Facing the sidewalk the rooms proceeded: Brian’s bedroom, his bathroom, and Turner’s own bedroom.
He landed near Brian’s bedroom window and called his son’s name softly. No answer. He listened intently. Sounds from the street and the crowd, nothing from inside. He knew he wouldn’t be able to break into any of the windows or screens. They could only be opened by a special catch inside, which he had installed himself, so he knew they’d hold.
Inch by inch he moved his head so that he could see into his son’s room. Through the screen he observed the room’s contents. Two footballs and three baseball bats strewn across the bed, at least six pairs of athletic shoes scattered around the floor, a pile of odoriferous gym clothes in a corner. All definitely undisturbed by human presence at the moment.
The roof of the porch still felt warm to his touch from the heat of the day. He crawled along the tar paper to the next window. This would be the bathroom closest to Brian’s room, the nearest place with a lock on the door, if he’d been up here when the call came.
Paul wiped the still-oozing blood from his hand on his shirt—he’d abandoned his suit coat in the car—crouched under the windowsill, and again called his son’s name softly. He held his breath, then called again. A moment later he heard a soft “Dad?”
Paul whispered, “It’s me, Brian. Open the window, as carefully and quietly as you can.”
A minute later he saw Brian’s face appear. His son’s broad shoulders made it a tight squeeze, but seconds later he crouched next to his dad. Paul put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I think so. What’s going on, Dad? Mrs. Talucci talked half in Italian. I couldn’t understand all of it, just the part about hiding.”
Brian sounded a little shaken, but seemed generally okay.
“Somebody might be trying to get into the house.”
“Holy shit! Good thing Jeff’s not here. We’d have to go in and rescue him.”
Paul grinned at the youthful daring of his older son. The cops below called up to them. With silence now less vital, they talked in normal tones. Brian climbed down as if he knew exactly where to go. Turner didn’t want to know how the teenager moved across the roof so easily and quickly.
Minutes later the cops rushed the house. They found it empty. After fifteen minutes of fruitless search, which included Paul and Brian thoroughly examining the house, a sergeant on the street remarked, “It was probably a false alarm.”
Unfortunately for him, Mrs. Talucci heard the comment. Fortunately, Turner was close by and halted her attack. Few things stopped Mrs. Talucci, definitely not a police sergeant only twice her size.
After Turner had calmed Mrs. Talucci down, the two of them stood in a cluster of police brass and discussed the possibilities. A beat cop approached them and said, “We got at least three other calls, all within minutes of each other, reporting the same thing. That’s one of the reasons help came so quick, plus someone said it was a cop’s house.”
Mrs. Talucci beamed. She’d been around long enough to know what makes cops move.
The beat cop also said, “We found somebody down at the end of the alley. He says he saw three guys run out of here about half an hour ago.”
“He get a description?” Turner asked.
“White males, one tall, two shorter. Ran down Polk Street. We’re canvassing the neighbors down that way to see if anybody saw anything.”
The commander drove up. Apprised of the situation, he arranged for a cop outside the house until further notice.
By one o’clock the neighborhood had calmed down. Paul spent a half hour talking to Brian. The kid seemed more excited than scared. Before they went to bed, Paul reminded him that he needed to start on his regular summer chores tomorrow, now that the garage was clean. This night he got only minor teenage complaints about the unfairness of housework.
Tired though he was from lack of sleep Tuesday, Paul Turner slept little that night. He tried listening to the soothing prattle of an all-news station. He learned the temperature wouldn’t drop below eighty overnight and would rise to the high nineties tomorrow. He kept his gun loaded in the top drawer of the nightstand for the first time in his fifteen years as a cop. He lay awake imagining the horror of losing one of his sons. Around three he almost called the hospital to check on Jeff, but realized he was being paranoid. He’d worked with them before, and he trusted the security force at the hospital.
He knew whoever was after them had to be an amateur. A criminal who wanted a case to be dropped had to warn off an entire department or had to have enough clout to get an investigation called off from the top, and in a murder case it would be extremely difficult, even for someone incredibly well connected. So whoever did it couldn’t be well connected and didn’t know police procedure. He kept in mind Ian’s gayconspiracy angle, but he knew there were far more likely possibilities.
“You look like hell,” Fenwick said to him the next morning.
Turner explained the attempted attack on his house last night.
Fenwick said, “Double and triple fuck. Who are these people?”
At roll call they discussed the murder, the pranks against right wing people, and the attack. Many of the detectives offered opinions and advice. None had a solution.
“Anything unusual in the Mucklewrath camp?” Turner asked.
Wilson said, “I got the report as I came in from the stakeout. Absolutely nothing. I went to last night’s rally. Do you guys know he now keeps an urn with his daughter’s ashes in front of the speakers’ platform? He refers to it in his speech. He works the crowd up, which I guess is pretty normal, then he talks about his daughter. Ninety thousand people and not a dry eye in the bunch.”
“He uses his daughter?” Fenwick asked.
“Absolutely. It’s pretty sick, but I bet the coffers are overflowing.”
“We should get on the angle that someone is taking revenge on him,” Turner said. “It’s got to be someone he’s hurt or who knows him. Who’s doing background on him?”
Rodriguez raised his hand. “I’ve got nothing so far.”
“Try some more digging. Anything in his background anywhere might help.”
“It’s tough,” Rodriguez said, “they’ve got his life compartmentalized. If they don’t want you to know it, it’s not around. He may have come across as open to you, but his organization is tighter than any group I’ve ever dealt with.”
“Keep trying,” Turner said. “Also let’s expand the research to other prominent preachers. Somebody’s got to have a grudge against him. Get somebody to help you with it.”
The lieutenant added, “This is top priority. Somebody’s after Paul’s kids. That’s bullshit.”
Generally detectives didn’t have time to do the investigations people expected from watching TV shows. The workload for real cops was too great, and often in-depth checking wasn’t necessary. Statistically the vast majority of non-gang-related killings were done by someone close to the victim, friend or relative, fairly easy to identify. Because of Mucklewrath’s prominence and the play the media gave his daughter’s murder, they would get more attention than most. Maybe this wasn’t fair but it was certainly reality.
“Are the killings and these pranks really related?” Wilson asked.
They all looked at Turner. “I don’t know. We’ve got two senseless murders. The preacher’s daughter and Wilmer.”
“You can’t discount those prank incidents,” Rodriguez said. “They may not be murder, but you’ve got the similar messages.”
Turner shook his head. “Could be copycats. It’s starting to be too many coincidences. I can’t prove it, but my instincts say they aren’t related.”
The lieutenant said, “You’re going to have to explore that angle. It’s weird, but who knows?”
Carruthers said, “You’re not really connecting the death of the old shit Wilmer with these, are you? He was old, ignorant, and somebody told me he had AIDS. Who gives a shit about him?”
“I do,” Turner said. “If I’d listened to him in the first place, we might have some answers.” He told them what he’d learned in the talks he’d had last night at the mission. “We need to follow up his movements that day, which probably means interviewing every homeless bum on the west side.”
They divided that duty up by blocks, knowing they’d have to ask some of the beat cops to help.
“How about that nonmurder stuff?” Rodriguez asked.
“I’ll be checking that today,” Turner said.
Wilson said, “That friend of yours, Hume, the one with the slouch fedora all the time, got interviewed by one of the national networks. He talked about an international conspiracy. If it keeps up, we’re going to have a million reporters fucking things up.”
Turner said, “We’ve got our cases to solve. We can deal with reporters if we have to.”
At his desk Turner first began to organize the paperwork involved. They’d be buried in the shit up to their armpits even if they solved the whole thing today. A terrific breeze blew outside from the south. Unfortunately, the squad-room windows faced west. That earned them only an occasional puff of relief. Fenwick plugged the fan in. Someone on the night shift had left it on high. Before he could unplug it, papers flew. Fenwick swore, calling the squad on the night shift double and triple shits. When he got the fan under control, Turner could feel the breeze, but it barely kept up with the sweat that beaded on him from just sitting there. The weather reports predicted storms and more humidity.
He tried calling Jay Kendall, the columnist, who had been set up with a fake story. The reporter became suspicious and started pressing Turner for details and reasons for the call. After ten minutes of verbal fencing, Kendall admitted he had no idea who had set him up. “They covered their tracks completely. We haven’t been able to figure out who owned the home they took me to in Springfield. The neighbors claim it’s been vacant for years. State records show dummy corporations, and some of the title and deed background material is missing. We’re still investigating.”
He tried the chancery office for the bishop whose nude pictures were circulating. His cop status didn’t get him past the receptionist. If he called back, he might be able to get through to the diocesan press-relations department.
After the phone calls Fenwick said, “I feel bad about what happened to Wilmer. If I’d been a little more patient …” He shrugged.
“We don’t make perfect decisions,” Turner said. “Who could have said this time he knew something? I wish I’d listened more, but I’m not going to kick myself over it. It’s done.”
Fenwick said, “Yeah, you’re right, I guess. What I want to know is, where was Wilmer going that day?”
“Ajax said ‘a meeting with somebody.’”
“But who?” Fenwick asked. “Wilmer didn’t tell Ajax?”
“No, but a reasonable guess is an appointment with the killers.”
“How did he know them?” Fenwick asked.
“He saw something at Oak Street Beach,” Turner guessed. “He was there.”
“That’s Lake Shore Drive area,” Fenwick said. “They don’t let the bums into that part of town, do they?”
“I know bums sleep on the benches in Lincoln Park. I’ve seen them early in the morning. Maybe he walked down from there. Think, Buck, if he didn’t see it, how did he know the killers?” Turner asked. “Let’s call back our witnesses and see if they remember seeing a bum.”
They had the witnesses’ home and work numbers. None of them remembered seeing anyone of Wilmer’s description.
After those calls Fenwick suggested they go back to Wilmer’s. “Maybe we missed something the first time.”
Wind galed through the canyons of the city as they passed Sears Tower on Franklin, then turned west on Madison. “It’s gonna be a hell of a storm when it hits,” Fenwick said.
Turner said, “I wish it would make up its mind and get it the hell over with.”
They entered Wilmer’s building and trudged up the steps. Experienced cops, they had thoroughly inspected the space the day before. Still, they hunted over every inch. They even pulled back the tattered linoleum. Nothing. At one point Fenwick tried to open the window. “Double fuck,” he swore when his heaving exertions produced no effect. He mopped his forehead with an enormous red-checked handkerchief. He said, “This is how I imagine hell. Close, hot, humid, no breeze.” He glanced through the filthy window. He got a view of a mass of bricks two feet away. “No fire escape either. Crumbling brick makes a hell of an exterior decoration.” He turned back to the room.
Turner stood in the doorway. He felt sweat drip from his armpits. “What was his life like?”
“Hell.”
“No, I mean seriously. He showed up at the station constantly. He must have hung out down there a lot. It’s not far, but it’s a walk for an old drunk. Where else did he go?”
“The mission. The hospital. Any other place he felt like it in the city.”
“I wonder if he went directly from the mission to his appointment.”
“‘Appointment’ sounds like doctor shit to me,” Fenwick said.
“Let’s trace his path from the mission to the hospital.” As they walked down the stairs, Turner said, “It’s too hot in here. That’s probably why he spent as many nights as he could at the mission. He couldn’t sleep in this dump. Even if he was used to wearing all those clothes, the heat had to be impossible for him to sleep in.”
As they got out of the car across the street from the mission, Fenwick said, “We are not really going to walk all the way from here to the hospital. Not in this heat.”
“If he could do it, we can.”
Fenwick grumbled but agreed.
After two blocks Fenwick said, “How do we know he took this way? Maybe he and a buddy grabbed a few snootfuls somewhere, or he took another direction for some side trip.”
“Come on, Buck,” Turner said. “It was hot that day. He’d take the most direct route. We can grab a cab back if you want, then try the other streets.”
As they walked, they passed a few small businesses and numerous boarded-up shops as well as rubble-covered vacant lots, some still burned out from the riots in the sixties. In every business they stopped to ask if anyone knew Wilmer or had seen him that Saturday. Everybody they met, kids included, they asked about the old man. Their progress got slower and slower. Fortunately the neighborhood was essentially uninhabited. The westward movement of the Loop renovation wouldn’t get here for a number of years yet.
When they got to Ashland Avenue, they turned north. Now the wind blew directly on their backs. The swirl of the gusts was almost enough to dry the sweat on their bodies. They’d long since shed their coats. Fenwick carried his draped over one arm. Turner slung his across his shoulder, hanging onto it with a finger under the collar.
Forty futile minutes later, they arrived at the hospital. It might have been a ten-minute walk from Madison, but their interviews had slowed them considerably. At the hospital they asked if someone could check the records to see if Wilmer had been in last Saturday.
It took fifteen air-conditioned minutes, which seemed to fly by, for them to get a negative answer.
Fenwick and Turner glanced at each other as they emerged in the miserable dampness outside.
“Didn’t work,” Turner said. “We should have called and asked.”
“We had to try,” Fenwick said. “Besides, I got some exercise.”
It wasn’t the first time in their partnership that one had gone along with an off chance the other suggested. As they walked back Turner said, “As long as the lieutenant is giving us as much manpower as we need right now, why don’t we let the beat cops check all the other streets?”
Fenwick agreed. There were only a few streets that Wilmer could have taken between Madison and the hospital, but a team of men would be better than the two of them alone.
At the station Turner called back the chancery office. He got an official who claimed to know
nothing of any pictures. The bishop was on his way to Rome for a long-planned vacation.
What Fenwick and Turner did next was paperwork. After a late lunch eaten at their desks, they waded into the mounds of forms and reports required by the department. They sat for three hours typing, grumbling, sweating, and drinking coffee.
Turner rubbed his eyes at five and sighed. “I’m not getting enough sleep,” he told Fenwick.
“Worried about the kids?”
“Yeah, a little. The neighborhood is good, safe. Like last night with everybody calling the cops. Jeff at the hospital will be okay. Chasing after Brian and his friends the other night when his buddy’s car broke down didn’t help.”
“Be glad they called you. They were scared to call the kid’s dad, right? Brian and his friends trust you.”
“Or at least I was the best parental alternative of the moment.”
Fenwick said, “I envy your relationship with your kids. You’re good at this parent shit.”
Turner said, “I’ve got to take a break. I’m going to check in on Jeff. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“Take your time. All this shit will still be here.”
Turner half hoped he’d run into Manfred at the hospital. He hadn’t had time to call him. In Jeff’s room he found his son napping, and Mrs. Talucci reading Descartes.
At seven he drove back toward the station. A massive thunderhead towered over the western horizon. He could see occasional flashes of lightning, but it was still too far away to hear the rumble of the storm. He hoped this meant a break in the weather.
His radio came to life at the corner of Grand and Halsted, near Goose Island, an old industrial district trying to make a comeback as a mixture of light industry, yuppies, and trendy shops. The dispatcher told him to get in touch with the station. He called and got hold of Fenwick.
His partner said, “Hurry back here. We’ve got a break in the old drunk’s case.”
Turner rushed through the streets. Varieties of trash swirled in the wind of the rising storm. Rushes of cool air burst through the open window of the un-air-conditioned car.
Sorry Now? Page 14