by Mark Zubro
Turner agreed with the call. Despite the hour, he thought she deserved some warning. The press might decide to camp outside her door. They might ignore her. She might be in danger. Turner also knew that Barb was the perfect one to make such a call. She was fabulous at soothing and calming especially with possibly upsetting news. Turner added the bartender to the list of people they’d try to get to before returning to Area Ten.
No sign identified the Raving Dragon bar near Western Avenue and Irving Park Road. As Fenwick parked in an illegal parking space half a block away from the bar, he said, “The goddess watches over my good parking karma.”
Turner said, “My goddess doesn’t like your goddess.”
“There’s more than one?” Fenwick asked.
“If you can have one goddess, I can have two. Or ten.”
As the detectives entered, they saw a couple of uniformed cops clustered around the pool table in the back. The city’s no indoor smoking ordinance could barely be read because of the smog-choked haze. It was a cop bar. No inspectors from the city would show unless the mayor himself planned an appearance. A few neon lights around the mirror behind the bar tried to give enough light so you could make out the face of the person next to you. The bartender’s tattoos all merged into one massive blur even at this short distance. A newish-looking, hand-lettered sign on the bar said in wide-point magic marker, CELL PHONE USE STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. Below it was a jar with the smashed remnants of a cell phone. Nobody was going to be taking any more pictures or doing any videotaping if the management could help it. It was just after midnight. At least the bar’s air-conditioning was working.
Fenwick lumbered down the narrow aisle between the barstools and the booths to the right. In the occupied booths he glanced at the denizens scrunched over their drinks. A few of them muttered sounds of recognition. Turner followed.
Alone in the last booth, Barry Callaghan gripped a cigarette in one hand and a shot glass of bourbon in the other. A half bottle of beer kept his pack of cigarettes company on the table top. Turner eased into the booth first. Fenwick and his bulk would be more comfortable on the end of the maroon, ripped and torn cushioned bench.
Callaghan stank. He was more overweight than Fenwick. Turner guessed from the beard stubble that Callaghan might have last shaved a week ago. The odor he emanated indicated no baths or showers or applications of deodorant in the interim, either.
Callaghan glared at them. His words slurred as he said, “What the fuck do you want?”
Fenwick said, “Trent Belger is dead.”
Callaghan said, “Party at my place.”
Turner had seen the video of Callaghan’s beating of the young, female bartender. Turner hated the creepy bully who thought he would get away with spreading his bulk in any manner he wished and be damned to the rest of the world. Someone had said, ‘no’ to him and he attacked, as he probably always did, but this time he’d gotten caught. At the same time Turner didn’t want to get swept away in the maelstrom that was now Callaghan’s life. The guy was an asshole, a caught asshole, but an asshole many in the rank and file were rallying around.
Fenwick asked, “What do you see when you see yourself on that videotape?”
Callaghan said, “The fucking bitch deserved it.”
Turner wasn’t in the mood for a moral debate. Getting Callaghan to acknowledge and accept reality was not part of his job description. He doubted if it was remotely possible for any amount of conversation to bring Callaghan and reality to any kind of working agreement, although Fenwick did enjoy the occasional pointless debate.
“When did you last see Belger?” Turner asked.
“Fuck him. The dumb shit could have helped me. Instead he fucked me over. I almost got banned from my favorite bar. I’m lucky I still get to hang out in this dump. I could’ve been thrown out permanently. Bullshit.”
Fenwick said, “Where were you tonight?”
“Wherever I wanted to be.”
Fenwick leaned over the table, lowered his voice to its most menacing grumble, and said, “We want answers. If you want, we’ll take you into the alley behind this place, and I will personally beat the shit out of you. No one will stop us. Even though they’ve rallied around you, anybody with sense, and there are more cops with sense than you’d care to believe, wants you to go away. You’re an embarrassment.”
“I’m bigger than you are,” Callaghan said.
“Let’s try it,” Fenwick said.
Callaghan didn’t move.
There was no doubt in Turner’s mind that Fenwick would be able to overcome Callaghan, and he would certainly be willing to help. But Turner didn’t believe in torture, and he knew it didn’t work, and they really did need answers.
Fenwick asked, “When did you last see him?”
“The day he turned on me.”
“You weren’t still partners?” Fenwick asked.
Callaghan quoted the official department statement. “Detective Callaghan is on paid administrative leave pending an investigation. Bullshit.”
“Where have you been all night?” Turner asked.
“Here. I been here all night.”
A hulk of uniformed cop flesh loomed at the entrance to the booth. “If he says he was here all night, he was here all night.” Turner and Fenwick gazed at the intruder.
“Who the fuck are you?” Fenwick asked.
“A loyal cop who doesn’t try to stick it to his own.” The stranger’s hand hovered near his gun. Echoing the action of Gene Hackman’s character in Mississippi Burning, with a lightning quick movement, Fenwick grabbed the guy’s dick and balls through the front of the guy’s pants with one hand. Fenwick added a twist different from the movie when he used his free hand to pull the interloper forward by his uniform tie. The stranger’s nose wound up an inch from Fenwick’s.
He tried to struggle, but Fenwick’s dual grip was firm. In his very lowest and most menacing grumble, Fenwick said, “Never put your hand near your gun while you are anywhere close to me. Never. Stay the fuck away from here or I will hurt you.” The uniformed cop gasped for air.
Holding a baseball bat in one hand and tapping it against the other, the bartender appeared behind the new guy. Fenwick let the stranger go. Released from Fenwick’s grip, he leaned over and gasped.
“No problems in here,” the bartender said. Up close Turner could see that his tattoos had masses of different colors and swirls. Still he couldn’t make out if there were specific designs or just one massive dye job of an artist gone nuts.
Callaghan said, “They don’t believe I was here all night.”
The bartender said, “He was here all night.” He tapped the stranger on the shoulder with the bat and said, “Claude, go back and sit down.”
Trying to retain what little dignity he had left, Claude said, “I’m sitting close enough to keep listening.” But he kept himself out of Fenwick’s reach.
The bartender watched him hobble a few feet then said to the three in the booth, “You need anything?”
“Another shot and a beer,” Callaghan said.
“You guys?”
Turner and Fenwick shook their heads. The bartender left.
Turner asked, “Before the incident, did you and Belger get along?”
“We were never buddies.”
“But you were partners,” Fenwick said.
“Not my choice.”
“You could have asked for a transfer,” Turner said.
“Fuck the police bureaucracy.”
“Ever have a physical fight?” Fenwick asked.
“I wouldn’t touch the fucking twerp.”
“Ever have words?” Fenwick asked.
“Nope.”
“Ever beat the hell out of suspects?” Turner asked.
“No.”
“We’ll find out,” Turner said. “We’ll look through your files.”
“You won’t find anything.”
“How about Belger? He get rough?” Turner asked.
“He wa
s an asshole. Okay, at first when we started, he seemed like a decent guy. You know, somebody you could depend on, who’d back you up.”
Turner knew this was the universal and highest praise a cop could give one’s partner, that he or she could be depended on. Turner trusted Fenwick implicitly.
The bartender delivered Callaghan’s refills and left.
“So what went wrong?” Turner asked.
Callaghan downed the shot then gulped a third of his beer, then answered, “The motherfucker turned on me.”
Fenwick said, “But a partner you can depend on doesn’t turn on a partner.”
“He was a wimp. A pussy. He was willing to sell me out.”
“Why?” Turner asked.
“You’d have to ask him.”
Fenwick said, “He’s dead. We’re asking you.”
“How the fuck should I know? Maybe his mother beat him when he was little. Maybe he got a bribe. I don’t know, and I don’t care. I hate him – alive or dead.”
Turner asked, “Who else hated him?”
“Like I’m going to give you names.”
“Who else?” Fenwick repeated.
“Everybody,” Callaghan said.
“Anybody who hated both of you?” Turner asked.
Callaghan paused this time. “No,” he finally muttered.
A chink in the armor? Turner switched tacks. He asked, “What happened in here that night?”
“Nothing. I got nothing to say about that. Nothing.”
Turner gazed around the room. Most of the others turned their heads away when he glanced in their direction. A few didn’t. Claude and several buddies hunched over in quiet conversation.
Turner needed to piss. He told Fenwick that he’d be back.
The washroom was small. The one stall’s door hung askew. A florid, elderly cop sat on the toilet with his pants around his ankles and his head leaning against the partition. He snored.
The sink hadn’t been cleaned this century. The mirror had dots of pimple residue, water spots, and smears of liquid of unknown origins. The urinal was a six foot trough against the far wall.
Turner stepped to the trough and began to piss. He shut his eyes and thought. They weren’t going to get answers out of Callaghan, and they weren’t likely to get cooperation from any other cops. And he doubted anybody would come forward from the leather party. He sighed. They had hours to go before the end of their shift.
“Hey ya,” a deep voice next to Turner brought him out of his reverie. A tall, lanky cop who’d been playing pool stood next to Turner. He unzipped and began to piss. The guy in the stall continued snoring.
“He wasn’t here all night,” said the young cop.
“Where was he?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did he get here?”
“A few minutes before you did.”
Turner finished and zipped up. He turned to the sink. The filth-encrusted soap holder was empty.
The bathroom door banged open. A baritone voice said, “The fag detective in here?”
A hulking, middle-aged cop who’d also been playing pool, leaned insolently against the wall. He propped his back against the gritty tile, put his right foot flat on the wall, and grabbed his crotch. He said, “Suck this, bitch.” He pulled at the front of his pants covering his dick and balls.
The lanky young guy scuttled out. The cop sidled along the wall so that he blocked Turner’s exit.
The detective tensed, ready for a fight. All he said, very quietly, was, “No.”
The newcomer said, “Maybe you can give all of us blowjobs. I hear all you fags prefer giving head in johns.”
Turner had an impulse to attack the oaf confronting him, but he waited. The guy would make a mistake. Turner’s muscles tensed. His mind rushed on high alert. He didn’t ask if the guy was making an assumption or actually knew Turner’s sexual orientation. Not only didn’t he care, he wasn’t about to explain, beg, plead, or lie.
A second later, the guy lunged at Turner. Prepared as Turner was, the guy had at least seventy-five pounds on him. The man was drunk, but that was not necessarily a plus for Turner, especially in such a small place. Being drunk could also make the guy more willing to take a stupid chance or make a stupid mistake. Turner staggered back into the stall partition. Braced as he’d been, still his head thunked hard on the dented and cheap metal. His collision with it caused the askew door to slip even further off its remaining hinge.
The stall occupant snorted, snuffled, and resumed snoring.
The initial lunge had unbalanced Turner’s attacker who tried to right himself. The drunk hulk was halfway up when he launched himself at Turner again. Turner twisted, grabbed the man by collar and back of the pants, and heaved. The man’s momentum propelled him into the partition, which came loose from its mooring. The young cop and the slab of now loose metal landed on the no longer snoring inhabitant. Turner thought the noise from the banging and breaking might get the attention of Fenwick and the others.
Turner’s attacker scrambled to his feet, shook his head, cursed, and flung himself toward the detective. Turner let the man come in close then brought his knee up into the uniformed cop’s exposed crotch. The guy bent halfway over. Turner took him by the back of the neck and rammed his head into the urinal trough.
The cop muttered, “Mother fucker,” and, face down, slipped to the floor. Turner noted that the trough was now cracked. The man groaned. Turner touched the back of his own head. He felt a lump growing.
The inhabitant of the crushed stall staggered out grabbing at his zipper and belt buckle. He tried to focus bleary eyes on Turner, failed. He muttered, “What the fuck?” He tripped on the leg of Turner’s fallen attacker. He staggered toward the door. As he arrived, it opened. He banged his head on the edge. He swore again and shuffled unsteadily out.
Fenwick entered. The bartender, baseball bat in hand, followed him. Fenwick saw the guy on the floor, glanced at Turner and said, “You giving lessons to cops again?”
Turner said, “He wanted to be introduced to the floor.” Turner breathed heavily. He examined himself in the mirror, touched the back of his head, looked at his hand. He wasn’t bleeding.
The bartender said, “Somebody’s gotta pay for this.”
Fenwick looked at the dingy interior. “Hire a decorator and send the Chicago Police Department the bill.”
Fenwick and Turner walked out.
Turner glanced around for the thin young cop. Gone. Had the guy been trying to set him up or give him real information? If the information was accurate, he wanted to thank him. If he was part of the set up, he wanted to at least talk to him. If he’d been telling the truth, Turner wouldn’t thank him in front of the others. It might destroy the young guy’s career. The drunk old guy who’d been asleep was gone. Callaghan had vanished.
Turner and Fenwick walked out. Outdoors. One in the morning. Waves of heat radiated from the pavement. The atmosphere was as oppressive as if it were mid-day.
Fenwick asked, “You okay?”
Turner said, “I don’t get to beat up assholes often enough. I should try it more often.”
“I could give you lessons.”
“I don’t think Claude with his crushed balls is going to be your new best friend.”
“He didn’t seem to be enjoying himself. I was.”
Turner said, “Or I can wait until the adrenaline wears off and stop trembling. It shouldn’t be necessary to pound the shit out of your own.”
“From the results I saw, I think you did a great job,” Fenwick said.
“And I’m glad I did. I’m a little surprised at how good it feels.”
Fenwick glanced at his friend. “What happened in there?”
Turner said, “A young guy who wasn’t kissing the floor when you entered, told me Callaghan came in just before we did. He left before the action started.” He told him what his attacker said.
Fenwick said, “I think more cops are disgusted by Callaghan’s behavi
or than approve, but ain’t nobody gonna go against him publicly.”
Turner had seen the same thing over and over again. A cop did something stupid, but peer pressure, fear for their own screw-ups, whatever it was, drew the people on the job together in solidarity behind the screw-up. Turner would never be able to change that attitude among his colleagues and wasn’t interested in trying to. He’d be supportive and rally around, when appropriate. He wanted no part in any cover-ups.
ELEVEN
They walked to the car. A figure in a blue short-sleeve shirt, khaki pants, and a slouch fedora leaned his butt against the passenger side door of their unmarked vehicle.
Only Ian Hume would be wearing his trademark outfit complete with hat on one of the most humid nights of the year. Ian was a reporter for the Gay Tribune, the largest gay newspaper in Chicago. Many years ago he had been Turner’s first partner on the police force and his first lover.
Ian gazed carefully at Turner. “You okay?” he asked. “You look upset.”
“I’m fine.”
Fenwick said, “My buddy here beat the crap out of some homophobic pig.”
Ian raised an eyebrow. “That’s not usually your style.”
“Today it was.”
Fenwick told the story.
Ian said, “Guy had it coming.”
“Yes, I know,” Turner said. The adrenalin rush was gone and his reluctance to use violence was reasserting itself. He said, “The other guy was drunk and stupid. It wasn’t a big deal. Fenwick did his bit in the bar for peace and understanding.”
“He yanked somebody’s chain?” Ian asked.
“In a manner of speaking.” He told about Claude, the guy in the bar who wanted to back up Callaghan’s story.
Ian said, “We’ll have to give both of you medals for making assholes suffer.”