The CNN reporter droned on. “The death of these two young men has caused an upheaval in the music world the likes of which has not been seen since the deaths of Elvis, John Lennon, and George Harrison. And here we have two dead young men. The president issued a statement…”
Turner said into the phone, “Do you know if that reporter knows what’s going on?”
“Yes. They can’t go with the full story until they’ve had a chance to talk to Zawicki, or get it confirmed from another source. I’m working on getting another source. It’s still too early on the West Coast. Zawicki dropped a band last year at the last minute. All cute young guys. The market was starting to be flooded with boy bands. They got some tryouts but went nowhere. Was it business or lack of pleasure that got them dropped? Either way, I bet there’s some connection with them getting screwed literally and figuratively. I’ll be getting some confirmation before long.”
“He may use counter-propaganda hard,” Turner said.
“He’s not my boss.”
“This can’t be traced back to me or the department?”
“It can’t even be traced back to me,” Ian said.
“How can you do that?” Turner asked.
“An anonymous call here, an anonymous call there, a few suggestions to friends of friends. Pop in a few Internet rumors which are the lifeblood of senselessness and silliness in the new millennium. The Internet has the best, most vicious, most unconfirmed bits of news. God bless the Internet. A number of people were prepared to believe anything about Zawicki. You don’t get to the top without making enemies, and he’s got more than most.”
“They must be legion,” Turner said. “Maybe one of them killed these guys to try to ruin him financially.”
“I suppose these deaths would be a setback, but the guy is rich in his own right. He does own fifty-one percent of the stock in Riveting Records, which might suffer in the long run from these two deaths. In the short run, my guess is people will flock to buy the band’s CDs. My sources say that Zawicki has huge investments outside the company. He’s probably made enemies, but I don’t know if I’d believe old men in corporate boardrooms would just order the elimination of a rival’s band.”
“Think The Godfather,” Turner said.
“I have no feel for any kind of connection like that here,” Ian said, “but I’ve only been at this a few hours.”
“Don’t you ever sleep?” Turner asked.
“You never used to ask me that when we were lovers.”
“We were young then.”
Turner watched the news coverage for several more minutes. A reporter was saying, “We have further unconfirmed rumors of sabotage. That the whole band may have been a target of one or more assassins.”
Turner said good-bye to Ian. Against the background of the hotel ballroom, he saw Blundlefitz being fitted with a mike on the Fox morning news. Seeing no useful gain from the news shows for the moment, he reached for the remote. He was exhausted. He hated working nights.
Just before he pressed the off button, there was a flurry of activity near the door in the background. Turner saw television lights follow Jonathan Zawicki into the ballroom. He led Dexter Clendenen, Danny Galyak, Ivan Pappas, and several other members of the band’s entourage to the podium.
Zawicki held up his hand for silence. Dexter looked lost and disoriented. An older man and woman stood ramrod straight next to him. Paul guessed they were Dexter’s parents.
Galyak and Pappas barely looked at the cameras or the crowds. “I have an announcement,” Zawicki said. He looked totally serene and in control. He wore a dark gray suit, white shirt, and conservative tie. The room quieted down.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Zawicki said. “You’ve heard rumors about a possible scandal. I’m here to put those rumors to rest. I believe we need to spend this time mourning the deaths of two fine young men. I haven’t slept. None of us has. This is a terrible tragedy. Yet, ugly rumors have surfaced. At the time of such horrific events, I am loath to waste even an instant on these lies, but I feel I am forced to. I will start with the simplest. You heard about my possible resignation from this company. That is not true. I am the majority stockholder. I will not resign.”
Zawicki motioned to Clendenen who stepped to the microphone. Zawicki said, “Rumors have circulated about sexual activity connected with the band. Dexter has a statement.”
Paul thought Clendenen might start the rocking and banging again any second. If this was his child, the last place he’d want to have him right now was in front of a horde of reporters. When Clendenen spoke, his voice was soft but clear. “Mr. Zawicki has been nothing but a friend to us. Whoever would spread vicious rumors at a time like this doesn’t deserve to be considered human. Two of us are dead. Please help us find who killed them.” When he finished, Dexter faded into the background, and Zawicki returned to the microphone.
Interspersed with the coverage of the press conference were shots of sobbing teens and the sea of candles outside the All-Chicago Sports Arena. The mound of teddy bears was now at least ten feet high.
Turner thought Zawicki had abused his position. The guys had confirmed it. How could Zawicki be sure the remaining members of the band wouldn’t turn on him? The man could be reasonably sure the police wouldn’t make an announcement. The police had no choice but to respect the rights of suspects and witnesses. Still, people blabbed.
Blundlefitz was recognized from among the mass of reporters. “Is it true they found someone who saw Jason Devane last night after he left the hotel?”
“Yes,” Zawicki said. “We found this person only a few minutes after an appeal this morning on the networks for anyone with information to come forth. Why the police hadn’t found her is a mystery to me.”
Turner called the police station and got the commander. “You watching this?”
“Yeah.”
“Who is this witness?”
“I know about the appeal because I heard it on the radio while driving in. This is the first I heard that someone saw something. You and Fenwick better get back down here.”
Tired as he was, Turner knew he didn’t have much choice. He hung up but watched for a few more minutes.
Numerous reporters jumped up to be recognized. The first one was a woman in a pink woolen skirt and navy blue top. “Where is this person?”
“Safe from the police.”
Blundlefitz was recognized again. Several of the reporters around him did little to disguise looks of disdain. Blundlefitz asked, “Do you know the source of these rumors about yourself?”
“We’re doing everything we can to track them down. We will not rest until we find out where they came from.”
“What are the police doing?” Blundlefitz being allowed to do a follow-up seemed to irk those around him, but they kept writing. “Are the police doing enough?” he asked.
“Obviously not. Two of these boys are dead. The way to honor their deaths is to find their killers.”
Turner’s phone rang. It was Fenwick.
“Are you watching this shit?” Fenwick asked.
“Yes.”
“Your blood boiling yet?”
“Almost as much as yours on a bad day.”
“And this is one of the worst. See you in half an hour.”
Paul took a shower that seemed to rearrange his tiredness rather than revive him. He headed back to work.
The press conference was over. Reporters swarmed in and outside the station. The ones outside were desperate to be one of the lucky ones inside and out of the cold. Turner used a side entrance.
In the commander’s office, Turner and Fenwick found Zawicki, two of his lawyers, representatives from the offices of the superintendent of police, and the mayor.
The detectives stayed near the door. The lawyers flanked Zawicki in chairs near the superintendent’s desk. The official representatives sat off to one side. Zawicki barely deigned to look at the detectives. “I want these two off the case.”
Molton
said, “No.”
“There are people here from high-up offices that you have to listen to.”
“I will listen when they have something to say. Right now I’m listening to you.”
Fenwick said, “We have your own confession that you required sex from these boys for them to get into the band.”
“I said no such thing.”
Fenwick, Turner, and the commander exchanged glances.
“What?” Fenwick said.
“I don’t know why you would repeat such a thing. I assume you are the source of these ugly rumors?”
“We have statements from the members of the band,” Turner said.
“I invite you to talk to them with my lawyers present. And you will be talking to them only with lawyers present from now on.”
“What kind of hold do you have on these guys?” Fenwick asked.
“I don’t have a hold on them. I want them to tell the truth. Sex has nothing to do with this case.”
“Do you really think that kind of activity can be kept quiet?” Turner asked. “Aren’t you risking a lot on the hope of silence? You cannot control these people.”
Zawicki spoke directly to the commander, “If the police have been concentrating on sex, no wonder they haven’t gotten anywhere with the inquiry. I’ll have an army of private investigators looking into the murders and the actions of the police.”
“Where were you yesterday afternoon and evening?” Fenwick asked.
“I had nothing to do with the murder of either of these boys.”
“Answer the question, please,” Molton said.
“My lawyers will provide you with a detailed account of my activities.”
“Where is this witness?” Molton asked.
One of the lawyers spoke. “She’s waiting in a limousine outside.”
“If she can help with the case, why didn’t you bring her to us immediately?” Molton asked.
“We’re not sure we can trust the police in this matter,” Zawicki said.
Molton picked up his phone and punched two numbers. “There’s a limo outside with a witness in it. Bring her in here.” He hung up. He turned to the lawyers and Zawicki and said, “I’m not sure you have a choice about trusting or not trusting the police. We’re in charge of the investigation. We’re the only ones who are going to be in charge of the investigation. You need to work with us, not against us.”
Zawicki said, “I will work for what I think is in the best interest of the remaining band members.”
“Dexter Clendenen is in bad shape,” Turner said. “He needs help.”
For the first time Zawicki favored him with a glance. “What is your role in helping to bring him to the state he is in?”
“He’s twenty-three years old,” Turner said. “He’s had twenty-three years of life before I met him Saturday night. He’s had six years of intense work, the last few with the spotlight of fame and fortune. Whatever condition he is in is not the result of a few moments of kindness in the past thirty-six hours.”
“Did you hold him captive in your home? What’s the press going to say when they learn the police compromised their investigation by having one of the members of the band in their home? They will have lots of questions. There don’t have to be reasons or answers. Suspicion of impropriety is enough.”
Turner knew the press in today’s feeding-frenzy mode didn’t need facts. Rampant speculation was enough. Then they would have people on their shows discussing as factual the speculations and then debating the speculations rather than dealing with the facts. The right-wing media especially hated facts and not having enough didn’t stop them. If they didn’t have a bloody piece of evidence to wave, they speculated about whether there should be a bloody piece of evidence to wave, and why there wasn’t a bloody piece of evidence, or who might have a bloody piece of evidence, or who might be covering up a bloody piece of evidence. Never mind the fact that there never was a bloody piece of evidence to begin with.
Molton said, “Tarnishing the reputation of police officers in this city is not going to bring these boys back to life. It is not going to find their killers. I wonder what the point of doing that is. Certainly someone trying to cover up knowledge of a crime might act this way.”
“Are you accusing me?” Zawicki demanded.
“No. Just making an observation.”
Two uniformed officers brought in a fourteen-year-old girl named Justine and her parents, Mr. and Mrs. LaPorte. All three looked a little bewildered. Molton stood up, introduced himself, and all the other official personnel. Turner got three more chairs from the conference room.
Molton said, “Miss LaPorte, we want to thank you for coming forward.” She wore a bright green winter coat that nearly reached to her ankles. She kept her hands in the pockets.
She said, “I’m the biggest fan of these guys. I can’t believe any of them are dead. It just can’t be.” Tears. Great gushing gouts of them. Her parents leaned close to her until she controlled herself.
“Honey,” her father said, “just tell them what you know.”
She snuffled a bit more then began. “Well, like I was at the vigil. Dad was in the car. It was really cold out. Some of us wanted to call for pizza to be delivered. Dad said that wouldn’t be right. So he called, and we were going to go pick it up. When we got to Chicago Avenue and Rush Street, I thought I saw Jason Devane. I rolled down the window and called his name. He didn’t turn around. I know they’re trained not to, so that fans can’t trick them into giving themselves away.”
“Are you sure it was him?” Molton asked.
“It had to be. He was tall and thin. He had a Game Boy in his hand. Everybody knows that Jason always had a Game Boy with him. It’s his trademark.”
“Was he with someone?” Molton asked.
“No, by himself.”
“Did you get a look at his face?” Molton asked.
“Oh, yeah. It was him.”
“How long did you see him?”
“Just a couple seconds, but I know I’m not wrong.”
Mr. LaPorte said, “I drove around the block, but the traffic was a mess. I hit every light. When we got back, he was gone.”
“What time was this?” Molton asked.
“About six,” Mr. LaPorte said.
Justine said, “It was dark, but I knew it was him.”
Fenwick said, “Are you sure? He wasn’t wearing his coat with the band’s logo on it.” A simple test to see how reliable a witness she was.
“I would have seen the logo. I would have remembered it. I have two sweatshirts and four T-shirts with the logo on them all. But I didn’t need to see the logo to recognize him. It was him all right.”
“There,” Zawicki said. “Finally, something concrete.”
“I heard the appeal on the news,” Justine said. “I just had to call right away.”
They thanked her and her parents before they left.
Molton said, “The problem with this is twofold. One, it can be proven that Mr. Devane was, in fact, wearing a coat with the band’s logo on it. Two, because of your announcement every crackpot and fool in the country is going to be calling. We will get hundreds, probably thousands of calls upon which thousands of man-hours will be wasted when we need to be examining real leads right here.”
Zawicki said, “I am going to do what I feel is necessary and right to do. You will have my schedule later in the day.” He and his lawyers walked out.
The remaining city officials looked at each other. “It’s a mess,” Molton said. He pointed to Turner and Fenwick. “I know you need sleep. Work for as long as you can now. I’ll deal with the public pressure.”
Stacks of pink message slips covered half of their combined desks. Tips. From the public. The vast majority of the time stunningly useless.
Fenwick said, “What do you want to bet ninety percent of these don’t even come from Chicago, and they’ll claim to be eyewitnesses?”
“No bets,” Turner said. His phone rang. “If th
at’s a tip,” Fenwick said, “threaten to shoot them.”
It was Mickey Pendyce. “This is really odd,” he said. “No one is interested in the Blundlefitz story. Everybody wants tears and hysteria. Nobody wants to know about underwear.”
“Isn’t that the first question teenage girls want to know about?” Turner asked.
“Yeah, but these are national media. And the local media are swamped, and Blundlefitz is kind of a presence around town. Hot Trends is seen as really cool. I’ll keep doing what I can.”
Turner reported this to Fenwick.
“Our leverage is leaving us,” Fenwick said.
“We need to talk to the guys in the band,” Turner said, “especially Clendenen. I need to get Ms. Haupmin on the phone.”
The operator at the Plaza Mart Inn connected him to her room. A male voice answered. Turner asked for Haupmin.
“Ms. Haupmin is not available.”
Turner identified himself then said, “Ms. Haupmin needs to make herself available to the police.”
“I am her lawyer. She will meet with you with me present or not at all.”
“She’s not a suspect.”
“I told you the conditions.”
Turner hung up. He told Fenwick, “Haupmin’s lawyered up. I’d bet the mortgage the guy I just talked to works for Zawicki’s firm. First she’s willing to blab anything, to make wild accusations, to confront him in public, and now she’s got a lawyer keeping us at a distance. Zawicki’s gotten to her.”
“Gotta be,” Fenwick said. “If Zawicki was keeping secrets, why’d he open up Sunday night?”
Turner said, “We had him cornered for the moment. Perhaps he was emotionally vulnerable. Maybe he thought he still had deniability. He thought he’d been caught, but then he started getting in touch with people and knew he could orchestrate a cover-up. Now he’s got lawyers and publicists arrayed against us. He’s got the remaining members of the band hidden, Haupmin neutralized.”
“Blundlefitz,” Fenwick said. “Let’s pay us a little visit to this great voice of the gossip elite.”
They called the magazine. Blundlefitz was in. The magazine’s headquarters were on the fifth floor of a building just south of the corner of Fullerton and Clark. Fenwick parked illegally in a bus stop. You had to have a special sticker to park in this neighborhood day or night. Even then it was nearly impossible to find a spot. Half the time the bus stops were crammed with illegally parked cars.
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