The Truth Can Get You Killed

by Mark Richard Zubro

  Ian was already there. Paul tossed his hat, coat, gloves, and scarf onto the seat. He ordered soup and salad.

  After the waitress left, he turned to Ian and said, “Schurz committed suicide.”

  Ian shook his head, stirred his coffee, sipped it. Put it down, dumped a packet of sugar in it, and stirred again. He said, “Too many gay kids die.” For years, Ian had been working on a series of articles on gay kids and suicide. Some studies indicated that from thirty to forty percent of teens who tried to kill themselves were gay. Ian hadn’t been able to prove or disprove that statistic, but he’d researched the deaths of a lot of gay kids over the years.

  “You knew this one personally,” Turner said.

  “That makes it all the harder. It’s depressing and makes me angry. I thought about it since you called. You know, this is the first one in all these years that I actually knew.”

  “Really?”

  “All the others were statistics. I listened to disembodied voices of relatives over phone lines trying to cope with tragedy. Sometimes I got overworked cops in distant cities or reporters trying to make their own headlines and deadlines. A few people I contacted, straight and gay, were sensitive to the needs of frightened, suicidal gay teens. These kids are drowning in misery before they’re twenty. They’re mostly invisible, and they die with nothing to show for their lives.”

  “Mike Meade’s fondest wish was that he not be gay,” Turner said.

  “He told you that?”

  “Yep.”

  “Hell of a world we live in. Too many gay kids learn self-hatred.”

  Their food arrived. “I didn’t find much among Carl Schurz’s things,” Turner said. He explained what little he had found in the wallet. “I tried calling both addresses. Whether they were fake or real, nobody at the other end knew a Carl Schurz. Maybe the one in Lubbock wasn’t fake. It was kind of late to be calling. Guy thought it was strange when I asked him his age. He asked me if I was really a cop. Finally told me he was twenty-two.”

  “Not going to be the daddy.”

  “No. I wonder where Carl was really from? Where are his parents? Will they ever know he’s dead?”

  “I never knew where he came from. He kept a lot of secrets. When you’re a gay kid, you learn from an early age how to hide important feelings, important information. You know that as well as I do. A gay or lesbian kid may not be a consummate liar, but, unless they are very lucky, they better be very good at disguise.”

  They each ate for a few minutes. The soup, as always, was delicious. The warmth revived Turner slightly.

  Ian said, “I didn’t find out anything new today. I couldn’t find Carl. Maybe if I would have …” His voice trailed off. He was silent for a moment then said, “It’s easy to get lost in Chicago. I wonder if he was telling the truth about what he saw on New Year’s Eve.”

  “I’d like to find out.”

  “My sources are dried up. I’ve called half of my Rolodex and some of those two or three times. I’ve snooped every place I know of in the gay community. Nothing. No Carl today. No information from anybody.”

  “That’s about the same as we got today.”

  “Maybe if I hadn’t convinced Carl to talk to you, he wouldn’t be dead.”

  “Maybe’s can kill you,” Paul said. “You’ve told me that hundreds of times.”

  “Just because it’s my excellent advice, doesn’t mean I have to take it.”

  “Gay kids are going to keep dying.”

  “Yes, and so are gay adults. A teacher friend called the other day. He’d found a note that fell out of a book a kid had left behind in his classroom. The note said that all the kids knew that the teacher was gay, and the boy’s dad said all gay people should have a bullet hole put in their heads. This from a sophomore in high school.”

  “Did the teacher report it?”

  “He didn’t dare. He’s not openly gay at school.”

  “The kids know, but he’s not out?”

  “It’s one thing to be gay, it’s another to talk about it. If you tell your administrator, you might force him or her to act.”

  Paul nodded. “You know I’m not the kind to feel sorry for myself, but at the moment I sure feel put upon by the world. I’m depressed, and I feel like shit.”

  “I know what you mean, but do remember a hefty dose of self-pity can be good for the soul. If you’re not going to feel sorry for yourself, who is, and frankly who is better at feeling sorry for yourself, than you?”

  Paul smiled briefly. He finished his food in silence. He took great comfort in the simple closeness of his friend. They paid and left.

  At home Paul found Ben asleep on the couch. Quietly, he hung his winter outer garments in the entryway closet. Paul checked on Jeff. He sat on the side of his son’s bed. He stroked Jeff’s hair gently, pulled the covers up carefully, and leaned over and placed a kiss on his son’s forehead.

  In the kitchen, he found several messages. One was from Rose Talucci. Another said that Brian had called and sent his love. Paul wished his older son was home. He heard footsteps in the hallway. Moments later Ben walked into the kitchen.

  “You’re home?” Ben sounded groggy from sleep.

  Paul walked up to his lover. He enfolded him in his arms. Ben returned the embrace. The feel of his lover’s arms on his back, his torso against his own, soothed Paul. This was what he needed—the few moments of human contact. He kept his arm around Ben’s waist as they ascended the stairs to bed. They undressed slowly and slid between the covers. Paul put his head on his lover’s chest. “Just hold me,” he whispered. Ben’s hands rested on his side and back. Paul drew a deep breath. He fell asleep moments later.

  18

  “You feeling any better?” Fenwick asked Turner the next morning as they waited for roll call to start.

  “I had a talk with Ian and got a chance to be home. I’m working on being pissed off mixed with resignation in the face of hopeless reality.”

  “The day’s early. You’ll get over it.”

  Acting Commander Molton drew them aside after the morning formalities. “Pressure is starting to get intense. The interest in this case is not going to go away. What have you got?”

  They told him of yesterday’s developments.

  “The inquiry is going backward,” Molton said. He shook his head. “Whatever you need around here is yours. I got a call from the Justice Department this morning. The mayor’s office phoned my home last night. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is pestering me, and the superintendent wants to meet with me for an update. This is getting ugly. Get out there and get me something.”

  They hustled to their desks. On top of the pile of paperwork, Turner found a note that said call the airlines. He did. The official, a youthful-sounding male, told him that Judge Meade’s luggage had turned up. Turner listened to him explain that, especially on international flights, anyone who checks in luggage but doesn’t board the plane sets off an alarm in security. The luggage was removed, examined, and placed in storage. The paperwork hadn’t surfaced on his desk until today. The official also told Turner that, except for his return flight, they had no record of a second airline ticket for the judge.

  “Could he have flown under another name?” Turner asked.

  “Very doubtful,” the man said. “It used to be that if you paid cash, you could fly domestically under any name you wanted. Not any more. On any flight, crossing international borders, whatever, you’ve got to have identification.”

  After he hung up, Turner told Fenwick this.

  “So he really planned to go?” Fenwick asked.

  “Got to be. First, the judge checks in, then he sees the kid and his world changes. Maybe he really planned to go.”

  “So, The judge was really on his way to Canada. Which would mean the trip was not a huge cover-up and he was not a closet case. So, we know one thing; he wasn’t gay. He sees his kid. Is one kiss going to stop the judge from saying hello and cause him to cancel a trip?”

&nb
sp; “I think it is safe to say that something stopped him from making the trip,” Turner said. “Precisely what? We’ve got what the kid says, but how far do we believe him? I don’t think we got the whole truth from him.”

  “I don’t either. What if Mike Meade and his dad had a fight in the airport? We got the report from the uniforms who talked to people out there?”

  Turner hunted through the piles of paper and found the paperwork. He glanced over it. “They interviewed the personnel at the check-in counter, at the gate, and on the plane. The woman at the counter didn’t remember the judge. Nobody noticed him at the gate. They’re willing to give us the passenger list. We could call all the people on the flight in the hopes someone saw him.”

  “Put some uniforms on it. We probably should try all the people on the kid’s flight too.”

  “Right. They talked to the people in the shops on the concourse the plane flew from. No one remembers him.”

  “One of the busiest flying days of the year. Lucky if they remember their own name.”

  “They could have had the fight right there, or maybe there was no fight. We only have his word for it that he came in at the airport or that he met his dad there. I’m starting to doubt everything. Maybe Geary is wrong about seeing the judge. Schurz was unreliable. Maybe Mike Meade is making everything up.”

  “Try this,” Fenwick said. “Kid and dad argue at the airport then get in a cab to go home. The argument gets out of control. The cabby conveniently looks the other way as the kid pulls out gun he has flown in with on an airplane and blows his dad away. The cabby obligingly keeps the dead body in the car until two in the morning.”

  “If we believe the body arrived with the noises heard by the bookstore owner down the street. Your scenario leaves a mite to be desired.”

  “Yeah, I can’t see a cab driver not charging a fortune for the ride. Nobody could afford it. Let me try again. They really do argue, but they go someplace else to do it. They don’t want to go home, let’s not upset Mom.”

  “Why not? Is Mom that fragile?”

  “We have no proof of that.”

  “They argue somewhere else?”

  “Kid’s apartment up north?” Turner asked.

  “I didn’t see any blood. Would he want his dad to know he had a secret place?”

  “Along with a secret life?”

  “So they argue someplace, the Federal Building?”

  “Why there?”

  “Why not? The kid gets a gun from somewhere. After he shoots Dad, he drops the weapon down a convenient storm drain. He gets to work on time, but just before he starts dancing, he puts his dad in a convenient dumpster near the bar where he is leading a double life.”

  “Kid says he doesn’t own a car,” Turner said. “How’s he going to be dragging his dad around? I’m having trouble buying Mike Meade as the killer.”

  “Should we search the Meade home and the kid’s apartment here and in Bloomington?”

  “Do we have enough evidence for search warrants?”

  “Kid claims to have seen his dad the night of the murder.”

  “So did Geary. Are we going to search his place? Carl Schurz had no place to search.”

  “We have to call the airlines and confirm they had a Mike Meade fly in that night.”

  Fenwick reached for his phone and began punching in numbers. Turner called the Department of Motor Vehicles and gave them Mike Meade’s name and address. They had no record of him owning a car in Illinois.

  A moment after Turner hung up, his phone rang. It was the commander of the police district Au Naturel was in.

  “Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner,” the commander said. “Heard you had a question about activity here.”

  “Yeah, some pretty raw stuff goes on in Au Naturel.”

  “Bar on Lincoln Avenue?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I get no complaints. I don’t act unless I get a complaint. Their license is up to date. Probably pay their taxes on time.”

  “You’ve had no problems there?”

  “None.”

  After Fenwick got off the phone, Turner told him what the commander had said.

  “Which means Dana Sickles paid her graft on time?” Fenwick asked.

  “She’s obviously in good with the local commander. I’ve sometimes wondered how some of those dancers get away with some of the things they wear or don’t wear. Those fishnet jockstraps a few of them parade around in can’t be completely legal.”

  “Did you want to file a complaint?”

  “No.”

  “For whatever reason, the local commander doesn’t hassle her. Maybe it’s simply because she runs a clean place, does pay her bills, doesn’t get complaints, and is an upstanding, outstanding member of the community.”

  “She’s a Republican. Maybe the commander’s a Republican too. Aren’t they all paragons of civic virtue?”

  Fenwick said, “I’m the only paragon around here. The airlines confirm that a Mike Meade flew from St. Louis to Chicago on New Year’s Eve. The flight was late three hours.”

  “And the truth shall set you free.”

  Rodriguez entered the room. His hand was on the elbow of a uniformed cop. Turner thought he looked more like he was leading a possible suspect than a co-worker. Together they trudged over to Turner. The young cop was tall, blond-haired, and handsome. His uniform pants clung to his narrow hips.

  They stopped in front of Turner. The young cop hung his head and muttered in a rush, “I’m sorry about the phone call you got the other day. I didn’t know it was important. If I did something wrong, I apologize.”

  “Which phone call?” Turner asked.

  “You got a personal call wondering if you were all right.”

  This was the guy who had been rude to Ben. Turner read his identification badge—Jason O’Leary, the guy who won the betting pool the day before.

  Fenwick got up, moved next to the man, and placed one of his huge arms around the guy’s shoulders. “A self-confessed homophobic creep.” He squeezed the guy’s shoulder. “I always wanted to see one of those in person.”

  “Lay off.” O’Leary shrugged off Fenwick’s hand.

  Turner shook his head at Fenwick. His partner dropped his arm.

  Rodriguez said, “See, confession is good for the soul. You feel better?”

  The uniform muttered, “I need to go.”

  “Then get the hell out,” Rodriguez said.

  The three of them watched the guy walk out.

  “Thanks, I think,” Turner said.

  “He’s an asshole,” Rodriguez said, “and he’s starting to screw up as much as Carruthers. He’s the nephew of a good friend of mine up in the Twenty-third. I figured I’d set him straight.”

  “How’d you find out what was going on?” Turner asked Rodriguez.

  Fenwick said, “I mentioned it. Figured it was okay.”

  Turner nodded.

  “You’ll never guess how I got on to him.” Rodriguez leaned closer. “Don’t spread this around, but it was Carruthers.”

  Turner and Fenwick gawked at him.

  Rodriguez smiled at their looks. “Don’t get me wrong. He didn’t deliberately help out. We were at a gang killing and he was talking to some buddies. I overheard one of the beat cops telling him a story about getting even with a faggot detective.

  “I kind of wandered over. To give him credit, Carruthers wasn’t happy about what the guy said. Almost defended you, Paul.”

  “Damn,” Fenwick said. “Do we give him a medal?”

  Carruthers bustled into the room and over to them. He saw them staring and looked from one to the other. “What?” he asked. Carruthers wore an aviator’s hat complete with ear flaps, a sweater with cigarette burn holes in it, and a maroon leather coat that hung almost to his knees.

  “Thanks, Randy,” Turner said.

  “For what?”

  “O’Leary was just up here apologizing.”

  Carruthers said, “I know you’re
a homosexual. I don’t believe in special rights for anybody, but I don’t believe anybody should have to put up with prejudice. I know the time my mom tried to call, when she thought I’d been shot, she was frantic. Nobody who loves you should be treated like that. It’s not fair and it’s not right. I know you guys don’t like me and laugh at me and I don’t expect any favors for this, but what that guy said was wrong. It was the right thing to do, to make him come apologize.”

  Turner didn’t remember Miss Manners guide to responding appropriately to those who’ve defended you when you least expected it.

  Turner said, “Thanks again, Randy.”

  “You don’t owe me,” Carruthers said. “What’s right is right.” He left.

  “Isn’t that precious,” Fenwick said. “The least likely person on the planet doing you a favor.”

  “I don’t like feeling obliged to him.”

  “You’re not obliged to him or me,” Rodriguez said. “Asshole O’Leary might have learned something. I better go chase down my partner. Doing one good thing might give him ideas.”

  Turner thanked Rodriguez. He left.

  “That really was good of Carruthers,” Turner said, “but it feels funny. Kind of like winning the grand prize everybody’s talking about, but it turns out to be two weeks in Newton, Iowa. Weird. Somebody who’s supposed to be a dope doing something pretty goddamn nice, but with mildly offensive overtones.”

  “Maybe he wanted you to feel obligated?”

  “Does Carruthers’ thinking get to that level?”

  “What if I’d done it?” Fenwick asked.

  “I don’t know. For some reason, I think it would have been funnier. Could we have been wrong about Carruthers all this time?”

  “No,” Fenwick said.

  Fenwick sat down at his desk. “Now what?” he asked.

  “We catch up on the rest of the reports we haven’t read yet.” Turner lifted up the pile on his desk. “Nothing flagged here, presumably nothing anybody found significant. Might as well hunt through them now.”