The Truth Can Get You Killed

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “I was willing to stay, but Mike said I better go. His dad told me to get the hell out. I began walking away. Mike ran up to me a minute later and said everything would be all right. He’d take care of my job and not to worry about his dad. From all I knew of Judge Meade, I didn’t have much faith in Mike’s reassurance. I assumed my job was gone. I got in the cab and went to meet my friend. We went out to dinner as I stated earlier.”

  “We haven’t been able to get hold of your friend.”

  “Barry has trouble with the phone company periodically. You’ll get hold of him. He’ll back up what I say.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about you and Mike Meade when we talked to you earlier?”

  “You didn’t ask. I hadn’t had a chance to talk to Mike. Since I knew he’d seen his dad, I didn’t want to implicate him.”

  “Or yourself,” Turner said.

  “I didn’t find out about the murder until that Friday morning when I came in to work. New Year’s Day I was skiing just over the border in Wisconsin. I don’t listen to the news.”

  They left Barlow in the room and met outside.

  Fenwick said, “Jealous old lover, about to lose his job. He has all the makings of a fine suspect.”

  “Sort of fits,” Turner said, “I’m just not sure, although he’s going to have to come down to the station. We’ll have to question him again.”

  “Who could Mike Meade have been going to meet that night?” Ian asked.

  “If he was really meeting someone,” Fenwick said. “Making that up would be something good to add if Barlow needed an out.”

  Turner said, “Why would Mike or Judge Meade need to go to the Federal Building? What makes that place so important?”

  “I hate coincidences,” Fenwick said.

  “So it’s important?”

  Fenwick shrugged. “Apparently so.”

  Turner continued, “If what Schurz told us is true, both of them went there. Mike didn’t have to meet his dad. He was already with his dad. If he left his dad, how did the judge know to go to the bar. Did the kid leave and Judge Meade begins to follow his kid all over town? Is this making sense?”

  “We weren’t there,” Fenwick said. “We don’t know what was going on.”

  “Got to be a logical progression,” Turner said. “The judge and the kid are at the curb at the airport fighting. Kid claimed his dad must have followed him secretly.”

  “Mike Meade said they didn’t meet, but that his dad followed him at a distance,” Fenwick said.

  Ian said, “He lied.”

  “We have corroboration from Barlow about the fact that dad and son met,” Turner said. “I just can’t get them from the airport to Au Naturel.”

  “How long is it between sets at the bar?” Fenwick said.

  “Forty-five minutes to an hour,” Ian answered.

  Fenwick said, “That’s plenty of time to leave, commit murder, and get back. Maybe he met his dad afterward. What if Schurz got the times confused and saw him much later than he said? Maybe the conversation didn’t end in the bar. Schurz could remember things backward. Maybe he wanted to impress you.”

  “The kid was whacked,” Turner said, “but I don’t think he’d get it that wrong. He was a needy, frightened teenager, but he wasn’t stupid.”

  Ian said, “He had a little bit of information and to get closer to you, maybe trying to impress you, he gave you more than he had. He wanted to be important. He wanted to be needed. If he knew something important, then he was important.”

  “We’re getting awfully speculative here,” Fenwick said. “I like the idea that Mike Meade left the bar between sets.”

  “For an assignation in the Federal Building?” Ian asked.

  “We have no corroboration that he was there,” Turner said.

  “Discount all of what Schurz had and what do we have?” Ian asked.

  “Barlow and the mysterious stranger Mike Meade was meeting at the airport,” Fenwick replied.

  “Which at least helps Barlow,” Turner said. “We still haven’t talked to his alibi. And he could have gone out afterward. Killed the judge. His lover is in pain. Hell, he and Mike Meade could have killed his dad, and Mike Meade feels such guilt that he’s going to turn them both in.”

  “The son has to die to ensure silence?” Fenwick asked.

  The door to the office opened.

  “Can I leave?” Barlow asked.

  “We need to bring you down to the station,” Turner said. “We’re going to have to do more checking.”

  Barlow nodded. “Let me get my stuff.”

  Fenwick accompanied him to the locker room.

  Ian said, “I don’t trust Barlow.”

  “We don’t have any physical evidence that he is the killer. I don’t like it that the only people who can contradict his story are dead.”

  Ian said, “I’m going back to the office. I’m going to try squeezing my sources some more. Barlow must have friends in the gay community. I’m going to find them. And you don’t have to remind me. None of this is publishable. But I expect a complete, utter, and entire exclusive on this.”

  “Would you settle for a hot date with an NFL quarterback?”

  “As long as he’s under thirty, sure.”

  Ian left.

  As Turner and Fenwick took Barlow back to the station, light snow drifted in a diminishing wind. As they crossed the Chicago River on Lake Shore Drive, Turner looked west to the towers of light shrouded in cold. The snow made them even more stark and beautiful than usual.

  22

  At Headquarters, they put Barlow in one of the conference rooms. They informed Molton of what they had.

  The acting commander said, “We have something here?”

  “My instinct is against arresting him,” Turner said.

  “Let’s keep him talking for a while,” Fenwick said. “He’s a great suspect, but I agree with Paul. We don’t have anything physical to tie him to either killing. Tough to make that stick in court.”

  Molton nodded agreement.

  By ten o’clock, Turner was sick of going over the same questions with Barlow. The suspect was exhausted and frightened, but showed no signs of knowing more than he said. Turner thought one good thing was that at least the guy had dropped most of his arrogance.

  Turner and Fenwick took a break from the conversation. They sat at their desks. Turner called Ben to tell him he would be very late and not to wait up.

  After Turner hung up, Fenwick said, “What I really need is chocolate.”

  “Fresh out.”

  “Never be too far from your nearest supply of chocolate. One of the great truisms of the twentieth century. I want it on my headstone in huge block letters.” Fenwick opened every drawer of his desk and moved everything around. He came up with nothing.

  “Preliminary lab reports on Mike Meade’s apartment are here,” Turner said. He glanced through them.

  “Anything?”

  Turner read for a few moments. “Nope. No prints on the radiator although a couple of dust smudges could be fresh. A few paint flakes might be newly broken.”

  “I can see it now,” Fenwick said. “We line up the suspects and look for microscopic bits.”

  “If we find the killer, it could be a damning piece of evidence.”

  “The kind of thing that is dear to my heart. Not as dear as chocolate, but right up there.”

  Turner asked, “Where are the reports we wrote on our first conversation with Barlow?”

  Fenwick pointed to a stack of papers on the floor next to his desk.

  Turner grabbed the pile and put it on top of his desk.

  “Let’s go over the first stuff he said,” Turner suggested. He found the appropriate pages. He walked down to the second floor, made a copy, and brought them back up.

  He and Fenwick read through what they had written.

  Turner said, “Only big oddity is that stuff about Wadsworth and Meade having arguments. Absolutely nobody confirmed that.”
<
br />   “I assumed he was lying.”

  “Let’s try it the other way around,” Turner said. “Let’s assume that everything Barlow said was true. Remember he never actually lied to us the first time, he just left stuff out.”

  “Lots of important stuff.”

  “I agree, but we’re stuck. Let’s try Barlow as personification of truth.”

  “You’re cute when you use six syllable words.”

  “Why don’t you sit on it and rotate. I’m even cuter when I solve a murder. From Barlow, we believe that Wadsworth and Meade were mortal enemies.”

  “We are not going to be able to pin a murder rap on Judge Wadsworth based on what we’ve got so far.”

  “Let’s talk to Barlow some more. If necessary, let’s get Wadsworth down here.”

  “Based on this?”

  “Hell, you were ready to arrest Judge Wright on little more than this.”

  “Yeah, but I get to be the impulsive one in this relationship. That’s my job.”

  “Yeah, well, get used to it. Let’s try Barlow again.”

  When they entered the room, Barlow was sitting with his elbows on the table, rubbing his eyes with his fists.”

  He looked at them. He said, “I’m scared.”

  “Of what?” Turner asked.

  “That you’re going to try to hang this on me. If nothing else, even if I’m associated with this, my career will be ruined. You guys don’t understand what it’s like being gay and trying to get a job and having to lie.”

  “I understand,” Turner said. “I’m gay.”

  Barlow searched his eyes. “Are you telling me the truth or is that a lie to get me to have confidence in you?”

  “I’m not going to shove my tongue down your throat to prove it. I have a lover named Ben. He is a kind, strong, good man. He is at home right now. I would prefer to be in bed with him than here with you.”

  “Okay.”

  Fenwick said, “We’ve been going over what you told us the first time. We’re curious about this statement about Judges Wadsworth and Meade arguing.”

  “I know what I saw and heard.”

  “Was it just that one time? Maybe he’d met someone in the hall on his way back from the meeting.”

  “I was in the corridor waiting to meet with him. I heard them and afterward as we walked down the hall Judge Meade kept muttering under his breath about Judge Wadsworth.”

  “What did he say exactly?”

  “Just muttered. All I heard were Wadsworth and Malmsted’s names. She and Judge Meade had words earlier that day.”

  “Meade and Malmsted fought a lot.”

  “Yes. Mostly it was all very civil, at least what I saw. They’d talk to each through gritted teeth. They’d take out their disagreements in court sometimes. If a lawyer was arguing the liberal side of a case, Meade would ask him all kinds of tough, arrogant questions designed more to harass the lawyer than for any judicial purpose. When it was the other side’s turn, Malmsted would start in on that lawyer. It’s all very polite and proper, mostly, but you could tell they were going after each other.”

  “And Wadsworth and Meade fought at other times?”

  “Three times. Twice before the Du Page County decision and once three days before New Year’s Eve. The day before I left for Aspen to meet his son, Judge Meade told me I was supposed to call the judicial misconduct board. He told me to find the number and who you were supposed to talk to. He also wanted me to research something called a ‘good behavior clause.’”

  “What’s that?”

  “Federal appellate judges are constitutionally protected. They can be impeached, but it’s only happened a few times. I didn’t have time to look up the ‘good behavior’ materials. I presume it has something to do with firing somebody for moral turpitude, although all the judges could get together and recommend another judge be fired. I don’t know how that works.”

  “What if it wasn’t Malmsted?” Turner said.

  “Huh?” Barlow said.

  “Did he actually give you the name of the judge he was talking about?”

  “No. I never asked. I found out the information and put it on his desk. It was just a name and phone number.”

  Turner motioned to Fenwick. They left the room.

  Turner said, “For all his supposed surface politeness, Meade was doing an awful lot behind the scenes. Lots of angry meetings, although we have mostly Barlow’s word for this. Meade’s better at hiding his frustration and anger than the others, but it gets to be too much. He explodes at Wadsworth.”

  “Then he shoots Wadsworth, because the judge is evil. Let’s go arrest Meade. He did it.”

  “I hate it when you’re sarcastic.”

  “The wrong guy’s dead according to your theory. We could shoot Wadsworth and make it even.”

  “I wonder if Malmsted knew about fights between Meade and Wadsworth,” Turner said.

  “We’ve been leaning on Barlow, we could pressure her a little.”

  Turner glanced at his watch. “Little late for calling.”

  “Just before midnight on a cold winter’s night, sounds like a great beginning for a poem,” Fenwick said.

  “You are not to start quoting poetry,” Turner said.

  “Doing my best.” Fenwick reached for the phone. “It’s a murder investigation. I like shaking up suspects.”

  While Fenwick talked, Turner read through more lab reports.

  After Fenwick hung up he said, “Judge Malmsted is not a happy camper.”

  “How to Win Friends and Influence Suspects by Buck Fenwick.”

  “Has a nice ring to it,” Fenwick said. “She was up reading. Malmsted said she knew nothing about fights between those two. She did remember one time this week, when she heard Meade telling Wadsworth he needed to talk to him about his kid.”

  “He said this in front of her?”

  “She remembered it as an off-hand comment, she said Meade sounded almost sarcastic. She passed it off as him being mean or stupid. She couldn’t remember which day this was. I asked her if she could recall anything else they said to each other that might be significant. That’s all she could come up with.”

  “Wadsworth versus Meade,” Turner said. “He told us everybody got along, but they didn’t. He was one of the one’s who hasn’t been honest with us. I want to talk to his eminence.”

  “No calls. Let’s go visit him. Maybe we’ll wake him up. I’ve always wanted to wake up a judge. This should be lots of fun. Making judges miserable could become a habit.”

  “What do we do with Barlow?”

  “Keep him here. I want to know exactly where he is.”

  They drove to Judge Wadsworth’s home. Fenwick pulled into the circular drive in front of the fifty-story condominium complex. Flakes of snow drifted in occasionally off the lake. They showed their identification and told the doorman who they wanted to see.

  A woman in her early fifties in a drab gray sweatsuit answered the door.

  They showed her their identification. She said she was Mrs. Wadsworth.

  “We’re looking for your husband,” Turner said.

  “He’s not here,” she said.

  “Where could we find him?” Turner asked.

  She gave them a puzzled look. “What is this about?”

  “We’re investigating the murders of Judge Meade and his son,” Fenwick said. “We need to talk to him about where he was early today.”

  “He went out this morning for the paper and some groceries.”

  “Where was he on New Years Eve?” Fenwick asked.

  “I’m sure he told you. We went out to dinner. We came back here and went to bed.”

  “He didn’t get up and go anywhere?”

  “I wouldn’t know. We have separate bedrooms. He snores. Will you leave us alone?”

  “Where is he?”

  She hesitated and finally shrugged. “He left for his office half an hour ago.”

  They drove to the Kennedy Federal Building. Fenwick
has ceased grumbling about the cold. They found Wadsworth standing behind his desk. He was wearing a camel’s-hair coat open over a white sweater and jeans. He did not invite them in or ask them to sit.

  “Gentlemen, this better be good. It is the middle of the night. I will be on the phone to your superiors as soon as you leave, no matter what it is you’ve come to speak to me about. Furthermore, I spoke earlier with Judge Wright and Judge Malmsted. They were not positive about either of you. We may be collectively filing a complaint.”

  Turner said, “You were the judge that Meade was going to try and get fired. It wasn’t Malmsted he wanted to haul before a judicial review board. Why was he going to turn you in?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “He was going to turn someone in. Everybody figured it was Malmsted, but it was you.”

  “You’ve been talking to Barlow again? He doesn’t know anything.”

  Turner said, “We need to go over where you were on New Year’s Eve and where you were all this morning.”

  “I was home all day today.”

  “Oops, mistake,” Fenwick said, “Your wife said you went out for the paper and some groceries. Where were you this morning, Judge Wadsworth?”

  “I got the groceries and came back.”

  “We’ll need to see the receipts.”

  “This is absurd. This conversation is over. You’re both leaving.”

  “No,” Fenwick said. He leaned his bulk casually against the door as if neither he nor it were planning to move before the next ice age rearranged the Midwest.

  “You’ll both lose your jobs for this.”

  “Is that all you judges ever say?” Fenwick said. “It’s boring.”

  “We’re going to talk,” Turner said. “Where were you New Year’s Eve?”

  “Home.”

  “Why are you here now?” Fenwick asked.

  “I had to get some work done.”

  “At midnight?” Fenwick asked.

  “People work late as your presence here attests.”

  “With your coat on?” Fenwick asked.

  “You’re being absurd.”

  “Speaking of your coat. We may need that,” Fenwick said.

  “What on earth for?”

  “Microscopic check. The killer banged against something in Mike Meade’s apartment. Traces will be on the killer’s clothing.”