Sorry Now?

by Mark Richard Zubro

  Turner took the wrinkled and roughened hand and held it. He said, “Mr. Gravelstone, I want to make sure you understand. I have some questions to ask.”

  Gravelstone nodded. Turner detected no fear in the eyes he saw in the dim light. He noted a fevered intensity, yet he thought he saw a calm serenity underneath.

  Gravelstone mumbled something.

  Turner placed his ear close to the old man’s mouth. “I want to sit up,” Gravelstone gasped.

  Turner helped him, then asked, “How can they let you be at home when you’re this sick?”

  Gravelstone tried a smile. When he talked, he whispered and often had to pause to draw a deep breath. “I’m better off here. All my possessions are gone, but it’s still my home. I’ve lived here thirty years. It’s my own room, in my own home, such as it is.” The old man asked for water. Turner washed one of the glasses in the kitchen, filled it, and brought it to him.

  The room felt close and humid. Turner’s shirt clung uncomfortably to his torso. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons for a little comfort. The apartment smelled of must and mildew.

  Turner made certain Gravelstone was comfortable, then asked, “You understand I’m from the police?”

  Gravelstone nodded.

  “I want to ask you some questions.”

  Gravelstone’s eyes didn’t leave Turner’s face for an instant. Oddly, Turner found the stare almost comforting. It was the most alive part of the human being he now sat with.

  “Go ahead,” Gravelstone whispered.

  “I’m here about Wilmer Pinsakowski.”

  Gravelstone did not seem startled.

  “You know he’s dead?”

  “Young man,” he wheezed, “perhaps you’d better let me tell you the story.”

  Turner nodded.

  “I was a priest years ago in another city,” the old man began. Frequently his coughs and wheezes interrupted his speech. Turner refilled the water glass and helped him sip from it when the old man indicated a need. “The church threw me out. It was awful. One of my parishioners hated me. She accused me of molesting her daughter. It was a lie, a vicious untruth. Somehow word got out and it made a hideous scandal. I always thought it was the pastor of my last parish. He was a vicious piece of hypocritical shit.” He breathed deeply for several minutes until the sting of the memory eased. “My friends turned their backs. The parish, the diocese, the whole community went crazy. An innocent man hounded from his real home.

  “I came here. No bishop anywhere would let me be a priest in his diocese. For thirty years I’ve suffered. I’ve come to hate the Catholic church for its cruelty to me.” He gasped and Turner helped him to more water. Gravelstone continued, “I hate straight people. I joined the conspiracy gladly.”

  Turner leaned closer.

  “Unfortunately,” he wheezed, “we didn’t all agree. A few of us wanted to use violence and death to show them their evil ways: holding up AIDS funding, keeping it too little, stopping legislation against gay-bashing.” He gasped for breath for several minutes, his emotions outrunning his body’s ability to cope. He resumed, “So we fought and planned, and no one said a word to anyone outside the group.” He sighed deeply. “Except me.”

  “What did you plan?” Turner asked.

  “Revenge. Against anyone who ever hurt gay people. Against the stupid, ignorant bigots who feed on hate. We would make them sorry. I wanted them to die. What could they do to me? I’m already dying.” The man wheezed horribly. A coughing fit shook his body.

  The candle began to gutter and Turner returned to the shelf for another. “I can take you back to the hospital,” he said as he sat back down.

  “There’s no need. They can’t do anything for me. I have a home-care nurse in once a day. He’s sufficient.”

  Candle lit and placed carefully next to the first, lightning and thunder roaring without, Gravelstone talked on.

  “I was among the inner circle. A few months ago I became too ill to continue attending meetings. A friend told me they’d chosen violence. I knew I could die in peace. When the Reverend Mucklewrath’s daughter died, I knew they’d started. I felt great joy when I listened to the news. Glad and warmed in my heart in a way I hadn’t felt since I said my first mass.”

  He sighed deeply and stopped. He closed his eyes and for a moment Turner thought he might die at that instant, but the old eyes resumed their implacable gaze, and the story continued. “I helped plan some of the early attacks, the tamer ones, like the pictures of the bishop. I loved the look on his face in the light of the camera flash.”

  “Why did Wilmer die?” Turner asked softly. He had to lean even closer to hear the reply.

  “Because I’m a fool. After all these years, my greatest fault is still being a fool.” He began to cry, quietly at first and then almost uncontrollably.

  Turner reached over and pulled him close and held him tight. Gravelstone’s arms barely had the strength to clutch him back.

  When the sobs eased and Gravelstone lay back, Turner brought him toilet paper from the bathroom so the old man could blow his nose and wipe his tears.

  Finally the old man continued, “I’m a fool, because after all these years, shunned and hated by the Catholic church, I still needed to confess. I never killed anyone, but I had a hand in planning the killings others did and will do, and in organizing the harm they have done and still hope to do, and I needed to confess. I had sinned and I knew it. I had to tell. I tried to confess to a real priest in a real church. That clerical jerk in the hospital might as well be a fixture on a holy card for all he’s good for. I managed it once on my own, to get to a church. I sat in the confessional and found, after thirty years, I couldn’t whisper secrets in some medieval hiding hole.

  “So I told Wilmer. The only man who talked to me and cared for me in thirty years, who wasn’t concerned about my past. He knew how to listen. Amazingly enough, the dear old soul had morals. How was I to know?”

  Tears coursed down his cheeks. “I told him and I killed him. He said he would go to other members of the organization and try to stop them. I picked the wrong person to tell. Poor Wilmer believed in laws and rules and the inevitability of time making all things right. He’s a bigger fool than I am. He promised not to reveal his source and I was too ill to stop him. They didn’t know I knew him. Only that cute young thing in the hospital knew, and what did he care? They wouldn’t think to ask an innocent straight boy.”

  With growing unease Turner thought: At least one person asked.

  Gravelstone continued, “How did you know to talk to him?”

  “Persistence and luck,” Turner said, then asked, “Why were my children threatened?”

  “I wasn’t around then. Had to be sheer overzealous amateurism. I could have told them to leave the cops alone. Once they started, they probably couldn’t stop.”

  “Who is ‘they’?” Turner asked.

  “Slowly, young man. I’ll tell you some, but not all. I signed Wilmer’s death warrant. I will avenge that. He threatened them, and with our initial attacks going so successfully his threats enraged the entire council and our leader. He alone ordered Wilmer killed, I’m sure of it. My best and only friend dead for my mistake. The closest thing I’ve had to a lover in my whole life. I will hate him forever for that.”

  Turner wasn’t sure which “him” Gravelstone referred to. He began to ask but the old man held up a hand.

  “I killed him by confessing.”

  Turner said, “I’ll find you a priest who you can talk to, confess to. I promise you that.”

  Gravelstone clutched at Turner’s hand with an intensity that surprised the policeman. “God bless you for that, but you must do something else. You must catch Wilmer’s killer and be sure he is punished. You must avenge his murder.”

  The old man let go his grip and sank back into his pillows. “I need to rest,” he said.

  Again Turner had to lean close to hear the next words. “I’m sorry about your children. If I
’d known you, it would be different. Go, my son. The ultimate planner who held us together no matter what, who ordered Wilmer’s death—go, get him. Dr. George Manfred is not a very nice man after all.”

  Disbelief and fear raced to master Turner’s emotions. A thousand more questions rushed through his mind at this confirmation of his worst fears, but the old man, too stubborn or too ill, would answer no more. Turner knew George Manfred planned to visit his son that evening. Might already have done so, might have hurt his boy. Manfred would have no problem with a security guard. Paul couldn’t afford to take the chance anything the old man said was a lie.

  As quickly as possible, he helped the old man get comfortable. Promising once again to bring or send a priest, he left.

  Once outside he raced down the stairs and flew toward the car. The crashing rain resoaked him instantly. Thunder boomed and lightning slammed above him.

  He ignored it all.

  The car started with a roar. He reversed out of the parking space, shoved the car into drive, and floored it. The tires spun and swerved on the wet pavement. The rear end fishtailed. He paused a second to let the tires catch, then hit the accelerator again.

  On the car radio he called the station and got Charlie Grimwald. He ordered, “Get somebody to Mrs. Talucci and Brian now, and alert the hospital.” He explained the need.

  Charlie said okay and told him the lieutenant wanted to talk to him. Turner heard the lieutenant say they were trying to send cars to the hospital, but with the rain itself and all the subsequent accidents, it would be difficult.

  The old man’s confession left too many things unexplained. Turner wanted answers and would get them, but first he had to make sure his boys were safe. He raced back to I-57, spraying jets of water from his tires’ wake. His hope of rushing through town by expressway died after 103rd Street. At that point he ran into a completely stopped line of cars. The rotating light on the top of his vehicle made no dent in the movement ahead. Undoubtedly underpasses on the Dan Ryan had flooded. He didn’t hesitate. He pulled onto the shoulder and rode it to the Halsted Street exit. Even with his siren bellowing and lights flashing, he made torturously slow progress up the city streets. His radio contact told him the hospital reported all normal; Brian was at Mrs. Talucci’s, with a cop in the house. Still his fear increased with every flooded intersection he had to skirt. The chaos of the downpour mixed with the height of rush hour caused him endless minutes of mind-numbing anxiety. At each delay he became more aware of the horror and helplessness Mucklewrath must have felt when he saw his daughter murdered.

  The pouring rain kept on. The flashing red light and the screaming siren barely penetrated the rain thundering on the roof. Still Halsted Street proved faithful all the way to Lake Street. Here the flooded intersection forced him to halt.

  He slammed his hand on the steering wheel, then spun it far to the right. The car swerved up Lake Street toward the Loop. His speed caused him to send up geysers from the standing water on the street. As long as the car didn’t stall, he didn’t care.

  Up Orleans, he jogged over to Clybourn and took it back to Halsted. He snaked around a three-car accident at the corner of North and Halsted and continued on.

  Turner roared up to the hospital. He didn’t feel the rain as he jumped from the car and raced inside.

  In the hall he found everything very quiet. He sped past the night nurse station, hearing calls behind him.

  He punched the elevator button, but in almost the same instant saw the sign for the stairs. He took them two at a time, oblivious to his labored breathing. He flung open the door on the fourth floor. Again total quiet. Nurses to the left of him called his name. He turned to the right. No security guard.

  He rushed to Jeff’s room. His son slept peacefully. George Manfred stood over the boy, the only light in the room outlining his figure from behind, casting a dark shadow over the boy.

  “You motherfucking son of a bitch. Get away from my son.” Turner aimed his gun at Manfred’s head.

  George turned his soft brown eyes on him and looked at him in alarm. “What’s wrong, Paul?” he asked.

  The door of the room banged open. Several of the staff walked in. The gun stopped them. Paul held up his star in his left hand so the people who entered could see it, while he kept his gun in his right hand trained on the doctor.

  “How’d this bastard get in here?” Turner demanded. A large man in a security-guard uniform, seemingly in charge, said, “They told us to be careful of danger. Dr. Manfred isn’t dangerous. He was here, so I went to get a cup of coffee.”

  “You stupid shit. The rest of the police will be here in a minute,” he said. “Until they get here make sure no one else is around who isn’t supposed to be. Put a guard on this door so no one gets in. For now, all of you, out!”

  Seeing the gun and recognizing his forceful commands, the hospital staff retreated.

  Turner said to Manfred, “Over by the other bed. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “Paul?” Manfred said.

  “Just keep moving.”

  Manfred moved behind the empty bed on the far side of the room.

  Without taking his eyes from Manfred, Turner reached down and felt Jeff’s face and hair. The boy stirred, but slept on, oblivious as usual to all but the most vigorous attempts to wake him.

  “He’s fine,” Manfred said.

  “I’ve been to talk to Gravelstone,” Turner began. “He explained a lot. I want the rest of the truth from you.”

  “What did he say?”

  Turner recounted all that Gravelstone told him, finishing with, “The kid at the hospital told me you asked who Wilmer knew.”

  “Paul”—George spoke softly—“I know you’re worried about your son. I’m sorry for that. I didn’t kill anybody. Nobody in any group I’m in charge of killed anybody. We haven’t done any violence at all.”

  “What about what Gravelstone said? All the plans?”

  “In managing groups I’ve found it easier to let the radicals rant and rave, so they get it out of their system. They get bored, or leave. Mostly they want to be heard and paid attention to. Few really want to take the responsibility of doing something themselves. They could on their own. What do they need a group for? Only two or three people ever wanted to do violence in the first place. Two meetings after Gravelstone became too ill to attend, we decided on total nonviolence.”

  Turner’s mind wavered. Manfred sounded so reasonable and calm.

  “We did plan the diarrhea attack, the fake whorehouse story, the naked pictures of the bishop, and the author’s book, but that’s all. Maybe a friend told Gravelstone what he wanted to hear. If the old man was dying, what difference would it make?”

  “How come the same message got left at the murder?” Turner asked.

  “We planned to leave the same message each time. Paul, be reasonable. We couldn’t know the murderers would leave the same message. We had nothing to do with the violent acts.”

  “Burning the author’s book isn’t exactly nonviolent.”

  “No organization is perfect. They were supposed to steal every other page. We figured it’d drive Bennet nuts.”

  “What about Wilmer?”

  “What about him?”

  Turner reminded him what Gravelstone had said about Wilmer talking to them.

  “Paul, he never talked to anybody. Certainly not to me. Maybe he would have if he’d had the chance. I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

  “I’m still not convinced about this ‘Sorry now’ shit. That’s a hell of a coincidence.”

  “We saw the words in the Tribune, connected with the legislator’s house burning in Kankakee. An unfortunate decision in retrospect—but you’ve got to remember, we didn’t plan it in conjunction with these tragedies. We didn’t know the Mucklewrath murderers used those words. The police never released that information. I know it looks awful, but I repeat, we haven’t done any violence at all.”

  Turner held the gun steady, wo
ndered where his backup was. He glanced at his watch: seven thirty. Probably stuck in the rain and paralyzed traffic of an exhausted rush hour. “How can I believe you?” Turner asked.

  They stared at each other in silence.

  A commotion in the hall caused them both to turn. Paul swung his gun toward the door. The door banged open. Ian entered, a hospital orderly draped around his waist. The white-clad attendant shouted for him to stop. Ian ignored him.

  Paul sorted things out. Minutes later Ian sat next to Jeff, across from Paul. “Manfred didn’t kill anybody. He didn’t plan to, either.”

  “Explain,” Paul ordered.

  Ian told him that he’d gotten the truth out of Gill Garret late that afternoon. As Paul listened to the story, he realized it matched Manfred’s. Ian said, “I believe them. They may have done stuff that was slightly out of the ordinary, and mildly illegal, and I was wrong about them, but they didn’t kill anybody.”

  Paul respected and trusted Ian more than anyone he knew. He said, “You believe them?”

  “Yes,” Ian said.

  “Double fuck,” Paul said. He’d long since lowered the gun. Not sure what to do or say, he sat on Jeff’s bed. He looked at Manfred. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  The doctor said, “You were worried about your kids.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed. Finally Manfred excused himself and left.

  Paul checked Jeff, who still slept peacefully. In the hallway a guard stood watch.

  Outside the rain had stopped. Standing next to his car Turner said, “I feel like shit for what I said to Manfred.”

  Ian said, “We all make mistakes. You had reason to be afraid. Don’t kick yourself. Maybe things will work out between you two.”

  “Maybe.” Turner sounded unconvinced.

  After a few moments’ silence Ian said, “I feel somewhat akin to a fool. I screwed up. There was never any conspiracy.”

  “Should I say I warned you?”

  “Please don’t. I’ll only get more depressed. Gill only told me now because he knew if I went any further with my theories, and if I ever found out he knew the truth, I’d never forgive him. We grew up together. We’ve been friends since first grade. Fortunately for me, he thought friendship was more important than principle.”