by Mark Zubro
Fenwick asked, “How’d you find out about the murder and get here so fast?”
Drake said, “You need to remember your place.”
Fenwick said, “I know exactly where my place is, arresting criminals, which you both strike me as being.”
Drake turned to Molton. “Really, Commander, can’t you control your people?”
“Their level of control is of no concern of yours, and you haven’t answered the question.”
This comment was met with silence from Drake and Pelagius.
Fenwick said, “Kappel hired call boys and had them up to his condo on Lake Shore Drive. We need to check his computer to find information about how he found them and who they might be.”
“See, this is what I mean,” Pelagius said. “You’re deliberately smearing him.”
Fenwick snarled. “Reality is reality. We’ve got solid evidence he hired call boys. It isn’t a great stretch to investigate his connection to them. Violence can happen.”
“You have no proof.”
“We have at least one of the men involved.”
“What’s his name?”
Fenwick asked, “Are you insane? Why would we give you that name?”
Drake said, “We have a right to know what’s going on in the investigation.”
“No, you don’t,” Molton said. He turned to Pelagius. “Why are you here in Chicago, and why did you come here tonight?”
The Bishop said, “I was already here on a visit.”
“Convenient,” Fenwick said. “What was the visit about?”
“Apostolic work for the Holy See.”
“What does that mean?” Fenwick asked.
Drake said, “We’d like to know where the investigation is headed.”
Molton replied, “It’s heading to finding a killer. And you didn’t answer the second half of my question. Why are you here in this office now?”
Pelagius said, “I already answered that. I’m here to protect the name of Holy Mother Church.”
Drake said, “We want to make sure prejudice against the Church isn’t coloring the investigation.”
Molton said, “Prejudice against the Church is not coloring the investigation.”
Drake said, “We really need more than that.”
This time all three police officials laughed.
Drake turned very red, stood up, and smashed his fist on Molton’s desk. “You will be sorry you didn’t treat us better.”
Pelagius had a look on his face as if he’d been annoyed by a recalcitrant child. Turner couldn’t tell if it was meant for them or Drake or both.
Molton stood up as well. Very quietly, he said, “Get the hell out of my office.”
Drake stormed out. Pelagius stood, bowed his head an inch toward Molton, and strode after his companion.
The three officers looked at each other. Molton sighed. “That won’t be the end of that.”
Turner and Fenwick nodded. Fenwick said, “We got stonewalled at the Abbey.” They explained what happened and what they’d found so far.
When they were done, Molton smiled.
“What?” Fenwick asked.
“I got a call from some third assistant to the mayor. The Abbot tattled.”
“Third assistant?” Turner asked. “The Abbot’s a nobody? Pelagius and Drake didn’t seem to be from him, didn’t mention him or defend him.”
Molton said, “If the Abbot had complained to them, they’d have brought it up. Or at least they left the impression they hadn’t spoken tonight. My guess is he would have mentioned your treatment of the Abbot among your sins.”
Fenwick snorted. “They don’t know sin until I get really started.”
Turner was pretty sure he didn’t want to know what that meant beyond an obvious bluster. He asked, “So who sent them?”
Molton said, “They came on their own?”
Fenwick said, “All who believe that raise their hands.”
No one did.
Fenwick said, “The next best guess is the Cardinal sent them, but for what? To influence us? What’s the point?”
Molton added, “Maybe we’ll find that out when we catch the killer.”
Turner said, “Finances might be the key. We found all kinds of stuff on the Internet about Kappel investigating. Supposedly he was in the middle of looking into the diocese’s financial doings past and present. We need the diocese’s records under the old cardinal and under the new guy. It’s easy to imagine Kappel and this Tresca guy being up to something. Maybe the Cardinal, too. Maybe all of them.”
“You want to examine the finances of the diocese?” Molton asked.
Fenwick pushed. “How are we going to get them to give in? We going to be able to get a warrant or a subpoena?”
Turner added, “You heard the answers from Pelagius. And remember, we got the same nothing from the Abbot, and Tresca for the short time he was talking to us.”
Molton shook his head. “I’ll make some calls about this church stuff. I’ll do what I can. My best guess is that you are not going to be able to interview the Cardinal Archbishop of Chicago.”
Fenwick asked, “Do the higher ups expect this case to be cleared by hamstringing the investigation?”
“You know the answer to that. To them, protecting the Catholic church is more important than catching a murderer. This is Chicago. But this is my command and catching whoever the son of a bitch who did this is my and your priority. Just like it always is.”
Fenwick said, “You know, one thing I don’t get about this.”
“What?” Molton asked.
“Nobody listens to the bishops and cardinals. Their congregations ignore them. One example, isn’t it over ninety percent of Catholic women use contraception?”
“So?” Molton asked.
“So, how do they have so much power?”
Molton said, “Do we really have the time to debate the nature of power and influence in the history of politics, in the history of the United States, or in the shit-hole microcosm that is Chicago politics?”
Fenwick shrugged.
Molton said, “And no matter how much the right-wing shrieks about how awful Chicago politics is, I’m afraid it’s the same story as everywhere else. Pathetic, petty men desperately trying to hold on to their vestiges of power and influence. Petty men in a colossal bureaucracy. Doesn’t change from Podunk to Chicago. There’s just more media here than where ever there is.”
Fenwick growled but the detectives left without further comment.
While climbing the stairs back up to their floor, Fenwick finished a string of invectives with, “Numb nuts, triple fuck assholes.”
Turner said, “Once again you have the correct medical description.”
Fenwick had categories for people and events he didn’t like. He’d gone back to triple-fuck-numb-nuts as the most egregious category, saved often for Cubs pitchers who walked in winning runs or Bears quarterbacks who threw interceptions during drives in the last two minutes of a fourth quarter.
Fenwick added, “Lying shits.”
Turner said, “But who were they lying for? Themselves? Covering for the murderer? Which means they know who it is? And why cover for an escort?”
“If there is an escort involved.”
“Can’t rule it out. And why is the head of the County Board here?” To all that neither of them had the answer.
Fenwick said, “Those two could afford to hire burly guys in limousines to hurt people.”
Turner said, “I want to know where the hell Kappel was from when the doorman saw him yesterday until the time of death. And what was Tresca doing in a cassock when Mrs. Eisenberg said he and Kappel seldom wore cleric’s clothes in and out of the condominium.”
“The cassock problem doesn’t seem as serious to me.”
“Unless it leads to finding out who the killer was.”
Upstairs in the squad room, two other detectives on their shift, Joe Roosevelt and Judy Wilson sat at work stations. Two beat cops led
away from them a man with his arm in a cast and two black eyes.
Roosevelt and Wilson had been detectives since the year one. Joe, red-nosed, with short, brush-cut gray hair and crooked teeth, and Judy, an African-American woman with a pleasant smile, had a well-deserved reputation as one of the most successful pairs of detectives on the force. Despite this, they averaged a major squabble about a senseless issue at least once a week. It usually started with something minor and stupid and ended with them in pouty silence. Turner noted their current pouty silence. He’d known them long enough to know this also meant they just solved a case. As soon as they started a new case, they shrugged off the problem. Anyone observing that stage of their relationship would have thought they were best friends, which in fact they were.
Roosevelt and Wilson looked up from their paper work. Wilson asked, “What did you guys do to Carruthers?”
Fenwick said, “We haven’t seen him all day. He’s not dead?”
Wilson said, “I’ve never seen him happier. He was running around here earlier, beaming and smiling.”
“But not pestering us,” Roosevelt said.
Fenwick asked, “Where was Rodriguez?”
Roosevelt said, “When he showed up, Carruthers kind of deflated. He followed his partner out of here like a whipped puppy.”
“What was he happy about?” Turner asked.
Wilson said, “He kept blathering on about arresting blasphemers. He was pleased with himself. He had a copy of the Chicago municipal code, several law books, and about a six-inch thick stack of printouts.”
Turner filled them in on his suggestion from that afternoon. He finished, “Who told him? It was just a joke.”
“You know how things fly around this station,” Roosevelt said. “And Carruthers believes every rumor or even rumors of rumors.”
Wilson said, “I heard two beat cops laughing about it when we were having dinner at Montini’s over on Dearborn.” According to Fenwick, Montini’s made the best Reuben sandwiches in the city. They also had brownies made with Oreos in the middle, Fenwick’s latest food-crush.
“It is funny,” Roosevelt said.
“Until he arrests some poor schmuck,” Turner said.
“You guys got the dead bishop case?” Wilson asked.
Fenwick said, “And what would you do with a case of dead bishops?”
Wilson said, “We should petition to have them give you Carruthers for a partner. That would be justifiable punishment.”
“Cruel and unusual punishment,” Roosevelt said, “but appropriate for you.”
They told them about the case then trudged back to their own desks. Turner Googled Vern Drake and Bishop Pelagius. Among the political palaver about Drake, he found that he was a member of Opus Dei, the conservative Catholic group. Looking up Pelagius, he found the bishop was a member of that organization as well as belonging to the Sacred Heart of Bleeding Jesus Order. Besides being Papal Nuncio to the United States, the next biggest thing about Pelagius was that he was a major force in the drive to canonize Pope Pius XII.
Turner reported this to Fenwick who asked, “Opus Dei? Why do I care? Are they sending a self-flagellating blond to attack us?”
“Not that I know of. It’s just another piece in the puzzle.”
“Why does he want a former Pope canonized? Why does he care?”
“After you become best friends, you can ask him.” Turner continued, “Pelagius has been a full time Vatican nunciature.”
“Huh?”
“Diplomat.”
“Oh.”
“And our buddy Vern Drake is a Knight Crusader of the Pontificate Medieval Guard of Saint Aloysius the Great with a gold star upgrade.”
That got another, “Huh?” from Fenwick.
“They get a uniform and have ceremonies.” He turned his monitor so Fenwick could see a picture of Drake in a group of other men similarly dressed. Turner said, “I’d call them Medieval drag queens but I think a drag queen would have more taste.” The men wore red sashes over sparkly, pink balloon pants, and vast purple capes longer than the longest bridal train Turner had ever seen.
Fenwick took one look and said, “I wouldn’t wear that dead.” He peered closer for a second or two. “What’s with the really big, really long, ugly capes?”
Turner read from the screen. “Cappa magna which I think is Latin for really big, really long, ugly capes.”
An hour or so later, having finished a good chunk of the paperwork on the case, they looked at each other. They looked at the remaining paperwork on their desks. Turner checked the clock on the wall. Of all incongruities in Area Ten headquarters that timepiece was one of the oddest. Maybe older than the station, maybe the first electric clock ever put together, and the damn thing kept working, its red, sweep hand, going round and round and round. Turner knew how it felt.
Fenwick said, “I’m going home.”
Turner said, “Me too.”
On their way out, Molton accosted them just outside his office. He said, “I’m getting absolutely zero cooperation from higher ups about getting you information or interviews with any person or thing connected to the Catholic church. Maybe I’ll have better luck in the morning.”
With few other words other than goodbye and see you tomorrow, Turner and Fenwick left.
TWELVE
Sunday 12:21 A.M.
The night was warm for May, the temperature still at least in the mid 60’s. As he parked the car in his driveway, Paul saw that Rose Talucci was still in her rocking chair on her front porch. She wore a dark blue shawl she had knitted. Paul strolled over.
He sat on the top step and leaned his back against the pillar on the left. He looked up at Mrs. Talucci. She often said she couldn’t sleep well. On warm nights when she wasn’t in the mood to read and especially when the full moon was rising, she often sat on the front porch in her favorite rocking chair. When Paul was on evening shifts on warm nights, he often strolled over, and they would talk as the stars and moon twirled overhead.
They discussed minor gossip and the neighborhood and his sons and Ben and then she asked about his case. When he finished, she asked, “The Church giving you a pain in the ass?”
“Yeah.” He told her about his frustration with getting financial information about the Church or being able to interview personnel.
She agreed. “It’s a closed system, rife for abuse. They are answerable only to Rome.”
“But they go broke in bankruptcy court here.”
“You know that’s as big a joke as I do. You ever see a priest hauled away to a poor house? You ever see all the church property sold off to pay the bills? You saw how that diocese transferred millions from one fund to another to avoid having to pay.”
“There’s nothing we can do.”
“That’s often the case with the ways of the world. Maybe I can talk to some people.”
Turner was never quite sure about Mrs. Talucci’s connections. Her “talking to people” could mean anything from being connected to the most powerful mafia don in the country to gossiping with the neighbors. Often amazing things seemed to get done when Mrs. Talucci talked to people. Several years ago a gang of street kids had been harassing older women returning from the neighborhood grocery store on Harrison Street. One of the kids had been found hanging naked upside down from the front of the store the day after Mrs. Talucci had “talked to someone.” The problems at the store never recurred. The kid was fine, but never said a word about who attacked him. Turner also knew that the local alderman had Mrs. Talucci on speed dial. Politicians tended to recognize real power when they saw it.
Mrs. Talucci took off her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose with two fingers. Paul knew she was tired. She still hadn’t recovered from her trip up the Amazon, and she’d been back a week. Sometimes Paul forgot how frail his ninety something neighbor was. For a woman her age, she was remarkable, but nevertheless, she was that age, and time was nibbling at the edges of her life. When she took her hand away, Paul s
aw the indentions that the glasses made on each side of her eyes. He said, “Anything you can do, I’d appreciate.”
THIRTEEN
Sunday 12:45 A.M.
At home he found Brian still in his baseball uniform. The boy was asleep on the couch, his shoes on the floor, headphones attached to his iPod, listening to music, a book open, spine up, on his chest. Turner noted the readout on the iPod. Brian was listening to a classic blues compilation. Paul remembered that Brian liked to listen to that set when he was depressed.
He touched the boy’s shoulder. Brian wakened. Paul said, “Time to go to bed.”
Brian nodded.
Paul asked, “You okay?”
“Sure, Dad.”
Paul wasn’t sure, but until the boy was ready to talk, there wasn’t much he could do. The son-or-suspect-being-ready-to-talk rule didn’t readily apply to reluctant or recalcitrant teenagers. If he could solve the communicating-with-your-teenager conundrum, Paul figured he could write a book and get very, very rich. No one else had yet solved that problem, so he didn’t hold out much hope.
Quiet as he was when he came in from a late shift, Ben always wakened when he crawled into bed.
He gave his husband a light kiss. “The boys okay?”
“No blood, no broken bones.”
Paul smiled. It was their shorthand for the world was right.
FOURTEEN
Sunday 8:47 A.M.
The next morning Brian wore a pair of his fitted, pristine clean white silk boxers as he clumped about making an orange version of his extra-lean protein glop. He got out vegetables, fruit, and raw eggs from the refrigerator and began chopping and stuffing things into a blender. Paul finished dumping the ground beans into the coffee maker and pressed on. He sat down across from his son.
“You okay?” Paul asked.
Brian didn’t look his dad in the eye. He said, “Sure.”
“You were listening to Blues music on your iPod, and you were drinking from the blue bottle. Sometimes you’re down when that happens. Anything you’re down about?”
Brian finally caught his dad’s eye for a second or two then looked down. “I’m okay.”
