up this morning, I said to myself, I hope Buck tells me more about his long winter underwear.”
“Jealous?”
“Only in my wildest nightmare.”
Fenwick said, “It’s two more things really, well, three.”
“Get on with it.”
“First, the lack of heat in these cars. Second, the glee in the weather forecasters’ voices as they predict new record lows. But the worst is when they tell us to bundle up. As if the television and radio forecasters have become our mothers. They just get done telling us it’s a million degrees below zero, and then they tell us to ‘bundle up.’ How stupid do they think we are?”
“How many times have we been faced with the stupidest criminals in the country, and the next day they do something even dumber?”
“And then we get Carruthers.”
“See,” Turner said, “they’re performing a valuable service.”
“We done for the day?”
“Just the commander and any other brass who happen to want to stick their nose in this. A stack of reports to get started. Plans for tomorrow.”
“Well, shit. That’s nothing. We should eat first.”
They stopped at Ed Debevic’s on Ontario Street for a burger. Turner hated the place. He found the fifties-sassy-waitress schtick tiring. Buck loved it. He found flirting with the waitresses enjoyable. Turner figured it was a heterosexual thing. He was willing to indulge his partner once in a while since the food was good. They managed to see the last twenty seconds of one football game.
The “nothing” they had left to do took them well over two hours. Reporting to everyone and beginning reports got them no closer to a killer but, tired as they were, they made sure that what they wrote and what they said was as accurate as possible. You didn’t want to mess up your case with any kind of slipup. No one wanted their face plastered on national television for screwing up an investigation.
11
Ian’s call came in around eleven o’clock, just as Turner was typing his notes from the conversation with Mrs. Meade.
“Thanks for the tip,” Turner said.
“You learn anything else?”
“No. Only your buddy Billy saw him. You sure ‘Buddy Billy’ is reliable?”
“You talked to him, what do you think?”
“You’ve slept with him, you know him better than I do.”
“Sleeping with someone confers wisdom?”
“You slept with me and look at where it got you.”
“All this and heaven too. Well, sweet cakes, I’ve got another one for you.”
“How come we aren’t finding this stuff? I don’t like coincidences, Ian.”
“I’ve got better sources in the gay community than you do. I know who to talk to. Remember, you’re speaking with the man who knows deep dish on everybody. The gay community in this town isn’t that big. All I ever do is say, ‘my, how interesting, tell me more,’ and they do. Not my fault everybody loves to blab. Besides, who do you know that’s nosier or more bold than I?”
“Somewhere on the planet there must be someone.”
“Ha. Knew you couldn’t think of anybody. I’ve got my original source. He’s willing to talk.”
“He’s more reliable now than he was earlier?”
“Well, no.”
“It’s late. If this is nothing, I’d rather wait until morning. I enjoy ‘nothing’ in the morning more than I do at night.”
“Your decision. I’d be happy to be the one to solve the case based on what this guy says.”
Turner looked at his watch and sighed. “I’m beat, but with a case like this I’m not sure I’ve got much choice.”
“I don’t recommend waiting. He’s pretty skittish. He could change his mind by the time you got down here.”
“Did this one know Billy Geary?”
“Billy says he never heard of this kid. I don’t know. My source heard they were calling in all the employees of Au Naturel to talk to. He doesn’t work there, but he was in the bar and in the dancers’ dressing room.”
“So he could have good information?” Turner asked.
“Maybe. I just want to emphasize going easy. I think he’s the skipping-town type.”
“Why would he leave town?”
“He has no roots here. He gets hassled, he just ups and leaves.”
“Swell. Is he of age?”
“He was in the bar, so he’s got to be at least twenty-one, right?”
“I guess.”
He agreed to meet Ian at the paper. Turner explained all this to Fenwick who said, “All the football games are over. Might as well make the night a total washout.”
Planning to go straight home after this interview, they drove their own cars.
Ian met them in the downstairs entryway of the paper. Most of the lights in the building were off. Ian’s face was half in shadow as he talked to them.
“Is he still here?” Turner asked.
“Yeah, but I wanted to remind you to be extra gentle with this one.”
“And why is that?” Fenwick asked. “Not that I don’t believe in sweetness and light.”
“He’s a basket case.”<
br />
“I was thinking to myself on the way over,” Fenwick said, “that what this case needed is a raving loon.”
“Why is he a basket case?” Turner asked.
“As soon as I heard about Meade’s death, I knew it was going to be a big story. I’ve tried for years to get an interview with him. I’ve rarely gotten much beyond the switchboard at the Kennedy Federal Building. At his talks I’ve gone to, I’ve tried to ask my questions. He learned to spot me pretty quick. After a while, he’d just smile at me and go on to the next question. Eventually his handlers would escort me out. The last few years they wouldn’t even let me in the door.”
“I presume all this has something to do with our delicate friend?”
“I take that kind of brush-off as a challenge. I got to know all kinds of people working in the federal court system. I planted the kid you’re about to meet in the mail room.”
“You’ve got that kind of clout?” Turner asked.
“I dated the man who hires and fires in the mail room.”
“Just to get someone in?”
“Heavens, you offend me.”
“Which means I was right.”
“The kid needed a job. Mostly he lives on the streets. Hustling isn’t the most secure profession. I happened to know somebody who could help.”
“So, the kid is a homeless waif, and he worked in the mail room. I know there’s a point to this somewhere.”
“He knew the judge. He never got me any useful information. He got fired for being an incompetent boob, which he is pretty much.”
“But you’ve taken him under your wing and …”
“And I’ve given him the benefit of my extensive experience.”
“So why are we talking to him?”
“He says he saw the judge last night, but there might be more to it. I’ll let you guys talk to him. If nothing else, he’ll confirm the judge’s presence in the bar, but he’s hinted he knows more than that.”
“What?” Turner asked.
“He’s going to have to tell you. He won’t tell me.”
“I thought your charm worked on everybody.”
“I wasn’t trying to seduce him. I just want him to talk.”
The Truth Can Get You Killed Page 7