Table of Contents
Title Page
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
Also by
Copyright Page
Dedication—
to Jamie Nabozny
You were right; you did it for all those who will come after,
but also for all of us who came before.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Barb D’Amato, Hugh Holton,
Kathy Pakieser-Reed, and Rick Paul
ONE
“Flat,” Turner said.
“Flat and squishy,” Fenwick said.
“I prefer just plain flat,” Turner responded.
“You’re probably right,” Fenwick stated. “That squishy-jelly look might have a hard time becoming fashion law.”
“I don’t know,” Turner said, “properly promoted …”
The medical examiner interrupted. “We talking doughnuts or dead bodies?”
“Either one,” Fenwick said.
“Neither one,” Turner said.
“Anybody seen his right eye?” the ME asked.
An assistant crime lab technician said, “I put it in the van with the other one.”
“It was a he?” Fenwick asked.
“Definitely,” the ME said. She glanced at the mess before them. “Lot of dispersal. Must have hit something on the way down.”
“I know I feel better because of that information,” Fenwick said, “although I doubt if he does.”
“Could he have been dead before he fell?” Turner asked.
The medical examiner looked thoughtful. “I can’t prove that by what I see here. I can give you an opinion later.”
Turner gazed up toward the top floors of the Archange Hotel. No hotel in Chicago was more exclusive or more expensive. It consisted of two thirty-story gothic towers on opposite sides of State Street, set back twenty-five feet from the street. Each edifice covered an entire city block, from Chestnut to Delaware.
Turner unbuttoned his overcoat. Since last week’s record cold, the early January weather had been unusually mild. In the sun and out of the wind, the day was pleasant with an almost springlike warmth. Yesterday the mercury had crawled into the mid-forties.
The crime-scene van was parked halfway up on the curb near the east tower. The police had closed the entire block of State Street and pedestrians gawked from behind yellow crime-scene tape. Parts of the body were scattered from the point of impact near the east side of the street to the wall of the hotel and twenty feet in either direction north and south. Nearby cars had bits of blood, flesh, bone, and clothing on them. Two crime-scene photographers were carefully taking pictures of all the vehicles and each square foot of pavement.
“We have any kind of identification?” Turner asked. “Anybody in the crowd know him?”
A very pale, very young cop walked over. Turner noted his name: Domanici. “I found keys and a wallet next to”—the kid drew a deep breath—“a bone over there.” He pointed between two parked Jaguars eight feet from the body.
Turner opened the wallet. He found an Illinois driver’s license with the name Cullom Furyk. The name meant nothing to him. Along with credit cards, he found slips with phone numbers, one hundred seventeen dollars, and two keys.
“We sure this is the dead guy’s?” Turner asked.
“It was the only identification we found,” Domanici said.
“Is there anybody who actually saw him fall?”
This part of State Street was a busy place even at midmorning. With a crime scene in a busy street it was easy for those who didn’t want to be involved to simply walk away. It was also easy for the morbidly curious to trample over possible evidence.
“Some of them got splattered when the body hit,” Domanici said. “A couple of them were pretty hysterical when I showed up. That group of people was closest.” Domanici indicated a knot of men and women clustered on the pavement on the west side of the street. “Besides them we’ve got the crowd over there to talk to.” A much larger group of people huddled near the north end of the hotel’s west tower. “The hotel guests are still inside. One of the guys said they were getting pretty irritated. We’re going to have trouble keeping them from leaving.”
“Shoot one of them,” Fenwick said. “The rest will be much more docile.”
Domanici shrugged. “We’ve only got one guy who claims he saw the whole thing.” He pointed him out. “Says he’s a photographer.” Domanici brought the witness over.
Clark Nemora was in his late teens or early twenties and wore glasses, a dark blue parka, blue jeans, and heavy work boots. Through the man’s unzipped jacket, Turner could see a camera dangling on a leather strap.
The three of them sat in the detectives’ unmarked car for the interview. The first thing Nemora said after getting settled was a whispered “I never imagined anything so horrible. Am I going to have nightmares about this?”
“What you saw was pretty tough for anybody to handle,” Turner said. “It’s a fresh memory. In time it will fade. For now, if you can, we’d like you to concentrate on giving us details about anything you can remember.” Turner paused. Nemora’s shoulders quivered and his hands trembled. Turner tried easing him into his statement. “What brought you down here this morning?”
Nemora leaned forward. “I’m an architecture student. I really love gothic structures. The Tribune Tower was the best example of that style in this area until the Archange was built. I was taking pictures of the Tribune earlier. I’m trying to catch each building from the same angle once each hour. I’m working on a project on the effects of shadow and light.”
“Did you get a picture of the falling body?” Turner asked.
“No, I was still working on my camera setting and being sure I was at the same angle as I was before. It takes time to get a shot just right. It has to be perfect. This is for my senior project at school.”
“Did you see him when he started falling?” Turner asked.
“Yeah.” The kid swallowed hard.
“What did you see?” Turner asked.
“He was walking along the ledge on the top floor of the east tower.”
“What happened?”
“I’m not sure. It was pretty high up, but I thought I saw someone push him.”
The detectives leaned forward.
“But you’re not sure?” Turner asked.
“I don’t know. Before he fell, the guy had his hands out—you know, like balancing on a high wire? Then he sort of twisted around like maybe he was trying to go forward and look behind at the same time. I thought an arm shot out and pushed him. He pinwheeled out and fell. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. About halfway down, he hit one of those flagpoles. I remember thinking I should do something to help, but what could I do? I guess I could have tried to catch him, but I just couldn’t move. If I was really a professional photographer, I’d have gotten pictures, but he hit the ground before I could react. It all happened very fast.”
“You wouldn’t have been able to save him,” Turner said. “Most likely you’d have been killed if he hit you when he landed.”
A tremor shook Nemora’s body.
“You’re not sure about the hand pushing him
?”
“I’m sorry, no. He was so high up, and I wasn’t expecting anything to happen. I remember thinking he was nuts to be walking like that. Then I thought it might be one of those stunt guys, although I wondered where the cameras were to cover his feat. For a couple seconds I thought maybe he was, like, bungee jumping or something.” Nemora gulped. “But there wasn’t any wire to hold him. When I looked back up to the top, I thought I saw someone watching him fall. It was too far away to get a good look.”
“Could the hand have been reaching to save him, not push him?” Turner asked.
Nemora paused a moment. “I hadn’t considered that.”
“Does the name Cullom Furyk mean anything to you?”
“Isn’t he a fashion model? Involved in a lot of causes?”
“Did you know him?”
“I’m not famous.”
They had one of the uniformed officers take him down to Area Ten headquarters to record his statement.
“I’m ready to vote for homicide,” Fenwick said.
Turner said, “If somebody’d tried to catch him or stop him, I think we’d have an upset person down here saying he or she tried to save him.”
Fenwick nodded.
They returned to the medical examiner. Fenwick asked, “Can we look at the body?”
“Yeah,” the ME said. “But there is not much point to that here. We’ll reassemble everything as best we can at the morgue. We’ll be able to give you a lot more then.”
“We still have to look,” Turner said. A fall from a great height was not Turner’s favorite kind of crime scene to work. “We need a path to the most central point of impact.”
The ME pointed and said, “Try approaching from the left front fender of that Rolls-Royce.”
Turner and Fenwick followed her suggestion. Stepping carefully, Turner and Fenwick slowly approached the largest intact part. They stopped in a clear patch five feet away. After several moments Turner said, “Not much point in staring at it.”
“Dead is dead, down is down, so to speak,” Fenwick said. Turner watched Fenwick eyeing the bits and parts of the body strewn across the pavement.
“Don’t say it,” Turner said.
“I was just—”
“Don’t.”
Fenwick gave a martyr’s sigh. “Okay,” he said, “I see lots of blood, lots of gore, and absolutely nothing that’s going to help in this investigation.”
Turner looked up and swung his head from east to west to examine both towers. He held his hand up to block the sun from his eyes. After several moments, he turned his gaze back to the body. “We have two crime scenes.”
“I hate that,” Fenwick stated.
Turner continued, “Here and the point where he started from. I don’t think down here is going to tell us much. I hope up there is better. We need to start working on the people in the hotel.”
They walked over to Domanici. Turner asked, “Do we have somebody official from the hotel to talk to?”
“Yeah,” Domanici said. “The manager, Bert Weeland. He’s over there.” He pointed to the revolving doors that led into the hotel on the east side of the street. Next to a liveried doorman, a tall, thin man in an Armani suit stood ramrod straight just inside the doors.
“You get anybody else who saw something significant, let us know right away,” Turner said.
Domanici nodded.
Picking their way through the detritus, Fenwick and Turner ambled over to the hotel entrance. It felt good to locomote the streets without having to worry about patches of ice or inches of snow. Avoiding stray remnants of Cullom Furyk was another matter. The doorman swung the revolving door for them.
TWO
After the detectives introduced themselves, Turner said, “We need to talk to the people staying on the top floor of the east tower. We have reason to believe he fell from there.”
“There was a brunch meeting in the penthouse catered by the hotel. We provided a gourmet meal for seventeen.”
“Are they still up there?”
“I believe they are.”
“We need to have several uniformed police officers seal off the penthouse immediately.”
Weeland frowned. “I hate to have the guests disturbed. Are you sure the body fell from our hotel?”
Fenwick said, “We know the guy fell from a great height.”
“You can prove that?” Weeland asked.
“Don’t have to prove that which is obvious,” Fenwick said. “Both towers of your hotel qualify as great heights. Unless you’re hiding another hotel on this block?”
Weeland paused and then asked, “Do you wish to go directly to the penthouse?”
“I’d like to get some general information first,” Turner said. “We can send several officers up for the moment.”
Fenwick called a couple uniforms in from the street. “Make sure nobody leaves and nobody enters the penthouse,” he told them. “Absolutely no one. Get them all into one area and keep them there. Ignore all complaints.”
Weeland sent an attendant to escort them to the correct elevator with the proper key to send it to the penthouse.
After the uniformed officers left, Weeland asked, “Could we talk in my office, gentlemen? It offers more privacy.”
With polished smoothness Weeland led them to his office. The lobby had the length, breadth, and width of a small gymnasium. The walls were twenty-two feet high. The ceiling was painted wood. The decor included deep red carpeting that was a pleasure to walk across. The walls were oyster-white hand-rubbed plaster. Deep overhangs shaded tall arched windows and large black-and-white abstract drawings adorned the walls at widely spaced intervals. In the center of the room four fifteen-foot black leather couches faced a small reflecting pool. The solid oak registration desk gleamed with an ocean of polish and wax. Turner wouldn’t have been surprised to see Quasimodo swinging from the chandeliers.
Weeland’s office continued the decorating scheme of deep red carpeting, abstract paintings, and black leather furniture.
Once they were seated Turner asked, “Only one elevator goes to the penthouse?”
“Yes. We issue as many keys as necessary for the guest or guests staying there.”
“I like it,” Fenwick said. “Cuts down on the number of people who could wander into a crime scene.”
“We need to know if a Cullom Furyk was a guest here,” Turner said.
Weeland picked up a sheaf of papers from his desk. “This is a list of everyone who is currently registered at the hotel.” He handed the papers to Turner.
The detectives glanced at the list. “He’s not on here,” Turner said. He held out the keys Domanici had found. “Any of these for the penthouse or the elevator?”
“No, we use plastic cards. Do you realize Cullom Furyk is a very famous name? If this is the same man, he has stayed here before.”
“I never heard of him until now,” Fenwick said.
The manager gave no hint of approval or disapproval at this statement. He said, “Cullom Furyk is the most famous male fashion model in the world today as well as being involved in many charitable causes. He made millions for the international Save the Orphans campaign. He is the signature model for GUINEVERE, Incorporated. If this is he, his death would be great tragedy.”
“What’s a ‘signature’ model?” Fenwick asked.
“The person most identified with their products, their most prominent spokesperson. I know he has stayed in the hotel before. He was more than welcome to stay here again.”
“He wasn’t any problem?” Turner asked.
“As a guest he came and left without any incident of which I am aware.” Weeland turned to the keyboard on his desk, tapped the keys for a moment, then examined the computer screen. “He always charged his rooms when he was doing the paying. There was never any trouble with the charge card.”
“Who else would pay for his rooms?”
“His company.”
“You mentioned them before,” Fenwick said. “Who a
re they?”
“GUINEVERE, Incorporated is the name of one of the largest fashion houses in the country. They have their headquarters in Chicago.”
“Are they renting rooms here now?”
“Yes, they have the entire penthouse on the east tower reserved.”
Fenwick asked, “Don’t guests have to register the names of all the people staying in the same room when they check in?”
“That would be normal procedure. We don’t have very many people trying to sneak in a guest because they can’t afford to pay the extra cost. The penthouses on both towers are available to one guest or many. They can accommodate up to ten people very comfortably.”
“Who else is staying on that floor?”
“The list I gave you is alphabetical. I can get a printout of which of them are in the penthouse from the front desk.”
“Thanks,” Turner said. “We’ll also need a schematic drawing of the penthouse. Probably numerous copies. I want to know the layout, especially which rooms had openings to the west balcony.”
“That will take a few minutes to obtain. You know,” Weeland added, “the guests in the penthouse aren’t the only people connected with the fashion industry staying in the hotel. There are two large fashion shows in town this week. I am not aware of which other people in the industry in particular would be staying here. I just happen to know Mr. Furyk’s name.”
“You know him by sight?” Turner asked.
“I’ve never met him, but I’ve seen his picture.”
“How long have you worked here?” Turner asked.
“Since the hotel was opened a year and a half ago.”
“Any problems?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“In all that time was there anything unusual, out of the ordinary?”
“Certainly nothing criminal. The Archange Hotel attracts only the most exclusive guests.”
“No obnoxious rock stars?” Fenwick asked.
“We discourage any element that might be disruptive.”
Turner motioned to the printout Weeland had given them. “We need to speak with everyone who has a room facing State Street from both towers.”
“I have been concerned about detaining them since your officer informed us of your intentions,” Weeland said. “We are, of course, eager to cooperate with the authorities but I’m sure you understand my problem, gentlemen. These are very wealthy people with very special needs.”
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