by Mark Zubro
Turner said, “We should stop at the ME’s office. It’s on our way to see the protesters.”
At Cook County Morgue, they wound their way through the tiled halls. They found Kent Duffy scrubbing instruments. No bodies were on any of the stainless steel slabs.
“You got anything on our guys?” Fenwick asked.
Duffy said, “They’re still dead.”
“Old joke,” Fenwick said.
Duffy said, “I’ve got a few oddities but nothing that stuck out to me that would help lead to figuring out who killed them.”
“What have you got?” Fenwick asked.
“Within twenty-four hours before they died, they’d both been penetrated and had anal intercourse. I found residue in their anal cavities. Semen that was not each other’s and that does not match anyone in our data systems so far. But the semen was from the same person. Far as I know, Bettencourt was married to a woman.”
Turner said, “We already know who did that. The guy who found the bodies. Anything else?”
“Shaitan had his pubes shaved like a male Eastern European porn star.”
“What does that mean?” Fenwick asked.
Turner let Duffy explain. Duffy said, “His pelvic area was completely hairless, and while he may have been without crotch hair, the area from his nipples to his knees was almost a solid mass of tattoos made up of Nazi symbols, Hitler’s birth date, spider webs, that kind of stuff. He ever in prison?”
“Not that we’ve found in his record.”
“Bettencourt had no tattoos. Stomach food contents for both a couple hours old. Sushi for Bettencourt, steak for Shaitan. No name or motive for who would want to shoot either one of them. Your shooter would have had to have been a very good shot, but with scopes so well-developed these days, he might have been close enough to not need to be an expert marksman, although with four shots that precise and that rapid, he or she had to be pretty damn good. On the other hand, your boy Carruthers, our colossal dumb fuck, got off fifteen shots. He managed to wing your partner, miss the kid, kill a street light and two car headlights, and put three shots in a car door just over Fenwick’s head as he lay on top of the kid, two others that might have just missed you both, and random shots into a warehouse nearby. We’re still missing some of the bullets, embedded into the ground or hell, knowing Carruthers, embedded in the atmosphere from which they may never come down.” He paused looked at each of them. “You’re lucky you’re not dead.” He cleared his throat. “Your Tasing him?”
“Yeah,” Turner said.
“It almost certainly saved the kid from a direct shot. After that, his continuous firing endangered everyone in that entire block.”
“Moving from deliberate to random. Which is better on the streets of Chicago? Are you saying I shouldn’t have Tased him?”
“I’m saying it was a tough decision with unintended consequences, which, lucky for the good guys, did not redound to come back and bite you in the ass.”
Turner thought, more random chance intruding into their lives. He shivered. Duffy knew no more. The detectives left.
On the way to the car, Fenwick said, “I like that Duffy guy, the new ME.”
“Well, new to us. You like him because he’s a Fenwick joke virgin? There aren’t many of those left around. You are kind of prolific, and not much stops you. Ever.”
“I like to spread myself around.”
“As Madge said in a slightly different context not that many hours ago, there’s so much of you to spread around.”
“And the world is better for it.”
Friday 2:14 P.M.
In the car, Turner’s cell phone rang. He was driving, so he handed it to Fenwick who glanced at the readout. He said, “The station.” He put it on speaker-phone. It was Barb Dams. “Paul, you’ve got an urgent call from Mrs. Carruthers. She wants to meet.”
They were sitting at a red light so had a moment to gape at each other.
“Why?” Turner asked.
Barb said, “She wouldn’t say. You want me to text you her number?”
“You tell the Commander?”
“The call came in for you.”
Turner said, “Yeah, send the number, please, but also put me on with the Commander.” He pulled into a bus stop.
Molton came on the line. Turner explained. Molton mused out loud, “Can it hurt? Can it help? If she brings a lawyer or a witness, leave.”
Turner agreed. He hung up. Seconds later the text with the number appeared. He punched it in and put it on speaker.
They’d met Mrs. Nancy Carruthers at several Area Ten functions: retirement parties, funerals, and a few less grim occasions, many of these last her husband organized. Poorly.
“What can I do for you Mrs. Carruthers?”
“Nancy, please.”
“Nancy.”
“I’d like to meet and talk.”
“About what?”
“This whole situation is out of control. I’d like to help. I think we should get together in person. I don’t think over the phone is appropriate.”
Turner agreed.
She added, “Please don’t bring the mean fat one with you.”
Turner said, “Not a problem.” They agreed to meet in half an hour on the near southwest side.
Turner hung up and said, “You got told.”
“I shall weep.”
“She knew or guessed you were listening.”
“So what?”
“You want to wait in the car?”
“Nah. There’s tons of stuff to do at the station. I can make sure we’ve got all the latest reports, check in with Fong and the Commander.”
Turner dropped Fenwick off at the station. Among other things, his partner would spend time with all of Fong’s tapes looking for anomalies.
Turner had agreed to meet Mrs. Carruthers at Nick’s Coffee Shop. It was on the bottom floor of an old factory just south of 22nd Street along the Chicago River. To get to the entrance, you walked down a narrow path built of oak planks recovered from the Great Chicago fire. The wind was blowing hard in the canyon of the river. Darker clouds had begun to appear.
The coffee shop itself was a long, narrow room, small tables along one wall going straight back fifty feet. Two people standing next to each other with arms extended could span the width of the place. Inside the front door were the beverage-making machines. Lots of good coffee and the best hot chocolate in the city.
Nick Buscher and his assistant manager, Dave Lundquist, were the only two in the place. It was dark and cool. The walls were burgundy brick illuminated at intervals with low lights. On the wall under each table were outlets. Nick was willing to let his customers plug in and charge their electronics as conveniently as possible. The pattern on the rug was too faded to make out. It might have been maroon roses at one time.
Turner took his coffee to the last table in the back.
A few minutes later, Nancy Carruthers appeared. She was a middle-aged woman on the unfortunate side of dowdy. She wore a gray house dress with patches of sweat under each armpit visible from as far back as Turner sat. She wore red shower clogs.
She stopped for a beverage at the counter then peered into the dark ambience of the coffee shop.
Turner held up a hand.
She hurried forward, shower clogs flopping noisily.
He stood as she neared the table.
She held out hand and said, “Thank you for coming.”
They sat and sipped their drinks.
She said, “How are you?”
Turner said, “Yesterday I looked down the barrel of a gun and lived.”
“There’s many a time Randy’s said that you’re the only friend he’s got at work.”
Turner wondered how his lack of open hostility had translated into friendship. Then again, if Carruthers was as oblivious as they all thought, why should he be surprised?
Turner said, “He’s gotten in trouble so often, I’m not sure there’s anything anyone could do to help.”
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br /> “He always tries to do his best to do better. He always does what his boss tells him to do. He’s religious about it.” She gave him a wan smile. “I’m not naïve. I know he has problems. It’s just his best isn’t always as good as it should be. I know you’ve tried to help.”
Turner couldn’t actually remember a specific instance where he tried to help Carruthers. He remembered times he didn’t pile on as others made comments about the inept detective’s odd behaviors. Was he responsible, at least in some small way for Carruthers’s spiral into the slough of stupidity? Maybe if he had reached out in some amorphous way. Then he figured, the guy had to take some responsibility.
She was continuing, “Like yesterday, Randy doesn’t mean to do these things. He gets excited.”
Turner wondered if she wanted to meet to convince him to excuse her husband. He said, “How can I help you, Nancy?”
She took a sip of coffee and leaned toward him. “They’re going to destroy you just like you’re trying to destroy my husband.”
“Who is trying to destroy him?”
“Commander Molton for one. He’s always disliked him.”
Turner knew that Molton, as he did with all the personnel under him, went out of his way to be fair, including to Carruthers in his many difficult situations. Molton believed most adults could learn.
Turner said, “If he’s disliked him all these years, how has Randy escaped being suspended? He must have someone who backs him up at higher levels. Maybe more than one someone.”
“I don’t know how all that department intrigue works.”
Her eyes shifted as she said it. She’s lying, Turner thought. She knows damn well what’s going on. Why the hell am I here?
He asked again, “What can I do for you?”
She leaned close again. “He’s down,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen him this depressed. He won’t talk except to his gun.”
“Has he threatened suicide?”
“He usually talks to me. I don’t know what’s going on in the investigation. I’ve always known before. He tells me.”
Turner took a guess. “You’ve had people you could talk to before. They aren’t taking your calls.”
She lowered her head and whispered, “No.”
Turner had begun to wonder how much of all of this was a tremendous lie. He did catch a glimmer that Carruthers himself had contacts, and now maybe that she had contacts. Were they the same connections? Did she know more than her husband? Was she a bigger help to him than he was to himself? He tried to concentrate on her words. He said, “He’s always been kind of up and down at work. Some days up, some days down.”
“It’s worse. His partner, Rodriguez, won’t take Randy’s calls. And nobody’s called Randy. I’d know. He always knows when his friends are working for him. You’ve done things to help him before.”
“I’ve never called him. Never called someone on his behalf.”
Again she leaned towards him. “I’ve been threatened.”
He caught her eye.
“Over the phone. I didn’t recognize the voice. I’ve gotten hang-up calls with the Caller ID saying ‘unavailable.’ I’m scared.”
“You should report it.”
“I will. I have. I don’t think they’re going to do anything.”
“Did Randy get any threats?”
“Not that I know of. Not that’s he’s told me. He just won’t talk.” She gulped some coffee then said, “You’ve made mistakes on the job. Everyone does.”
Turner said, “Randy seems to have a long list of complaints going back a long time.”
“There were thirty thousand complaints in the past five years. His are only a fraction of all those.”
“Anybody’s would be only a fraction. I’m not sure that’s a good defense.”
“The job warps your mind and heart. It does that to anyone who cares and who tries to do his best.”
The problem, Turner thought, was that Carruthers’s best just wasn’t very good.
She continued, “You know how every decision you make is instant, involves life and death.”
“Some decisions can. Most don’t. Usually, it’s pretty cut and dried. You get evidence, and you arrest somebody.”
Her voice became more insistent. “Yesterday, Randy made a good decision.”
Was she as delusional as her husband?
Turner said, “If it’s a choice between Tasing your husband and innocent people dying or me getting shot, I choose Tasing.”
Turner didn’t think debating Carruthers’s actions made a lot of sense. He said, “I don’t think we should be debating what happened.”
“Randy was trying to save your life, and you attacked him.”
Turner wasn’t going to get further into this nonsensical debate, but his innate politeness caused him to put it this way, “I think it’s best not to discuss the specifics of a case in the middle of an ongoing investigation.”
“You’re right. You’re right. Of course. I know better, but there’s nothing you can tell me about what’s going on?”
“I don’t know what’s going on.”
“That’s how they want you. They want you to have terror in your soul.”
At this point Turner guessed Fenwick would begin a debate about the existence of a soul. Turner was in no mood for theological or philosophical debates and was glad his partner wasn’t present.
They left a few moments later.
Friday 3:15 P.M.
As he walked out of the coffee shop, the hot afternoon clouds had begun to obscure large parts of the sky. He saw no thunderheads or shelf clouds. It felt like the skies were being lowered and the atmosphere was being compressed long past the point of oppressive. The radar on his phone showed no storms in the immediate vicinity.
At the station, he joined Fenwick. His partner looked up and asked, “What did she want?”
“Mostly, I think she wanted to scare me, or for me, us, to be frightened. If what she’s saying is true, Randy has lost what few friends he had, and/or is more depressed and alone than ever. That he’s a good guy and always does what he’s told.” He shook his head. “Claims he’s talking to his gun.”
Fenwick looked him full in the face. Cop’s suicide was an issue they’d dealt with among their colleagues.
“I stopped in Molton’s office before I came up here. Barb was there as well. I told them about the mention of suicide in connection with Carruthers, the way we’re supposed to report hearing anything remotely like it about co-workers. I don’t want him choosing to kill himself, and it coming back in any way to my conscience. Molton and Barb will know what to do. Molton’s the right person to set things in motion. You know, handle all the paperwork and procedures on that.”
Fenwick asked, “Was Mrs. Carruthers serious?”
“I can believe he’s seriously depressed, and that he and his wife would have the kind of relationship that won’t allow him to talk to her.” Turner shook his head. “I don’t know how much of the truth she was telling me. The other thing I thought she was trying to do was get information about what’s going on with the incident investigation.”
“How would you know about that, and why would she think you would know it, and why, if you knew it, did she think you’d be willing to tell her?”
“My guess is she, he, or both of them are desperate. She claimed she’d received threatening phone calls.”
“What kind of threats?”
“For Randy to do what’s right.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Beats me. There is a chance that all of his fuck ups and all the cover-ups to all those fuck ups are going to come out. All those lies, along with, possibly his years of other violations of procedures, maybe violence to suspects. With maybe anyone who’s been protecting him running for cover. Who knows?”
Turner shook his head. “Hell of a way to choose to exist in this world.”
Fenwick said, “When we were at the hospital, his lawyer wasn’t
running away from him.”
“He’s getting paid to stick with him.” Turner added, “One last thing, I think she may have her own sources in the department. I have no idea what that means in terms of his future on the job, or…”
Fenwick said, “Beats the hell out of me.”
Turner pointed to the laptop and stacks of papers on Fenwick’s desk. “What have you got?”
“I got a lot of little stuff. Most of which doesn’t add up to a solution, but what the hell.”
As he reached for a stack of papers, Fenwick yelped, “Ouch.”
“Still hurt?”
“Starting to stiffen up and to itch. Madge says that means it’s starting to heal.”
“I tell my kids the same thing with all their scrapes and bruises. They’ve always bought it.”
Fenwick grimaced. “I took a few more aspirins.” He spent more time moving the next papers before holding up a few. “I sent a bunch of stuff to your cell phone just before you arrived. Let me start with the simple stuff.” He read, “Taser, no prints.”
“Figures.”
“Nothing definitive from the crime scene or the shooting scene. Some small bits of debris but no way to tell if any of it connects to the murder.”
Fenwick pulled out several new sets of papers on his desk. “We got a follow-up on guns in the safe. None had been fired in quite a while.”
“Well, we didn’t think they were the murder weapon. For that, we need a rifle.”
“No prints on the guns.”
“Not even from them being put in the safe?”
“No prints is no prints.”
“Huh.”
“Nothing more from their motel rooms, Bettencourt or Shaitan. No suspicious prints. A few from housekeeping. No secret messages. No other recording devices.”
“Financials?”
Fenwick pulled out another few sheets of paper. “Confirmation of Shaitan’s electronic charges in India, so possibly or even presumably the yurt thing is true.”
“It says yurt supplies?”
“I said possibly and presumably. You want to go yurt hunting in India?”
“Not today.”
He held up another sheet of paper. “Shaitan had $43,953 in the safe.”
