While they talked, he led them past a series of classrooms to a lounge paneled with pine. The chairs were all comfortable recliners. The room had a view onto the playing fields where they could see practice taking place in the distance. Malcolm excused himself to go get the team members.
“I’m not going to see naked football players,” Turner said.
“Some days are like that,” Fenwick said.
“Maybe at least they’ll be all sweaty?”
“You could ask one for a date.”
“I could flap my arms and fly to the moon too. At least I’ll have been closer than any gay man I know to a real Bears player. I’ll be able to look up front and close at sweat-stained practice clothes.”
“Try not to leap out of your chair and molest too many of them. I’d like to get you out of here in less than five pieces.”
They heard the clicking of cleats from the corridor. Moments later Malcolm and four players trooped in. They were Damien Durward and Larry Mannering, starting offensive linemen; Donald Waverly, special teams player; and Bill Marmion, acquired over the summer from the Canadian Football League as third-string quarterback. He had yet to take a snap this year in a real game. They mostly wore T-shirts and baggy shorts.
The comments flowed: “Great kids, really polite, not obnoxious like lots of teenagers.” Fenwick strode to the window and turned his back on the players and the room as they prattled on in their praise. Turner sat up abruptly when one added to the litany: “I was supposed to meet them after I got done dressing.” Fenwick returned to his chair.
Donald Waverly had made the remark. “They wanted to know what the swinging life of a bachelor football player was like. We were going to go to one of the places on Ontario Street and grab a bite to eat.” Ontario Street in Chicago was rapidly turning into the place to be for all the young, trendier, with-it crowd.
Waverly looked to be younger than the other three players. Turner didn’t remember his name from any newscast or newspaper report. His oversized sweatshirt was grass-stained and dirt-smeared. He wore black spandex under his practice shorts. Turner deplored this habit among sports team members. While jockstraps didn’t allow for a lot of conjecture about crotch content, the baggy-shorts-over-spandex craze ruined tons of obscene speculation. Spandex and no baggy shorts would have been great, and perhaps naked and sitting in his lap best of all. He shook his head to clear the obscene speculations.
“Wasn’t it kind of late to be going out?” Fenwick asked.
“It was a special night for them,” Waverly said. “I’m not a big star. It’s fun to sparkle for the peons.”
“What happened?” Fenwick asked.
“They were supposed to drive back to the stadium with their car. They never showed up.”
“What’d you do?”
“I was puzzled, but what could I do? I figured something happened, but I had no idea what. I went home and forgot about it until the next day when I heard about it on the radio.”
“What time did they leave the locker room?” Fenwick asked.
“Must have been a little before eleven,” Waverly said. “Most of the guys were gone when the boys walked out.”
None of them saw the two boys after that, and none of them had anything else to add. The visit with Goldstein and Douglas had been a pleasant meeting with some nice kids. The cops left.
“So was it as exciting as you thought it would be?” Fenwick asked.
“What?”
“Being that close to the players?”
“Didn’t even get a good whiff of sweat,” Turner said.
“And you’re dating Ben, so I didn’t slip them secret mash notes with your signature on them.”
“I appreciate that. I wouldn’t mind another look at that Waverly guy. I wonder how he keeps that hair so perfect after sweating at practice. Hips that narrow and shoulders that broad should be illegal.” Turner thought a moment. “I’m going to run his name through the computer when we get back. He’s the only one so far who might have had some kind of contact with them at the critical time.”
“Might as well,” Fenwick agreed.
“I’ve got the address of the gay kid and the kink freak. We can get that out of the way while we’re up here. We’ve got to get more on this Douglas kid and his tattoo, if we can.”
They found the street listed in Kenitkamette for the gay kid and drove up to the house. It was two stories of rough-hewn stone sitting on an acre of forested land. A teenage boy with carefully coiffed long black hair answered the door. They identified themselves. He admitted he was Ed Simmons. He let them in.
“My parents aren’t home,” he said.
“We wanted to talk to you,” Turner said. “About Jake Goldstein and Frank Douglas.”
He led them to a library with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, filled not surprisingly with books. They sat on deep plush armchairs. Simmons had a slight figure. His skin was beautifully tan and absolutely smooth with no trace of beard. Turner doubted if he shaved once a month.
The boy sat completely still in his chair. His hands rested palm down on each armrest. His feet stayed flat on the floor.
“I don’t see how I can help,” Simmons said.
“We understand you had a problem with Jake Goldstein,” Turner said. “We’d like you to tell us about it.”
The eyes barely blinked as Simmons’s head turned the minimum amount of space it took to look from one detective to the other.
“I…” The kid stopped.
“Did you come on to him one day?” Fenwick asked. “He turn you down? That upset you?”
“I’m gay, as someone has obviously told you, but I don’t hide that fact. Gay teens can ask guys for dates just like guys can ask girls or girls can ask guys.”
“Do most gay guys go after the high school big man on campus?” Turner asked.
“Sure they do. Why not? Anybody could be gay. He was always nice and polite to me. We were friends.”
“Did he consider the two of you friends?” Fenwick asked.
“Sure. We had honors classes together. We’d done projects with each other since fifth grade.”
“When’d you come on to him?” Fenwick asked.
“Last year. I’d had a lot to drink at a party. He knew I was gay. I figured if I didn’t ask, I’d never know, and sometimes if the other guy’s a little high, he might…fool around.”
Neither cop said, “But he was dating girls.” Turner’s life had taught them that this was not necessarily a bright or helpful comment.
“What’d he say?”
“He looked at me a little funny and said, in that polite way he had, ‘No thanks.’ ”
“His attitude toward you change after that?”
“I don’t think so. We did our end-of-junior-year physics project together. We spent a lot of time with each other on it. We never talked about the night of the party.”
“You didn’t maybe try a little grab-ass? Pissed him off. You got embarrassed? Mad?”
“No, why should I? He said no and I respected it. I had no reason to kill him. Besides, I only asked Jake. I never asked Frank. He wasn’t my type. I rarely ever even talked to Frank, and he was murdered, too. Why would I kill him? Besides, I was here. Home all last night.”
“How well did you know Frank?”
“We weren’t friends. We weren’t enemies. He was just a guy around.”
“He had a tattoo of an upside-down pentagram on his left shoulder.”
Simmons frowned. He said, “That’s kind of strange.”
“Why?”
“There’s a couple kids around into Satanism. I never pictured Frank as one of them. I figured he’s too into sports and athletics. I guess you never know.”
“How do you know it’s a Satanic symbol?”
“They made all the kids watch this film when we were freshmen. It was about the evils of drugs and gangs and stuff. It was funny and out of date, but part of it was on Satanism. What that symbol means would be fairly common k
nowledge among kids. At least those who were paying attention instead of falling asleep or making out during the movie.”
“Who was into it at school?”
“I’m not sure. I know one kid got suspended last year for wearing a T-shirt with a Satanic symbol on it. His dad threatened to take the school board to court. I’m not sure what finally happened, but he might know something.”
He gave them the name and they left.
In the car, Fenwick said, “Kid’s awful good with rejection.”
“Maybe a little too smooth. I don’t know. I know I never would have asked another guy for a date in high school.”
“So he’s another dead end?” Fenwick asked.
Turner repeated the cop truism, “Everybody’s a suspect.”
The kid who’d given the sex toys to Goldstein lived in a heavily wooded subdivision. The house itself was ultramodern. The mother was home and wanted to stay while they questioned her son. Jim Nolan said, “Ma, I can talk to them. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ll call you if I need you.”
Nolan was six feet three, with a toothy smile and a loose, easy way of moving his body. He wore pressed khaki slacks, a starched white shirt, and loafers with no socks.
“How well did you know Jake Goldstein?” Turner asked.
“We were friends. I’m sorry he’s dead.”
“We understand you helped him out with some sex toys,” Turner said.
Nolan’s face turned red. “Hey, that’s private business.”
“Not in a murder investigation,” Fenwick stated.
Turner said, “We’re trying to track down anything about his life that might give any clue to the murder. Most teenagers don’t keep a supply of dildos.”
“Well….” Nolan rubbed his hands on his pants legs. “Do I have to tell this?”
The cops nodded.
“Well…it’s like…. There’s this place on Howard Street in Chicago…where kids can go and buy…like condoms and stuff…. They don’t ask questions…or ask for ID.” He took a deep breath. “Jake and I went there a couple times. We’d talk about sex and stuff, like guys do, and everybody knows about this place and we went. We kidded about a lot of the stuff. He must have gone there on his own a couple times.”
“He never bought leather items or dildos while you were there?”
“No.”
“You never gave him any?”
“No.”
“Never talked about sexual problems?”
“No. He wasn’t a virgin or anything. He was a regular guy.” After finding out Nolan had been home the night before, they left.
In the car, Fenwick said, “Add a stop on Howard Street to our itinerary. Where’s this Satanic kid live?”
They stopped at the Kenitkamette Police Station to see if Robsart had anything new and to get the next kid’s address. The Kenitkamette Police Station was one story all of red brick, with window frames painted white, a green lawn, and shiny clean police cars in front.
They filled in Robsart on what they’d gotten so far. Then she said, “I’ve got a little bit for you.” She punched her intercom button and asked the secretary to send in Officer Cook.
Moments later a slender man with blond hair and broad shoulders walked into the room. He wore the Kenitkamette police uniform. Robsart said, “Hiram, tell them what you told me.”
The officer said, “The local teens are kind of my specialty. I relate with them okay. I know a little bit about this Satanism stuff among them. The kid you want to talk to is Arnie Pantera.”
“That’s the name we got.”
“Arnie is one strange kid. He’s come to my attention a few times. He’s the type who puts the cat in the microwave to see what happens.”
“He really did that?” Fenwick asked.
Robsart nodded. “When he was nine. I remembered it after Hiram reminded me. That was a few years ago.”
Hiram continued, “He’s been to some counselors. Never did anything specifically illegal. You heard about the Satanism T-shirt?”
Turner and Fenwick nodded.
“His parents backed him on the issue. That’s still in the courts. We’ve never arrested him, but he’s got a few strange friends. He connected to the murder?”
They explained how his name had come up.
Robsart gave them the address and wished them luck.
The Pantera home was an old Queen Anne–style edifice. Fenwick said, “The more of these homes I’m in, the more depressed I get.”
“Just think of the inhabitants as possible murder suspects.”
“You’re a comfort.”
A maid answered and ushered them into the hall. Neither parent was home. Arnie appeared at the top of a grand staircase. He was the palest human being Turner had ever seen, and thin to the point of emaciation. He wore black jeans, a plain black T-shirt, black tennis shoes, and a thin silver chain around his neck.
Turner and Fenwick introduced themselves.
Arnie whispered, “Welcome.”
“We’d like to talk about Frank Douglas,” Fenwick said.
“Of course.” More whisper. Turner wondered if he ever spoke at full voice. He led them up the stairs, down a hall, and into a windowless room. A black patchwork quilt lay across the bed. All the wooden furniture was painted black as were the walls. The carpeting was blood red. The entire ceiling was a mirror. More than twenty candles burned on a dresser in front of another mirror.
Turner wondered how the kid could live in such surroundings.
Arnie reached into a closet and pulled out a full-length cape. He swirled it around, and after it had draped itself over his shoulders, he clipped it at his throat. The interior of the garment was more blood red, the exterior more black.
Fenwick pointed to the ceiling above and whispered, “At least he shows up in the mirror. I wish I had a silver bullet.”
Turner muttered back, “That’s for werewolves. We need a sharpened stake.”
“Don’t we keep those in the car?”
“I haven’t seen any lately.”
As they were whispering, the teenager switched on a light over a chair, thrust out his cape-covered arms, sedately lowered himself onto a cushion, then carefully adjusted his cape so that it concealed everything but the bottom of his sneakers, painted black over white. They could only see his face from his lips up. “Yes, gentlemen.”
“Frank Douglas had a tattoo on his left shoulder.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. I helped him select it.”
“Frank was into Satanism?”
“Frank was a friend who searched for answers.”
“Did you have them for him?”
“I try to help my friends.”
Not once had his voice risen above a barely audible murmur. Turner and Fenwick, still standing, unbidden to sit and unwilling to plunk themselves on the bed, tried more questions. The kid gave vague answers to their probing. He’d been home alone in his room the night of the murder. He admitted to no secret cabals or death rituals.
Not learning anything helpful, they left. Fenwick let out a huge breath in the car. “We’ve just met one of the ten weirdest kids on the planet.”
“Wait until your kids are teenagers.”
“Your kid isn’t nuts.”
“Ever had one of his broccoli-and-asparagus omelets? Kid eats another vegetable, I’m going to ram a carrot down his throat until he gags.”
“Most parents would kill for a kid like yours. Come on, admit it. This kid was sicko.”
“I admit it. Feel better?”
“I’m a tough cop, but I don’t think I want to talk to that kid in that room again. He was creepy. Let’s eat on the way back to the station. After we eat, we can get depressed among our own kind about getting nowhere on this case.”
“We should stop at the porn shop first. It’s on our way back.”
“They’re going to remember one kid?”
“We gotta ask.”
&nbs
p; Fenwick grumbled all the way to Howard Street. They found the Garden of Earthly Delights at the corner of Clark and Howard Streets. The window had a mannequin of a male with a well-stuffed string bikini and a female with an equally well-stuffed bra and a bikini bottom even skimpier than the male’s. They were lounging on a blanket and staring off into the street. Small red lettering at the bottom right-hand corner of the window gave the name of the store.
Inside, the carpet was black, the walls deep red, and the ceiling consisted of black panels alternating with mirrors. The room was long and narrow, with types of exotic underclothes on hooks on the left wall. Glass cases on the right were filled with dildos of all sizes and shapes, cock rings, leather straps, and other intimate delights. Immediately in front of them was a condom stand, beyond which were racks of clothes: one each of leather vests, then pants, and finally jackets of enough types and styles to outfit several motorcycle gangs.
A young couple, male and female, holding hands and murmuring softly, stood in front of a rack of skimpy briefs for men. Behind the counter stood a man in mirrored sunglasses, bare chest covered by a leather vest, and tight blue jeans clinging to a torso that might have been in good shape a few barrels of beer ago.
They showed him their identification.
“You the owner?” Turner asked.
The man behind the counter turned his mirrored sunglasses at them and nodded his head maybe a quarter of an inch.
Turner took out a picture of Jake Goldstein and showed it to the man. “We’re wondering if you remember this person being in the store?”
The mirrored glasses looked down a quarter of an inch for half a second.
“No,” the guy said.
“What’s your name?” Fenwick asked.
“Gordon.”
“Gordon, do you sell to underage kids?”
“No.”
“Okay, Gordon, you got a permit and building inspection certificates?”
“I paid.”
It’s hard to glare into mirrored sunglasses, but Fenwick tried.
After half a minute of silence, Turner said, “Let’s go.”
Five
Another Dead Teenager Page 8