Molly McGee stood next to her grandfather, one hand on the back of the chair, the other resting on her hip, not defiant but definitely protective.
“Tell me when you want them to leave, Grandfather,” she said.
He smiled up at her, touched her hand gently. “Will you bring us some tea, Molly? These gentlemen are here to discuss murder.” She looked doubtful but after a moment complied with the old man’s wishes.
Turner gazed at Mike McGee’s face. He knew he was gazing at a Chicago institution. McGee had begun as committeeman of the Fifth Ward just after Anton Cermak got elected mayor. He’d survived the wars and revolutions in the Cook County Democratic party until Gideon Giles came along. Finally retired, a grand old man of the party, revered in a few corners, but no longer feared, certainly not consulted.
Turner had never seen so many freckles on a human countenance. Over and around the sunken flesh and mottled crevices a blizzard of freckles shone brightly. His clothes seemed a little large on him and Turner guessed McGee might have been somewhat stout at one time. Now he seemed to be shrunken with the years.
“I expected you here before this,” McGee said. The old voice might crack with age, but Turner heard steel and firmness underneath. This was a man used to giving orders and being obeyed.
“We were wondering if you could give us any information that might help,” Turner said.
“I know everybody’s dirty little secrets,” McGee said. “I know everything.”
McGee insisted that they pull up green leather armchairs to form a circle around a marble-topped coffee table, inlaid in its center with a map of Ireland. Molly McGee laid out a tea service, a silver pot, small sandwiches, cookies that looked home-baked, dark-green mugs, all on a mirror-surfaced tray.
Turner sipped from his cup of tea and placed it on a cocktail table with a dark-green lace doily. He glanced at Fenwick. He noted his partner trying to conceal his normal cynicism.
Molly resumed her place standing by her grandfather’s side.
“Now boys,” he began. The remnants of the Irish brogue made the soft voice soothing and melodious. “Now boys,” McGee reiterated, “I’ve got stories I could tell you that would turn the hair on your head gray. I know everything about the real politics of this city.” He chuckled softly.
“Sir,” Fenwick said, “we hoped you could tell us something about Gideon Giles.”
“A lowlife. A bum. Not worth the spit to shine a beggar’s shoes.”
“He ousted you as committeeman,” Turner said.
“No he didn’t. No he didn’t. Not by a long shot.”
“Grandfather,” Molly soothed, patting his shoulder gently.
He brushed off her hand. As he attempted to stand, the shawl on his knees slipped to the floor. He fell back in frustration a moment later, a pang of agony shooting across his face, but he wouldn’t accept Molly’s arm as help. He shook his fist at Turner. “That bastard wasn’t worthy to clean my mother’s toilets.”
“You mean he didn’t have the right to run against you,” Fenwick said.
Mike McGee glared at Fenwick. “He had every right. He just never should have won.”
Fenwick said, “The liberals ran you out of office even after years of running a tight ship.”
“I’m one of the liberals, you young fool.” McGee shook a withered and trembling finger at Fenwick. “This is a good ward. Tough politics. Should have had a black alderman years ago, but I gave everybody in this ward good service, black-white, rich-poor, everybody. That idiot Giles thought I was too old. I didn’t take him seriously. A professor from the university. What did he know about politics? Bastard stole the election.”
Again McGee tried to rise and this time, despite the pain, managed it. He rested a hand on the back of an armchair.
Molly said, “Grandfather,” and reached to help him. He waved her away.
The woman said to the police, “Surely you don’t believe my grandfather walked all the way to the university, up numerous flights of stairs, and murdered this man. People would recognize him. Certainly someone would have reported seeing him.”
“We just want information,” Turner said.
“It’s all right, Molly. Let them ask.”
“I don’t understand about the election,” Turner said. “Were your referring to when he became committeeman or alderman?”
“Both.” The old man sighed. “I didn’t take him seriously when he ran for alderman in the first primary. He lost. Four years later he tried again. I should have paid more attention. He won that election. I thought I was ready for him two years ago, but he managed to steal the ward from under me.”
“How did he do that?” Turner asked.
The old man shut his eyes for several minutes. When he opened them he said, “Gideon Giles stopped by here around twelve-thirty the day he was murdered,” McGee said.
Molly gasped and put her hand to her lips. McGee glared at her. His long gray eyebrows twitched, then drew together.
“Molly didn’t know,” McGee said. “I let him in.”
Turner wondered about the change in topic, and he doubted strongly that McGee had let his enemy in, but he could talk to Molly about that later.
“What did he want?” Turner asked.
“Help in his next election.”
“Surely he couldn’t expect that from a man he defeated.”
“Politics. Everybody wants something. Claimed he was afraid he might lose the next election.”
“I thought he was real popular,” Fenwick said.
“He was worried about something, but he wouldn’t tell me what. Wanted my help though. I told him it would cost him.”
“What was your price?” Turner asked.
“Favors. That’s what politics in Chicago runs on. You do something for me, I do something for you. I wanted favors, and the politically pure Gideon Giles wouldn’t deal.”
“That’s his reputation,” Turner said. “Why would he change now?”
McGee chuckled. “My boy, you are refreshing,” McGee said. “You don’t know much about human nature, do you?”
Turner gave him a puzzled look but kept silent. If the man wanted to talk, he’d let him.
McGee took his time rearranging himself in his chair, pulling his shawls more tightly around himself, patting the wrinkles out of his pants and suit jacket with elaborate care.
McGee began, “He sold his soul to someone,” then lowered his voice to continue, “and that bothered the saintly Mr. Giles, and he wanted out of the deal he made with the devil. But whoever the devil’s representative was this time wasn’t going to let him out of the contract. He sold his soul, and he came crawling to me for help and forgiveness.”
The old man again shut his eyes for a few minutes. He pulled in several deep breaths. Turner felt the dimly lit old room gather oppressively close around him. He glanced at Fenwick. His partner tried concealing an irritated glare. Turner looked at Molly now standing several feet from her grandfather. She had her arms folded across her chest.
“Did he say who he was afraid of or what deal he wanted to get out of?” Turner asked.
“No. I threw him out.” McGee laughed. “You see, young man, I wanted revenge. I believe in revenge. I watched that young man sweat and squirm, because his conscience was torturing him. I didn’t kill him. I wanted him to live a long and miserable life, knowing he sold out, just like all the people he’s made a life out of criticizing. I hope he’s rotting in hell.”
“We were told you might have been siphoning off campaign funds for personal use,” Turner said. “That Giles threatened you with it, and that’s when he ran against you.”
“Lies,” the old man said. “Silly rumors, repeated by people who don’t know anything about politics. You can look up every financial record or statement of mine. I never took a thing.”
They left a few minutes later without learning anything further. It was late and Turner simply wanted to get home.
In the car their radio crac
kled to life. Turner responded. The nasal voice of the dispatcher informed them that they were wanted at Ricken’s house.
“What’s up?” Turner asked.
“Don’t know. I’m supposed to tell you to get over there.”
They returned to the Dearborn Park condominium complex. Outside they saw a blue-and-white cop car, an unmarked Plymouth, and the white van with CHICAGO CRIME LAB printed on the side.
In the front room of the condo a row of windows filled with the velvet night of early spring faced east. Lining one wall was motion modular furniture in natural textures with blue, beige, and mauve accent pillows. A large-screen television filled another wall. A painting of a pale yellow flower surrounded by gauzy white background hung over on the third wall. The fourth end led into a kitchen. A cereal bowl with a remnant of milk in the bottom and a glass with a residue of orange juice rested in the sink. A young cop near the refrigerator pointed toward a hallway.
Wading through the bustle of the working cops from the crime lab, Turner made his way into a bedroom. There he found Joe Roosevelt and Judy Wilson, two other detectives from Area Ten. A smashed mirror leaned at a forty-five degree angle against one wall. Two halves of a trophy lay on the floor. Shards of glass covered large areas of the floor and bed.
“What happened?” Turner asked.
Wilson pointed to a spot on the floor on the opposite side of the room. Turner craned his neck around a beefy crime-lab tech. In the middle of a multihued throw rug was a dark ugly stain larger around than a basketball.
“Where’s Ricken?” Turner asked.
“Tail lost him around seven,” Wilson said. “He went back to district headquarters. Should have come here. Neighbors called half an hour ago. Said they heard a violent quarrel, lots of smashing glass. We got the call and hurried over. Knew he was the guy you were looking for. Door was standing open when we got here. Nobody around. You’ll see faint traces of blood between here and the door.”
“We already have people checking the hospitals to see if he showed up for treatment,” Roosevelt said.
While evidence technicians swarmed around them, Turner gave Roosevelt and Wilson the highlights of what they’d found out that day.
Roosevelt and Wilson had been detectives since the year one. Joe Roosevelt, red-nosed, with short, brush-cut gray hair and bad teeth, and Judy Wilson, an African-American woman with a pleasant smile, had a well-deserved reputation as one of the most successful pairs of detectives on the force.
“This has got to be connected,” Wilson said.
Turner nodded. “But I don’t know how.”
“I hate coincidences,” Roosevelt said. “Too close together. Happening so soon after Giles gets it, got to mean something.”
“Anything preliminary on the scene here?” Turner asked.
“No sign of a forced entry,” Roosevelt said. “Must of known the attacker or he had confidence enough to let him in. We don’t know if anything is missing. Lots to find out.”
The four nodded agreement. They worked out a method of sharing information and dividing up people to interview. Since Fenwick and Turner had started on the political people, they would continue with them. Wilson and Roosevelt would concentrate on Ricken’s family, friends, and neighbors not connected to Gideon Giles and politics.
At the station, Turner turned in his radio at the equipment room and walked toward his desk. Sergeant Poindexter cornered him near the coffee machine. “Got to get something on this case. Can’t have an alderman getting shot and now his campaign manager missing under suspicious circumstances.”
Turner wanted to tell him to give it a rest, but the guy was his superior officer. Turner gave a brief rundown of their activities.
“We need results,” Poindexter said.
Turner managed to escape from Poindexter after fifteen minutes. He glanced at his watch. Almost midnight. He felt frustrated investigating all the politics of the murder. He wanted information, and he knew where he could probably get it. At his desk he dialed Ian Hume.
He knew Ian would be awake at this hour. His friend seldom retired before two or three in the morning.
Ian Hume was the star reporter for the city’s gay newspaper, the Gay Tribune. Three years ago he’d won the Pulitzer prize for investigative journalism for his expose of the medical establishment’s price-fixing for AIDS drugs.
Turner and Hume had gone through the police academy together and had been assigned the same district as beat cops. They’d come to respect and like each other. Ian had gotten fed up with the bureaucracy, and also decided to come out sexually. He’d quit the department to work full-time as a reporter. They had been lovers for a brief time after Turner’s wife died. Now they were occasionally of some help to each other on cases.
Ian answered by saying, “I’m on my way out the door. If this isn’t sexy and interested, hang up.”
Turner explained what he needed.
Ian said, “I don’t have the kind of connections that would give me real dirt on City Hall types.”
“How about Mary Ann Eliot?” Turner asked.
Mary Ann Eliot, born to southwest side working-class Irish parents, now represented the upscale, lakefront Forty-third ward. The first openly lesbian candidate elected to the city council, she’d worked her way up through the regular Democratic organization. Spent years ringing doorbells, getting out the vote, and carrying her precinct. She scorned the trendy liberal set and really believed in the concept that good government is good politics. Her aplomb and expertise in dealing with hostile elements at campaign stops was legendary. The last fundamentalist preacher who attended one of her rallies left with welts on his ego and holes in his spirituality. Turner and Ian had worked as volunteers in her campaign. Turner had met her once, but didn’t think she’d remember him.
“She might be able to tell us inside political information,” Turner said. “I don’t know of any other source in the city. She probably won’t remember me, but you know her. I’d like to talk with her.”
Ian agreed to set up the meeting, even going so far as to promise to get up early the next morning to make the calls.
It was past one when Turner walked in his front door.
Brian lay with his arms crossed, head resting on them, atop his calculus book. The kitchen radio was turned to a classical music station. Brian usually listened to incomprehensible rock music while he did his homework, but calculus drove him nuts, and one evening in a vain attempt to find a soothing break from wrestling with higher math, while scanning through the FM band, he discovered a Brahms symphony. Brian refused to admit he liked the music, just said he found it restful at these difficult times.
Paul shook him gently. “You need to get to bed.”
“What time is it?” Brian rubbed his fist against his eyes.
“Late,” Paul said. Brian stumbled up the stairs. Paul looked in on Jeff. Tired as he was, he sat on the edge of his younger son’s bed and watched him sleep before hugging him gently and going up to his own room.
Next morning Turner strode in seconds before roll call started. After the morning folderol with the watch commander and duty sergeant, the Area Ten commander called Turner, Fenwick, Randy Carruthers, and Harold Rodriguez into his office.
The commander said, “It’s been three days. I have no results to show anybody. Normally I can handle the pressure, but this is the worst I’ve ever seen. I’ve got someone here from Eleventh and State just to answer calls from the media. I need to know what’s going on.” The lack of his usual mild and calm demeanor confirmed to Turner that the commander must be under enormous pressure.
Turner filled the group in on what they’d done since the murder. He finished, “We’ve got too many suspects.”
Carruthers said, “Giles knew a zillion people. We’ve got even more to grill today.” Carruthers still used words like “grill.” Turner often thought he must have learned how to be a cop from watching old gangster movies.
Turner managed to convince the commander that Ca
rruthers should interview all the major political contributors and heads of all the liberal reform operations. These had to be covered on the unlikely chance one of them knew something.
Turner got Laura Giles on the phone the first time he called. She said she’d been at a friend’s the night before. Turner asked her about meeting Gideon Giles the day before for lunch. She sounded as if she were holding back tears as she said, “It was the last time we had lunch together. We did it once in a while.” No, she hadn’t gone up to the English office. They’d run over to the Medici restaurant in Harper Court. Turner knew that so far the beat cops doing the secondary interviews of all the people who worked in the building hadn’t found anyone who saw Mrs. Giles in the English department anytime Monday or Tuesday until after the murder.
Fenwick drove at his usual maniacal pace through the city streets. He took Balbo over to Lake Shore Drive. Turner had called Ian immediately after roll call. Ian had set up the appointment with Mary Ann Eliot at Ann Sather’s Restaurant on the north side, and the reporter requested to be in on it. Turner promised his friend he’d give him a full report later, but didn’t think it appropriate for him to be present at this time.
Fenwick pulled off the Drive at Belmont and drove the few blocks to the restaurant. They parked illegally under the el tracks and strode over.
Turner recognized Eliot, although she didn’t remember him from the campaign. Having already eaten breakfast with his sons, Turner ordered black coffee. Fenwick slathered several cinnamon rolls with mounds of butter.
The alderman drank black coffee and ordered a plate of fresh fruit.
Mary Ann Eliot was a slender woman with brown hair cut short. She’d draped a beige cloth overcoat over the back of her chair.
Eliot placed her manicured hands around her coffee cup, expressed concern about the difficulty of the case they were working on. Their food arrived promptly. Turner and Fenwick ate and drank while Eliot continued. She pointed at Turner. “Ian said I should trust you. I looked up our campaign records. You did good work in the election.”
“Stuffed a few envelopes,” Turner said. He told her that they wanted as much background as she could give them on Gideon Giles and his political career.
Political Poison Page 8