Ring of Silence

by Mark Zubro

  Turner and Fenwick raised eyebrows.

  Rodriguez shrugged. “I guess I was supposed to let the dumb fuck shoot you guys, the kid, and half the planet.”

  “What’s happened?” Turner asked.

  “I stopped at my car earlier. Both sides have been keyed front to back. Wasn’t a member of the public. It’s on our parking lot. It was one of us. You guys should be careful as well.”

  Turner and Fenwick nodded.

  Fenwick asked, “What the hell was happening on that street before we got there?”

  Rodriguez said, “I was doing mostly nothing. Talking to some twenty-somethings who were on their way to one of the protest conference meetings farther down the street. Carruthers was nuts since I saw him even before the shift started.”

  “He’s always nuts,” Fenwick said.

  “Nuttier than usual. He came in real early. He had enough new electronic equipment on him to open a store. He was talking on them, checking on them. When we got to that spot on the street, we saw clots of people and beat cops. We stopped to see if we could help. At first, Carruthers stayed in the car. That was good. He’s awful with people. Then I heard some kind of noise, altercation, or teenagers being stupid, something. I turned to look. Carruthers was out of the car and talking a mile a minute on some electronic device. Then he was yelling at the group of kids. One of them took off and started running.”

  “That was DeShawn,” Turner said.

  Rodriguez nodded. “So there’s Carruthers screaming at the kid, running after him, listening to this electronic device, and pulling his gun.”

  Fenwick said, “I didn’t think he could chew gum and walk at the same time.”

  Turner said, “Maybe he took lessons while he was off.”

  Rodriguez said, “The kid stopped. That’s when you guys came around the building and shit hit the fan from every direction. I don’t know how many people Carruthers might have hit if I hadn’t tackled him.”

  After fifteen minutes further rehashing didn’t get them any more insight, Rodriguez got up. He said, “I have eight million more people to talk to tonight. I’ll see you later.”

  More promises of having the other’s back followed and then Rodriguez slumped away.

  Fenwick said, “He’s a hero to me.”

  “Got that right.”

  A few minutes later, Joe Roosevelt and Judy Wilson appeared at the top of the stairs. They strode over to Turner and Fenwick’s work station. They pulled over another chair and plunked it and the one Rodriguez had been sitting on, in front of the fans to try and get some relief. Wilson got back up and grabbed a third fan from nearby to add to the desperate wish for respite.

  Roosevelt and Wilson had been detectives since the year one. Joe, red-nosed, with short, brush-cut gray hair and crooked teeth, and Judy, an African-American woman with a pleasant smile, had a well-deserved reputation as one of the most successful pairs of detectives on the force. Despite this, they averaged a major squabble about a senseless issue at least once a week. It usually started with something minor and stupid and ended with them in pouty silence. As soon as they started a new case, they shrugged off the problem. Anyone observing that stage of their relationship would have thought they were best friends, which in fact they were.

  Roosevelt asked, “How are you guys?”

  Mumbles of, “Fine,” and “Okay.”

  Turner said, “I talked to Carruthers.”

  Wilson said, “You had another chance to shoot him. Great.”

  Roosevelt said, “You are way too kind. Do you realize with him dead, the IQ level in the whole country would go up an average of two to three points?”

  Turner asked, “Does he know he has no friends, that the world is laughing at him? He has a wife and kids. Does he love them? Do they love him?”

  Wilson said, “He is an asshole traitor to the job.”

  Roosevelt said, “Guy deserves every road bump in his life.”

  Wilson asked, “Is today’s event in the competition for stupidest thing he’s done this year?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be? He’s been number one in the stupidest male on the planet competition award for years.”

  “Lots of fierce rivalry for that these past few years.”

  Roosevelt cleared his throat. “There is something else.”

  Wilson said, “This is not an official investigation question, although I was dying to ask earlier.”

  Roosevelt burst out laughing.

  Wilson continued, “Why didn’t you just shoot him out there on the street?”

  Fenwick said, “Adds too much paperwork.”

  Turner sat back and for a moment let the almost adequate breeze cool him, then he said, “It happened too fast. I had the Taser in my hand. I didn’t choose or decide or think. I just acted. My actual thought process must have been, ‘taking out your gun would waste precious seconds, you’ve got a Taser in your hand, use it.’ I wasn’t conscious of thinking all that.”

  Fenwick said, “That too. Except I didn’t have the Taser, and I was only a few feet from the kid.”

  Roosevelt and Wilson nodded. They understood, as all good cops did, that instant decisions they made too often had life and death consequences.

  Turner said, “I’ve been wondering, what if we were five or ten seconds earlier.” He hesitated then added, “Or later.”

  Wilson leaned toward him, tapped her finger on his arm, and said, “Bullshit. All bullshit. Self-doubt is pointless. You did right in the milliseconds you did have. We are trained for those seconds. For those instants of life or death. But we never know where or when they’re going to happen. Yes, I know we are all aware of that and even with all the training in the world, who you are and what you are takes over, and what you did was right. Whether you like it or not, you’re both heroes because you did right.”

  Roosevelt added, “Nobody died. You guys are both still with us. And Carruthers won’t be.”

  “How’s Rodriguez?” Wilson asked.

  “He left a few minutes ago.” They told them about their colleague’s car being keyed.

  “Motherfuckers,” Wilson said. “We better be watching each other’s backs more than usual.”

  Everybody nodded.

  Roosevelt and Wilson moved to their own desks and lugged out their laptops and began working on paperwork of their own.

  After a few minutes, Wilson looked up at Turner and Fenwick. She asked, “You guys seen that Taser?”

  Each piece of equipment they used had to be accounted for. Losing something like your badge or your gun was a huge problem. The Taser, while not in the same category as those two, if missing, it would be a problem. It would have a serial number and could be identified.

  Turner said, “I must have dropped it at the scene. I remember rushing to Fenwick and the kid, looking at Rodriguez and Carruthers.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t thinking about the damn thing. I saw Carruthers moving then being restrained so I knew he wasn’t hurt from the Taser. Then I was worried about Fenwick and the kid. Sorry.”

  No one teased him about his concern for his friend. It was all too easy to lose a partner, or a friend, an acquaintance, or a coworker, or a fellow member of the department, for anyone to feel a need to make a joke. Even Fenwick was muted.

  Wilson said, “We’ll go back over the scene with some uniforms. It probably got kicked under something as people rushed madly about. Or even maybe a member of the crowd took it as a souvenir.”

  Fenwick nodded toward the stairs. “Commander Molton.” Turner looked over his shoulder and saw their approaching boss.

  Thursday 7:09 P.M.

  Molton arrived and perched on the edge of Turner’s desk. He was frowning. Turner sensed something was amiss. Molton said, “We have a bit of a media problem and some community issues and a sort of mundane situation.”

  The detectives waited.

  Molton continued, “The press wants interviews. Every local and national news outlet from coast to coast. They’re all calling, inc
luding from overseas.” He sighed. “And they want you to do a press conference.”

  “They who?” Fenwick asked.

  “The mayor, the police superintendent, the press office, everybody.”

  “Have they met me?” Fenwick asked. “They want me to do a press conference? I can see the headline, Fenwick Unchained, film at eleven.”

  Molton said, “The chief should know better, but I know the spokesperson for the department is new.” Molton smiled. “They want both of you.”

  “Paul can.”

  “No way,” Turner said. “Both of us or nobody. Besides, you’re the hero. You got shot.”

  Molton said to Turner. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

  Fenwick snorted. “Do they really have a notion of how I behave? Of my ability to shoot my mouth off and be an asshole? They really want that on television?”

  Turner said, “Maybe they could just do a profile, a side view, so to speak.”

  “Of all my fat?”

  “Getting all your fat into a picture might be a problem,” Wilson said.

  Fenwick gave another snort. “Tell them I won’t appear without every ounce of my heft.”

  Wilson said, “You could do the interview naked.”

  “The world is not ready…”

  Molton interrupted. “I’ll stall them.”

  Fenwick stirred and began an objection.

  Molton held up a hand. “There’s more. The community wants to give you medals. You saved a kid instead of letting him get killed. I agree with the medal-giving aspect of this. Downtown has been tight-lipped on that so far, but I think they’ll cave.”

  Fenwick said, “I’m going to do paperwork then take your advice and go home.”

  Molton shook his head.

  Turner’s sense that there was another shoe to drop increased. The Commander looked tired. Molton said, “Unfortunately that which is mundane for our jobs has also occurred.”

  Turner knew when Molton’s language turned formal and close to convoluted, he was frustrated.

  The Commander said, “We just got a call. There’s been murder done.” He pointed at Turner and Fenwick. “I know you’re not up for the next case, but unfortunately you are.”

  All the detectives gave him confused looks.

  Molton said, “With all the activists in town for the big protests and meetings, everybody has been hyper alert.”

  Nods. For weeks, the department and the city had been preparing for thousands of activists who had descended for meetings, talks, and a convention.

  “One of the leaders of the activists, Henry Bettencourt, is dead.”

  “Who?” Fenwick asked.

  Turner said, “You’ve heard of him. Guy from the south suburbs who’s been leading an anti-gun violence crusade.”

  Molton nodded. “That’s him. I’ve had a call from downtown. The other leaders of the activists are already putting huge pressure on anybody they can get hold of to have you two take the case. They say they trust you.”

  “Hold on,” Fenwick said. “When did this happen?”

  “A little over an hour ago now.”

  “And that was enough time for activists to get through to downtown, apply pressure, have the pressure succeed, and get back to us?”

  Molton said, “As far as I know, it went to the moon and back. I suggested I have many excellent detectives. They mentioned Carruthers name as an example of incompetence among my detectives. I was not about to get in a pissing match with top brass about whose clout it was that saved Carruthers’s ass time after time. This is directly from the mayor’s office and the superintendent’s office. If it will help keep the city calm, and/or the activists mollified, and an excellent job done on the case, it’s you guys.”

  Fenwick said, “So we’re being punished for our competence.”

  Molton said, “A special circle in hell for those who do their jobs.”

  “And the paperwork on the Carruthers mess?” Fenwick asked.

  “Will get done. Give Barb what you’ve got so far. We’ll work it out.”

  Fenwick said, “We were mostly done.”

  Many of the forms for the paperwork had been computerized. Fenwick worked from an iPad at his desk. Turner from a PC on his.

  Turner asked, “Who has the kind of pull and power to call the mayor and or the police superintendent to get us assigned to this?”

  Molton said, “I’m afraid you guys will find out as you investigate. I have no idea. I’ll try to sniff around on that as well.”

  Fenwick asked, “And the corpse has been just lying there?”

  “Patiently waiting for you,” Molton said. “Crime Scene people are there. Beat cops are keeping it secure for you. There is one other little thing.”

  A collective raising of eyebrows ensued.

  “When I said ‘murder done,’ I meant two of them. You have a second corpse, Preston Shaitan.”

  Fenwick, Roosevelt, and Wilson looked mystified.

  Turner said, “Fuck.”

  Fenwick said, “That’s my line.”

  Turner said, “You are referring to the notorious idiot?”

  Fenwick said, “Shaitan is a notorious idiot?”

  Turner said, “Yep.”

  Molton ignored them. “The bodies are on the roof of a building on Harrison about a hundred feet west from the intersection with Racine. The bodies on the roof are ten feet apart from each other.”

  “What were they doing up on the roof?” Fenwick asked.

  Molton mused for a second. “Unless you’ve got a perfect place for a murder, and victims were all coincidentally queuing up to be killed or become corpses at that one spot, who knows? Perhaps the universe contrived it.”

  “Lot of that going around these days,” Fenwick said.

  Molton said, “Some of the activists have heard rumors about the murder.”

  “How?” Fenwick said.

  Molton held up his phone and showed the anchor of a local cable news show on CLTV reading about the rumors of deaths.

  Turner and Fenwick peered at it for a few seconds and listened. It was mostly rumors but gave the site as the Racine Street bridge over the Eisenhower Expressway.

  Fenwick said, “They’ve got the place wrong.”

  Molton said, “Yeah, by about a hundred feet. Traffic around there is probably a mess, but if you happen to pass the bridge on your way to the scene, if you think the cops on duty need help, lend a hand. The corpses aren’t going anywhere, and we can’t have protestors on the bridge starting a riot.”

  Molton texted them the details and left.

  Wilson said, “You do know video of you guys saving the kid has already been posted to YouTube?” She checked her phone. “It’s had over a million hits already.”

  They looked at her phone. The crawl underneath the scene of them saving the kid said, “Cops Save DeShawn.”

  Turner said to Fenwick, “You’re a star.”

  Roosevelt said, “I’m surprised it’s a sensation so soon.”

  Wilson sneered, “Do you live in the modern age? Do you listen to the news? It happened over four hours ago now. Half the planet has probably seen it, and listened to the broadcast of subsequent rumors.”

  When the Commander had disappeared down the stairs, and Wilson and Roosevelt were out of hearing, Fenwick said, “Double, triple, and quadruple fuck.”

  Turner said, “Once again, you’ve come up with the correct medical term.”

  Fenwick asked, “Who’s Preston Shaitan?”

  “A supposedly gay, professional asshole. I’ll explain in the car on the way.”

  Thursday 7:21 P.M.

  On their way, Turner noted ominous clouds looming over the city to the west. Violent weather was predicted. Huge gusts of wind shook the car at random intervals.

  Unlike the ordinary course of events, Turner was driving. As they left, with his newly bandaged arm in a sling, Fenwick found it awkward to reach, grab, and pick up his laptop case. Turner had raised an eyebrow. Fenwick had s
aid, “Stiffening up a little. You better drive.”

  As they pulled out of the parking lot, Fenwick said, “I want a new one.”

  “New one what?”

  “Unmarked car. I want the kind with those little blue lights on the sides of the windshield that flicker off and on instead of those stupid rotating Mars lights that we have to pull from under the seat and stick on the roof ourselves.”

  “I’ll order one just for you. Be grateful this one is air-conditioned. It’s better than sweating in the not-breezy-enough station.” He stopped at the light at Harrison. “Any background on Bettencourt and Preston Shaitan?”

  Fenwick Googled on his phone. For years, he’d sworn he was a Luddite, but when he’d seen the ease with which Turner and others were using electronics, especially for forms and paperwork, he’d groused but succumbed. Basic data gathering was also easier. Fenwick liked easy.

  A few minutes later, Fenwick read out his results. “Bettencourt is a minister in the south suburbs, with a small congregation in Ford Heights with one of those non-affiliated churches.”

  Turner knew Ford Heights was one of the poorest south suburbs in the Chicago area.

  Fenwick read some more then reported. “He led a coalition of protests groups advocating militant nonviolence.” He looked up. “Gandhi strikes again.”

  “Are you saying that’s a good thing or a bad thing?”

  Fenwick shrugged. “I think the question is always how do you get things to change? And there isn’t just one answer.”

  “You’re more philosophical today because you got shot?”

  “If either wound was serious, I suppose I would be. I think it’s more likely the weather. When storms are moving in, I reflect more on the whims of the universe. I think I’m one of the universe’s larger whims. Change things? I just try to catch bad guys. Some days we have more luck than others.”

  Turner glanced over at his reflective partner. “Getting shot scared you.”

  “Yes. I’m alive more because Carruthers is a shit shot. And because of luck. I tried to save a kid and almost got killed. Decisions in an instant.” He paused. “Death in a flash. I don’t like thinking about how pure random chance is so much part of our lives.”