They conducted the interviews in a generic Chicago cop station interrogation room: painted more than twenty years ago what might have been a shade of green but now looked like pasted on dinginess, no table, three chairs bolted to the floor, no outside windows, an interior mirrored-window that only the most stupid suspect didn’t know was two way. All in all as sterile as a bureaucrat could make it.
Before the first cop entered, Fenwick said, “We need to find the guys from the bar last night. We need to get them alone and at rest.”
Turner said, “If they don’t show up in the people we interview now, we can try to get pictures from Molton.”
The attitudes of the beat cops ranged from silently sullen to overtly hostile. Turner hoped one of them would be the guy who gave him information in the washroom earlier this morning. None was.
After their fifth guy, Fenwick said, “Add these guys to the list of people I don’t like.”
The first five, three men and two women, took less than fifteen minutes. Turner said, “Everything was sweetness and light between these guys. I might puke. Let’s try a little something different with number six who is Milton Cheswick.”
“What different?”
“Watch.”
Milton Cheswick shuffled in. He draped his lanky frame in the metal chair and matched Turner’s yawn. Without preliminary, Cheswick said, “Aren’t you guys worried about being involved in this investigation?”
“How’s that?” Fenwick asked.
Cheswick said, “Digging into stuff about one of our own. Doesn’t that bother you?”
Every single one of the first five had asked some similar form of that question or made the same kind of oblique mention of danger.
Fenwick said, “Thanks for being concerned about us. You have any details on that? Names? Specific threats?”
Cheswick said, “Did you really beat the hell out of a couple of cops?”
Turner ignored the question. “The guys we interviewed have been telling us that Belger was gay. That he offered them blow jobs. That him and Callaghan were lovers. Either of them ever come on to you?”
Cheswick sat up. “Nobody ever came on to me.”
“We’ve got it from three sources,” Turner said. “You were one of their targets.”
Cheswick said, “What do you mean ‘targets’?”
“They wanted to seduce you.”
“I’m no fag,” Cheswick said, “You’re making that up.”
Turner said, “Belger’s body was found in the middle of one of the biggest gay celebrations in town. We got rumors that Callaghan was at the same party.”
“They weren’t gay. I can tell when a guy’s gay.”
“How’s that?” Turner asked.
Cheswick licked his lips. “You’re trying to trick me into saying something politically incorrect.”
“Just trying to find out what happened,” Turner said.
“They’ve both been married,” Cheswick said.
Turner asked, “Did you know Belger appeared on a gay S+M web site?”
Cheswick said, “I don’t believe that.”
“Want us to wait while you check the Internet?” Turner asked.
Cheswick looked from one to the other. Turner said, “We downloaded one picture.” For once the color copier had been working. He pulled it from his folder and showed it to Cheswick who peered at it closely then looked up at the two detectives and said, “Did the killer whip him to death?”
Turner said, “He had fresh wounds. Belger was seen participating in S+M training sessions at this party.”
Cheswick again looked from the detectives to the picture and back again.
Turner said, “Either of those guys ever strike you as being into rough sex?”
“No. They were both regular guys.”
“Who fought a lot. Like lovers do.”
Cheswick said, “Come on, that’s not right. Sure I guess they could be rough around the edges. Who isn’t?”
“They ever hit each other?” Fenwick asked.
Cheswick said, “This is so fucked up.”
“How’s that?” Turner asked.
“Shit. Okay. Look. I saw them once. It was after our shift was over. I saw them outside the Raving Dragon. They got into a kind of shoving match. I’m sure it didn’t mean anything.”
“What was it about?” Turner asked.
“Damned if I know. Guys are rough with each other. They weren’t gay. Are you saying Callaghan is gay?”
Fenwick said, “We’re just trying to understand the two of them.”
But Cheswick didn’t really know anything helpful. He left. As the door slammed, Turner said, “So much for my brilliant interrogative trickery.”
“Or he really didn’t know anything,” Fenwick said.
“All too possible,” Turner said.
They finished two more interviews. That was all the personnel on duty inside the station at the moment. They’d have to come back to catch the ones on Belger and Callaghan’s shift. Turner sighed. More call-backs. More time. He yawned again. He was already tired. He wished he was home having breakfast with Ben and the kids. He’d be lucky to catch them at lunch.
Outside, even at this relatively early hour, sunlight had baked the car interior to nearly unbearable.
“I’m tired,” Turner said.
Fenwick added, “I’ve got to get some sleep.”
“Sleep would be good,” Turner said. “But for now it’s not that kind of tired. I’m sick of these people. We work with a few good people. We work with a lot more assholes. And for us it’s the same thing. Day after day, we basically lie, or put on a mini-play, which is the same as lying. We do just about anything to get to the truth.”
“We don’t hurt or torture people.”
“Except in cop bars.”
Fenwick said, “I’ll give you that, but we did what we had to do. Neither you nor I nor anybody on our squad hurts suspects or witnesses. Even Caruthers doesn’t have that kind of nerve.”
“That’s because his partner would beat the crap out of him, and Molton wouldn’t put up with it. Caruthers is easy compared to the assholes we just questioned. You listened to them. You heard Boyle earlier. Vague threats and bullshit. Except for a little cooperation from that Cheswick guy, and he was no saint. It’s just shit. I don’t know if rogue cops killed Belger. Or maybe everybody he worked with hated him. Nobody was raving about what a good guy he was. Nobody shed a tear. Nobody looked sad.”
Fenwick said, “He was the embodiment of an asshole, and he’s dead. What would you expect from them?”
Turner didn’t respond to the comment. He said, “And Callaghan is a double shit, to use your old classification system. Fighting the criminals of society is sort of a game. So many of them are so stupid, but even then we still have to get clear evidence. But fighting our own?” He shook his head. “And I believe in the system, the ultimate fairness of the law, but times like today are too much. The bullshit level is above flood stage.”
Fenwick pulled to the side of the road under the El tracks on Wells Street. The grid above provided a modicum of shade. He said, “I’ve never heard you be this down.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever been this down. Not since my first week on the job when I was at my first homicide. A guy killed his wife and three kids. All the little ones were under the age of five. I know a cop isn’t supposed to cry. I went home and sobbed. Ian and I were lovers at the time. He helped. He was great.”
Fenwick said, “We all get down. It’s part of the job.”
“I need sleep. And this side of death, I’m not sure there is enough sleep to cure what ails society. And I’m not sure I care that much about the dead guy, but it’s the seedy shit that’s depressing me.”
“You mean like the party?”
“No, that’s kind of amusing and a little fun. I might even get a few tips for late night with Ben. And don’t ask.” He was silent several moments then he rapped his knuckles on the torn door vinyl as he stared out the window. As he spoke, each distinct syllable got its own thump. “This is sordid. Squalid. Sleazy. Ugly in ways that make no sense.” He looked over at Fenwick. “That asshole Callaghan beat the hell out of the bartender, and now it’s so important for him to get away with it that people are willing to kill?”
“If the bar incident is connected with the killing.”
“Neither of us believes in coincidences. Certainly people are willing to lie. Why? What the hell makes Callaghan’s life that important?”
“You saying you think Callaghan did it?”
“A cop or cops.”
“It could have something to do with the people at the party.”
An El rumbled by on the tracks overhead. Turner felt a slight breeze. When the noise abated and the wind died, he resumed, “I know there’s no solution to any of it. Crooked cops. The depression of violent death. I guess I’m just tired and hot and miserable.”
Fenwick said, “You’re right. There are no easy solutions. I don’t have any. I could make a joke about chocolate always making things better. I don’t know what does. I’m not sure what to say.”
Turner said, “Maybe there isn’t anything to say. Maybe it’s like everything else in this world. You learn to endure. And mostly I do. I’ve been at this for years. This time it’s getting to me. Either I endure it or I don’t.”
Fenwick said, “I suspect you will.”
Turner said, “I suspect you’re right. You heard Molton. We’ve got to get this finished. We’ve got to try and get more of these interviews done.”
Fenwick said, “People will tend to be home, this hour on a Saturday morning. Let’s find the complainer that was listed in the files. The one who hired a lawyer and followed up.”
Turner said, “We get enough overtime on this, I can buy you donuts for a week.”
“Not enough money to do that on our salaries for a month.”