For the next fifteen minutes, they got nothing further from him but cheery pabulum.
Finally, Turner asked where he’d been this morning. Fortesque claimed to have had an ordinary morning, as he and his wife got ready to go to their respective jobs. She was a school teacher in the north suburbs.
They interviewed six of the other top employees of the firm. Not one was over thirty-five. All said basically the same thing. Lenzati was a very nice man with an awkward way of handling people. But he had a gift for unleashing genius and getting the best out of an employee. Each worked in their creative niche and either knew of no one with whom Lenzati fought, or were unwilling to point to a coworker as a possible killer.
When Turner and Fenwick finished with the interviews, they compared notes.
“What I’ve got,” Fenwick said, “is that this guy was a reasonably nice dweeb and a decent employer who paid well, and who had a pornographic collection which he supplemented with a topping of late night visitors that nobody knew anything about. Can anybody be that ordinary?”
“Besides you?”
“Just remember, when you get your ballot for saint of the millennium, I’ll be on it.”
“You’re going to have a tough campaign.”
“I’m not campaigning. The selection is obvious. Mother Theresa had nothing on me.”
“I always wondered who had something on Mother Theresa,” Turner said, “but if we could leave celestial politics aside for a moment. These people liked the boss, which is not a crime. There’s got to be a few places on the planet where that happens. We just happened to run into the only one on this continent.”
“We need to find an enemy. We need to find someone who knew these people in their personal lives. If we track down this Eddie Homan, I may kiss him. I feel like I’m drowning in a vat of candy with all this saccharine sweetness and light. No one is as good as they all claim Lenzati was.”
6
I like watching people and thinking about what their last moment alive is going to be like. I want to be the one in charge of that moment. I want power over them. I want the cops to be the ones without the power for the first time. I like to watch their eyes as they realize they are going to die.
Back at Lenzati’s home in his electronics room, they met with the computer tech from the department. To Turner the guy looked younger than his son Brian. He had brush-cut hair, which was slicked down and pulled forward. He kept a tuft of hair growing under his lower lip. He was as pale as someone just getting the flu. He wore baggy pants, a white T-shirt, and a leather jacket that looked several sizes too big for him.
“You’re the computer guy?” Fenwick asked, his voice soaked with an ocean of doubt.
The kid glared at him. Without speaking he held out his ID. “You want my driver’s license for proof of age of admittance?” Turner saw the guy’s name was Dylan Micetic, aged twenty-four. Micetic said, “What is it you guys want?”
“We didn’t mean to give offense,” Turner said, “but you do look awfully young.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been that way all my life.”
Turner said, “We need to inventory everything in here with someone who has knowledge of what we’re looking at. We also need to find any evidence of computer hackers and/or sabotage.”
“You mean crackers. Don’t they train you guys in any of this stuff? The big thing here with the monitor on top is a computer.” He pointed and began naming objects. “That’s a printer, a chair, a desk—”
Fenwick interrupted, “Listen, you snot-nosed twerp—”
The kid held up a hand. “Abuse someone else on my time. I have knowledge you need. I’m paid to give it to you, but not to put up with you.” He pointed at Fenwick. “And I’ve heard all about you.”
Fenwick grinned. “I hope you heard nothing but the worst.”
Turner said, “I’m willing to call a truce. We’ll promise not to disparage you for your age if you’ll promise not to look down on us for our lack of computer sophistication.”
Everybody nodded, although if it was possible to give a surly nod, Fenwick did so.
Turner continued, “What we’re looking for is something that might give a hint as to who killed Lenzati. What we want to concentrate on is any kind of fraud or double dealing.”
“You think he’d have that out in the open?” the kid asked.
Turner said, “I’m not sure what he’d have, how he’d have it protected, or what its value might be. I suspect we’ll find nothing. I’m not an expert on this stuff. I’d settle for an anomaly that will lead to who killed him.”
In fact, Turner had taken several computer classes and seminars through the department. All of the detectives had taken at least a word processing class. But he wasn’t about to claim vast knowledge, especially in the face of the department’s supposed expert.
While Micetic worked, Turner and Fenwick checked with the neighbors who hadn’t been home on the first canvass. They also interviewed the members of the cleaning service. None of them knew anything that was helpful.
Back in the electronics room, the work was tedious. The room had been photographed already. They had to take each piece of electronics equipment, software, and disk, note where they found it, what was next to it, what they did with it, and where they placed it when they were done. The trail of evidence had to be clear, and they couldn’t know at this point what might be important in their search.
It was nearly four o’clock and they’d been searching for half an hour, when Fenwick said, “Screw it. We’ve got a million other things to do. We’re not going to find anything here. I’ve got to get home.”
“Big case,” Turner said. “We’re not going to be able to leave it like this. At the least, we’ve got to get back, report, and write up what we’ve got.”
“They’re all big cases,” Fenwick said. “They’re also all dead bodies. They aren’t going anywhere.”
“We should stay a while longer,” Turner said.
“I’ve got something,” Micetic said. “I think I found out what the main project was that they were working on in their business. The latest cutting edge technology is artificial intelligence. They’ve done a lot of work with it. No one is close to creating what I consider real intelligence. Essentially computers are still just a series of on and off switches. Today they just go faster than anybody ever dreamed of. An infinitely fast calculator does not add up to intelligence.”
“You a Luddite?” Fenwick asked.
“Skeptical is all,” Micetic responded. “It’s easy to oversell what computers are going to be able to do. Instead of looking through a catalogue that comes in the mail or running to the mall, you make some clicks and buy stuff. You may have convenience, but I’m not sure you’ve got a revolution. You can talk about vast technology, but if you’ve got machines that wear out in less time than an average car lasts, I’m not sure you’ve got much.”
Turner thought he might like the guy. He peered over Micetic’s shoulder at the screen. It was filled with calculations that made no sense to him.
“What is all that?” Turner asked.
“Formulas. I recognized some of the basic ones. These guys were far ahead of me. I don’t pretend to understand all this stuff, and I’ve got three different computer degrees. I’ve got an IBM AS400 at home, which I think is the best computer on the market. This stuff makes that look like an abacus.”
“What’s so important about working on artificial intelligence?” Fenwick asked.
“It’s cutting edge. They would have rivals. That kind of project would be ripe for industrial sabotage, international intrigue, double dealing, anything. The closer computers get to what they call artificial intelligence, the more efficient they would be. Build the better mouse trap, etcetera.”
“Which companies would be interested?” Turner asked.
“All of them.”
“That’s not helpful,” Fenwick said.
“It’s the truth.”
“We’ll have to talk to their busines
s rivals,” Fenwick said.
“Many of them will be out of state,” Micetic said.
“I think I knew that,” Turner said. He assayed their work so far. “Are you almost done with what’s on the computer?”
“I have to get into its innards to try and discover any hidden programs.”
“If he hid them, how will you find them?” Turner asked.
“I’ve had a lot of training. I’ll look very carefully. The guy was a computer genius. So far I’ve beaten all his codes and tricks, but they were fairly simple. There are more, I don’t know how many. I cannot guarantee omniscience. I can guarantee I’ll do a better job than anybody else you could possibly hire.”
“I like confidence,” Fenwick said.
Micetic said, “You’re going to have to get Werberg in here with me to go over some of these.”
“Probably tomorrow,” Turner said.
“Whenever,” the kid replied. He pointed to the screen. “This next bit is the only thing I haven’t been able to crack yet.”
Turner and Fenwick gazed at the monitor. “It’s gibberish,” Fenwick said.
“Precisely,” Micetic said. “It is also very organized gibberish.”
“It’s a code,” Turner said.
“Encryption, yep,” Micetic said.
“I’m old fashioned,” Fenwick said, “to me it’s a secret code.”
“Can you break it?” Turner asked.
“I’ve tried a few simple things, but I’d need an encryption breaking program from my office. I should be able to.”
“Print us a copy of that,” Turner said. “We can add it to the inventory.”
Fenwick asked, “Why isn’t there an address book anywhere?”
Micetic said, “They don’t have address books anymore. They have Palm Pilots.”
Fenwick gave him a quizzical look.
Micetic said, “Those hand held computers that you write on?”
“Whatever the hell you call it, where is it?”
“I have no idea. It’s a physical object that you would need to look for, not me.”
For the next half hour, Fenwick’s impatience grew. Finally, he threw down his pen and said, “Let’s leave this until the morning. It’s nearly five. We can get back to the station, suck up to as many superiors as we need to, and go home.”
Micetic promised to keep trying to uncover any secrets. Before leaving, they called Werberg and set up an appointment with him so that the three police officers and he could meet at nine in the morning and go over all the computer materials.
7
Sometimes I get lucky and there’s a murder or an attack that I’ve had nothing to do with. They get all confused because they think that’s part of what I’m up to. Those are some of the fun times, and I don’t have to do a thing to make it happen.
Turner and Fenwick drove back to Area Ten headquarters. Fenwick handled their unmarked car with his usual maniacal glee. The pedestrians of the near north side survived the experience—some of the less attentive, just barely. They pulled into the Area Ten parking lot and headed to their desks on the third floor.
The building housing Area Ten was south of the River City complex on Wells Street on the southwest rim of Chicago’s Loop. Many years ago, the department purchased a four-story warehouse scheduled for demolition and designated it as the new Area Ten headquarters. Turner was convinced that soon the grandchildren of some of the original rehabbers would be working on the site. Over many years in fits and starts the building had changed from an empty hulking wreck to a people-filled hulking wreck. For years, construction debris had accumulated in nooks and crannies throughout the building.
In the past few months someone had gotten the insane idea that mid-winter was a good time to replace all the windows in a four story building. No question, the windows needed replacing. The cops who inhabited the place used vast quantities of torn and tattered T-shirts, bits of old rags, and duct tape to block the cold wind that whipped in through the multitude of cracks and crevices. The rehabbers had gotten three-quarters done with the window project and then simply stopped showing up.
Adding to his usual high level of annoyance, the window nearest Fenwick had been accidentally broken by a youthful workman. The wind constantly snapped at the plastic covering they’d used to block it up and the cold oozed relentlessly through the ersatz opening. Numerous promises had been made that the workers would return by the following Monday. No one believed this the first time they were told it. Four weeks later, with no construction workers evident on the horizon, it was long past the point of a running joke. Supposedly the city was thinking of filing suit against the rehabbers. Turner figured the turn of the next millennium would come before the legal system would be of any help. Fenwick disagreed. He thought they should arrest the whole crew. He figured that would shake them up enough to get the work done. Turner wasn’t so sure.
Area Ten ran from Fullerton Avenue on the north to Lake Michigan on the east, south to Fifty-ninth Street, and west to Halsted. It included the wealth of downtown Chicago and North Michigan Avenue, some of the nastiest slums in the city, and numerous upscale developments. It incorporated four police Districts. The cops in the Areas in Chicago handied homicides and any major non-lethal violent crimes. The police Districts mostly took care of neighborhood patrols and initial responses to incidents.
When they arrived at their desks, Turner found a box wrapped in a pink ribbon on top of a pile of papers. A label said Nutty Chocolates, Fenwick’s favorite purveyor of confections. “You lose this?” Turner asked.
“It’s got your name on it.”
“Who put it here?”
“Maybe you have a secret admirer.”
“I hope not.”
Turner called down to the front desk. Dan Bokin, the cop on duty, said the package had come in the mail.
Stunningly enough, the Chicago Police Department had no security measures or policies in place to deal with packages sent to the District and Area stations.
Fenwick said, “You want to call Bomb and Arson?”
Turner examined it carefully. The package was barely larger than a matchbox. It would be hard to conceive that it could be an explosive. The printing of his name and the address of the station was tiny and precise.
“Maybe it’s from Ben,” Turner said.
“He would send you something like that here without putting his name on it?”
“I’d prefer to think it was him. I’m sending it to be analyzed.” Even if it simply contained a piece of chocolate, he was not about to eat a piece of food that mysteriously appeared on his desk.
While Turner was on the phone, Fenwick made several calls to get pictures of Lenzati and Werberg that he and Turner could use as they interrogated those connected with the dead man.
Turner flipped on the computer on his desk. He actually seldom used it. Mostly he left it in the sleep mode. A message on the screen said HOW MANY INNOCENT PEOPLE HAVE YOU KILLED TODAY?
“What the hell?” he muttered.
“What’s up?” Fenwick asked.
Turner moved the screen so Fenwick could read the message.
“What the hell?” Fenwick said.
“Exactly my words,” Turner said. He could find no one who would admit to being at his desk or using his computer. Nor had anyone seen a stranger at his desk.
“Could someone have turned this on from another location?” Turner asked.
“We’ll have to get Micetic up here and ask him. Don’t erase the message.”
They called Micetic and asked him to stop by.
Fenwick and Turner methodically began working through mounds of paperwork. They would be in the next day on a Saturday, probably for more hours than either cared to admit.
As Fenwick finished writing in his Daily Major Incident Log, Randy Carruthers entered the squad room. Turner knew that Carruther’s partner, Harold Rodriguez, had taken to working by himself in an unused and unheated cubicle on the fourth floor. Rodriguez claime
d the cold was better than putting up with his partner. No one doubted this. No one had told Carruthers of this secret location. With the warren of rooms throughout the old building, it was easy to get lost or stay out of sight.
Rodriguez had made a deal, which Turner understood involved large quantities of pastries from a nearby restaurant, with the clerk nearest to the stairs on the fourth floor. The clerk would signal Rodriguez of Carruther’s possible approach, and Rodriguez would quietly slip out. The porcine and unpopular young detective was forced to wait long intervals for his partner to appear. As he saw him less and less often, Carruthers became more and more frustrated and upset. Rodriguez was pleased with this, and turned a deaf ear to his partner’s requests to disclose his whereabouts.
The rest of the cops on the shift were getting annoyed by Rodriguez’s ploy. The less time Rodriguez had to put up with Carruthers, the more time the rest of them had to. Carruthers always seemed to need to find somebody to talk to, check a fact with, compare a sports anecdote with, tell a boring story about his personal life to—in short, to share. Normal conversational give and take, which others found so natural, Carruthers found forced. Turner thought this sad, but not sad enough to feel more than a trifle sorry for the guy, and not sorry enough to pay a lot of attention to him.
Carruthers marched up to Turner’s and Fenwick’s desks. “Have you guys heard the news?”
Turner did his best to show polite disinterest. Without looking up and while reaching for more forms to fill out, Fenwick said, “We saw the story. A bunch of cops dead around the country. A vast conspiracy to do in the best detectives in each city. Not a shred of concrete evidence to back up the reporter’s suspicions. It sounds like all in a day’s work for the newspapers in this town. You don’t need to worry, Carruthers. No one would confuse you with someone who was competent.”
“I’m talking about the pool downstairs among the beat cops.”
Turner and Fenwick actually looked up. If there was a sporting event, Fenwick was the one in the building who put together the pool. Almost everybody from the commander to the newest beat cop got in on them. Someone else doing a pool was unprecedented.
Sex and Murder.com Page 6