Drop Dead

by Mark Richard Zubro

  Neither detective accepted her challenge.

  “What time was this?” Turner asked.

  O’Dowd and Spitzer spoke together in Russian. “He isn’t sure. He was working out for over two hours.”

  “The person wasn’t wearing a white shirt with black pants?” Turner asked.

  She spoke to Spitzer briefly. “He cannot be certain,” she reported.

  “He should have come to us with this information immediately,” Fenwick said.

  “But he didn’t, and he is here now,” O’Dowd said. “Perhaps he is suspicious of the police after what he grew up with in his native land. Perhaps he is still a bit of an ignorant peasant. Has the delay caused you material problems?”

  Turner examined the man closely. Spitzer sat with his knees wide apart, thick hands resting easily on his knees. The model’s eyes rarely left O’Dowd’s face. Turner wondered if they were more than lawyer/client.

  “There is a bit more, gentlemen,” O’Dowd said. “Mickey saw Mr. Furyk on the balcony earlier doing the same balancing act.”

  “Let me get the sequence clear,” Turner said. “He sees Furyk out there dancing on the parapet. Then there is a gap of what?”

  “Over an hour and a half,” O’Dowd said.

  “And then he sees him again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Other than the killer, did Mr. Spitzer see anyone else with Furyk at any time?” Turner asked

  A brief translation.

  “He wasn’t paying particular attention. Before he saw him balancing the second time, Mr. Furyk kissed and hugged a man for five or ten minutes. That person left and two others came out to talk to him. He does not know who any of them were. He doubts if he’d recognize them.”

  None of the people they’d interviewed had admitted to going out to the balcony after dessert.

  “The last two left. Furyk then proceeded to walk on top of the balcony. While there, Furyk twirled and twisted several times. Almost as if he were dancing.”

  “Yah,” Spitzer said. “Dance.” He spoke with a distinct foreign accent.

  “He understands English?” Turner asked.

  “Only somewhat. Then from another door a fourth person came out swiftly, rushed up from behind and shoved Cullom.”

  “Our witness says the person on the terrace watched Cullom fall.”

  More Russian.

  “Quick,” he said. “Very fast. Blink.” His hands made a diving motion then he spoke rapidly in Russian.

  O’Dowd translated. “He hardly knew where to look or what to do. He focused more on Cullom and the fall than anything else. He was horrified and shocked.”

  Fenwick said, “Okay, say I buy that your client sees the murder and is stunned beyond belief. Then his first thought is ‘I’ve got a photo shoot to get to’? That sounds nuts to me. Why wouldn’t his first thought be to call for help, or at least call the police?”

  “We’ve covered that,” O’Dowd said. “We are here now, and we are willing to cooperate.”

  “We’ll want your client to look at pictures of those involved,” Turner said.

  “He will try his best, but it was over two hundred feet away. He was working out, not concentrating on the details of strangers. His workouts last several hours, and he exercises very vigorously. There could have been others out there who he missed. Some of his exercises require him to be lying on his workout bench.”

  “Wouldn’t he know some of these people professionally?” Turner asked.

  “The models, yes. The heads of the companies, probably. The designers, maybe. I’m sure there were others there. Press people and such. He could hardly be expected to know all of them personally. While the fashion world might be a reasonably closed society, my client doesn’t run about memorizing the faces and names of every employee of every company. Not only that, this is his first trip to Chicago. You can hardly expect him to be an expert on the local scene.”

  “If he couldn’t recognize the others, how can he be sure it was Cullom on the balcony?” Fenwick asked.

  “You have another dead body in the street?” O’Dowd asked.

  Turner asked, “Did your client know Cullom Furyk?”

  More translation. “They have met at a few events. They were not close. Mickey is here to work the runway for Heyling and Veleshki.”

  “Did they ever have sex?” Turner asked.

  O’Dowd didn’t even translate. “No,” she said.

  “Ask your client, please,” Turner directed.

  There was a brief colloquy in Russian, then an abrupt, “No,” from Spitzer.

  Turner and Fenwick promised to assemble photographs of the people in the east tower penthouse for Spitzer to look over. “We’ll bring them to the penthouse as soon as we can,” Turner said. “Possibly late this afternoon.”

  “Impossible. Mickey has a full schedule for this afternoon and this evening. Right now he should e having his afternoon vegetables and his nap.”

  “He’s a witness in a murder case,” Fenwick said.

  “Perhaps we can spare a little time. We might be able to find someplace quick nearby with the quality of food Mickey needs and then come back.”

  Fenwick reached in his desk and pulled out a copy of Millie’s take-out menu. “Here,” Fenwick said. “I recommend this restaurant highly.”

  Turner said, “It will take us a while to assemble the pictures. If he could be available to us later on, that would be very helpful.”

  Back at their desks Fenwick said, “He can afford the whole penthouse? This modeling crap has got to be more lucrative than I thought. Guess it isn’t just scrawny women wearing silly dresses.”

  “I always thought it was, although some of the men are really hot.”

  “That part I haven’t noticed,” Fenwick said. “Skinny women have never been my thing.”

  “I hope Ian can come up with someone for us to talk to about the fashion industry. I feel a little lost. We better get somebody assembling pictures for Spitzer to look at. I’ll send a uniform over to Munsen. We’ll start there and maybe the newspaper to see if they have photos of these people.”

  Detectives Joe Roosevelt and Judy Wilson strutted in. As they swung by Turner and Fenwick, Joe thumped Fenwick on the back.

  “We got a three-bagger.” Joe was almost dancing in his exultation. Joe had short, brush-cut gray hair and bad teeth. Judy rolled her chair close to Turner’s desk and put her feet up on his paperwork. Judy was an African-American woman with a pleasant smile. They had a well-deserved reputation as one of the most effective pairs of detectives on the force but it was more common to see them squabbling than celebrating.

  “A three-bagger?” Fenwick said. “This I gotta see.”

  “Our little threesome is downstairs even as we speak, being processed,” Joe said. “We shall join them momentarily. We wanted you to see what successful detectives look like.”

  “You got confessions?” Fenwick asked.

  “We got everything,” Judy said. “We have witnesses. We have weapons. We have fingerprints. We have two out of three of our suspects babbling merrily away. Hell, we may even solve the disappearance of Amelia Earhart.”

  “How?” Fenwick asked.

  Roosevelt said, “We’re the cutest and most competent couple on the block.”

  “If Turner dumped you,” Wilson said to Fenwick, “he and anybody else could come in second in the cute couple race. We hear Ashley and Dwayne are jealous of you two.”

  “They’re jealous,” Fenwick said, “because we’re cuter than they are.”

  Wilson appraised Fenwick’s bulk. “I wouldn’t go that far. Those two want all the headlines, glamour, and glory of being a detective in the city of Chicago.”

  They all burst out laughing.

  “They can have all my headlines,” Turner said. “Past and future.”

  “I want to keep mine,” Fenwick said. “They can get their own damn press.”

  “They could hire a press agent,” Wilson said. “I’m
sure the superintendent would love to hear that.”

  “I’ll suggest it to them,” Fenwick said. “I don’t think they’re that stupid, but we could hope.”

  Roosevelt said, “Somebody said you got a victim who had an argument with the pavement.”

  “Flat and squishy,” Fenwick said.

  “I hear it was some fashion model who was drop-dead gorgeous,” Wilson said.

  “Don’t start,” Fenwick warned.

  “Those jumper cases are such a downer,” Wilson said.

  “Doesn’t anybody have any fresh humor?” Fenwick asked.

  “Don’t let it get you down,” Roosevelt said.

  Wilson added, “It’s the kind of case that can drive a detective over the edge.”

  Fenwick growled, “The commander thinks it’s a big deal.”

  “He’s probably getting edgy,” Wilson said.

  “Up yours,” Fenwick snapped. “Don’t you have paperwork to do, criminals to harass?”

  “We’re trying to come up with a concrete solution,” Turner said.

  “You too?” Fenwick asked.

  Roosevelt and Wilson sauntered off.

  Fenwick said, “The first person who says anything about jumping to conclusions gets shot.”

  Turner pulled out the maps of the penthouse the uniforms had used to record the movements of each person. At the top of each page was the name of the suspect, the rooms he or she was in, and the approximate times he or she was in them. He said, “The only one who admits to being on the terrace at any time is Daniel Egremont.”

  “Maybe if we threw one of them off the balcony, the rest would confess.”

  “I thought you were into shooting people today.”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  Turner said, “We’re going to need to set up a chart so that we can be sure who can back up each person’s story and who has no one to provide an alibi.”

  “And who can lie for whom,” Fenwick said.

  “Grammatically correct and sensitive,” Turner said. Before Fenwick could reply, he added, “We should try finding these catering people.”

  “Let’s stop at the ME’s office first,” Fenwick said. “A few dead bodies might cheer me up. We can set the chart up afterward.”

  EIGHT

  The mid-afternoon temperature was close to fifty and a gentle breeze eased through the canyons of the south Loop. Fenwick’s usual wild driving, however, could cause them to arrive at Cook County Morgue in a hearse rather than their unmarked car.

  As they drove, Turner asked, “How much of Spitzer’s story did you buy?”

  “About as much as I believe any of these people, which means none of it, yet. I want observations confirmed. I want identifications made.”

  “We need to talk to all those people again.”

  They arrived at the stainless-steel examination room. Pieces of Cullom Furyk filled several tables.

  “Don’t say it,” Turner said.

  “You’re stifling my creativity,” Fenwick said.

  The ME grumbled, “Get your stifled ass over here.”

  An assistant ME Turner had never seen before said, “Don’t say what?”

  Turner and the ME groaned. Fenwick grinned, swept his hand indicating all that was left of Cullom Furyk, and said, “That’s him all over. The guy had a lot of guts.”

  Turner said, “It’s not the fall, it’s the landing.”

  “Et tu, Turner,” the ME said. She turned to her assistant and said, “It is never a good idea to encourage a Chicago police detective, but absolutely never, ever encourage Detective Fenwick. He thinks he’s funny.” She turned to Fenwick. “If you were Rose Nylund, I’d hit you with a newspaper.”

  Turner muttered, “Do it anyway. Maybe he’ll stop.”

  The assistant asked, “Who’s Rose Nylund?”

  “Can we get on with the autopsy?” the ME asked.

  Turner said, “We’ve got witnesses who say he was pushed. Any way to confirm it wasn’t suicide?”

  “I can confirm that he was not dead when he fell. I can’t tell what made him fall. Pushed or jumped? I have no idea. Nor can I rule out him simply being a moronic twit who slipped while he was being silly.”

  “Heck of a price to pay for goofing around,” Turner said.

  Fenwick said, “I can think of several million safer ways of taking nutty chances.”

  The ME continued, “As far as I can see, this was not drug related, but I’ll need to get lab results before I can say for sure.”

  “Didn’t I read a lot about the fashion industry and heroin?” Fenwick said.

  “The heroin look,” the young assistant said.

  They all gazed at her expectantly. She explained, “Thin, scrawny, as if they were addicts.”

  “I thought they were always thin and scrawny,” Fenwick said.

  “I guess this was thinner and scrawnier.”

  “Or maybe somebody was making a claim about drug abuse to get headlines,” Turner said. “Wouldn’t be the first time that happened.”

  “We’ll check for heroin,” the ME said. She examined several body parts. “No track marks on the left arm. I’ll try to piece together the other one.”

  “Anything else?”

  “The collision with the pole on his way down killed him. A detailed report is going to take us a little while with this mess. I’ll get you a set of complete findings by tomorrow morning at the latest.”

  The first address they had for the catering crew was on Milwaukee Avenue just north of Grand Avenue. Ken Slatter was a short man who opened the door of his second-floor flat as far as the security chain allowed and never opened it another inch. His story was simple. He worked hard. He seldom talked with anyone else on the crew. He knew nothing.

  Back in the car Fenwick declared, “I trust him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was wearing a T-shirt with holes in it and dumpy jeans. No fashion crap.”

  “Wearing fashion crap is an actionable offense?”

  “I’d like at least one of these people to have a zit.”

  “Zitless in Chicago?”

  Fenwick grunted.

  Turner said, “I’m sure these fashion people are kind to their parents, pet cute puppies, and rescue babies.”

  “I’ll have to be convinced of that.”

  The second address at Willow and Howe didn’t answer. The third address was over a restaurant on the west side of Clark Street just south of Wellington Avenue.

  They buzzed the intercom on the wall next to the street-level door.

  “Yeah.”

  “Gordon Findley?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Police. We’ve got a few questions.”

  “What about?”

  “We’re not having a conversation like this, Mr. Findley,” Fenwick said. “We need to talk.”

  The buzzer buzzed.

  The narrow steps creaked louder than in a horror movie. The irises and daffodils on the wallpaper had turned to a uniform dull gray with age. The carpet on the creaking risers was bare in spots. The door on the right at the top of the stairs was open. A man in his mid to late twenties looked out at them. His white shirt draped outside his black pants. He hadn’t changed his clothes from the catering job. They showed him their IDs.

  “You Gordon Findley?” Fenwick asked.

  The man nodded. His short brown hair stuck up in several places as if he’d awakened from a nap ten minutes ago. He was about five feet five and slender with well-defined muscles. He had a bowl of cereal in his hands.

  “Come on in.”

  The apartment continued the decorating scheme begun in the hall. Faded flowers on the wallpaper, threadbare carpet. A table with two chairs in the kitchen to the right. To the left a wood-frame couch with flattened cushions. Findley poured some more milk into his bowl. “What’s this about?” he asked.

  “Cullom Furyk is dead,” Turner said.

  Findley gaped at them a moment. His eyes searched each of th
eir faces. “This isn’t a joke?”

  “No,” Turner said.

  The plastic milk carton slipped out of his hands and Findley flung the bowl at the wall. “No!” he screamed. He began pounding his fists against the wall.

  “Hey,” Turner said. He put his hand on Findley’s shoulder. The man didn’t seem to notice the touch. He slowly slid to the floor. He pounded his fists on the floor. He missed the cereal debris by a few inches.

  Turner and Fenwick looked at each other. Turner squatted down next to Findley. He righted the now nearly empty milk carton. He placed a gentle hand on Findley’s wrist and said, “I’m sorry for your loss. You must have been close to him.”

  After several minutes Findley’s sobs abated. Eventually he wiped his nose on his sleeve and snuffled. “What happened?”

  “That’s what we need you to tell us.”

  “I saw him at the Archange Hotel this morning. He was fine.”

  “He fell from the terrace wall of the penthouse,” Turner said.

  “My God!”

  Avoiding the breakfast mess, Turner sat on the floor. He crossed his legs in a lotus position. Fenwick pulled over a kitchen chair. He leaned over and placed his left elbow on his knee and his left hand under his chin.

  “How well did you know Furyk?” Turner asked.

  “I can’t believe he’s dead. I’ve known him for years. We went to high school together. He was, we were … friends.”

  “Boyfriends?” Turner asked.

  Findley eyed them warily. “Am I going to be treated differently by the cops because I’m gay?”

  “No,” Turner said. “We just need your help.”

  “I’m a little afraid of cops.”

  Turner asked, “What can I say to ease your fear?”

  Findley wiped his nose and looked at Turner carefully. “For a long time he and I have been very close. No one knew him as well as I did. Okay, I guess, yeah, years ago we were boyfriends.”

  “Were you having a relationship with him now?” Turner asked.

  “No. I was infatuated with him in high school. He was so pretty and kind, but I was more of a convenience for him. If he had nobody else to go out with, he’d call me. He was my first crush. After the first year or so, our relationship wasn’t physical, but he would talk to me about all his conquests. I couldn’t have him, but I could live his life vicariously.”