Saturday 5:31 P.M.
Turner and Fenwick arrived at the luxury high-rise on Lake Shore Drive just north of Oak Street.
Fenwick said, “I thought they took a vow of poverty.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s just monks in abbeys and nuns in convents.”
Fenwick gazed at the multi-story edifice that towered above them. “This don’t look like no convent to me.” It was one of the most exclusive residential addresses in Chicago. “Will the goddess be pissed if I’m working with Catholic bishops?”
Turner put his hands on the dashboard and looked at his partner.
“What?” Fenwick demanded.
Turner said, “Dear, sweet partner, friend, my gargantuan buddy, shut the fuck up about that goddess shit.”
Fenwick gaped.
Turner said, “Precisely.” He opened his door and got out of the car. Fenwick followed.
The lobby was modern chrome, with gray steel accents and marble floors. They identified themselves to the doorman and asked to speak to whoever was in charge. The head of security was Harold Waldin. He walked with a slight limp and had an unlit pipe clamped between his lips. He wore a dark gray suit, shirt, and tie.
“We have one of your tenants dead, a Bishop Kappel. His driver’s license gave this address, said he lived in 65A.”
Waldin said, “Let me check my computer.” He led them to his office. He sat behind his desk. “I’ve got the files on all the owners here. What’s the name again?”
Fenwick told him.
A few seconds later Waldin said, “Yep, here he is.”
Turner said, “We’d like to see the place. He’s dead and there may be clues to the killing.”
“He was murdered?”
“Got his head bashed in,” Fenwick said.
“Wow. Sure, I can bring you guys up since the tenant is dead.”
As they rose in the elevator, Turner asked, “Did you know Bishop Kappel?”
“I mostly handle complaints and problems. He never complained that I know of, and those records I was looking at didn’t say there were any.”
They arrived at the sixty-fifth floor and stepped off the elevator and stopped in the hallway. Before entering the condo, Turner asked, “He live with anyone?”
“No one is listed in the registry. I don’t know of anyone. We don’t ask about their private lives. You’ll want to ask the regular doormen.”
“Anybody friendly with him?”
Waldin shrugged. “You’d have to ask the neighbors.”
“We’ll try to talk to them after we’re done in the condo.”
“No problem.”
“What do these places run?” Fenwick asked.
“They start at a million and a half. The view of the lake or of downtown is unparalleled.”
Using a universal key card, Waldin let them in. He moved to follow, but Turner said, “While we look around, could you assemble as many of the door personnel, maintenance, and garage people as you can?”
“Hard to get them to come in on a Saturday night.”
“Anything you can do will be a help. Or get us their names and addresses. Try not to tell them why we want them.”
“That’ll be tough.”
“We appreciate anything you can do. And if you could assemble any video footage that you’ve got.”
Waldin said, “We’ve only got lobby footage. It’s a twenty-four hour loop. We only save them for the past week.”
“Nothing from the parking garage?” Fenwick asked.
“They need a key to access the garage.”
“Whatever you’ve got would be great,” Turner said.
Waldin left.
Once again they donned gloves and booties. The front door opened onto a small vestibule with a coat closet to their left. A few feet farther on, they entered into a thirty-by-forty-foot living room.
To their right was a kitchen. Turner saw no dishes in the sink, only a toaster on the wide counters, a glass-front refrigerator that showed a well-stocked interior.
The living room had a Bryce coffee table with an ebony colored base, and a burl wood top that gleamed. Behind it sat an eight-foot, brown-plush chaise lounge. Two over-stuffed pillows with designs of autumnal leaves on the cover sat on either end. On each side were two brass lamps. Behind the chaise was an ashless fireplace flanked by solid brass urn andirons. The five-piece tool set had burnished bronze handles. Two comfy chairs with leather upholstery flanked the chaise on either side. A Soho bookcase filled the wall opposite the fireplace.
Fenwick said, “Nothing in the place is disturbed.”
Turner nodded. “Expensive condo at an exclusive address with very pricey furnishings.”
The bathroom was to the left. They found neatly hung towels and pristine porcelain fixtures, shower, and toilet. They opened both of the mirror-covered doors of the vanity.
Fenwick said, “The left side has a couple of prescriptions for Timothy Kappel.”
Turner held up a bottle from the right side. “This one’s made out to Joshua Tresca.” He pointed to the toothbrush holder. “Two different toothbrushes.”
Fenwick asked, “Can we presume two guys lived here?”
“Beginning to look that way.”
They entered the bedroom. A Parnian furniture bed sat against one wall. It had a curly maple eye-like headboard. The iPod holder/charging station and television were built in. It had a gray-with-white-bands, Grande Hotel Egyptian cotton percale duvet cover. The antique oak dresser on the opposite wall was six drawers high.
Turner said, “There’s only one bedroom with one bed.”
“Big feet means…”
“Big shoes,” Turner finished Fenwick’s gag line for him, shook his head, and added, “I’m finishing your punch lines.”
“You can be taught.” Fenwick nodded at the bed. “They didn’t stint on the basics. Nice if you can afford it.”
Turner checked the iPod for music. It was fully charged and had over a thousand playlists all listed as classical music. They ranged from ones he recognized such as Beethoven and Bach to Steve Reich, James Dillon, and Arvo Part.
After checking the closet, Fenwick said, “Two different sizes of clothes here too including black suits, black shirts, and religious collars for both.”
Turner moved the clothes in each dresser drawer. After he was done with the top two drawers, he said, “Two sizes here.” When he moved the boxer brief underwear in the bottom one to the side, he found a framed photo and took it over to Fenwick.
The picture was of two men when they must have been in their early twenties. They were on some beach with palm trees in the background. They wore tight skimpy bathing suits and had their arms around each other but their hips were turned slightly toward the camera. They stood far enough apart that the prominent bulges in the fronts of their Speedos revealed that one was cut and the other was uncut. The cut one had a flat ass while the other sported a nearly round bubble butt. Turner knew that many men who wore Speedos shouldn’t, but when these two were young, their suits fit as well as a model’s in a porn display.
In the photo their heads were turned so they could gaze into each other’s eyes. An inscription read, “To Tim with all my love forever.”
Turner said, “They were in love at one time. I wonder if they still were.” He pointed to the taller, thinner one who had blond hair. “My guess is that’s Kappel, our corpse. The dead guy sort of resembles him. Plus he’s wearing glasses and the other guy is not. If the prescription bottles in the medicine cabinet tell a true story as well as reflect the past, the other guy is Joshua Tresca.”
“And why hide the photo in the bottom drawer?” Fenwick asked.
“Fear? Shame? But it’s odd.”
“What is?”
“That this is the only personal thing. I mean, where are the monthly bills, tax records, or if they have them, personal papers, personal letters? Was this just a love nest? It’s a hell of an expensive place for a love nest.”
“So there must be another place for all that stuff. The only other address we’ve found is that abbey. We’ll have to try there.”
They returned to the living room. The lights of the city to the south began twinkling in the twilight of a late May sunset behind them.
The view out the windows east and south was phenomenal. Turner walked up to them and gazed out the east vista. Far below he could see Oak Street Beach and in the distance the gigantic Ferris Wheel on Navy Pier.
Turner said, “Only one name on the lease, but two people living here. If one’s a bishop, then it might be safe to assume some kind of intrigue or at least need for secrecy.”
“We only know clothes, pill bottles, and tooth brushes.” He paused as they looked at each other. “No,” Fenwick said, “I don’t believe in coincidences either.”
They stood at the entrance to the vestibule as they got ready to leave. Turner glanced around. He hesitated.
“What?” Fenwick asked.
“Something is not right.”
“No women’s underwear hidden in the back of the closet?”
Turner said, “The lack of or presence of kinky underwear is not a crime.”
“No clues pointing to the killer?”
“Well that, but, no, it’s something else.”
Fenwick waited.
Turner swept his arm around the room facing them. “There’s nothing personal here. Sure, the furniture is all expensive, but not a knickknack or a calendar. Almost as if it were a showcase. There are no displays of personal things. Clothes and prescription bottles for two different guys. And that photo. But…” He peered around. “Wait a second.” He stepped to the other rooms and came back a few moments later. “Kappel was a bishop. Why the hell aren’t there any religious things in this condo?”
“Do they have to have religious stuff?”
“They don’t have to have anything, but you’d think a bishop would have a crucifix, something.”
“The clothes are clerical stuff.”
“But that’s like official uniforms. I mean personal stuff.”
“We found the picture.”
“Hidden as if they were ashamed or frightened.”
Fenwick repeated what they knew for sure. “Clothes and stuff in the dresser. Two different sizes for two different guys. Two different sized sets of clothes in the closet. They lived here.”
Turner nodded. “There’s that and they must have had a cleaning service. There isn’t a speck of dust. The place doesn’t look lived in.”
“Is that suspicious?”
“I don’t know. It’s just odd. I don’t like odd things in a mystery.”
“But it’s explainable.”
“I guess.”
Fenwick said, “And no computer although maybe they just used their phones for access. No office space here. We’ll have to find out where they worked.”
The front door banged open. Instinct took over. The detectives whirled around, moved apart, hunched into crouches, and reached for their guns.
A man rushed into the room. He wore a black cassock with red buttons from collar to bottom hem and a red sash around his waist. Turner recognized the cassock accoutrements that indicated he was a bishop. He was in his early or middle fifties. His black curling hair was uncombed. Small splotches of unshaven beard showed on his chin. He addressed Turner and Fenwick, “What are you doing here?”
His voice was imperious and demanding. He brandished no weapon. The detectives lowered theirs. Years older and much heftier, but still there was little doubt this was the other man in the photo hidden in the dresser.
Fenwick used one of his favorite lines, “And who might you be?”
Turner knew Fenwick desperately wanted the suspect, witness, or arrested criminal to say, “Who would you like me to be?”
Fortunately for Turner and the rules that governed humor in the universe, none had responded so yet, much to Fenwick’s dismay. Didn’t stop his bulky partner from trying. Turner suppressed a smile. He would be loath to admit the amount of enjoyment he took in his partner’s attempts at mirth. The attempts often being funnier than the jokes, puns, limericks, and salacious tall tales that actually emerged.
“I’m Bishop Joshua Tresca. What’s going on? What’s happened? You have no right to be in here.”
Turner said, “Bishop Tresca, we’re sorry to have to tell you this, but the man you lived with here, Bishop Timothy Kappel, is dead.”
The man threw his hands up in the air, let out a shriek, turned deathly pale, and collapsed.
They holstered their guns and hurried to him. Fenwick asked, “Stroke? Heart attack? Fainted?”
Fenwick checked the man’s pulse and breathing. The Bishop was doing both. Turner took out his phone, punched 9-1-1, identified himself as a police officer, and requested assistance. Then he got a glass of water and a damp washcloth from the kitchen.
Fenwick found a wallet in a pair of pants under the cassock. He riffled through it quickly. “Definitely says he’s a bishop and his driver’s license lists this as his address.” He replaced the wallet as the man began to come around.
Tresca groaned and sat up. “What’s happened?”
They helped him to his feet and to the nearest chair. He was a roly-poly man and moving him required a bit of maneuvering. For a few moments he sat with his head in his hands. Turner put the glass of water and washcloth within his reach.
Fenwick plunked himself onto the chaise but there was nothing for him to rest his back against. Turner watched his partner squirm for a minute then get up and move to the other comfy chair. Turner sat on the chaise in the space Fenwick had vacated.
After a minute, Tresca lifted his head and asked, “Is what you said true?” He had a disproportionately small head with ears that protruded outward in deformed twists. He’d have been teased about them as a child.
Turner thought, I’d lie to you about something so horrible because? What he said was, “Yes, I’m afraid so. We’re sorry for your loss.”
The bishop wiped at his eyes with a starched, white handkerchief. Tresca said, “I can’t believe he’s dead. How did he… What happened?”
Fenwick said, “He was murdered.”
Tresca clutched the arms of the chair. His eyes looked wildly around the apartment.
“Who did it? Why? How?”
“We’re investigating,” Turner said. “We’re hoping you could help us.”
“I guess. I suppose.” He drew several deep breaths. “This is such a shock. Are you sure?” He gazed from one to the other of them.
The detectives waited. If this was the murderer, they needed to be extremely careful. If this was someone with information, they wanted to give him time. If this was someone who just lost a loved one, they wanted to proceed as gently as decency, courtesy, and caring required.
“I loved him. He wasn’t the easiest man in the world to be in a relationship with, but I loved him.” Tears fell. He used his hanky and wiped at them.
When he’d composed himself, Turner asked, “How long had you known him?”
“Since we were twelve. We were altar boys together at Saint Cathari’s on the far north side of the city.”
“And you both lived here?” Turner asked. “You didn’t need to keep up appearances?”
“We didn’t both live here.”
Fenwick said, “We saw two used tooth brushes in the bathroom. Two sets of clothes in the dresser and closet. You had a key.” He didn’t reveal he’d gone through his wallet.
“It was someone else.”
Turner thought this was kind of an absurd lie. A few seconds earlier he’d admitted to a relationship with Kappel. Turner said, “We found two sets of prescription bottles in the medicine cabinet. One set had your name on it.”
“Well, I…”
The detectives waited. Turner wondered why he was bothering to lie.
Tresca moaned. “This is a nightmare.”
A phone in the bishop’s pocket rang. Tresca fumbled it out. He glanced at the caller ID, turned even paler, and answered it. He listened a moment, turned paler still, and stood up. Turner thought he might faint again.
Tresca gave the detectives a wary look and walked with the phone into the kitchen. The detectives instantly went into protection mode, standing up, Fenwick moving left, Turner right, hands near their guns, alert for the most minuscule sounds or actions. Turner made sure he could see far enough into the kitchen so he could observe both of Tresca’s hands. Bishop or gangbanger, he and Fenwick took no chances.
All they heard for several minutes were occasional murmurs, but they couldn’t hear actual words. Five minutes later when Tresca came back into the room, his ashen face was streaked with sweat. The hand with the phone trembled as he put it back in his pocket. He said, “You have to go.”
“We had a few more questions.”
Tresca gulped and shook his head. “I’ll have to ask you to leave. Now.”
“Is something wrong?” Turner asked. “We called paramedics. They should be here any second.”
In a clipped, cold voice Tresca said, “I don’t need them. I don’t want them. Get out. You have to go. Now.” The detectives rose but hesitated in front of the chaise. Tresca’s voice was now a snarl. “Get out. You had no right to be here. I shouldn’t be talking to you. Get out.”
Turner said, “If there’s something wrong, maybe we can help.”
Tresca marched to the door and opened it. His cold, staring eyes did not meet theirs as they left.
Out in the hall Fenwick asked, “Should we cancel the paramedics?”
Turner shook his head. “Let them come. Let him refuse treatment. Then if there is a medical problem, it’s on him, not us.”
Fenwick said, “That phone call frightened the hell out of him.”
“The guy faints when he hears his lover is dead, that’s care, concern, passion, monumental upset. If you’d have said ‘boo’ to him, he might have had a stroke, but that phone call. That was fear, command, obedience, something strong enough to triumph over the news that his lover was dead.”
Fenwick said, “We’ll have to check on background on both of these guys. Since they’re bishops, half the clergy in the city will want to butt in.”