“Not—?” Paul began.
“No, although I doubt if it’s through any fault of his own that it wasn’t,” Ian said. “He lavished a lot of gratitude on George when he found out it wasn’t AIDS. Trumpeted his virtues around the gay community for months.” Ian frowned. “Strange thing is, Rusty’s very bright. He got a Rhodes scholarship, but turned it down. Being sexy gave him a huge income with less work, I guess. Forget him. It’s good to see you, George.”
Minutes later Ian left them, and Manfred and Turner found a seat on a bench in a window bay. They sat letting their bodies touch at the shoulders, hips, and thighs. Paul enjoyed the closeness and warmth.
By midnight they’d promised to get together the next day if their schedules permitted. They lingered, arms holding each other tightly, sharing their first kiss on the landing just outside the apartment.
Ian teased Paul about the good-bye as Paul drove him home.
Turner asked, “How did he control those two so well? I’m a cop and supposed to be able to do it that quick. I just wanted to avoid a scene.”
Ian said, “I told you. George Manfred is one of the most respected people in the gay community. Everybody, or at least everybody at Gill’s party, knows of him. He’s been with them when their friends have been dying. He’s the most gentle and kind man. He’ll spend huge amounts of time with grieving significant others. It’s why he has no time. He needs to meet somebody just like you.”
SIX
The next morning Paul gave Brian permission to go with his friends to the amusement park, Great America, after his exam. Brian’s summer job with the Chicago Park District didn’t start for a week, and this was his last final. But Jeff still had three days of school and the two boys squabbled over this disparity at breakfast until Paul had to declare a truce.
Paul found himself unaccountably smiling from time to time. Meeting Manfred again felt good. He’d definitely call him when he got a minute.
As Paul eased his way through rush hour, the weatherman confirmed the bright blue skies and seemed almost apologetic about the false tornado-watch alarm the previous day. The cold front had stalled for at least twenty-four hours at the Mississippi River. When it moved southeast, the weather in the entire state could get dangerous. The miserable early-morning temperature held in the low eighties, an unpleasant harbinger of sticky sweat all day.
No breeze disturbed the half-raised shades of the open windows of the squad room. Grumbling about the heat took up a large part of the conversation at roll call. Besides the usual Wednesday inspection of equipment, weapons, and ammunition, they endured the routine of current cases, reports that needed to be noted, who had to be reminded of court dates, crimes or criminals from the previous shifts they needed to be aware of, announcements of recent directives, lists of wanted persons and vehicles, and stolen-auto messages.
After roll call Block, the case sergeant, cornered Fenwick and Turner away from the others.
“We’re getting a lot of pressure on this Mucklewrath daughter case. A lot. We’ve got to get something.”
“We don’t have anything,” Fenwick said.
“Well, you better. Soon. I’m not risking my ass for some two-bit preacher’s daughter. Find something, anything. At the least we’ve got to tell the press we’ve got some suspects.”
Fenwick said, “We could round up the usual suspects.”
Block said, “Don’t get cute with me. Just get me some results.” Block stalked off.
At their desks Fenwick muttered, “Double and triple fuck. What does that numbnuts think we’re doing?”
Turner sighed. “If we even had a glimmer of a direction to go in, it would help. We knew this would get political. It’s happened before. We’ll ride it out.”
“I wish we could get some kind of break,” Fenwick said.
Then they began working on more paperwork. At ten Ian called.
“I just got an anonymous tip about Donald Mucklewrath,” Ian said. “It’s real strange. I’m not sure I believe it.”
“What?” Turner asked.
“My source says that Donald is gay.”
“And why is that significant?” Turner asked.
“Supposedly there’s been a big fight about ‘outing’ him especially among gays in Chicago.” “Outing” was the method some gay activists used to publicly identify closeted prominent gays and lesbians. One object was especially to make self-hating gay people less likely to do harm to their own. Another reason was to identify positive gay role models.
“I’m missing the connection to his sister’s murder,” Turner said.
“I’m getting to it. If he’s gay, and if his sister found out, and if she threatened to tell her dad—”
Turner cut him off. “The evildoer turning out to be a closeted gay guy? Give me a break! You read too many cheap gay detective novels.”
“But—” Ian began.
Turner interrupted again. “Besides which, that’s an awful lot of ifs strung together, and the sister isn’t around to confirm or deny any of the facts.”
“Now can I talk?” Ian asked.
Turner grunted.
“I didn’t say it was a good theory or even that I believed it. I just thought you might want to check it out.”
Turner sighed. “I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s not much.”
Ian said, “If Donald was under a strain because he’s gay it could have caused or still be causing problems. You mentioned how strange and closed that group is. Here’s your chance to break through and really learn something.”
“Okay, okay. Where’d you find this out?”
“One of the guys here at the office, and he didn’t remember where he heard it.”
“Big help,” Turner said.
Ian thought a minute. “I’ve got to check on who’s who in the outing crowd, but you can start with Nate Robeson. He’s a lawyer and head of the largest legit gay political organization in the city. Group is called Come Out for Freedom.” Ian gave him details, said he knew the guy and would call to encourage him to be open when the cops came to talk.
Turner hung up and filled Fenwick in.
“I wanted something,” Fenwick said, “but this is only a smidgen above nothing.”
“I agree,” Turner said, “but we’ve got nothing else. Anything that helps us understand the dynamics in that family might be helpful. So far we know very little about them.”
“You’re right. So Ian’s setting up the meeting?” Fenwick asked.
“Said he’d call me back as soon as he found out anything.”
While waiting for the call they turned back to their paper-work. Fifteen minutes later Fenwick said, “You know you’re humming?”
Turner looked at him. “I am?”
“You are. You’ve been awful bright and cheery for a fairly fucked-up day. You met somebody. What’s his name?”
“I didn’t think it showed. His name is George, and to answer your other questions: He’s a doctor, in his early thirties, he’s nice, and I’m not in love.”
“You’ll have to bring him to the picnic next month,” Fenwick said. “Madge and I will have to give our seal of approval.”
“We only met a couple of nights ago,” Turner said. “Let’s not have wedding bells yet. He could be secretly married or be having an affair with Barbara Bush.”
“It’ll be good for you to get out,” Fenwick said.
Years ago, at the annual Area Ten picnic, Madge Fenwick had introduced herself to Turner. They shared ideas on child rearing and on Buck, who’d become Turner’s partner not that long before. At a moment when seven-year-old Brian was wheeling his brother around picnic tables, Madge said to Paul, “You’re gay, aren’t you?”
Paul said, “A homosexual with two kids.”
Long after all the others left that day, the two families stayed and talked. The three adults sat under an oak tree and let the evening darkness gather around them. The smaller kids fell asleep on a nearby blanket. Brian played by himself on the
baseball field, throwing the ball up, hitting it, then retrieving it, getting as many hits out of the bat as he could before the fall of night stopped him.
Madge had a nephew who was gay. Buck’s attitude was that Paul was a good partner and a friend. Paul liked their down-to-earth good nature. They’d been friends since that day.
An hour later Ian called back. He’d set up an appointment for three o’clock. Robeson taught classes at Oliver Wendell Holmes Law School most of the day and wouldn’t be free until then.
Fenwick and Turner grabbed a late lunch at a deli on the corner of Dearborn and Congress, then walked over to their interview.
Oliver Wendell Holmes was a small law school located on six floors of a high-rise on State Street, a block north of police headquarters. The building contained old-fashioned elevators with manual controls. The elevator operator deposited them on the sixth floor after two tries at making the car floor level with the hallway.
Finding the office door with Robeson’s name on it, they knocked. Seconds later a man in his early thirties, wearing a dark gray suit, answered.
Introductions over, they sat in the narrow office. Books lined the two longer walls. The window in the third wall, opposite the door, looked out onto the grimy exterior of the rear of the next building.
Robeson sat in a swivel chair facing them. They sat in old wooden chairs with the varnish long since rubbed off by numerous student bodies. Turner noted the cut of the man’s suit, which clung to his body in ways that Turner suspected came from the finest tailoring.
They explained the reason for their visit.
Robeson spoke in a pleasant tenor. “I got a call from Ian. I trust him.” He pointed at Turner. “He said you’re gay, but that your partner isn’t.”
“Is that important?” Turner asked.
“That’s for you to decide. A gay cop seems suspicious to me on general principles.”
Fenwick said, “If you want to give him a morals lecture or your opinion on which profession he should have chosen, why don’t you do that and then we can get on with what we came to ask.”
Robeson gazed at Fenwick calmly. The silence between them built until the lawyer said, “I guess you’re right. What can I tell you?”
“Do you know anything about Donald Mucklewrath being gay?” Turner said.
“It’s been a rumor for a while. He’s not married and he’s in his thirties.”
“Always a sure sign,” Turner said.
Robeson smiled. “Yeah, that and going to the opera.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I never paid much attention to the rumors. I assumed it was wishful thinking on the part of a few gay activists who would enjoy the irony of a prominently homophobic person’s kid turning out to be gay. Frankly, I’d enjoy it too, but I think the possibility is remote. I certainly have no proof.” He shrugged his shoulders, then asked: “I’m curious. How would his being gay be connected to his sister’s murder?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Turner said. “We’re looking for any kind of information we can get on the family. If he was being outed, maybe it had a strong effect on those people.”
“Our group isn’t into outing. That kind of thing is bullshit. People have the right to lead their own lives. We fight to improve the lives of gay people in a lot of ways, but not that shit.” He gave them a lecture about the good things his group had done with legislation, lawsuits, and domestic-partner insurance regulations.
They left a few minutes later with no further information. In the car Turner said, “Let’s go ask him.”
“Him who?” Fenwick said.
“Donald.”
“We’re going to walk in and ask him if he’s gay?”
“Why not?” Turner asked.
In the Mucklewrath suite they found Donald in the company of his stepmother, and they told him they wanted to ask him some questions alone. He and Mrs. Mucklewrath insisted he not be alone. Turner didn’t press the issue.
Fenwick asked, “Donald, is it true that you’re gay and you killed your sister because she was blackmailing you?”
Donald looked confused and said, “Uh, what?”
Mrs. Mucklewrath shouted, “How dare you? What kind of nonsense is this? How dare you barge in to ask such insulting questions? The police commissioner will hear about this!”
“Superintendent,” Fenwick said. “In Chicago we have a police superintendent.”
Mrs. Mucklewrath positioned herself a foot away from Fenwick and stabbed her finger at him. “I’ll have your badge for this!” she threatened.
“Stars,” Fenwick said. “In Chicago we don’t call them badges. We call them stars.”
She stormed from the room.
Fenwick said, “Well, she isn’t always the ‘ice maiden,’ is she?”
They turned to Donald. Turner asked, “Are you gay?”
Donald looked at him dubiously. “No. I can’t imagine where you heard that. I’ve had lots of women. That’s why I’m in trouble, remember?”
“You wouldn’t be the first to try to cover up his sexuality by dating women,” Turner said.
Donald stood up. He said quietly, “I’m not gay.”
A voice spoke behind them. “He certainly isn’t.”
They turned. The Reverend Mucklewrath stood in the doorway with his wife next to him. An uncomfortable few minutes followed before Turner and Fenwick retreated to the elevator and then the street far below.
The sky remained clear as they walked back to their car, but the wind was up, and with the canyons and eddies the buildings created, they found themselves almost having to bend into the wind.
When they settled into the car Turner said, “I think I believe him. I’m fairly good at knowing if somebody’s lying or not. I think he told us the truth.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
The radio crackled to life. A disembodied voice asked for Turner. He clicked in to respond. “They want you at home,” said the voice. “It’s something about your kids. A Mrs. Talucci called.”
Turner instantly thought of the threats made to his boys. He dropped all thoughts of the murder investigation.
In seconds Fenwick had the siren screaming and the car roaring through the traffic. At Carpenter Street Turner leaped from the car before it stopped. He raced into the house to find nothing, then tore next door to Mrs. Talucci’s. Her eldest daughter, Anna Marie, said, “Family Center Hospital. The school called. We couldn’t get hold of you.”
She didn’t know anything beyond that.
Turner, sitting tightlipped as Fenwick tore down Halsted Street toward the hospital, worried about the possibility that Jeff might have an unexpected problem with his spina bifida. They’d been fortunate the last few years. What was rarely far from the mind of a parent who had a child with the defect was finally happening to him.
Fenwick dropped him at the entrance. Turner, familiar with the hospital, quickly found out where his son was. The nurses on duty recognized him. With their usual brisk efficiency they led him to the operating room. They’d been waiting for him to give approval for an operation.
Jeff’s shunt had clogged. Most spina bifida children had the shunt to prevent the buildup of fluid in the brain. Occasionally obstructions worked their way into the opening. Usually there was some warning of a problem, but not always.
He found Mrs. Talucci. She stamped around outside the operating room in a towering rage. She was more furious than he had ever seen her.
Mrs. Talucci said, “It was that goddamn school. They know. How many times have I told them that if they notice anything with Jeff they should call immediately? The teacher this morning thought he had a headache. You don’t just ‘have a headache’ with this kind of child. You watch. You notice.” She switched to Italian as she began swearing and berating the school system. She spoke too quickly for Turner to follow all of it. He was pretty sure he missed some of the more obscure obscenities.
Turner had fought with the Chicago education system since before Jeff
’s first day in school. He wanted his boy to have as normal a life as possible. Mostly the schools weren’t set up to deal with anyone unusual or slightly difficult. Most spina bifida children had normal intelligence, but at the least they needed physical therapy and minor assistance. He’d had to argue for the smallest concessions. Administrator after administrator had placed roadblocks in his path. The neighborhood knew and sympathized, but it took Mrs. Talucci on the warpath for things to happen. All she did was ask to accompany Paul to one of his meetings with school personnel. She hadn’t said anything until the end. Then she said to them, “I came here today to see. That’s all I wanted to do. Look at the people who don’t have the kindness or the time for a child. Professional people who are supposed to be working for children.” She snorted her derision and left with Paul.
Within a week all the obstacles to Jeff’s education had melted away. Once Paul tried to ask Mrs. Talucci what she did, or whom she talked to. All she told him was that she talked to people she knew who cared about kids. She never explained beyond that. If Mrs. Talucci had connections to help his son, Paul didn’t care, and he didn’t want to know any more.
Mrs. Talucci calmed down very quickly after she spent her initial volley of venom. She sat until the doctor appeared over an hour later and told them Jeff was fine; then she left, and Turner went to see his son. On the way down the corridor he saw George Manfred in a white lab coat, speaking earnestly to a young couple. The doctor finished with the couple and looked up. Turner closed the space between them and quickly filled him in. Manfred accompanied Turner down the corridor.
“What are you doing here?” Turner asked him. “I thought you worked with AIDS patients.”
“I’ve got a couple of kids here and across the street at Children’s Hospital. They were born with it.”
In the room Turner gently embraced his still-sleeping son. Manfred confirmed what the doctor had said: Jeff would be fine. He promised to come back after his rounds and Turner thanked him, then sat with his boy for over an hour. Jeff had awakened briefly, saw his dad, smiled, and asked for Brian.
At seven Manfred came by. He suggested they grab a bite to eat in the hospital cafeteria. They talked for half an hour about spina bifida and people with AIDS as patients.
Sorry Now? Page 10