by Mark Zubro
“You’re sure about the sequence.”
“Reasonably sure. The lack of lubrication makes it seem someone was deliberately being vicious. There was a lot of ripping and tearing up his ass and evidence of bleeding.” He pointed to a stainless steel bowl on the stainless steel counter. Turner noted the pale pink dildo with bits of blood and brown spots.
Fenwick said, “So you could say the thing fucked-up his life.”
“Is that a pun?” the ME asked.
Turner said, “An attempted Fenwick pun. A class A Felony. The puns are bad, but attempted puns worse. In this state, the death penalty is considered mild punishment for that.”
The ME said, “If either of you do another one of those stupid puns, I may shove something unpleasant up your asses.”
Turner said, “Punless in Chicago. A dream come true.”
Fenwick said, “You’d enjoy it too much.”
“Getting butt fucked or never having to listen to your puns again?” Turner asked. “Hard to choose.”
“Is that an attempted pun?” Fenwick asked.
The ME harrumphed again. He said, “I saw no evidence of unusual sexual activity in the distant past. There’s no scarring up his butt which could simply mean all the other times weren’t violent. Nor does it mean he didn’t take it up the ass, but my guess is, he wasn’t used to being fucked.”
Fenwick said, “That dildo doesn’t look that large.”
“Compared to whom?” Turner asked.
Fenwick and the ME gave him a look.
The ME said, “I don’t think it was that dildo that went up his ass the first time. Whatever went up there was bigger.”
Turner said, “Could it simply have been a very well-endowed guy?”
“I doubt it. Too much tearing. Whatever was used would have to have a rougher surface than a human penis.”
Fenwick said, “Using a dildo to stimulate his ass doesn’t prove he was gay or straight.”
The ME said, “I have no idea what it proves. I leave that to you guys. I just give you data. If there was that much tearing of the lining of his rectum while he was alive, he would have bled a great deal. He must have, but my guess is it happened away from where they found him. We’ve got bleeding at the site, but this much damage would have caused more. Also, I think he was dead when the dildo went up there for the last time.”
Turner said, “Then why shove the dildo up his ass? He’s not going to feel any pain after he’s dead. Gotta be somebody trying to divert the investigation. Cops would have to assume we’d connect his being killed with cops who didn’t like him. They might think dildos, leather, and whips would lead us to conclude the killer was gay, or he was killed because he was gay. Or it could be a smart gay guy. The smart gay guy would know we’d think it was cops. But the smart gay guy thinks, cops would be bright enough to try and switch suspicion away from themselves. Where better to place suspicion than on the gay community connected with a peccadillo of the dead gay guy. So, it goes round again and comes back to cops.”
Fenwick said, “Anybody with that convoluted sense of planning, I want on my team.”
“What did kill him?” Turner asked.
The ME pointed to another stainless steel bowl. “There you have the graduated series of orgasm balls that I pulled out of his throat.”
Turner saw five balls, the largest slightly smaller than a pool ball, the four others diminishing in size. They were a translucent, slightly bluish color, held together with a dark blue nylon cord.
The ME said, “You saw the large one at the scene. All the others were down his throat. That’s what killed him. He choked to death.”
“Was he conscious when they went in?” Turner asked.
“Yes,” the ME said. “Look at the fingernails. Definitely traces of someone else. We’ll get DNA from them. You get a suspect, we’ll match them. And he’s got blood on him that isn’t his.”
Fenwick said, “Then his killer must have been incredibly strong to hold him down and be shoving those things in. Belger wasn’t a small guy.”
“Or it was several guys,” Turner said. “So then we wouldn’t necessarily find a site at the station with tons of blood. He didn’t die from the whipping.”
“Nope,” the ME said.
Turner said, “So they could have killed him anywhere, at the party, in his own basement. And just maybe left a few flecks of blood as they dragged him in. The residue of the blood would be tough to find. In a place that huge. In a place that filthy. Nuts.”
“Has to have been more than one person,” Fenwick said. “Somebody had to be holding him down when they did this.”
“You’d think,” Turner said. He gazed at Belger’s body. He wasn’t a small man, but he wasn’t in the kind of shape going to a gym five days a week would make you. Nobody said he was an athlete.
The ME said, “People didn’t like him. Cop people.”
Turner asked, “What’s the story on all the bruising?”
“Somebody beat the crap out of him just before and after he died. He got the hell kicked out of him.”
“Kicked?”
“By someone with tough leather boots. We got residue of black polish where he’s bruised.”
That was the limit of what forensics could tell them at the moment. Just before they turned to go, Fenwick asked, “You sort of knew these guys. You ever hear of them tasering a suspect?”
The ME said, “Nobody can cover up that kind of thing. Not in this day and age. Can they?”
Fenwick shrugged. “We don’t know.”
SIXTEEN
At their desks, the first thing Turner noted was a report from the tech team at the scene. The ultraviolet light had not turned up any blood residue in the corridors closest to where the body had lain. Turner knew it would take them quite a while to go over the entire area. He tossed the report over to Fenwick. His buddy said, “Must have had him wrapped in something.”
“Gotta be,” Turner said. “Or your buddy the goddess is now in the body-transportation business.”
Fenwick said, “You’re picking on my goddess.”
Turner said, “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.” Turner flicked on his computer monitor and typed and clicked and waited for the Internet to come up. He wanted to type in the URL for the website Belger had been on. They did not have high-speed Internet access. He waited and waited. Turner swore. Fenwick looked at Turner. “I don’t know why you bother to try. Just send for Steve Fong.” Fong was the Area Ten computer guy. Turner called. Fong arrived from downstairs long before the computer finished booting up and connecting to the Internet.
Fenwick asked, “What are you doing here on a Saturday morning?”
“Helping you.” Fong was six-foot-three and rail thin. He had a wicked sense of humor.
“Don’t you get time off?”
“They got me an assistant. He’s around when I’m not.”
Turner explained what they needed. Fong said, “I’ll set up my laptop. It’s high speed wireless.” It took him less than a minute to get the Internet access screen up. “You’re set to go.”
Turner said, “I won’t accidentally erase everything on here if I press the wrong key?”
Fong said, “Just don’t press this key.” He pointed to the F14 key.
“What does that do?” Fenwick asked.
“It makes me the all-powerful ruler of the universe, or automatically zaps you every time you try to make a pun.”
“Can you put one of those on his computer?” Turner asked.
“You can’t afford it.” Fong left.
Turner typed in the URL. When the site came up, he examined all the data. He said, “I’ve got to join this thing to get into the pictures.”
“Can you use a credit card?” Fenwick asked.
“I’m not sure I want to give my credit card to some Internet porn site.”
“Half the people on the planet go to Internet porn sites.”
“Do half the people on the planet have
Internet access?” Turner asked.
“All the people who have Internet access have gone to porn sites.”
“Madge lets you look at porn sites?”
“She doesn’t ask, and I don’t tell.”
“You don’t?”
“I’m setting an example for my kids.”
“Bullfooey.”
“That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”
Turner keyed in the information. Within moments he was on the site. Fenwick rolled his chair over next to Turner. He looked over his friend’s shoulder as he navigated the site.
Turner typed in Belger’s porn name into the site search box. In seconds a row of sharp, glossy pictures came up.
Turner said, “There’s a little bruising, and I think maybe some slight discoloration on his back. No scarring I can see. Of course, someone could have put makeup over them. Or, well, I don’t know. I’ll download these and send them to the ME. He might uncover something.”
As he performed the function, Fenwick said, “It turns me on when you do high tech.”
Turner said, “It turns you on when the sun rises or sets, or the grass is green, or the wind blows.”
“What can I say?” Fenwick said. “I’m easy.”
Turner said, “I’m sending pictures. Not a big deal.”
“I can’t.”
Turner typed in a note so the ME knew what he was looking at.
“I wonder who knew about Belger doing porn,” Turner said.
“I’ve never heard of any cops doing porn. I thought cops who did that got fired.”
“Isn’t that some kind of First Amendment right?” Turner asked.
“I dunno. Or maybe it was some teacher down South who got the ax. Or was it California?”
Turner said, “There are sites dedicated to cops and guys in uniforms, military, fireman. Are you sure you surf the net for porn?”
Fenwick said, “Mostly I’m looking for women, and I prefer them not to be in uniform or anything else. And how do you know so much?”
“Practice.”
Fenwick said, “How do the guys on the porn sites prove they’re cops?”
“They can’t really, but I doubt if your average porn-site guy is capable of Oscar level acting. I guess it’s what you can convince the viewer to believe or what the viewer wants to believe.”
“Kind of a definition of life,” Fenwick said.
“I’m not up for philosophy today,” Turner said. He pointed at the screen, “Okay, he’s here, but he’s not having sex with any of these guys. His prick isn’t hard. Although some of these other guys are.” Mostly the pictures of Belger were of him in submissive poses: on his knees head bowed in front of a leather-clad man, in a collar at the end of a leash, tied to a cross with a man with a raised whip looking as if he was ready to use it.
Molton’s voice interrupted them. “This is scientific research?” the Commander asked. Barb Dams was with Molton. She steered an AV cart with two piles of file folders on it.
Turner swiveled the screen so his boss could see.
Molton pulled up a chair. “That’s unbelievable.”
Dams took a look at the screen, smiled discreetly, and said, “I’m not needed for this.” She left.
Turner said, “We’re just getting started on unbelievable.” He and Fenwick filled Molton in on what they’d found out so far. When he finished, Turner asked, “Could they really taser somebody and get away with it?”
“A few years ago, maybe. Now, it would be tough. It hasn’t been that long since Burge and his ilk were around. I’m sure there are more than a few who would like to do a lot of things.”
“Stephanie Preston, the bartender, said the victim just disappeared.”
“Even a Chicago cop would have a hard time making a victim just disappear. I’ll look into that.”
Turner tapped Fong’s computer screen. “Would Belger have gotten fired for being on a porn site?”
Fenwick quoted, “The City of Chicago expects Department members to maintain the high level of integrity established by the Chicago Police Department Code of Ethics and the City of Chicago Ethical Standards.”
Molton gaped. Turner raised an eyebrow.
“What?” Fenwick asked. “Besides being a poet, I can memorize things.”
“Why memorize that?” Molton asked.
“I had a teacher at the academy who was nuts about it. Had it on a big poster above the door. Said it was a ‘mission statement.’ He made us recite it every morning.”
“Every morning?” Turner asked.
“Every single one. So, it’s not really my fault that I memorized it. His class was so boring. I didn’t have anything else to do.”
Molton said, “If I was Belger’s boss, I wouldn’t have cared except if it was taking time away from his job. If it was done at home, or hell, at lunch or before work or on break, who cares? If it was done on the job, I’d probably have given him a warning, not because I’m a prude, but because I expect people to be working. On the other hand, if people knew about it, he’d have been razzed, for sure. And it’s,” Molton looked closely, “a gay site so the ignorant would have let loose their homophobia.”
“Which no one has mentioned,” Fenwick said.
Molton said, “Then a fair conclusion is cops didn’t know about it. If they did, he would have been razzed.”
Turner said, “This might be salacious, but I don’t think it gives a clue to the murder.”
“Not an obvious one, anyway,” Fenwick said. “Maybe we can find out tonight who the other guys are who he worked with in these. Maybe one or some of them were pissed at him.”
Turner said, “I’ve sent the pictures to the ME. I’m going to try the web site for the convention registration.” He typed in the information that Ian had given him. The site came up easily enough. The registration looked fairly normal, except for the disclaimers about age and consent. Turner pointed to the cost. “Ian was right. Two thousand dollars just to get in.”
Fenwick said, “And the place was jammed. It wasn’t for the poverty-stricken. We’ll need to pay them another visit.”
Molton said, “If you can drag yourself away from this enlightening visualization, I’ve got a present for you.” He hefted two stacks of file folders onto their desks. “You need to look at these.”
SEVENTEEN
Each stack was four inches high. Fenwick pushed at the one on top of his desk with the tip of a finger. “Is it safe to read this crap when it’s this humid?”
Molton said, “These are copies of Belger’s and Callaghan’s files.”
“Are we supposed to have these?” Fenwick asked.
Molton said, “I wouldn’t broadcast that you have them. This is a murder investigation. I downloaded them myself. Everything is supposed to be correct. I can’t prove someone didn’t get there ahead of me and delete items, or doctor them last week, last month, last year, whatever. As far as I can tell, everything is there. Performance reports. Conviction records. Everything. Go through it. Be ruthlessly thorough. Plan on lots of overtime on this one. Pressure.”
They knew what the one word meant. Molton wasn’t the kind of boss who railed against his superiors in front of his detectives, but Fenwick and Turner were more than familiar enough with the police department bureaucracy to know the morass of hassles Molton was facing and fending off for them.
Fenwick said, “People have got to be really pissed about the mess this case will make.”
Molton said, “Everybody hates me. Good. Word has already spread in the department that you’re being hardasses because I ordered you to be. That will give you some cover for a short while, but not for long, I’m afraid. Another rumor is that I’m best friends with the mayor and want to suck up to increase my chances of being the next superintendent.”
Fenwick said, “I didn’t know you wanted to be superintendent.”
“I don’t. If they believe I ordered you to be tough, it might take some of the heat off of you.”
&nb
sp; “And puts it on you,” Fenwick said.
“That’s why I get paid the big bucks, to handle pressure.”
Fenwick flipped through several pages. “Lots to read.”
Molton said, “Yes, I know.” He turned, walked a few steps, then came back. He placed one fist on Turner’s desk and one on Fenwick’s. He leaned forward and said, “I heard that a City of Chicago detective beat the hell out of a City of Chicago cop in a restroom.”
Fenwick said, “Hey, don’t leave me out. I crushed some asshole’s nuts.”
Molton said, “I’m opposed to violence, and nobody has video.” He smiled. “Good for you guys.” He left.
Anchoring the pages against the gale from the fans, they began plowing through the files.
Turner had Belger. After twenty minutes he said, “Why wasn’t this guy fired?”
“Lazy ass commander?”
“He’s had fourteen citizen complaints against him. He’s got them for mistreating suspects and witnesses and, for all I know, random passersby. He got bawled out by a judge for fucking up a case with contradictory testimony. Ruined the case against a murderer.”
“The guy went free?”
Turner checked. “No, the prosecutor got him on a weapons charge.”
“Good for him.”
Turner held up a page. “This one is unique,” Turner said. “This guy fought back. Hired a lawyer. Wrote letters. Young fella.” He handed a sheaf of papers across to Fenwick.
Fenwick perused it. “We gotta talk to this guy.”
“Yeah.” Turner noted down his name and address on the list he was keeping of people they needed to talk to. “What have you got on Callaghan so far?”
“Not as much. No complaints. No good stuff either. No commendations for bravery.”
“No complaints?”
Fenwick shuffled quickly through the stack he’d read so far. “Nothing yet.”
“Funny. They were partners. If one was in it, the other should have seen it.”
“Not here,” Fenwick said.
“Cover-up,” Turner said. He glanced through the rest of his stack. “Belger doesn’t have much good stuff. He got high marks at the academy. Went to community college for a few years.”