by Mark Zubro
Yutka spent an inordinate amount of time opening his laptop, bringing up any number of files on it, adjusting the screen, taking off his glasses, polishing them, putting them back on, adjusting the screen again, taking a legal pad out of his backpack, fishing out three pens from the depths of said backpack, then arranging them in various triangles around his computer.
The six on the other side of the table gave expressions varying from bored to annoyed.
Finished, Yutka leaned back in his chair and said, “Six?”
“That’s how it’s going to be.”
Yutka returned to fussing.
Lyal DeGroot was an older man with a handlebar mustache. Turner thought it must be the first one of those he’d seen outside of a Western movie in years or ever. Turner realized if he was thinking about something that inconsequential at a time like this, he must be more nervous than he thought.
The woman next to DeGroot spoke. She said, “I’m Mildred Sploe. We need to go over your statement from last night.” She was a tall woman with dark black hair pulled back into a tight bun from which Turner doubted any hair ever dared escape.
Yutka said, “Six?”
Glares from the other side of the table. Yutka fished in his backpack and came out with recording devices. He said, “I see you don’t have these, so I’m sure you’ll be happy to know I came equipped for us to start after four of you leave. My computer will also record this event. I like to have two devices. I never trust one set of electronics.”
DeGroot growled and asked if they’d give them time for a conference.
In the hall, Fenwick opened his mouth to speak, but Yutka held up a hand and said, “Shut up.”
Fenwick did. Turner knew that his partner could grumble to the point of maddening insidiousness and drive him and probably half the planet nuts, but Fenwick did know when to bow to the experts.
A few minutes later, four of the men trooped out of the conference room.
Yutka, Fenwick, and Turner returned to their seats.
DeGroot greeted them with, “Happy now?” He’d saved a reservoir of sarcasm.
Yutka said nothing.
Sploe said, “Like I said, we need to go over last night’s statements.”
Yutka pointed to her laptop and then her briefcase and then said, “I assume you have all the casework electronically and on hardcopy and had the good sense to read it before you got here.” Yutka’s voice sounded like a grizzled old marine drill-sergeant in the baritone range.
Sploe said, “We need to talk about it.”
Yutka said, “Perhaps what you mean to say is, we have your statement from last night, would you look at it please, and tell us if there’s anything you wish to add, delete, change.”
Sploe and DeGroot both gave him looks that, which might not kill, were certainly designed to maim. Yutka just sat there with his hands folded on the table in front of him. Turner would call Yutka’s expression a benevolent glare.
Sploe pulled a sheaf of papers out of her folder. Barb Dams had forwarded all the paperwork to Turner and Fenwick early this morning. Turner and Fenwick spent time reading. Turner had gone over all of it, which was as correct this morning as when he and Fenwick gave their statements yesterday afternoon and evening.
Turner was no fool. He read the document as if it were for the first time then nodded.
DeGroot asked, “Any additions or corrections?”
Both detectives looked at Yutka whose head nodded about a sixteen of an inch.
Both detectives said, “No.”
Sploe said, “Are you sure?”
Yutka said, “Any other questions?”
DeGroot said, “Remember it’s the lies and cover ups that get most cops in trouble in what they say.”
Yutka asked, “Are you accusing Detective Turner or Detective Fenwick of lying?”
“We have different versions of events.”
Yutka nodded, “And different versions of body cams and dash cams?”
“Those can be a problem.”
Yutka said, “Yes, they can.”
DeGroot said, “We’re concerned about the Taser that went missing and was later found at a separate crime scene.”
Yutka said, “So are we.”
DeGroot pointed at Turner. “We understand you talked with Detective Carruthers last night.”
Yutka said, “It’s all in there.”
Sploe said, “You realize the criminal Detective Carruthers and the others were chasing has connections to a terrorist organization.”
Yutka laughed. “You mean he belongs to the NRA?”
DeGroot’s voice rose, “Your clients protected a terrorist.”
Yutka said, “I’ll need your proof that he was a terrorist. I’ll need to find where in the law it says that it’s okay to gun down unarmed civilians no matter what their background.”
DeGroot said, “The kid was armed.”
“According to whom?” Yutka asked.
“Several witnesses.”
“Name them.”
“That’s confidential.”
“Then they don’t exist.”
“Oh, they exist.”
“You either produce them or their names or the documentation from them, or they don’t exist. You know better than that. What are you trying to pull here?”
Turner wondered very much the same thing.
DeGroot said, “Your guys could have backed away from the confrontation.”
“And let the kid die?” Yutka demanded. “Let that moron keep firing? Are you mad?”
“Just asking questions.”
“When do we see copies of what the dash-cams show?” Yutka asked.
“We’re working on it.”
Neither Turner nor Fenwick said a word about what Fong might or might not be able to accomplish.
Sploe asked, “Is it true you hated Detective Carruthers?”
Yutka asked, “How do their personal feelings affect their report of the facts of last night’s incident?”
Sploe said, “If they hated him, maybe they want him to look bad.”
Yutka replied, “We’ve all heard numerous rumors about numerous detectives. I assumed you’ve checked Carruthers’s file, and the files of both of these detectives. You’ve seen the numerous complaints about Carruthers. The very few against these two.”
Yutka and the two Internal Affairs people spent fifteen more futile minutes going round and round. When they were done, Turner, Fenwick, and Yutka stood together out in the hall.
Yutka said, “You both kept your mouths shut. Good.” He glanced at Fenwick, “Although I was told I’d need to put a muzzle on you.”
Fenwick growled. “I’m not stupid.”
Turner asked, “What’s next?”
Yutka shook his head. “The Taser shit has me worried.”
“Why?”
“Their side claims the kid did have a gun. You say he didn’t. Fine, but your case gets weaker with the missing, but since found, Taser. They can claim the same person took the gun as the Taser to make them look bad. You do know it being missing makes you look bad.”
Fenwick said, “We had other things to think about.”
Yutka frowned. “Makes no difference. They’re looking for any edge they can get.”
“Yeah,” Fenwick said. “It almost sounded like they were taking Carruthers’s side.”
Turner added, “That bothered me, too.”
Yutka said, “I’ll check into it. For now they just might be being thorough. I haven’t worked with these two before. I’ll find out what I can. Maybe they think it’s like some old Perry Mason show or story where at the last second they find a one/eighth inch discrepancy in the placement of a piece of evidence, and poof the case goes to hell.”
Fenwick said, “It’s not like that.”
“It can be if they can make it stick.”
“They’d have to get enough guys to lie.”
“And you think there aren’t enough cops on the force who would lie for each o
ther?”
Fenwick said, “But in this case against us, we’re one of their own.”
Yutka said, “You know the court cases. Settlements won by the good guys, but that still didn’t keep cops who broke the Code of Silence from being frozen out.”
Fenwick told him about the beat cop from the night before.
Yutka said, “And there’s been no report about it. So far. A little odd. Maybe they’re saving it to use against you.”
“Just like with the gun, they’ve got no tape.”
“There is that.” Yutka shrugged, “If they come around, call me, but you know that. Be careful. The Independent Police Review Authority, like the Police Board investigations, are seldom friendly, cheery affairs, but I got the impression that both of them didn’t like you already.”
Turner asked, “Could any of this have anything to do with that fact that I’m gay?”
“Doubtful, but anything’s possible. They could also be friends of Carruthers. He must have some.” Yutka shrugged. “Or as is more likely somebody is trying to cover their asses. Switch the blame of what happened to you. Keep themselves from being sued and maybe fired for all the years-long Carruthers fuckups, and I presume cover-ups. Remember, until last night, he had never actually physically assaulted someone.”
Fenwick touched his wounded arm. “And he did it to a cop.”
Yutka shook his head. “No matter how big an asshole someone is, if he has someone protecting him, that’s who you should be afraid of. You’re lucky. Your Commander’s in your corner.”
Turner said, “What was with the terrorist bullshit, and the he was armed bullshit.”
Yutka shook his head. “That was actually the most worrisome. They’ve got people willing to lie.” He shook his head then reiterated. “Whoever is behind Carruthers, that’s who you have to be afraid of.”
Fenwick asked, “Are we going to face criminal charges?”
“Good question. Have you done something criminal?”
“No.”
“Then let’s hope they don’t twist it into that.” He reminded them again to keep him informed and left.
Friday 11:17 A.M.
Yutka had just turned a corner when Fong, pushing a cart crammed with electronics, rushed up to them. “Your desks are clear. The Commander’s office, too. I got tons more to go over.” He hurried on.
Barb Dams approached their desks. “You guys okay?” she asked.
She knew better than to ask them how the just-finished interview went.
They both shrugged.
Turner asked, “Where’s the Commander?”
“He’s got a publicity person from downtown in with him along with a grandstanding alderman, and a few other people. They want to see you.”
Fenwick raised an eyebrow. “Grandstanding alderman? Isn’t that kind of redundant?”
“Grandstanding about saving the kid.”
Fenwick said, “Just what we need, more distraction. We’ve got a case to solve.”
Dams raised an eyebrow. “Did you just start yesterday or have you been working here long?”
Fenwick subsided. There were always ramifications and permutations to everything they did.
They paused outside the Commander’s door. Fenwick raised an eyebrow, “Publicity?”
“You’re the famous one.”
Dams shook her head. “Don’t you get it? The community thinks you took a bullet for one of their own, and actually you did.” She tapped Turner on the arm. “And you Tased one of the evil ones. They’re falling all over themselves. Hero is as hero does.”
In Molton’s office were three men Turner recognized. Adam Edberg from the mayor’s office from the bridge incident just before they got to the crime scene last night. He was joined by Clayton Griffin, who they all knew as the Assistant Chief of Detectives. He was a short, thin man with blond hair.
The third man was Gerald Palakowski, the District Commander where the Tasing of Carruthers had occurred, the subsequent murder scene, and bridge crossing moment.
The fourth man whom Turner had never met was Alderman Frank Bortz who wore a suit that he seemed a few pounds away from bursting the seams. It was in his Ward that Carruthers had been Tased.
The fifth person was Sela Jones, the head of the CPD press office. She was a blond-haired woman in her forties.
Everybody stood up to greet them. The alderman pumped their hands as if he was holding on to a lifeline to save him from deep water. He talked at a great rate. “So good to see you. How are you? You guys are such heroes. The department doesn’t have enough people like you. We want you on the front page of the papers. You should have been already.”
Molton managed to interrupt this discourse long enough to get them seated.
Bortz went on. Turner looked at Fenwick whose teeth were clamped and his lips pursed. Fenwick did not suffer fools gladly. Maybe the guy was just trying to be nice? In Chicago? With headlines to grab?
Bortz did finally wind down.
Griffin spoke up, “We do have a great chance to get some good publicity for the department.”
Griffin, Bortz, Jones, and Edberg went on at length about ceremonies, a parade, community outreach. Turner noted Palakowski said not a word. Mostly, he looked like he was trying to smile while holding back an enormous fart.
Edberg and Jones took voluminous notes. When they finished, they turned to the two detectives. Edberg asked, “What do you guys think?”
Fenwick said, “No.”
Turner said, “If there’s some appropriate time in the future, we can get back to you.”
Molton said, “This all sounds premature.”
Palakowski said, “We need to see what all the investigations show. We need to not act too quickly.”
Had the beat cop complained to him about Fenwick’s actions the night before? He didn’t say so, and this would be a time to speak up if he had.
Molton said, “The detectives have work to do.”
The meeting broke up.
Griffin followed the two detectives onto the stairs that led up to their desks. He tapped each of their elbows and said, “I wanted to talk to you for a moment.” They all stopped on the third step from the top. Palakowski stood directly behind Griffin who said, “You guys aren’t really team players.” Any affability from the Commander’s office was gone.
Palakowski added, “Shown by your response to working with the department to get something good out of this.”
“You’ve gotten complaints from Commander Molton?” Fenwick’s voice was inching into snarl territory. “Our yearly reviews are excellent, so it’s not him. He could just tell us. Our colleagues? Who? Roosevelt? Wilson? Rodriguez?” Fenwick thumped the wall he was standing next to. “Carruthers,” he guessed. “You’re a friend of Carruthers. Or you both are? Or you’ve been part of covering up for him for years, and you’re worried about your own jobs and pensions.”
Both men looked furious. There were times Turner wished his buddy would shut up. This was one of them. Griffin had something to say, and he thought it might be best to hear it all before making judgments and leaping to sarcasm or beyond to anger and bombast.
Griffin shook his head. “No, I’m just saying there are friends of Carruthers around, and you guys should be careful. You really should think about doing all this publicity stuff.”
Fenwick scoffed, “What could they do to us if we don’t?”
Griffin said, “It wouldn’t be public, and it wouldn’t be pretty. You know that. Be careful.”
Palakowski said, “If I were you, I’d be very careful of anything I did or said.”
Without waiting for a response from the detectives, they turned away and stalked off.
Turner gazed after them. “What was their game?”
“Friendly warning?” Fenwick proffered.
“Or additions to mountains of bullshit.”
Molton came out of his office while they were still mulling. He asked, “You guys okay?” He too knew better than to ask a
bout what had happened with the review board. Things could get tainted very quickly.
Fenwick asked, “What was all that publicity shit really all about?”
Molton shook his head. “This is out of control. I’m not sure who is talking to whom about what. I’ve got meetings back downtown all afternoon. Call me if you need me.” He left.
Fenwick said, “Who the hell are all these people?”
“Who people?”
“Just the assholes who were here this morning. Am I supposed to remember all their names?”
“I don’t remember their names, and I’m not complaining about it or them, so I’m a step ahead of you.”
“Show off.” After several more loud grumbles, Fenwick said, “Where the hell are we with the goddamn case? We’ve got fucking real work to do.”
Turner said, “Interviews. Data collection.”
Fenwick said, “I think we should become tortured cops like on television.”
Turner snorted. “I’m not interested in your sexual peccadilloes.”
“No, no. That gritty, doubt-ridden, anxiety-infested shit.”
Turner asked, “Why bother?”
That stopped Fenwick for only a moment. After a couple seconds silence, he said, “We’d please the critics more.”
“Now you care about what critics say? Now? Little late for that.”
“I’m sensitive.”
Turner did not burst out laughing.
Barb Dams hurried up to them. “Mrs. Bettencourt is here with a friend. I put them at your desks.”
Turner did not relish meeting with those who had loved the departed. Before they moved, he asked, “How’d she know to come here?”
“They went to his hotel room. The cop on duty sent them here with Sanchez and Deveneaux.”
Friday 11:35 A.M.
Two women sat in chairs facing the side of their desks. As they approached, the two women stood up.
The woman closest to Fenwick’s desk said, “I’m Helena Avila.” She was a waif of a woman. Turner saw that she was maybe in her early forties with blond hair in a ponytail that draped down her back to below her waist.
The other said, “I’m Susan Bettencourt.” She was a tall, woman. She wore a plain back dress with a small string of pearls that would have done June Cleaver proud.
