by Mark Zubro
Turner shuffled through the rest of the items. “No emergency notification number or person to contact.”
“He wasn’t expecting to die? Are bishops immortal?”
“Not this one,” Turner said. He counted the cash. “Still a hundred twenty-seven dollars here.”
“Not a robbery.”
They placed each bit from the pockets in evidence bags.
When they stood up from that work, Turner said, “Nobody missed him in all that time? You’d think somebody would miss a bishop gone for that long, then again, I don’t know any bishops.”
“It would have made the news,” Fenwick said. “Missing bishop or kidnapped bishop. Bishops don’t just disappear, do they?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been a bishop.”
A couple members of the ME’s staff began removing the corpse.
A short, young guy wearing a flat gray, cotton driving cap, jeans, long-sleeve blue shirt, and black tie led a team of three Crime Scene workers going over the ground. They’d boxed it in squares. One was taking photographs. One was on his hands and knees near the riverbank. Turner knew the heavy-five-o’clock shadowed, short guy’s name was Milo.
“What do you have so far?” Turner asked.
“Your corpse finder wore running shoes with a distinct bottom. He let me take a picture of them.” He showed it to them on his phone. “Those shoes came up to here.” He pointed to a spot about twelve feet from the corpse. “The ground within around six feet of the corpse in pretty messed up. There’s a ton of footprints, some of which, presumably, are from last night. My guess is at that time, you had at least two guys, plus the corpse, but maybe more. We’re going to need to get some lights in here, and probably come back in the morning as well. It’s fairly clear the footprints come from the direction of where that driverless car is parked back there on the street. Whether he drove himself, or they all came in the same car, or there were two cars or sixteen cars.” He shrugged. “We’ll check the ground all around back here. We’ll also check for footprints and blood traces in all directions.”
“At the least they must have gotten blood on their shoes.”
“I would presume so, but I don’t know so. After we’re done, you can have your guys hunt for the weapon.”
“Somebody left carrying a bat covered in blood, brains, and gore?” Fenwick asked.
“Unless,” Turner added, “he washed it off or cleaned it off in the river. Dipped it in the river. Or the killer or killers came and left by boat. Anybody can sneak up on someone and clobber them in the head with a baseball bat, but if you’re torturing them ahead of time…”
“I dunno,” Fenwick said. “If the first shot is one good pop on the knee, you’re guy is crippled, at least down, and you can do pretty much what you want.”
Milo said, “If you find the killer and the weapon, if it was a baseball bat, presumably there’d still be traces of Bishop Kappel on it.”
“Or he tossed it in the river and it floated away into forever. Or they weighted it down and we’ll have to drag the river.”
“It’ll take hours to look through all this undergrowth for blood traces. And that’s when we’d be lucky to find your weapon.”
“Anything that tells us how long they were here?” Turner asked.
“Not so far.” Milo bent over and touched the glasses with the tip of his gloved hand. “These are in the exact position they were in when we got here.”
“The dead guy walked in?” Fenwick asked.
“I have no evidence of a person or thing being dragged in. He most likely walked or was carried. It doesn’t look like your killers bothered to try and obliterate footprints. We’ll do the usual forensic analysis, which might or might not tell us something. I know with a dead bishop, you guys will be under a lot of pressure. I’ll push my team.”
Turner said, “You know we appreciate what you do. Your usual excellent job in your own time will be great.”
Fenwick asked, “Could they have been on a boat and brought him in from the river?”
Milo looked down at the ground again. “I sure don’t see evidence of that, and you’ve got that car back there. I’ll email you a preliminary report on any of this crap here.”
“Anything about the fire pit?” Fenwick asked.
Milo said, “Nothing so far. I don’t think it’s been lit for at least a week, but as usual we’ll check.”
“Thanks.”
Milo went off to organize his people to hunt for any traces around the immediate area, throughout the vegetation, back through the junkyard, and out onto the street.
Turner said, “If they brought him here in a boat, why not kill him while they were on the river? Plus they could have just dumped him in the river at any point. For that matter, why’d they leave the body here? Why not just heave it into the river?”
“Was it kind of hidden here? In the river it might float around and be discovered sooner?”
“But dumping it in the river would make finding the actual crime scene that much harder. As it was, the body and the crime scene were only found by accident. And if it happened to rain, would any evidence at the scene be even more compromised?”
“So they cared if we found the body, but they didn’t care if we found the crime scene? This isn’t making sense.”
Turner said, “Well, if it was making sense, it wouldn’t be much of a mystery, and we’d be out of a job. It could be as simple as they didn’t plan all that well, but that would mean we’ve got professional killers who don’t plan well.”
“Doesn’t sound right when you put it that way.”
The corpse had been removed so they could observe the ground underneath clearly.
Turner and Fenwick stepped closer to the glasses. Turner squatted down, “The glasses wouldn’t have caught the reflection of the sun until about the time of day our corpse finder saw them.” He looked up at the overhanging trees. “But they’d only be seen from the river.” He stood back up and glanced up and down the river. The new wave of riverside high-rises and rehabs hadn’t reached this far north. Mostly there were tree, brush, and weed-grown riverbanks, strewn with trash: cans, popsicle sticks, used condoms, crumpled cigarette packs, cigarette butts both filtered and unfiltered. All that would be picked up by the crime scene people as well. The sun was low in the sky. The buildings on the opposite bank were two and three story warehouses with few windows.
“Lots of cover on this side, not likely to be seen.”
Turner asked, “Did they want the corpse never to be found, or they didn’t really give a shit? And why’d they kill him here or leave him here? Any significance to this spot?”
They both examined the surrounding area.
“I get no sense of place,” Fenwick said. “Convenient body dump or significant meaning? Not a clue.”
“I agree.” Turner gazed at the softly lapping water. “Why didn’t they dump him in the river? Throw him in. He drifts away and it makes it infinitely harder to find the spot where they killed him.”
“Could be they didn’t care.”
“Then why not kill him in the car, next to the car. You get out the door, swing the bat, and kafooey, dead.”
“Is kafooey dead a new kind of dead?”
“Can be if you want it to be.”
Fenwick sighed, “I hate too many questions.”
“How many is too many?”
“If it’s any number divisible by one, it can’t be right.” Fenwick added, “The knee cap shit sure gives the impression that it was a professional job, and there was some kind of torturing, talking to, that had to be done.”
“Bishops need to be offed next to deserted river banks by professional killers?”
“Very angry, very professional, and very dangerous. Who knows what shit this guy was up to?”
They left the Crime Scene people to their work. They stopped at Sanchez’s more modern patrol car to check to see if anyone had called in Kappel as missing. They got nothing.
The two of them looked up and down the deserted, empty street.
They took off their gloves and booties and placed them in evidence bags. Probably a useless activity, but they weren’t about to risk headlines in the paper about “Cops Lose Case Because of Forensic Failure.”
Turner said, “Killers picked a perfect venue.”
“Killers?”
“Had to be at least two cars.”
“They could have had a caravan in here, nobody would have noticed.”
“So the killers knew the area? This wasn’t random chance?”
“Unlikely.”
As Fenwick drove, Turner called up the Internet on his phone and Googled Kappel. As he tapped at the screen, he gave a grumble equal to any that Fenwick could emit.
“What?”
“If the damn screen wasn’t so small, it would help.” When the tiny screen came up, Turner moved to enlarge the bits that would help him scroll through the list of sites. “Lots of articles on this guy.” He peered more closely at the tiny letters. “And by this guy.” He moved the screen back to the first entry. He enlarged the print and read a few sentences. “This says he was some kind of investigator. I’ll have to go through all these on my laptop at the station. This screen is too small.” Fenwick’s bumps, starts, abrupt stops, and floored acceleration over the ruts and potholes in this part of town caused Turner’s hand to sway. The nearly constant movement didn’t make it any easier to read the tiny letters on the screen.
FIVE
Saturday 5:31 P.M.
Turner and Fenwick arrived at the luxury high-rise on Lake Shore Drive just north of Oak Street.
Fenwick said, “I thought they took a vow of poverty.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s just monks in abbeys and nuns in convents.”
Fenwick gazed at the multi-story edifice that towered above them. “This don’t look like no convent to me.” It was one of the most exclusive residential addresses in Chicago. “Will the goddess be pissed if I’m working with Catholic bishops?”
Turner put his hands on the dashboard and looked at his partner.
“What?” Fenwick demanded.
Turner said, “Dear, sweet partner, friend, my gargantuan buddy, shut the fuck up about that goddess shit.”
Fenwick gaped.
Turner said, “Precisely.” He opened his door and got out of the car. Fenwick followed.
The lobby was modern chrome, with gray steel accents and marble floors. They identified themselves to the doorman and asked to speak to whoever was in charge. The head of security was Harold Waldin. He walked with a slight limp and had an unlit pipe clamped between his lips. He wore a dark gray suit, shirt, and tie.
“We have one of your tenants dead, a Bishop Kappel. His driver’s license gave this address, said he lived in 65A.”
Waldin said, “Let me check my computer.” He led them to his office. He sat behind his desk. “I’ve got the files on all the owners here. What’s the name again?”
Fenwick told him.
A few seconds later Waldin said, “Yep, here he is.”
Turner said, “We’d like to see the place. He’s dead and there may be clues to the killing.”
“He was murdered?”
“Got his head bashed in,” Fenwick said.
“Wow. Sure, I can bring you guys up since the tenant is dead.”
As they rose in the elevator, Turner asked, “Did you know Bishop Kappel?”
“I mostly handle complaints and problems. He never complained that I know of, and those records I was looking at didn’t say there were any.”
They arrived at the sixty-fifth floor and stepped off the elevator and stopped in the hallway. Before entering the condo, Turner asked, “He live with anyone?”
“No one is listed in the registry. I don’t know of anyone. We don’t ask about their private lives. You’ll want to ask the regular doormen.”
“Anybody friendly with him?”
Waldin shrugged. “You’d have to ask the neighbors.”
“We’ll try to talk to them after we’re done in the condo.”
“No problem.”
“What do these places run?” Fenwick asked.
“They start at a million and a half. The view of the lake or of downtown is unparalleled.”
Using a universal key card, Waldin let them in. He moved to follow, but Turner said, “While we look around, could you assemble as many of the door personnel, maintenance, and garage people as you can?”
“Hard to get them to come in on a Saturday night.”
“Anything you can do will be a help. Or get us their names and addresses. Try not to tell them why we want them.”
“That’ll be tough.”
“We appreciate anything you can do. And if you could assemble any video footage that you’ve got.”
Waldin said, “We’ve only got lobby footage. It’s a twenty-four hour loop. We only save them for the past week.”
“Nothing from the parking garage?” Fenwick asked.
“They need a key to access the garage.”
“Whatever you’ve got would be great,” Turner said.
Waldin left.
Once again they donned gloves and booties. The front door opened onto a small vestibule with a coat closet to their left. A few feet farther on, they entered into a thirty-by-forty-foot living room.
To their right was a kitchen. Turner saw no dishes in the sink, only a toaster on the wide counters, a glass-front refrigerator that showed a well-stocked interior.
The living room had a Bryce coffee table with an ebony colored base, and a burl wood top that gleamed. Behind it sat an eight-foot, brown-plush chaise lounge. Two over-stuffed pillows with designs of autumnal leaves on the cover sat on either end. On each side were two brass lamps. Behind the chaise was an ashless fireplace flanked by solid brass urn andirons. The five-piece tool set had burnished bronze handles. Two comfy chairs with leather upholstery flanked the chaise on either side. A Soho bookcase filled the wall opposite the fireplace.
Fenwick said, “Nothing in the place is disturbed.”
Turner nodded. “Expensive condo at an exclusive address with very pricey furnishings.”
The bathroom was to the left. They found neatly hung towels and pristine porcelain fixtures, shower, and toilet. They opened both of the mirror-covered doors of the vanity.
Fenwick said, “The left side has a couple of prescriptions for Timothy Kappel.”
Turner held up a bottle from the right side. “This one’s made out to Joshua Tresca.” He pointed to the toothbrush holder. “Two different toothbrushes.”
Fenwick asked, “Can we presume two guys lived here?”
“Beginning to look that way.”
They entered the bedroom. A Parnian furniture bed sat against one wall. It had a curly maple eye-like headboard. The iPod holder/charging station and television were built in. It had a gray-with-white-bands, Grande Hotel Egyptian cotton percale duvet cover. The antique oak dresser on the opposite wall was six drawers high.
Turner said, “There’s only one bedroom with one bed.”
“Big feet means…”
“Big shoes,” Turner finished Fenwick’s gag line for him, shook his head, and added, “I’m finishing your punch lines.”
“You can be taught.” Fenwick nodded at the bed. “They didn’t stint on the basics. Nice if you can afford it.”
Turner checked the iPod for music. It was fully charged and had over a thousand playlists all listed as classical music. They ranged from ones he recognized such as Beethoven and Bach to Steve Reich, James Dillon, and Arvo Part.
After checking the closet, Fenwick said, “Two different sizes of clothes here too including black suits, black shirts, and religious collars for both.”
Turner moved the clothes in each dresser drawer. After he was done with the top two drawers, he said, “Two sizes here.” When he moved the boxer brief underwear in the bottom one to the side, he found a framed photo and took it over to
Fenwick.
The picture was of two men when they must have been in their early twenties. They were on some beach with palm trees in the background. They wore tight skimpy bathing suits and had their arms around each other but their hips were turned slightly toward the camera. They stood far enough apart that the prominent bulges in the fronts of their Speedos revealed that one was cut and the other was uncut. The cut one had a flat ass while the other sported a nearly round bubble butt. Turner knew that many men who wore Speedos shouldn’t, but when these two were young, their suits fit as well as a model’s in a porn display.
In the photo their heads were turned so they could gaze into each other’s eyes. An inscription read, “To Tim with all my love forever.”
Turner said, “They were in love at one time. I wonder if they still were.” He pointed to the taller, thinner one who had blond hair. “My guess is that’s Kappel, our corpse. The dead guy sort of resembles him. Plus he’s wearing glasses and the other guy is not. If the prescription bottles in the medicine cabinet tell a true story as well as reflect the past, the other guy is Joshua Tresca.”
“And why hide the photo in the bottom drawer?” Fenwick asked.
“Fear? Shame? But it’s odd.”
“What is?”
“That this is the only personal thing. I mean, where are the monthly bills, tax records, or if they have them, personal papers, personal letters? Was this just a love nest? It’s a hell of an expensive place for a love nest.”
“So there must be another place for all that stuff. The only other address we’ve found is that abbey. We’ll have to try there.”
They returned to the living room. The lights of the city to the south began twinkling in the twilight of a late May sunset behind them.
The view out the windows east and south was phenomenal. Turner walked up to them and gazed out the east vista. Far below he could see Oak Street Beach and in the distance the gigantic Ferris Wheel on Navy Pier.
Turner said, “Only one name on the lease, but two people living here. If one’s a bishop, then it might be safe to assume some kind of intrigue or at least need for secrecy.”
“We only know clothes, pill bottles, and tooth brushes.” He paused as they looked at each other. “No,” Fenwick said, “I don’t believe in coincidences either.”
