Another Dead Teenager

by Mark Richard Zubro

  One paramedic said, “He might have a concussion. You should probably take him to a hospital.”

  “What happened?” Paul asked.

  “A security guard gave me a message from you.”

  “I sent no message.”

  “He said you wanted me to meet you out front. I said I’d go get Ben, but the guard said it was urgent and he’d tell him, and we could meet out front.”

  Fenwick, hovering nearby, said, “I’ll go talk to security.” He hurried off.

  Brian continued, “I got outside, but nobody was here. I thought of going back in, but I figured maybe you’d pull up in an unmarked car, so I walked toward the street.”

  Brian took a deep breath. “When I got to the curb, a car pulled out of the far end of the parking lot and started driving down the street. He was going pretty fast, but I didn’t think anything of it until he swerved toward me. I leaped sideways as the car jumped the curb. It was a little higher than whoever it was thought, because the car thumped and swerved sideways, or he’d have hit me. Then he backed off and tried to hit me again. I was running by that time. I headed into the middle of the cars, away from the street. I didn’t run back to the building because there was nothing but open space between me and it. Guy would have had a clear shot at me.

  “I dodged between cars. He tried ramming a few. I jumped up on the hood of one. He was smart. He smashed into the one I was jumping toward. He moved it enough that I mistimed my leap. I fell between the cars and bashed my head. I was really groggy. I thought if I could get to our car, I could drive away. Nobody was around. Everybody was inside for the game. I ran across the street while he was trying to get out of that part of the parking lot. I was having trouble focusing for a while. He almost got me on this side of the street. It was like dodge-’em cars at a carnival. I don’t know how I got in the back seat. I remember getting inside and locking all the doors. He backed up and came at the car as hard as he could. I must have hit my head again. I don’t know why he didn’t get out of his car and come after me.”

  Several blue and white Chicago police cars had shown up by now, along with the head of security, as well as a small crowd.

  Paul stood next to his son. Ben, who’d been quietly standing on the other side of Brian, said, “I can fill that in a little. When Brian didn’t come back from the john for a long time, I got uneasy. I went to look for him. Through the doors I saw Brian run across the street.”

  The head of security said, “My people saw something wrong. Thought it was a couple of teenagers screwing around. They weren’t fast enough to get out here to help. When they heard cars getting smashed, they moved pretty quick.”

  “I got there first,” Ben said. “As I got near Brian’s car, this guy pulled out and tried to hit me. I fell and banged my head against the pavement and scraped my hands like Brian.”

  Fenwick walked up. He said, “They’re checking again, but no message came through security central for Brian.”

  “It was the killer,” Turner said. “What did the guy look like who gave you the message?”

  “Shorter than me. Chubby. A guard-type uniform.” Brian looked at one of the nearby guards. “Didn’t look like his.”

  “Probably fake,” Fenwick said.

  Brian continued, “Official-looking hat on his head. Long black hair. Big bushy mustache. Glasses.”

  “I didn’t get a look at him behind the headlights,” Ben said.

  “What kind of car was it?” Turner asked.

  Fenwick interrupted, “We got a report of an abandoned wreck a block and a half from here. I talked to one of the cops. No license plates. No current registration. We’ll impound. Try for fingerprints.”

  Paul insisted on a stop at the hospital for Brian and Ben, although both said it wasn’t necessary. In a mercifully brief time, they confirmed that Brian’s concussion was very minor, but that he should take it easy for a few days.

  At home Paul examined every room in the house carefully before allowing anyone inside. He hurried over to Mrs. Talucci’s to retrieve Jeff. He told her the news and ran back.

  Fenwick said, “I’ve got uniformed cops on the way.”

  “Is there going to be shooting, Dad?” Jeff asked.

  “No, son. We’re just being careful.”

  Ben stood quietly in the background.

  Brian said, “Jose was in the article, too.”

  “We’ve got to warn them,” Paul said.

  “I can do that,” Brian said.

  “No. It should be somebody from the police. We’ll stop before we go back to the station. We’ve got to follow this lead. The boys will be safe here after protection arrives.”

  “I can stay the night,” Ben offered.

  “Thanks,” Paul said. “Even with cops nearby, I’d prefer to have somebody they know around. We can stop at Jose Martin’s on our way back.”

  “I want to go with you,” Brian said.

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “You’ve never met Jose’s dad,” Brian said. “I can help talk to him with you. I’d like to be there when you tell Jose. He’s my friend. If we’re in danger….”

  “We should send uniforms to cover their house until we get there,” Fenwick said.

  “I want you here, son,” Paul said. “We’d have to make a trip back just to drop you off.”

  “Dad, I really think I should be there.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because….” Brian hesitated.

  “It’ll be fine,” Paul said.

  “Dad….” Brian began another protest, but shrugged his shoulders and stopped abruptly. He looked confused and upset. Paul could see his son wanted to make more objections. He couldn’t figure out what the big deal was about Brian wanting to go.

  “It’s nearly midnight,” Fenwick said. “Should we call ahead?”

  “They go to bed early,” Brian said.

  “If we’re going to wake them out of a sound sleep, we should be there to explain it and not try talking over the phone and then showing up. Let’s just go.”

  Uniformed cops in a squad car took up their post outside the house. Brian gave his dad Jose’s address. After assuring Jeff he would not be able to see gunfire if he stayed awake, they left.

  They found the tiny bungalow on Hubbard Street two blocks east of Western Avenue. A postmidnight hush enveloped the well-lit, tree-lined street. They found two cops sitting in a squad car at the curb.

  “Anything?” Turner asked them after introductions were over.

  “Couldn’t be quieter. What’s going on?”

  “Connected to the Goldstein murder,” Fenwick said.

  “Wow,” one of the uniforms said. “Anything we can do?”

  “We’ll try and set up people to watch here all night. Tomorrow we’ll figure out a better situation.”

  They turned from the car and walked up the cement walk. The well-trimmed grass was still green from the recent rains and unseasonable warmth. Turner and Fenwick wore only sport coats in the mid-sixties weather.

  The embankment for the Northwestern Train tracks loomed behind the house. No lights were on inside. Turner rang the bell and banged on the front door several times before he saw lights turn on through a curtained window on their left. For a minute he thought maybe they should have called ahead.

  The porch light flicked on and a voice called through the door, “Who is it?”

  “Paul Turner, Brian Turner’s dad. I’m a police officer. It’s important, Mr. Martin. We have to talk to you.”

  The door opened several inches. Realizing he’d never met Mr. Martin, Turner pulled out his identification and held it up. No lights shone in the space immediately behind the man, and the outside bulb only illuminated the bottom half of the doorway. Turner couldn’t get a good look at Martin’s face.

  “What’s this about?” Mr. Martin asked. He made no move to open the door any further.

  “We think Jose is in danger,” Turner said. “We’d like to explain what’s wron
g.”

  “He’s here. He’s not in danger.”

  “What is it, Will?” Turner recognized Jose’s voice from deeper in the house. He didn’t know any kids who called their parents by their first names, but he ignored the slightly jarring note. He didn’t care about their family relationships. He just wanted to warn them and get back to Area Ten headquarters.

  He saw the face he could barely make out turn away. He heard Mr. Martin’s muffled voice, “Police. I might have to let them in. Go put some clothes on.” The face turned back to them.

  “We’ve got a squad out here all ready, and we’ve got back-up protection coming,” Turner said.

  “We haven’t done anything wrong,” Mr. Martin said.

  “I know you haven’t. We have reason to believe your son is in danger. Can we come in?” A timely warning was turning into a hassle. He wondered why.

  Lights flicked on in the living room and the door slowly eased open. The room they entered was painted white. A thirty-five-inch-screen television sat in one corner. Individual pieces of a complete set of brown leather-covered living-room furniture were backed against three walls: a couch, love seat, and two reclining chairs. The rug was off-white and spotless. One wall was devoted to sports trophies on rows of bookshelves. Another had a twenty-by-thirty-inch painting of an autumn scene in a mountain valley. A third had a poster of an athletic-looking man’s bare chest and jean-clad hips. He was holding a baby against his chest—a young father with a newborn. On top of the television was an eighteen-by-twenty-four-inch black and white picture of Mr. Martin and his son, their faces close together and smiling. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders. Behind them was a crowd in front of a float from a parade.

  Turner and Fenwick sat on the chairs. Mr. Martin sat on the couch. He wore gray knit pants and a plain white T-shirt. He hadn’t put on shoes or socks. His bushy, inch-thick mustache seemed an odd contrast to the burr-cut hair on his head. On his upper arm he had a tattoo that was half covered by the T-shirt. Turner couldn’t make out what it was.

  Wearing jeans, white socks, and a baggy sweatshirt, Jose entered the room and sat next to his dad. He greeted Turner courteously.

  Turner immediately noticed that while Jose’s skin was dusty gold, his dad’s was bright pink. The father’s frame was bulky but not fat, and gave no hint of the lean strength of the son. Turner wondered about the difference, but both father and son were looking at him with puzzled expressions waiting for an explanation of this late night intrusion. Turner noted that Mr. Martin’s right hand held the left rigidly. He did not wear a wedding ring.

  Turner explained about the case and the possibility of there being danger for Jose.

  “We don’t want trouble,” Mr. Martin said when he finished.

  “We think we should leave some uniformed officers outside for tonight and then they can set up a detail at the school tomorrow,” Turner said. “We can figure out what to do on a more regular basis after that.”

  “How long is this going to last?” Martin asked.

  “As long as it takes to catch the killer,” Fenwick said.

  “We don’t want to bother the police,” Martin said.

  “It’s not a bother and the danger is real,” Turner said.

  “I don’t know,” Martin said. “Didn’t sound like you really had a lot of information to go on. Aren’t you overreacting a little bit?”

  Martin’s voice was gruff and unyielding. Turner wondered what the problem was.

  “Not if there’s a possibility my son is in danger,” Turner said.

  “Will…, Dad,” Jose said. “It’ll be okay. They’ll catch the guy and everything will be fine.”

  Martin looked doubtful. “I can protect my kid myself.”

  “Eventually you’ll have to go to work,” Fenwick said.

  “The cops can’t protect him forever either,” Martin countered. “You’ll be lucky to get much support now. You can’t stay for days, weeks, and months.”

  “We can get protection for the immediate problem,” Turner said. “We might be able to get some of the task force people freed up. The only permanent solution is catching the killer. Until then, we’ll think of something.”

  “I don’t know,” Martin said.

  “Dad,” Jose said. “It’ll be fine.”

  “The cops won’t need to come in the house?” Martin asked.

  “No,” Turner said.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  A few minutes of discussion of logistics followed, then the detectives left.

  “That was odd,” Fenwick said in the car.

  “You mean odd-funny or odd-illegal?”

  “I’m not sure. Something didn’t sit right.”

  “It was strange all right, although, think about it. You get woken up out of a sound sleep and given the news that your kid is in danger, it can throw you,” Turner said.

  “I suppose they aren’t the first father and son not to look much alike,” Fenwick said.

  “Didn’t look alike at all,” Turner said.

  “Maybe he’s adopted.”

  “Possible.”

  “And where’s the mother?”

  “I’ll have to ask Brian. I don’t know these people. I kind of like Jose, but I’m sure I’ve never seen his dad at any of their games. That burr-cut head is noticeable on top of that bushy mustache.”

  “I don’t like kids who call their parents by their first names,” Fenwick said. “Always sounds wrong to me when I hear it. I guess I’m old-fashioned. The tattoo was closer to you. What was it?”

  “Couldn’t tell. You know that picture on the television was odd, too. Not sure why.”

  “Odd how?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got to think about it.”

  “They probably took a photo and had it blown up,” Fenwick said.

  “Yeah, but there was something about it.” Turner shrugged.

  By 1:00 A.M. they were on the fourth floor of Area Ten headquarters with half the crew from the task force still working. They pored over cases involving fatal accidents, suicides, or murders that had any connection to kids who played sports and had had articles written about them. It was late now for getting much information, but they could talk to police departments in the larger cities. Coroners and medical examiners would have to wait until the morning.

  “We got the background on that football player, Waverly?” Fenwick asked Blessing.

  “Yeah. He was in Seattle in 1985 in college when the killing in Spokane occurred.”

  “Close enough,” Fenwick said.

  “And in 1991 for the Odessa, Texas, killing he was trying to make it onto a pro team practicing in New England somewhere.”

  “Not close,” Turner said.

  “I want more information on him,” Fenwick said. “Anything you can find.”

  Around two, Fenwick asked, “Are we going to start calling the families of these more likely cases?”

  “I’m not sure for what,” Turner said.

  “More data? Facts missing from these reports. If these were murders and not accidents, they were never asked all the questions we need answered.”

  “I’m not sure I’d want to open up some of these old wounds over the phone. We wouldn’t be able to prove we’re cops. I’d rather do it in person with valid identification and maybe a local cop or two to smooth the way.”

  “We aren’t going to be able to travel around the country on the strength of the evidence we’ve got so far.”

  “We better wait on calls to the families,” Turner said. “If it becomes necessary, we can do it. When we call the local papers today, we should get more information.”

  “Better make sure the callers know what questions to ask.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a list of instructions for what I want them to find out.”

  Blessing came over to them. “I’ve got to get some sleep,” he said.

  “We’ve got another box of articles to go through from the library,” Turner said. “We
’re going to stick with it. I want to start making calls as soon as we can in the morning. We’ve been concentrating west of the Mississippi because of what we’ve got so far.”

  “You’ve got some in the East,” Blessing said.

  “Not as many,” Fenwick said.

  Blessing shook his head. “I gotta sleep. I’ll be back by ten.”

  Turner and Fenwick pored over the copies of articles in the last box for another hour.

  “This better be all of it,” Fenwick said.

  “Should be. We’ve got the accident, suicide, or murder reports on every kid that an article appeared on in seven major papers since 1985. I hope by noon we can have all of the data on the computers and we’ll have new stuff from more phone calls.”

  “If we’re lucky.”

  “Yeah. Brian’s in danger and I’m going to solve this.”

  “We’ll work it out,” Fenwick assured him.

  Too exhausted to keep their eyes open, they left a little after three. Paul crawled into bed next to Ben and immediately dropped off to sleep.

  He awoke at seven. After a shower, he arrived downstairs to find Ben fixing bacon and eggs at the stove, and Jeff with his nose in a book at the kitchen table. He heard Brian’s footsteps upstairs hurrying from bathroom to bedroom as he finished dressing.

  “You ever going to get some sleep, Dad?” Jeff asked.

  “I got a few hours last night. Maybe later this week, I hope.” Paul hugged Jeff and then Ben.

  Brian thudded downstairs and hurried into the kitchen. “What’s going on, Dad?” he asked. “What happened at Jose’s?” He pulled a pineapple and a cantaloupe out of the refrigerator. He grabbed a knife from the dish drainer in the sink, sat at the kitchen table, and began cutting into the fruit. Paul took some newspapers off the chair near the back door and put them under where Brian was cutting.

  “You feeling okay?” Paul asked.

  “I’m fine. A little sore, maybe. It’s nothing.”

  Paul told Brian about meeting Jose and his dad.

  “So everything went okay?” Brian asked after Paul finished.

  “Yeah, shouldn’t it have?” Paul asked.

  “Sure,” Brian said. “Is it okay for Jose to come over and study tonight? We’ve got a big final on Great Expectations tomorrow. We want to go over our notes.”