by Mark Zubro
“The world plans things just for you?” Turner asked.
“If it doesn’t, it should.”
Turner asked, “Why was Carruthers shooting that kid at just that time?”
Fenwick said, “Carruthers isn’t capable of that kind of evil plotting. Someone higher up, but we need evidence, not conspiracy theories. We’ve got enough people in town to twirl such theories into madness. My question is why bother?”
“Huh?”
Fenwick said, “It’s not as if these conspiracy people have the wherewithal to organize themselves into power.”
“Can you say presidential election?” Turner asked.
“Oh. We’re looking for a killer who is an orange haired presidential candidate?”
”I doubt it. Real planners aren’t that stupid,” Turner said.
Fenwick asked, “Why are Henry Bettencourt and Preston Shaitan dead?”
“Random chance? They were both at the wrong place at the wrong time?” Turner paused and gazed thoughtfully into his coffee cup. “I think it’s usually the innocent who die at all the mass killings from Sandy Hook to Orlando.”
Fenwick nodded, sat back, let out a deep breath. “Yeah, but not always this virulent. Why just those two? Why not more? The murders are connected to the Carruthers mess? How can they not be?” Fenwick stated it, “This all has to do with us.”
“Why kill those two on the roof? The killer couldn’t know we’d investigate.”
“Unless he could.”
Turner asked, “Why’d we get the case?”
“Because we’re the best?”
“We know that. What did Molton say that first time?”
“Pressure had come from downtown.” Fenwick stopped mid-sip. He put his coffee cup down. “You know, before this moment, I sort of figured it was all of one piece, all this shit, but now, I’m convinced. The killer is connected to downtown, police headquarters. The mayor’s office.”
Turner said, “We don’t know specifics, but it’s just a solution that seems plausible. You know the old Sherlock Holmes saying, when you eliminate the impossible, whatever else is left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”
“So they’re out to get you and me and don’t care who else dies?”
Turner said, “You want more weird? If it’s Carruthers, it’s likely to be connected to our last case with all that church corruption.”
Fenwick took a long gulp of his coffee then whispered, “Mother fucker. This can’t just be all anti-us. Can it?”
Turner shrugged. “It depends, I think, on which of them have heard the wrist joke and those who feared they might soon be told the wrist joke.”
The line for the counter had thinned out for the moment, and Fenwick got up and ordered himself two breakfast sandwiches and more coffee for Turner and himself.
He sat back down and gobbled a sandwich, sipped coffee, stared out the window a few minutes. He finally said, “Who has the wherewithal to do all this? Plant evidence. Use high-powered rifles. Get to as many scenes as they’ve gotten to. To know where we are.”
“Chicago police, or the protesters have gotten very sophisticated.”
“We’ve seen that some of them are.”
“A conspiracy so immense,” Fenwick said.
Turner said, “Or a mix of protesters and cops and the church.”
“In league to do what? Get us? It’s worth that much to go through all this?”
Turner told him about Mrs. Wolchevitz from the night before and her theory of power and corruption among the top CPD brass. He finished, “Carruthers’s support system was even more powerful than we imagined. Or maybe the support system isn’t for Carruthers. Maybe he’s just caught up in it. There’s a Code of Silence that he’s in on that we aren’t. What makes him so special?”
“That’s what we have to find out.”
“Being pro-Carruthers is a bullshit motive. We got no forensics. We’re nowhere.”
Fenwick gazed evenly at his partner, and said, “There are big plausibility gaps to overcome.”
“We’ve been asking the wrong people the wrong questions.”
“You can ask the Superintendent of Police if he’d mind answering a few questions?”
“Maybe we won’t start quite that high up.”
“No matter how low we start, as soon as we stop questioning that person and leave, that person will report our activity to higher ups.” He offered Turner a bite of his other sandwich. Turner said no thanks.
Fenwick gobbled, swallowed, gulped more coffee, and said, “I don’t see a way out of this.”
Turner said, “I’m not ready for despair.”
Fenwick said, “Me neither. What the hell, let’s try the shit we got from Dams on Carruthers.”
Turner’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Barb Dams that said, “Friendly visitors on their way.” Turner told Fenwick and finished, “Doesn’t say who.”
Fenwick said, “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
While they waited, they connected to the Internet, downloaded, and began to read what Barb had sent them.
After several minutes Turner said, “Discipline has been recommended for Carruthers, but the recommended discipline was never imposed.”
Fenwick asked, “How do people get away with that?”
Turner shrugged and read. “And he was supposed to get specific new training. Didn’t happen. The guy is a walking, losing lawsuit.”
Saturday 9:35 A.M.
Ian and a man dressed as a monsignor in the Catholic Church, white collar, red piping on his cassock, walked in. Ian nodded to them. He and his companion got coffee. The Monsignor went to add cream and sugar to his. Ian came directly over to their table. Ian said, “Barb Dams told me you were here.”
Fenwick asked, “Who is he?”
“Monsignor Schneider with the Catholic Church. He was at the station looking for you. Says he knows a buddy of yours, a Mrs. Wolchevitz. He’d taken a cab to the station, but he was leery of walking the few blocks here in the rising wind.”
Turner had seen healthy people blown over after being caught in the cross-canyon winds of the tall buildings of Chicago. Monsignor Schneider looked to be close to ninety.
Turner swallowed his anger. He guessed that this was part of Ian trying to say he was sorry, by trying to help with the case. Right now, he’d take help from wherever he could get it.
The Monsignor tottered over to them.
Turner and Fenwick stood and introduced themselves. Everyone sat.
Schneider said, “I work in the Diocese Central Office. I’m semi-retired, but I hear everything, and have excellent sources. I got a call from Mrs. Wolchevitz early this morning.” He pointed at Ian. “This gentleman was kind enough to help me struggle the few blocks over here. The wind is up.” He gave a small cough. “I was told to talk to the two detectives.” He raised an eyebrow.
Ian began to stand up.
Turner said, “It’s okay. He’s helped us with a few cases.”
Schneider said, “Very well. I may have some information for you.”
Turner said, “Thank you for coming.”
The Monsignor nodded. “Mrs. Wolchevitz is a dear woman. I hope I can help.”
Turner said, “We talked to Father Benedict last night. He was helpful in putting together a bunch of people to talk to.”
The Monsignor gave a discreet cough, sipped his coffee, and said, “I know. I was his Master of Novices during his novitiate year in the seminary. He called me. We are old friends. He is a true believer in causes. I admire him. I’m not sure how effective he really is, but the man believes in real tenets of Christianity, and actually tries to treat all people he meets by them. So many of us get caught up in fund-raising and petty disputes. Benedict believes and tries. He’s a good man. He said kind things about you as well. And I saw you on television saving that young man.”
He sipped more coffee. The detectives waited.
“I have some inside information for you. A
few members high up in the church are trying to influence your careers including this Carruthers mess and your current investigation, at least enough to make you fail and look bad.” He paused, took another sip. “Or kill you.”
“Why?”
“Because, in their view, you disgraced the church in that investigation of the murdered bishop.”
Fenwick said, “We just worked the case, followed leads.”
Schneider said, “As the old cliché goes, you gave scandal to the faithful.”
Fenwick said, “I can dish out scandal with the best of them.”
Turner said, “They’re hiring people to shoot at us?”
Ian said, “Are you suggesting the Catholic Church is hiring terrorists to kill non-believers?” He finished with a mutter under his breath, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Fenwick asked, “Anything specific since the Inquisition or specific to this case?”
Turner ignored Ian and Fenwick and asked his question again.
The Monsignor shook his head. “No, they wouldn’t hire people, not directly. That would be out of character, and if someone broke and told, it could be traced back to them. No, they’d work behind the scenes, as they most often do, first to help discredit you, if they could, but even more, to put pressure on those who did have the wherewithal to try to destroy you. They might also help with the planning, but not necessarily the execution of the plot. Remember, Carruthers is one of theirs.”
Fenwick shook his head. “That we are perceived as such a threat amazes me. In the long history of the Catholic Church, we’re nobodies.”
Monsignor Schneider said, “You know the quote, Emerson I think it was, ‘If the single man plant himself indomitably on his instincts, and here abide, the huge world will come round to him.’ That’s you two.”
Fenwick said, “Bullshit. We have no such power.”
The Monsignor said, “Not quite as philosophical as I would have hoped, but what I was told to expect.”
Fenwick said, “About as good as you’re going to get this morning.”
Turner said, “You know us?”
“I also have ways of getting information.” He took another sip of coffee. Turner noticed the old hand trembled slightly as he raised the cup to his lips.
The Monsignor smiled, “You should have seen the Cardinal’s residence as we watched the coverage of the storm from last night. Your rescue of those children was prominently played. You could have cut the hatred in that room with a knife.”
Fenwick said, “I’ve got a quote for you. How many divisions does the Pope have?”
Another smile from the Monsignor. “Well played, but quoting Stalin to me may be clever, but not effective.”
“They’d prefer that we let the kids die?”
“Well, no. They’d prefer you’d have been at the bottom of the tree when the lightning struck.”
“They are that vindictive?” Fenwick asked.
The Monsignor said, “Somebody mentioned Inquisition earlier.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Look, I came here to warn you. Part of the pressure you’re getting is because the church still has influence, a great deal of influence.”
“Specifically, with whom?” Turner asked.
“Start with Commander Palakowski. He and the new Cardinal talk. There is also someone high up in the mayor’s office. I presume Edberg who is a church stooge. And then there’s Clayton Griffin, the assistant Chief of Detectives. He and the priests in the central office go way back. They are out to get you and the planning is extensive.”
Turner asked, “Enough influence to cause them to commit murder?”
“My opinion is unfortunately, maybe. And I can give you no direct proof. Just what I’ve gleaned, heard, summarized, and on a few occasions, been confided in. I know it’s not enough.”
“More than we had before,” Turner said.
Ian asked, “Is Carruthers part of the planning?”
Schneider smiled. “I met him once. In that brief time, I was as unimpressed with his intelligence as anyone else. No one would be stupid enough to let him near the planning. I believe he played a part in the first scenario on the street. Even then he screwed it up. He was never part of planning. Now he’s part of nothing.”
“Why are you coming to us?”
“Because,” the Monsignor said, “I can see a man, in this case, two, standing indomitably on their instincts. I wanted to be among the ones who come round to them.”
Turner said, “I appreciate the compliment, but…”
The Monsignor interrupted. “Also, and this I only heard second hand, do not trust your Commander or the Superintendent of Police.”
Fenwick asked, “And why should we trust you?”
The Monsignor said, “Touché. I can but say, I wish you well.”
Turner and Fenwick were not going to discuss their Commander and their relationship with him with this stranger.
Ian said, “The Carruthers incident and these murders are connected.” He looked to the two detectives. Ian had not been privy to the information and insights they’d gotten yesterday. Turner didn’t have the time or inclination to go into all that, especially with the monsignor still present.
Turner and Fenwick shrugged. They thanked Schneider for his information. Ian offered to help the older man on his way. They left.
Turner and Fenwick gazed at each other for a few moments. Turner broke the silence. “It’s confirmed. It’s one huge incident.”
Fenwick said, “We’ve got to figure out the specific details, and precisely who did what.”
“Yeah, lots of convoluted shit.”
Saturday 10:35 A.M.
They went back to the station. They were still hours early for their regular shift. They noticed a black Lincoln Town car with a bodyguard/driver standing watch at its front bumper.
Fenwick asked, “Could that be the Superintendent’s car?”
“Don’t know. He doesn’t come visit me.”
Barb Dams appeared at the entrance and hurried down to them. She said, “The Superintendent is here. He and Molton want to meet with you.”
Fenwick said, “I feel more than special.”
She said, “You saved those kids.”
Fenwick said, “Next heroic thing, I walk away and leave the poor, innocent victim tied to the railroad tracks.”
Barb hurried ahead. They drifted into the station. Just inside the door, Fenwick said, “We better be careful what we say.”
Turner said, “Unfortunately, I agree.”
As they entered Molton’s office, both he and the Superintendent rose to greet them. Izzy Labato had become Superintendent of Police only a few months before. In the continuing uproar about the Chicago police, no one dared to take a bet on how long he would last in the job. He was a portly man in his late fifties with grizzled white hair. He extended his hand to them and said, “You both deserve the highest commendation and praise for a great many things.” He ticked them off. “You saved that teenager. You defused the situation at the bridge. You made sure those washrooms in the parking garage were open. Last night, you saved those children and that old man. I thank you. The department thanks you.”
They hadn’t even told Molton about the parking garage. They looked to Molton then back to the Superintendent who said, “I try to keep myself informed. And now they’re shooting at some of my best people. That pisses me off. I came down today to thank you for what you’ve done, and find out what I can do to help you out.” He pointed at Fenwick, “And to see if we can’t get you in front of the cameras. The press is hounding the mayor’s office and my office to try and get you to do publicity. It’s something positive, and we need positive, cops who the community trusts.”
Fenwick said, “I really think that would be a bad idea.”
The Superintendent said, “So I’ve heard.”
They took seats. The Superintendent sat next to Molton. They were behind the Commander’s desk. Turner and Fenwick sat in front. Barb Dams brought in servings
of coffee for all. Drinks settled, the Superintendent asked, “What’s going on with the case?”
They gave them broad outline of what they’d been doing. When they finished, the superintendent said, “How can I help you gentlemen?”
Turner said, “We’re trying to clear a few things up. We’re nowhere near having any kind of evidence to make an arrest or name a suspect.”
He kept quiet about Monsignor Schneider’s revelations of this morning. He wasn’t about to over-confide in anybody.
“You think Carruthers killed those two men on the rooftop?”
Molton intervened, “Why don’t we let them explain their concerns?”
The Superintendent nodded.
Turner asked, “How did we get picked for that case? We need to find out the chain of evidence, phone calls. Who knew, who could have planned to kill them, and then have us be there.”
The Superintendent asked, “You really think this is that convoluted?”
Turner said, “We have to investigate it as if all of our paranoia is real. We can’t be ruled by our paranoia, but we have to act as if everything that’s happened is suspicious.”
The Superintendent looked at Molton who said, “I was told directly by Clayton Griffin to assign Turner and Fenwick to the shootings on the rooftop.”
The Superintendent said, “Yes, Griffin said he’d had calls from the local alderman, the district commander, and a slew of activists. I didn’t think to question whether or not what he was telling me was true.”
Fenwick asked, “Who put guards on me the first night in the hospital, on the Jackson family outside their kid’s hospital room, and tried to have someone listen in on us with Sanchez?”
“I didn’t,” Molton said.
“Not I,” the Superintendent said.
“Or put a guard on my street?” Turner asked.
Both officials shook their heads.
“Who would?”
“Most likely is Commander Palakowski of the local District.”
Fenwick said, “We need the names of who was on duty at the hospital when I was first there, and outside DeShawn’s room.”
