Ian said, “I wanted to talk to you with him out of the room. I want to emphasize again the need to go easy on the kid. I know you guys do your act real well. Remember, this is a bright kid. He’s sensitive, fragile, and suicidal. He probably opened up more for Paul because of what you did, Buck, but just go easy on him.”
“You in love?” Fenwick asked.
“You two aren’t the only ones allowed to have paternal feelings.”
“What else can you tell me about Dana Sickles?” Turner asked.
“Smart, smart businesswoman, a Republican. Has a little gold mine in Au Naturel.”
“She mentioned she’s a lesbian Republican,” Turner said.
“Isn’t that an oxymoron?” Fenwick asked.
“Gay and lesbian Republicans are to the right on economic issues, and also believe in privacy, hence many of them think gay people don’t even need laws protecting them, since the right to privacy is sacrosanct.”
“They really believe that?” Fenwick asked.
“Claim they do,” Ian said.
Turner said, “Let me get this straight; after the budget is balanced, taxes are lowered, and the poor are in their place—they believe the right wing is just going to leave us alone? Are they on the same planet with the rest of us?”
Ian said, “They’ll have their goddamn money, and they can spend it all the way to the concentration camps. She believes in money for herself—a policy of enlightened self-interest. Me first, money first. Their attitude is, if I’ve got enough money, no one can hurt me. Some of you poor slobs with real jobs, non-gay community jobs, may lose them, but she’ll have a balanced budget.”
Turner said, “I don’t have a lot of time for politics tonight. Let’s get your friend Carl tucked in bed and get moving. It’s late.”
On the way downstairs, Turner asked, “Dana have problems with the bar? Police hassles? Community jealousy?”
“Everything is supposed to be just fabulous. My sources, which are superb, say this is true. She has lots of friends. As you can attest to personally, her bar is very popular. I’m going to dig deeper. I assume the judge was there for closeted reasons, but I want to find out as much as I can about that place.”
When they got to the first floor, they couldn’t find Carl. The other employees of the paper had long since departed. They searched all three floors of the building carefully. They met back in the entryway.
Ian shook his head. “He’s definitely gone.”
They gazed at each other for a few moments.
Then Fenwick spoke. “I’ll ask the question. Why did the sniveling little creep run?”
“Scared?” Ian said. “Changed his mind? He was lying all the time? Remembered an important appointment with his dentist? Kidnapped by aliens? How the hell should I know?”
“He’s your witness,” Turner pointed out.
“Yeah, well, he might be the key to your case,” Ian said.
“Or maybe not,” Fenwick said.
“Or maybe not,” Ian agreed.
“Look,” Turner said, “I appreciate the call and the information. I agree with you, he is unreliable, and I would not be eager to get him onto a witness stand. I think a competent attorney could rip him to shreds.”
“Should we stop at Au Naturel tonight?” Fenwick asked.
“It’s worth a try,” Turner said. “The kid has a head start on us. He could be sorry for what he said, or maybe he’s running to warn somebody. I’d like to get to the bar and check this out, if we can.”
The three of them drove to Au Natural and parked one behind the other in a loading zone directly in front of the bar.
Inside, the place was completely quiet. The music was muted. Two guys sat at the bar. The dancer stood with his hand on his hips watching one of the television screens. The owner wasn’t there. No one had seen Carl. Neither the bartender nor the patrons would admit to knowing of anyone who fit Carl’s description, nor that of the mystery dancer. The two detectives and the reporter decided to call it a night.
At home, Paul found Ben at the kitchen table reading the book The Gay Militants by Donn Teal. Paul kissed his lover and asked, “Is Jeff asleep?”
Ben nodded.
Paul looked in on his younger son. Jeff slept quietly. Paul rearranged the covers, leaned over, and placed a gentle kiss on his son’s forehead.
Upstairs in the bedroom, Ben said, “Brian called. He said they were going to Disney World even though they didn’t win the Super Bowl. He said he wanted to go to Key West tomorrow so he could bring us back a gay souvenir. Sounded like he was having an excellent time.”
“Good for him.”
“He also razzed me about the cold. He told me to make sure to keep you warm at night and be sure that you dressed warm when you went out.”
“Just what I need, a teenage mother.”
“He ended by saying happy New Year.”
“They’re an hour ahead of us. I’ll try and call him tomorrow morning before I leave for work.”
“You might wake him up.”
“He’ll live.”
Paul took out the pager he’d brought that day. He showed it to Ben and wrote down the number and gave it to him. Finally they tumbled into bed. Paul snuggled close to Ben, felt his lover’s arms go around him. He breathed deeply and contentedly.
12
The next morning, showered and shaved, Paul made his way downstairs. He found Jeff in the kitchen reading Freddy and the Flying Saucer Plans by Walter R Brooks. Without looking up from the book, Jeff said, “Your turn to cook breakfast, Dad.”
Paul hugged his son then began rummaging in the refrigerator. Ben appeared and also gave Jeff a hug—Paul was extremely pleased at how well his sons got along with Ben.
Breakfast was an important time in the Turner household. Paul insisted he and his sons have a cooked meal to start the day. With schedules so varied and Paul’s work so demanding, they often missed each other the rest of the day. They took turns cooking and cleaning. Ben had been staying over often enough now that he’d joined the breakfast cooking rotation.
Jeff’s breakfasts were still a little simpler than the others, both because he was younger and because of his dependence on his crutches. Still, Paul preferred Jeff’s breakfasts to Brian’s. His older son had been on a health kick for several years now. As an athlete, he felt compelled to keep his body in as perfect a shape as possible. He seldom discouraged his older son’s fanaticism, but this morning he was pleased to know there would be no unnamed vegetables lurking in his eggs.
After breakfast, Paul called Brian’s hotel room. He was surprised when a female voice answered. When the person found out who was calling, she became quite flustered. She said, “He’s in the shower, he’s not here, oh, wait.” After several seconds of silence, he heard distant banging on a door, then a muffled, “Brian, it’s the phone. It’s your dad. He probably thinks I spent the night. I hope I didn’t get you in trouble.”
Several minutes of silence, a few thumping footsteps, then, “Hi, dad.”
“Having a coed sleep-over?”
“Dad, José and I are sharing a room. The chaperones check every night.”
“Every three hours?”
“Well, no.”
“Who is she?”
“The coach’s daughter. She was just here picking up a spare-room key she forgot.”
They both said, “How convenient,” at the same time.
“Do I want to know why you had her spare-room key or would it be best at this time to be discreet?”
“You want pictures or written descriptions?”
“Neither.” They talked for ten minutes. Brian sounded happy and like he was having a good time. As any parent, he hoped his boy had good sense, or at least used a condom, but with a seventeen-year-old much of the time you could only hope you had brought him up right.
Ben and Paul returned to Paul’s after depositing Jeff at Mrs. Talucci’s.
Paul said, “We interviewed a gay teenager yesterday
.” He told Ben about Carl Schurz.
Ben listened carefully. “The kid affected you.”
“Yeah, he’s a suspect and all, but I know what it was like to be a messed-up gay teen. It wasn’t nearly as bad for me as it is for him. I felt sorry for him. I wish I could have been more help than just a hug.”
“Sometimes that’s all you can give.”
Paul kissed and held his lover and then left for work.
After roll call at headquarters, Turner and Fenwick met with Roosevelt, Wilson, and Acting Commander Molton. They compared notes and talked about courses of action.
Fenwick said, “Everybody will be working at the Kennedy Federal Building today. We’ve got uniforms to do the most peripheral folks. Paul and I should be able to interview all the people who came into contact with Meade daily. Might be something there. We can also requisition that tape and talk to some security guards.”
Turner said, “Carl Schurz wouldn’t give us the name, but it won’t be that hard to find out who was on duty. They must keep records.”
Molton said, “We’ll have a list of court cases the judge ruled on down here by the end of the morning, along with all of his written decisions. Don’t know how that’s going to help, but it might. I don’t envy you having to wade through all that legal crap, but you’ll probably have to.”
“Maybe we could get a legal scholar to sum it up for us,” Fenwick said.
“Detailed summary is fine,” Molton said, “but what if you miss something by not having read it yourself?”
“We’ll get the summary, then see what we need to go through,” Turner said.
Molton agreed to let them assign someone to the task. “I’ve got some gossip on the judges,” Molton said. “An old lawyer friend of mine filled me in. Supposedly, these federal judges who make around $120,000 a year are jealous of lawyers who, of course, make much more.”
“They make more than all of us,” Wilson said.
“It is not unheard of for them to step down and take a position with a law firm where they can make far more money. My source also says they can be very lonely. Attorneys worry about being seen with them.”
“I worry about being seen with lawyers,” Roosevelt said.
“That’s prejudiced,” Fenwick said.
Molton continued, “I’ve got a sort of cynical source. He claims that their decisions are often capricious and arbitrary.”
“He said capricious and arbitrary?” Fenwick asked.
“He’s a lawyer,” Molton responded. “He claimed that they often listen to a case, and then decide it on whether or not they’ve voted for somebody from that law firm recently.”
“Renews my faith in the judiciary,” Turner said.
“That’s all I have,” Molton said.
Roosevelt and Wilson gave their final report on the canvass of the neighborhood. “You got one possible at the end of the block,” Wilson said. “Owner of a used bookstore which is going broke. He was working in the back of his store early that morning. Claims he might have heard something.”
Turner wrote down the name and address.
“We’ll call Dana Sickles and get over to the bar as soon as it opens,” Turner said. “We could use some help finding the disappearing Carl Schurz.”
Roosevelt and Wilson promised to do what they could.
“We need to stop at Judge Meade’s house,” Turner said. “We haven’t found his appointment book or his luggage. Plus maybe his kids will be home. We’ve got to talk to them.”
Molton said, “I’m holding a press conference soon. We’ve got a fair number of reporters sniffing around.”
Fenwick said, “They won’t get bored with this one anytime soon.”
“Got that right,” Molton said.
On the third floor, two men in dark-blue business suits sat at Turner and Fenwick’s desks. Fenwick’s eyes lit up like a starving grizzly bear’s at the sight of a fresh salmon buffet.
As Fenwick lumbered forward, the two men got to their feet. One held out his hand and said, “I’m Special Agent John Smith, this is Special Agent Joe Brown.”
“This is a joke,” Fenwick said.
Smith gave him a puzzled look. “We’re here to offer you any help we can with the case. We don’t know if the Bureau needs to be involved or not.”
“You’re here to waste our time,” Fenwick said.
Smith sighed. “The sooner you fill us in, the sooner we leave.”
Fenwick plucked six different folders from the top of his desk. Each bulged with paper. “Someone will make copies of these for you and then you can read them and leave them here. It’s everything we’ve got.”
“Thanks for your cooperation,” Brown said.
“Have a nice day,” Fenwick said. “Drop dead. Go to Hell,” he muttered when they were out of ear shot.
As they walked through the first floor to sign out a car, Carruthers waved from the far end of the hall and hurried toward them. Three-quarters of the way there, he was intercepted by Rodriguez. “Let’s leave the real detectives alone,” Rodriguez said.
Carruthers began a protest. Rodriguez put a firm grip on Carruthers’ arm and pulled him away. Turner heard Rodriguez say, “We’ve got a dead gang-banger, Randy. You like those kinds of cases.”
They called the chief of security at the Kennedy Federal Building to alert her to their arrival. They phoned Judge Wadsworth’s office and told the secretary they’d be in to interview Meade’s staff that morning.
They met the head of security in her office. She was a woman in her late forties with a Doris Day pixieishness about her. Turner thought it might be the freckles or the bright smile. Her name was Janice Caldwell.
They explained about the lapse by the security guard and about the need for the film from New Year’s Eve.
She did not look the slightest bit pixieish on hearing the news of the breach of security. “Let me check my list,” she said immediately. She tapped on a computer keyboard, gazed at the screen for a moment. “It was Leo. I knew it. I just checked to be sure. He’s the only one who was working that night who would meet the description you gave me. I’ll call and get him down here.” She agreed to process the film as quickly as possible. She also checked with Judge Wadsworth so they could begin questioning those who had worked with Judge Meade.
They were alone in the elevator to the judge’s office. Fenwick began singing, “We’ve got suspects, we’ve got lots and lots of suspects.”
“You’re singing again, Buck, and it’s not Broadway show tunes. I’m worried.”
“Just all aquiver with excitement about meeting all these new folks.”
They dumped their winter coats, scarves, gloves, and hats on the chairs in the judge’s office and began their interviews.
First was his secretary, Blanche Dussenberg. She was a brightly pink woman, as if her face had been stuck outside in the bitter cold too long, or she’d dunked her entire face in a vat of bright pink blush. She wore a multihued designer scarf, a brown dress, and sensible black oxfords. She carried a box of tissues.
After introductions they got her settled.
Turner said, “We need some basic information, Ms. Dussenberg. How the office ran, how people got along, who did what.”
“Judge Meade was a wonderful man. He was kind, thoughtful, always pleasant to those who worked under him.”
One of the cop truisms is that you seldom learned anything useful from people closest to the victim. Those who were near and dear tended to be friends and care about the deceased, otherwise they wouldn’t be called close. You looked for the neighborhood gossip, the office tattletale, the one with the grudge who was willing to give the cheap, tawdry gossip. That person might give a hint, drop a bit of history, a snippet of knowledge that might lead to a clue or at least something interesting. All they got from Blanche was friendly, tear-spattered, chatter about how wonderful the place and Judge Meade were.
After listening to fifteen minutes of basic office data, Turner asked her about
the judge’s appointment book. She went to her desk and returned. “This is only my copy. He keeps his at home or with him in his briefcase.”
“Can we keep this to look it over later?” Turner asked.
“Certainly.”
“Did the judge have any problems at home that you know about?” Turner asked.
“Certainly not. Judge Meade was very proud of his children. They were very successful at everything they did. He would tell us about their band concerts, their debate contests, their tennis matches, their track meets. He often took time off over the years to attend his children’s events.”
“How did he get along with the people he worked with?” Turner asked.
“Let me give you just one example of how wonderful he was. The judge kept a whole list of everybody’s birthdays. He took up a collection once a year from everyone, so we’d all feel like we contributed, but he’d be the one to go out and buy the cake and get each of us a thoughtful little gift on our birthdays.”
All the employees got along. Everything was wonderful.
They got this same refrain from the next six people they talked to. On the night of the murder, all were safely tucked in nearby suburbs celebrating with lots of corroborating witnesses.
The seventh was a tall, thin man, who walked ramrod straight. He wore highly polished black wing-tip shoes and a double-breasted, pure wool, gray plaid suit by Joseph Abboud. The oddest thing was a pince-nez dangling from a chain attached to a watch pocket in the man’s vest. His name was Francis Barlow. He was in his late twenties or early thirties. He wore his hair slicked back, the wet look. Turner would have bet the rent the guy was gay.
Fenwick said, “Frank …”
The man interrupted, “Francis, please.”
Fenwick began again, “Could you tell us … ?”
Francis held up his hands in a stop gesture. Before he spoke, he crossed his legs carefully. He didn’t deign to adjust the crease. He knew it would be exactly where it was supposed to be. “I’ll begin at the beginning. I accepted a job here out of Yale Law School. I had wanted a clerkship near home in Manhattan, but this one opened up. Before I came here, I’d never lived in a state that wasn’t on a large body of water.”
The Truth Can Get You Killed Page 9