Turner agreed, but when they got to the ward office, it was closed. They returned to Area Ten headquarters.
Outside they saw two separate Minicam trucks from local television stations. Bright lights shone on reporters taping for the late news. One of the reporters recognized Turner and Fenwick and came running over. Her rush to them spurred the interest of the other crew. In seconds lights, microphones, and inquisitive reporters blocked their way into the station. Turner recognized a few of the regulars on the crews by sight. Often given the high-profile murder cases to solve, he had gotten to know some of them. The reporters shied away from Fenwick. He was known never to give information, and to become nasty if pushed. Turner never told them anything he shouldn’t, but he was friendly with them, and they liked to put him on the news because of his good looks.
A needle-nosed, blond reporter asked him if they had any leads. Turner gave her a smile and a bland quote. She looked frustrated, but before the pack could move in for more, Turner and Fenwick edged into the building.
Inside they met with the case sergeant, the commander, the other detectives on the squad, and with the people doing background checks. They told the commander about the reporters.
He said, “They’ve been hanging around all day. One of those idiots has made it a crusade. They’re already talking about a ‘Chicago-style cover-up.’ He claims that somehow we’re going to suppress the identity of one of the most notorious killers in this city in years. If I’d known you were coming back, I’d have found something to keep them busy. You don’t need this kind of nonsense, although I’ve got to tell you, the pressure is enormous. We’ve got national publicity coming down on us. ‘Sixty Minutes’ plus one other national television news magazines called. Giles wasn’t really big time nationally, but that media consultant Stimpson had an enormous national reputation. They want reports, information, and access, especially to you guys.”
“Double fuck,” Fenwick said.
“I’ll keep them away from you as best I can, but this is bigger than anything I’ve handled as long as I’ve been here.” The commander shook his head. “Any progress?”
They told him all they’d done.
He gave them a few suggestions, all of which they’d already tried, but wise in the ways of the hierarchy, they didn’t tell him that, and then Turner and Fenwick got to their desks.
They started the reams of paperwork. They began filing and cross-referencing tons of interviews and mounds of data. They paused in that work for half an hour to visit Blessing. They spent most of that time poring over an enormous diagram Blessing had prepared of all the people in the Ricken, Stimpson, and Giles families, anyone connected to them politically, and the prominent people in the city who backed Giles or whom he had supported.
As they stared at the diagram, Blessing said, “I got more charts coming on any organizations Giles championed. They’ll be cross-referenced with all these. Eventually you’ll be able to tell who knew who and what their relationship was in one glance.” They took one fourth floor wall and tacked the four-by-six-foot sheet up. Turner and Fenwick started at opposite ends and studied it carefully.
They met in the middle and Fenwick said, “Double and triple fuck. What the shit are we supposed to get out of this?”
“The name of the killer. Or maybe the secret to winning the lottery,” Turner said.
On another wall Blessing was taping up copies of all the campaign literature, using two copies if one was printed on both sides.
“Why put all that up?” Fenwick asked him.
“I want everything organized,” Blessing said. “I sent over for extra copies of things you only had one of. Gives me something to do when all the letters on the computer screen begin to blur.”
“Don’t waste too much time on it,” Turner said. He glanced at the first row that Blessing had already attached. He saw lots of glossy pictures with tons of smiling people in them. He shrugged, checked the time. “I got to go meet my source.”
“What about backup?” Fenwick asked.
“If it’s fatal, whether you’re here or a block away, I’d be dead before you could get to me. Forget it.”
“Be careful,” Fenwick warned. “Keep your radio handy, and your gun close by. Call as soon as you’re done. I’ll be here.”
Turner took Wells Street north, turned left onto the beginning of the Eisenhower Expressway, drove under the Main Post Office, and headed west.
He got off the Expressway at Sacramento Avenue. He drove four blocks south to Polk Street and turned west. A few blocks west and he stopped outside an anomaly. The quiet street lined with trees had mostly three flats, gray stones, or frame houses. In the middle of the block three bungalows stood side by side, out of place, well lit, neatly kept, and fenced in. In this poor neighborhood with boarded-up buildings and vacant lots well in evidence, this was more than an oddity.
Turner parked in the driveway that led to an opening in the fence. He didn’t see anyone. He surveyed his surroundings carefully. This wasn’t a neighborhood he’d choose to be caught in unprepared. He checked his gun and radio, then left the car.
As soon as his feet touched the pavement, bright lights shone on him, the porch light of the house flicked on, and three snarling Doberman pinschers raced around the corner of the center house. A six-foot-six, well-over 250-pound man descended the steps and lumbered toward him.
Turner felt the cool spring breeze touch the back of his neck. He walked to the gate. The man said nothing to Turner. He quieted the dogs, unlatched the gate, and motioned Turner to enter.
“I’m here to talk to …”
The man’s rough voice interrupted, “We know why you’re here, and you’re expected.”
Turner was curious. “How do you know I’m the right guy?”
“If you were the wrong guy, you wouldn’t get out of here alive.”
“Oh,” Turner said.
They crossed the clipped lawn. Turner observed well-tended hedges and in the bright lights still shining from when they turned to focus on him, he saw well-preserved homes, the paint recent, the dark-maroon bricks cleaned and scrubbed.
The man led Turner quickly through the house and to the basement stairs. Turner’s brief view showed him a living room filled with furniture enshrouded in plastic coverings.
At the top of the stairs the bulky factotum faced Turner, thumped a beefy finger into the cop’s chest, and said, “You shouldn’t be here. If it was up to me, you’d never leave.”
Before Turner could respond, the man turned his back and began stomping down the steps. Downstairs Turner walked into a comfortable room. Dark wood paneling, a gold deep-pile rug, brass lamps on teak end tables, cloth armchairs, a rocking chair, a seven-foot sofa, and a white ceiling. Pictures of sporting scenes covered one of the walls. The others were bare.
On the sofa sat a tiny shriveled-up old man. Turner had never seen so many wrinkles on a human being. The man’s cheeks sagged almost to bloodhound length.
“Forgive me for not rising,” he said. Turner could barely hear the voice.
“Want me to take his gun, boss?” Turner’s escort said. The man waved him away, then smiled at Turner. The cop saw two gray teeth and pink gums and hoped the guy didn’t make a habit of smiling at him.
“And I’m sure he doesn’t have a wire,” the old man said. “You may leave us.” The hulk left.
Turner had recognized the man instantly. Even in his old age, the face was unmistakable, this was Giovanni Parelli, ex-alderman, reputed mob boss, and in his day, one of the most-feared men in the city.
“Mrs. Talucci loves you,” the aged voice said. “Says you have two nice boys. That you’re a good father. I like that.”
Turner waited.
Parelli couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt buttoned to the collar, but no tie. A gold wedding ring gleamed on one of his withered and age-spotted hands.
“She wants me to help you.” He chuckled and smiled ag
ain. “Rose Talucci.” The voice became softer and more distant. “We grew up together. I introduced her to her husband. Good man. But it was a mistake. I thought I had a chance for her hand myself, but after they met, she only had eyes for Frank.” He patted one hand with the other. “I’ve known Rose since I was three years old. Pulled her pigtails when I was five.” He laughed. “She didn’t run to her mother. She slapped me so hard, my ears rang for a week. I’ve never been able to refuse a request of hers.”
“She’s a good friend,” Turner said.
Parelli said, “A great lady. I can refuse her nothing. My wife died in an accident. Rose was a second mother to my five children. She is a saint. She says you don’t understand several things about this murder. I’ll do what I can to help you, young man.” He smiled again.
“I don’t understand the politics of the Fifth Ward in connection with the killing,” Turner said.
“I knew Vito Marzullo, Jake Avery, all the old-time politicians, now fewer and fewer people remember them, but I still have connections, and the old wheel spins around and comes up the same.”
Turner said, “I don’t understand.”
“Dirty tricks,” Turner said. “Everybody knows Nixon didn’t invent them. We’ve had masters at the art of making the other guy look bad since the first settlers did the trick on the Indians when this was all still prairie.”
“I don’t get …” Turner began.
Parelli waved his hand at him. “You need to be silent and listen.”
Turner shut up.
“Do you remember the Red Squads?” Parelli asked. Turner nodded. Back in the thirties and forties the Chicago police department began spying on suspect, mostly left-wing, groups. This accelerated during the McCarthy years. In the sixties they infiltrated the antiwar movement. They were accused of sending “agent provocateurs” into the organizations. A suit was filed to make the police stop the spying and any other activities. After many years a judge ruled against the police. Even in the nineties the consent decree still held that said they weren’t supposed to do such things.
“That kind of infiltration wasn’t effective enough. Plus they got caught. We found another way. Most of the people in the groups who wanted change in this city were made up of wild-eyed fools who couldn’t have run a meeting much less made a success out of a cause, but they mastered the art of catching the press’s eye and the powers that are in this city don’t like fighting their battles in the full glare of the media.”
The six-foot-six man appeared with a glass of chalky liquid. Parelli asked if Turner would like something. The cop said no thanks. The old man took several gulps and left about half the liquid unconsumed. “Doesn’t even taste bad anymore,” he said.
“I hope you aren’t ill,” Turner said.
“My internal organs have been trying to shut down for decades. I’m surprised I’m still alive.” He gave several soft chuckles. The guard/servant left.
“So we had to diffuse these people. The chaos in the groups was obvious. We needed to feed that. We’d get people into their organizations who were masters of bringing up divisive issues. If a group was mostly white, we’d embroil them in issues of lack of race representation, playing on the guilt of white people. No mind that black people didn’t want to be part of their organizations or hadn’t even heard of them. Same tactic with women’s equality. Our people were always the biggest supporters of equal representation of men and women: equal co-chairs, vice co-chairs, shared treasurer, and secretary duties. One great way was to fight over who to accept funding from. Was it pure to take money from suspect sources.” He chuckled for a minute. “That was my particular favorite. The mischief we could make would be endless. We’d get the groups so embroiled in side issues that had nothing to do with their basic cause, they’d never get anything done. The brightest and most eager people would give up. Our opposition crippled, we’d have many fewer problems.”
Turner was enough of a realist to know that politics in Chicago had never been like an afternoon tea with the queen of England, but Parelli’s cynicism bothered him. He swallowed a comment but wasn’t able to mask his disapproval completely.
Parelli caught the look and said, “What you’d really like to say is that you’re shocked and appalled.” The old grey eyes searched his. “Admit it, young man. You think this is a horrible way for democracy to work.”
“I’m just trying to solve a murder. If I got involved in every political or emotional side issue, I’d never get anywhere.”
“A sensible answer.”
“But,” Turner began and the old man chuckled. Turner continued, “You couldn’t be sure of being effective with every group, and it would take enormous resources,” Turner said.
Parelli mused for several minutes then said, “We could be fairly sure, because we co-opted all the other do-gooders. The resources part was easy. Wise political pundits have declared the Chicago machine dead for many years.” The crinkled old face gave another awful grin. “Those of us in the know, keep our mouths shut. We’ve got a lot of the old guard and a few new ones. We’ve got plenty of people to call on. For all the upheaval of the past few years, remember the person who’s won the Democratic primary has won the mayor’s office for over fifty years.”
“But Giles was against the party and he supported all the reform causes,” Turner said. “He must have been a huge threat to the organization. Who would be powerful enough or have sufficient money to influence a ward election? We can’t find any evidence of any of the groups Giles backed or who supported him being rich or powerful or connected enough to cause him to win. Even Mike McGee may have been a maverick, but he still had enough sense to not go too far. He was still the one passing out the jobs and favors.”
“Old Mike knew what was best.” Parelli took a few more sips of the chalky liquid, pulled out a starched white hanky and dabbed at the corners of his mouth. He said, “The reason you can’t figure out who the powerful and rich people are who supported Giles is, you’re looking in the wrong place. You haven’t understood what I’ve been trying to tell you. You’re assuming the Democratic party would be against him. That’s your mistake. First of all no individual group has enough clout to overthrow a sitting alderman, not without a major change in the ward’s racial or ethnic population, or barring a major snowstorm.”
This last reference was to the mayoral election of 1979 when then-Mayor Bilandic told the citizens of the city that their streets were clear of snow. It was a tough winter with record snow and the good citizens could look out their windows to their lawns, cars, and streets buried in drifts of white. The blunder cost him the election.
“So the alderman in the Fifth Ward retired. We needed a base, a front that everyone would assume was legitimately liberal. What better than the Fifth Ward? We saw our chance. It was one of the great races. We ran three candidates. The one from the regular machine, who got rewarded with a judgeship. A real reformer who was a fool, and our man Giles.”
“But you didn’t get rid of McGee,” Turner said.
“Wasn’t necessary at first, but eventually we had to dump old Mike. We were afraid he might catch on. For an Irishman he was pretty smart. That was also a payback among the Irish politicians themselves. They’ve hated him for years.”
“So all that talk from Gideon Giles was hypocritical rhetoric.”
“Yes. He was our bought and paid stooge from the beginning.”
“Does the mayor know this?”
“Politics in this city is Byzantine, as you know. Would he have specifically ordered something like this? No. Do members of his inner circle know the truth? Of course.”
“Could other people have figured this out? Maybe somebody caught on or caught Giles and was threatening to expose the whole thing?”
Parelli thought a moment then said, “I haven’t heard anything. Look at how long it’s been going on and none of the papers have breathed a word, and my guess is they don’t know anything. The easy story was to go interview Gideon Giles. W
hy break your neck trying to prove something as hard to track down as a conspiracy to do good?” He chuckled.
Turner said, “I wish I found this harder to believe.”
Parelli said, “When we were young, we wanted power. Then we wanted to keep it. These people want power. Someday they’ll probably have it, but they’re going to have to become a whole lot tougher and smarter.” He laughed.
Turner said, “What about people being afraid of the whole scheme being known. Wouldn’t that make someone frightened?”
“First of all I would know if people were frightened of the scheme coming out. No one in any organization has threatened to expose us. I have heard nothing. What I’m telling you is that no politician had any reason to get rid of Gideon Giles, certainly no one in City Hall. Second, if you’re an outsider, why kill Giles and beat up the others? If you found out they were doing something criminal, you’d run to the press. You wouldn’t need to murder anybody.”
“Disillusionment. You’ve revered these people as leaders of a cause. In your frustration you murder them.”
Parelli reached over and patted Turner’s knee. “Young man, if you really believe that, you’d better turn in your badge. Radical do-gooders don’t do murder.”
Turner flushed slightly. He wasn’t ready to abandon his idea about insiders at City Hall being worried about the scheme being revealed. He asked, “Who, besides Giles, among his people, knew he was backed by the party?”
“I believe it was just him. If someone in Giles’s organization found out, and they confronted him, wouldn’t Giles be more likely to try and do something to him, rather than someone do something to Giles?”
“If a true believer thought their cause had been betrayed, they might try anything. You’re probably right, no one would really buy a conspiracy by liberal reformers, but the person who was in the best position to blow the thing out of the water is dead, and of the two people in the campaign most likely to know, one’s been beaten and won’t tell us anything. The other is missing. Supposedly they were closest to him.”
Political Poison Page 14
