Friday 8:57 A.M.

 

Turner strode into the station, up the stairs, crossed the room, and plunked himself down at his desk.

Fenwick looked up and said, “Ian did it.”

Turner gave a great, gulping Fenwickian sigh. He said, “Maybe.” He told him about Ian’s visit the night before.

Fenwick’s first reaction was, “Our buddy lied to us.”

Turner nodded. He said, “He’s still lying.”

“Why do you think that?”

“He says he went there to kill Shaitan. Fine. Why? I get nothing close to a motive for murder.”

“We’ve never had a case where someone killed the other person because he had a tiny dick.”

“Something else is going on. For now, he’s back in the asshole category. He’s got some making up to do.”

Fenwick said, “He was really going to kill Shaitan?”

“I think it was an impulse. Who knows? I don’t think he would, but there’s been a lot of anger brewing since the election. Ian sees Preston Shaitan as a traitor to not only his cause but to the human race.”

“Well, he is.”

Turner nodded. “Why did you say he did it before I told the story?”

“The more I thought about it, the odder he sounded to me. Turns out it was odder than either of us knew. Although having sex with both guys who got murdered within twenty-four hours, that moves from odd to beyond weird.”

Turner said, “We’ll have to talk to him some more, but we’ve got all kinds of people to get to today, including Bettencourt and Preston’s co-workers, friends, enemies, and family.”