by Mark Zubro
“Not enough,” Fenwick said. “Or at least not soon enough.”
Turner said, “Why the hell did the kid come back here?”
Fenwick said, “You met the parents.”
“But wasn’t he released into their custody?” Turner asked.
Molton said, “I wasn’t there.”
The ME said, “Scanlan died just minutes before you arrived. He choked to death. The dildo Bryner dropped has bits of saliva and flecks of blood, presumably the corpse’s since Bryner was not bleeding. Although they could come from an unknown third person. I’ll have to examine and test all that, and I’ll need time to take prints from the dildo. Right now, I’m calling it the murder weapon. I assume, and I’ll be able to tell you for sure later, that the thing was jammed down his throat until he died. The kid fought. Thrashed, scratched, he even bit on the dildo. Assuming those are his teeth marks. I’m guessing from the wound on the back of his head, at some point, probably after the struggle had gone on for a while, he got his head banged against the floor. Real hard. After that, I think the fight would have gone out of him. Also, you might have a problem about the scratch marks.”
“What’s that?” Molton asked.
“Your prime suspect doesn’t have a mark on him.” He bent down, picked up Scanlan’s right hand, and tapped one of the fingernails. “Even without a microscope I can see bits of flesh under several of these and more of those delightful bits of blood. I don’t think they’re going to be the victim’s. Your killer’s been wounded.”
Fenwick said, “We already checked. Bryner didn’t have any.”
The ME said, “Unless your victim was scratching and fighting someone who wasn’t killing him, Mr. Bryner is not your killer.”
“Fuck-a-doodle-do,” Fenwick said.
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” the ME said.
“If the kid was fighting,” Turner said, “then his attacker...”
“Could have been more than one,” the ME said.
“Had to be strong or more than one,” Turner finished. The ME left to take the body to Cook County Morgue.
Molton said, “I brought the schematics for the station and a map of the convention.”
The three of them pulled the new materials close to the arc lights and examined them.
Turner said, “Remember when we first got to this place. We went back almost all the way we’d come and then all the way to that even older section, but look.” He pointed. “If you took this opening and that corridor, you’d be there in less than fifty feet. That’s how they got in.”
Fenwick said, “The killer or killers didn’t have that far to carry the body.”
“If they knew about this entrance,” Turner said.
“And the schematics of this place,” Fenwick added.
They checked with beat cops who had been interviewing the security personnel, door wards, and registration clerks. None claimed to have seen Scanlan enter.
Turner and Fenwick strode down to interview Bryner.
Immediately upon seeing the detectives, Bryner let his fury fly. “I was the one who tried to save him. I didn’t try to kill him. I saw the dildo stuck in his throat. I took it out so he could breathe. I was trying to help. Of course, my fingerprints will be on it. It was horrible. I took it out and there was blood, vomit. I don’t know what all. He wasn’t breathing. I don’t know CPR. I’m not sure I could have done it on him anyway. The mess was vile.”
Fenwick ignored the defense and asked, “What were you doing down here?”
“All morning and afternoon I’ve had people down here trying to close up any entrance or exit. I didn’t want a dust mote to be able to get in here. I went out for a few hours to meet with some friends. I needed a break. It was a long scheduled break. I came back to check on the work I’d ordered. I saw the crime tape down. Then I thought I heard scuffling and muffled screams. I came very slowly.”
“Why didn’t you go for help?”
“I thought it might be a scene that guys were into. I didn’t assume something bad was going on. I went carefully so I wouldn’t disturb them. And, yeah, I guess I wanted to watch. By the time I got here, it was too late.”
Fenwick asked, “Who are your powerful friends in the department?”
“Certainly I’m not going to tell you that. That would be insane. They’re protecting me.”
“Right now they are. Or at least they haven’t turned on you. They might, in light of this latest development.”
“What development? I didn’t kill him.”
It was easy to observe from Bryner’s see-through T-shirt and short leather pants that his flesh was unmarred by recent activity with the deceased. Turner and Fenwick unhandcuffed him, but ordered him to stay, and left a beat cop on guard.
They consulted Molton. Moments later the crew from downtown who had been in Molton’s office appeared: deputy superintendent Franklin Armour, CPD press spokesperson Phillip Nance, and attorney for the department Mandy O’Bannion.
All three officials raised eyebrows at the outfits the detectives were in. Neither Turner not Fenwick felt the need to explain.
The entire aggregation retired to the large room in the tower where they’d first interviewed Bryner. It was one of the few places quiet enough, with chairs enough, and large enough to fit everyone comfortably.
It was very early in the morning. Molton presided from behind the desk.
Franklin Armour was into full-force dither and blame. He wanted to know what was wrong with the police detectives, and when they would settle the case, and had they done every interview, had they talked to this person and that, and had they done their paperwork.
Philip Nance was in a full PR panic. Molton let him rant about closing the party, saving the CPD’s reputation, and Bryner being innocent and abused.
Mandy O’Bannion was into full legal legerdemain. She was concerned about everybody’s liability and rights, and that obscure legal niceties got taken care of.
All of them wore formal attire, ties, uniforms, long sleeves in evidence. If Scanlan had wounded one, some, or all of these three, it was going to take more than orders from a couple detectives to get shirts off.
Turner asked, “Whose decision was it to let the kid go?”
Armour, Nance, and O’Bannion turned a variety of annoyed glances on him.
Turner said, “It’s a simple question. Boyle arrested him. Who made the decision?”
Molton said, “Perfect question.”
Armour said, “I have no idea.”
O’Bannion said, “The legal department wasn’t consulted.”
“Leaves you, Mr. Nance,” Turner said.
“Don’t be absurd.”
“So we’ll have to question Boyle.”
“Yes,” Molton said.
The others didn’t contradict him.
The three from downtown began to wrangle. Molton interrupted and said, “Buck, Paul, you can go back to work. We’ll settle this among ourselves.”
Squawks issued from all three of the others, but Fenwick and Turner simply walked out. Even on the other side of the door, they could hear the chorus of wrangling.
Fenwick said, “Fuck-a-doodle-do up all their asses.”
Turner said, “You couldn’t be more right.” They used the stairs to descend from the tower. “More to the point, where are Callaghan and Boyle, and do they have an alibi for the time of this murder? We found the body just after midnight. We’ve got a pretty narrow time frame.”
“How are we going to interview Boyle?”
Turner said, “Very carefully.”
Fenwick said, “My guess on Callaghan is he’s back in his favorite bar.”
“Good a place as any to start.”
As Fenwick went through the car-starting ritual, he asked, “Why is Peter Scanlan dead?”
Turner said, “It’s connected to Belger’s murder.”
“Unless somebody knew the kid. Any adult who knew him would be justified in mowing him down.”
>
Turner said, “I’m not sure that’s an accepted defense in the legal system.”
“Look under teenagers, asshole. It’s in there.”
“Gotta be connected to Belger.”
“Gotta be.”
“How? Why?”
“Beats the hell out of me.”
“Useless speculation would pass the time,” Turner said.
“Feel free.”
“He knew something and the murderer had to silence him. The killer thought he knew something. He was blackmailing the killer. It’s a huge conspiracy and it’s coming unraveled, and the co-conspirators are turning on each other. Someone knew Scanlan was the killer and stepped in to save the legal system the mess of a trial. Feel free to jump in any time here.”
“You’re doing a fine job.”
“It’s all fucking useless.”
Fenwick said, “The kid’s dead. There’s gotta be a reason.”
“No, there doesn’t. Maybe he’s just damn dead.”
Fenwick nodded.
They plowed through the post-midnight humidity to Area Ten, where they changed, then moved back out into the night to the Raving Dragon bar.
THIRTY-NINE
As they entered, Callaghan had his back to them. He and a chorus of cops belted out a drinking song from a B movie that Turner couldn’t name. The others in the circle around Callaghan noticed the detectives and fell silent one by one. Callaghan’s lone voice finished the last chorus by itself. He turned and faced the intruders. The aggregation clustered together behind Callaghan. Turner and Fenwick faced the clump of inebriated cops. The owner was nowhere to be seen.
Turner noted that none of them had obvious scratch marks on their arms from someone defending themselves. Didn’t mean their legs or torsos weren’t messed up, but nothing Turner saw hinted they’d come across someone who could be arrested.
Callaghan swung a beer bottle against the bar and smashed the top off. He held the jagged edge toward the detectives and bellowed, “Fuck you both.” The others looked ready to join in any attack.
Fenwick took out his gun, let off a round into the floor, then brought it up and pointed it at the group. He said, “Everyone who isn’t Barry Callaghan, get out.” He fired the next round into the bar a foot to the left of where Callaghan stood. Turner pulled his gun, sidled quickly six feet to Fenwick’s right, and said, “Now would be a good time to obey a direct order.”
None of the drunk assemblage reached for their weapons. The obviously irate detectives, guns ready to be used, were not going to be denied. With scowls, snarls, and drunken stumbles, the crowd fled. Fenwick barred the door behind them. Turner kept his gun on Callaghan with one hand and with the other used his cell phone to call Molton, who promised that he and other members of the Area Ten detective squad would be there in minutes.
Callaghan’s eyes followed Turner’s movements. Fenwick remained on the far side of him so Callaghan couldn’t watch or attack them both at once. Still holding the broken bottle in one hand, Callaghan’s other hand dropped a fraction of an inch toward his firearm. Was the drunk really going to try and shoot it out? Turner held his gun steadily three feet from Callaghan’s face. Callaghan froze. If Callaghan touched his gun, Turner would fire. But with the idiot fixated on Turner, Fenwick simply walked up behind Callaghan and tackled him. The offending and offensive patrolman hit the ground with a satisfying amount of force. Callaghan bellowed. The beer bottle in his hand smashed. Turner took the man’s gun. Fenwick sat on him.
Turner said, “I’ve wanted to see you do that to a suspect for years.”
“Really?”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
“Recently?”
Callaghan squirmed and squawked. Fenwick entwined his fingers in his overweight opponent’s hair and twisted, an old cop trick that was surprisingly effective. He had been taught it by a wise old school teacher.
Fenwick said, “You haven’t bathed since the last time we saw you. I’d gain several more pounds just to punish you for that alone.”
Callaghan spent several minutes trying to catch his breath. Turner leaned against the bar. Fenwick said, “You always let me do the fun things. I appreciate it.”
“I live to meet your needs.”
Fenwick thumped Callaghan on the side of the head. “Where were you tonight?”
Callaghan gasped. “Get off me!”
Fenwick squiggled, rolled, and adjusted his butt, and said, “I’m just getting comfortable.”
“My hand is bleeding.”
“Good,” Fenwick said.
“You can’t torture me.”
Fenwick said, “You got witnesses?”
“Guys will vouch for me.”
Fenwick said, “Not after all the command personnel from downtown get here. You’re an embarrassment. They’ll want to cover their own asses.”
“My guys are loyal,” Callaghan said. Someone began pounding rhythmically on the door. The detectives ignored it. They knew it wasn’t Molton. He’d call first, not just knock.
Fenwick said, “And you’re not. It’s your partner who’s dead. You’re the one not rallying around trying to find out who killed him.”
Turner crouched down so he could meet Callaghan’s eye. He said, “We found a boatload of people who don’t like you. All those people you beat up on. They’re going to sue. They’ve been afraid to come forward. Not anymore. They are organized. They’ve hired lawyers. They’re going to the Feds. You’re going to be in jail, and you’re going to be broke, and you’re going to cost the department a ton of money.” While not based on explicit knowledge, Turner’s claim had the ring of enough truth to hold a real threat.
Callaghan managed to squeeze out a half-snort of derision.
Fenwick said, “Do you think anybody in the CPD has enough clout to save your ass now? We’ve got two corpses.” The detective lifted his legs off the floor so now his entire weight rested on Callaghan.
Callaghan rasped, “Didn’t kill.”
The pounding became intermittent.
“Who did?”
“Don’t know.”
“Where were you tonight?”
“Here.”
“When did you get here?”
“I’ve been here for as long as I need an alibi.”
Fenwick bounced up and down on him.
Callaghan gasped. “I swear. Here. Who’s dead?”
Abruptly Fenwick got up. Callaghan curled into a ball and pulled in gusts of air.
Fenwick picked him up by his uniform shirt and deposited him in the nearest booth. Callaghan’s bulk seemed to have little effect on Fenwick’s ability to swing him around with impunity. When the recalcitrant Callaghan was ensconced in the corner, Fenwick got in next to him, and Turner sat opposite.
Turner’s cell phone rang. Reinforcements were in the alley. The back door of the bar opened and Molton, Wilson, and Roosevelt walked in. Molton noted the pounding on the front door, marched to it, unbarred it, and swung it wide. The cops outside, seeing a Commander in full regalia, scattered. Molton shut the door and barred it again. Molton, Wilson, and Roosevelt pulled up bar stools next to the booth the other three were in.
Turner said to Callaghan, “Peter Scanlan is dead.”
“Who?”
Turner actually thought the bewildered look on Callaghan’s face was genuine. Turner explained.
Callaghan said, “I didn’t know the kid.”
Fenwick said, “Who is covering for you? Who would go to that much trouble for such a royal fuck-up?”
Callaghan said, “You’ll all be sorry.”
Turner said, “Nobody has enough clout to get even with this many people. Do you really think you’re worth the energy and expense of that kind of fight? You’re one guy who has got to be a liability to someone. Who?”
“Boyle had the kid in custody. Why don’t you talk to him?”
Fenwick pounced. “If Boyle was protecting you, are you now saying he had something to do with Scanlan’s de
ath?”
Ignoring the question, Callaghan said, “You fucks have been running around telling people I was gay.”
Fenwick said, “Cheswick blabbed.” He was the cop in the Ninth District Turner had tried to lure into giving them some truth with the hint that maybe Callaghan and Belger were gay.
“Did you kill Belger?” Fenwick asked.
Callaghan didn’t demand a lawyer. He didn’t whine, complain, or bluster. He just shut up. Ultimately, it was his smartest choice.
They got nowhere.
They let Callaghan go.
They left the bar.
Outside in the humidity, Molton said, “Boyle’s next. You want me with you?”
“No,” Fenwick said.
Molton nodded. “I trust you. I’ll find out where he is and get back to you.”
Roosevelt said, “Call us immediately if you need help. You want us around, we’ll be there.”
Wilson nodded agreement.
FORTY
It was after three. Turner and Fenwick returned to Area Ten headquarters. Caruthers was mercifully absent. Molton reported that Boyle was not to be found.
They had the recordings from the whipping booth. Turner wheeled the ancient television cart with its usually working VCR and cableless television next to his desk. The remote was actually on the cart and working. Turner was fast-forwarding through the third video when Ian showed up. Turner hit pause. The screen showed a mass of people standing around.
Ian pointed at the screen, “Riveting?”
Turner said, “Mind numbing. And useless. So far.”
Ian said, “You’ve got a new corpse.”
Fenwick said, “We prefer new corpses. The old ones get moldy and smell awful. And really, a used corpse? Is that the kind of image we want to present to the world?”
Ian said, “Pretty close to teetering over the edge, are we?”
