Sex and Murder.com

by Zubro, Mark Richard

  Dwayne stretched his arm toward the drawer and began to slide off the bed. Turner held him while Fenwick opened the drawer.

  Fenwick said, “It’s got your clothes, wallet, keys, some change.”

  Almost slipping out of Turner’s grasp, Smythe reached over, slammed the drawer, and fell back on the bed sheets. He closed his eyes. For a few seconds Turner thought he might have passed out. He was about to ring for the nurse when Smythe opened his eyes. Smythe’s efforts in attempting to close the drawer had caused his shorts to ride down nearly to his pubic hair. Even with all the stitches and bandages, Turner noted that it was obvious Smythe must work out often. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his abdomen.

  Smythe breathed evenly and deeply for several minutes. His skin was a ghastly pale, his lips dry and cracked. Turner gave him a boost back into the bed. When Dwayne finally spoke, he paused after every phrase, but no longer gasped after every syllable. Turner leaned close to catch the words. The wounded cop said, “I think I’d be better off dead.”

  Turner raised an eyebrow.

  Smythe pointed at Turner. “I want to talk to just you.”

  Fenwick shrugged, spun one hundred eighty degrees, and walked out.

  Turner pulled up a chair beside the bed. “Why just me?” he asked.

  Smythe spoke haltingly and with much labored breathing. “I talked to you last night. You were honest with me. I need somebody I can trust. Everybody else is out to get me. Fenwick would as soon shoot me as look at me.”

  “I don’t think he cares enough about you either way,” Turner said.

  “You could try being a little less honest.”

  “What is it you wanted to tell me?”

  “The attacker got my gun and star.”

  “You haven’t told anyone?”

  “That’s what I just had you look for. I don’t remember anything until I woke up here. I’ve been woozy for a while. I didn’t know if it was missing.”

  “You should concentrate on getting better. You can worry about the gun and your ID later.” The loss of either one of these items alone would be a major hassle in the department, but the loss of both at the same time constituted a minor crisis.

  “Everything I do is wrong. Every twist of fate works against me.”

  Turner asked, “What happened?”

  “This morning I’d just been to see my Fraternal Order of Police rep and the lawyer. I was walking back to my car. I’d parked in a lot a block away. It’s a Saturday morning, so there wasn’t much traffic. I was putting some stuff in my trunk when I felt this searing pain in my left side.”

  “You didn’t hear anything?”

  “Nothing. I had no warning at all. The fucker just stuck me. I fell half into the trunk, and banged my head pretty hard. I tried to reach for my gun and fight off the guy at the same time. A lot was instinct. The big problem was that I was off guard, off balance, and half in the trunk. Before I could do much of anything, he’d stabbed me a few more times. I couldn’t reach my gun. I had my car keys in my hand, so I pressed the panic button on the key chain. The car alarm must have startled him. I began to pass out. I knew I was losing blood, and still he was stabbing me.”

  “Why aren’t you dead?” Turner asked.

  “Huh?”

  “He could have easily killed you. He kept stabbing you. You were passing out. Why not finish the job?”

  “Maybe I was just lucky. Maybe someone was coming. While I was passing out, it felt like he was trying to yank my coat off. I had my winter coat on: a heavy down vest, flannel shirt, and two T-shirts. That’s a lot of material to go through even with a very sharp knife. The doctor said that’s why I’m probably alive.”

  Turner said, “I’ll have to check and see if the detectives in Area One have any witnesses. I’m sure they’re working extra hard on this with you being one of us.”

  “Am I?” His breathing became more labored than ever. Turner knew he needed to draw the interview to a close.

  “Dwayne, you may be a supercilious snot with a huge ego, and you are in deep trouble, but, yeah, you’re still one of us.” To himself he thought, and you’re badly injured and possibly dying, and I’m wondering how much of a idiot I am for still being here talking to you. I’m also wondering how sad it is that of all the people you know, you asked for me and not someone closer. Or, if I’m the one you feel is closest to you, how dismal your life must be, because I certainly do not feel close to you.

  Smythe clutched Turner’s hand, “I’m glad you’re here.” He breathed deeply and evenly for several moments. “I think I was attacked because of the kid I shot. The two older brothers and an uncle threatened to get even.”

  “I’m sure somebody’s interviewing them. Were you able to give any kind of description? Did the attacker say anything?”

  “He breathed heavy. I thought near the end he said something like, ‘Now you know how it feels.’”

  “A male voice?”

  “I sure thought it was a guy. From the voice and because the attacker seemed strong. I guess it could have been a strong woman with a deep voice. I can’t even tell you if the guy was white or black. I’m worse than the stupidest witness I’ve ever talked to. I’ve fucked up as a witness. I fuck everything up, and things are only going to get worse.”

  Turner didn’t do much wallowing in self-pity. Dwayne and his partner Ashley had turned self-serving angst and self-analysis into a lifestyle. Since Dwayne was possibly dying, Turner was willing to listen to whatever Smythe chose to say at the moment. But the young detective was quiet, eyes shut, breathing more evenly.

  After a few moments Turner said softly, “If you think of anything more, let me know.”

  Smythe opened his eyes and asked, “Are you going to testify on my behalf?”

  Turner said, “I’d worry more about getting well. If they call on me, which I doubt, I will do my best.”

  This seemed to satisfy Smythe. He shut his eyes again and murmured, “Thanks.” Turner squeezed the man’s hand gently and left.

  Out in the hallway Sturm and Molton were not in sight. Fenwick asked, “So what was the big secret that he couldn’t tell me?”

  “He’s been in love with you from the first day he met you, and he didn’t want to reveal his crush.”

  “I didn’t know the guy had taste. I may have to reevaluate my poor opinion of him.” Fenwick paused for several seconds. “I’ve reevaluated. He’s still an asshole. Why did he want to talk to you?”

  Turner shrugged, “Maybe he just needed to connect with someone who he thought didn’t actively dislike him.”

  “A very small list on this planet,” Fenwick said.

  “And he might be dying,” Turner said.

  “I do feel sorry for him,” Fenwick said, “and I am going to do everything I can to avenge the creep. I’m just saying that no matter what condition he’s in, he’s still a creep. Did he remember anything about his attacker? White, black?”

  “Nothing. He got him from behind.”

  “We’ve got two stabbings,” Fenwick said. “There were probably ten or fifteen more in the city last night. We could try and connect them all. I have no notion that these two were related in the slightest.”

  “Which is always the best time to be suspicious that they are related.”

  “Nuts,” Fenwick said. “I love it when you do circular logic. I’m starting to think you’ve been taking lessons from Carruthers.”

  Turner said, “We need to stop using that man as a crutch for all of our failures.”

  “I didn’t think we ever failed,” Fenwick said.

  “Not this week, yet,” Turner said.

  Molton rejoined them. He said, “The meeting with the reporter is all set.”

  “We’re questioning him, right?” Fenwick said. “He understands that we are not being interviewed?”

  “I leave that delicate task in your competent hands,” Molton said. He gave them the address of the Caribou Coffee shop on the northwest corner of Aldine an
d Broadway.

  Once there, it took only a few inquisitive glances to establish who was looking for whom. The young reporter sat at one of the tables just inside the room on the right. Noah Morgensen was in his late twenties. He had short red hair, more freckles than someone who had spent a childhood out in the sun, and didn’t look big enough to stand up against a strong wind in a blizzard. He seemed to bounce in his seat. One foot was crossed over his left knee; the foot was constantly in motion. A laptop computer sat with its lid up in front of him. Turner saw lines of type on the monitor. The young reporter constantly fiddled with a pencil he held in his right hand. He had a smile filled with perfect teeth.

  They sat at a table next to a floor-to-ceiling window. They had a perfect view of the passersby on Broadway.

  “I’m glad you guys came to talk,” Morgensen said.

  “We need to get some information from you,” Fenwick said.

  “I’m not revealing my sources.” Morgensen moved his. computer closer to himself and hit the sleep command. The screen winked out.

  Turner said, “We aren’t interested in violating or even attempting to violate your First Amendment rights.”

  “I’m not sure I should trust you guys.”

  “Why? What do you think we’re going to do to you?” Fenwick asked.

  Morgensen pointed at Fenwick. “I’ve heard about you specifically.”

  “All bad, I hope.”

  “Pretty much. Did you really dangle a reporter outside of a window from the tenth floor of a high-rise off Division Street?”

  “That’s a lie,” Fenwick said. “It was not the tenth floor, and it was most definitely not Division Street.”

  Morgensen touched a button on the computer and the screen flicked back to life.

  “This is not an interview,” Fenwick said. “You want police brutality and corruption, you’re going to have to come back another day.”

  “You were kidding, right?” Morgensen asked, his fingers poised above the keyboard.

  “Look,” Turner said, “we’re interested in details about what you discovered connected to the cop killings. We want to put it together with what we know and see if we can find a pattern.”

  “What you know about what?”

  “Any connections with crimes here in Chicago.”

  “I want to be in on any news story. I’m not giving out information for free.”

  Fenwick said, “You’ll be in on everything the moment we know anything.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Morgensen said.

  Turner said, “We’re not going to cheat you out of a scoop. If what you know helps us, we can reciprocate in kind.”

  Morgensen’s blue eyes searched his. His foot rattled a bit faster for a few seconds, then he nodded. “Okay,” he agreed. “That’s fair enough.” Turner knew that reporters could be helpful, although the relationship between them and the Chicago police was not what it once was.

  In Chicago the old boy network of cynical, hardened reporters and tough, brutal cops working together in a conspiratorial haze of silence to deal with the dregs of human life had changed since the Democratic convention in 1968. That symbiosis had been missing since those long ago days. It wasn’t that individual cops didn’t remember details of those days, although there were some still working from that time. It was a change in institutional memories and behaviors. Over thirty years may have passed, but the atmosphere between cops and reporters had never returned to what it had been. Many said this was not necessarily a bad thing. Turner didn’t think it was bad or good. He just knew it was generally better to keep on an even keel with the press. At times they could be useful to you in your job and there was no reason not to reciprocate whenever possible.

  “How did you get the insight that a serial killer was on the loose?” Turner asked. He didn’t rule out the notion that Morgensen himself could be the killer. It would not be the first time that a murderer had deliberately drawn attention to himself. He had no notion if it was logistically possible for Morgensen to have committed the crimes, but it was too early to close off any line of speculation.

  Morgensen leaned forward. “It was serendipitous. It was so cool. When they hired me at the Tribune, they assigned me to the police beat. It’s pretty much one of the entry level positions and I knew nothing about city cops. I grew up in a wealthy enclave near Green Bay, Wisconsin. But my dad had connections at the paper here and that’s how I got my job at the Trib right out of college. The boss they forced me on didn’t like it, so I got assigned a lousy beat. He thought I’d get fed up and quit. I decided I’d be the best damn cop reporter on the planet. Every day for years I cut out every cop article from the New York Times, USA Today, the Washington Post, and the Los Angeles Times. In fact, I still do. I filed all of them under specific headings: police corruption, killings of police, killings by police, police heart-warming, all kinds of things.”

  Turner said, “Sounds very thorough.”

  “Yeah. So, I had all these articles. Most of the cop shootings were part of random gang things, or part of domestic squabbles, or explainable in some simple non-mysterious way, until three years ago. The unexplained murders started in Boston. After the third one, I began making special references about each death listing every detail I could find. I made a big chart. Everything I could find out, I put down.”

  “I’d like to see it,” Turner said.

  “I guess, maybe. I got most of the information from the newspaper articles themselves. Some of the stuff I got from interviews I did with reporters and officials in the different cities. The killings started in the northeast and moved west. At first no one here would listen to me, so I just kept records. Finally, even my dim-witted boss realized there was a story in all this. Although without the final connection, I don’t think they would have printed the story.”

  Fenwick asked the inevitable, “So what was the final connection?”

  “It was hard to find. It wasn’t reported in any of the newspaper stories. I interviewed hundreds of people, no matter how peripherally connected they were to the crimes. A reporter in New York who had talked to an assistant ME just happened to mention this one little detail. Then I went back and dug for it in all of them.” He gazed from one to the other of them. They waited for the revelation.

  Morgensen announced, “The killer had pissed on all of them.”

  Turner and Fenwick did not gasp with recognition. Big light bulbs did not flash over their heads, but they knew a connection when they heard one.

  “Are you sure?” Turner asked. “You didn’t put it in your story here.”

  “After I talked to police in all the cities, and after consulting with my boss, and the paper’s lawyers, we decided not to print it. It is one of those things that only the killer would know. We want to keep it quiet.”

  “It’s a solid connection,” Turner said. “Is there anything else?”

  “I put everything that was verifiable in the article. For instance, the killings were all done with those large hunting knives, the kind with a nasty serrated edge. Since the article appeared yesterday, I’ve been getting calls from all over the country about cop stabbings, some going back over thirty years. We’re trying to put it all together. It’s going to take some time.”

  Morgensen picked up his pencil and opened his laptop. “What can you tell me about the cop who was knifed here this morning?” He began tapping his pencil against the table top. “An attack on him could easily be connected to what he’s been accused of. I know the uncle of the victim has made all kinds of threats in very public places.”

  “Or it could be a random nut,” Fenwick said.

  Morgensen said, “Or our serial killer.”

  Turner felt no obligation to mention Lenzati’s murder and the possible connection there. He said, “I think assuming Smythe is part of the pattern would be premature.”

  Morgensen nodded then said, “I don’t have any reports of failed attempts, although unsuccessful attacks on cops probably wouldn’t
make the national papers.”

  “Probably not,” Turner said.

  “Did the guy try to piss on him?” Morgensen asked.

  “I don’t know. Dwayne put up a fight. He managed to fend off the attacker, or at least last long enough for someone to stop the assault. The area was too open, too public. He might not have had time.”

  “Where was he attacked?”

  Fenwick replied, “In a parking lot near the Fraternal Order of Police headquarters. Not as public as the street, and not very busy at that time of day.”

  “What other patterns were there to the killings?” Turner asked. “Even if you put them in the paper and we can read them, sometimes it just helps to talk about them. I’d also like to hear what you think might be connections, but weren’t sure enough of to print. Or what you couldn’t verify.”

  “I can speculate a lot if you want. Some details vary greatly. There were lots of little connections, but lots of differences as well. The locations aren’t the same. Sometimes it’s near their home. Once it was inside. All the cops had kids living at home. The time of day is different from city to city.”

  Fenwick asked, “Were there a lot of these variables that didn’t fit any pattern?”

  “Yeah, bunches of differences: age, race, ethnic background, religion, left-handed, right-handed. Lots.”

  Turner said, “I wonder how much of that variety and consistency are deliberately planned or pure happenstance. A smart killer could really screw up an investigation.”

  Fenwick said, “Half the time, I think the serial killer profilers are full of shit.”

  Morgensen said, “I don’t think they claim to be infallible, but lazy reporters take those guys’ professional opinions or best guesses and state them as facts and set them in concrete. To make it worse, the press tends to characterize the possible or probable as fact to get people to read their paper or watch their newscast.”

  “What other sure connections were there?”

  “They were all plain-clothes cops. All were male. They all had among the best conviction records in the departments they worked for—they were good cops. All had more than five years on the job.”