by Mark Zubro
They stood at the entrance to the vestibule as they got ready to leave. Turner glanced around. He hesitated.
“What?” Fenwick asked.
“Something is not right.”
“No women’s underwear hidden in the back of the closet?”
Turner said, “The lack of or presence of kinky underwear is not a crime.”
“No clues pointing to the killer?”
“Well that, but, no, it’s something else.”
Fenwick waited.
Turner swept his arm around the room facing them. “There’s nothing personal here. Sure, the furniture is all expensive, but not a knickknack or a calendar. Almost as if it were a showcase. There are no displays of personal things. Clothes and prescription bottles for two different guys. And that photo. But…” He peered around. “Wait a second.” He stepped to the other rooms and came back a few moments later. “Kappel was a bishop. Why the hell aren’t there any religious things in this condo?”
“Do they have to have religious stuff?”
“They don’t have to have anything, but you’d think a bishop would have a crucifix, something.”
“The clothes are clerical stuff.”
“But that’s like official uniforms. I mean personal stuff.”
“We found the picture.”
“Hidden as if they were ashamed or frightened.”
Fenwick repeated what they knew for sure. “Clothes and stuff in the dresser. Two different sizes for two different guys. Two different sized sets of clothes in the closet. They lived here.”
Turner nodded. “There’s that and they must have had a cleaning service. There isn’t a speck of dust. The place doesn’t look lived in.”
“Is that suspicious?”
“I don’t know. It’s just odd. I don’t like odd things in a mystery.”
“But it’s explainable.”
“I guess.”
Fenwick said, “And no computer although maybe they just used their phones for access. No office space here. We’ll have to find out where they worked.”
The front door banged open. Instinct took over. The detectives whirled around, moved apart, hunched into crouches, and reached for their guns.
A man rushed into the room. He wore a black cassock with red buttons from collar to bottom hem and a red sash around his waist. Turner recognized the cassock accoutrements that indicated he was a bishop. He was in his early or middle fifties. His black curling hair was uncombed. Small splotches of unshaven beard showed on his chin. He addressed Turner and Fenwick, “What are you doing here?”
His voice was imperious and demanding. He brandished no weapon. The detectives lowered theirs. Years older and much heftier, but still there was little doubt this was the other man in the photo hidden in the dresser.
Fenwick used one of his favorite lines, “And who might you be?”
Turner knew Fenwick desperately wanted the suspect, witness, or arrested criminal to say, “Who would you like me to be?”
Fortunately for Turner and the rules that governed humor in the universe, none had responded so yet, much to Fenwick’s dismay. Didn’t stop his bulky partner from trying. Turner suppressed a smile. He would be loath to admit the amount of enjoyment he took in his partner’s attempts at mirth. The attempts often being funnier than the jokes, puns, limericks, and salacious tall tales that actually emerged.
“I’m Bishop Joshua Tresca. What’s going on? What’s happened? You have no right to be in here.”
Turner said, “Bishop Tresca, we’re sorry to have to tell you this, but the man you lived with here, Bishop Timothy Kappel, is dead.”
The man threw his hands up in the air, let out a shriek, turned deathly pale, and collapsed.
They holstered their guns and hurried to him. Fenwick asked, “Stroke? Heart attack? Fainted?”
Fenwick checked the man’s pulse and breathing. The Bishop was doing both. Turner took out his phone, punched 9-1-1, identified himself as a police officer, and requested assistance. Then he got a glass of water and a damp washcloth from the kitchen.
Fenwick found a wallet in a pair of pants under the cassock. He riffled through it quickly. “Definitely says he’s a bishop and his driver’s license lists this as his address.” He replaced the wallet as the man began to come around.
Tresca groaned and sat up. “What’s happened?”
They helped him to his feet and to the nearest chair. He was a roly-poly man and moving him required a bit of maneuvering. For a few moments he sat with his head in his hands. Turner put the glass of water and washcloth within his reach.
Fenwick plunked himself onto the chaise but there was nothing for him to rest his back against. Turner watched his partner squirm for a minute then get up and move to the other comfy chair. Turner sat on the chaise in the space Fenwick had vacated.
After a minute, Tresca lifted his head and asked, “Is what you said true?” He had a disproportionately small head with ears that protruded outward in deformed twists. He’d have been teased about them as a child.
Turner thought, I’d lie to you about something so horrible because? What he said was, “Yes, I’m afraid so. We’re sorry for your loss.”
The bishop wiped at his eyes with a starched, white handkerchief. Tresca said, “I can’t believe he’s dead. How did he… What happened?”
Fenwick said, “He was murdered.”
Tresca clutched the arms of the chair. His eyes looked wildly around the apartment.
“Who did it? Why? How?”
“We’re investigating,” Turner said. “We’re hoping you could help us.”
“I guess. I suppose.” He drew several deep breaths. “This is such a shock. Are you sure?” He gazed from one to the other of them.
The detectives waited. If this was the murderer, they needed to be extremely careful. If this was someone with information, they wanted to give him time. If this was someone who just lost a loved one, they wanted to proceed as gently as decency, courtesy, and caring required.
“I loved him. He wasn’t the easiest man in the world to be in a relationship with, but I loved him.” Tears fell. He used his hanky and wiped at them.
When he’d composed himself, Turner asked, “How long had you known him?”
“Since we were twelve. We were altar boys together at Saint Cathari’s on the far north side of the city.”
“And you both lived here?” Turner asked. “You didn’t need to keep up appearances?”
“We didn’t both live here.”
Fenwick said, “We saw two used tooth brushes in the bathroom. Two sets of clothes in the dresser and closet. You had a key.” He didn’t reveal he’d gone through his wallet.
“It was someone else.”
Turner thought this was kind of an absurd lie. A few seconds earlier he’d admitted to a relationship with Kappel. Turner said, “We found two sets of prescription bottles in the medicine cabinet. One set had your name on it.”
“Well, I…”
The detectives waited. Turner wondered why he was bothering to lie.
Tresca moaned. “This is a nightmare.”
A phone in the bishop’s pocket rang. Tresca fumbled it out. He glanced at the caller ID, turned even paler, and answered it. He listened a moment, turned paler still, and stood up. Turner thought he might faint again.
Tresca gave the detectives a wary look and walked with the phone into the kitchen. The detectives instantly went into protection mode, standing up, Fenwick moving left, Turner right, hands near their guns, alert for the most minuscule sounds or actions. Turner made sure he could see far enough into the kitchen so he could observe both of Tresca’s hands. Bishop or gangbanger, he and Fenwick took no chances.
All they heard for several minutes were occasional murmurs, but they couldn’t hear actual words. Five minutes later when Tresca came back into the room, his ashen face was streaked with sweat. The hand with the phone trembled as he put it back in his pocket. He said, “You have to go.”
&
nbsp; “We had a few more questions.”
Tresca gulped and shook his head. “I’ll have to ask you to leave. Now.”
“Is something wrong?” Turner asked. “We called paramedics. They should be here any second.”
In a clipped, cold voice Tresca said, “I don’t need them. I don’t want them. Get out. You have to go. Now.” The detectives rose but hesitated in front of the chaise. Tresca’s voice was now a snarl. “Get out. You had no right to be here. I shouldn’t be talking to you. Get out.”
Turner said, “If there’s something wrong, maybe we can help.”
Tresca marched to the door and opened it. His cold, staring eyes did not meet theirs as they left.
Out in the hall Fenwick asked, “Should we cancel the paramedics?”
Turner shook his head. “Let them come. Let him refuse treatment. Then if there is a medical problem, it’s on him, not us.”
Fenwick said, “That phone call frightened the hell out of him.”
“The guy faints when he hears his lover is dead, that’s care, concern, passion, monumental upset. If you’d have said ‘boo’ to him, he might have had a stroke, but that phone call. That was fear, command, obedience, something strong enough to triumph over the news that his lover was dead.”
Fenwick said, “We’ll have to check on background on both of these guys. Since they’re bishops, half the clergy in the city will want to butt in.”
SIX
Saturday 6:37 P.M.
They glanced up and down the hall. Turner said, “We might as well start with the neighbors.”
Fenwick said, “We can see how they felt about our bishop buddies.”
They took off their gloves and booties.
There were only two other units on this floor. At the first, no one was home. Fenwick paused with his finger an inch from the doorbell of the second. “Only three condos per floor. You need real money to live in this place.”
“As opposed to fake money?”
“That’s my line.”
“Ring the damn bell.”
A short, bird like woman with skinny arms sticking out of a heavy housecoat answered the door. She blinked at them several times. “You must be the police,” she said. “I’m Loretta Eisenberg. Mr. Waldin called and said there might be officers in the building. What’s happened?”
“May we come in?” Turner asked.
She demanded their identification. They showed their IDs. Satisfied, she led them inside. Turner guessed she was in her seventies. The apartment ran heavily to pink: rugs, walls, and seat cushions. In contrast white Empress Style round doilies covered every headrest and chair arm. A solid white cat sat on top of a black grand piano. The over-fed creature gave them an indifferent look and shut its eyes.
They sat on a pink, velvet-covered settee. She offered tea. They declined.
She eased herself onto a comfy chair that matched the settee, pulled her knees up under her, tucked the ends of her pink housecoat around her legs, and asked, “What’s going on?”
Turner said, “We’re asking questions about your neighbors on this floor, Kappel and Tresca.”
She nodded. “The two bishops with one bed? None of us are supposed to know they’re clerics or that they live together. Or at least share this place. I’d say they’re here about half the time.”
“Where are they the rest of the time?”
“I don’t know.”
“They cause problems?”
“Very, very quiet. Rarely had visitors that I know of.”
“They never wore their Roman collars here?”
“Once in a great while.”
“How’d you know they were bishops with one bed?”
“I’m not stupid. My place is three times as big as theirs. I was one of the first tenants in the building. Been here for years. I knew the two gentlemen who used to live there. Good, quiet, sweet men. Andy was a wonderful cook. Had me over for excellent gourmet meals. His lover died quite a number of years ago. Andy followed some years later. They were older, in their eighties. When Andy died, he left the place to the church. He was a very devout Catholic. I’d been in their home. I know there’s only one bedroom.” She leaned forward. “Andy left the whole condo to the church including the furnishings. No one ever moved in a second bed.”
“Maybe you just weren’t here when it was delivered.”
“Oh, my, no. We all talk. We all tip the doormen well. We know.”
The detectives chose not to challenge her certainty. No need to risk turning a willingly chatting, nosy neighbor hostile.
She was continuing. “Andy had given all his clothes and personal things to relatives and charities before he died. But the Church got all the furniture.” The cat jumped onto her lap. She stroked its fur with a languid hand with pink-painted fingernails as she went on. “So the place was vacant a month or two and then those two started showing up.”
“When was this?” Turner asked.
“About a year after the new Cardinal was installed. I know. I went to the installation. Beautiful ceremony.”
Fenwick asked, “And this was?”
“Eight years ago.”
“How’d you know they were clergymen?”
“Well, when I hear elevators at three in the morning, I look out my security device in the front door. That’s when I’d see them in Roman collars.” She gave them what Turner thought she must think was a clever grin. “Plus, I checked their names on the Internet. You can’t be too careful these days.” She leaned forward with a frown. “What’s happened? Why are you asking all these questions?”
Fenwick said, “Bishop Kappel was found murdered.”
She gasped. “No.” Her hand flew to her mouth. The cat leapt off her lap.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Fenwick said.
“Was it here? In the condo? Are there killers on the loose in the building?”
“No, Ma’am,” Turner said. “The body wasn’t found here.”
“Well, something to be thankful for.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Turner said. “How well did you know them?”
“Not real well. We talked once in a while.”
“Did they have visitors?”
“Not often. I can hear the elevator. I like to check to make sure no one’s gotten up here who shouldn’t. I don’t think I’m supposed to tell, but the Cardinal has been here. It was such a thrill. Of course, I wasn’t introduced. I just saw him in the hall.”
“Was the Cardinal in cleric’s clothes?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
Fenwick asked, “Did the Cardinal stay the night?”
Mrs. Eisenberg frowned and looked at both of them before answering. “I can’t imagine he did.”
“Did Bishop Kappel have brothers or sisters, maybe his mother or father is still alive?”
“Not that they ever mentioned to me.”
“Did you ever see or hear Bishops Kappel and Tresca argue, fight?”
She said, “Listen.”
They did.
“Hear that?”
They shook their heads.
“Precisely. We don’t get city noise or tenants upstairs or downstairs or next door neighbor noise. This building is very solid. You don’t even hear Lake Shore Drive. The windows are very thick and the place is very well insulated. The only thing I ever hear is the elevator arriving on this floor because the shaft is right next to my bed. But when was it? Let me think. It must have been about a week ago.”
“What was that, Ma’am?”
“A large man, white.”
“As big as my partner?”
She eyed Fenwick. “Much bigger. I was frightened.”
“Why was that?”
“He was such a huge man. He kept banging on their door and shouting. I called downstairs. He left before help came. He was furtive.”
“How so?” Turner asked.
The cat was now snaking his way between Fenwick’s legs.
“He wore sunglasses in the building. I saw the man
sitting in a parked car down the street a day or so later. He was there when I went out for groceries. He still had those big sunglasses on. He was there when I came back. I mentioned it to the doorman, but when he looked out, the car was gone.”
“Did you ask the bishops about him?”
“I never got the chance.”
“How’d he get into the building?”
“I asked the doorman. He said that large man must have had a key to the parking garage and got in and left that way.”
She knew no more.
SEVEN
Saturday 7:15 P.M.
In the elevator down Fenwick said, “A furtive guy bigger than me. That’s pretty damn big.”
“And way more furtive. He knew enough to use the parking garage where there was no surveillance. And somehow he got a key. Unless maybe he also lives in the building, or used to live in the building, or knows someone who does or did, or one of the doormen is bribable.”
Fenwick said, “They didn’t often wear their collars around here, but Tresca showed up today in a cassock?”
Turner quoted, “Curiouser and curiouser.”
Fenwick said, “Maybe when they knew she was watching they’d take off their clerics stuff to drive her nuts.”
“Criminals after your own heart.”
Fenwick asked, “How do you install a cardinal?”
Turner said, “Very carefully?”
“I knew that.”
Turner said, “Gotta be some big deal ceremony with lots of ritual. If you care enough, you can Google it.”
“I’ll care if it leads to a solution to the mystery.”
Downstairs Waldin had assembled the staff. He said, “Some paramedics arrived, but whoever’s up in that condo told them to leave. What happened up there?”
They told him. When they finished, Waldin asked, “This Tresca lived there?”
“Says he did. He had a key.”
Waldin called over an older man in a gray suit. “This is Sam Koet, the doorman on duty now. These are detectives Turner and Fenwick from the Chicago police.”
Waldin led them to an office which was more in line with an executive suite, with lush chairs, thick rugs, and better than usual hotel paintings on the walls. Waldin left them. They sat in the plush chairs around a glass top coffee table.
