The next morning, showered and shaved, Paul made his way downstairs. He found Jeff in the kitchen reading Freddy and the Flying Saucer Plans by Walter R Brooks. Without looking up from the book, Jeff said, “Your turn to cook breakfast, Dad.”
Paul hugged his son then began rummaging in the refrigerator. Ben appeared and also gave Jeff a hug—Paul was extremely pleased at how well his sons got along with Ben.
Breakfast was an important time in the Turner household. Paul insisted he and his sons have a cooked meal to start the day. With schedules so varied and Paul’s work so demanding, they often missed each other the rest of the day. They took turns cooking and cleaning. Ben had been staying over often enough now that he’d joined the breakfast cooking rotation.
Jeff’s breakfasts were still a little simpler than the others, both because he was younger and because of his dependence on his crutches. Still, Paul preferred Jeff’s breakfasts to Brian’s. His older son had been on a health kick for several years now. As an athlete, he felt compelled to keep his body in as perfect a shape as possible. He seldom discouraged his older son’s fanaticism, but this morning he was pleased to know there would be no unnamed vegetables lurking in his eggs.
After breakfast, Paul called Brian’s hotel room. He was surprised
when a female voice answered. When the person found out who was calling, she became quite flustered. She said, “He’s in the shower, he’s not here, oh, wait.” After several seconds of silence, he heard distant banging on a door, then a muffled, “Brian, it’s the phone. It’s your dad. He probably thinks I spent the night. I hope I didn’t get you in trouble.”
Several minutes of silence, a few thumping footsteps, then, “Hi, dad.”
“Having a coed sleep-over?”
“Dad, José and I are sharing a room. The chaperones check every night.”
“Every three hours?”
“Well, no.”
“Who is she?”
“The coach’s daughter. She was just here picking up a spare-room key she forgot.”
They both said, “How convenient,” at the same time.
“Do I want to know why you had her spare-room key or would it be best at this time to be discreet?”
“You want pictures or written descriptions?”
“Neither.” They talked for ten minutes. Brian sounded happy and like he was having a good time. As any parent, he hoped his boy had good sense, or at least used a condom, but with a seventeen-year-old much of the time you could only hope you had brought him up right.
Ben and Paul returned to Paul’s after depositing Jeff at Mrs. Talucci’s.
Paul said, “We interviewed a gay teenager yesterday.” He told Ben about Carl Schurz.
Ben listened carefully. “The kid affected you.”
“Yeah, he’s a suspect and all, but I know what it was like to be a messed-up gay teen. It wasn’t nearly as bad for me as it is for him. I felt sorry for him. I wish I could have been more help than just a hug.”
“Sometimes that’s all you can give.”
Paul kissed and held his lover and then left for work.
After roll call at headquarters, Turner and Fenwick met with Roosevelt, Wilson, and Acting Commander Molton. They compared notes and talked about courses of action.
Fenwick said, “Everybody will be working at the Kennedy Federal Building today. We’ve got uniforms to do the most peripheral folks. Paul and I should be able to interview all the people who came into contact with Meade daily. Might be something there. We can also requisition that tape and talk to some security guards.”
Turner said, “Carl Schurz wouldn’t give us the name, but it won’t be that hard to find out who was on duty. They must keep records.”
Molton said, “We’ll have a list of court cases the judge ruled on down here by the end of the morning, along with all of his written decisions. Don’t know how that’s going to help, but it might. I don’t envy you having to wade through all that legal crap, but you’ll probably have to.”
“Maybe we could get a legal scholar to sum it up for us,” Fenwick said.
“Detailed summary is fine,” Molton said, “but what if you miss something by not having read it yourself?”
“We’ll get the summary, then see what we need to go through,” Turner said.
Molton agreed to let them assign someone to the task. “I’ve got some gossip on the judges,” Molton said. “An old lawyer friend of mine filled me in. Supposedly, these federal judges who make around $120,000 a year are jealous of lawyers who, of course, make much more.”
“They make more than all of us,” Wilson said.
“It is not unheard of for them to step down and take a position with a law firm where they can make far more money. My source also says they can be very lonely. Attorneys worry about being seen with them.”
“I worry about being seen with lawyers,” Roosevelt said.
“That’s prejudiced,” Fenwick said.
Molton continued, “I’ve got a sort of cynical source. He claims that their decisions are often capricious and arbitrary.”
“He said capricious and arbitrary?” Fenwick asked.
“He’s a lawyer,” Molton responded. “He claimed that they often listen to a case, and then decide it on whether or not they’ve voted for somebody from that law firm recently.”
“Renews my faith in the judiciary,” Turner said.
“That’s all I have,” Molton said.
Roosevelt and Wilson gave their final report on the canvass of the neighborhood. “You got one possible at the end of the block,” Wilson said. “Owner of a used bookstore which is going broke. He was working in the back of his store early that morning. Claims he might have heard something.”
Turner wrote down the name and address.
“We’ll call Dana Sickles and get over to the bar as soon as it opens,” Turner said. “We could use some help finding the disappearing Carl Schurz.”
Roosevelt and Wilson promised to do what they could.
“We need to stop at Judge Meade’s house,” Turner said. “We haven’t found his appointment book or his luggage. Plus maybe his kids will be home. We’ve got to talk to them.”
Molton said, “I’m holding a press conference soon. We’ve got a fair number of reporters sniffing around.”
Fenwick said, “They won’t get bored with this one anytime soon.”
“Got that right,” Molton said.
On the third floor, two men in dark-blue business suits sat at Turner and Fenwick’s desks. Fenwick’s eyes lit up like a starving grizzly bear’s at the sight of a fresh salmon buffet.
As Fenwick lumbered forward, the two men got to their feet. One held out his hand and said, “I’m Special Agent John Smith, this is Special Agent Joe Brown.”
“This is a joke,” Fenwick said.
Smith gave him a puzzled look. “We’re here to offer you any
help we can with the case. We don’t know if the Bureau needs to be involved or not.”
“You’re here to waste our time,” Fenwick said.
Smith sighed. “The sooner you fill us in, the sooner we leave.”
Fenwick plucked six different folders from the top of his desk. Each bulged with paper. “Someone will make copies of these for you and then you can read them and leave them here. It’s everything we’ve got.”
“Thanks for your cooperation,” Brown said.
“Have a nice day,” Fenwick said. “Drop dead. Go to Hell,” he muttered when they were out of ear shot.
As they walked through the first floor to sign out a car, Carruthers waved from the far end of the hall and hurried toward them. Three-quarters of the way there, he was intercepted by Rodriguez. “Let’s leave the real detectives alone,” Rodriguez said.
Carruthers began a protest. Rodriguez put a firm grip on Carruthers’ arm and pulled him away. Turner heard Rodriguez say, “We’ve got a dead gang-banger, Randy. You like those kinds of cases.”
They called the chief of security at the Kennedy Federal Building to alert her to their arrival. They phoned Judge Wadsworth’s office and told the secretary they’d be in to interview Meade’s staff that morning.
They met the head of security in her office. She was a woman in her late forties with a Doris Day pixieishness about her. Turner thought it might be the freckles or the bright smile. Her name was Janice Caldwell.
They explained about the lapse by the security guard and about the need for the film from New Year’s Eve.
She did not look the slightest bit pixieish on hearing the news of the breach of security. “Let me check my list,” she said immediately. She tapped on a computer keyboard, gazed at the screen for a moment. “It was Leo. I knew it. I just checked to be sure. He’s the only one who was working that night who
would meet the description you gave me. I’ll call and get him down here.” She agreed to process the film as quickly as possible. She also checked with Judge Wadsworth so they could begin questioning those who had worked with Judge Meade.
They were alone in the elevator to the judge’s office. Fenwick began singing, “We’ve got suspects, we’ve got lots and lots of suspects.”
“You’re singing again, Buck, and it’s not Broadway show tunes. I’m worried.”
“Just all aquiver with excitement about meeting all these new folks.”
They dumped their winter coats, scarves, gloves, and hats on the chairs in the judge’s office and began their interviews.
First was his secretary, Blanche Dussenberg. She was a brightly pink woman, as if her face had been stuck outside in the bitter cold too long, or she’d dunked her entire face in a vat of bright pink blush. She wore a multihued designer scarf, a brown dress, and sensible black oxfords. She carried a box of tissues.
After introductions they got her settled.
Turner said, “We need some basic information, Ms. Dussenberg. How the office ran, how people got along, who did what.”
“Judge Meade was a wonderful man. He was kind, thoughtful, always pleasant to those who worked under him.”
One of the cop truisms is that you seldom learned anything useful from people closest to the victim. Those who were near and dear tended to be friends and care about the deceased, otherwise they wouldn’t be called close. You looked for the neighborhood gossip, the office tattletale, the one with the grudge who was willing to give the cheap, tawdry gossip. That person might give a hint, drop a bit of history, a snippet of knowledge that might lead to a clue or at least something interesting. All they got from Blanche was friendly, tear-spattered, chatter about how wonderful the place and Judge Meade were.
After listening to fifteen minutes of basic office data, Turner asked her about the judge’s appointment book. She went to her
desk and returned. “This is only my copy. He keeps his at home or with him in his briefcase.”
“Can we keep this to look it over later?” Turner asked.
“Certainly.”
“Did the judge have any problems at home that you know about?” Turner asked.
“Certainly not. Judge Meade was very proud of his children. They were very successful at everything they did. He would tell us about their band concerts, their debate contests, their tennis matches, their track meets. He often took time off over the years to attend his children’s events.”
“How did he get along with the people he worked with?” Turner asked.
“Let me give you just one example of how wonderful he was. The judge kept a whole list of everybody’s birthdays. He took up a collection once a year from everyone, so we’d all feel like we contributed, but he’d be the one to go out and buy the cake and get each of us a thoughtful little gift on our birthdays.”
All the employees got along. Everything was wonderful.
They got this same refrain from the next six people they talked to. On the night of the murder, all were safely tucked in nearby suburbs celebrating with lots of corroborating witnesses.
The seventh was a tall, thin man, who walked ramrod straight. He wore highly polished black wing-tip shoes and a double-breasted, pure wool, gray plaid suit by Joseph Abboud. The oddest thing was a pince-nez dangling from a chain attached to a watch pocket in the man’s vest. His name was Francis Barlow. He was in his late twenties or early thirties. He wore his hair slicked back, the wet look. Turner would have bet the rent the guy was gay.
Fenwick said, “Frank …”
The man interrupted, “Francis, please.”
Fenwick began again, “Could you tell us … ?”
Francis held up his hands in a stop gesture. Before he spoke, he crossed his legs carefully. He didn’t deign to adjust the
crease. He knew it would be exactly where it was supposed to be. “I’ll begin at the beginning. I accepted a job here out of Yale Law School. I had wanted a clerkship near home in Manhattan, but this one opened up. Before I came here, I’d never lived in a state that wasn’t on a large body of water.”
Obviously Lake Michigan didn’t count in his pantheon of large bodies of water.
“I found it amusing when I got here to discover that one couldn’t see all the way across Lake Michigan.” Neither of the cops returned his half-amused grin. Barlow continued, “I discovered Judge Meade to be of average intelligence. I was forced to correct his grammar and spelling countless times on his decisions.”
“Did he write his own decisions?” Turner asked.
“He scribbled out something that I helped research and then made sense out of. Essentially, he did write them, but it took an enormous amount of work on my part to have them up to proper standards. He could follow a trail of reasoning and would stay with it when challenged.”
“Tell us about the other people in the office.”
“Ordinary. Blanche talks about nothing but her soap operas. She tapes them daily. It makes one wish the videocassette recorder had never been invented. She gives minute-by-minute accounts in the lunchroom everyday. I was forced to find a little bistro down the street to dine in so I could have peace and quiet. The deli isn’t like New York, of course. No place in Chicago really is.
“The rest are drudges. I was properly polite. I contributed to the birthday fund every year. You can’t imagine how undignified it is to caterwaul at some poor unfortunate on their birthday. I had to ask the judge to forgo mine. He seemed a little put out about that. I was forced to tell him I was too shy about my birthday. They do all get along in a mindless drone sort of way. I avoid associating with them, unless absolutely unavoidable.”
“How did Meade get along with the other judges?”
“Well, of course, there were the celebrated disputes with Judge Malmsted. If her logic had been more rigid and her research better, she might have made more headway. A pleasant enough woman. I agreed with her on one or two issues. Not often.”
“Did you agree with Judge Meade?”
“I wasn’t paid to agree with Judge Meade. I was paid to research and write.”
“Besides Judge Malmsted, how did he get along with the other judges?”
“I’d say, at least, friendly with everyone, except Judge Wadsworth, of course.”
“What was wrong with him?”
“I heard them argue several times.”
“Judge Wadsworth said they got along fine.”
“Judge Wadsworth is a fine jurist, has an excellent mind, but he was extremely remiss at being able to work with some of his fellow jurists. He likes to claim he never criticizes them. That’s hypocritical nonsense. He can get quite vicious. He puts on that face to the public to try and dupe the ignorant. Those of us who know better realize he’s basically a blowhard. He puts on a great show of being Solomon-like, as if he were some deity speaking from on high. Someone like Judge Meade who, for all his faults, was very independent, resented it. He and Wadsworth did not get along. They had words last week before the decision on gay rights.”
“Did Wadsworth disagree with the decision?”
“I wouldn’t presume to know. I use that as a time reference point. I know Judge Meade returned from a meeting with Judge Wadsworth just before they announced the decision. Judge Meade seldom showed his emotions, but there was no doubt he was extremely distressed that day. He wasn’t before the meeting but he was after. The cause and effect seem logical. I did not find out what the meeting was about.”
“How did they get along this week?”
“This is a light work week for federal judges. I know they
met three days before New Year’s. It was a session with Wadsworth, Malmsted, and Meade. I saw Judge Meade immediately after. He didn’t look happy.”
“Did he say why he was unhappy?”
“Not to me.”
“Know anything about Judge Meade’s family?”
“I try not to involve myself in the private lives of the people I work with.”
“Where were you New Year’s Eve?”
“I spent the bulk of the evening at a very elegant restaurant with a friend, then returned home, where I remained. I read a book.”
“I’ll bet you did,” Fenwick said.
Fenwick didn’t mind sharing his feelings when dealing with pompous fools. Or too many other people, for that matter.
Fenwick continued, “We’ll need to know the name of the restaurant, of your friend, and his or her address, and what was the title of the book?”
“It was The Counterfeiters by André Gide—in the original French, of course. I can give you my friend’s name. He was visiting from New York. He left this morning.” Barlow produced a small pad of paper from the interior of his suit jacket, and a silver fountain pen from the same spot. He jotted down the information they wanted on his friend, the name of the restaurant, and the hotel.
He left.
Fenwick said, “I always find that you’re-a-hick-from-the-Midwest attitude so charming.”
“I don’t know about you,” Turner said, “but I was up at four feeding the chickens and plowing the back forty, got the cows milked and the hogs slopped before breakfast.”
Fenwick said, “I have hog slop envy.” When he finished laughing uproariously at his own comment, he said, “Let’s arrest him for the murder just for the hell of it. I bet we could get everybody who knows him to testify against him.”
“All the other folks in the office said everybody got along. I
bet our Francis is a big snob with them. My guess is that he goes out of his way to be correctly polite. They probably laugh at him behind his back. If he gets his work done, they probably don’t complain a lot.”
“Maybe if he’s doing research all day, they don’t see him very often.”
“If they’re lucky. I did like the bit about Wadsworth and Meade.”
“Can’t wait to hear Wadsworth’s version.”
They spoke with the last two employees who reverted to Blanche’s version of life in Judge Meade’s office. They interviewed the other judges. All confirmed Malmsted’s and Meade’s contretemps, but all said they didn’t think she was capable of murder. All praised Wadsworth and, to a lesser extent, Meade. None claimed to have had any problems with the dead judge. None knew about arguments between Wadsworth and Meade. At eleven, Turner and Fenwick met with Judge Wadsworth.
“How did everything go?” the judge asked.
“We found out a couple things,” Fenwick said. “One, you lied to us about how well everybody got along.” Fenwick often confronted prominent witnesses as if he was Mayor Daley’s favorite nephew and need never fear political reprisal. A federal judge couldn’t specifically get you in trouble, but phone calls could be made and friends could be contacted. At the least, your ass could get chewed out or your career could get sidetracked. These possibilities seldom had much effect on Fenwick. Often, Turner tried to gently deflect Fenwick’s bullish impetuosity but this worked only some of the time. In this case, it was a murder investigation and Paul wasn’t in much of a mood to cater to a bunch of prima donnas.
Fenwick continued, “We’ve got friction between Malmsted and Meade. We also heard that you and Judge Meade often had words and did so not more than a week ago.”
Wadsworth smiled benignly. “If Judge Meade and Judge Malmsted did not get along it was their business. Rulings are
often the result of discussion and compromise. Sometimes that takes time. I don’t call ‘discussion’ and ‘compromise’ difficulties between judges. As for me, I get along with all the people who work here. I got along with Judge Meade in the same professional manner. Everything was fine here.”
“Meaning our source lied?”
“Disgruntled employees are everywhere. Only one out of how many had negative things to say?”
“All the judges were perfect? Nobody ever made a mistake?”
“We’re all fallible.”
“But you believe in covering up all the problems?”
“Not that I’m saying there is any, but is there a point to airing dirty linen in public?”
Fenwick growled. It didn’t make much difference who was handing him a load of crap. He said, “That’s a crock of shit, your honor. I hope you’re not covering up information that would help us solve this case. If you have something to do with it, we’ll bust your ass.”
“This interview is over, gentlemen.”
“Not in a homicide investigation it isn’t,” Fenwick said.
“I’ve given you all the information I can. A continuation of this interview would be fruitless.”
Turner got Fenwick out of the Judge’s chambers before his partner could really explode.
Fenwick’s comments in the elevator down began with, “Numb-nuts, asshole, triple-fuck.”
The highest rating anyone could get in Fenwick’s system was “triple-fuck.” Usually he reserved this sacred category for inept Bears quarterbacks when they threw game-losing interceptions, or Cubs pitchers who walked in winning runs.
The elevator was crowded, but this didn’t inhibit Fenwick’s rhetorical flow. An older woman with her glasses dangling from a chain around her neck turned to him at one point and said, “Young man, you may be frustrated, but you need to learn some manners. You may not speak that way when you are in my presence.”
Fenwick gaped at her.
When the elevator doors swung open at the ground floor and they all exited, Turner said, “First time I’ve known you to be speechless in a while.”
“Get me out of here before I rip the building down.”
“Before we leave, let’s see if that security guard who Carl Schurz mentioned is here.”
They met Leo Kramer in Janice Caldwell’s office. Leo’s belly bulged against the heavy sweater he wore over a flannel shirt. His gray pants had gone shiny at the knees and over the butt and he wore the kind of heavy snow boots that your mother used to make you wear when you were a kid. A snake of hair crawled around his mouth in what Turner thought was the ugliest goatee he had ever seen.
Janice left them alone.
Leo licked his lips as he eyed the two detectives warily. His sparse white hair was cut short.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Heard you had a visitor New Year’s Eve,” Fenwick said.
“Nope. Can’t say that I did. Very quiet New Year’s Eve.”
“None of the judges or employees came in?”
“Judge Meade signed in about eight and left a short while later.”
“You didn’t find that odd? He was supposed to be on his way to Canada.”
“Judge Meade never did get in the habit of checking his schedule with me. Don’t know why not. What is this about?”
“Guy named Carl Schurz says you and he had a little meeting here that night.”
“Who?”
“You heard me,” Fenwick said.
“I don’t know any Carl Schurz.”
“Some young man was here that night.”
“Nope. Check the sign-out lists.”
“How about if we check the security cameras?”
“Go ahead. I had no visitors.”
Leo stuck with his denial through the rest of their questioning. When he was gone they talked with Janice Caldwell.
Fenwick said, “He claims there wasn’t anybody here but himself.”
“I looked through the tapes. Nobody showed up but those who signed in. There was only Judge Meade who did talk with someone in the lobby, but the camera didn’t get a good shot of whoever it was. His back was to the camera. The second person did not go as far as the security checkpoint, and did not go upstairs.” She gave them a complete set of tapes.
“So that part of what Schurz told us is true,” Fenwick said.
“He could have seen the conversation from outside,” Caldwell said.
Turner asked, “Is there any way Leo could have let someone in without it being recorded on the security cameras? If he’s having meetings with young men and he’s married, he wouldn’t want it known. He’d want to circumvent the system.”
“You’re not supposed to be able to get around it. I’ll have to do some investigating.”