Ring of Silence

by Mark Zubro

  Fenwick asked, “Why even bother to have this conference?”

  Siedel gave him a blank look.

  Fenwick said, “So many protests these day seem to emanate from one person, or one small group posting, then poof, everybody shows up. Spontaneous.”

  Siedel nodded, “That can work, but see, there’s long term things that need to be done. Sure, you get a few hundred thousand people on a Saturday, but it’s the organizers and planners that make things happen in the long run.”

  Turner asked, “Did you know Shaitan was making a hundred thousand dollars per talk?”

  Siedel shrugged and scratched his beard. “Doesn’t make him sound like one of the people.”

  “Who’s behind him and all that money?”

  “As far as I know, he has a Russian billionaire who is madly in love with him, guy named Pashton Kashnikoliv who is also supposedly a transgender transitioning person.”

  “Is he here?”

  “Not likely. I understand he owns several private islands in various oceans around the globe.”

  Turner asked, “Were they lovers?”

  “Not according to the rumors I heard. Or at least that Shaitan put up enough of a front so the money kept coming. Not enough to move in with him at random places on the globe.”

  Fenwick asked, “That much money doesn’t make him a traitor to the cause?”

  “His cause was himself. Our causes are our own. I’d met him. I didn’t like him. Not enough to kill him.” He shook his head. “Bettencourt was a good man in the best sense of that phrase. He had no enemies that I know of. He was always willing to help. I saw him in and out of the tent city the past few days. Shaitan barely gave me the time of day. He didn’t think my organization was worth the time.” He leaned closer to them. He smelled a little cleaner than most of the others, and at least he’d smeared some kind of deodorant or cologne over himself to offset the ripeness. Siedel said, “You should be investigating the infiltrators.”

  “You think you’re that important?” Fenwick asked.

  “We don’t know what they think is important. We act on as many contingencies as we can. What do you think all of our groups have in common, left or right? Infiltration by the government. Or by big business interests.” He scratched his beard again. “Hell, the various sides might have been trying to infiltrate each other, trying to videotape each other. We had one group trying to bribe people into causing riots during demonstrations and meetings. I’m reasonably certain Shaitan was behind that. We had another group trying to record them making those bribes, or trying to solicit them to solicit the bribes.”

  Fenwick and Turner exchanged a glance. Turner suspected they’d had the same thought, Shaitan was using the cash in his room for this.

  Turner asked, “You’re sure Shaitan was part of the group trying to get people to riot and cause trouble?”

  “That’s what I heard. He was spending a lot.” Siedel gave a short chuckle. “Some of the people were taking his money and using it to have a big party, lots of booze and weed. Shaitan wasn’t too bright. People would start to line up when they saw him coming. Some went back several times. People were videotaping money changing hands both buying and selling, all supposedly very secret. It was kind of nuts. Hell, paying people to cause trouble? Agent provocateurs aren’t new. Probably been around as long as there have been governments to protest. So, forever.”

  “Who else would be good to talk to about Shaitan and Bettencourt?”

  “Adam Wolfe. This whole thing was his idea in the beginning. His tent is back toward the parking structure.”

  They stepped out of his tent. Siedel pointed. “Along the way, you might stop at that orange tent.”

  “Why’s that?” Turner asked.

  “It’s the onsite police presence.”

  Turner said, “You’d think they’d be more circumspect.”

  Siedel shrugged. “Don’t ask me to explain the police to you.”

  Turner and Fenwick strode back through the rising gale. The sky had darkened considerably. It was still over an hour to sunset. Turner checked his phone. The ragged line of storms continued to approach, at some points reaching the Tri-State Tollway. A few more drops plopped and thudded onto the ground around them. He looked up from his phone and said, “These people should start heading for shelter.”

  Fenwick nodded.

  They stopped in front of the orange tent. Angry voices came from inside. Fenwick knocked on the tent pole. The flap was thrust aside. The man who emerged snapped, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  They held out their IDs.

  The guy snarled, “You want to blow our cover?”

  “They all know who you are.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  Fenwick laughed, “It’s the only clean tent in the whole place. And it’s new, and for some idiot reason, it’s bright orange. Not only that, the first person we talked to pointed you out to us.”

  “Did not.”

  Fenwick let incredulity drip from his voice. “You do know you are conspicuous?”

  “Are not.”

  Fenwick bellowed with laughter. A thin guy emerged and motioned them inside. He pointed to a bearded, even thinner guy with taut, wiry muscles sitting on a campstool in the back of the tent. With Turner and Fenwick it was crowded with nearly seven people in the tent. “He told us to keep it clean.”

  “You Peter Eisenberg?” Turner asked. The taut, wiry muscle guy nodded and said, “They call me Pete.” He wore tight jeans that revealed an immense bulge at his crotch. He wore a T-shirt cut to reveal perfect six-pack abs.

  Fenwick said, “And you look too good.” He sniffed. “And you don’t stink. All these people are scruffy, and except for a few of the hotter women, they haven’t seen the inside of a gym since high school. You stick out.”

  “Sorry if I don’t meet your stereotype.” Pete’s voice was basso-profundo.

  A young guy stood up and swept a hand toward Turner and Fenwick. “These are the guys that turned on one of us.”

  Fenwick said, “I’m the one who got shot.”

  The guy pointed at Turner and said, “He Tased Carruthers.”

  Turner said, “He was shooting at us. You must know what a shit he was.”

  A portly man stood up and said, “These guys were just doing their job.”

  The youngest one stood up. He wagged a finger in the portly guys face. “You can’t defend these guys.”

  The portly guy planted himself in front of the young guy. “You don’t tell me what to do ever. You’ve been around a year, two, at most.”

  “I know what’s right.”

  “You know shit.”

  “They roughed up Gary.”

  Fenwick spread his legs wide and went straight into high grumble. “You mean shit for brains from last night? The beat cop who gave us shit?” He pointed at them in turn then said, “You don’t put up with anything from anybody. Why should we?”

  All were silent. They listened to the wind. A few rain drops pelted the top and sides of the tent.

  Turner switched topics. “Has any of the people you’ve run into here said anything that would help us in our investigation of Shaitan’s and Bettencourt’s murders?”

  They all remained silent until Pete said, “On the surface, some of these people are trying to get along and sit in circles and sing songs and make nice. Others are trying to ravage the world with violence. They tend to be quiet about it, but frankly, I think they’re all just an AK-47 short of an attack on each other or the rest of the world.”

  An older cop said, “And jealous. And mad at each other. And they never shut up.”

  Turner asked, “How did you find anything out? How did they trust you?”

  Pete said, “They don’t trust us, but like Al said, some of them just don’t shut up. Not ever, I don’t think. Some of them just keep talking to hear themselves. If we’re lucky enough to get one of those, we listen.” He sighed. “But specifically on your buddy Shaitan, peo
ple did hate him. I’m not sure any person said a nice thing about him. Ever. At all. Even after news spread that he was dead. At least I saw a few tears for Bettencourt.”

  They others nodded their heads.

  “Lots of people liked him,” Eisenberg said, “but lots of jealousy.”

  “Enough to kill him?”

  “Who knows with these people? Some of them would be willing to take potshots at cops and have said so.”

  They knew nothing helpful. Turner thought their presence was an exercise in futility dreamed up by useless bureaucrats to try and control a situation.

  As they walked away, Fenwick muttered, “That Pete guy must stuff his crotch.”

  “I watched him scratch. I think it may have been the real thing.”

  “You watched?”

  “Genetic habit.”

  “Oh.”

  A man with a clerical collar ran up to them. “You have to talk to my people. I heard you were here. They may have information about your case, insights into your victims. I have a little tent-chapel a few feet away over there.” He pointed to their left. They began to walk toward it.

  “Who are you?” Fenwick asked.

  “Father Benedict. Yes, I know, like the Pope, but I came first.”

  They stopped and stood in the wind.

  Turner asked, “What’s your role here?”

  “Mostly, I try to keep them from killing each other. I know you’re the ones who saved DeShawn and arranged for better bathroom facilities. You’re heroes.”

  Fenwick grumbled like distant thunder.

  The priest wore vintage-style huarache sandals, a black shirt with a clerical collar, and black jeans cut off at the knees. Bits of cloth dangled from the shearing.

  Father Benedict said, “I know you were the cops that exposed the church to that scandal a few weeks ago. Those people needed to be brought down, but you should talk to someone about that. You can’t imagine the church would let go of that, not without exacting some kind of penance or even retribution?”

  “From us?” Fenwick asked.

  “You gave scandal to the faithful, as the right-wing Catholic cliché goes. That isn’t easily forgiven.”

  They arrived at his tent. “It’s a mixed group. Please be patient.”

  For ten minutes, they listened to a cacophony of complaints and pettiness, ranging from those who seemed genuinely aggrieved to the certifiably loony. They asked each person if they knew the victims or if they know who might want them dead.

  Someone with a camera began taking pictures. Father Benedict ushered him away, and then took charge. He began bringing the inmates of the tent up to them one at time and introducing them.

  Fenwick and Turner wrote down all their names and jotted down a few brief words, but none of them had anything useful to add about the murders.

  One character accused them of hate speech and murder. He decreed, “You are responsible. You have preached hate and death. You are murderers. What do you have to say for yourselves?” A woman standing next to him tried to get him to shut up.

  Another person said, “I’m against body cameras. Are you wearing body cameras?”

  “Uh, no,” Fenwick said.

  “How do we know you’re telling the truth?”

  Fenwick asked, “Have I ever lied to you before?”

  The guy said, “Huh?”

  One protester said, “I know this guy Carruthers. He tried to frame me for a crime.”

  “When was this?” Fenwick asked.

  “Many years ago. Carruthers had an informant, and the two of them wanted me off the streets. I was an honest drug dealer. They didn’t like that. I tried to tell anybody and everybody it was a set-up. I went to a lawyer. Back then, it was even worse than now. I fled the city.”

  The detectives did not ask if he had current warrants out. If he committed crimes in Chicago, the statute of limitations was probably up long ago. Unless he committed murder.

  Another man leaned close to both of them. Turner fought not to draw away from the smell of unwashed body. This one said, “I heard that Shaitan was gang raped by members of the Chicago police department. Maybe by some of those working here undercover.”

  But he had no names, specifics, or evidence.

  The last one, a short stout man with gray whiskers and a bald head said, “We already talked to cops who said they were on the case.”

  “What were their names?”

  “Same as yours.”

  “They showed you IDs?”

  “Same as yours. Is this some kind of cop fuck up?”

  Turner asked, “What did they look like?”

  “Older than you guys. They wore fedoras. Maybe they were trying to hide their faces. The sat in our tent and stayed in the shadows.”

  “What did they ask about?”

  “I guess the same as you.”

  When done, they thanked the priest and left.

  Outside the tent, people scurried about. Some clutched heaps of belongings heading for better shelter than their sleeping bags. Others were pounding tent stakes farther into the ground attempting to secure these shelters against the rising wind. Some were running toward the not-too-distant campus buildings or back toward the parking structure.

  Crackling thunder boomed. Lightning flashed.

  They stopped at every tent they came to and asked for Alan Wolfe. At the sixth one, a man and woman huddled together with two small children. When they asked, the man pointed, “Try three tents over.”

  Turner said, “Maybe you should move to a more sheltered spot.”

  The woman said, “This tent is built to withstand an Arctic winter.”

  Gusts of wind tore at the tents. Lightning sparkled and flared. Thunder rumbled at a three count from the flashing. Turner knew the old tale, if you counted seconds between a flash and the thunder, that’s how close the heart of the storm was.

  Rain poured down.

  Turner unzipped the third tent and looked inside. A gray-haired man sat on a camp stool with a lantern next to him on a table. He gripped a cane in one hand as if he would use it as a weapon.

  “You Alan Wolfe?” Turner asked.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Emergency sirens began to wail.

  Friday 6:52 P.M.

  Turner pulled out his phone and punched the weather app from a local station. It showed a radar image of red bearing down on the city with cones of possible tornadic weather and severe storms. The nearest tornado sighting was at the southwest city limits about ten miles away. He shoved his phone in his pocket and said, “We should help these folks get to safety.”

  The man began to object. Then his tent and contents were taken by a gust of wind and blown three feet. Perhaps the only reason the tent didn’t fly to the winds was that Fenwick had a foot inside. The detective began to trip, stumbled into Turner, whom he fell on top of. Fenwick’s bulk and Turner’s added weight anchored the tent for the moment as the gust passed. The man inside tried to scramble past them, but he was tangled in torn remnants of the side of his tent and by ropes tied to stakes now floating in the wind and rain.

  Fenwick bellowed into the wind. He’d landed on his wounded shoulder. Turner scrambled out from under him then turned and yanked Fenwick up by his good arm. Turner wasn’t about to wait for the next gust. He untangled the other man from the tent ropes and flaps.

  They stood for a few seconds in the pouring maelstrom. Everyone was running for the nearest shelter, the parking structure still half a block away. The detectives joined the surging throng. Tents, camp stools, a grill; random bits of debris flying around were the biggest threat.

  Fenwick moved as fast as his bulk would allow. The old man’s cane was useless. He tried to totter on his own for several steps. A gust knocked him to his knees. He strained at his cane to no avail. Turner gave him a hand up. As soon as he let go, Wolfe began to tumble.

  Wolfe whispered, “Help.”

  Turner picked him up and carried him. The three were among th
e last ones to safety.

  In the parking garage, most people were crouched beneath any kind of wall or huddled around any kind of cement structure they could find. Turner made sure Fenwick and the old man were safe, then looked back over the wall.

  The first thing he saw was the cops’ huge orange tent flying off. He saw none of its denizens.

  A few stragglers rushed in. Through the rain, now falling in sheets, he saw some kids huddling under a tree. He didn’t stop to plan or decide, but found himself running toward them. Fenwick was at his side.

  Through the rain, thunder, lightning, Turner heard Fenwick grumble, “Where are their goddamn parents?”

  It was forty feet of a wild rush. Fenwick picked up the two smallest, maybe two years old. Turner picked up the third and last who looked about four.

  They rushed back toward the parking garage. Two seconds after they dashed inside, lightning crashed down, split the tree the kids had been sheltering under. A flash of sparks followed, but were doused in seconds by the pouring rain. The kids would have been electrocuted or burnt to a crisp or both.

  The detectives looked back and couldn’t see if there was anyone else caught in the storm.

  The wind howled.

  Fenwick held the two whimpering kids. He looked up at Turner. “Anybody else out there?”

  “Can’t see anyone.”

  They were out of the worst of the wind and rain.

  Turner patted the four-year-old who said, “I was supposed to watch them.”

  Turner said, “You got them to as much safety as you could. You’re okay now.”

  Turner saw the old man shivering.

  Turner realized he and Fenwick were soaking wet.

  He lifted his head a few inches. To his left a few feet away, he saw a skinny man, his jeans and T-shirt soaked, who had a boy and a girl, both about four years old, huddled underneath him. The man patted both their backs. The kids whimpered.

  To his right about seven feet away, a woman in a granny dress wailed over and over, “We’re all going to die.”

  Fenwick caught his eye. “If the storm doesn’t get her, I will.”

  Turner hunched down with the others and waited for the maelstrom to pass.