by Mark Zubro
Carruthers’s laugh came out more as a cackle. “What I knew and when I knew it, is of no concern to you.”
Turner asked, “You planned murder?”
“I have friends.”
“Randy, did you ever think that the scheme was awfully convoluted? That maybe they didn’t care if you lived or died?
“You’re the only one who ever calls me by my name, Randy.”
Turner had never thought about that.
Turner asked, “What can I do to help?”
After the initial shriek at him, Carruthers’s voice had returned to a normal level. He said, “Help? Are you mad? Unless you choose to die, there’s nothing you can do to help.”
“How’d you even get into the station?”
“I still have friends and supporters here.”
“No, Randy, they are not your friends or supporters. A few people have a twisted notion of loyalty that somehow redounds to your benefit, but if I were you, I wouldn’t make the mistake of calling them friends.”
“You and your fat friend have always tried to make my life harder.”
“Randy, we barely think about you, but your betrayal of us to the church went beyond all bounds.”
“You were going to try and get me fired.”
“Your sense of loyalty seems twisted.”
“I’ll be protected.”
“Randy, you’re going to get fired. You’re going to lose your pension. It’s all over. How is doing what you’re doing now, and killing me going to get all that back for you?”
“I don’t want it back. I want you dead. All these years, you’ve been the one, hiding behind your kindness and politeness. You were worse than the ones who actively worked against me.”
“What does killing me gain you?”
“Satisfaction.”
“Is there really that much satisfaction in seeing someone dead? We’ve found videos of you torturing people. They are on those dark web police sites. We spent the afternoon talking to your supposed friends. Have any of them called to report to you? Have any of them taken one of your calls in the past few days?”
Carruthers whispered, “No.”
“Randy, they’re cutting you loose. They’re just going to try to save their own jobs and pensions. They no longer care that you exist.”
Someone rattled the doorknob to the room. Turner heard a voice he didn’t recognize say, “This fucking door is never locked.”
Carruthers yelled, “Get away from the damn door.”
“Who the hell is in there?”
Carruthers bellowed, “I’m going to kill him.”
Silence from the other side of the door then rapid footsteps away and moments later the sound of many footsteps approaching.
Fenwick’s voice bellowed, “Open the goddamn door.”
Carruthers fired a shot into the ceiling. Bits of plaster hit the floor.
Silence now from outside the door.
Then Molton’s voice came, “Randy, is that you?”
Carruthers screamed, “Fuck you all to hell.” He raised the gun and placed the muzzle in his mouth. Before Turner could move or speak, he fired.
Turner remembered the next few seconds as small bits of eternity dripping by. He noted the silence. Even the distant noise of the city that leaked through the opaque window that looked out on the alley was absent. He smelled gunpowder from the two shots.
Spots and splatters of gray, maroon mush, remnants of Carruthers’s brain were scattered on the wall behind his head.
As he watched, Carruthers’s hand dropped to the floor. The gun skittered a few feet away from him. His body toppled to the right and flopped onto the floor.
Turner became aware of shouts and rumbles from the other side of the door.
In one titanic crash, all of Fenwick burst into the room. Molton and Dams followed.
Turner felt blood drip onto his hand.
He looked. Put his hand to his chin to a stinging sensation. When he drew his hand away, he saw blood.
“Did he!” Fenwick bellowed.
Turner pointed to the floor behind Fenwick. The hefty detective turned. He stopped and said, “Oh.”
Saturday 7:17 P.M.
With no shirt on, Turner sat at his desk. His elbows were propped on the top of the paperwork. His head resting on his fists as he faced Fenwick. Molton, Dams, Rodriguez, Wilson, and Roosevelt, and half the staff clustered around.
He listened to their murmured assurances and good wishes. He’d washed off his own blood from the cuts he’d gotten when Carruthers had surprised him at the urinal and banged him around for a few seconds.
Fenwick’s arm wound had reopened from his spectacular crash through the door. He had a few drops of blood on his arm. He ignored them.
Dams brought Turner her special hot chocolate normally saved for winter mornings. Turner found it comforting. Eventually, the rest of the staff moved away.
Fenwick said, “You want to go home?”
“Not yet. We’ve got a million things to do here, not the least of which is reporting this to everyone and sundry.”
One of the things that took longest was getting Fong and camera equipment up to the washroom. Turner had to endure extra minutes of confinement as Molton insisted every inch of everything in the washroom be recorded. He was not going to let Carruthers’s suicide be twisted into anything but what it was.
“Want to talk about it?” Fenwick asked.
Turner thought of the gray and red bits of Carruthers’s brain and blood dripping down the wall. He shook his head, “This is going to take a while.”
That sat in silence. Dams brought him another shirt. He put it on. It draped over his frame and hung nearly to his knees. She smiled, “I could only find one of Fenwick’s. Sorry.”
As he put it on, he said, “It’s perfect.” He didn’t bother to button it up, but let it drape over his shoulders.
She left them. Turner heard the rumble of distant thunder.
Fenwick asked, “Did he come to commit suicide, kill you, kill both of us?”
“He made threats against you and me.”
“Did he come at someone’s behest to kill you or us?”
“A behesting?”
Fenwick said, “Need I remind you, even at such a time as this, that I am the failed humor guy in this relationship?”
“Often as possible, although it is impossible to forget that you think you’re funny.”
Fenwick said, “Somebody ordered him to come in here and kill?”
“Who would trust him with that knowledge? That person would be vulnerable to Carruthers’s blabbing, at the very least be in Carruthers’s power.”
“Not a good place to be.”
“We wouldn’t trust him.”
Fenwick said, “Unless he’s expendable. Maybe whoever is behind all this wanted to get rid of him.”
“Or maybe Carruthers was just fucking nuts and stupid. And desperate.”
Fenwick said, “He couldn’t have killed the two activists, so we still have that to solve.”
Turner nodded. “Yeah.”
Fenwick asked, “No hint on who was behind him?”
“I have no idea. Not specifically.” Turner scratched the thick mat of hair on his chest.
Fenwick asked, “Who could push him to kill?”
Turner said, “Someone who had power over him. Someone who was protecting him. Someone close to him.”
“His wife?”
“Why would she want me dead? I don’t know her. Not in any significant way.”
Fenwick said, “She was married to him. How can you marry something that stupid and not be just as stupid?”
“Maybe she loved him. Somebody must.”
“His mother might have.”
“I’ve heard that happens a lot.”
“His clout?” Fenwick asked.
Turner said, “We spent the past few days with a few members of the upper echelons of the Chicago police department. If we were in front of the person w
ho was behind all this, why didn’t they kill us then? The obvious answer is if Carruthers kills me or us, that person has deniability. If Carruthers kills himself, before or after doing either of us in, that person may feel themselves home free.”
“So, it’s over with Carruthers being dead?” Fenwick asked.
“I guess. I suppose. I hope. Although that doesn’t solve the murders of Shaitan and Bettencourt.”
Fenwick yawned. “I’m trying hard to care.”
Molton joined them at their desks. He pulled up a fan and a chair.
“Guys from downtown gone?” Fenwick asked.
“For now.”
“You’ve done everything you could to protect us.”
Molton said, “You guys should call it day. There’s no more to be done now. Go home.”
The detectives nodded.
As Turner got in his car, his phone buzzed. It was a text from Ian. It asked to meet him at Nick’s Coffee Shop, the same place he’d met Mrs. Carruthers.
Turner sighed, mulled, and sent, “Yes.”
Saturday 7:30 P.M.
It began to rain as Turner strode along the river walk to Nick’s door. He got a hot chocolate, didn’t see Ian, and walked to a booth in the back. A few customers dotted the interior. He checked his phone, but there were no new messages. He checked weather radar. Storms stretched from the city west to Iowa. The reds, oranges, and yellows indicating the strongest storms were still far to the west, training in a line aimed directly at the center of the city. He hoped to be home before the worst hit.
Five minutes later, Ian walked in. Turner watched Ian thwap his hat against this thigh to knock water off of it. He purchased a beverage, spotted Turner, and headed back.
Ian sat, said, “Hi.”
Turner said, “So what’s happened that we had to meet?”
“I haven’t been idle. When I figured out during our talk this morning that the two cases were connected, I’ve been asking questions. I heard you were pursuing the DeShawn case. Is Carruthers really dead?”
“Really, really dead.”
“Good. But you have bashed a hornet’s nest. I caught a whiff of this a few hours ago. My sources, not solid yet, say each of the people you’ve talked to has sounded the alarm.”
“We started with the Superintendent.”
“My sources say he is not to be trusted.”
“Who is your source and don’t you dare try to hide behind the Constitution. You’ve screwed up. There’s more payment still to be made for that.”
“Someone in the assistant Chief of Detectives Griffin’s office confirmed by a source in State’s Attorney Smeek’s office.”
Turner asked, “You didn’t think to ask these sources before this?”
“No. I was concentrating on the Shaitan and Bettencourt murders, so I was looking into the protesters. I wanted to find out who killed them before you did, so I’d be off the hook. Then this morning, I realized the focus changed or maybe the events overlapped. So I worked other sources, and I got this.”
Turner said, “Who is to say that your sources aren’t trying to protect their asses and deflect suspicion to the Superintendent?”
That stopped Ian.
Turner said, “So according to your information, the command structure is completely behind this.”
Ian said, “I hate to add, but I can’t confirm, Molton might be in on this, too.”
Turner shook his head, “If Molton was with them, or they could trust him, they wouldn’t need all these elaborate lies and deceptions.”
Ian nodded agreement then said, “They plan to do everything they can starting Monday to destroy you and Fenwick.”
“Well, hurray for them.”
“Can you stop them?”
“I have no idea.”
Before they stepped out into the downpour, Ian said, “I hope to have your forgiveness someday.”
Turner said, “I hope to be able to give it to you.”
In his car, he texted Fenwick who was stuck in traffic on the Kennedy. He’d moved a half mile in the past fifteen minutes. Turner gave him the news.
Fenwick said, “Double and triple and quadruple and forever fuck.”
Turner said, “Yeah.”
Turner’s phone beeped with a text. He asked Fenwick to hold on. The text was from Fong. It said, “Just left Harriet’s. Gotta talk to u.” Again no details. “At El station at Devon. Will wait.” Turner knew Fong always took public transportation to and from work.
He switched back to Fenwick who said, “I’ll come back. I’ll call the station with all this while you get over to Fong.”
Turner took Halsted up to Harrison turned left and headed over to Devon.
As he drove, the rain picked up. The wind howled. The one pedestrian he saw had an umbrella turn inside out. After a few seconds of struggle, the man was turned completely around. He abandoned the umbrella to the wind.
Thunder and lightning flashed and crashed.
Turner parked in the bus stop at the apex of the bridge. He took out his red Mars light from under the front seat, pushed the button to lower the window. Rain poured in and soaked his arm, the door, and the frame. He stuck the Mars light on the roof of the car, pulled his hand in, and pushed the button to raise the window.
He glanced out the windows. A few people huddled inside the glassed in station. He didn’t see Fong.
Turner took in a deep breath and opened his door. It was blown back against him. He shoved at it, got it open, and dashed the few feet into the station.
None of the people in the immediate vicinity was Fong. Thoughts flitted through his mind. Why the hell did Fong call from here? Should he wait for back-up? He moved down the steps toward the platform.
At this point the El tracks ran down the center of the expressway with the stations at street level. He crept down the stairs. No one huddled under the overhang that stretched five El car lengths beyond the station. The overhang along with the station was newly renovated. The overhang gleamed in the cleansing rain. It was held up by foot-thick struts every ten feet. Between the struts were metallic placard holders for giant ads, sealed against the rain.
Traffic on the expressway inched by in both directions. He walked down two El car lengths. The overhang by this point would protect someone from falling rain, but not from the driving maelstrom that this storm was. He was about to turn back when he saw a body fall just behind the next strut.
Turner hurried forward. Ten feet away, he saw it was Fong. He hurried forward and knelt next to the tech.
Fong was breathing.
Thunder and lightning danced about them.
Turner looked up. Huddled against the strut on the side most out of the storm was the Superintendent of Police, Izzy Labato.
Saturday 8:47 P.M.
The first thing Labato did was toss a phone at Turner. The Superintendent’s put his face close enough to Turner’s so he didn’t have to shout. “That’s Fong’s. I knew a message on it would get you here. You are such a fucking do-gooder.”
Turner breathed deeply. “You.”
Labato smiled, “All of us.”
“All?”
“Anybody who has been down here since the Tasing incident has been in on it. We really did want you at a press conference. We thought your partner would be funnier than all hell and a perfect antidote to all that heroic bullshit. Brandon Smeek, Adam Edberg, Clayton Griffin, Daniel Currington, Frank Bortz, that dumb fuck Commander from the local district Palakowski, Ken Coscarelli, Chris Randall from the FBI.
“Not Carruthers’s lawyer, Cannon?”
“A useless tool, but not one of us, and not all the members of the Police Board, just DeGroot. He was enough.”
“All to do what?”
“Why to get you and Fenwick, but especially you.”
Turner felt the rain plastering against his skin. He wondered if he’d live long enough to be dry again. Fong was completely soaked. Turner didn’t dare try to jump the tracks to get to safety. He sa
w Labato’s gun. A wild dash in dry weather was risky with the electrified third rail. In the rain while carrying Fong, a slip to death was far more likely than sure-footed safety.
Turner kept one hand on Fong’s shoulder. He could feel him breathing. With the other, he wiped away the rain from his own face. The overhang kept some of the worst of the downpour off them, but the wind carried enough blasts of spray to drench them.
Why was Labato even talking to him? Unless there was a sniper waiting, and the poor visibility in the rain or Turner’s current position was all that were keeping him alive. If he tried to run, he’d be an even bigger target.
Turner said, “The same sniper who killed the two activists is here now. You brought him with you to kill us this time, but you didn’t count on the pouring rain.”
“It’ll let up.”
“Not soon enough to save you.” Turner asked, “Who is the sniper?”
“DeGroot. Besides police training, he was Special Forces in the Army.”
Turner said, “Carruthers was supposed to kill us that night.”
Labato said, “There’s not supposed to be a Tased cop. You think the police brass cares about dead thugs, no matter what color?”
“Some do.”
“Can’t help that.”
“Molton.”
“We’ll get rid of him, reassign him, force him to retire. He’s as stubborn as you.”
“You are really that much of a shit.”
“There were enough of us who feel that way that we won an election.”
“Wasn’t leaving Carruthers to do the shooting kind of leaving things to random chance?”
“Or you’d kill him. That would work, too. Save us all our jobs.”
“Kind of a dumb plan.”
“Who the hell knew you’d do something heroic?”
“It was just instinct,” Turner said.
“Not my fault you can do things that are lucky.”
“You counted on Carruthers being a good shot? You counted on no one taking pictures?”
Labato said, “Pretty much worked.”
Turner guessed he hadn’t seen what Fong had uncovered.
“Why didn’t you guys just kill Carruthers?”
