After the commander left, Turner and Fenwick found two chairs with rollers and began at the left of the tables. They pored over reports and commented to each other if they found something significant.
When Fenwick got to the medical examiner’s report, he pointed to the third page. “Killer used a .38 automatic,” Fenwick said. “Definite confirmation that Goldstein got shot up the ass twice.” He handed a copy of the report to Turner.
“That’s why the angle of those abdomen wounds seemed funny to me,” Turner said. “He was shot up and in, and they came out from the body.” He glanced down the form. “Shot six times total, once in the head.”
“Why shoot him twice up the butt? The killer missed the first time?”
“Or he enjoyed the effect and said twice is better?”
“Anything besides the marks on his wrists and ankles that showed that Goldstein fought back at all?” Fenwick asked.
“No traces of foreign matter under the fingernails. Goldstein didn’t scratch the killer,” Turner said.
“Rope killer used to tie him was gone,” Fenwick said. “Killer must have taken it with. Funny. He couldn’t get more rope?”
“Maybe he wanted to clean up after himself,” Turner said.
“I like an anal-retentive murderer,” Fenwick said.
“Not amusing,” Turner said. “In fact, kinda gross, if not totally disgusting.”
“Yeah, well, cheap cop gallows humor ain’t easy.”
They worked in silence for several minutes until Fenwick said, “You’d think a kid like that would fight back.”
“We do have abrasions on wrists and ankles.”
“But wouldn’t he fight when the guy was tying him up?”
“No way to tell when he fought if he did. The room was mostly a mess with his blood, but I don’t see anything that showed a fight happened. We were there. You care to venture an opinion that a fight took place?”
“No. Furniture didn’t get tipped over because there wasn’t any to move around or bust up. So, no proof of a fight. Killer held a gun on him all the time?” Fenwick turned a page on the report. “He was tied hand and foot, but you’d think he’d make some protest.”
“Maybe he did. He could have broken the killer’s arm in seven places for all we know.”
“Doesn’t say Goldstein was unconscious. He knew what was going to happen?”
“Can’t imagine knowing I might be dead in seconds,” Turner said. “Maybe one of the first shots had the kid in pain and agony and bleeding something awful.” Turner shook his head. He flipped several more pages. “Listen to this. No drugs in either kid’s system.”
“Isn’t the cliché if kids die, it’s got to be drugs?”
“If it is, it isn’t so in this case.”
Fenwick sighed. “Are we agreed on the timing of this?”
“You’ve got to figure the Douglas kid died first. Otherwise you wind up having to control two athletic kids at the same time, and you have to drag both boys around town.”
“So, the killer walks up to the two kids in the parking garage,” Fenwick said. “He shoots one for whatever reason and makes the other go with him.”
“And the threat he uses on Goldstein is that if you don’t come quietly, you’ll get what your friend got?” Turner asked.
“Makes reasonable sense.”
“That how he got the kid to walk up all those stairs and down those halls in that abandoned factory?”
“Can’t imagine that much carrying of a live, muscular teenager who’s at least squirming.”
“Maybe we’ve got a very muscular killer?”
They perused the reports in silence for a few moments. “Look at this,” Turner said. Fenwick rolled his chair over. They gazed at the sheet of paper together. “Goldstein’s balls were crushed with the ever-faithful blunt instrument,” Turner said.
“I knew this was going to turn out to be kinky,” Fenwick said. “I don’t like kinky with my murders. I hate kinky.”
“Where’s the report on the other kid?”
They hunted it up and read. “No crushed balls or anything unusual,” Fenwick said. “Just one shot to the head. Killed him instantly. Good. No kinky.”
“Why’d he take the time to crush the kid’s nuts?”
“Let’s be sure to ask when we catch this creep. Goldstein’s murder sure seemed like it had some kind of sexual connection. We got any cum traces?”
They hunted through the documents.
“Nope,” Turner said.
“If not sexual, at least kinky,” Fenwick said. “Of course, how can you have kinky without cum? If it’s kinky, it’s got to have cum.”
“I always prefer cum with my kinky,” Turner said.
“Just like you. Are we sure they checked? Where’s the fluid report?”
“Here,” Turner said. They looked at the lines of print. “Only one type of blood each place and no other fluids.”
“Gotta be spit, sweat,” Fenwick grumbled as he reread the section. He slowly flipped through several pages, then said, “Hey, check this out. Frank Douglas had a one-inch by one-inch tattoo of an upside-down pentagram on his left shoulder.”
“Kid had to be more than dabbling or simply interested in Satanism if he went far enough to get a tattoo. Wonder if the parents knew? Maybe they were lying to us when we asked about Frank being into Satanism.”
“Don’t know about that,” Fenwick said, “but would you know if Brian had a tattoo?”
“We went swimming on vacation last year. He doesn’t have one, unless it’s on his butt or between his thighs, and if it is, I’m not sure I want to know about it.”
Fenwick shook his head. “Kids getting tattoos.”
“Too kinky for you?”
“That is not kinky, it’s just dumb.”
They perused reports for three hours. No one else was left on the floor when they decided to call it quits.
“What’s everybody working on tomorrow?” Fenwick asked.
“We’ve got the Bears practice,” Turner said. “I’m looking forward to that. We should try to arrive when they’re changing clothes.”
“I’m not going to be a part of some erotic crap. That’s all I need is you running around with a hard-on.”
“I won’t be running around with a hard-on. I’ll just be discreetly peeking at any sexy males. Like I’ve never had to hold you down when a sexy female wanders into your scope of vision.”
“Not this week you haven’t. I didn’t figure you for the beefy-football-player type.”
“I’m not, but maybe a quarterback or a kicker, or maybe a stray pass receiver might wander into view. At least I’ll get a chance to look at them up close. You’re jealous because it’s not a women’s locker room.”
“I’m too tired to be jealous of anything or to even work up a letch for a naked nymphomaniac. What’s everybody else working on tomorrow?”
Turner checked the charts. “Half the damn task force is tracking down leads from people that have called in.”
“No doubt one is the killer trying in his or her own obscure way to confess.”
“We’ve got reports to write and more reports from others to read. We better get some computer people up here collating data. We want to be able to organize things. I’ll talk to the Watch Commander on our way out. He can try and get Blessing and his crew on it first thing in the morning.”
Several years ago the Chicago Police Department had sent three cops to FBI headquarters to be trained in using a Rapid Start team. Since then, the department had set up its own Rapid Start team. This consisted of computer specialists who could be deployed within an hour to any area or district in the city. They would have laptop and desktop computers, telephone modems, and customized off-the-shelf computer software. They would take all the data collected by the task force and enter it into the computers, categorizing and organizing it at the same time.
They would also have access to over one thousand databases and four FBI mainframe computers at regional in
formation centers. These could provide possible follow-up information, especially any cross-referencing of suspect profiles.
The watch commander grumbled about the lateness of the hour for such a request, but he promised to move on it as quickly as he could. Turner dragged himself to his car and drove home. He found the house quiet and both boys asleep. He dozed off to the comforting thought that they were trustingly in bed and at rest.
Paul awoke the next morning to a buzzing in his ear and pounding on his door. He heard Brian’s voice, “Dad, you up? Your alarm’s on. You’ve got a phone call.”
It had been years since the wake-up music on his clock radio hadn’t been enough to rouse Paul. Today he’d even slept through the annoying buzz of the alarm. He and Mary had gotten the alarm for a wedding present from his in-laws. He never knew if it was a subtle hint that they thought their daughter was marrying a lazy bum, or a simple but odd wedding present.
“Dad?” Brian called again.
“I’m up,” Paul responded. He swung his legs out of bed.
“You’ve got a phone call,” Brian repeated.
Paul threw on some jeans and padded downstairs. He picked up the kitchen extension. Jeff was at his place poring over a book by Walter R. Brooks. Brian was at the counter chopping vegetables. Paul thought he would puke if he had to eat one of his older son’s omelets crammed with broccoli and carrots.
The commander was on the other end. “I’ve just gotten a call from the mayor himself. He was actually very reasonable, but he wants a press conference explaining what we’re doing. He wants us to be aware of public relations. He wants us to plead for help from every citizen.”
“We don’t need more calls from the people. We need less.”
“I know, but the mayor asked. So we’re going to do it in an hour. You need to get down here.”
Paul sighed. He hurried his morning shower and managed to get away with eating several pieces of toast and downing a couple glasses of orange juice.
“What’s wrong with Mrs. Talucci?” Jeff asked as Paul hugged his younger son on his way out the door.
Paul stopped. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“She seemed kind of tired yesterday. I did my homework, but she didn’t check it over. She always does.”
“Did Brian check it?”
“Yeah, but he’s not as good at math as Mrs. Talucci.”
“I’m not sure what’s wrong,” Paul said. “You have to hurry or you’ll be late to church.”
Paul wished the reminder about Mrs. Talucci’s health hadn’t been so direct this morning. He also hated being less than honest with either of his sons.
He tried calling Ben Vargas at home and on the private line at the service station. He got answering machines at both locations. Risking being late for the press conference, he drove the block and a half to the station.
No customers were using the gas pumps out front when he drove up. In back he found Myra Johnson pushing a disabled Porsche into a service bay. He lent her a hand. Myra had an incredible reputation among the expensive-foreign-car set in the city. They begged her to work on their cars. She prized her private time so she often turned them down. They even offered her enormous sums of money, but she worked for only a select number of people. Her being here on Sunday morning meant this was an especially prized customer with tons of money to pay for off-hour repairs.
After the car was inside, Myra said, “Ben misses you.”
“Is he here?”
“Not yet. He offered to pick up some parts for me early today up on the North Shore. Friend of mine with a specialty shop agreed to open for me.” She patted the hood of the car. “Bunch of people gonna make a ton of money on this little baby today.”
Paul felt let down at Ben’s not being around. “I love him,” he said. “I miss him too.”
“You’ve got choices to make,” she said. Myra was also known for her bluntness. She very much approved of Ben and Paul’s relationship and had urged them to move in together but both men claimed they weren’t ready for that.
“We’re working on the Goldstein murder,” Paul said. “It’s a tough case.”
“They’re all tough cases,” she said. “How often do you meet a man who loves you? How often do you find somebody who likes your kids too?”
Paul didn’t have time to argue, but he said, “I’ve got to make a living.”
“You don’t have to be a cop.”
“It’s what I do.”
“Your relationship with Ben’s your business,” Myra said. “All I know is, Ben loves you. The more he doesn’t see you, the more grumpy he gets around here.” She smiled. “If nothing else, the man needs to get laid. When he doesn’t get any, he’s impossible to work for. Can’t you give me a bit of a break?”
Paul was glad she’d lightened up some. Maybe she could tell how bad he felt. “Tell him I was here,” he said.
“Send him some flowers or something,” she said, then patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll tell him you stopped by.”
The autumn weather continued its turn for the pleasant. The wind came gently out of the south. Turner arrived at the station to find a seething Fenwick pulling his way through rows of folding chairs and the people in them in the squad room on the first floor. Fenwick saw Turner and hurried over.
“Press conference hasn’t started,” Turner said. “Tell me it’s not because I’m late.”
“It’s not because you’re late. Feel better?”
“A bunch. What’s going on?”
“Commander decided to wait for more reporters. Some of the national news and the cable stations want live coverage. We’ve got television shit up to our necks here and I am pissed.”
“Try not to rip any of their heads off, but my guess is you won’t get a chance. I bet the Commander is going to answer most of the questions.”
Some of the regular Chicago reporters had spotted them. A few began to drift over to talk to them. Turner told them they’d have to wait for the press conference. A couple of them began to get insistent, but the commander appeared at the podium and beckoned Turner and Fenwick forward. Television lights flicked on. Reporters settled down.
Turner and Fenwick stood on either side of the commander. Along with the two detectives, a lot of the police brass and representatives of the mayor’s office clustered behind the podium.
A woman in a gray skirt and white blouse with a Peter Pan collar buttoned to the top asked the first question. She began with, “Commander Poindexter, do the police have any suspects at this time?”
They heard the litany of usual questions. “Do you have any leads? What are the police doing? Should the public be alarmed? What are you doing next?” And the confirm-the-rumors questions. “I heard they were into drugs, prostitution, throwing track meets and tennis matches.”
The commander urged those who had any evidence of these charges to give it to the police. Turner knew they never would. They’d hide behind the inability to reveal their sources and never admit that these were questions dreamed up late the night before during the poker game at the most expensive hotel they could get their news organizations to spring for. Then the questions turned to the “Why don’t you have suspects, leads, or an arrest yet?” variety. Some idiot from a national newsmagazine asked, “Why won’t you give us a detailed rundown of exactly what the police have been doing? The public has the right to know.”
Turner heard Fenwick growling deep in his throat. The commander abruptly ended the press conference.
They adjourned to the third floor. On top of his desk Turner found a message to call Ian Hume. A second form contained the name of the contact person at the Bears’ training camp. He tried Ian’s number at home and at the newspaper, but found him at neither place.
Up on the fourth floor the activity was impressive. Besides the regular task force people answering phones, writing reports, and chatting with each other, the Rapid Start team had deployed themselves in a section of the room near the floor-to-ceiling cork
board.
The watch commander of the twelve-to-eight shift had come through beautifully. The Rapid Start team, Jack Blessing and his crew, had been called in early that morning, long before the press conference started.
Jack Blessing was an African-American cop in his late twenties. Turner and Fenwick had worked with him before. He’d been among the first cops trained in the Rapid Start program. He was issuing brisk commands when he saw Turner and Fenwick and said, “We’re ready here. Anything specific I can set up for you?”
For twenty minutes they discussed what they wanted from the computer. Blessing was so competent that Turner and Fenwick left most of the directing in his hands. If there was a way to solve the murder with a computer, Blessing would find it. They’d start by inputting everything about the dead boys: height, weight, color of eyes, names of friends, any scintilla of data that might relate to these kids would be on the computer. They knew Blessing would be one of the few cops who would put in as much time as they on the case.
They drove to the northern suburbs again, this time to the Bears’ training camp. Their contact turned out to be a guy in his early thirties who walked with a cane and spoke with an Eastern European accent. He’d played on the Bears’ practice squad for seven years until an unfortunate tackle on a blown play ended his career and left him permanently deformed. He introduced himself as Malcolm Parushka. The few teeth that showed in his mouth were yellow and black, the diseased teeth of a man who hadn’t heard the word “dentist” soon enough. He was pleasant and courteous to the cops in a very gentle, Old World way.
“I’ve mentioned to the players who talked to the boys that you would be here today. They are most eager to help. The young men made a very favorable impression on the people they talked to. I’ll be happy to do anything I can, and so will anyone in the Bears’ organization. It’s just awful what happened to those boys.”
“Were you the contact from the team who helped the boys that night?” Turner asked.
“Yes,” Malcolm said. “They were amazingly polite and very excited. We try to be helpful to kids who are athletically gifted. Of course, it was very significant that they were connected to Ken Goldstein. To be honest, the boys wouldn’t have been able to get in without that kind of connection. We can’t have the players bothered by just anybody.”
Another Dead Teenager Page 7