Turner insisted they detour to the Speedy Electronics store at Broadway and Belmont. There, he picked out the same kind of beeper that Fenwick wore for Madge.
Turner and Fenwick returned to Area Ten Headquarters. The building housing Area Ten was south of the River City complex on Wells Street on the southwest rim of Chicago’s Loop. The building was as old and crumbling as River City was new and gleaming. Fifteen years ago, the department purchased a four-story warehouse scheduled for demolition and decreed it would be the new Area Ten Headquarters. Planned renovations occurred at random intervals. Lack of air-conditioning in the summer, was somewhat ameliorated by a huge numbers of fans nearly blowing their paperwork to uselessness. For the winter, all of the detectives, most of the clerks, and over half the uniformed cops, had brought in space heaters, making the entire complex a disaster waiting for a fire to destroy it.
Heavily bundled-up newspaper reporters huddled together just inside the doors to the station. As Turner and Fenwick walked in, the acting commander was giving a statement. Every time the doors opened, a swoosh of wind swirled in and lowered the temperature around the reporters ten degrees.
Turner and Fenwick hurried past the milling mob and up the stairs. At their desks on the third floor, they took out the beginnings
of paperwork: Major Crime Worksheets, Daily Major Incident Logs, and Supplementary Reports.
Minutes later, the acting commander entered the room and strode over to them. The regular commander was on vacation in Cabo San Lucas. The acting commander was a Hispanic-American named Drew Molton, a sensible man who’d run afoul of the upper echelon of the Police Department. Last summer he’d had a one man show of his paintings in a local art gallery. While the money he made, from the sale of the pieces, had silenced most of the razzing from his cop buddies, neither the art, nor the amount of money earned kept the police brass from being leery about his artistic activities. A person achieving fame outside of the establishment made them uneasy.
Drew Molton sat down on the corner of Fenwick’s desk. He said, “I hate it when famous people die. Makes the case a pain in the ass.”
“I think I’ve got a problem with it,” Turner said.
Molton gazed at him calmly and waited for him to explain.
It wasn’t that Turner was unwilling to be open about his sexual orientation, he just wasn’t eager to add another coming-out experience to his day’s work. Unfortunately, coming out is a process, engaged in every time a new person or situation is met in which being openly gay is significant. It may be perfectly safe to come out, but each time it takes an emotional toll. Turner pulled in a lungful of air. “I’m gay and the dead guy was notoriously homophobic.”
Molton looked at him in silence for several moments. Finally, he said, “And your point is?”
“I might not be able to be objective. What if some prosecutor tries to bring my feelings against him up at trial, like they did with that cop in Los Angeles?”
“That was negative feelings about the alleged killer, not the victim. It’s not the same thing.”
“In the same ballpark.”
“I expect every cop in this command to respond to every situation professionally. If you want to tell me you can’t handle it,
then you’re telling me you shouldn’t be a detective. I’m sure that’s not what you want to tell me. African-American cops investigate the murders of white bigots. White cops investigate the killings of angry African-Americans.”
“This is an awfully high-profile case.”
“That’s why I’m glad you two are on it. I don’t have to worry about screw-ups or prejudice. If you arrest somebody, it’ll be done right, and I’ll know we’ve got our killer. You two have the best conviction rate in the squad for the past three years.” He pointed at Turner, “You ever make bigoted, antijudge, antistraight comments?”
“No.”
“Then you’ll be a fine witness when we catch the asshole who did this.”
Turner gazed at the Commander for a few moments. The vote of confidence made him feel good.
“I’m ordering you to stay on the case,” the Commander finished. “Give me a full report after you’re done today.”
They nodded.
Molton added, “FBI might be nosing in on this one.”
“Didn’t happen anywhere they have jurisdiction,” Fenwick said.
“Just the same, they’ll probably be around. If the need arises, be as gentle with them as you can.”
“Can we use anybody we want on the case?” Turner asked.
Milton said, “Within reason. Take Roosevelt and Wilson first. They’re the best. A famous person is dead. I get pressure. You get pressure. We all get pressure. Let’s get this over with as soon as we can.” He left.
“Guess I’m on the case,” Turner said.
They found Joe Roosevelt and Judy Wilson in the coffee room. Joe was red-nosed and short, with brush-cut gray hair and bad teeth. Judy was a fiercely competitive African-American woman. They had a well-deserved reputation as one of the most successful pairs of detectives on the force. When Turner
and Fenwick entered the room, the other two detectives were arguing over what was appropriate to bring as a wedding gift when you were invited to a bachelor party or bridal shower but not to the wedding or reception itself.
Roosevelt turned on them, “You guys decide …”
Wilson interrupted, “I’m not asking two males what is socially appropriate. How are they going to know?”
“Why would I care?” Fenwick asked.
Turner had heard Roosevelt and Wilson raising their voices to each other on everything from the most appropriate caliber of gun a cop should keep in reserve to the politics in the Streets and Sanitation Department in the city. He figured they must take delight in disagreeing since, over the years, neither had ever requested a transfer. Turner forestalled resumption in this latest round of debates, diverting their attention to the case at hand.
“We need you to take charge of the canvass of the neighborhood on the Judge Meade case.”
“Figured you’d need our help,” Roosevelt said. “What’s the story?”
“Somebody popped him in the middle of the forehead,” Fenwick said. “Left him to freeze in an alley near Lincoln and Fullerton.”
“Judgesicle,” Wilson said.
“We’ve got McWilliams and a couple others out in the field freezing their butts off,” Fenwick said.
“But you’d rather it be us,” Wilson said.
“Copsicles,” Roosevelt said.
“Yeah, but you won’t be dead,” Fenwick said.
“Right,” Wilson said. “We only had thirty other cases we were working on.”
“Doesn’t everybody?” Turner said.
“Who’s got the results on the pool?” Roosevelt asked.
“I’m not sure,” Fenwick said. “Couple people passed it around. I put my time on the sheet and gave my money to one of the uniforms downstairs.”
“I’m working on a three-thirty dead bum,” Wilson said. “I think I’ve got a chance.”
Turner and Fenwick returned to their desks in the squad room.
Randy Carruthers entered and hurried over toward them. Fenwick groaned. “There’s gotta be a law against stupidity and the penalty has got to be having your head chopped off.”
“Carruthers wouldn’t miss his.”
“Yeah, what little brains he’s got are in his butt.”
“Hi, you guys.” Randy wore a green, knit turtleneck sweater. The collar was caught in the folds of his double chin. The bulges of fat on his torso protruded prominently under the tight-fitting garment. He plopped his substantial butt on the corner of Fenwick’s desk. Commanders and acting commanders could safely intrude on Fenwick’s space. Anyone lower in rank perched at their own peril. No matter how many times Fenwick’s ham hand had swiped at Carruthers’ ass, the rotund nuisance never got the message.
Fenwick’s paw moved quickly. Carruthers jumped.
“Where’s Rodriguez?” Fenwick asked. Rodriguez was Carruthers’ long-suffering partner. Six years ago, Rodriguez had offended the wrong member of the police power structure and he was certain they’d assigned him to Carruthers in revenge.
“Haven’t seen him in half an hour. He said we were supposed to go check out a report of someone carrying coal to New-castle. I’ve never heard of that part of the city. He said I’m supposed to look it up and find it. I didn’t know people still heated their homes with coal. Course, it’s so cold, you never can tell.”
“Good luck,” Fenwick said. He made a show of returning to his work. Turner was already filling in the tops of several forms.
“But I got to tell you guys,” Carruthers said. “That Judge Meade, you’ve got to find who killed him. He was the finest man who ever sat on the federal bench.”
“Didn’t know you knew him,” Turner said.
“I didn’t, but I followed his cases for years. He was showing
those liberals a thing or two. He knew how to deal with them. I went to a talk he gave once.”
Turner looked up and gave him an interested look. Actually being listened to brought a grin to Carruthers’ face. Turner could see the off-yellow front tooth mixed with the other grayish ones.
“When was this?” Turner asked.
“When I was taking classes at DePaul.” Carruthers was eternally taking classes. He’d tried law school but never went beyond a semester. He’d never got into the Social Worker program he’d applied to. “He came to make a speech. About fifty people attended.”
“What’d he say?” Turner asked.
“Just talked about returning America to family values. He spoke like someone who knew what he was talking about. Quoted statistics. He was very inspirational.”
“Nothing radical? Any angry questions from the crowd?”
“No. At the end we stood up and cheered. It felt odd in a room with only fifty people, but I didn’t care. I liked what he said.”
Fenwick gave a rumble deep in his throat. Carruthers stepped back several paces. Fenwick said, “Randy, I think I hear your mother calling. Good-bye.”
They returned to their paperwork.
Carruthers gave them both confused looks which neither of them saw. He stared at the tops of their heads a moment and then left.
Half an hour later, Turner’s phone rang. It was Ian.
“Rumor has it you’ve got a dead Nazi on your hands,” Ian said.
“How do you know these things?”
“Sources. Are you working on the Meade case?”
“Yes,” Paul said.
“He was a hateful twit.”
“I already know Judge Meade was not a member of the bench esteemed in the gay community.”
“I’m organizing the celebration among all my friends.”
“How many gay people really would have known who he was?”
“Me. A few attorneys. I only know because I’ve written articles after this circuit has ruled on cases of interest to us. I attended lectures he gave.”
“Carruthers says he’s been to a lecture the judge gave. Are you guys secretly best friends?”
Ian snorted. “That man is certifiably straight, and I for one am glad of it. I didn’t see Carruthers at any lecture I was at.”
Turner asked, “Aren’t judges supposed to be impartial? If they speak out, aren’t they prejudicing their cases or prejudging, or something?”
“Lots of them give talks and state their opinions. They feel they are founts of wisdom. They get chauffeured to work. They are nasty, egotistical, and self-important. They have no idea what is going on in the real world.”
“That sounds a little harsh.”
“As far as I’m concerned they should have killed more than one.”
“I’ll keep that in mind if federal judges all across the country suddenly start flopping over dead. Who else would recognize his name?” Turner asked.
“All the people who read my byline in the paper and my columns, if both of them are in town that week. Not that many, unfortunately.”
“Going to be a sort of a small celebration.”
“We will make up in quality what we lack in quantity. Want to come?”
“No. I’m sure I’ll be busy until late. I do memorize all your columns and I don’t remember his name coming up.”
“Perhaps you’ve been fibbing to me all this time.”
“I treasure every syllable you write. Maybe I was on vacation when his name came up.”
“They’re leaving you on the case?”
“Yes.”
“Good for them. He was an evil man. You find out who did it, he or she could become a big hero.”
“Still just a dead body with a killer to catch. Why did you call, Ian?”
“To get the low-down inside dirt and cheap, tawdry gossip about the case.”
“And pigs can fly.”
“I think I saw that in a bar I was in the other night. Or maybe I was hallucinating.”
“Hallucinating,” Turner confirmed.
“You haven’t been in some of the bars I’ve been in lately. Actually I have a tip that we can’t possibly print. At least not for a while. My source on this is very unreliable. Maybe I’ll learn more as the day goes on. I’ve got the rather startling rumor that the dead judge was in a gay bar on the north side last night.”
“Which bar?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
“That sure narrows it down. How much credence do you except me to give to this?”
“Enough so that, if it turns out to be true and I’m the source, I get an exclusive if you guys find somebody to arrest?”
“Do I get to talk to the source?”
“Maybe.”
“In that case, that’s my answer. You say the source is unreliable.”
“Highly.”
“Get back to me when you get to trustworthy. I’m not going to believe some late-night, twinkie pick-up of yours.”
“I am offended. It was not late and not last night.” Ian sighed. “I’ll try to convince him to let you interview him. I’m also going to keep working on my other sources in the gay community which, as you know, are legion. I smell a big story in this. I’m going to bust my butt on it.”
“Call me if you get something useful.”
Turner and Fenwick organized details and assignments for
another half-an-hour. They made phone calls and connections before setting out to conduct their next interviews. The most basic was to the airline to check if someone had used the judge’s ticket. The official from the airline confirmed that the ticket had been purchased some months ago and paid for with a credit card but had not been used last night. No one had tried to get a refund. He was sorry to hear of the judge’s death and promised to cancel the debt.
Turner hung up and gave this information to Fenwick. “So he was planning to go,” Turner finished.
“Or it was a clever dodge.”
“Or something prevented him from leaving.”
“There’s a bunch we don’t know yet.”
Minutes later, they left, taking a photo of the judge with them to show. The bitter wind howled as they drove away from the station. The weather forecast called for possible record cold overnight.
They stopped at Aunt Millie’s Bar and Grill for a brief, late lunch. They found Rodriguez hunched in what had become, over the years, the booth in the back that Area Ten detectives called their own. Aunt Millie’s was one of the last vestiges of a grittier Chicago past in the recently upscale Printers Row area of the city on Dearborn Street just south of Congress Parkway. There had been rumors early last fall that it was going to be closed down by the city but, the day after the local cops heard about it, the rumors died abruptly. Cops packed the place at mealtimes and before and after each shift change, though, no matter what time of day or night, or even what item was ordered, all the food on the menu seemed to come out as mounds of artery-clogging glop.
A waitress in a pink poodle skirt and rhinestone-studded glasses took their order.
Rodriguez said, “Tell me good news. He died and I’m free.”
“Who?” Fenwick asked.
“The blob from hell.”
“Last I saw Carruthers he was looking up coals in the encyclopedia.”
“Dumb shit.”
“He’s been worse than usual lately,” Fenwick said.
“I hate how sunny and cheerful he is around the holidays,” Rodriguez said. “I thought him being gone that week before Christmas would be a relief, but he just got more frenzied before he left. Think about it. Who tried to organize that gift exchange? Who wanted everybody to get together for a drink on Christmas Eve? Who wanted everybody’s family to get together? Who wanted to play Santa Claus to all the little kids in the neighborhood?”
“That last one was me,” Fenwick said. “I’ve got the build for it, and I like little kids. I’ve done it off and on for years.”
“Not my fault,” Rodriguez said. “Anyway, he tried to do the rest of them and more. Being with him at the holidays makes me want to start a Scrooge Fan Club. I bet lots of people would join. ‘Bah, humbug’ is a highly underrated response to the holiday season.”
Their food arrived.
“Heard you got a dead judge.”
“Judgesicle,” Fenwick said.
Rodriguez grinned. “I like that. What time did he come in at?”
“Seven forty-five.”
“I’ve still got a chance on the pool then. I had six thirty-six. I may be closest.”
“There’s got to be somebody earlier,” Fenwick said. “I can’t be out of the pool. It’s at least five hundred bucks. What’s wrong with the criminal element in Chicago? How can they let a little cold stop them? It’s New Year’s for Christ’s sake. You’d think a little murder and mayhem would be a great way to start the year.”
“You’ll have to talk to Dwayne and Ashley. Last I knew, they had the sheet.”
Dwayne Smythe and Ashley Devonshire were the newest additions to the detective squad at Area Ten. Everybody hated their know-it-all attitude and their inability to make arrests stick. They’d lost three major cases in the last month. The fresh-faced rookies had avoided Aunt Millie’s since they lost the last one.
“Heard the dead judge was a homophobic creep,” Rodriguez said.
“That’s out on the street already?”
“On the radio. Your buddy Ian Hume was quoted on several of the all-news stations.”
“I didn’t know the judge’s name until today,” Turner said. “How many of us know the names of federal judges, and we’re cops? We don’t get a lot of cases that go to them. I bet ninety-nine percent of the people in this city couldn’t name a federal judge, beyond one or two from the Supreme Court.”
“And that’s bad?”
“That’s typical.”
They finished their meal and left. The first person they were to interview was the chief judge of the Seventh Federal Judicial Circuit, James S. Wadsworth.