by Mark Zubro
“What’s going on?” Armour demanded.
Molton said, “Boyle knows.”
Turner thought Boyle looked smugger than a Republican at a Family Values rally.
The screen opened to CLTV news. They were showing a ‘perp walk’ of Peter Scanlan outside Ninth District headquarters. The reporter breathlessly announced that this was a possible suspect in the murder of Trent Belger, the partner of the notorious Chicago cop.
Nance turned on Boyle, “You dumb shit. That’s going to be shown on television around the world in about ten seconds. You fool. What did you think you were doing?”
Boyle looked not a bit abashed. “He’s guilty.”
Molton asked, “Who interviewed him?”
Boyle said, “I did.”
“With or without his parents?” Molton asked.
Boyle said, “I followed procedure.”
“Charming kid,” Fenwick commented.
Boyle said, “I know how to talk to witnesses. I gave him my ‘Come to Jesus’ lecture.”
Molton said, “Paul, Buck, is he the killer?”
Fenwick said, “No. He’s being set up. And anyone who is acting as part of the set-up probably had something to do with the murder.”
Boyle bellowed, “That’s insubordination.”
Molton said, “It’s also possibly true, and I happen to agree with it. How did those cameras know to be there?”
Boyle said, “I have no idea how the press learns these things.”
Nance said, “If that arrest is a mistake, we’re going to look awful. The superintendent wants this to go away. The mayor is furious over this whole thing. He doesn’t want the gay community implicated, but he doesn’t want a killer to go uncaught. If the killer happens to be gay, fine. He wants an honest arrest.”
Turner didn’t quite get the fine distinction. If the person was a killer, gay or straight, how did that reflect on the gay community either way? To mark a whole group with the actions of one was a classic sign of prejudice, but he didn’t see that kind of problem here. Politicians and press spokespeople. They were all nuts.
“We’ve got to be careful,” Armour said.
Molton said, “My guys are being careful and thorough. They are the most careful and thorough detectives I know. If they haven’t made an arrest, then there is not enough evidence right now to make an arrest. Boyle, what do your guys have as evidence? It better be specific and clear.”
Boyle said, “We have a whip with Belger’s blood on it and Scanlan’s fingerprints on the handle. DNA confirms it is Belger’s.”
Turner said, “Where did you get that? We found no such device at the train station.”
“My guys searched more thoroughly than your guys.”
“When?” Fenwick demanded.
“This morning.”
“Who sent them?” Molton asked.
“I did. A cop is dead. We’ve got to find out who killed him. We can’t lose respect in the community. The thing’s got the blood. It’s got the fingerprints. We’ve got a case.”
Turner doubted this. He looked at Molton. Molton said, “One, that’s not in your District. Two, and more interesting, how did you get DNA, blood test, and fingerprint results so quickly? It’s only been a couple hours. It takes us up to two weeks.”
“I’m not accountable for your inefficiency.”
Mandy O’Bannion said, “I find this whole thing extraordinary. I don’t like extraordinary. I, too, was at the meeting with the mayor and the superintendent. We can’t have mistakes on this case. We can’t do anything premature. Boyle, we need you to back off.”
“A little late now,” Boyle said. His smirk was back.
Armour said, “That’s an order. If we see any more perp walks, you can look forward to a demotion. These detectives need to be allowed to work. You send any more cops to interfere, you’re going to have problems.”
Nance jerked a finger at Turner and Fenwick and said, “But they better come up with some answers soon. This is a powder keg. The people in the department are up in arms. The gay community will be furious.”
O’Bannion said, “This is a direct order, Boyle, from the very top. Cease and desist. You two detectives, come up with the real murderer, or we’re going with Scanlan.”
“How long do they have?” Molton asked.
“Not as long as they’d like,” O’Bannion said.
Fenwick asked, “Who is Matthew Bryner’s contact in the city?”
“Who?” O’Bannion asked.
Armour and Nance said nothing.
Turner thought, Armour or Nance or both of them knows who it is.
Fenwick said, “We’ve got the guy who runs the Black and Blue event flaunting himself in our faces. He’d only do that if he thought he had powerful people behind him. We’d like to know who, and we’d like to interview that person.”
Nance finally spoke up, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Liar, Turner thought.
Molton spoke to his detectives, “Can any of our assembled guests help you in any way?”
Turner said, “We have lots of citizen complaints against both cops.”
“Overblown horseshit,” Boyle said.
Molton said, “Not when one of them is dead, and the other is the prime suspect in the case.”
Fenwick said, “We got rumors of tasering.”
“We’d have heard that,” O’Bannion said.
Fenwick listed the complaints. All the others claimed to know nothing. Boyle sat with his arms crossed over his gut and said not a word. The smirk did not go away.
Fenwick said, “We’ve got rumors of theft.” He explained.
O’Bannion said, “Bring the people connected to all those rumors to us, and we’ll do something. I’ll have them checked.”
Boyle said, “I’ve gone over both of their files. Belger had complaints. He’s dead. We don’t want to go into those, do we?”
“If it leads to a killer we might,” Molton said.
Boyle said, “Callaghan didn’t have any complaints.”
“Odd,” Turner said. “We’ve got people who said they did file complaints about Callaghan.”
“Send me their names,” O’Bannion said.
With a few more warnings to Boyle to back off and to Turner and Fenwick to get results, the others left. When they were alone, Molton said, “Sometimes I don’t like people.”
Fenwick said, “Assholes...”
Molton cut him off. “It’s not going to do any good to rage about them. Not to me. I’ve got to work with them. I’ll assign Roosevelt and Wilson to help you. You want Caruthers and Rodriguez?”
Fenwick said, “Only if Caruthers is a corpse.”
Molton said, “Maybe I can get your buddy Boyle to arrange it.”
Turner said, “Boyle is guilty or he knows who did it, and he’s covering for him.”
Molton said, “Don’t underestimate his desire for publicity, and his mania for wanting to be superintendent. Or to embarrass you or me or to impress the people at headquarters.”
Fenwick said, “O’Bannion et al didn’t sound impressed. They sounded pissed.”
“Not if he’s right,” Molton said.
Turner added, “Or the evidence he’s manufactured holds up.”
Fenwick said, “If all the cops are conspiring and all these cops are doing illegal things to suspects and civilians, why aren’t they being investigated?”
“I know Internal Affairs is not investigating them,” Molton said. “I know people there. They wouldn’t lie to me. The Feds are another question. They may be investigating. Maybe they aren’t ready to go to a grand jury yet. I will try to find out. I can’t guarantee I’ll find anything. The Feds are not our friends.” Federal investigations of Chicago cops were nearly to the point of being routine in the past few years.
Fenwick said, “We’ll need to talk to Scanlan again as well.”
“I’ll arrange it,” Molton said, “And go back to the fucking party. Find
out what was really going on. Yeah, I think cops did it, but that whole party thing just seems wrong to me. And go undercover. Find something. This is getting nuts. What did these idiots really want? I’ll handle Boyle and all this crap. You guys can go.” He was already reaching for the phone as they walked out the door.
THIRTY
It was nearly five. Fenwick and Turner were at their desks, but Fenwick couldn’t sit still. He swore. He thumped his fists on the desk top. He twisted in his chair, even forced the ancient, creaky thing to swirl for several inches on its protesting ball bearings.
Caruthers began to approach them, but Fenwick’s venomous glare backed him off.
Turner slammed his desk drawer shut after grabbing a stack of forms they needed to fill out on their interviews. He broke the tips of three pencils as he began to write. He tossed the fourth one into the center of his desk. He said, “We’re screwed, but Molton must be in one hell of a mess.”
Fenwick said, “He backed us up. He did right.”
Boyle rushed into the room. He stopped next to their desks and leaned over. “Watch your backs, mother-fuckers. Watch your backs. Molton’s not going to be able to protect you for long. And there are ways. I’ll be watching you.” He did the stupid two-fingered point at his eyes, then swiveled his hand, fingers pointing toward them.
Fenwick laughed. Turner picked up his phone and dialed the in-house number for Molton. When the Commander picked up, Turner said, “We’ve got Boyle up here making threats. You want Fenwick and me to handle it, or do you want to?”
“Stop Fenwick,” Molton ordered. “I’ll be right up.”
But it was far too late. Fenwick was beyond command from friend, foe, or boss. Seldom sanguine with suspects and criminals, he was volatile about administrative/command assholes. And being threatened by one was more than he would take.
Fenwick’s laugh died. He stood up. He took a step toward Boyle who took two steps back.
Boyle said, “Start something, mother-fucker. I want you to start something.”
Fenwick took another step forward. Boyle retreated farther.
Turner stood up.
Boyle looked from one to the other.
Fenwick took another step closer to Boyle. The much shorter but even stouter man summoned his courage and his bluster to stand fast. “Don’t touch me!” Boyle’s warning was a decibel short of a screech. “You touch me and your job is gone!”
Fenwick leaned close until his nose was an inch from Boyle’s. He paused for several beats and then delivered his next line in a soft rumble, “Boo.” Then Fenwick took a step back.
Boyle began shouting rapidly and inarticulately and waving his fists in the air.
Hearing the noise, a crowd had begun to gather. They stood at a distance. Screaming commanders was new to Area Ten. In moments Molton arrived.
Boyle screamed, “He threatened me.”
Molton said, “I see you waving your arms around. Neither one of them is near you.” He turned to Fenwick and Turner. “Did either of you threaten Commander Boyle?”
Both detectives said, “No.”
Molton said to Boyle, “You got a witness?”
He turned to the rapidly-scuttling-away crowd. Seconds later only the four of them remained in the squad room. Boyle said, “They’re going to be sorry.”
Turner asked in a very soft voice, “Commander Boyle, what is your connection to Officer Callaghan, and why have you gone so far to cover up for him? For years.”
Boyle’s face turned so red, Turner thought he might be about to have a stroke. When he got his voice back, Boyle jabbed a finger in Turner’s direction and said, “I will destroy you.”
Molton, calm in the face of bullets or brinksmanship, raised his voice and pointed his finger. His shouts reached every corner of the old station. “Get the fuck out of my squad room. Stay the fuck away from my detectives. You dumb fuck, son of a bitch. Get out and stay out.”
Turner and Fenwick stared at their always calm Commander. This was a side of their boss they’d never seen.
Boyle’s defiance deflated only somewhat. He backed away, tripped over his own feet, grabbed at a desk with his left hand, missed, plopped to the floor, but jumped right back up. He said, “You’ll be sorry. You’ll all be sorry.” He turned and almost fell.
Stumbling and tripping in a pratfall is not the way a victor leaves the field. For several moments Boyle managed to look like Charlie Chaplin on fast forward.
Nobody laughed, although Fenwick did sneer.
Boyle disappeared down the stairs.
Molton breathed hard for several minutes. Turner and Fenwick eyed him carefully. Finally, Molton said, “I gotta stop doing that.”
Turner said, “I’ve never seen you do that.”
Molton said, “The amount of fun I had doing that should be declared illegal.” He shook his head. “There’s nothing you can do about this. There’s nothing I want you to do about this. What are you doing next?”
Turner outlined their next set of work and interviews. “I’ve got to check the email to see if the reporter sent us the entire video. Then we want to try and find some of the cops who were in that bar the night we went there.”
Molton said, “Solve the damn case.” He left.
THIRTY-ONE
At the computer Turner called up his email. He had one with an attachment from Zuyland, the reporter. He didn’t even try to open it. Neither of their computers would be able to download such a huge file. He and Fenwick trooped down to Steve Fong’s office. Fong had his feet up on his desk where his laptop computer hummed away. He was halfway through devouring a slice from a wheel of pizza.
Fong swallowed and said, “You need high-speed access.” He tapped a couple keys on his computer and the Internet opened up.
Fenwick said, “As long as you’ve got high speed access, you’ll always have friends.”
“A dream come true,” Fong said.
Turner called up the email and downloaded the video. He, Fenwick, and Fong watched it unfurl.
The first thing they noted was that the recording began before any fight. It showed the two cops playing pool. The sound quality was not the best. Fong did several magical things with the computer, but they still couldn’t make out the dialogue.
They recognized only one other cop. The one whose balls Fenwick had attempted to crush earlier this morning.
They watched it to the end.
Fenwick said, “The only thing this confirms is that it was a set-up. He was recording from the beginning.”
Turner said, “There’s something wrong with it.”
Fong said, “I checked the video. That’s all that’s in the file that was sent.”
Turner said, “I’m not sure what it is.” They ran it again. Toward the end, he said, “Stop.”
“What?” Fenwick asked.
Turner tapped the computer screen. “This is the point where the other cops come in. What hasn’t Belger done all this time? He hasn’t tried to stop Callaghan from attacking the bartender. Now he does, when other people show up. Belger wasn’t a hero.”
Fenwick said, “He enjoyed the encounter until he could put it to some use to screw his partner.”
Turner said, “Nothing anyone has told us so far leads me to believe that Belger was capable of that much thought or planning. Certainly in that short of time. Something is odd there, though. I’m just not sure what it means yet.”
They saved a copy of the file to a jump drive, thanked Fong, and went back to their desks. Barb Dams strolled over with several thick folders. She said, “Pictures of Chicago police officers from all the districts near the bar. Molton said you’d need them to find out the identity of the other cop in the bar.”
Fenwick said, “He’s good.”
Dams said, “It’s obvious. I threw in a few others I thought might be helpful.” She left.
Fenwick said, “We’ve already got Lensky and Vereski’s name from the owner. The only one we don’t have is the guy who was try
ing to be friendly.”
Turner and Fenwick divided up the pictures. On the top Dams had included photos of Boyle, Armour, O’Bannion, and Nance. After a few minutes of leafing through pictures from the Districts, Turner found a picture of Karl Wendover, who’d been the one who gave him a friendly bit of information in the bar. They also found Bert Lensky, the sergeant who had assaulted Turner. They found Vereski, the bulky cop whose scrotum Fenwick had mushed. He walked a beat in the next district over from Belger’s.
“We better get to these guys,” Fenwick said.
“Karl Wendover must have figured we’d find out who he was.”
“Maybe he wanted us to know,” Fenwick said.
Lensky was off duty. They got his home address. They got Molton to find out Wendover’s work schedule. He was about done with a shift. Molton had central Dispatch get a message to Wendover to be at the Melrose restaurant at 5:30. Vereski was supposed to be at work, but no one could find his current location.
Walking up Broadway, as they passed Unabridged Bookstore, Turner asked, “Is Boyle’s ‘Come to Jesus’ lecture to Scanlan the same thing as having a goddess?”
“Not hardly. But I liked your last question to Boyle. There is some connection between these guys. We gotta figure out what it was.”
They saw Wendover pacing in front of the Melrose. He saw them as they began to cross Melrose Street. For a moment, he looked like he might bolt. The detectives hurried up to him.
“What is this?” Wendover demanded.
Turner said, “Let’s get off the street.”
Wendover thrust his lanky frame into the darkest corner of the booth farthest from the restaurant entrance. He peered at the nearest patrons then hunched over the table toward the detectives. They all ordered coffee.
Wendover asked, “What the hell is this?”
Turner said, “You tried to help earlier this morning.”
“How’d you find me?”
Fenwick said, “We Googled scared young Chicago cops who want to be helpful. Your picture came up.”
“Fuck,” Wendover said.
“That sums it up nicely,” Fenwick said.
Turner said, “Thanks for trying to help.”
Fenwick said, “You didn’t stay when the violence started.”
