Black and Blue and Pretty Dead, Too

by Mark Zubro

  “Stephanie Preston said she dated each of them a few times.”

  “She told me they were just buddies and that these guys were good tippers, and she wanted to stay on their good side. And, face it, Stephanie is no prize. She’s not real pretty, and she’s got a weight problem.”

  “Was Stephanie Preston a good employee?”

  “Sure. She didn’t short the till. If she gave out free drinks, she paid for them out of her tip money. She was honest. Can’t say much more than that for a bartender. The place usually ran pretty smoothly when she was in charge. And that night, hell, it was a weeknight. Who expects trouble on a weeknight?”

  “Did any of the officials from the District or downtown say anything about a cover-up?”

  “Not to me. They all huddled together. I think they thought it would just go away. Then that video got onto the news and all hell broke loose.”

  Turner asked, “Did Callaghan and Belger still come here after the incident?”

  “Belger, not as much. Callaghan strutted and bragged even more. He practically moved in. He was kind of a celebrity. He’d bring buddies, and they’d tie one on almost every night. They used to come in and drink pretty regular, but after that night, it was like a ritual.”

  “You didn’t throw him out?” Fenwick asked.

  “He actually brought customers in. And this is a cop bar. We don’t get many patrons from the public. I’ve got to keep the clientele happy. The clientele who came in thought Callaghan was an okay guy. There may be a lot of cops who think he’s an asshole. Hell, I think he’s an asshole. I like Stephanie. I feel bad for her. But I don’t pick the clientele. This tavern’s been in my family for fifty years, and it’s been catering to cops all that time. Not much I can do. My livelihood is invested in this place. I don’t want trouble. You sure I’m not going to get in trouble for talking to you?”

  Wilson said, “No one will know what you said to us. You’re safe.”

  They began to get up to leave. Ballard said, “I think you guys should be careful. The talk after you left here this morning was pretty ugly. The guys were pretty pissed about what you were doing.”

  “We’re trying to find a killer,” Fenwick said.

  “That’s not how they see it.”

  Fenwick said, “But the way we see it is the one that counts.”

  Ballard said, “For your sakes, I hope that’s true.”

  Outside, Fenwick asked Wilson, “What kind of hold do you have over him?”

  She said, “I kept his son from having three felony convictions. He got two misdemeanors and a reduced sentence.”

  “For what?”

  “For being an asshole. That’s what they all are. Assholes.”

  They thanked Roosevelt and Wilson for their help. Wilson said, “Everybody’s doing what they can to keep you guys safe, but I’d watch my back, if I were you.”

  Fenwick said, “Thanks for the tip.”

  It was time for them to meet Ian, who, if he had come through as promised, would have the person who did the taping and the reporter who broke the story.

  In the car, Turner jotted down notes, as he always did. Fenwick drove as he always did. Turner yawned. Fenwick caught it. Fenwick’s yawning noises sounded like a siren for a brass fire engine rushing to an inferno.

  Turner said, “I want to go home.”

  “Me too,” Fenwick said.

  TWENTY-SIX

  They met Ian at Cool, the latest trendy restaurant on Michigan Avenue. The place was jammed just before noon on a Saturday. As opposed to dressing in his ever-present untrendy outfit, Ian enjoyed going to and being seen at the latest ‘in’ place: whether it was a restaurant, bar, lounge, or concert.

  Ian had a table on the third floor with the best view up and down the street: trees lifeless in the humidity, shoppers trudging through the haze, honking cabs and trucks fighting with pedestrians at traffic signals, stores luring patrons to their mega-priced wares.

  Each floor of the restaurant had a bar and a four-tiered dessert case. Fenwick lingered for a moment to visit the chocolate.

  The offensively perky waitress gave them menus, returned with coffee, and took their order. Fenwick asked for his dessert to be served before his meal. Neither Turner nor Ian blinked at this. They knew Fenwick’s priorities, and while neither necessarily admired them, they understood them.

  After the waitress and her plastered-on smile flounced away, Ian said, “I’ve been busy. Boy, do some members of the Chicago police department hate you guys. I’d watch around every corner.”

  Fenwick said, “Bullshit.”

  “Have I ever lied to you?” Ian asked.

  At Turner’s baleful look, Ian rushed to add, “About cop stuff?” Those many years ago, Ian had cheated on Turner, and had admitted it only after he got caught in their bed with another man.

  Fenwick said, “That wasn’t bullshit meaning you’re lying. It means this is a bullshit case, with bullshit suspects, and bullshit warnings, and capped with bullshit fears.”

  Ian said, “Perhaps I’m definitionally challenged, but that seems to burden the word bullshit with a lot of baggage. Why not just try a dirty look?”

  “Because I’m pissed,” Fenwick said.

  Ian said, “I do understand that.”

  Turner said, “You’re always pissed. Let’s get on with it.”

  Ian said, “You do have lots of friends on the department who are behind you. Unfortunately, there’s lots more against you.”

  “What if a cop didn’t do it?” Turner asked.

  “You know who everybody thinks did it; Callaghan. As you well know, they’re protecting their own.”

  Turner asked, “Have you found out anything?”

  “Yes. This was not the first fight these two guys had.”

  “We knew they argued.”

  “No, I mean, knockdown, drag out, put-each-other-into-the-emergency-room fight.”

  “How come nobody else has mentioned this?”

  “Because nobody but me knows about it.”

  “It’s not in the files,” Fenwick said.

  “And that should tell you a great deal.”

  “You know,” Turner said, “and your source knows.”

  “Yes, I know,” Ian said.

  Turner said, “Rotten stuff was in Belger’s file but not in Callaghan’s, but there was nothing in Belger’s file that says the two of them had a fist fight. Even the disagreement in the bar isn’t in there.”

  Ian said, “To me that means there’s a lot of powerful interventions going on behind the scenes.”

  “We got that part,” Fenwick said. “And the part where we should be very afraid. I will care when I need to.”

  Ian said, “The department is going nuts. The way-high-ups want this solved. As you probably imagine, the mayor is going nuts. The rank and file are split. A lot of guys think Callaghan was justified in killing him.”

  “They know he did it?” Fenwick asked.

  “Everybody thinks so,” Ian said. “Don’t you?”

  Fenwick said, “Silly me. I thought I’d wait for the facts.”

  Ian said, “Don’t get steamrolled while you’re waiting.”

  Fenwick grunted. “Vague warnings aren’t going to solve the case.”

  Ian said, “That’s one of the things that’s kind of interesting. My sources are good, but I can’t pin down anything definite about the case, which means either there’s nothing definite to be had about this in the police department, or that you guys are in way over your heads and need to run like hell in the other direction.”

  “Are your sources as good as you think they are?” Fenwick asked.

  “They’re good. Not infallible.”

  “Can we talk to them?” Fenwick asked.

  “If they say anything helpful, you know I’ll give it to you.”

  Turner said, “Might dry up your sources in the department.”

  “Might keep you alive,” Ian said. “The threats about you two are pretty spe
cific. The least nasty I got is that if you don’t do ‘what’s right’ you would never be able to have another kid or sex again.”

  Fenwick said, “Very ouch.”

  Turner was not about to underestimate Ian’s warnings.

  Turner asked, “We appreciate the warnings and anything you can do. There’s a couple things you might be able to tell us. You ever heard rumors about gay guys in the city being tasered?” Usually Ian was aware of any shake on the tendrils of any web involving the gay community.

  Ian shrugged. “We get complaints at the paper all the time. Usually they’re third- or fourth-hand accounts. The actual victims don’t want to go to court or hire a lawyer.”

  Fenwick asked, “Won’t the gay legal organizations hire one for them?”

  “Not likely. They won’t give garden variety legal representation. They like to take cases that are going to lead to precedents. They can’t take every case, and the bigger problem here is that victims do not want the hassle. Say some teenager does get convicted or they sue some sixteen-year-old Nazi. What does a complainer get? Kids don’t have cash. It’s not worth it.” He quoted the statistics that Grant and Cotton had given them. Turner realized that anybody who read the Sun-Times editorial on that day would have the statistics from now on.

  Turner said, “You get any rumors of tasering by Belger and Callaghan?”

  The reporter shoved his slouch fedora back on his head and said, “I have nothing on that. Tasering? That’s something that would make headlines.”

  Turner said, “If they could prove it. If they got it on video. Obviously they didn’t. Or somebody’s holding back a recording.”

  Fenwick said, “Does anybody hold back anymore? It’s too easy to make yourself famous on the Internet.”

  “Or,” Turner said, “It happened to a frightened gay man.”

  Ian said, “I’ll check around some more, try to pick up any rumors. For lunch I have for your interrogation pleasure, the guy who made the video in the bar, to be followed by the reporter who broke the story. That man with the cell phone,” he pointed to the bar area, “is Raoul Dinning.” Turner saw a tall, thin Hispanic man in his late twenties. “He is for sure gay. And he was at the Black and Blue party last night.”

  Fenwick said, “Ah, I can recognize new information when it bashes me in the head.”

  “You’re sure he was at the party?” Turner asked.

  “I’m sure,” Ian said. “Plus, and I deserve a drum roll here.”

  Fenwick said, “How about a drum stick in your ear?”

  Ian said, “Aren’t we testy.”

  Fenwick said, “I thought I’d spread the threats around.”

  Ian said, “Thanks for sharing. Luckily for you, there’s more. The gay community, specifically the leather mavens, are in an uproar. Calls from my contacts among them have jammed my cell phone.”

  Fenwick said, “And I care because?”

  “Because rumor has it people in the gay leather community know things that would help in your investigation.”

  “Names?” Fenwick asked.

  “I don’t have them.”

  Fenwick gave him a baleful look.

  “Yet. I do have the definite impression that whoever it is they know, must be someone powerful, or it is someone who has friends in very high places.”

  Fenwick said, “I hear that’s the new standard in Illinois courtrooms, your definite impressions. I’m ready to make an arrest.”

  Ian glared.

  Turner said, “I’m tired. I need sleep. This case is fucked. What do you have for sure?”

  “Zuyland, the reporter who broke the story, is not gay.”

  “Alert the media,” Fenwick said.

  Ian said, “However, this next bit might cause a bit of a flurry in the press. They know each other.”

  Turner asked, “Dinning and Zuyland?”

  Ian said, “You betcha.”

  “Huh?” Fenwick said. “Why would that be news?”

  Ian said, “Before the video came out.”

  “It was a set-up,” Fenwick said.

  Ian said, “You betcha.”

  Fenwick said, “I don’t like cops being set up.”

  Ian said, “Yes, and your point is?”

  Fenwick said, “Fuck-a-doodle-do.”

  “You’re sure?” Turner asked.

  “Ahhh,” Ian said, “the magic question. I have one reliable and one unreliable source.”

  “Any background on Dinning?” Turner asked.

  Ian said, “He sees me as a concerned representative of the gay press eager to help him tell his story and right injustices around the world.”

  “He trusts you?” Fenwick asked.

  “He’s had some hassles. I’ve convinced him you are the saints of the department come to liberate him from his trials and tribulations.”

  Fenwick said, “Stuff it up your ass.”

  “Not right now. Mr. Dinning seems to be a regular guy. I’ve got more notes on Zuyland for when we’re done with Dinning.”

  “We got time for this guy before the reporter gets here?” Fenwick asked.

  Ian said, “That’s the way I set it up.”

  The waitress appeared with their order. Fenwick’s dessert consisted of mounds of ice cream, chocolate, and fudge.

  Ian pointed at the Cobb salad next to the large dessert and asked, “Why did you bother to order the salad?”

  Fenwick said, “Balanced diet.”

  Ian left the table, approached Dinning, and returned with him. They sat down, and Ian performed introductions.

  Under heavy dark eyebrows, Dinning had large, sad brown eyes that looked a moment or two away from crying. His thick black hair was cut short. His brown muscle T-shirt and tan athletic shorts revealed a wiry frame of taut muscles.

  Fenwick and Turner sat on one side of the table. Dinning and Ian on the other.

  Dinning asked, “Do I need a lawyer?”

  Turner said, “We’re just looking for information. Especially on the background between these two cops. You recorded them on your cell phone. We’d like to make sure we have all the details.”

  Dinning rubbed his hand on his lower jaw. He said, “I am so sorry I recorded it. I am so sorry I said anything to anybody. Recording the incident was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I’ve had problems at my job and in my condo ever since.”

  Turner said, “On your job?”

  “Yep. My boss got anonymous calls about me. They said I was cheating on my accounts. I wasn’t. But an investigation had to be held.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “The Jeanne D’Amato Accounting Agency. We’re one of the biggest accounting firms in town, and we never take business from the city. My bosses are tough. They don’t trust those politicians. They said they preferred honesty and backing their employees than kowtowing to the city. They said they trusted me. But still, after this, there will always be a shadow or a question about what I do. I’m not sure how long I can hang on.”

  “What happened at your condo?” Turner asked.

  “I live in a nice place on Belmont just east of Broadway. Last month the electricity was shut off for three days. No explanation. It took hours of phone calls and waiting on hold and listening to crap explanations to straighten it out. After I got that fixed, the gas was turned off. It’s been one hassle after another. If I parked my car on the street, anywhere on a street around my condo, I’d get a ticket. And I’ve got a sticker for the neighborhood. I think I’ve been followed. These guys are relentless.”

  For overnight parking in densely populated areas of the city, you needed a sticker on your windshield or you’d be ticketed/and or towed.

  “You sure it’s cops?” Fenwick asked.

  “Who else could it be? Who else gives tickets? What else have I done?”

  “Maybe you’re just unlucky,” Fenwick said.

  Dinning gave him a puzzled frown. Turner thought it increased the handsomeness and sorrow at the same time. If he wasn’t
happily married, he wouldn’t mind comforting Dinning in any affliction.

  The waitress appeared and asked how they were doing. Fenwick mumbled through a mouthful of food that they were fine. He had just finished his dessert and was starting on his salad. To his credit, from long practice, when working, Fenwick could multi-task: focus on a witness and on his food.

  Turner said, “We’re sorry for your hassles. We’ll do what we can to help.”

  Dinning sat back and looked from cop to cop. “Thanks,” he said. “Those are actually the only non-threatening words I’ve heard from cops.”

  Turner said. “We’re not here to pester you. We just need as many details as you can remember about that night.”

  “You think that fight was connected to the murder?”

  Turner said, “We’re trying to sort things out. What happened that night?”

  “Well, I walked in. The bartender was kind of surly, but she’d been that way the first time. I didn’t think much of it. I got my beer and left a big tip, but she didn’t seem to appreciate it. I figured out later that she must have known I wasn’t a cop. I just wanted to relax for a few minutes and watch the game on the television. Callaghan and Belger were playing pool near where I was sitting. They had a lot of empty beer bottles scattered along several tables.”

  “They’d been drinking for a while?”

  “They sounded drunk, like slurring their words, staggering around. Couple times they sounded like they were angry. Then, and I kind of couldn’t believe this, once when Belger bent over to take a shot, Callaghan, the big hefty asshole, takes the wide end of his pool cue and starts rubbing it up and down the crack of Belger’s ass. That’s when it started. Belger swung his pool cue at Callaghan. The fight didn’t last all that long, but things started getting busted up because of the pool cues. That’s when the bartender got in on it.”