As prearranged, Turner met Fenwick at about seven. They were hours early for their shift.
Dan O’Leary, one of the cops on duty at the admitting desk said, “Fenwick, you got a call from someone who claimed to be a lawyer for Riveting Records. He said you’re to call no matter when you get in.”
Fenwick crumpled up the note and tossed it into a trash can. “I don’t respond to lawyer’s directives outside of a courtroom.”
The acting commander, Drew Molton, met with them. Turner told them about Clendenen’s visit. Turner didn’t believe his actions in helping Clendenen compromised his position as an investigator, but once the Zawickis and Blundlefitzes of the world started twisting things, even the most unassailable act of kindness was unlikely to escape unscathed.
Molton said, “Don’t worry about his visit. It’s all over the media that he’s in the hospital. It’s a good thing you had your therapist friend check him in. Otherwise we’d have even more questions from the press. We’ve got intense pressure. Ignore it as you usually do. Our media people will handle any direct questions. We are having a problem with these music people trying to leave town. This Zawicki guy must know somebody.”
“We’ve got a cure for the Zawicki problem,” Fenwick said. “He’s been screwing the boys in the band. We’ll threaten to reveal that to the press. He’ll back off.”
“Screwing them?” Molton asked. “As in he’s a rotten, cheating businessman or as in he had his dick up their butts?”
Turner said, “I don’t have details of specific physical acts. It certainly wasn’t just figuratively. I’m pretty sure it was very literally.”
“Amazing,” Molton said, “but believable. Underage?”
“No.”
Molton said, “Still, I think that kind of threat should work. I got a call from a guy saying he was a lawyer from Hot Trends magazine. I am to tell you both that you are evil, awful people for threatening his client.”
“I know the drill,” Fenwick said. “He has rights and they’re going to be really pissed if we bug him again.”
“No, they’re really pissed now. If they could find any kind of witness, I think they’d be in front of the cameras already.”
“He interfered in an investigation,” Fenwick protested.
“I know that. You know that. The lawyers know that. When you’re a cop, it makes no difference whether you’re right or wrong. A smear in the press, an accusation that takes forever to disprove, those often do enough damage. There’s a lot of folks who don’t like us.”
“We didn’t hit him or shoot at him or kill him or profile him,” Fenwick said.
“You bruised his ego,” Molton said.
“Fucking egotistical moron,” Fenwick said. “Wish he was dead.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Molton said.
First Turner called the evidence techs and asked if they’d had time to examine the underwear. “Nothing much,” was the reply. “The guy in the pink boxers beat off a lot or he used that one pair of shorts as a cum towel.”
“Not a lot of help,” Turner said.
“Did you really expect much from these? If we find out anything, we’ll call.”
They did paperwork for nearly an hour and also set up a meeting at the murder scene.
Turner and Fenwick stopped at the medical examiner’s office on the way over. There were reporters camped out in the lobby.
The ME had Roger Stendar open on the slab. Turner thought even the staunchest fan might be inclined to puke at that sight.
“What have you got so far?” Fenwick asked.
“Gunshot wound. Rattled around in there. Killed instantly. No bruises. No other wounds. No signs of fighting back.”
“Have you had time for drug screening?”
“Sent that out a few hours ago. Whether he was killed because he was a drug-addicted rock star or not is something you guys will have to figure out. I’ve got no obvious track marks or anything else that says this kid was doped up.”
“Not much,” Fenwick said.
The ME said, “He’s got the largest flaccid prick of any corpse I’ve ever measured. Five inches.”
“That’s important?” Fenwick asked.
“Not to me. I just give out information. The other bit of major news I have is that he was anally penetrated within an hour of his death. No semen. A little bit of tearing around the anus. Whoever did it either used a condom, or didn’t have an orgasm, or used an artificial device.”
Fenwick said, “Could it have happened after he was dead?”
“No. He was alive for it.”
“But no marks of having fought back?” Turner said.
“Nope. If he wasn’t willing, I’ve got no evidence that he tried to do something about it.”
Fenwick said, “We’d never be able to get DNA samples until we get a suspect.”
Turner said, “If the person who screwed him is also the person who killed him.”
“Can’t tell that from what I’ve got,” the ME said. “Might not be able to. I’ll keep everything from the cavity, but it’s possible he was using a dildo on himself.”
Turner said, “Buck, if you say this is truly fucked up you may find an unpleasantly large artificial device in places you never imagined.”
“I can image a lot,” Fenwick said.
Turner said, “Presumably, only the killer knows Stendar was penetrated before he died. If that’s true, we need to keep that little bit of information quiet.”
The detectives drove to the All-Chicago Sports Arena. The shrine outside had grown larger along with the crowd. Turner estimated well over two thousand people huddled against the frigid temperature. They had to have a lot of fervor to be out in the bitter cold. The sea of votive candles was threatening to become a flood. Even with this vast amount, the flames barely held their own against the rising northeast wind.
They met Aaron Davis, Frances Strikal, Ethel Hinkmeyer, David McWilliams the beat cop, and Simon Pomfret, an evidence technician.
McWilliams said, “I talked to all the officers on duty. They confirmed that nothing else was found.”
Fenwick asked, “Would the gunshots have caused the platform to fall?”
“No,” Pomfret said. “Everything was too well put together and designed. You’d need a rocket launcher.” He handed them a sheaf of papers. “You’ll see in there that I’ve got a general idea where the gunshots came from.”
Turner and Fenwick examined the diagram of the gunshot trajectories. “Where is this?” Turner asked. Pomfret led them to a spot under the vast stage complex. The dressing room was about ten feet away. The evidence techs had found a bullet embedded in the bottom of the platform, one in a strut twenty feet above it, and the original one Turner had found. The general area they had come from was an exit to the washrooms and concession stands.
Fenwick said, “Do you have an outline or chart or schedule of everything the boys did during the concert?”
Hinkmeyer said, “Yes, and I have the list of their songs. I can also tell you which people in the crew should have been where or the general area they were assigned to work in. There’s another list that shows at what times the boys sing or dance. The choreography was pretty rigidly set.”
As they eyed likely hiding places, Fenwick said, “You wait for a moment of big explosions, everybody watches the pyrotechnics, and you fire away. Wrap the gun in your coat, and you’ve got it concealed. You just look like you’re raising your hand to point at what’s going on. As long as your coat doesn’t slip, you’ve got perfect cover.”
“And little real chance of hitting one of them,” Turner said. “We’ve got personal attempts like the water bottles, large attempts like the fire, and random attempts like these shots. I don’t get it.” He checked the crew list then asked Davis, “If the band isn’t changing, who is down here?”
Davis said, “One or two costume people are usually around. Mostly they take what the boys are done with and get it out of the way. Their clothes a
re set out pretty carefully. The crew is well trained. They’ve been doing the same basic thing for six months.”
“We’ll have to check the beat cops’ reports for who talked to the costume people,” Fenwick said. “And we’ll have to talk with them. Who else?”
“None of the pyrotechnics originated from this area. That’s all controlled by computers and the stuff that looks like flames comes out of gas pipes or sometimes it’s just computer-screen images.”
“When is the concert loudest?”
“I’ve got a list from special effects,” Davis said. “They check it before each concert, make sure all the computers are synchronized.”
“Are there ever any foul-ups, computer glitches?” Turner asked.
“Nothing went wrong with them last night. I can’t remember a glitch this tour. And every system has at least three backups, none of which are connected to each other.”
“Who has access to these lists?” Turner asked.
“They aren’t secret or anything,” Davis said. “The guys in the band, most of the work crews.”
“Are they ever handed out to critics?”
“There’d be no reason to seek them out to give one to them. Wouldn’t really be any reason not to. No critic requested these here.”
“But a fan couldn’t just randomly pick one up?” Turner asked.
Aaron Davis said, “They aren’t just sitting out in the open, but I guess somebody could get one. No one had a reason to keep these particularly secret.”
“What happens if the boys decide to banter with the audience or each other?” Fenwick asked. “Wouldn’t that throw off the timing?”
“There is really very little variation from performance to performance. What you see as casual banter may not be perfectly scripted, but the time allotted for it is. For example, Galyak might vary his jokes slightly. If there are any alterations, we’ve got people working the computers on-site. We’ve got pause buttons.”
“The band’s set started at exactly what time?” Turner asked.
“Nine-fifteen.”
“So we can come pretty close to exact times of loudest moments. It makes sense the shots coincided with those moments, or they would have been heard.” The group worked together several minutes to attach approximate real-times next to each noise high-point.
“Are the guys in the band onstage all the time?” Turner asked.
“No. Sometimes one or two change while someone is singing a solo, or some effect is going on and they all rush down here.”
“Anything else?” Fenwick asked.
Everybody shook their heads no.
“Can we start packing this stuff up for shipping?” Davis asked.
“No,” Fenwick said. “We’d like to leave it for a day or so more.”
“One odd thing,” McWilliams said.
“What?” Fenwick asked.
“All the towels from the shower area are missing.”
“Who was in charge of that?” Fenwick asked.
Davis said, “We were. When we went to collect them, they were gone.”
“Souvenirs,” Hinkmeyer said. “I don’t think it’s anything sinister. I’ve seen it happen before. Anything these guys touched would be valuable. A towel with the water on it from one of these guy’s bodies would be worth a small fortune.”
Turner asked, “But how could anybody prove it had been used by one of them?”
Hinkmeyer said, “I suppose someone who was there would have to vouch for it, or someone would have to be extremely gullible.”
In the car Fenwick said, “I’m looking forward to talking to all of them again about Haupmin’s claims of dissension and Clendenen’s claims of being picked on, and about Roger getting screwed in the shower.”
Turner said, “Disparate data depresses me.”
“If I’m forbidden from quoting poetry, you can’t say things like that.”
“I’m pro-poetry. I’m anti-listening to it while I work. I’m anti-listening to it when it is not of my own choosing.”
“Philistine.”
The largest crowd of reporters up to this point in the case was in the lobby of the Hotel Chicago. Turner and Fenwick could see Zawicki at the podium answering questions. He was flanked by Ralph Eudace, Ivan Pappas, and Danny Galyak.
“No, we don’t know how long Dexter is going to be in the hospital. We are monitoring his situation. We are flying in his parents from Midland, Kansas, as we speak. We are all very concerned.”
“Where’s the other band guy, Jason Devane?” Fenwick whispered.
“I don’t know,” Turner said. “I just got here myself.”
A reporter asked, “Is someone out to get this band? We’ve heard there’s a conspiracy. That there was sabotage.”
“I don’t know where you guys get this stuff,” Zawicki said.
“I do.” The voice was next to Turner’s ear. Randall Blundlefitz parked himself in front of the detectives. “That was some performance this morning.” All his bravado was back. “I let my ego get in the way of my common sense. I should have brought the magazine’s lawyers with me. You bullied me into submission. That won’t happen again.”
“The lawyers are here now?” Fenwick asked.
“I don’t need them now. This whole thing is going to blow up in your faces.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Fenwick demanded.
“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.” Blundlefitz stomped over to the mob of reporters and shoved his way into the middle of them. He stuck his hand up and was called upon immediately.
“Are the police acting properly?” he asked.
Zawicki said, “We have many questions about how this case is being handled. Remember the detectives in the Ramsey and Simpson cases?”
Fenwick said, “Zawicki’s in it with Blundlefitz. They’ve made a deal.”
Turner knew the hazards of a job that involved interacting with the public. Whether a dogcatcher or president, when you’re a public figure, you either have to get used to people going after you or you get out. Most people had no training or professional spin doctors to help them. Turner and Fenwick were used to pressure, as all detectives had to be.
Ethel Hinkmeyer, the publicist, rushed up to them. “Thank God,” she said. “I just got back a few minutes ago.”
“What’s wrong?” Turner asked.
“No one can find Jason Devane. They postponed the press conference for an hour then decided they couldn’t put it off. The press was in a frenzy. Everybody’s out looking for him.”
Turner said, “Everybody except all the people at the press conference.”
Hinkmeyer shook her head. “This is bad.”
Fenwick asked, “None of these reporters knows he’s missing?”
“Not yet.”
“How long has he been gone?” Turner asked.
“No one’s seen him all afternoon.”
Turner knew they could step in and stop the proceedings, but that might only add to the frenzy. Being missing for an afternoon was not usually a cause for concern for an adult, but nothing was usual today.
Fenwick said, “We have to talk to these people right now. You’ve got to get them to end the press conference.”
“That’s what I was going to try to do. This is out of hand. Jordan Pastern is up in Mr. Zawicki’s room. He’s going nuts. Maybe you should talk to him. The rest of us will join you up there as quickly as we can.” The detectives agreed, and she hurried away.
“She’s not part of the Blundlefitz-Zawicki axis?” Fenwick asked.
“She didn’t act hostile. Of course, she’s a publicist. They’re paid not to be assholes to outsiders.”
In the suite Pastern paced. The band may have lost their luxury lodgings, but Zawicki hadn’t lost his. The room they were in might have been as large as the entire square footage, including the basement, of Turner’s home. White walls made a stark contrast with massive cubes, squares, and triangles of burnished bronze.
Pastern said, �
��Thank God you’re here.”
“Hinkmeyer told us Jason Devane is missing. What happened?”
“When we checked his room late this afternoon, he was gone. We had a huge meeting after everybody got back last night. Mr. Zawicki assured everyone that the band would go on. That our jobs would go on. I know he’s going to fire me. I know he thinks that this is my fault. I’m head of security, so actually he’s right. It was my job to protect them.”
“Was Devane registered under his own name?” Turner asked.
“No. There wasn’t another suite available, so we got whatever rooms we could. Jason was on the tenth floor. Nobody else from the band was. The rooms were all under the same name. Elvis Presley. It was as good a code as anyone could come up with. I haven’t been able to sleep. I picture the guys laughing and being silly on the bus. All the good times. They were great kids. That’s gone. All gone.” He sighed deeply. “Nobody saw Jason all day today. Late this afternoon, I went to his room. I knocked. There was no answer. I got worried. Hotel security let me in. His bed had been slept in. Why would he walk out without telling anyone? The guys know better than to go out alone. They know the problems with crazed fans. Once they’re recognized, it’s a mob scene. Nobody’s reported anything like that. And Jason wouldn’t run away. He couldn’t. Where can one of the most famous people on the planet run to? Where the hell do you look in a metropolitan area of millions of people? We’ve checked all the airlines, the bus station, the rental car companies, the trains, nothing. Unless he walked back to California. I feel like I should be out there, but what good would it do for me to be walking the streets? We’re supposed to have another meeting after the press conference.”
“Are they telling the press he’s missing?”
“They decided not to. He’s only been gone a short time.”
Turner said, “He’s disappeared and they hold a press conference to attack the cops? Nobody even thinks to call the police?” Fenwick glanced at his friend. The words contained more than a hint of anger which Turner rarely showed to suspects, witnesses, or arrestees. Fenwick had heard that underlying, steely tone only a few times in their years as partners. But a moment later Turner asked in a voice only slightly quieter than usual, “Did anyone see Dexter Clendenen leave?”
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