Sorry Now?

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “Hell of a first date,” Turner said as they placed their trays near a stack at the exit to the cafeteria.

  “There’ll be more and better,” Manfred said. Turner watched him walk away. Even with the lab coat he found the view attractive.

  He returned to his son’s room and sat for another half hour. At eight, Jeff, fully awake and into his favorite TV show, told him, “Dad, you can go home. I’m fine. I get to miss school. So I’m okay.” Paul knew the staff would take excellent care of him.

  Before he left, he stopped at the hospital’s security office and told them of the threats. The man in charge, a retired cop, told him not to worry, that a security guard would be posted by Jeff’s room around the clock.

  At home he had messages on his answering machine from Fenwick and Ian. Since he had no way to reach Brian at Great America, he called Fenwick. His partner asked about Jeff and Turner filled him in.

  Fenwick asked, “You weren’t going to check on that outing shit anymore tonight?”

  Paul said, “It’s not much of a lead, but it’ll give me something to do.” He knew he shouldn’t worry about Jeff, but he probably would. He also knew himself well enough to know he’d probably go through a certain amount of the “Why me?” syndrome, a minor version of the agony he’d gone through at Jeff’s birth. Work would help distract him. He called the paper to see if Ian was in, but got an answering machine. He called Ian’s apartment and got his roommate. She told him to try John Chester’s.

  Turner hurried into the humid night. The wind blew at gale force, but still no storms threatened on the horizon. In John Chester’s, Turner found Ian singing bawdy songs with a group of pressmen from the Chicago Tribune.

  Ian saw him and immediately asked, “What’s wrong?”

  Turner told him about Jeff, finishing: “He’s fine, but I’m restless. I figured work will keep me occupied. Better to stay busy than brood.” He told Ian what they’d learned about Donald. “I doubt he’s gay,” Turner finished, “but I should check every angle.”

  “Half the time the most virulently homophobic people are the most severely closeted. I met him once or twice. I never pegged him as gay.”

  “Robeson wasn’t much help. I need to talk to the people in the community involved in outing,” Turner said.

  “I found some information this afternoon. You know some of them as friends. That could be a problem.”

  “I’ve got a murder to solve,” Turner said. “Maybe several of them. I’m not interested in likes or dislikes at this point.”

  First Turner called home from the bar to see if Brian was in yet. He got the answering machine, but wasn’t worried. On these trips Brian often didn’t get in before twelve.

  In the car Turner asked, “Where to?”

  Ian said, “Gill Garret’s place.”

  “Gill’s into outing?” Turner asked.

  “Yep,” Ian said. “He’s one of the leaders.”

  “I guess I didn’t know him as well as I thought.”

  “Gill doesn’t tell a lot of people. There are others who get their name in the paper, but he’s the brains behind the outfit.”

  Gill Garret lounged in a silk bathrobe in front of a TV set, watching reruns of thirty something.

  “Is Donald Mucklewrath gay?” Ian asked him after they’d sat down with drinks, a Diet Coke for Turner.

  “How would I know?” Garret took a careful sip from his straight scotch. He leaned back in his recliner, holding his glass in hands folded over his stomach.

  Turner said, “He’s made a lot of homophobic statements in the press, but we need to check out a rumor we heard.”

  “He’s one of the worst fucking assholes in the country,” Garret said. “If he was one of our own, he deserves to be destroyed. One of our own destroying us! I consider that the highest crime you can commit.”

  Ian put his hand on his friend’s arm. “If he’s a murderer,” he said, “maybe something you know could convict him. We don’t want to get anybody in the community in trouble. We want to get the bastard as badly as you do.”

  Garret wrenched his arm away from Ian. He prowled the room, pausing to stare at a print of a half-naked baseball player hanging on the wall.

  Ian asked, “Why all the dramatics? Why not just tell us? It’s not that big a secret, is it?”

  Finally Gill stopped pacing and faced the two men. He spoke through tight lips. “We’ve known for about a week. This is our big chance to bust a major homophobe. I know it sounds callous, but I’m not overly concerned about his sister. I’m concerned about the evil he’s done to gay people.” He sat down. “All right,” he said. He sighed. “That little whore, Rusty—the one you had the run in with the other night?—told us. He had a date with some rich bastard a few weeks ago. They went to a party at some mansion in Lake Forest. Rusty said Donald was there with a cute young thing he couldn’t keep his hands off. Rusty’s one of our main sources in finding out about closeted public officials. The ‘old whores’ network’ we call it. Some of them remain loyal to the code and keep silence. Fortunately, Rusty is one of us.”

  “He won’t last long in the business with a big mouth,” Ian said.

  “We’re very careful, and he’s not the only one by any means,” Garret said.

  “You trust Rusty?” Turner said.

  “I have independent confirmation that Donald Mucklewrath was at the party.” He took a sip from his drink. “We’ve been trying to get hold of Donald for a week to set up a meeting. We wanted to talk to him first. We haven’t been able to get through. Then, with the murder, our plans got delayed. We’re going through with this.”

  “I guess we should talk to Rusty. Do you know where he is tonight?” Turner asked.

  “Working, I suppose. I have no idea where.”

  Turner and Ian left. The reporter had several suggestions about where they might find a working hustler at ten thirty on a Tuesday night. They tried various bars on Clark Street, then on Halsted, but came up empty.

  Finally they stopped at Halsted and Addison and walked into the Eighteenth District police station. Turner identified himself and told them what he needed. He spent nearly half an hour on the phone, finally tracking down someone in Vice Control who specialized in male prostitutes. A Detective Kramer recognized Rusty’s name.

  “Yeah, Rusty the Drip,” she said. “The call him that because supposedly he’s given a lot of guys gonorrhea. He’s got a larger-than-usual number of unhappy customers. We aren’t actually sure why. It could be because of the disease he spreads. Although most of the hustlers we get are heavily into safe sex. Of course, you know how sympathetic we are with a john who comes in complaining about being ripped off by a hustler. We investigate if there’s time after the real complaints. You know how often that is.”

  Turner grunted that he understood. “Do you know where he hangs out?”

  “Try the Womb on Clark Street. It’s a bar a little south of where you’ve looked so far. That’s his normal hangout.”

  Inside a crumbling building, luridly decorated and lit barely above fire-code standards, the Womb’s clientele slunk furtively from dark corner to dark corner. A year ago they’d removed the Wall, a spotlighted area for viewing the various available young men. Now all lurked together in the same murky depths.

  They spotted Rusty conversing with a smiling bald-headed man probably in his sixties or seventies.

  Turner walked up behind him and tapped Rusty on the shoulder.

  “Fuck off,” Rusty said without turning around. The bald man gave Turner an angry stare.

  Turner took out his star and showed it to the bald man, who seconds later scuttled out the door. Rusty swung around and Turner said, “Let’s go outside.”

  “Is this a bust?” the kid asked.

  “Not yet,” Turner said.

  Rusty looked at Ian but saw no help from that quarter. He gave his shoulders an elaborate shrug and, swinging his narrow hips suggestively, swung toward the exit.

  On the s
treet Turner asked, “What do you know about Donald Mucklewrath?”

  “Nothing.” The kid leaned against the building, stuck his fingers through several empty belt loops, raised his right foot so the sole of his shoe lay flat against the building. The pose showed his bulging crotch and slender hips to great advantage.

  Turner told Rusty what Gill had said.

  Rusty sneered and said, “So what?”

  With an effort Turner stayed calm and tried reasoning with the kid. Then Ian tried threats about arrest.

  The kid laughed at both of them and said, “Let’s get the lawyers out here then. I’m sure I’d be happy to talk to one of them. Until then, I got nothing to say.”

  They gave it up. Turner drove Ian home, then made his way to his own neighborhood. As soon as he walked in the door, he called the hospital. No change in Jeff’s condition. The boy was resting comfortably.

  It was then he discovered Brian wasn’t home yet. It was quarter after twelve. Brian didn’t have to be in until one and he rarely broke curfew—Turner was happy he’d had a few problems as he did with his son—but the anxiety of the emergency with Jeff, coupled with the threats, now made him uneasy.

  At twelve thirty the phone rang. Brian’s voice, barely audible over background noise, said, “Dad, Frank’s car broke down. We’re at the Deerfield Oasis. We can’t fix it. Can you come and get us?”

  At one thirty Paul pulled up at the Oasis. Brian and his four buddies sat outside on the curb, looking woebegone and glum. Brian, his pants encrusted with dirt and grease, stood up when he saw his dad’s car.

  “Sorry, Dad,” were his first words.

  They checked Frank’s 1982 Chevette. After a brief look Paul said, “I can’t see the problem. It’s too late to try fixing it anyway. Did you all call your parents?”

  Everybody nodded except Frank. Turner knew the boy feared his father, and suspected Frank’s dad abused him. “Want me to call him, Frank?”

  The sixteen-year-old nodded. “He’s gonna kill me.”

  Frank Farnisi grew up with buck teeth and wearing hand-medown clothing. He’d been a slender little kid and the clothes came from his muscular older brother. His mom’s best tailoring efforts couldn’t quite disguise the outsized shape of the clothes he wore. The kid had been teased unmercifully. Braces and teenage rebellion, coupled with the best working car among neighborhood teens, had gone a long way toward making up for his earlier unpopularity.

  With Frank standing next to him, Turner called. It didn’t seem that anybody had noticed Frank wasn’t in yet. As Paul explained, Mr. Farnisi came more awake. Paul detected stirrings of anger. Paul tried to smooth the way for the teenager. He wasn’t sure how much good he did.

  He hung up and Frank said, “Thanks, Mr. Turner.”

  On the way home Brian explained what happened. “Frank’s car broke down about four miles north of the Oasis. We waited for a tow truck or a cop to stop by. Nobody showed up for forty-five minutes. While we waited, we tried to fix it ourselves. That’s how come I’m a mess. None of us is real good at fixing cars. Frank doesn’t keep any tools in the car, and we didn’t have any light. Finally, a tow truck showed up. We got here and we called you and …” He stopped.

  Frank finished, “We called you because you’re cool, Mr. Turner. We knew you wouldn’t get all pissed and go nuts.”

  “Yeah,” Brian said.

  Paul yawned. “Could you try and make it a little earlier next time?”

  After they dropped the other boys at their homes, Paul told Brian about Jeff. Paul liked the instant concern the older brother expressed for the younger. When they finished discussing Jeff, Paul said, “I should have taken those threats more seriously.” He told Brian about the developments. “I want to take as few chances as possible. I’d like you to stay around the house and be as alert and aware as you can.”

  Brian said, “Do you really think there’s any danger?”

  “I hope not, but I don’t want to risk it. I’d like you to stick close to home. Besides,” Paul continued, “the garage needs cleaning and you could spend the next couple days straightening it out.”

  Brian argued briefly that he was being punished for something he had no control over.

  “Okay,” Paul said, “we’ll work a deal, like usual. I’ll help some, if I can.” A deal might mean money, but often meant a trade in chores.

  Finally at home, on their way upstairs, Turner said, “I’m glad you’re okay. I was worried.”

  Brian mumbled, “Yeah, Dad, I know.”

  Turner didn’t embrace him—his son’s teenage ethos prevented that—but he gave Brian’s shoulder a paternal squeeze.

  The next morning, with less than four hours of sleep, Turner drove to the hospital to check on Jeff. The boy was awake and eating breakfast. He greeted his dad by saying, “Why couldn’t this have happened during school? I could have had a good time. Will I have to miss a lot of summer stuff?”

  Paul wasn’t certain, told him he’d have to ask the doctor. They chatted briefly and then Turner left for work.

  At the station everyone asked how Jeff was. They got through roll call with little morning grumbling that day. Too many murders, along with the heat and humidity, kept everyone pretty subdued. Even Carruthers kept quiet for longer than five minutes at a stretch.

  Turner reported on his visits the night before. The commander came in and they brought him up to date on all the recent incidents.

  “Do you think the Kantakee, Schaumburg, and the Bishop’s problems are connected to the murder?”

  “Maybe,” Turner said. “It could be some new group taking vengeance on some of the most vocal right-wing people around. Tough to make a connection.”

  He added the information about the nonlethal incidents that Ian had brought to his attention.

  At the end the commander said, “Don’t close off any assumptions. Investigate the murder and monitor those other problems. It’s probably not connected, but you never know, so check it out. Also, I know how this next part screws everything up, but I have to tell you: The political pressure to solve this woman’s murder is intense. I’d sure like to be able to report good news soon.” He left.

  Turner and Fenwick didn’t waste time getting angry at the commander. What was the use? He was simply stating a reality they knew all too well.

  Turner poured himself some coffee and sat at his desk preparing to start his calls. He wanted to follow up on Ian’s information. On top of his desk he found Wilmer’s autopsy report. He thumbed through each page.

  “Listen to this,” he told Fenwick, who’d been hunting for five minutes for a spoon to stir the sugar in his coffee. Fenwick did this every morning. One time Turner tried tying a spoon to the handle of his partner’s desk drawer. Fenwick had lost it within fifteen minutes.

  “We got part of Wilmer’s medical records. He tested positive for HIV antibodies,” Turner said.

  Fenwick looked up. “Is that what killed him?”

  Turner flipped a few pages. “Nope. He didn’t drown either. No liquor in his stomach or in his bloodstream. The guy must have been sober. Somebody knocked him over the head. Couldn’t have gotten the bump from the fall. If we hadn’t been suspicious, we’d probably never have found this out. We need to try to track Wilmer’s movements on Saturday. I think he’s the key to this whole mess.”

  Under Wilmer’s report, he found a note from the Gang Crimes Unit. He called them, Organized Crime, and Narcotics. He got the same answer from all three. They’d put out feelers and got nothing. Nobody was pissed off at cops this week. Seconds after he hung up, the phone rang. Ian said, “I think we got another one. Down at the Hilton.”

  SEVEN

  Fenwick and Turner ran into massive chaos in the lobby of the Chicago Hilton and Towers. The noted author and talk-show guest Arnold Bennet held court in the grand foyer with a gaggle of media people around him. The camera lights shone on his bald head as he gesticulated and roared.

  Arnold Bennet, archconservative an
d darling of the right wing, published one novel a year, about international conspiracies and foreign intrigue. His books belonged to the more-macho-than-thou-school, with lots of military hardware and international intrigue. His hero, the same now through twentysix books, bedded a different woman in chapters one, six, and fifteen of each adventure. Every book since number eight had hit the New York Times best-seller list. Every book since number seventeen had made it to number one on the list.

  Bennet cultivated his reputation as an eccentric. He could show up on a talk show dressed in anything from see-through pajamas to a canary-yellow three-piece suit. He refused to travel on any days except Tuesdays and Thursdays. On the talk shows he loved bantering with hosts and plugging his books. Many criticized him for selling out his profession, but since most of the comments came from authors who were far less successful, they were somewhat suspect.

  At the moment, in the lobby of the Hilton, he waved a piece of paper at the cameras; he was, Turner suspected, on the verge of hysteria. They couldn’t reach him through the press of reporters, so they listened.

  Bennet screeched, “This is all I have left. This is the only thing they left me.” He flourished the paper around his head.

  A reporter asked, “Why don’t you have a copy?”

  Bennet stared fixedly at the interlocutor. Turner could barely see either of them through the crush of people. Today Bennet wore an entirely turquoise outfit.

  “Everyone knows,” Bennet said, superiority dripping from each word, “that I never keep a copy. I never revise. I sit and write until I’m done. I see each instant of action in my mind, and it becomes reality when I put it on paper. Nothing gets between me and my reader. I’ve never made copies before. I will not in the future.”

  Turner stopped a hotel employee and asked if he could tell him where to find house security. She pointed to a tall woman at the edge of the mob, behind Bennet. Turner and Fenwick eased around the crowd. Turner showed his star and introduced himself. She jerked her head backward and said, “Follow me.”