by Mark Zubro
They looked at the sleeping kid.
“Mostly just scared,” Mrs. Jackson said. “They’re a little afraid of a concussion after the two of you fell and bashed into that car. How is your head?”
Fenwick pointed to the small bandage on his scalp. “I’ve got a hard head. For me, the headlight lost. I’m sorry I couldn’t prevent him from hitting the fender.”
“You couldn’t know. You saved him from a hail of bullets. Nothing is more important.”
Mr. Jackson leaned closer and whispered, “They’ve been hovering around trying to scare us.”
“Who?” Fenwick asked.
Mr. Jackson said, “Lawyers, people from the police department. Our lawyer is meeting with them right now.”
Mrs. Jackson sat next to her son on the bed and held his hand. She said, “They’ve already been to court trying to get my boy’s juvenile records. There was a lawyer in here, good thing our attorney was here. He said he was going to subpoena my son’s juvenile record plus he wanted to know if my son had a medical condition or was on medication or was a drug user. Or a drug dealer. And about his connection to terrorist organizations.”
“Your attorney was here?”
“Yes.” The mom heaved a sigh worthy of Fenwick. “It was a good thing. He told that lawyer to go to hell.”
“Who was the lawyer?” Turner asked.
A tall, African-American man entered. He wore a charcoal gray suit with a white shirt and dark tie.
Introductions were made. The new guy was Harold Furman. He said, “I’m the lawyer for the family. I’m not sure you should be here.”
Mr. Jackson said, “They saved my boy’s life.”
Turner said, “It’s probably best to listen to your attorney.”
Turner and Fenwick retreated to the corridor. The lawyer followed. The three took several steps away from the door to the kid’s room, in the direction away from the police officer on duty. Furman said, “Sorry to be officious.”
“We understand,” Turner said.
Furman said, “We’re going to sue.”
Fenwick nodded. “Many people have, and have won large sums.”
Furman shook his head. “We get rumors about this Carruthers guy, about false arrests, searches without warrants, not reading suspects their rights, a host of other complaints. But even worse, there may be no charges against him at all. In fact, some are claiming he didn’t hit the kid, just you.”
The detectives nodded. They knew better than to open their mouths.
Turner asked, “Would you be willing to tell us who from the department has been here to talk to you?”
“A raft of lawyers. One from the city. Another one I think represented Carruthers, Cannon something. Then there were people from the police, a gentleman named Adam Edberg from the mayor’s office, Lyal DeGroot from that police review board, and then the local alderman, Frank Bortz.”
“They all came together?”
“No. They’ve been in and out. I happened to be here when the first one appeared, which was lucky. It’s like I’m on guard against madness.”
“Should they be talking to you?” Turner asked.
“I sure don’t think so, but they keep asking questions. All seemed designed in some way to smear DeShawn. They’d ask, ‘how long has he been a drug addict’. Not did he do drugs, but with a presumption that he did. Or ‘how many of his friends are known terrorists’? Just nutty stuff. I told them all to go to hell. Even the alderman seemed to be strained by the whole affair.”
“Something is odd,” Fenwick said.
“They came here to threaten and frighten,” Furman said. “A lot of these questions are normally done in court proceedings that take months.” He shook his head. “Thanks for saving DeShawn’s life.”
They left.
Friday 12:45 P.M.
At the last second, just as the elevator doors were closing, a fist was shoved between the doors, which instantly reopened. A short, scrawny man scuttled in. He wore a white, short sleeve shirt, red bowtie, and black pants. They were the only three in the elevator. When the doors shut, he said, “I’m Ronald Cannon, Randy Carruthers’s lawyer.”
Turner said, “We shouldn’t be talking to you. You shouldn’t be talking to us.”
“Oh, I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say. Besides all that don’t-talk-to-anybody-on-either-side? That’s all bullshit. That’s all to save their jobs, and has nothing to do with legal or illegal.”
Turner assumed the guy was lying. He was also willing to play out a string to see if the guy could turn it into rope and hang himself or his client. It was a dangerous game to play.
Turner caught Fenwick looking at him out of the corner of his eye. They both gave the slightest of nods to each other.
Cannon pointed at Turner. “We’re going to release it that you’re a gay cop.”
“So what?” Fenwick asked.
“Ah, but we’re not going to call a press conference. We’re going to whisper it to a few bigoted, but sympathetic reporters. See, we want it to look like a secret. We don’t care if it is or not.”
“There are protections in this city and this state,” Fenwick said.
“We don’t care. We don’t want your job. Not right away, or that’s not a specific goal. The idea is to discredit you. And you’re right, being gay doesn’t discredit people in the eyes of the law, not in Illinois, but we don’t care about the law. We care about public perception and how we can turn it against you. There will be enough homophobes to ease off at least some of the pressure.”
“How do you live with yourself at night?” Fenwick asked.
“I’m giving my client the best possible defense.”
“Do you think that’s what this is about, a defense?”
“If it works, I don’t care.”
Fenwick said, “I don’t like you.”
“Not an issue for me.” They reached the ground floor. The doors opened, and they walked out. The lawyer followed them to their car. Upon arrival there, the lawyer asked, “Have you heard from the city’s law department?”
“What do we have to do with them?” Fenwick asked.
“They’re the ones who represent you. They’re fighting with each other about what to do about this case.” When Fenwick began to speak, he held up his hand. “And the Independent Police Review Board is split about what to do about you two.” The lawyer leaned toward them. “You do know the video isn’t clear. We’ve got an affidavit from a cop who says the kid had a gun or was going for a gun. Cops are threatening to sue both you guys. Word is damage was done to Carruthers, and you refused to treat him.”
Fenwick snorted, “He refused transport to the hospital or an offer to have a doctor examine him. Refused on scene.”
The lawyer said, “We’ll find out what’s true. We’ll also be suing Detective Rodriguez.”
Turner asked, “Why are you telling us all this?” He’d been content to let his partner take the lead in responding.
“Because I want you to realize who is really on your side.”
“Who is that?” Turner asked.
“No one. I know you think you have friends in high places, but they’ll drop you so fast. No one wants to deal with the Fenwick garbage. No one.”
“You are,” Fenwick pointed out. “What garbage?”
“You’ll see.”
Turner said, “I can see them arguing about what to do about Carruthers, maybe a little, but us? We’re not in trouble.”
“Or so you think.”
Fenwick said, “What I would find surprising is that those groups would be confiding in you, the lawyer for someone who has a case coming before each of them.”
Turner said, “Unless you had an informant in each of those groups, more loyal to you and/or to Carruthers. What does Carruthers have? Pictures of all of you naked in Daley Plaza attacking a group of nuns?”
Canon jammed his index finger at them. “You’re in way over your heads. You have no idea who you’re deali
ng with. If you both had brains in your head, you’d quit. It’s going to get ugly, and it’s going to get ugly very fast.”
“This is news?” Turner asked.
Cannon shook his head then pointed a finger first at Fenwick then Turner. “I can’t believe you haven’t realized this.”
“What?” Fenwick asked.
“About your Commander. If you don’t think Molton isn’t part of Carruthers’s clout, you’re naïve. You don’t get away with that much when he’s directly under your command. You just don’t. Not unless there’s direct collusion, and if he’s been protecting him all these years, then you’re further out on a limb than you think. Molton will abandon you. Right now, you think he’s all that stands between you and perdition. Ha!”
Turner wondered if he practiced making his laughter grating.
Cannon did another round of finger pointing then said, “I’m surprised you haven’t been suspicious of Molton.”
Turner and Fenwick exchanged confused looks.
“Who has enough clout to save somebody’s ass? The first person to look to is the immediate supervisor. Or who the immediate supervisor is afraid of. Or is beholden to. You guys are stupid. At the very least, he’s been told to tow the line.”
Fenwick said, “My guess is your design here is to sow doubt and dissension. Why would anybody be confiding in you?”
“I’m representing Carruthers.”
Fenwick said, “The question still stands. In fact, they shouldn’t be confiding in you because here you are blabbing. Unless you’re part of the vast conspiracy to protect a fool. Why would you do that?”
“Everybody deserves a lawyer. I hope you’ve got a good one.” More nasty chortling. “We’re filing a number of lawsuits. His firing would be unconstitutional.”
Fenwick asked, “He has a right to be stupid? Which amendment is that?”
Turner tried to glare and stop himself from smiling at the same time. It came across as a grimace. He said, “You know your client asked to talk to me.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Are you delusional?” Turner asked.
“Did you tape it?”
Turner asked, “Which answer will annoy you more?”
“He isn’t that stupid.”
Fenwick guffawed for a few seconds then burst into laughter. He stopped only when he stepped the wrong way and banged his wounded arm against the car.
Turner asked, “Why did you come here? Why did you even want to meet? The best I can gather is you wanted to frighten us, scare us off.”
Fenwick added, “Have you lost your mind?”
Cannon pointed at Fenwick. “You can’t scare me.”
Fenwick said, “I think I’m going to put you on a suspect list.”
The lawyer said, “I tried to do a good deed. I tried to warn you. You weren’t willing to listen.”
Fenwick said, “You’re out to help your client, and fucking with our minds is one of your ways of doing that. Go away.”
He left.
Fenwick said, “They’re all lurking at every scene we go to?”
“Can be if they want, I guess.”
“Now we mistrust Molton?” Fenwick asked.
“No.”
Friday 1:15 P.M.
Fenwick took a gargantuan bite out of his extra colossal Italian sub from Romana’s. They’d gotten to-go sandwiches and were eating at their desks. Fenwick chewed, swallowed, guzzled a third of a liter of diet soda, and said, “The dog did nothing in the night time.”
Turner raised an eyebrow. He knew the Sherlock Holmes reference from the story “Silver Blaze.”
Fenwick said, “Blawn, the beat cop from last night didn’t file a report. That’s not normal. I like normal.”
“Yes,” Turner said looking at his extra-hefty friend, “I know that one look at you and people think ‘normal’. And why wouldn’t they?” He shook his head then said, “I wish we could find one connection between all these events. I can’t name one.”
Fenwick said, “We keep looking. We got the financials on Bettencourt and Shaitan yet?”
Turner tapped a folder on the side of his desk. “Fong sent up what he got from the credit cards and bank statements.” He shoved over Bettencourt’s file to Fenwick’s desk and opened Shaitan’s. They glanced while they ate.
After a few minutes and a quarter of a sandwich, Turner said, “I guess yurts in India don’t cost much to maintain. He’s got very few charges in India. A few that prove he actually does go there. Other than that, I don’t see much here, but his income is a little startling.”
“How much does he make?”
“He gets large deposits of money, a couple as big as a hundred thousand dollars. Let me check these dates against the Internet.” He called one of them up on his lap top. “This payment came right after he gave a talk at a college.”
“Those college groups can afford a hundred thousand bucks? I don’t believe that.”
“Nor do I. Let’s see.” Turner hunted through the Internet checking Shaitan’s schedule against the deposits to his account. “Yep,” he reporter, “big bucks for these talks.”
“So who was paying if it wasn’t the college groups?”
“The actual checks are from the website he worked for, but are timed with the talks. My guess is whoever owns, or someone who likes what the website does was paying.”
“If he was getting paid that much, why would he care who or how many showed up or whether or not there were protests?”
“Lot of money.” Turner shrugged. “Doesn’t give us evidence or motive for murder.”
“Unless someone was jealous.”
“If they even knew he was making this much.”
Fenwick wolfed down a pickle spear then wiped his hands with several napkins. He said, “Our friend Bettencourt could be more ordinary, but I don’t see how. Simple credit card charges, gas, groceries.” He flipped several pages. “Income regular, making about five thousand a month. No large payments of any kind.” He took another bite. “What’s next this afternoon?”
“Protesters.” Turner called up the email with all the information on the protesters. “We should look at these.” It was the same information Dams had gotten them hardcopies of.
Fenwick put down the remainder of his sandwich and pulled up the data on the protesters on his iPad.
The detectives ate in silence as they scrolled and read through sets of information on the leaders who they hoped to meet that afternoon at the tent city. Before they began, they agreed that Fenwick would start at the beginning of the alphabet, Turner from the end. They trusted each other to note significant oddities. They’d go over each other’s work if they had to.
Turner’s cell phone buzzed with a message from Barb Dams. He glanced at it and said, “Peter Eisenberg was in charge of the CPD presence in the tent city.”
“Do they have their own little pup tent? Have a barbeque grill? Give out brochures for touring the city?”
“Beats the hell out of me. We’ll have to hunt for them.”
They ate and read some more.
Fenwick finished his sandwich and drained the last of his soda. He wiped his fingers, pressed the front of his iPad, and said, “Some of these people strike me as nuts.”
“No doubt they’ve been waiting for your opinion and your approval. Probably sitting breathlessly on the edge of their chairs.”
Fenwick glared at him.
“Or not.”
“Come on,” Fenwick said. “Look at these groups with real live people who deny these mass killings, saying they’re all staged by the government as an excuse to take away their guns.”
Turner said, “It’s all fear. Live your lives in fear. It doesn’t matter what the issue is. It doesn’t matter how crazy it is. The more your fear spreads, the more donations you get. Fear sells. You know that.”
Fenwick snorted. “I don’t think they have enough self-awareness to realize what crazy is.”
“Probably not. There’s lo
ts of good groups, too,” Turner said. “Trying to get money out of politics, or do eco-friendly things.”
Fenwick said, “I’d like to have a pet wolf.”
This was new. “What?”
“Can’t you picture it? And what could be more eco-friendly? We’re on patrol. We come upon a scene where, I don’t know, some numbnuts dumbfuck is firing a gun towards an unarmed suspect and we’re right behind him. Can’t you picture telling a wolf to sic em?”
“I think harboring wild creatures is at the least illegal, and probably cruel to them. And with Carruthers’s luck up to yesterday, he’d probably accidentally hit the wolf.”
“Look at this bunch.” Fenwick waved his phone at Turner. It showed a manifesto from a group calling itself The Benevolent Association for Supporting Your Local Sheriff. “If you’re a member of this group, why would you bother to show up? These people with their Second Amendment solutions. Pah.”
Fenwick was off on one of his favorite rants. Turner knew better than to try to interrupt or change the subject.
Fenwick said, “If you believe there are so-called Second Amendment solutions to everything, why even bother going to a meeting? Or rather, I’d think you’d only ever go to a meeting to begin shooting people. Either you get your way or you start killing people? The whole wild-west solution to our existence. Plus, you wouldn’t need cops, just coroners. Save taxpayer’s money. No government, just death squads.”
“You done?”
“Just raveling a thread.”
“I do not want to debate these people. I do not want you debating these people, or we’ll be here until… Well, too long.”
“I could bore them to tears.”
“Tell them some of your jokes.”
Fenwick got a gleam in his eyes. “I just go from group to group telling the wrist joke.”
Turner shook his head. “We’d either get mass suicide or cop-i-cide.”
Fenwick raised an eyebrow. “Cop-i-cide?”
“I’d shoot you myself.”
“You hate the joke that much?”
“You can’t imagine.”
Friday 2:07 P.M.
