by Mark Zubro
“They’re loud.”
“You know Henry Bettencourt or Preston Shaitan?”
“No.”
Turner said, “We need to see Henry Bettencourt’s room.”
“You got a warrant?”
Fenwick said, “He’s dead. His room is considered part of a crime scene.”
“There’s another person staying in that room.”
“Who’s that?”
Arnie nudged the clerk out of the way and tapped at the computer. He looked up and said, “Guy named David Westerman.”
They phoned the room. There was no answer.
Arnie gave them the key.
No amount of industrial strength steam-cleaning could rescue the maroon roses in the tattered carpet in the second floor hall. A window at the end of the hall showed a bare dim bulb over a bricked-up window across the alley.
Hands near their guns, they knocked on the door. No answer. Turner unlocked it and eased it open. He flipped on the light. They entered. The dull-maroon carpeting continued from the hall into the room.
Fenwick made a quick check of the bathroom. Coming back out, he shook his head. It was empty.
Two full-sized beds were made. One suitcase sat on a table next to a television. Another suitcase was on the bed nearest the door. Both were closed and locked. From the keys they’d retrieved from Bettencourt’s pocket, they were able to open the one on the table.
Years of work as detectives made their search quick, efficient, and thorough. Arnie had told them the maid had listed in her work chart that she’d finished the room at 2:36 that afternoon.
Finished, they stood together in the center of the room. Fenwick said, “Two different suitcases, two different names. Confirms good old Arnie’s information.”
They found nothing of value inside Bettencourt’s suitcase. Turner had the key for the room’s safe. He opened it. “We’ve got guns here and ammo.”
“We’ll have to see which of them owned them and if they had permits.”
Near the door, they turned back to give the room a final once-over.
Fenwick said, “Looks like they checked in, but then maybe rushed right out again.”
Turner pointed. “That table’s been moved.” The dresser had a television on top. Next to it was a chair and a table with a lamp.
“Huh?”
“You can see the faded part. See.” He pointed to where inch-wide squares of non-faded carpet shown on the rug.
Fenwick said, “So somebody moved the table. It’s an old motel. Probably gets cleaned, but it’s not like the Ritz.”
“Why?”
“Why move it? The maids in this hotel are crazed table movers? Moving tables was decreed from on high by great flaming dragons? Stop me when I get to something you like.”
“What I like is when you stop.”
Fenwick huffed.
Turner said, “We should question the maid.” He moved the table back to fit the faded groves. It coincided perfectly. He moved it back to where it had been when they entered. He squatted down and looked underneath. He glanced over his shoulder at Fenwick. When he caught his partner’s eye, Turner put his finger over his lips in a hush motion then beckoned him over.
Fenwick raised an eyebrow but had the sense to keep his mouth shut. He trundled his bulk over to Turner and attempted to squat, but after much huffing and puffing, he knelt next to his partner and peered where Turner pointed under the table. They gazed for several seconds then looked at each other, stood up, walked to the door, and took a few steps down the hall.
Turner asked, “You think all these motels bug their guests’ rooms?”
“Who would do it? Why would they bother?”
“Somebody who is really paranoid, really pissed?”
“You think it’s one of ours?”
“We’re going to find out.”
Turner called the crime scene unit. The oddity of a dead guy and a listening device made it a necessary step.
Coming down the hall was a beat cop walking alongside a tall African-American man in his mid-thirties.
The civilian asked, “What’s going on in my room?”
“You David Westerman?” Turner asked.
“Yeah.”
The beat cop left.
They talked in the hall.
Westerman asked, “What’s going on? You can’t go into my room without a warrant.”
Turner asked, “You sharing this room with Henry Bettencourt?”
“I’m not answering any questions until you tell me what you’re doing here. I’m calling my lawyer.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a phone.
Fenwick said, “Mr. Bettencourt is dead.”
Westerman’s hands stopped moving. He looked from one to the other of them then glanced toward the room.
“There’s a body in my room?”
“No. He’s not here.”
“What happened?”
“He was murdered.”
Westerman slumped against the wall and leaned his head back. After several deep breaths, he said, “I don’t understand.”
“Where have you been?” Fenwick asked.
“Out organizing. What happened?”
Fenwick said, “He was shot. Got his brains splattered all over a roof top.”
“Oh, my!” Westerman shut his eyes and breathed deeply. After several moments passed, he looked at them.
Turner asked, “How well did you know him?”
“We were sharing this room. We’d emailed for a few months, but we’d just met here today.”
“You didn’t know him well?”
“By reputation, of course.”
“How’d you wind up sharing a room?”
“The convention had a room-sharing service. Cheaper that way. Or for people like Bettencourt, who lived in the suburbs, but didn’t want the hassle of driving through rush hour every day to get to meetings. There was lots to do and people to talk to. You don’t want to be stuck in traffic.”
Fenwick asked, “Why were you here with the other protest groups?”
“I’m the head of the organization Guns for Gangs. White people have the NRA. Black people should have the same right to be armed.”
“Doesn’t that kind of go against the cliché?”
“I don’t care. Wendell Pierce said, ‘If every black male 18-35 applied for a conceal & carry permit, and then joined the NRA in one day; there would be gun control laws in a second.’ I agree with that.”
Turner thought that sentiment was quite likely true.
Westerman continued, “Did you see the movie Mississippi Burning? How the white power structure was terrorizing the African American community? Too often, that’s the way it’s been and continues to be. What those people in that movie—in that community—should have had were their own guns, so that when the white folks showed up, they could have answered by blasting away with their own shotguns. We should be answering with guns now. We’re just following the NRA, arming ourselves to protect ourselves. If it works for whites, it works for blacks.”
Fenwick asked, “You making a profit from selling guns to people?”
“I’m raising awareness and making a profit, it is not a crime.”
“You sell any guns while here?”
“No.”
“Are you armed?”
“Not at the moment.” He glanced toward the room.
Turner said, “The motel manager gave us the key to the safe.”
“That’s not right.”
“Why not?”
This seemed to take him aback.
“Why are there five guns in the safe?” Fenwick asked.
“Why not? I have permits for all of them. I’m also the liaison with the national gun rights groups.”
“They’re happy about a group named Guns for Gangs?” Fenwick asked.
“The right wing has been making cash out of frightening white people. I see no reason not to make money out of frightening black people. Works the same way.” Westerman ga
ve a snort. “For some reason the biggest and largest of the national gun organizations won’t have anything to do with us. Can you say racist pigs?”
“Did Bettencourt have guns?”
“I have no idea.”
“Where were you from five to seven today?”
“I told you, organizing.”
“We’re going to need specific names.”
“I’ll need my lawyer.”
“We’re not arresting you.”
“Then I’m free to leave.”
Fenwick said, “No one ever said you had to stay.”
Westerman moved toward the room.
Fenwick held up his hand and said, “For now, it’s part of a crime scene.”
“When can I get my things?”
“When we’re done with the room.”
“Are you confiscating my guns?”
Turner switched topics. “Were you aware there was a listening and recording device in the room?”
“What? That’s an outrage!”
“Any idea who put it there?”
“Enemies of all that is free and good. Perhaps the Chicago police.” He paused. “Was it a video recorder or just voice recorder?”
“Something you didn’t want video of?” Fenwick asked.
“Without my consent, I want nothing videotaped or my voice recorded. Doesn’t matter what’s on it. What matters is my lack of consent.”
Fenwick said, “If you had the guns for protection, who were you afraid of?”
“Any random cop.”
“You were planning to have shootouts with cops?”
“We need good men with guns.”
Fenwick burst out laughing. Turner was more circumspect. They both knew the fallacy of that myth.
Westerman knew nothing more. He retired grumbling.
When Westerman was gone, Fenwick asked, “Guns for Gangs?”
Turner said, “I’ve never heard of them, but it’s one way for the gun culture to infest more of society.”
Fenwick said, “No matter what Westerman said, the name is redundant in the specific. I thought that’s what defined gangs, guns and violence.”
“Are you positing there are left wing or right wing pacifist gangs armed or unarmed?”
Fenwick said, “Either of them if it helps solve the case.”
“Problem is once you add ‘gang’ to a group, in this day and age, it assumes violence.”
“Yeah, but I bet the NRA is behind Westerman too.”
“Why?” Turner asked.
“It’s all about sales not safety or the Second Amendment.”
Thursday 10:58 P.M.
They walked to the address Fong had provided for where Shaitan was staying, a block from Bettencourt’s hotel. Fenwick called Sanchez. The beat cop said they’d managed to get in touch with Mrs. Bettencourt. She had her kids to take care of and wouldn’t be available for an interview until the morning.
Shaitan was staying at a bed and breakfast hotel. Oscar’s Endeavour was three old homes, one on a corner, renovated into one Victorian gingerbread confection. The shutters were freshly painted royal purple on bright white clapboard.
The front desk was in the corner house’s old parlor. Turner and Fenwick showed ID to Jason Smith, a muscular man in his mid-thirties.
Turner said, “We understand Preston Shaitan was staying here.”
Smith said, “If I’d known who he was when he rented the room, I’d have found an excuse not to rent to him. I do not need self-hating morons staying here.”
“How come you didn’t notice him?”
“One of the hired help took his reservation.”
“Who told you about him?”
“The guy who checked him in.”
Fenwick said, “Shaitan is dead.”
Smith gaped for a moment.
Turner asked, “Was he here alone?”
“As far as I know. He’s in the cupola room, the gazebo at the top, the meeting of the L. We just finished renovating it last month.”
“Can you give us a key?”
He presented them with a plastic key card.
They took the short elevator ride to the top. There was only one door on this floor. It opened into a six hundred-square-foot room that had a nearly 360° view of the city outside. Turner could see distant lightning to their south.
Fenwick gazed around. “This is kind of nice.” A circular bed in the middle of the room was covered in a thick comforter, and strewn with comfy pillows. Their colors matched the two plush couches, one on the north wall, the other opposite it. The air conditioning was on high. The room felt good.
Turner said, “I hear water running, a shower, I think.”
Fenwick cocked his head. They looked at the only other door in the room. The bathroom was on the opposite wall from the desk. Fenwick lowered his voice, “Who the hell would be in the shower here at this time?”
They pulled their guns and moved to either side of the bathroom door. The sound of falling water was louder now.
Fenwick tried the door. It was unlocked. He opened it a crack. “Police!” he bellowed in his best menacing baritone.
The water stopped abruptly.
“Who’s there?” yelled a female voice.
“Chicago police. We need to talk to you.”
“This is absurd. Get out. I’m calling the manager. How did you get in here?”
“We need to talk to you,” Turner said.
The door was yanked open. They leveled their guns at Marjorie Zelvin, the protester from the bridge.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Fenwick and Zelvin spoke at the same time. She wore a bathrobe with the logo of a prancing bear on it. In one hand, she held a towel, in the other a phone.
Marjorie Zelvin tried to barge into the room. Fenwick prevented her from moving forward by the simple expedient of standing in the way. There wasn’t much room on either side of him for a shadow, much less a person, to get by.
“Let me pass.” Marjorie’s voice was at shriek level.
“What are you doing up here?” Fenwick asked.
“I’ve got a key.”
“You do?” Fenwick asked.
“Yes.”
“The manager didn’t tell us Shaitan had someone staying with him. Or you didn’t register, but stayed here unofficially to save money. You were staying with Mr. Shaitan?” Turner asked.
“Yes.” Her eyes shifted. “No.”
Turner and Fenwick waited.
“I knew him,” she said.
“Intimately?” Fenwick asked.
“Sort of.”
“Please explain,” Turner said.
Her voice rose to a shriek. “I don’t have to explain to the police. This isn’t a police state. I have my rights. And I want to finish drying off and get dressed. I don’t want to stand here half naked.”
Turner said, “You can leave or answer questions.” In the brief time they had to look, he had seen no evidence of a second person staying in the room, but they hadn’t opened all the suitcases yet.
She thought for a moment and said, “What do you want?”
Turner said, “We need to know why you’re here.”
“I’m one of the leaders of the conference. I’m monitoring what’s going on.”
Fenwick asked, “How’d that protest march go from the bridge? That break up already?”
“I try to be many places. I just got back. I was tired and sweaty from all the marching. Are Preston and Henry really dead?” She gulped.
“I’m sorry, yes,” Turner said.
She turned very white. She said, “I’m going to finish drying off, and then I’ll be out.”
She shut the bathroom door.
While waiting, they rooted through a suitcase open on the luggage rack. A few skimpy bikini briefs all in faux-tiger patterns, a few wrinkled shirts, and a pair of jeans, and a few toilet articles. They found a small bag of pills and a baggy of marijuana. In the closet they found a navy blue sport coat, a thin red tie
, and a wrinkled white shirt. Two more suitcases and a backpack.
Fenwick asked, “They were trying to hide her stuff in case the cleaning staff got suspicious?”
“Possible,” Turner said.
Zelvin emerged a few moments later. Her hair was still damp. She wore the clothes they’d seen her in earlier.
She sat on the bed. They sat in chairs.
“You stayed with him to save money.”
“Yes, there was a lot of that at this convention.”
Fenwick asked, “What was your relationship with the deceased?”
“We’ve had many meetings and discussions.”
“You agreed with his politics?” Fenwick asked.
“What does that have anything to do with it? We talked. We were of use to each other.”
“In what way?”
“We wanted to get crowds here. Shaitan drew crowds.”
“You were that desperate for attendance?” Fenwick asked.
“We wanted to make the police listen to us. We can’t let the police run roughshod over us.”
Turner asked, “Did Shaitan have enemies?”
“All of us who are leaders in the group had enemies of some kind.”
Turner asked, “Are there any specific threats that you were aware of?”
“Well, no, I guess not. He always talked about being a martyr to a cause. We all did. We were willing to give our all, each for his own cause.”
“Did you know where he was going today, this evening?”
“We were all rushing around madly planning, organizing, seeing old friends. What can you tell me about what happened to him?”
Fenwick said, “You know we can’t discuss an open investigation with anyone. I’m sure there will be a press conference you can attend.”
“How well did you know him?” Turner asked.
“We had some uninspiring sex last night. Ate breakfast together this morning. I haven’t seen him since.”
Fenwick said, “I thought he was gay.”
“I’m not prejudiced. He wasn’t very good. He needed lots of help. We were slightly intimate, but we weren’t really friends. He didn’t confide in me.”
Turner asked, “Do you have training in marksmanship?”
“I’ve never even held a gun.”
Fenwick asked, “What’s the deal with this guy? We heard one story that it was all fake on his part. He said outrageous things just to make money, so he could get attention from an audience.”
