Black and Blue and Pretty Dead, Too

by Mark Zubro

  “That was a sergeant. I’m a beat cop. You were both superiors. I’m not a fool. I’m not getting into the middle of that.”

  “Why’d you help?” Turner asked.

  Wendover said, “Used to be I wanted to be a cop who helped people. I’m a shit. Worse than a shit. It’s all Belger and Callaghan’s fault.”

  “What’d they do?”

  “What didn’t they do?”

  Fenwick said, “We need details.”

  Wendover asked, “Am I going to be fired?”

  Fenwick said, “What have you done wrong?”

  “Are you helping the Feds?”

  Fenwick said, “We know nothing about a federal investigation of these guys. Do you?”

  They stopped talking while the waitress delivered their coffees. She took Fenwick’s pie order and left.

  Wendover said, “There were rumors. There were always rumors about those guys. I never wanted to work the same shift with them. I was the one who always had to clean up their messes. They’d get accused of something, and they’d try to pass it off on someone else. They’d do something stupid, and the rest of us paid.”

  “Like what?” Fenwick asked.

  “I carried money from point A to point B.”

  “Not good,” Fenwick said.

  “I’m screwed.”

  “Get a lawyer and a union rep. Talk to them now. Today if you can. Monday at the latest.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “We need help with the murder investigation,” Turner said. “That won’t be likely to help you, but it may help us.”

  Wendover nodded. “You heard about those cops who were trying to get other cops killed? The corrupt cops going after the good cops? I tried to walk the line. To keep them satisfied and to keep myself honest.”

  “Was Boyle in on it?”

  “I sure thought so. How could they have gotten away with anything if they didn’t have bosses backing them up?”

  “How come Callaghan had no complaints in his file and Belger had a slew of them?”

  “Boyle liked Callaghan best.”

  “Why?”

  “How the hell should I know? All I know is, I got screwed. All I know is, I don’t want to be a cop any more. I for sure know I don’t want to go to jail because of these guys. I’ll do whatever I can to stay out of jail.”

  Turner asked, “Did they taser anybody?”

  “Oh, shit man, yeah. They’d laugh about it.”

  “They weren’t worried about getting in trouble?” Fenwick asked.

  “Callaghan never seemed concerned about anything. I think Belger was kind of a worrywart, but if he did worry, it wasn’t enough to stop him.”

  “What would he worry about?” Fenwick asked.

  “Getting caught.”

  Fenwick’s chocolate cream pie arrived. He dug in.

  Turner asked, “Did he mention specific things they’d done that he was worried about?”

  “No, he’d just say things, like, ‘are you sure we can get away with this’. That kind of stuff.”

  Turner said, “So the specific crime was stealing money?”

  “At least that.” Wendover described one incident where they robbed a victim at a death scene. Then he talked about sloppy police work, witnesses and suspects being intimidated, excessive arrests and few convictions, all the things they’d already heard about.

  “How’d they expect to get away with all that?” Fenwick asked.

  “They had for years. Callaghan especially acted as if it was no problem, not in the past, not now, not ever.”

  “Did you hear that Belger was into gay S+M?”

  “Never heard that before today.”

  “Did they fight?”

  “Constantly. Like a married couple main-lining steroids, like the two of them were permanently on fast forward. They were nuts, but they were buddies.”

  “Any of the people who complained particularly vocal?” Turner asked.

  “Those two gay guys. They were pretty persistent. But even that, it just went away.”

  Turner asked, “Do you know Bert Lensky or Claude Vereski?”

  “They’re in the Raving Dragon pretty often.”

  “Did they drink a lot last night and this morning?”

  “I wasn’t watching. Some beat cop came in with the news of the murder. That shook the place up. Everybody wondered where Callaghan was. They knew he’d be a suspect. The general feeling was that Belger got what was coming to him.”

  “Did you hear Lensky and Vereski discussing what they planned to do?”

  “No. I heard you beat the crap out of Lensky. Did you?”

  Turner said, “I did what I had to do to defend myself. Did the guys in the bar talk about us showing up before we got there?”

  “Not to me. When Callaghan and his crowd came in, a few guys huddled together with them.”

  The waitress took Fenwick’s empty pie plate, refilled their coffees, and left the bill.

  “Do you know who sent the guy to attack me?”

  “I don’t know. I think it was spontaneous. They felt righteous and justified.”

  Fenwick said, “In this case, nobody does anything spontaneously. A lot of this seems planned although maybe not well planned.”

  Wendover said, “Well enough planned that you haven’t caught the killer yet.”

  Fenwick said, “It’s been less than twenty-four hours. Give us time.” Turner made sure they left the waitress a large tip. They’d taken up her booth for quite a while and hadn’t ordered much. Turner didn’t think it was right to short her. Wendover stayed in the back booth so he wouldn’t be seen leaving with them.

  Outside, Fenwick said, “Let’s pay Sergeant Bert Lensky a visit. After pounding the hell out of someone, it’s always nice to examine one’s handiwork.”

  “Advice from a master. All this and heaven too.”

  Fenwick said, “My experience also tells me it isn’t the worrywarts of the world who get themselves in deep shit. It’s the confident ones, the ones who think they’re smarter and cleverer than the rest of us. Those are the ones who make the fatal mistakes.”

  “Good theory, except this time the worrywart is the one who’s dead.”

  “I hate when my masterful theories go in the crapper.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  They drove through the unrelenting humidity to the southwest side of the city. It was nearly 6:30 in the evening. Lensky lived alone above a garage in a studio apartment he rented from an aunt of his who said, “Have you come to evict him?”

  Fenwick said, “Aren’t you related to him?”

  “You ever heard of tough love?” Her red hair swirled about her head in ways that did little to hide the hideousness of the dye job. Her feet slopped over the side of her shower clogs, now trendily called flip-flops. Edith Bunker would have thrown out the house dress that the aunt wore.

  Lensky had his own entrance up a short flight of stairs on the side of the garage.

  Fenwick pounded on the door. When no one answered, he pounded some more. The aunt had said her nephew was home. His car was in the driveway blocking her, and she had to go to the store.

  They heard mumbles behind the door then a voice growling, “Go away.”

  Fenwick pounded some more.

  The door finally swung inward. Lensky said, “What the fuck?”

  Fenwick pushed his way in. Lensky fell backwards, stumbled to the far wall, righted himself, picked up a lamp in his left hand, and came at them. His right hand fumbled behind his back.

  “Gun!” Turner shouted.

  Fenwick’s movement’s belied his bulk. Moving quickly, Fenwick punched the guy in the gut, then kneed him in the face as Lensky bent over from the first punch. Lensky bellowed and flung his hands against his nose. A gun clattered to the floor. Lensky followed it down. He held his bleeding nose and moaned. His body was in as tight a ball as his overweight bulk could manage.

  Fenwick picked up the gun and said, “How’s your
day going?” He dragged over a plastic covered kitchen chair and sat down. Turner checked the mini-refrigerator and found, in a frost-encrusted freezer, a bag of corn two years past its expiration date. He tapped Lensky’s shoulder with the cold mass.

  Lensky moaned but took the vegetables and covered his nose. Then he moaned some more.

  Turner stood at Fenwick’s right shoulder.

  Fenwick said, “We’re going to wait and have a nice chat. Maybe I can be convinced not to beat you to a pulp. But I doubt it.”

  Minutes passed before Lensky’s moaning halted. He moved the vegetable package and glared at the detectives. “You broke my nose.”

  “That was the point,” Fenwick said.

  “It hurts,” Lensky said.

  “Good,” Fenwick said, “And don’t whine at me.”

  Using the wall for support, Lensky tried to get up. He plopped back down, but managed to ease himself into a sitting position.

  Turner asked, “You always carry a gun at home?”

  “Only for you.” He shook his head. “I talked to two detectives, Roosevelt and Wilson. They threatened me if I tried to report you guys. I should report all of this.”

  Turner said, “You attacked me in the washroom of the bar. Why? Who told you to?”

  “Nobody told me. I knew what to do.”

  “Why?” Turner reiterated.

  Lensky said, “You can come and beat me up. Fine. You have no idea what and who you’re dealing with.”

  Fenwick said, “Meaning you have an idea of what and who we’re dealing with?”

  “Fuck you. Whether or not you catch the killer, your careers are over.”

  Fenwick said, “I love threats. They give zest to any investigation. You telling us the killer is a cop?”

  “I’m telling you fuck you.”

  Fenwick said, “I’m going to enjoy this too much.”

  Turner said, “Torture doesn’t work.”

  Fenwick said, “I don’t care if it works on him. I’m doing it for me so I feel better.”

  Turner said, “I was the one attacked.”

  Fenwick said, “Feel free.”

  Turner said to Lensky, “If a Chicago cop didn’t do it, why would anyone on the CPD care?”

  “Because Belger was a shit.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “I knew enough.”

  Turner said, “How did you know to attack me in the bar?”

  Lensky said, “Man, I can’t have this kind of pressure.”

  Turner said, “You don’t think beating me up is pressure?”

  “I was doing what I was told.”

  Fenwick said, “Make up your mind. You can’t have it both ways. Either somebody did or didn’t tell you to beat one or the other or both of us up. Come to think of it, why didn’t somebody try to beat me up? I keep getting left out.”

  “He was the fag. He’d be easier. I had orders.”

  This was a poor excuse to use in front of Turner, but it was a flashpoint comment for Fenwick. The bulky detective moved across the room and towered over the still reclining Lensky. “You were following orders? You absolute numb nuts, fuck-a-doodle moron. Do you take stupid-asshole lessons? You mother fucking son-of-a-bitch. How dare you? This is one of your own. Orders! Whose orders?”

  Lensky cowered.

  Fenwick said, “Do not imagine that we are going to leave here without finding out who sent you.”

  Lensky said, “I can’t.”

  Turner said, “Let’s make it simple. Who would know about what happened and who would have the clout to make a call or pay you a visit? Had to be someone who would have access to information as it was coming out. Who has that? For sure the Commander of the Ninth District. Who else?”

  Lensky remained mute.

  Fenwick said, “Has to be Boyle.”

  Lensky turned pale. “He’d kill me.”

  Fenwick said, “Nobody is going to actually kill you.”

  “Look what happened to Belger.”

  Turner said, “Are you saying Boyle ordered Belger killed?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t do it. I’m not involved.”

  Turner said, “We’ve found out about all kinds of crimes Belger and Callaghan committed. Somebody had to be covering. Who was doing the covering up, and what crimes did they cover up? You’re their immediate supervisor. You saw them every day. You had to know what was going on. The least you could have known was that there was some kind of cover-up going on.”

  “You guys wearing wires for the Feds?”

  Fenwick said, “You want to pat us down?”

  “I don’t trust anybody.”

  Fenwick said, “We’re just trying to solve a murder.”

  Turner said, “Do you imagine the Feds don’t have tapes of you guys already?”

  Lensky said, “Boyle told us...” He eyed each of them blearily. Turner wondered if he’d had a completely sober moment in the past year.

  Turner said, “Boyle’s covering his own ass.”

  “I don’t know who to trust.”

  Turner said, “You can trust us to find Belger’s killer. Did you kill him?”

  “No.” Petulance and begging mixed in the tone of his answer.

  “Do you know who did?”

  “I figure just like everybody else. Some cop did.”

  “What schemes were Belger and Callaghan working?”

  Lensky sighed. “I need a drink.” The detectives didn’t stop him. Lensky stood up. “It’s in the kitchen.” The detectives followed him. Turner imagined that Lensky at this point could run, kill himself, or find another gun and kill them. When Lensky noted them following, he said, “I can get it.”

  Fenwick said, “We’ll help.”

  Lensky gave up arguing. In the kitchen he fumbled in a cupboard. Turner and Fenwick put their hands on their guns. Lensky pulled a pint bottle of bourbon from the back of a shelf. He saw them ready to pull their guns. He leered. “You’re safe for now.” He slumped into a kitchen chair.

  Fenwick said, “What is this bullshit ‘safe for now’?”

  Lensky said, “You guys don’t get it. I heard you were a couple of suck-ass wimps. Don’t you know how this department works?”

  Fenwick said, “Why don’t you tell us?”

  Lensky drank deeply, wiped his lips with his left sleeve. “You two won’t survive this. Hell, I could tell you stories that would make you weep, and you won’t be alive long enough to tell anyone.”

  Fenwick said, “I haven’t had a good weep in a while. Why don’t you tell me?”

  This time, Lensky sipped from his bottle and then gave them an impish grin. “Sure, Belger and Callaghan intimidated witnesses. Beat people up.”

  “Tasered them,” Fenwick prompted.

  “Sure. But you gotta be careful with this shit. We’re lucky. Everybody these days claims they are victims of police brutality. It’s great, because then the real victims look less credible.” He cackled and drank and resumed. “The ones we could cover up, we covered up. It’s not hard. We’ve all been doing it for years. If you guys claim you haven’t, you’re lying.”

  The detectives kept silent.

  Lensky kept his eyes on them as he drank. He said, “I’m really drunk.” He drank some more. “My nose really hurts.” He did an elaborate sleeve wipe, then said, “If we couldn’t cover it up, we put the complaints in their files.”

  Fenwick said, “Callaghan doesn’t have any complaints in his file.”

  Lensky leered, cackled, and drank. “I didn’t know that. You guys are so fucked.”

  “Did Boyle know about all this?” Turner asked.

  “Sure. We all knew about it.”

  “Including stealing from the dead?” Turner asked.

  Lensky said, “You’d be surprised how few corpses complain.”

  “Boyle knew about that?” Turner asked.

  “Boyle knows everything.”

  Turner asked, “If the cops knew about all this, why did Belger die?”
<
br />   “Beats the hell out of me. I had nothing to do with that. I don’t know. Boyle is nuts. He’d do anything. Yes, he tortures prisoners. No, nobody is supposed to know about it, and not many people do. And yes, he’s racist, and homophobic, and sexist. It’s nuts. It’s out of control. Boyle is out of control, but he’s the Commander. Nobody stands up to that. Nobody wants to stand up to that.”

  Turner said, “Trying to beat up on me is standing up?”

  “I was supposed to have help.” He pointed at Fenwick. “When I saw him, I knew we’d have to get you alone, but I didn’t know when that would be. When you went to take a piss, I decided I had to do something. Then you’d be on your own. I could do it and get out. I wouldn’t need help because you’re a fag.”

  Turner said, “I hope it hurt.”

  Lensky said, “The doctor says my jaw isn’t broken, but I’ve got teeth loose.”

  Fenwick said, “Boyle called you.”

  Lensky nodded. “But don’t think I’m going to go public with this or testify against him. He’s got lots of ways of getting even. He gets revenge and it sticks. And no matter what you do, you aren’t going to be able to stop him.”

  “What about a federal investigation?”

  “Don’t you learn from all those headlines about rotten cops? They’re the stupid ones. The ones who got caught. You know how long this has been going on? You know how powerful the Blue Code of silence is? It’s gone on for years. It will go on for years. You guys are fucked.”

  After getting nothing more than bluster and threats for the next few minutes, Turner and Fenwick left.

  THIRTY-THREE

  They drove back down the newly refurbished Dan Ryan Expressway to Area Ten. At least an hour before the heat from the pavement could ooze into the sunless air.

  Fenwick said, “That’s why I read murder mysteries.”

  “Why’s that?” Turner asked.

  “The bad guys get caught, which is a good thing, but the bad and slimy guys come to an even more awful end.”

  “Welcome to reality,” Turner said.

  Fenwick asked, “Does he really know who and what we’re up against?”

  “Don’t we? Rogue cops. We just don’t have proof to bring the dumb shits to justice.”

  “Did he kill Belger?” Fenwick asked.