Another Dead Teenager

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “They let me out in the care of another foster family. The first day I went over to Will’s. He seemed surprised and happy to see me. I told him I wanted to live with him and everything. He said no. I tried every seduction technique I’d learned. He told me he’d let me come over after school and do my homework and he’d work with me every day and we’d see if we got along. I knew I had him. I did everything I promised. The foster family didn’t mind where I went. The cops weren’t over all the time hassling them or me. I began staying longer and longer at Will’s each day. We started eating dinner together. He showed me how to cook.”

  Jose’s eyes got shiny. “That Christmas I gave him a gift that I’d carved from a block of wood. On Christmas Eve I asked if I could stay late. He agreed. He made a big fire in his fireplace. He let me snuggle up to him. We watched some of those old weepy Christmas movies together. At midnight I kissed him for the first time. I wanted to live with him from then on. He wouldn’t let me. Finally the next summer, after I graduated eighth grade, we decided to move out of that town to Chicago. No one knew us here. We could change our identities and pose as father and son. The foster family wouldn’t miss me. I love him more than anything. I will never do anything to hurt him. If you try and take us to court or report us, I’ll never testify against him. I’ll deny everything I’ve told you. I’ll run away. I can live on my own. Now that I’m older I can do even more than when I was a kid.”

  Tears ran down Jose’s face. “Don’t wreck it for me, for us, Mr. Turner. I know you’re a cop and there’s rules about what you’re supposed to do, but I swear to God, this is the best thing that has ever happened to me. We’re not hurting anybody. Please let us be.”

  By any standard this was an older man living in a sexual relationship with a minor. It was illegal and Paul Turner could lose his job if he didn’t report it. He did not want to let his career rest on the possibility that no one would ever find out that he knew these two were directly violating the law.

  “Everything will work out,” Paul said. “My goal as a cop and a person is not to wreck somebody’s life. I need to think about this and probably talk to Will. And don’t be mad at Brian. He’s a good and loyal friend. He did extraordinarily well in a tough situation.”

  “Okay.” Jose wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “I’ll drive you home in a little while,” Paul said. As he left the room, he heard the voices of the two teenagers, but did not stop to listen. Several minutes later Brian came down the stairs. Paul met him in the kitchen.

  “What’s going to happen?” Brian asked. “Are you going to report them?”

  “Relax,” Paul said. “I’m not going to make any hasty decisions or do something to hurt your friend. You were in a tough spot. You did a good job.”

  “I still feel kind of strange.”

  “Did Jose say he was angry at you?”

  “No, he’s cool.”

  “When did he tell you he was gay?” Paul asked.

  “He didn’t have to. I went over there to play one time just after he moved here. As I walked up to the front door, I happened to see them kiss. Jose saw me watching. I already knew about gay stuff because you’d talked to me. I just figured it was another gay thing. Never thought a lot about it. He told me the whole story last summer when we went on that weekend camping trip.”

  Paul heard a knock on the front door. Jeff answered and a minute later Rose Talucci entered the kitchen with an iron kettle. “I’ve got leftover ravioli from when the boys ate. Want me to fix it? You look awful.”

  Brian left the kitchen.

  Paul talked about the case as he cut vegetables for salad, heated bread, and set the table while Mrs. Talucci warmed up the homemade ravioli. Halfway through dinner he finished the story of the case.

  “I’ll talk to my sources about protection for the boys,” Mrs. Talucci said. “You won’t have to worry.” Her “talking to people” could mean anything from being connected to the most powerful Mafia don in the country to gossiping with the neighbors. Often amazing things seemed to get done when Mrs. Talucci talked to people.

  “That’s not all that’s bothering you,” Mrs. Talucci said.

  “Sometimes I wish you weren’t quite so shrewd, Rose,” Paul said.

  “How can I help?”

  He told her about Jose and Will. Mrs. Talucci listened without interrupting.

  Paul finished, “If I don’t tell and it ever comes out, I’m in trouble. Doubly so because I’m a gay cop. It looks like I’m trying to cover up a man-boy relationship, and I am. Ian said I shouldn’t turn them in. Brian doesn’t want me to hurt his friend. He’s watching me carefully on this. It’s a hell of a dilemma. He looks to me to do the right thing. I don’t know what that is in this case. Rose, I don’t know what to do.”

  Rose sipped her tea and sighed. “It is not as much of a dilemma as you think,” she said. “When is the boy going to be eighteen?”

  “In five months.”

  “In which case it is not a problem for anyone anymore.”

  “Unless Jose gets angry and turns on him, wants to sue him. There are statutes of limitation on the criminal laws, but he could sue him for years after.”

  Rose sat thoughtfully for a few minutes, then reached over and patted Paul’s arm. “These two people love each other. Jose is no longer a problem to society. In fact he is very productive. He works hard in school. Gets good grades. Hangs around with good kids like Brian. He doesn’t do drugs. He left behind a life of hell.” She sighed deeply. “I will be ninety-three years old in two weeks. I have seen a lot of pain and agony in those years and a lot of joy and happiness. Now I’m dying. I know people put each other through hell often for no other reason than that they exist. Who is to judge that Jose and Will don’t truly love each other? I suppose twenty, even ten, years ago I might have thought differently. Maybe knowing that I’m going to die, thinking about it, makes me see things in new ways. I see two human beings who have found caring and love. Who has been harmed? The boy? He’s been in your home hundreds of times. Is he a bad influence? Do you like him? Is he going to be a good adult? Is telling about them going to make either of them better?”

  Paul shook his head no.

  “It is wrong for adults to exploit kids for sex. Is this situation that?”

  “No,” Paul said.

  “The question is not society’s morals. On one hand you’ve got moral rigidity; on the other, common sense and doing the right thing. The possibility of leaving them be and it affecting your job is incredibly remote. Your job is also to ensure crime doesn’t happen. Because of this relationship, Jose has stopped committing crimes. I think you should leave them be. They’ve found love. Let them keep it. It’s not up to you to destroy it. Trust a dying old woman one more time, Paul. It is okay if you don’t tell. Be thankful he’s not out trying to get revenge on everyone who hurt him since he was small. The list would never end.”

  They talked quietly for a few minutes before Rose left. Paul hugged Ben and Jeff. Then he drove Jose home.

  In the car Jose was quiet. As they pulled up in front of his house, Jose asked, “Are you going to talk to Will?”

  “Not tonight,” Paul said. “You and Mr. Martin have nothing to fear from me.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Turner,” Jose said.

  Paul stuck out his hand. Jose shook it. Paul saw the uniformed cops sitting in their car. He watched Jose enter the house. The uniformed cops weren’t going to be able to stay on guard long. They had to solve the case soon.

  At Area Ten headquarters Turner found Fenwick sitting at the table next to the corkboard on the fourth floor. Remnants of a deep-dish pizza from Uno’s lay on the floor near Fenwick’s feet. Fenwick’s shirt was open and his tie was undone. He had red tomato sauce on his shirt and on the paper he was reading.

  “You took your time,” Fenwick said.

  Turner told him what he’d learned. He finished, “So Jose and Mr. Martin are out. I think we’ve got a serial killer on ou
r hands. We aren’t going to be one of those police departments that refuses to acknowledge we have a serial killer because we’re afraid of frightening the public. I think this is a very smart serial killer. But he or she had to start sometime. And judging from the three area killings we’ve got, this is a very angry person.”

  “And so?”

  “Something Rose said when she was talking made sense. The killer is getting even for all the wrongs the world has done to him.”

  “And so, Mr. Psychology Professor?”

  “And so it started when the person was young. Isn’t that in the profiles? It starts from when they were kids. Blessing had that stuff where people lived. How far did he go back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They trooped over to Blessing’s desk. Turner saw more remnants of pizza around Blessing’s computer.

  “I went back as far as I could on anyone who’d been talked to by any officer or detective on the case.”

  “What if the killer isn’t one of the people we’ve already talked to?” Fenwick asked. “In fact that’s pretty likely, isn’t it?”

  Blessing said, “We could try going through all the people you haven’t talked to. Did you want the entire planet covered or just this continent?”

  Fenwick was silent. Blessing said, “I got Social Security to give me most of it.”

  “Wouldn’t they have addresses only from places people worked?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How about before that? Can you find out where they came from originally?”

  “You mean as kids?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Blessing gazed at the pages of names he’d been given. “Like I said earlier, I can try going through driver’s license records, but I’d have to do it by state and ask the officials to check each person in each state.”

  “Why not start with the last address Social Security gave you? Start in that state for that person.”

  “It’ll work, provided they didn’t move and they were in a job that paid into Social Security, and then try and talk to someone who would have birth records, if they’re computerized.”

  “Start with Illinois,” Turner suggested. “Most of those on the list are probably from here. None of the killings were in Illinois until now. The killer started someplace else. So he lived someplace else. Illinois should be easiest. Finish it and then do the rest.”

  Fenwick asked, “What if the killer is smart enough to always kill where he doesn’t live?”

  “We’ve got to start someplace,” Turner said. “Besides, the last three were here. So he doesn’t live here?”

  “This is getting kind of complicated,” Fenwick said.

  “Can you do it?” Turner said to Blessing. “We’ll help.”

  “We can do it,” Blessing said. “You’ve got pictures to look at.”

  “Do what?” Fenwick asked.

  “From the funeral and the game,” Blessing said. “I sent people over to the United Center and got copies of the tapes from all the cameras. Friends of mine in the Crime Lab put together all the crowd shots. You should go over them to see if you recognize anybody. I’ve got a television and a VCR set up back in the conference room. You can go over the funeral tapes at the same time.”

  “Golly, gee whiz, thanks,” Fenwick said. “I didn’t have anything else to do tonight. Are you ever inefficient?”

  “No,” Blessing said.

  The crowd shots of the game were mercifully few. Cameras were supposed to concentrate on the action on the floor. After half an hour Turner said, “Look at this from the second half.” He pointed the remote control at the screen and froze a frame. “Look, you can see Ben behind the bench but not Brian.” He hit the button that moved the picture one frame at a time. “These aren’t continuous, because the camera wasn’t on them all the time. Look at this one. Ben is gone.”

  “One of the seats four rows above them is empty,” Fenwick said.

  Turner sent the frames backward and forward. “I can’t make out a face.”

  “Me neither, but that seat is filled when Ben is there but not after he’s gone.”

  They checked back through the tapes but this was the only section where the anomaly appeared.

  “Could have been somebody going to the john?” Fenwick said.

  “Could have been the killer,” Turner said.

  “Those seats are sold out well in advance. How could the killer get one?”

  Turner shook his head.

  They began running through the funeral tapes. Three quarters of the way through the first one, Fenwick said, “Hold it. Run it back. There.” The camera had caught a man in a security uniform with long hair and a drooping mustache just turning away. “Isn’t that the kind of guy Brian described?”

  “Yes,” Turner said.

  “Looks fake,” Fenwick said. “Got to be a disguise.”

  “Not very tall,” Turner said. “Can’t really tell, is he sort of chunky?”

  “Waverly is tall. So is Logan. Riley is maybe that short. He’s more muscular. You can’t see much of the body. Certainly can’t identify anything from this. Maybe we can have it blown up. Some scar or something might show up.”

  “In our dreams.”

  Just before midnight they checked with Blessing on what he had found.

  “Most are from Illinois,” the computer expert said. “Saved us a lot of time.”

  “Who’s from out of state?” Turner asked.

  Blessing handed him a list of seventeen names.

  “Where’s the list of deaths?” Turner asked.

  Fenwick rummaged on the large table and brought it to Turner.

  The three of them gazed down the list. Turner pointed. “Drew Riley got his driver’s license in Spokane, Washington, in 1978.”

  “That was seven years before the killing there,” Fenwick said.

  “He live in our crushed-testicles cities?” Turner asked.

  Blessing looked. “Nope. Not in the underwear cities either.”

  “Anybody else on the list match anywhere?” Turner asked.

  They looked and shook their heads.

  “We have one very tenuous connection,” Fenwick said. “That does not a killer make.”

  “He works across the street from where we found the body. It would be handy for him.”

  “Millwood is not handy for him.”

  “Wait,” Blessing said. He checked a printout. “I have absolutely no addresses for Riley after 1985.”

  “Sounds odd to me.”

  “Yeah. I was matching addresses we do have. We don’t have any for him.”

  “Why not?”

  “He didn’t pay Social Security.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “Sure. If you’ve got a job that has a private pension fund. Not that odd. Hell, many of the teachers in Illinois don’t pay Social Security. They have the Teacher’s Retirement System they pay into.”

  “So it could mean nothing.”

  “But it is odd.”

  “Odd and worth checking?” Fenwick asked. “Being sort of the size of the guy who gave Brian the note and who appeared on the funeral tape is not what I want to bring to a boss.”

  “Do we talk to him again?” Turner asked.

  “We could get the Commander and the Assistant State’s Attorney back in here. You want to be the one to tell them we’re going to question a witness based on this kind of connection?”

  “Riley works late. I bet he’s still there,” Turner said. “Maybe I’ll stop by on my way home.”

  Blessing and Fenwick shook their heads.

  “I won’t screw up the case,” Turner said.

  “I’m going with,” Fenwick said.

  “No need.”

  “Right. After we find you sliced up and dead and the Commander asks me why I didn’t go with you to confront a possible deadly killer, I’ll just say, ‘Paul said I didn’t need to.’ ”

  They drove to the Lumber Street address. Even fewer street lights
were working. Turner didn’t see a car in front of the new health club, but he remembered that Riley had a hidden parking place. He saw a light in the upper room in front. Turner knocked loudly.

  No one answered. A gust of wind chilled him as he stood uncertainly in front of the closed door. He banged louder.

  Fenwick tapped him on the shoulder. “Look.” Fenwick pointed across the street to the warehouse. “Isn’t that lights on the third floor?”

  Turner gazed at the darkened structure. “I’m not sure.”

  “I better check it out. I’ll call for back-up on the way. I’ll be right back.” Fenwick trotted toward the car. The door behind Turner suddenly swung open.

  Drew Riley’s gold eyes gazed out at him inquisitively. “Detective. Sorry, I was in the john. Took me a while to get down here.” He invited him in.

  They climbed to the second story. Here newly delivered exercise machines sat, some half out of their boxes. A few were assembled. Drew perched on the seat of one machine and Turner took one across from him. Around them buckets, paintbrushes, tools, and cleaning rags littered the floor. Turner noted that he was painting bold stripes around the walls, alternating primary colors.

  “This is going to be the exercise-machine room,” Riley said. He fiddled with a large brush half covered with red paint. The sitting position pushed Riley’s crotch into an even more prominent view than he’d noticed the first time. Turner glanced away.

  “We had another murder,” Turner said.

  “In Millwood,” Riley said.

  “Yeah. Not very pleasant. We’ve got a very angry person on our hands.”

  “I work out my anger.”