Fenwick jumped in the car as Turner pulled up to the station. “We got a tip,” he said as he fastened his seat belt. “From another bum on the West Side.”
“Anybody we’re familiar with?”
“Name didn’t ring a bell. He supposedly lives in the same building as Wilmer did.”
“I thought it was uninhabited,” Turner said. “We should have seen him or had some hint of his presence yesterday or this morning.”
“They all run and hide when we come around. Supposedly he talked to your buddy Ajax and he knows something. While I was out grabbing something to eat, Ajax called. Asked for you. Didn’t leave a number, but said it was urgent.”
Turner hurried to Lake Street and headed west.
“Severe thunderstorm warning out,” Fenwick said. “I think they got it right for once.” Black clouds now filled the entire western horizon.
“Where are we supposed to meet this guy?” Turner asked.
“In the building, I guess. I didn’t get the call. Somebody down at Eleventh and State did. I just got the message.”
No one waited for them outside Wilmer’s building. First they walked around the exterior. Brutal gusts of wind forced them to bend into the wind. No movement or light from inside gave any hint of current habitation.
“Let’s check the place,” Fenwick said. “We can start in Wilmer’s room.”
They entered, Fenwick carrying the flashlight. The natural gloom of the interior, combined with the gathering darkness, made it nearly impossible to see inside the building.
The old stairs creaked as they climbed to the top floor. As they reached the last step, Turner said, “Did I just hear something downstairs?” He looked over the banister and listened intently. The stairs climbed in such a way that he could see down to the ground floor.
“Just the weather,” Fenwick said. “Let’s hurry so we can get the hell out of here.”
Lightening flashed and thunder rumbled as they reached the door to Wilmer’s room. It was open. They’d left it closed that morning. For a moment they heard drops of rain tattoo on the roof sporadically, then with a rush the storm hit in earnest. Rain pounded on the roof. Seconds later drips began in the hallway.
“I don’t like this.” Turner had to shout over the roar of the rain and the crash of thunder, now almost continuous.
Fenwick shouted in return, “Fuck this shit. Let’s look and get out.” He shone the light through the doorway. They saw nothing. Fenwick pushed into the room cautiously. The flashes of light from the convulsion outside penetrated even through Wilmer’s poor window and horrible view.
“What the fuck is that?” Fenwick pointed to a corner with a large mass that hadn’t been there this morning.
They hurried forward. Fenwick held the light while Turner turned over the body.
“It’s Ajax,” Turner said. He looked up at Fenwick, was about to speak, when: “What was that?” he said.
Fenwick said, “I didn’t hear anything.”
“A door slammed. I’m sure of it.”
“It was thunder,” Fenwick said.
“I’m going to check,” Turner said.
That light isn’t right, Turner thought as he made his way down the hall to the top of the stairs. “Oh shit,” he muttered. “Buck!” he yelled.
He didn’t have to peer over the banister to know it was fire. He called the fire department on his radio as he looked carefully to see how far the blaze had gotten. Fenwick joined him.
“Triple fuck,” Fenwick said.
“It’s caught too much for us to get down,” Turner said. The fire had already reached, or had been started on, the second floor. The movements of whoever started it had been covered by the rising storm.
“Rear exit,” Turner said.
They rushed down the hall. Fire flashed up toward them from the back stairs, too.
“Fire escape,” Fenwick said.
“Didn’t see any as we walked around,” Turner said.
“Triple fuck,” Fenwick said.
They could feel the heat of the blaze now, different from the humidity. Sweat glistened on their faces.
They tried other doors on the floor. All but one opened. They broke that one in, but it too overlooked the street and a four-floor drop.
“Wilmer’s room,” Turner said.
“What?” Fenwick asked as they entered.
Turner hurried to the window. He tried to yank it up, with the same success Fenwick had had. Years of old paint and general disuse had closed it permanently. Turner wrapped his coat around his arm and smashed the glass. Some of the rotted wood fell away at the same time. Turner gazed up into the roaring storm. He ducked his head back in. Shadows of flames flickered in the doorway.
“We’re going to walk up to the roof,” Turner announced.
Fenwick stuck his head out. “Bullshit. We can’t do that.”
Turner reached through the window and touched the building opposite. He pulled his hand back in and said, “Both of these dumps are old brick with lots of crumbling spots. The space between isn’t that big. Maybe two feet. We can crab walk it between the buildings.”
“I’m too fat,” Fenwick said. “What if I slip?”
“If one of us slips,” Turner said, “then they scrape up flat cop from the pavement. In here we get charred corpses. We’re taking the chance. It’s only six feet or so to the roof.”
Fenwick looked out. “Yeah, only.”
“We don’t have much time, Buck.”
Fenwick said, “What do we do with the body? Drop him so he doesn’t burn. He’s already dead. Won’t hurt him.”
“If we get a chance, we can come back. Let’s go.” Turner gave his partner a shove.
Fenwick, an ultimately practical man, took one more look back and crawled onto the ledge. He turned back and said, “Go close the door to stop the smoke.”
Turner hurried back, closed it, and returned to the window. He helped Fenwick gain balance. Fenwick wedged a foot in the brick wall two feet away. “Triple fuck.” Rain sloshed off Fenwick’s soaked body. He steadied his hands on each wall and immediately began to climb.
Moments later Turner followed. Wisps of smoke seeped under the door frame, following him out the window. Perhaps five minutes had passed since they discovered the body. Rain poured onto Turner, soaking him instantly as he eased himself onto the sill and placed his left hand and foot on the building opposite. He grabbed the best holds he could. Thunder and lightning above and a four-floor drop below. He began his ascent. He moved one limb at a time, testing his grip as he moved. He barely heard Fenwick above him.
He dared to look up. He saw his friend with one arm gripped on the edge of Wilmer’s building, his left foot wedged into a crevice on the building opposite. He scrabbled with the other foot, trying to catch a hold, and swung his left arm, trying to get it to join the right. Turner came up behind. He held on at three points, feet and left arm. He brought his right arm up. He saw Fenwick take another stab at swinging his weight for a grip. At that moment he shoved at Fenwick’s butt. The last push put Fenwick onto the roof.
The shove unbalanced Turner. He clutched at the right wall and slipped; his knuckles scraped brick. Skin and blood mixed with the falling rain. He shouted in agony, but made his hand stab into the bricks.
“Grab hold,” Fenwick called.
Turner looked up through the rain and saw Fenwick’s hand two feet from him. Turner resumed inching his way up, ignoring his burning knuckles. Finally close enough, he reached for Fenwick’s wrist. His partner grabbed at him. Their rain-slick hands rubbed against each other and missed. Turner felt himself unbalancing and beginning to tip. Fenwick’s hand grabbed his wrist. For a second he felt a tug, then another slip, finally a firm grasp. For a second Turner dangled by only his friend’s grip. Then he dug his feet into the bricks, launched himself upward, and with a heave from Fenwick made it to the top.
For a moment they sat breathing on the roof, listening to the wail of approaching fire engine
s. Temporarily safe, they sloshed through the puddles gathering on the roof, checking for a way down. Nothing. They studied the possibilities of climbing or jumping to the next building. Through dark and rain they couldn’t see any. The building continued for another two stories of deteriorating brick. Rescue from the fire department was the only option.
By holding his hand up to his eyes to shield them from the rain, Turner got a spectacular view to the east of lightning striking and restriking the top of Sears Tower. By radio he told of their predicament, and a couple of minutes later a few shouts through the slowly abating storm caught the attention of the arriving firemen. The two policemen climbed down ladders to safety. Five minutes after they reached ground level, the roof caved in, and the departing storm helped douse the flames.
Two hours later Turner leaned back in his chair behind his desk at the station. In the locker room downstairs he’d changed from his sopping clothes. He wore gray gym shorts, white socks, gym shoes, and a white T-shirt with a Chicago police logo on it. Fenwick sat across from him in bright yellow Bermuda shorts and a flowered Hawaiian shirt, left in his locker from last year’s squad picnic.
Wilson walked in and gave a wolf whistle. She stopped at Turner’s desk, eyed his body appreciatively, ruffled his hair, and said, “I always forget you have the sexiest legs. At times I wish I wasn’t quite so happily married.”
“What about me?” Fenwick said.
Wilson said, “Buck, when you decide to trade in your size-twenty tent, we’ll talk.”
“What are you doing here?” Fenwick asked.
“Overtime, like you,” Wilson said.
Carruthers burst into the room. “I heard on the radio. Is it true what happened to you guys?” He rushed across the room, eyes aglow and mouth agape.
Wilson asked, “What happened?”
The commander walked in, took one look at them and asked, “Do I want to hear this?”
Turner said, “I think this is the new uniform.” He didn’t remember feeling any fear until sitting down at his desk. Thinking back on what almost happened, gave him a queasy feeling.
He and Buck explained to the assembled group about the fire and the dead body.
“Ajax was his real name?” Carruthers asked when they finished.
“Is that important?” Fenwick asked.
“You guys okay?” the commander asked.
“Good enough,” Turner said.
Buck nodded agreement.
Wilson said, “They killed the old guy because he talked to you?”
“That doesn’t make sense,” the commander said. “He didn’t tell you anything.”
“Maybe they didn’t know that,” Turner said, “or they talked to him and found out he knew something that he hadn’t told us yet, or they interrogated him about what Wilmer said, or maybe he bragged to someone about how in tight he was with the cops, or they simply wanted to kill us and he was bait, or I don’t know. Buck said Ajax called and wanted to talk. Now we’ll never know what he wanted to tell us.”
Fenwick thumped his desk with his fist. “Double fuck. This shit doesn’t make sense.”
“Yeah, it does,” Turner said. “To whoever’s behind it, it makes perfect sense.”
They discussed the murders and attacks for an hour, but got nowhere. The commander told them to give it a rest. They could start in the morning trying to trace Ajax’s movements and figuring out why he’d died.
At home Turner found Brian and two of his buddies in the living room watching a video. For a couple of minutes Turner watched the Hollywood-style cops shoot guns and race around the streets smashing into corner fruit stands. He called the hospital to check on Jeff. The nurse told him his son was sleeping comfortably.
As soon as he hung up, the phone rang. He glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight. If it was one of Brian’s friends, he’d strangle the kid.
Instead a disembodied voice said, “You were lucky; maybe your kids won’t be. Leave your own alone.” The phone clicked.
Immediately he called the official number to check on a trace. From a phone booth on the far north side of the city. Turner knew what the cops would find when they checked it out. Nothing, and no witnesses.
He tried to sleep. The boys downstairs had plans to stay the night and he heard their rough giggles and rustling for a while. He tossed restlessly. He was physically tired, but his mind raced, trying to figure out all the possibilities of the murders. The breeze had sprung up again, but still from the south, carrying more humidity. The front hadn’t passed. Tonight’s storm had been only a brief respite.
NINE
At seven thirty Friday morning Turner left for work early, warning Brain to be extra careful, and stopped to see Jeff. Paul found his son putting together a five-hundred-piece jigsaw puzzle. Jeff told him the doctor said he could go home tomorrow. Paul enjoyed a half hour with his son, then checked with building security. They assured him they could handle anything.
First thing at work Turner told Fenwick, between yawns, about last night’s new threat.
When he finished, Fenwick said, “Every minority group in the country hates these people, but you were told to leave your own alone. The obvious conclusion is that the murder has to be gay-connected.”
“I just don’t buy it,” Turner said.
“You trying to tell me gay people can’t be murderers? They don’t hate people who’ve tried to hurt them? They aren’t capable of wanting revenge?”
“That’s not what I’m saying. I just don’t buy this big conspiracy theory.”
“We have to investigate the possibility,” Fenwick said.
Turner sighed. “You’re right.”
“Where do we begin?”
Turner said, “We talked to Nate Robeson and that didn’t lead anywhere. According to the papers the most active radical crowd in the city these days is called FUCK-EM. Let’s get Ian. He’ll know where to start.”
Turner called the Gay Tribune and then Ian’s home phone. No one knew where he was or when he was expected. As one of the most noted gay reporters nationwide and one of the newspaper’s oldest employees, Ian had a lot of freedom to come and go as he pleased. His roommate thought he might be being interviewed by national reporters, but she had no idea which ones.
An hour later Turner tossed his pen on a heap of forms and glared at the mounds of other paperwork on his desk. He picked up the phone and tried Ian again. Still no luck.
“Fuck this shit,” Fenwick said, “let’s nail down this Ajax character.”
They drove to the West Side and the Mission of Eternal Peace, where they found the volunteers agog and energized from another late-night visit from the Reverend Mucklewrath.
They talked to Travis, the good-looking young volunteer Turner had met Wednesday. He looked as handsome as he had two days ago, but more haggard. Travis explained that he’d traded shifts that day with a buddy. He yawned at them. “I’m a little tired, working two shifts in a row, but he does me favors so I return them. Besides, the reverend was here.” A faint rosy afterglow appeared on his cheeks.
Turner sympathized with the lack of sleep. He told Travis about Ajax.
“He’s dead?” Travis said, once again sounding genuinely shocked as he had the other night. He shook his head. “Ajax, for all of his faults, was one of the better ones we dealt with. He seemed to have a little class in his background, you know?”
“Did he come in last night?”
“Ajax checked in, but he left. He didn’t even finish his job. Ajax is fairly unreliable, but he usually tells somebody he’s going.” The kid smiled briefly. “In fact, he usually makes a stink about it, claiming he strained a muscle and he has to run to the doctor or something. It’s usually some dumb excuse.”
“You sure he didn’t tell anybody?”
“You can come back tonight and ask, but I doubt it.”
“How did he seem last night?” Turner said.
“I’m not sure I remember. We got pretty crowded because of the rain. I r
emember assigning him his task. I didn’t know he was gone until one of the custodians found Ajax’s mop and pail and reported them abandoned. No one got excited. One of them taking off like that is not all that rare an occurrence.”
“Did he have any fairly permanent or even a favorite place to stay?” Fenwick asked.
“Not that I know of.”
Early that day the police districts in the area had been notified of Ajax’s death; they would inform all the cops at their morning roll calls to ask every homeless person they could for any information about him. On rare occasions this method produced a helpful clue.
Turner and Fenwick stopped at the fire scene at Wilmer’s. Investigators from the fire department shifted rubble and debris. The torrential rain the night before hadn’t checked the fire until the building was almost completely destroyed.
The cops introduced themselves to one of the investigators.
“You the guys we rescued last night?” she asked.
They nodded.
She shook her head. “You guys were lucky. This was arson and the place was supposed to go fast. The stairway did, but this place was built years ago. The plaster walls held it up long enough.”
Fenwick said, “I’ll light a candle to the masons from the last century.”
Turner asked, “Did you find the body?”
“What was left of it. You won’t be able to find out much from what we got. We call them crispy critters.” Like cops, medical examiners, and most people who dealt with the remnants of human life, she had a bizarre sense of humor.
“Anything at all to tell about who did it or how?” Fenwick asked.
“Didn’t take a rocket scientist. Found a couple of charred standard-issue gasoline cans they left behind. You pour the gasoline and light a match. Not much to it.”
“I wish we could have saved the body,” Turner said.
“No chance,” the investigator said. “You spend a couple of minutes tossing a dead body around and you’re as dead as he is. Who does that help?”
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