They found Kindel awake and watching Oprah. He nodded at the detectives and turned the television off. Turner stood on Kindel’s left, Fenwick on the right.
“How are you feeling?” Turner asked.
“Like somebody clobbered me with a two-by-four.”
“What happened?”
“I was leaving the paper. I got to the alley on Buckingham. I pay for a space halfway down the alley. I was almost to my car when I got hit from behind. I don’t know anything beyond that.”
“Did you see anybody as you walked to the car?”
“Nobody that I noticed or remember.”
“You own the Gay Tribune,” Turner stated.
“Who told you that?”
“Is it true?” Turner asked.
“Yes.”
“How come you had to volunteer to write those columns?”
“It was a clever and fortuitous ruse. I wanted to get even with the people at the paper who were supercilious and snotty to me. By not announcing my ownership, I could spy and get even. And I wanted to find out what was really going on.”
Fenwick asked, “Do you think somebody you got even with was trying to get back at you?”
“No. I haven’t really fired anyone yet. I just made sure the paper took the direction I wanted.”
“Have you had any fights with anyone recently?” Turner asked. “Perhaps someone not connected to the paper?”
“I’ve thought about that. I can’t think of anyone.”
“The beat cops said you weren’t robbed.”
“I was lucky. Maybe they were driven off before they could take anything.”
“They?”
“He, she, they, whoever it was.”
“Cullom Furyk was a rich man,” Turner said. “Where is all his stuff?”
“I only had what I gave you.”
“Didn’t that strike you as odd?” Turner asked. “You knew he wasn’t a poor waif off the street. Did you discuss him moving in with you?”
“Yes.”
“And he said?”
“He said he’d move in. I figured that’s when he’d bring more stuff.”
“The two of you didn’t discuss logistics.”
“Of what? It’s a big place.”
“Did you know he had lovers in other cities around the world?” Turner asked.
“I’d heard rumors.”
“From where?” Fenwick asked.
“I’m the fashion writer. I trade in gossip. It is one of the essentials of the profession.”
“You also write the pornography column for the paper,” Fenwick said. “You omitted mentioning that the first time we talked to you.”
“Your point is?”
Turner said, “You didn’t give us complete information about a number of things.”
“None of which is connected with anything criminal.”
“That we know of,” Fenwick said.
“Someone tried to murder Daniel Egremont last night.”
“I was here, unconscious.”
“That’s what they all say,” Fenwick said.
Turner said, “Two people connected with a murder investigation get attacked. I don’t believe in coincidences in murder cases. Maybe the same person hired somebody to hurt you.”
“That would be your job to prove.”
“You met with Furyk at the health club the morning of the murder,” Turner said. “What was that all about?”
“I just needed to check in with him.”
“According to you, he’d been at your place earlier. Why’d you need to check in with him?”
“It’s a crime to talk to your lover?”
Despite questioning him for fifteen more minutes they got no useful information from him.
They drove to the funeral home in Rogers Park for Cullom Furyk’s wake. Cars were double-parked all up and down Hood Street for a block in either direction. The line of mourners extended all the way to Broadway Avenue and then south for half a mile. A throng of reporters was kept behind police barricades a hundred yards away. Turner and Fenwick showed their identification and entered the funeral home.
To the left behind velvet ropes, mourners shuffled forward to view the closed casket with a picture of Furyk on top. To the right a small crowd was clustered near a silver coffee urn. Several of the mourners nodded in the detectives’ direction then leaned to whisper to those next to them. Turner saw Arthur Oldinport. Battle was not in evidence. Slightly apart and nearer the viewing room was Gordon Findley. He was talking to an older couple who were clutching each other’s hands.
Turner and Fenwick approached. Findley greeted them then said, “Mr. and Mrs. Furyk, these are the detectives working on Cullom’s case.”
Mr. Furyk said, “Are you going to be able to catch whoever did this to our son?”
They looked to be in their late forties to early fifties. Each was red-eyed.
“We’re very sorry for your loss,” Turner said. “We know this is a difficult time for you, but if we could ask you a few questions, it might help.”
Both parents nodded. Mr. Furyk said, “We’ll do anything we can to help find the person who killed our son.”
Leaving Findley behind, the four of them stepped into an empty parlor and took seats.
“We can’t believe all the people lining up to see him,” Mrs. Furyk said, “and we’re not used to dealing with those hateful reporters.”
“If the Chicago police can do anything,” Turner offered.
“They’ve been wonderful,” Mrs. Furyk said. “Cullom was such a good son. You know, he called us at least once a week no matter where he was in the world. He came to Florida for all the major holidays.”
“Were there any problems that he was having that he discussed with you?”
“We’ve been trying to imagine why this might have happened,” she said. “We just can’t think of anything.”
“Did you know he was planning to leave or being let go from GUINEVERE?”
“He’d told us he was going to be increasing his options, doing a lot more work in the future. We didn’t understand why. He was making lots of money.”
“Did he have his personal things stored at your home?”
“He kept a few things in a room he always used, but he didn’t store things there.”
“We’ve only been able to recover a few items of his clothing,” Fenwick said.
“Material things didn’t mean a lot to him,” Mrs. Furyk said. “Yes, he was famous, but all those trappings weren’t important to him. People were.”
“Did you know who he was close to, or if he had broken off any relationships recently?”
“He brought a few of his friends to the house,” Mr. Furyk replied, “but they were never introduced to us as lovers. Certainly he never talked to us about anyone who was angry enough to kill him. Are you sure it wasn’t an accident? He was always daring as a child. Perhaps he simply fell.”
“We have witnesses who saw him pushed,” Turner said. “They weren’t near enough to see who did it.”
“Did he have any enemies that you know of?” Fenwick asked.
“No,” Mr. Furyk said.
“Do you know if he had a will or who inherits his estate?” Turner asked.
“As far as I know, we do,” Mr. Furyk said, “but we’d give all the money and possessions to have our son back.”
The parents knew nothing else helpful. A few minutes later they left.
“Who told us they weren’t very affectionate?” Fenwick asked.
“Wasn’t it Furyk’s agent? They sure seemed like a normal mom and dad to me. Not the kind to beat their kid or abuse him psychologically. And I can’t see this being a case of a closeted gay person caught in the middle of conflicting passions. His parents and his profession don’t seem to be a problem.”
“His love life still doesn’t make sense to me,” Fenwick said. “I don’t see how he could hide that many lovers in that many cities. Or, if the lovers knew about each other, wh
y they would put up with being one of many. Or why he would need that many lovers. What’s the point?”
“Who knows?” Turner said. “Bragging rights, insecurity? Or maybe the number of them has been highly exaggerated.”
Fenwick asked, “Why isn’t at least one of them pissed enough to push him off a balcony?”
“I’m not ready to arrest the self-proclaimed lover, Sean Kindel. Veleshki, Bokaru, Egremont and Norwyn had a sexual connection, but I’m not sure any of them were passionate enough to kill him. Another lover would have had to have a hotel employee get him onto the right elevator and up to the penthouse, past McBride …
“Unless she killed him or is covering for the killer.”
“ … avoid all the people in the penthouse, hope Furyk was conveniently on the balcony to be pushed, and make his escape without being seen by all of the above as he reversed his route.”
“Tricky,” Fenwick admitted. “Although, if he wasn’t on that wall, maybe there never would have been a killing.”
“Yeah.”
“I also doubt if it was a conspiracy of Third World orphans angry at the possible hypocrisy of one of their great benefactors.”
“I didn’t see a lot of orphans in the penthouse,” Turner responded.
“I like McBride as a suspect,” Fenwick said. “She has all the characteristics you could ask for in a fascist conspirator. She even admitted to us that she was also alone through the entire luncheon.” He checked their chart. “Absolutely no one can vouch for her. Why isn’t she the killer?”
“Same problem as with all the others. No witnesses. No physical evidence.”
“She claimed not to know him, but if she was doing Munsen’s bidding, would she have to?”
“She killed him on Munsen’s orders? Possible. We need proof, which we do not have.” Turner sighed. “Let’s see if we can’t find any of the boyfriends from overseas.”
They approached Arthur Oldinport. He nodded hello. “Is your lover all right?” Oldinport asked.
“He’s fine. Thanks for asking. Was last night’s show a success?”
“Reviews in the local papers were generally favorable, but it is quite easy to impress those in the provinces. We’ll know more when the major trade journals have their say.”
“Did you like it?” Fenwick asked.
“My boss liked it a great deal. Whatever Jolanda likes, I like.”
“Why don’t you quit?” Turner asked.
“I find a paycheck a cheery thing. I also love the fashion world. It is exciting and alive and keeps me young.”
“I thought Battle was for that,” Fenwick said.
“Isn’t that comment a trifle vicious and out of line for a Chicago police detective?” Oldinport asked.
“Just making an observation,” Fenwick said, then asked, “How come you don’t have to move with the line?”
“I’m the pool reporter. I’m the only one allowed to stay.”
“How’d that come about?” Fenwick asked.
“Jolanda has connections.”
“We’re wondering if any of Furyk’s lovers are here,” Turner said.
“I have ascertained a bit of information about that for you.”
“How many were there?”
“Over time? I’m not sure.”
“More than a hundred?” Turner asked. “Less than ten?”
“Much closer to ten. Probably less. That does not include his casual sexual conquests. With his death I suspect that number will rise to thousands claiming to have been to bed with him. One of the rumors going around is that he had sex with a whore in Tokyo who specialized in near asphyxiation during sex. I know that one is not true. That particular whore died fifteen years ago.”
“Wasn’t he afraid of catching and transmitting diseases?” Turner asked.
Oldinport said, “Having sex with Cullom Furyk was almost as safe as masturbating by yourself inside a lead-lined room with the doors locked and bolted.”
Fenwick asked, “Was he cautious because he was afraid of diseases, or was he inhibited because he was psychologically screwed up?”
“Or maybe that was the way he preferred to have sex,” Oldinport said. “I wouldn’t know. I never had sex with him.”
“Why not?” Fenwick asked.
“Is that question germane to your investigation?”
“Probably not,” Fenwick said.
They were talking softly while facing the line as it moved toward the casket. Battle entered, spotted them and walked over. “The line is over a mile long and growing every second. This is becoming the fashion event of the year.” Battle wore a press pass outside his charcoal-gray Armani suit.
“Do you ever give it a rest?” Fenwick asked.
Battle looked genuinely confused. “What?” he asked.
“How’d you get in?” Fenwick asked.
“He is my assistant,” Oldinport said. “We were trying to spot any of Cullom’s lovers from Europe. Have you seen anyone?”
“Sure,” Battle said, “as I came in, I saw Deidrich Goucher near the end of the line.”
“Who’s he?” Turner asked.
“Cullom’s lover in Paris,” Battle said. “A sweet man. I’ll introduce you.”
“How come you never told me this?” Oldinport asked.
Battle looked wary. “I thought I had. Sorry.”
TWENTY-ONE
After introductions Turner and Fenwick ushered Goucher into the same empty viewing room where they’d talked to the Furyks.
Goucher wore a gray sweater with a black triangle pattern across the shoulders, black dress slacks and black dress shoes. Turner judged him to be in his mid-to-late twenties. He wore simple gold-rimmed glasses. He was just under six feet tall and had the build of a runner. His fingers were long and narrow. He had his blond hair in a brush cut. His palms were heavily callused.
Turner said, “We’re trying to find who killed Cullom Furyk. We’re hoping you can help us.”
Deidrich spoke very softly. “I’ll do what I can, but I know nothing.”
“We were told the two of you were lovers,” Turner said.
“Yes, for six years. We knew each other in Paris. I’m originally from Temecula, California. I have lived in France since I graduated from high school. I studied off and on at the Sorbonne. I don’t have a lot of money. I am a sculptor, some say not a very good one. Fortunately, I speak fluent French. Occasionally I am able to do construction jobs for a company an uncle owns.”
“Did you know Furyk had lovers in other cities?” Turner asked.
Deidrich entwined his fingers and twisted them together. “He promised me he would be leaving them.”
“We have a gentleman here in Chicago who says he was Cullom’s lover.”
“I wish that wasn’t true.”
“Did you know about his infidelities?”
“He had coaxing ways, charming ways. I guess I’m kind of naive. Even though I’ve lived in Paris, sometimes I’m pretty out of it. I just wanted to settle down to a quiet life. When he was in Paris, he was attentive and kind. We went everywhere together. He bought me things: always the most rare or out of season flowers, only imported chocolates, unique gifts. We had a place together on the Left Bank.”
“Did he take you to fashion events, parties?”
“I wasn’t some hidden thing, or someone to be ashamed of. I liked going out with him. He seemed to enjoy having me around.”
“He had sex with at least two other people the day he was murdered.”
A tear ran down Goucher’s cheek. His voice became even softer. “Those weren’t lovers. He told me he was going to stop both the one-night stands and having other lovers. He promised me. He knew it hurt me.”
“How did you find out about the others?”
“His so-called friends in the gossip world would tell me. I stopped listening after a while. A lot of the time they were lies. Too much of the time they were the truth.”
“Why did you stay with him?” Turner as
ked.
“I’m not sure he really let anyone in, but I loved him. He was beautiful. He made me feel wanted and needed. In many ways he was very vulnerable. The fashion industry can be very cruel. Many nights while in my arms, he forgot the pressures at least for a few moments. I treasured those times. In his way, I know he loved me.”
“I’m not following something,” Fenwick said. “I realize you are grieving for him, but the guy was a cheating rat.”
“I can’t explain it,” Deidrich said. “I loved him. He made me promises, and I believed them. Perhaps I wanted to believe them.” He took out a hanky and dabbed at his tears. “Cullom had a way of focusing on you. He made me feel like the most special person on the planet. His eyes were so understanding, warm, inviting, perfect. My world is mostly slabs of inert stone or sweating on the roads. His was wild and alive and fine. He took me to part of that. He knew exotic places around the world, private places. At least half a dozen times a year, we would go and have fabulous weekends. I enjoyed them a great deal, but the very best times were when the two of us spent a quiet evening in my apartment.”
Fenwick asked, “Were the causes he worked for trying to use his fame, or was he trying to use them to get publicity for himself, or did he really believe in them?”
“Doesn’t all of that get mixed together? Does anyone know where one starts and the other leaves off? Cullom told me he cared a great deal. He went to a lot of very unsafe places. He barely escaped with his life in Sarajevo one day, but he went back to the same neighborhood the next. If it boosted his career and helped a good cause, where was the harm? A lot of children are better off because of him.”
“He have any big arguments with anyone, with you?”
“Mostly we got along great. A couple times we fought about his other partners. Once in a while we would argue about his constant travels, but he wasn’t about to give up the model’s life. He was immeasurably kind in public and in private. I don’t think he had any enemies. He mentioned sometimes that Franklin Munsen was too overbearing, but I never got the impression that they were angry at each other. He was pretty even-tempered, mostly. He used to complain about some of the paparazzi. I think that’s endemic to his profession.”
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