Sex and Murder.com

by Zubro, Mark Richard

  “How do you know Werberg’s gay? And don’t tell me ‘sources.’”

  “I had sex with him.”

  “You did?”

  “No, but I thought you’d sit up and take notice.” Ian pointed and asked, “What’s he doing here?”

  Paul looked. Buck Fenwick and his wife Madge entered the room. “He likes poetry?” Turner asked. Buck and Madge took a seat near the stage. When Fenwick looked surreptitiously around, he spotted Paul. Turner left his seat and walked up to them.

  “Paul,” Madge said. “How nice of you to come and be supportive of Buck. He said you probably wouldn’t be here.”

  “He may have fibbed to you,” Paul said. “I had no idea that he was going to be here.”

  Even in the dim light, Paul could see that Fenwick had turned very red. His bulky partner looked distinctly annoyed.

  “You never told him?” Madge said. “You should be proud of what you’ve done.”

  “You write poetry?” Turner asked. Turner thought he would be as likely to find a liberal at a Christian Coalition convention as discover that Fenwick wrote poetry.

  “I am not to be razzed about this,” Fenwick said.

  Madge said, “Paul would never do that.”

  “I can be bribed,” Paul said, “but my silence on this will only be bought at a very high price.”

  Fenwick mumbled, “Whoever thought the most honest cop in the city would resort to extorting bribes from a fellow officer?”

  “You know, Madge,” Paul said, “there are cops in this town who would pay a great deal to have this knowledge.”

  “I don’t see what the big deal is,” Madge said.

  “You’re being naive,” Fenwick snapped.

  “I think poetry is great,” Madge said. “Anyone in the department could have come here tonight. How would he prevent the news from getting out even if you weren’t here?”

  Fenwick said, “Everyone in the room knows enough to keep quiet about the others.”

  Mrs. Talucci joined them. She and Madge hugged briefly. Mrs. Talucci patted Buck’s massive shoulder with one of her diminutive hands. She said, “I always figured you’d be the poetry writing type.”

  “How’s that?” Paul asked.

  “A hunch,” she said. “From the way he loves pasta, from the way he loves to eat, from the way he eyes a woman when he thinks his wife isn’t looking. He’s a romantic.”

  “You never told me,” Paul said.

  Mrs. Talucci said, “I’m not required to reveal all I know to you. The main problem tonight is refreshments. Two dollars for a thimbleful of soda? Outrageous? And why can’t they provide an adequate spread at these events?” She headed toward what Paul knew she would regard as a woefully inadequate food table. Mrs. Talucci believed that if you didn’t leave an event stuffed, you probably didn’t have a good time.

  “She deliberately tried to get me to come tonight,” Paul said. “It wasn’t just for Trevor. She knew you’d be here.”

  Madge said, “Mrs. Talucci is a smart woman.”

  “Or at least she has good sources,” Paul said. He glanced around the room. It was nearly ten, long past the scheduled starting time and he knew he was stuck staying until Fenwick and Trevor had read. He could always ask Ben or Brian to take Jeff home. Paul returned to their table. He sat between Ben and his younger son. Brian and his buddy Andy were whispering together and giggling. Paul decided he preferred not to know what about. With his fingers, Paul massaged the back of his lover’s neck for a few moments. Ben moved his knee to rest against Paul’s.

  A makeshift spotlight finally went on and outlined a chair on a small raised platform. The next hour and a half was mind numbingly boring. Fenwick read as if the forces of hell were behind him, and he needed to hurry to get done before they caught him.

  When Fenwick was finished reading, Mrs. Talucci whispered to Paul, “I think he’s nervous because you’re here.”

  “Fenwick nervous?”

  “Of course,” she said. “He’s opening himself up and being vulnerable. It’s the same for any performer. You know that.”

  “I don’t voluntarily get up in front of any group,” Paul said.

  “He did, and it took nerve,” Mrs. Talucci said.

  Paul admitted this was true. Fifteen minutes after Fenwick finished, Jeff was fast asleep with his head on Paul’s shoulder. The two teenagers had asked to be able to walk around outside. Paul had told them not to go far.

  Just before eleven, Ian left with the first reader, an attractive young man whose poetry, as far as Paul could tell, consisted solely of an extended and self-absorbed meditation on the shades of light on a falling maple leaf.

  Paul knew he had to get up the next morning to work on the Lenzati murder. He hadn’t been scheduled to work, but he knew he had no choice. When Trevor finally began to read, Paul almost cheered. In his reading Trevor included dramatic pauses and long stretches of silence, which Paul found as interesting as his verses. Twenty agonizing minutes later he decided he’d had enough. Mrs. Talucci chose to stay and get a ride home with the Fenwicks. Buck would have to be at work in the morning as well, but these were his cronies from a world Paul was not part of. Turner knew Buck would simply drink gallons of coffee and stay awake on caffeine.

  Before they left, Paul walked up to Fenwick, leaned down, patted him on the shoulder, and murmured, “Nice job, buddy.”

  “Thanks,” Fenwick said.

  10

  I thought of leaving the cops alone and attacking their families. I’ve heard it said that leaving someone in misery for the rest of their life is excellent revenge. That may be so, but I want the cops to be the ones who feel pain.

  Saturday morning Turner was awakened by someone banging on the front door. He threw on some jeans and padded downstairs. On his front porch was the kid from the night before. He tried to remember his name and couldn’t. This morning the kid had shaved his heavy beard and looked much more like a teenager. He was dressed in baggy jeans, a baggy shirt, an oversized jacket, and overpriced tennis shoes. Paul called upstairs for Brian, who trudged downstairs in a pair of gray sweat pants and a T-shirt.

  Brian said, “Hi, Andy.” Paul remembered then that Andy Wycliff was the kid’s name.

  The kid said, “We’re supposed to stop by the school early today for the science project.”

  Brian yawned. “I gotta go to school today, Dad. A bunch of us are going to work on our senior physics projects. They’ve got to be done.”

  “Going to school on a Saturday is okay.”

  “Then a bunch of us are going to the hockey game at UIC this afternoon.”

  “And Mr. Chores will be done?”

  “Got most of them done before you got home last night. I’ll finish them between the end of the game and before I go out tonight.”

  “Tonight is?”

  “Hanging out with the guys. Probably a movie.”

  “Sounds fine. Give the details to Ben. I’ll probably be late.”

  Paul returned upstairs. He found Ben pulling on a pair of black jeans. “I’m too old for these wild late nights and then getting up and going to work,” Ben said. “These mad poetry readings take a lot of out of you.”

  “I could use more sleep,” Paul said.

  “Me too. I could stay out all hours when I was young, but not anymore.” Ben would be working at his car repair shop for at least the next ten hours.

  Paul said, “I’d rather not spend another night at a poetry reading.”

  Ben said, “I’m a little worried about that article in the paper about the attacks on cops.”

  Paul embraced his lover and kissed him. “I’ll be careful. You’ve got my pager and cell phone numbers. If you feel the need, call.” They’d had this discussion before. Ben had become less openly worried about the risks Paul faced in his job. He’d become generally quiet about his fears, but he’d made them clear many times before. Ben said, “I love you.”

  Paul said, “I love you, too.” Paul made sure
Jeff was securely ensconced at Mrs. Talucci’s, then drove to work.

  Turner got to his desk a little before eight. Fenwick wasn’t in yet. On his desk, Turner found another small box like the one from yesterday.

  Under the package was a phone message memo which said, “Your fat buddy writes lousy poetry and he reads even worse.” Someone not only was sending him stuff but knew of his movements. Turner was able to confirm that note and package did not arrive together. The cop on the desk had simply taken a phone message.

  He asked everyone he could find in the station house if they knew anything about the package. No one did. The first one had arrived by mail. He found out this one had been sitting on the front steps of the station when the shift had changed. No one had seen anyone put it there. It had his name on it, so someone had put it on his desk. Again the wrapping paper was from Nutty Chocolates.

  Turner sent the package and contents to the police lab for analysis. He also called the lab, which confirmed that the inside of the first box had contained a single piece of chocolate, but they hadn’t gotten around to any further analysis than that. He asked them to put a priority on it. Turner had never gotten an unexplained package before, much less two, and he found the experience unsettling. He didn’t know if someone he had helped convict for a crime was trying to get even in some perverse way, or someone was trying to be cleverly kind. If the latter, he wished they’d understand it was stupid and disconcerting rather than generous and thoughtful. On the other hand, getting even with chocolate made very little sense either. He knew Ben wasn’t the kind of man to string him along. His kids had no reason to. Nobody he knew did. He didn’t like it, but for now there was nothing he could do about it.

  The note was disturbing and even more baffling. Turner wondered who really cared if Fenwick wrote poetry, and why spend the energy to leave a phone message for him and not his partner. His sense of unease began to grow.

  He flipped the switch on his computer monitor. There was another message: ARE YOU WORRIED YET? Turner slammed his fist down on his desk. A knot of detectives gathered around. “Where the hell is this coming from?” Turner demanded.

  “Our new computers, unlike this building, are state of the art,” Judy Wilson said. “They’re the only thing new around here. It’s connected to a broadband Internet server.”

  “Which means,” Roosevelt said, “that anybody, anywhere, can wreck anything. You better find out what the hell is going on.”

  “Got that right,” Turner said. But he couldn’t find anyone who had been near his machine. He had no way of finding out if there was a way for his computer to be turned on from a remote location and a message inserted.

  He was still fuming when Fenwick staggered in a little before eight-thirty. Fenwick glared at him through sleep deprived eyes. “Madge set this up with Mrs. Talucci. They got Trevor to talk to you.”

  “I figured that out last night,” Turner said. “I have made the ultimate sacrifice for my cop partner. I showed up and stayed awake.” Turner yawned. “It was the best poetry reading I’ve ever been to.”

  “It’s the only poetry reading you’ve ever been to.”

  “Which makes it the best. No offense to you, but I’m hoping, it’s also the only.”

  “Philistine.”

  “My guess is you’re more embarrassed about writing poetry than about my being there.”

  “Maybe it’s kind of both.”

  “Trevor’s your real problem. He talks too much. I’m sure he’s blabbed to half the planet. Frankly, I’m not sure why everybody doesn’t know already. There’s no way everyone in this squad room isn’t going to know you were there. And I got a phone message.” He handed Fenwick the pink piece of paper.

  Dan Bokin from the downstairs desk entered the room carrying a bouquet of red roses, pink carnations, and yellow daffodils. With a bow he handed them to Fenwick, did a smart about-face, and strode out.

  Fenwick gaped at the flowers.

  Commander Molton sauntered in. “Nice flowers,” he said.

  Fenwick grabbed the envelope from the bouquet, plunked himself into his chair, and opened the card. “They’re from ‘an admirer,’” he said.

  Turner told Molton about the chocolate, the phone message, and the note on the computer. He finished, “Are the flowers, chocolate, message, and note from the same person?”

  “Beats the crap out of me,” Fenwick said. “I’ve got the solution to the messages-on-the-computer problem.” He reached over, yanked the plug and cord out of the back of the machine, and tossed them onto Turner’s desk. “That takes care of that.” He bent down and took a deep whiff of flower scent. “This I like,” he announced. “My guess is the flowers are from the guys downstairs and are meant to be sarcastic.”

  “I’m going to order protection for you for a while, Paul,” Molton said. “I don’t like this. Whoever’s making these threats knows too much and is too clever by half, and could also be a killer. I hope it isn’t necessary, but I’d rather be safe.”

  Turner was about to object, but he thought of his kids and Ben’s ability to worry. At the very least Ben would feel better if he knew someone was out there protecting him.

  “What’s the plan for the day on the Lenzati killing?” Molton asked.

  Turner said, “We’ve got a long list of people to talk to.”

  Molton said, “If you can drag yourself away from Fenwick’s literary career, you should get to it.” He turned to Fenwick, “I heard you were quite good last night. Congratulations.” He marched off.

  Carruthers walked up to them. Turner thought the young detective beamed more brightly than anyone had a right to at work on a Saturday morning. Carruthers clapped Turner on the shoulder and said, “I hear you’re going to do what’s right.”

  “What’s that?” Turner asked.

  Carruthers lowered his voice and leaned down to whisper in his ear, “Be a character witness for Dwayne.”

  Turner was furious that this news had already hit the cop gossip line. He was even more angry because he assumed Smythe had spread it around. He also realized that Smythe had done it deliberately to push him into a corner. Very carefully he said, “Randy, I don’t want you to come near me for the next six months.” Carruthers frowned, his shoulders slumped, and he shuffled off.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Fenwick asked.

  Turner told him about last night’s discussion with Smythe. He finished, “I got a plea from an incompetent creep followed by years of listening to poetry, all in one night.”

  “But it was my poetry, so that should have made it all right.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me you wrote poetry?”

  For one of the few times in Turner’s memory, Fenwick spoke quietly and almost modestly. “I’m not ashamed. It’s just a little strange.”

  “No stranger than a lot of the other stuff you’ve told me. Are you afraid people will think you’re effete, less studly, or maybe gay because you write poetry?”

  “I’ve got a tough guy, masculine image. Admittedly an overweight, tough guy, masculine image, but poetry does not fit in with that. In general we don’t like people who are different, and a lot of cops would make of fun anyone who writes poetry. I’ve got a big ego and can take a lot of razzing, but somehow I felt less secure about the poetry.”

  “I’m your partner. We’re friends.”

  “I know. I guess I should have said something.”

  “Then again, if you’d said something sooner, I might have been stuck going to more poetry readings.”

  “Consider yourself lucky.”

  Turner said, “I can live with that. I admit, I know nothing about poetry. I think you did a fine reading. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “I guess,” Fenwick said. “What are you going to do about Smythe?”

  “Shoot him or hire a great flaming dragon to take him away.”

  “Both excellent suggestions. You know, he’s got you by the balls. If you lie, you sell yourself out. If you
tell the truth, you sell him out. If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to come to anything very dramatic.”

  “It might,” Fenwick said. “There’s nothing you can say that would be neutral?”

  “Neutral is good,” Turner said. “but I’d just rather not be involved at all.”

  “You may not have much choice.”

  “There’s nothing to be done about it now. What time is our appointment with Werberg and our computer guy?”

  “We’ve got fifteen minutes to make it.”

  Before they left, they procured the pictures of Lenzati and Werberg they’d asked for the night before. They also called Lenzati’s accounting firm. Because it was Saturday, it took more than a few calls, but they got through and arranged for a meeting later that day.

  Dylan Micetic, the department computer expert, met them at the Lenzati house at 9:00 as scheduled. As they entered, Turner asked, “You have any luck with that code?”

  “Code as in computer language?” Micetic asked.

  “Don’t give me that computer gobbledygook,” Fenwick snarled. “We mean code as in secret spy codes written in ciphers. The rest of us know what a secret code is. Just because your over-educated ass wants to—”

  “Wait,” Turner said.

  Fenwick stopped.

  Turner said, “I understand the harangue. Let’s get on with it.”

  Micetic said, “I’ve learned very little. It has at least seven different encryptions. It’s the most sophisticated encryption scheme I’ve ever seen.”

  “Speaking of sophisticated,” Turner said, “I got another one of those strange messages on my computer at my desk.” He explained.

  “You have one of those new high-powered computers,” Micetic said.

  “Supposed to be the fastest in the department,” Turner said.

  “And they’re hooked up to everything, which means they’re vulnerable to everything,” Micetic said. “I’ll look at it again later.”

  At that moment, Werberg showed up. He had his lawyer, Claud Vinkers, with him.