“We’ll have to check,” Fenwick said.
“What did he look like?” Turner asked.
“Magnificently wavy black hair, with huge broad shoulders. His clothes were dark. I didn’t see his face. He was very thin, built sort of athletically. Maybe I saw one of the boys themselves. I was told they were athletic. I almost didn’t call, because I thought it was probably one of them.”
“We’re glad you called,” Fenwick said.
“Have I helped?” Stuart asked.
“We’ll let you know,” Fenwick said.
“What do I say if the reporters question me?”
“I think we can find you a way to get out of here without having to run the press gauntlet,” Fenwick said.
Stuart looked disappointed, but he allowed himself to be led to a back entrance where fewer press would be hovering. They told the uniformed cop escorting him to make sure Stuart got to his car without encountering any reporters.
“Neither of the kids had wavy black hair,” Turner said.
“Sounded like Waverly, the football player,” Fenwick said.
“Let’s see if that computer check on him is back yet.”
The background check on Waverly showed he had no outstanding arrest warrants, no unpaid parking tickets, and no hint of a connection to the murder.
“Where’s he from?” Turner asked.
“Lives here,” Fenwick said.
“No, I mean originally. There’s gotta be more past history than this.”
“We’ve got profiles started on lots of the people you’ve talked to,” Blessing said. “That wouldn’t be in police records. Holly’s working on those. Wait.” Blessing strode over to a uniformed cop’s desk. He conferred with her for a moment and then brought over a sheet of paper. “Here’s what we got on the team guys you talked to. The profile on Waverly says he attended college in Seattle at the University of Puget Sound, where he starred. Originally came from Spokane, Washington. Since he turned pro five years ago, he’s played with four teams scattered around the country.”
“He’s not that good?” Fenwick asked.
“Good enough to catch on, but not good enough to stay long. Wonder if it’s personality or ability that keeps him moving.”
“Let’s ask.”
One of the uniformed cops tracked Waverly down on his car phone. He walked in half an hour later.
“Am I being arrested?” he asked.
“Did you do something you should be arrested for?” Fenwick asked.
“We just need to talk to you some more,” Turner said.
Waverly sat in a chair next to Turner’s desk. He crossed his arms over his chest and said, “I want my lawyer.”
“We didn’t arrest you. We didn’t even tell you what we want to talk about. Why would you need a lawyer?”
“I won’t answer any of your questions. I want my lawyer.”
They tried numerous questions and subtle reasoning. They even gave good-cop bad-cop a shot. Nothing worked. Waverly simply demanded his lawyer.
This was a delicate area for the detectives. While certainly he wasn’t being arrested and was barely a suspect, they wanted to ask him questions. That Waverly wouldn’t answer questions wasn’t supposed to incriminate him, but for Turner and Fenwick it added a host of suspicions.
They left Waverly sitting in the middle of the room while they conferred near the top of the stairs.
“What the hell is his problem?” Fenwick asked. “I’m tired enough to beat the shit out of him, but I suppose somebody would think that was unconstitutional. Double fuck.”
They heard footsteps. Moments later Commander Poindexter marched up the steps to them. “I heard you have a suspect. What’s going on? We got a killer here or what?”
Turner and Fenwick explained.
The commander shook his head. “He’s a player from the team. They can afford lawyers, and they have publicity people out the wazoo. We’ve got to be careful.”
“I don’t give a shit about publicists,” Fenwick said. “We’ve got two murders to solve. You’ve got at least as much pressure on this as we have.”
“I know, but…,” Poindexter began.
Waverly walked up to the three of them. “I don’t have to stay here,” he said. “If I am not charged, I can leave. Either charge me, get me a lawyer, or I’m going home.”
Waverly certainly showed none of the nervousness, fear, or confusion that Turner had learned to look for as signs that often pointed to someone who’d committed a crime.
An hour later a lawyer from the team sat with Waverly, Turner, and Fenwick in the interrogation room.
“We have a witness who places you in the parking garage about the time of the murder,” Fenwick said.
“I wasn’t there,” Waverly said.
“Where did you go after the game?”
“Home.”
“Anybody witness you arriving home?”
“No.”
They sat silently for a minute.
Finally Fenwick demanded, “Why didn’t you tell us that in the first place? We could have all gone home an hour ago.”
“But you wouldn’t have stopped there,” Waverly said. “And we wouldn’t have gone home. You wouldn’t have let me leave with just those couple of questions.”
And nothing further could they get from him. They wanted to hold him for a lineup then, but they couldn’t get hold of the cello player from the symphony. The lineup would have to wait for the morning.
The commander told Fenwick and Turner to come in late the next morning. Detectives working on the brink of total exhaustion would be useless. He’d have given them the advice sooner, but the pressure for a suspect was as intense on him as it was on his people. Others would continue the work of the task force. The two detectives could pick up the threads when they came in. Turner and Fenwick agreed to meet at the funeral for the two boys at eleven the next morning at Holy Name Cathedral.
Turner drove up to his house at two. He switched off the car and listened to the motor click softly. The hall night light was on in his house. He could see the light was on in Mrs. Talucci’s kitchen. She sat at her butcher-block table, a book in front of her. She glanced up and saw him sitting in the car. She closed her book and rose from the table. Minutes later Paul saw the front porch light flip on. He eased himself out of his car. Tired as he was, he would stop and talk to Rose. No matter what the time or circumstance, she had always been there for him and his kids. He would talk to her now, even if she weren’t dying.
He met her on the front porch. She held her robe closed at the throat.
Paul spoke quietly, “It’s late, Rose. You should be in bed.” The silent early morning street enveloped their words.
“So should you,” she said. “I’ve got food. You look like you need it.” Even Fenwick’s prodigious appetite had given way to the needs of the case. Paul hadn’t eaten since early this afternoon.
At her table, as had happened so many late nights before, he prepared to eat. He thought of all those times in the past and how few there would be in the future. He could not stop the moisture in his eyes.
He felt Rose’s hand on his shoulder from behind. “Now is not the time for tears,” she said. “Perhaps after I’m gone. Let’s just talk now.”
Paul wanted to ask her how she was feeling, what she’d done that day, what it felt like to know that she was going to die.
Instead, under her gentle probing he told about his day, his worries about the case. She listened quietly as she always did, her brown eyes watching his as he drank homemade soup and chewed on fresh, homemade bread.
At the end he said, “I think what bothers me most is missing Ben. I haven’t seen him in two weeks. I want to talk to him, hold him. I know I should be more worried about the murder of those two boys, but I just want Ben.”
“He was here,” Rose said.
“Why?” Paul asked.
“He feels the same way about you. I suggested he stay in your house and wait for you
. He’s afraid if you didn’t invite him, it might be awkward.”
“He’s stayed overnight before.”
“But not without an invitation and not without you there. I knew it would be all right.”
“It is.”
“He watched Jeff early this evening and I believe he talked to Brian for quite a while. He loves you as much as you love him.”
Paul felt a little less tired. “But I’m worn out. I need to get some sleep.”
“He knows. He’s probably asleep himself. It will be all right. You don’t always have to speak volumes. Sometimes all you need to do is know the other is there.”
Paul stood up. “What about you, Rose? Are you okay?”
“Of course. I’ve had a good life. I was in love for forty-eight years with a wonderful man. I have my family. I’ve had you and your boys. I’ve had more than enough love for one lifetime. Asking about my health now is nonsense. Go see Ben. He loves you very much.”
Paul hugged Rose. He felt her thin frame under her robe. She patted him gently. He hurried to his own house. Ben lay fully clothed on the couch. The hall light illuminated half of his face. Paul watched him sleep for a few minutes. Paul loved the craggy lines of Ben’s unhandsome face. The shadows seemed to make them more rugged than ever. He could picture Ben in front of a campfire out west, firelight flickering in the darkness. Paul started to cross the room. Ben stirred and opened his eyes.
“Paul?” Ben said.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
Ben staggered to his feet. He was groggy and half asleep. They held each other gently.
“I love you,” Paul said.
He felt Ben’s embrace tighten.
“We should go to bed,” Paul said.
Ben nodded.
After checking on Jeff, Paul and Ben eased up the stairs together. Paul remembered to set the alarm as he undressed. He snuggled close to Ben, whose arm gently caressed him for a few minutes. Paul felt him slackening his movements, patting him, but he couldn’t keep his own eyes open. He put his head on Ben’s chest and fell asleep.
Six
The next morning Paul woke up to a silent house. Usually the morning bustle of his two sons easily wakened him even if the alarm didn’t. He realized Ben wasn’t in bed next to him. The digital clock on the nightstand read 9:00 A.M.. He threw on jeans, a sweatshirt, and gym socks and padded downstairs.
Ben sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee and reading the Chicago Tribune.
They exchanged good mornings. “Boys get off to school okay?” Paul asked.
“We were all very quiet. Figured you needed the sleep. I helped with breakfast. Jeff insisted that I tell you he loves you.”
Paul squeezed Ben’s shoulder as he passed by him to grab a mug from the cabinet and pour himself a cup of coffee.
“I’m glad you were here,” Paul said. He still felt wiped out, but the few extra hours of sleep had helped. “Don’t you have to be at the shop?”
“I’m the boss. I can do what I want. Besides, Myra is there. She’s much tougher on the rest of them than I am.”
“I’ve got to shower and get to the funeral by eleven.”
“I’ll make you breakfast.”
“You don’t have to…”
“I want to.”
After letting water cascade over his body for fifteen minutes, and then a meal of fresh fruit, bacon, eggs, and potatoes, without an excessive amount of fresh vegetables, Paul felt more awake than he had in days. The phone rang as he was drinking an extra cup of coffee.
It was Ian. “Why didn’t you tell me these were homosexual murders?” Ian demanded by way of hello.
“What homosexual murders? I thought we didn’t….”
“I know we don’t say ‘homosexual murders,’ but two of the Chicago morning television shows are reporting that Goldstein and Douglas died because of some gay connection, only they used that bullshit ‘homosexual murder’ tag. As if some goddamn heterosexual couldn’t leave a string of dead males. Jesus fucking Christ, I am pissed!”
Turner sighed. He hated the term “homosexual murder.” Did it mean that a homosexual was committing murders or that homosexuals were being murdered? He hated the clinical sound and the inherent homophobia of too many who used the term.
Turner said, “As far as I know, the murders aren’t gay-related.”
“Well, you better talk to the police department public relations division. They were quoted.”
“Shit.”
“An excellent reaction and an accurate description.”
“What’d the reports say?”
“Quoted some guy who claims he saw the boys at a gay bar. You know how loony some people around this town get if they think there’s a gay connection. After Gacy and Eyler, you’d think they’d learn better.”
“This is the first I’ve heard about their sexuality having anything to do with the murder. We have no evidence from the scenes of sexual activity. Both boys have solid heterosexual credentials. It’s usually the kids from poor families, history of drugs, whatever, who the Gacys and Eylers go after. You know the drill. Boys out there hustling for money, drugs, or kicks. None of that fits the profile of these kids or any of the facts that we’ve been able to find.”
“Well, you’ve got it now.”
“You remember the name of the guy who gave the interview?”
“Yeah. Claimed he was Purple Steve, a bartender at the Leather Strap. Somebody at Area Ten will have the details by the time you get there. What are you doing home? I called headquarters first.”
“Trying to get some sleep. I’m going to the funeral in a few minutes.”
“Maybe I’ll stop by the station later. I’m trying to get information on Purple Steve. I’d like to blow his bubble or get an exclusive with him. He sounded like a jerk.”
“We need all the useless leads we can get.”
“You sound as if you could use a lot more sleep,” Ian said. “Let’s try and get together for dinner tonight.”
“Dinner sounds real iffy. Call me later.”
Paul told Ben about the latest development.
“Only makes it tougher,” Ben said. “You gonna make the game tomorrow night?”
They’d planned on going to the Bulls game for months. The tickets had been a gift from Mrs. Talucci for Paul and Ben’s first anniversary of dating.
“I doubt if I’ll be able to make it. I know we’ve been counting on it, but I’ll make it up to you. Whether we go to the game or not, why don’t you stay tonight? If there’s any chance I can get away, I will.”
Turner called Blessing. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Place is nuts. Carruthers suggested we arrest Purple Steve. Rodriguez dragged Carruthers out of the station. You’ll have to talk to Purple Steve.”
“Yeah. I’m looking forward to it. Did they do the lineup on Waverly yet?”
“Yeah, guess what?”
“He picked out the wrong guy.”
“Got it in one.”
“Rats.”
“Or as Fenwick would say, triple shit.” Blessing chuckled.
Turner told Blessing they’d be in after the funeral and hung up.
Paul and Ben walked out to the car together. They saw Mrs. Talucci working in her garden. She was on her hands and knees replanting and rearranging her annual beds. She waved to them with a glove-covered hand. They strolled over.
As she stood up, Paul reached out a hand to her. She gently waved him away. She smiled at them both and pointed her trowel first at one, then the other. “That’s the way you two should be. Together.” Rose had been pushing their relationship shamelessly for years. Both men blushed slightly.
“You need any help, Rose?” Paul asked. “I could send Brian over after school.”
“Bah. I already took care of it. He’ll be here carrying boxes of dirt, fertilizer, and bulbs for an hour or two. I’ll dig and shove and push dirt, but I gave up that carrying nonsense years ago.”
Paul and Ben hugged
in Mrs. Talucci’s front yard. Paul felt himself smiling as he climbed into his car and drove away.
Turner parked next to a police barricade a half a block south of Holy Name Cathedral on State Street. A pleasantly cool breeze drifted in from the southwest. Turner found Fenwick slouched against a blue and white across from the cathedral steps.
“Heard about our latest lead?” Turner asked.
“We need that kind of crap,” Fenwick said.
“Somebody getting pictures of the crowd?”
“Yeah.” Fenwick pointed to two plainclothes detectives mingling with the camera crews from the television stations. Each cop sported a hand-held video recorder. “Probably won’t do much good. The church is jammed. Probably be an overflow out here. Even if our killer shows up, he’ll be totally lost in this mob.” It was possible for the killer to be somewhere in the throng. The detectives also wanted to observe the families and close friends of the victims. As unlikely as it seemed, that was where a murderer was most likely to come from.
The detectives found their way into the cathedral through a side door reserved for dignitaries. They wound up standing in back. The nave was filled with students from the Kenitkamette High School, the families of the victims, and most of the political notables in the city. Mr. Goldstein had been a major part of the city for a long time. Turner thought he got a glimpse of Mayor Daley, Cardinal Bernadin, Governor Edgar, and Lou Holtz sitting in one of the front pews.
Numerous people gave eulogies. Bob Talbot, the hulk who was Jake and Frank’s best friend on the football team, seemed to dwarf the rostrum when he spoke. Halfway through, he broke down sobbing as he had when they interviewed him. The kid had to be led away.
Their football coach began, “This is the saddest day of my life.” When he got to the part about how perfect the boys were, Turner heard Fenwick groan softly.
As they began to roll the coffins down the center aisle, Fenwick leaned over to Turner: “Nobody confessed from the pulpit.”
Another Dead Teenager Page 11