Another Dead Teenager

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “Got a profile on the dead boy?”

  “Low grades, bad attitude, hell of a basketball player. Been in trouble with school authorities and the police, but could play basketball like a dream.”

  “Why not just cut off his testicles?” Turner asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Picture it,” Turner said. “The killer is stabbing this guy long after he’s dead. Killer must have blood all over himself. But he’s also brought along a convenient blunt instrument that he then applies to the kid’s balls. Make sense to you? And he’s got to carry the knife, blunt whatsis, and get the kid to follow along. How’d he lure him there and did the kid have his underwear?”

  “Don’t know about the luring part, but the kid did have his underwear on.”

  “Shit.”

  “Well, you can’t expect a serial killer to be perfect every time.”

  “I don’t like the different methods of killing,” Turner said. “But crushing their nuts has got to be a connection. It’s just too obvious.”

  Fenwick parked the car, turned off the engine, let out a whoosh of breath, and said, “The only thing to do at this point is eat lunch.”

  Seven

  At Aunt Millie’s they worked their way back to the unofficial Area Ten detective booth. They found Rodriguez staring into a beer. Dwayne and Jennifer were arguing over which was the favorite autopsy they’d attended. All three looked up as Turner and Fenwick plopped down.

  “You guys look awful optimistic,” Rodriguez said.

  “They got a break on the case,” Dwayne said. “They’re all agog with excitement.”

  “Remember when we finally got that break on the guy throwing boiling water on prostitutes?” Jennifer asked.

  “We toasted with champagne,” Dwayne said. “Several of the best vintages.”

  Turner and Fenwick ordered food and then explained what they’d gotten.

  “Great!” Rodriguez said. “Somebody’s running around the countryside mowing down teenage delinquents. Fucking fantastic! Fewer gang members on the streets. Less crime. You aren’t planning to try and catch this guy?”

  “We want to find him so you can pin a medal on him,” Fenwick said.

  “Using that computer stuff is smart,” Dwayne said. “We take at least one computer class a year. We learned a lot more than those FBI people can ever come up with. Be happy to help if you need to understand something.”

  “We could show you how to streamline your data,” Jennifer said. “You sure you need that many categories on all of those cases?”

  “Why don’t you both sit on it and rotate?” Fenwick suggested.

  Dwayne and Jennifer laughed condescendingly.

  “Don’t be offended,” Dwayne said.

  “We’re just trying to help,” Jennifer said.

  The waitress delivered Turner and Fenwick’s clump of food. Even the presence of Dwayne and Jennifer couldn’t sour Turner and Fenwick’s upbeat mood.

  Back at Area Ten headquarters, several more large cartons of materials had been collected from the library. As Turner opened one box, papers cascaded out. Six more computers had arrived from 11th and State while they were at lunch.

  The commander and the chief of detectives stopped by as Turner and Fenwick moved to speak with Blessing. They explained what they’d gotten so far.

  The chief of detectives, Samuel Parkingson, was a tall, thin man with a balding head and bushy eyebrows.

  “I think it’s promising,” Parkingson decreed after hearing them out. “I think I should announce it to the media.”

  “No!” Turner, Fenwick, Blessing, and the commander said simultaneously. Fenwick’s faced showed signs of red deepening to purple.

  “We need to give the public something,” Parkingson said. “The parents of Goldstein and Douglas deserve to know something.”

  Before Fenwick could blow up, the commander began walking away with Parkingson. Turner figured their boss feared another outburst at a police brass person. He knew the commander would do everything he could to dissuade Parkingson from committing the incredible blunder of giving their most promising lead to the media.

  Fenwick said, “Why the hell do we have PR people in positions where we need competence?”

  “Can’t all be brilliant detectives like us,” Turner said.

  Fenwick said, “With this many reporters around and this many cops working, somebody’s going to blab about what we’re focusing on.”

  “Probably,” Turner said. Nothing they could do about it.

  Turner and Fenwick gathered the most promising cases from Blessing and returned to their desks on the third floor to begin making phone calls.

  Randy Carruthers bounced up to their desks. “You guys seen Rodriguez lately?” he asked.

  “Millie’s around an hour ago,” Fenwick said.

  “I think he’s trying to avoid me,” Carruthers said.

  “We’ve all been doing that for years,” Fenwick muttered.

  Carruthers didn’t or chose not to hear. Turner thought the fresh-faced creep must hear some of the comments his colleagues made almost daily in front of his face. Either the guy’s ego was so huge or his stupidity so massive or his shame so deep that he never showed that he caught on.

  “Heard you guys got your big break,” Carruthers said.

  “We’re working on it now,” Fenwick said.

  Carruthers sat his butt on the edge of Fenwick’s desk as if prepared to move in and chat for days.

  “Randy, we’re awful busy,” Turner said.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Fenwick said, swiping a massive paw at Carruthers’s butt. “Why don’t you go find a white Ford Bronco to chase?”

  Carruthers jumped off the desk. “I think I’ll go hunt up Rodriguez,” he said. “We’re supposed to be in court this afternoon. He’s always late.” He trundled away.

  Around four when the squad room was quiet because of the change of shifts, Turner called Ben and told him he wouldn’t be able to go with him to the Bulls game.

  “I’m sorry, Ben. I truly am. Like I said, I’ll make it up to you.”

  “I love you,” Ben said.

  Turner glanced around the squad room. No one but Fenwick was near. He wasn’t specifically embarrassed to say what he was going to say next in front of the group because he was gay, but because anybody caught expressing too much affection could get razzed about it. “I love you,” he whispered.

  Ben said, “I think maybe I just won’t go to the game.”

  “It’s courtside seats. Someone will go with you. What about Myra?”

  “Her lover’s taking her out for her birthday. And she only goes to hockey games.”

  “You’ll find somebody who wants to go.”

  “I wish it was us,” Ben said.

  “I do too,” Turner said.

  “What’s Brian doing tonight?” Ben asked.

  “You don’t have to take my kid,” Turner said.

  “He and I get along well. Last couple nights were the first times we were around each other much without you there. It would be another chance for him and me to talk about you.”

  “He doesn’t have plans that I know about. I’ll check with him, or Rose Talucci will know what he’s up to. She’s got radar when it comes to monitoring my kids.”

  “I can ask him,” Ben said. “I don’t mind.”

  “He’d like that,” Turner said.

  Ben agreed, then said, “You know it’s around the neighborhood about Rose being sick. Word is she threw a passel of people out of the house around noon today. Told them they were all ghouls and warned them that if they didn’t stop whining and moaning, she’d live to be a hundred.”

  “Good for Rose.”

  Ben called back half an hour later. Rose would watch Jeff and the ecstatic Brian would go to the game with Ben.

  Turner and Fenwick spent hours making phone calls. Not a one gave another clue. They found that many of the people who had been in charge of the cases had moved, transfe
rred, or were simply not in. They got a few simple “I don’t knows.” Most were sympathetic. Nobody had records of testicles crushed or underwear missing. Those they got hold of gave them more information for the profiles they were building, so after every few calls Turner or Fenwick would take the data upstairs and add it to the stacks of material to be entered on the computer records. At nine, Turner and Fenwick trudged up to the fourth floor together.

  Blessing stood at a printer gazing at data running from the machine. Cops bent over data or squinted at screens. The sound of clicking computer keys filled the room.

  “Got anything?” Turner asked the computer expert.

  “Latest printout coming,” Blessing said. “It’ll take a few minutes.”

  Turner gazed at the machine spewing out information. “I thought we had something.”

  “Easy to get discouraged,” Blessing said. “We’re still crunching tons of data. You tell them to stop researching at 1950?”

  “Yeah,” Turner said. “I wanted to give it some kind of cutoff. If we have to do the forties and even the thirties, we will.”

  “Could a serial killer operate that long without being caught, or at least noticed?” Fenwick asked. “Plus, we go back to the thirties and forties and it means our serial killer is in his seventies or eighties. Seems a little unlikely to me.”

  “I hope we don’t have to go that far back,” Blessing said.

  Turner wandered over to the floor-to-ceiling corkboard. It was crammed with crime scene photos, copies of lab reports, diagrams, office reports, computer printouts, and the large-scale map. Turner gazed at the multicolored states, a few nearly obliterated by red pins. The entire United States, huge parts of Canada, and much of northern Mexico were filled with red dots. Someone had gone out and brought in a box of a thousand of them. Turner estimated two thirds of the box was empty.

  Fenwick joined him at the map. “Not a hell of a lot of help.”

  “Let’s get the most likely ones we’ve been calling all day and use a different color for them,” Turner suggested.

  They returned a couple minutes later with printouts and began placing yellow pins in the cities they’d been calling.

  Fifteen minutes later Fenwick stepped back and said, “I think I see the face of Aunt Millie emerging from the pattern.”

  “A miracle,” Turner said. “We could set up a little shrine and make money off the tourists.” He eyed the result critically. “Doesn’t have the wart on her cheek the way it should.”

  Blessing joined them. “Here’s the latest.” He held the computer printout to show them. “I’ve rearranged the data. With this kind of spreadsheet, I can print the categories you wanted across the top plus I started five people on going back to the likely cases, taking every piece of data from them and making new categories. Depending on the news stories, you get lots of data or a little. The most I have is one with seventy-three categories, a math genius and track star who fell in a hiking accident back in 1985. All the papers we’ve been hunting through had him. Data from calls other than the ones you made is still coming in. Also around three this afternoon I had all of the dead teenagers alphabetized by last name. Easier to get duplicate articles about their deaths organized.”

  Fenwick and Turner nodded. They spread out the data sheets on the three-by-nine-foot table under the map. Blessing had their three testicles-crushed cases at the top of the page. One had thirty categories filled in; another had sixty-three; the third had fifty-one. This reflected the vagaries of the newspaper articles and the information they’d gotten over the phone or by fax.

  The next twenty-seven listings were the most likely cases, and the ones they had called. The three men studied the data. Nothing seemed consistent. Some had divorced parents, some hadn’t, some had big funerals attended by hundreds, others private affairs, some were accidents, others suicides, some gang problems; only two definitely murders. The accidents had an enormous range: car crashes, fires, falls, hit by lightning—anything humans were prey to happened to these kids.

  “I want consistency,” Fenwick said.

  “Forget it,” Blessing said. “The only reason some of these came to the top was their sort of relation in a few categories to your three. The kids played sports, but that’s the only connection.”

  The cops shook their heads.

  “Shame about a few of these kids,” Blessing said.

  “Why’s that?” Turner asked.

  Blessing pointed to a column far on the right of the lengthy printout. “Five of these had big spreads in their local papers sometime in the year before they died.”

  Turner could neither move nor talk.

  “Goldstein and Douglas had articles about them, too,” Fenwick said.

  “Brian did last month,” Turner said.

  “That’s the connection?” Blessing asked.

  “So few have it,” Fenwick said.

  Turner rushed to a computer with the others hurrying behind. “Make this give me data,” Turner said. “I want kids who died who had articles written about them.”

  “We don’t have that many local papers,” Blessing said as his fingers raced over the keys. “In our ‘most likely’ category, only those five mentioned it. I’m not sure about all these others. We only know about it if one of the national papers picked it up.”

  “Make the damn thing give data!” Turner commanded.

  Fenwick put his hand on Turner’s shoulder. “Easy, buddy.”

  Minutes passed as Blessing typed, watched the screen, and typed some more.

  Turner sent one of the cops to find out if the Bulls game was over. It wasn’t.

  Finally the printer began to click.

  “We’ve only got two more besides these,” Blessing said.

  “Where are they?” Turner asked.

  “Huh?” Blessing said.

  Turner snatched the page out of Blessing’s hand. He hurried to the map, found seven blue pins, and jammed them into the map. “They start in Spokane and make a circle through the Southwest to St. Louis,” Turner said.

  Fenwick had been staring at the printout. “Look at the dates. Started nine years ago, but they’re in order. Spokane was first, then Portland. Jesus Christ!”

  “My kid’s in danger. I’ve got to get to the stadium!” Turner was already running for the stairs as he spoke.

  “I’ll go with.” Fenwick was right behind.

  “I’ll call ahead,” Blessing yelled. “Do you know where their seats are?”

  “Courtside. Behind the Bulls bench,” Turner shouted from the top of the stairs.

  “Security’s tight in that area anyway,” Fenwick said as they raced down to the first floor.

  Turner jumped in his car and Fenwick threw himself into the passenger side as Turner floored the engine. Fenwick’s driving was as nothing compared to the speed Turner made to the stadium.

  They showed their badges at the gate, whose keeper was inclined to give them a hard time. Turner barged past, found a security guard, showed him his identification and dragged the mystified man in his wake. He didn’t care if the guy understood any of the explanation Turner shouted at him as they ran toward the seats. He was going to get to his son. At the entrance way to the mass of humanity, a contingent of security guards met them.

  “You the cops we got the call about—looking for somebody?”

  “Yes,” Turner said.

  “We haven’t been able to find them,” the security guard said. “The guy who called couldn’t give us much of a description.”

  “They’re here,” Turner said. He and Fenwick, followed by two of the stadium security guards, marched down to the section behind the Bulls bench.

  They found two empty seats. The nearby fans resented the intrusion. No one could remember who was in the seats, and no one remembered anyone being in them since halftime.

  The head of security at the United Center joined them after a few minutes. “Who are you looking for?” he asked.

  “My son, Brian, a teena
ger, and a guy he was here with in his late thirties.”

  No one had seen them. They were not in the first-aid station. An all-building page turned up nothing. Turner, Fenwick, and the head of security stood in the main foyer of the building. A commotion broke out at the gate twenty feet from them.

  “Ben,” Paul called as he ran toward his lover.

  Ben had blood on his face and hands.

  “What happened? Where’s Brian?”

  “In the car. Unconscious. I couldn’t get in. He wanted to drive. Took his car. He’s got the keys.”

  “Where?”

  Ben staggered out the door. He pointed toward the west parking lot. “Row six or seven across the street.”

  Paul ran across the well-lit parking lot. He thought he heard people behind him. He nearly tripped on the curb on the far side of the street. His eyes desperately scanned the thousands of cars for his son’s. He turned down row six and slowed slightly. A security guard ran up next to him.

  “You see the car?” the guard asked.

  Paul shook his head. He ran a few more steps. “There,” he shouted. He raced toward his son’s car. It was parked at an odd angle. His son was sprawled in the back seat. Brian didn’t move.

  Paul pulled out his keys, unlocked the front door, flipped the switch to unlock all the doors, wrenched open the back door, and grabbed his son. He felt the strong pulse at the throat. He was alive, but tears came anyway.

  Brian had nasty scrapes on the left side of his face and on both hands. Paul held him and tried to revive him, but had no luck. Paramedics arrived quickly. Brian revived after a few seconds of oxygen. He lay on the gurney holding his dad’s hand and looking bewildered.

  Paul let the paramedics work but stayed next to his son. After a few minutes Brian sat up. He held his head with both hands and bent over.

  “Are you okay?” Paul asked.

  “My head feels like shit, but I think I’m all right.”