by Mark Zubro
Turner made introductions.
She opened the door, closed it carefully behind them. It was cooler inside. As she led them into the living room she said, “You got teenagers?”
They nodded.
“You can’t control ‘em. Now or ever. Course, I was no saint when I was his age.” Mrs. Callaghan indicated two chairs reupholstered in pink chenille. She sat on a green horsehair couch. “What’s he done this time? I heard about the other one. Course, wouldn’t bother me if he was dead, except I’d miss the alimony and child support payments. I wonder if ex-wives are entitled to any widow’s support from the police. Probably not. Although with divorce, I don’t know. You guys know how that works?”
“Sorry, no,” Turner said. He rushed ahead attempting to interrupt her flow. “We’re trying to find out as much as we can about your ex-husband and his relationship with Officer Belger.”
“Relationship? You mean they were gay? Nah. My very, very ex-husband was a lot of things; mean, vicious, stupid, but gay. Nah. He wasn’t great in bed, but he was interested, always interested. If interest was a virtue, he’d’ve been a saint. Now, that Belger guy. I heard they found him at that gay thing. What is all that about? Makes no sense to me, but Belger, he was an oddball all the time.”
“Did they get along?”
“I guess they did. I divorced my son-of-a-bitch years ago. I don’t know how they’ve gotten along since then. Might be better. Might be worse. Back then, it was more like they were used to each other. Friends in a kind of forced way. A bickering kind of way. But men do that, don’t they?”
Turner said, “Officer Belger attempted to hit his first wife.”
“She told me that. That’s when she left him. Mine came after me. I learned, oh how I learned to stick up for myself. By the end the asshole would cringe from me. Oh, he’d yell and holler and carry on, but he’d cringe. And the carrying on was about stupid stuff. He thought I’d be his mother. Bullshit. I don’t think that woman ever said no to him about anything.”
“His mother ever call the police on him?”
She laughed. “She’s no fool. Call the cops on a cop? Ha!”
“Do you ever remember your ex getting in trouble at work? Being worried about losing his job?”
“He was always complaining about his bosses. Always. Never did much good. Never got specific.”
“Why didn’t he ask for a transfer?”
“I brought that up a few times. He told me to forget it. He claimed that Boyle wouldn’t give transfers, but I don’t think he wanted one. I think he wanted to work with Belger.”
“Did he ever talk about someone protecting him, a friend who had clout?”
“Not to me. He didn’t talk much to me about his job. He’d tell endless stupid stories to his cop friends. All the stories were the same; how brave they were and how stupid crooks are.”
“Where were you before midnight?”
“Chasing my idiot son. He’s as bad as his father. We had him when I was eighteen. My little mistake. Ha!”
They got up to leave. She said, “You seem like decent guys. Be careful. My ex-husband is a loon. He’s capable of anything. He could have killed Belger easy. If he did, it wouldn’t bother him to go after you guys.”
In the car Fenwick said, “It’s so nice everybody is so concerned for our welfare.”
“Lot of good their warnings do now. Callaghan and Belger were creeps long before this.”
Fenwick said, “Those two guys were up to something.”
Turner nodded. “That’s why there weren’t any transfers. Why do you stick with someone you can’t stand? It’s got to benefit you in some way. They must have been in on something.”
“Money,” Fenwick said.
“Gotta be,” Turner said.
Both detectives knew of the numerous scandals through the years about police theft rings, extortion rings, and on and on.
Fenwick said, “Was it more than them?”
Turner said, “Whose record is clean? Callaghan’s. He’s the one who must have the most pull, and pull means power.”
Turner’s cell phone rang. He listened for a moment then said to Fenwick, “It’s for you. Says it’s the goddess.”
“Tell her I’m busy.”
Turner spoke into the receiver. “He says he’s busy.” He listened a moment then said, “Sure.” He picked up a piece of paper and scribbled something Fenwick couldn’t see. Turner hung up.
Fenwick gaped at him. He said, “That may be one of the older jokes on the planet.”
Turner held out the paper. “I took a message. She wants you to call.”
Fenwick snatched the paper. The scribble was only a scribble.
“Who was it? Madge?”
“Judy Wilson. She and Roosevelt have the bartender set to talk to us in another half hour. We’ve got time to meet with Teasdale, the Ninth District secretary. It’s on our way.”
TWENTY-FOUR
They drove to the address they had for Evon Teasdale, Judy Wilson’s contact in the Ninth District out of which Callaghan and Belger worked.
Teasdale lived in the Wicker Park neighborhood. She was a tall, slender, African-American woman. They sat at her kitchen table. She offered them tea, which they accepted.
She said, “Judy Wilson told me you’d come by. I talked to Barb Dams, Molton’s secretary as well. We secretaries, us good ones anyway, keep in touch. They both said you can be trusted. How can I help?”
Fenwick asked, “What the hell is the real story with Belger and Callaghan?”
“You’ve read their files?”
The detectives nodded.
“That gives you a lot of the essentials.”
“Callaghan’s seemed pretty clean,” Fenwick said.
“Nonsense. I do the filing. He had at least twenty public complaints against him. I know. I put them in there myself. I’ve worked in that station for thirty years. I know everything. I don’t screw that up.”
“They’re gone,” Turner said.
Fenwick asked, “Who has access to them?”
“Each person can see their file, but under supervision, and they can’t take anything out.”
“Who else?”
“Just Boyle. And I guess people from downtown.”
“Boyle has gotta be the guy behind all of this,” Fenwick said.
Teasdale said, “I wouldn’t be so sure.” She took a sip of tea. “Boyle is in the grand tradition of Commander Burge.” She mentioned a CPD commander notorious for supposedly covering up for officers in his command who beat suspects. “Boyle just hasn’t been caught yet. He’s been investigated internally, but nothing sticks. He barely conceals his ambition to be superintendent. I always thought it was such a joke, him wanting to be the top cop in the city.”
“Why’s that?” Turner asked.
“I know who goes in and out of his office door, and Internal Affairs and lawyers and assistant superintendents have been in there constantly. That kind of guy doesn’t get promoted.”
“Why haven’t they demoted his ass?” Fenwick asked, “Or fired him?”
“His clout is powerful. Whoever it is must be high up in the administration.”
Turner noted that she used ‘clout’ in its correct Chicago incarnation, not necessarily having power, but your ‘clout’ in Chicago was having someone who was your godfather in the department.
“Who is it?” Fenwick asked.
“That I don’t know.”
“What kinds of things has Boyle done to prisoners?” Turner asked.
“He certainly condoned prisoners getting the hell beat out of them.”
“Kill them?” Turner asked.
“That’s tougher. Like the beatings, he wouldn’t be doing them himself. Boyle does a lot of bluster. He’s got a violent reputation. He lives by it, but I’m not sure there’s lot of bite behind it. He tried that bullying crap with me his first day on the job. I put him in his place. He’s the kind who thinks he’s still back in high school whe
re drinking beer, scratching your balls, farting, and not ratting on your friends are the cardinal virtues. He strikes me more as a guy who would cover up what someone else did rather than someone who would commit the crime himself.”
“Have prisoners died under his command that he wasn’t directly responsible for?” Turner asked.
“I have no direct evidence of that.”
Fenwick asked, “Did he cover for Belger and Callaghan abusing suspects and prisoners?”
“They’d get written up, but nothing bad ever really happened to them.”
“What kinds of things did Belger and Callaghan do?”
“Mean, when they didn’t need to be. Brutal, when a gentle touch would have solved a problem. Hit people.”
“Taser them?”
“Once they got the reputation, it would be hard to separate fact from fiction. I believe they would do that, but I have no proof that they did it.”
“And if they did, so far they’ve gotten away with it,” Fenwick said.
Teasdale nodded, then said, “You didn’t notice the other thing in their files?”
“What?” Fenwick asked.
“Too many arrests.”
“Huh?” Fenwick said.
“The two of them would have contests each shift, each week, each random set of time, to see who could arrest the most people.”
“I didn’t catch it,” Turner said.
“Me neither,” Fenwick said.
“It’s subtle. At first glance, they look like good cops. Maybe there are some complaints, but some supervisor looking at their records would see all these arrests. But you look a little deeper. This is the kind of thing secretaries, good secretaries, or secretaries that don’t like you, notice. They arrested more people than just about everybody else. But they had the lowest conviction rate of any two other cops in the District. It would take you a while to get the exact statistics. I’ve worked in that District a good long time, and I’m telling you, I know what I know.”
Turner wouldn’t dream of doubting her. A good secretary was worth Fenwick’s weight in doughnuts. A mean, vicious one could make your life hell on Earth.
Turner said, “I don’t know how to ask this politely, if you knew this abuse was going on, why didn’t you turn them in?”
“Who says I didn’t?”
“What happened?” Turner asked.
“Nothing. I knew what that meant. After the first time, I knew to keep my mouth shut. When nothing happens, that has significance as well.”
“I understand,” Turner said.
Fenwick asked, “Anything else you can tell us about Callaghan and Belger?”
“I already have the rumor from the staff that you were asking the guys about Belger being on some porn site.” She tittered. “So I looked this morning. I suppose I shouldn’t have laughed. He looked silly with his ass hanging out of those chaps. I kept wondering if the whipping was fake or real.”
“No one knew about this until now?”
“As far as I can tell, no.”
“How did Callaghan and Belger get along?”
“They were competitive about everything. I mentioned the arrests. It was like watching a couple of high school boys. They just never seemed to grow up. At times they seemed to be best friends. Other times they fought like mad.” She sipped more tea then said, “Here’s another example. You know they both got divorced?”
Head nods.
“They competed about who was going to get remarried first.”
“Gives another meaning to trophy wife,” Fenwick said.
Teasdale said, “I have no idea if Belger really loved his second wife. I doubt it.”
Turner asked, “But what did they win?”
“I’m not sure. It wasn’t as if they had a trophy case. It was more in their heads. Or maybe they were gambling on it. I just don’t know. It just seemed so silly.”
“How’d they get along with Boyle?”
“Everybody got along with Boyle the same way. We avoided him. You didn’t knock on his office door unless it was a dire emergency. He’d emerge once in a while, mostly to appear at community functions with local politicians. He always smiled for those. He never smiled for us. Never said good morning. Never brought flowers or doughnuts. No presents for secretaries’ day or for holidays. I know those aren’t really in his job description, but he was cold beyond rudeness. If I was going to pick anybody in the district that Boyle came close to being friendly with, it would have been Callaghan.”
“What kind of scheme could Belger and Callaghan have hatched? Something that, despite their differences, would have kept them together?”
Teasdale thought for a minute. “I’m not sure. It would have to be money, but I heard no rumors about that. If they were involved in a property theft ring, I sure never heard about it. Then again, I doubt if they’d have confided in me.”
Turner and Fenwick thanked her for her time and tea. As they got up to go, she said, “You two should be careful, you know. You’re investigating cops. That can be dangerous. And this crowd is dangerous. Boyle is dangerous.”
They thanked her and left.
The mid-morning humidity slammed into them. Not a leaf in the trees moved. Turner thought he might be able to give Fenwick a run for his money in the who-could-sweat-more derby. They stopped at a nearby convenience store and stocked up on bottled water. Fenwick guzzled two waters in the time it took Turner to finish one.
They stood next to the car. Turner splashed water on his face. He said, “I need sleep.”
Fenwick grunted.
“We’re getting nowhere,” Turner said. “And we’ve got to catch up on several tons of paperwork to record our lack of success.”
Fenwick took another swig from a third bottle. He said, “We’re learning shit.”
Turner said, “Hooray for education.”
Fenwick said, “I think the next person who warns me about these people is going to get punched.”
“They’re trying to be helpful.” Again, Turner poured water over his head, let it run down his neck.
“Each time it adds to the spookiness. They all know we should be frightened.”
“Are you?”
Fenwick said, “No. You?”
“No. Well, maybe a little.”
“Maybe I am a little, too.”
“Or a lot. This thing is dangerous.”
“Let’s solve it.”
“And maybe that will make it less dangerous. Or not.”
TWENTY-FIVE
They met the owner of the Raving Dragon at the bar. Wilson and Roosevelt were already there. A floor fan sat in the open door blasting air from inside out. Upon entering, they saw a back door wide open. Rotating at full speed was another fan two feet from this far opening. The crosswind they created seemed to annoy the air rather than dispel the humidity. All the lights inside were on, but it was the outdoor light that made the difference and allowed the greatest clarity.
Lester Ballard was the thin and gangly bartender from the night before. He wore cut-off jeans and a white muscle T-shirt. In this light Turner could make out many of Ballard’s tattoos. A lot of them seemed to be complex figures of medieval European and ancient Chinese dragons.
Wilson and Roosevelt greeted them. The five of them squeezed into the same booth Turner and Fenwick had been in the night before.
Ballard said, “I didn’t know you guys knew Judy. I’m sorry. I might have been more helpful last night. I didn’t know you were good guys.”
“When did Callaghan get here this morning?”
Ballard turned to Wilson. “You’re sure it’s okay to tell them all this?”
“Absolutely,” Wilson said. “I’d recommend it.”
“He showed up a few minutes before you did.”
Fenwick said, “He lied to us.”
Turner asked, “Did he tell you where he’d been?”
“No. He came in with two other guys. One was the one who came up to the table, Claude Vereski. The other wa
s the one who caused the problem in the washroom, Bert Lensky. They were drunk when they came in, laughing and carrying on. Like they were happy and partying. Of course, they were like that half the time.”
Ballard didn’t know the name of the cop who’d been in the washroom when the fight started nor did he know the one who had tried to give Turner friendly information.
“What happened the night of the original fight?”
“I wasn’t here so I’m not sure. I live above the bar. First I knew about it was when cop cars started showing up.”
“How did that video surface?”
“When the beat-down happened, nobody said anything about any video. The few not-cop patrons cleared out when the rest of the police started showing up. The cops didn’t want any witnesses. They wanted it covered up. I saw the guy who made the video on television. I don’t remember seeing him in here before.”
“Did Boyle show up that night?”
“Sure. Half the damn department did. It was a mess. They were desperate to find out who called the paramedics. They figured it was one of the patrons, but it was way too late by then.”
“Do you know the reporter who broke the story?”
“I saw him on the news. I never saw him in here.”
“Had Belger and Callaghan fought before?”
“Jesus, they were always at each other. Mostly verbally.”
“About what?” Fenwick asked.
“Stupid, stupid stuff. They’d agree that bosses were assholes and then they go off on some weird tangent, and they’d argue and get into it.”
“Nobody caught those on video?”
“It wasn’t the first time they got into it. The night my bartender got hurt was the first time somebody got knocked unconscious. I saw that video on the news. Callaghan really went after her. It was sick. The big difference was this time some idiot called it in. That was against one of the rules. Whatever happened here, stayed here. We had our own rules.”
“You ever hear about them abusing suspects, other cops, their wives?”
“Hell, they all brag about how tough they are. I’d listen to their stories sometimes. If I was picking one, I’d say of the two, Callaghan was the bigger asshole. He hated every minority. He claimed he tasered a few people. I didn’t believe that. Tasering suspects? You’d think somebody would complain. Or get it on their cell phone camera. I never heard about it. I kind of dismissed it. I mean, he bragged about what a stud he was with the ladies. The man was not pretty. What woman would go with him? He never left with one from here.” Ballard scratched his left arm where a tattoo of a rose crossed that of a medieval battle ax.
