Another Dead Teenager

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “You actually read the book?”

  “Both of us did. Jose really liked it. He says he’s going to be an English major in college.”

  “Good for him. Yeah, he can come over and study,” Paul said. “We’ve got security for both of you set. You’ve met Jose’s dad, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Brian managed to imbue this monosyllable with more teenage annoyance than Paul had heard from his son in two years.

  “Is there a problem?” Paul asked.

  “No.”

  Extremely wary and as alert as he could be on less than four hours’ sleep, Paul asked questions carefully. “His dad struck me as kind of gruff and unpleasant,” he said.

  “I don’t think he likes people. The guys don’t go to Jose’s house much. I’ve only been a few times. Mostly we stay in the rec room in the basement. We try not to bother his dad.”

  “Jose seemed to like him.”

  “They get along great.”

  “Jose calls his dad by his first name?”

  “I guess he does.”

  “Either you know or you don’t,” Paul said.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard him call his dad by his first name. Why are you questioning me?”

  “You’re handier than Jose or his dad. Am I missing something? All my cop instincts tell me something’s not right here. Are you hiding something?”

  “I’m not lying about anything.”

  “Not lying is one thing. Holding back information is another. What’s wrong between Jose and his dad?”

  “Nothing. They get along fine.”

  “I didn’t see his mother last night.”

  “Oh.”

  “Not ‘oh.’ Do you know anything about his mother?”

  “She hasn’t been around for years. Jose never sees her.”

  “Jose doesn’t look much like his dad. Do you know if he’s adopted?”

  “He’s not adopted.”

  Paul tried to catch his son’s gaze, but Brian concentrated on peeling and chopping and not looking directly at his dad.

  “I’ve never noticed Mr. Martin at a game,” Paul said.

  “Maybe he’s shy or he doesn’t like football?”

  “When his son is the star quarterback and had his picture on the front page of the sports section of the Chicago Tribune, you’d think he’d crow about it. I did.”

  “I don’t know why he acts the way he does. Maybe you should ask him.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  Heavy amounts of teenage exasperation had been creeping into Brian’s tone. “I don’t know what’s going on, okay? I don’t know anything about the two of them or….” Brian stopped.”

  “The two of them or what?”

  Brian finished slicing the pineapple and cantaloupe, threw out the dregs, took out dishes, and placed servings for four on the table. Ben silently served the eggs and bacon. The four of them began to eat.

  “The two of them or what?” Paul reiterated.

  Brian shrugged his broad shoulders and twisted his head as far as he could left and right. He stood up, got himself a glass, opened the refrigerator, and poured himself cold bottled water. He guzzled it for several seconds.

  “Look, Brian,” Paul said. “You guys are in danger and I need to know as much as possible. Even the smallest thing could be important. A dangerous killer could be after you.”

  “It has nothing to do with the killings or any danger.”

  “So there is something.”

  Brian sat back down. “I hate when you question me like you’re a cop.”

  “You only hate it when you’ve done something wrong. Have you done something wrong?”

  “No. And neither has Jose or his dad.”

  “Then why won’t you tell me about it?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Paul stopped himself from slamming his fork down on the table. Paul and Brian were closer than most fathers and sons. Paul had always attributed it to that fact that he’d told Brian about his sexual orientation when the boy was eight years old. He didn’t think Brian understood it completely then, but he was glad he had told him at that age. Early on he’d been able to resolve questions and confusions about a father who was different. Plus he’d always tried reason with his sons rather than angry commands for resolving difficulties. Paul was exhausted from the lack of sleep and the long days he’d been putting in. He didn’t know if he had the patience left to dredge up a reasonable response to his son’s comment. He shut his eyes, rubbed his fingers against his eyelids, then placed his hands flat on the table top and looked at Brian, whose fists were clenched. Brian shook his head back and forth and refused to raise his eyes to meet his father’s.

  Ben reached across the table and placed his hand gently on Paul’s forearm. Paul glanced at the concern in his lover’s eyes. He drew a deep breath.

  Paul said, “I’ve always been honest with you, Brian. You’ve always been honest with me. When haven’t I tried to understand? You know I always listen. It really hurts that you would say that to me. That really bothers me. Do you actually think there is something you would tell me that I wouldn’t try to understand?”

  “Do you want me to leave?” Ben asked.

  Without removing his gaze from Brian’s downturned face, Paul said softly, “It’s all right. Please stay.”

  Jeff stared at the adults and his older brother. Paul saw moisture gathering in his eyes. Paul couldn’t remember this kind of all-out fight with his teenage son.

  Jeff whispered, “Please don’t fight.”

  Paul placed a hand on his younger son’s arm. “Everything’s going to be all right,” he murmured. He looked at Brian, who was staring at his younger brother.

  Brian hung his head for a minute. He didn’t look up as he began to speak. “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean…. It’s just you’re a cop and…. Ah, nuts!” Brian picked up his fork and began fiddling with it. “I’m really sorry about what I said. I know I can trust you more than any guy I know can trust his dad. I was frustrated.” Brian finally raised his eyes and looked at his dad. “I’m really sorry, honest.”

  Paul put his arm on Brian’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m real tired. Maybe I’m pushing too hard, but I’m concerned about you.”

  “I understand,” Brian said.

  “They aren’t doing something illegal, like drugs?”

  “No, Dad. None of the guys I hang out with would do that stuff. One of the guys at the party…. I made one of them leave because he brought drugs.”

  “Good.” Paul didn’t mention he’d guessed as much.

  “You don’t want to know who?”

  “If you want to tell me, and it’s important.”

  “No. It’s okay.”

  Paul said, “We’re losing the main topic here, which is Jose and his dad.”

  Brian set the fork down. “I promised I’d never tell. It doesn’t have anything to do with any killing. You just said that if it was important about the kid at the party, it was my choice on telling you. If we’re going to trust each other, it’s got to be about things we do tell and the stuff we don’t.”

  Paul held his elder son’s gaze. “I have a killer to catch. I have you to protect. You’re asking me to accept your judgment.”

  “You have in the past.”

  “I don’t know if anything has been as dangerous as this.”

  “Depends on how much of an adult you think I am. You’ve talked to me like an equal for a long time. I like our relationship, especially when I see a lot of the other guys having fights with their parents. I don’t ever want to fight with you. I don’t want to keep secrets from you. This is not my secret to tell. Dad, ask Jose, or Mr. Martin, okay? Say the things you’ve said to me to them. Honest, Dad, the secret can’t have anything to do with the murders, but ask Jose, ask Mr. Martin. Please, Dad, not me.”

  If the secret did have something to do with the killing and Paul missed it because he trusted his boy,
he’d have to justify that to his conscience for a long time, especially if any harm came of it to his own son.

  “He’ll be here tonight. You can ask him then.”

  Paul agreed reluctantly.

  “You going to warn him I’m going to talk to him tonight?” Paul asked.

  “Not if you don’t want me to.”

  “Don’t,” Paul said. “Please.”

  His son agreed.

  Eight

  Turner drove back to Area Ten headquarters through a cool swirling breeze which held the first puffs of winter. He found Fenwick examining the crime scene photos on the corkboard on the fourth floor. Fenwick had on a clean shirt and was freshly shaved.

  “Anything new?” Turner asked.

  “I’m more tired than ever,” Fenwick said. He handed Turner some forms.

  “What’s this?”

  “Previous owners of all the buildings in a three-block radius of the warehouse. No names of anybody we questioned so far. Couple of corporations I’ve got uniforms checking out.”

  Turner picked up a manila envelope from a stack of twenty. He opened it. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Pictures of Waverly and a select group of nobodies to bring around to everybody we talked to.”

  It was more efficient than lineups to bring groups of photos around to witnesses for possible identification. Real lineups would follow positive responses from any witnesses. This would be a preliminary stage. Turner and Fenwick plus other members of the task force would show them around today.

  The commander appeared at the top of the stairs and hurried over to them. He spoke without preamble. “You ever hear of a Peter Volmer, all-state soccer star the past two years? Got scholarships to half a dozen universities?”

  “Don’t follow soccer much,” Turner said.

  Poindexter said, “They did a big spread on him in the Tribune a month ago.”

  “He’s dead,” Fenwick said.

  “Call came in a few minutes ago from Millwood, a village in Kane County. If your theory is right, we’ve got another one. We better think about notifying every kid who’s had his name in the paper in the metropolitan area.”

  “As soon as possible,” Turner said.

  “I’ll work on it while you’re gone,” Poindexter said.

  “They expecting us in Millwood?” Fenwick asked.

  Poindexter nodded.

  In the old part of Millwood they found a rambling Victorian mansion surrounded by a plethora of emergency vehicles. They identified themselves to the cops outside, then entered onto gleaming hardwood floors and the sounds of incredible shrieking.

  Their contact was Detective Smithers. He was about five feet five and slender. He wore a brown suit the same color as his mustache. Introductions over, he beckoned them into an alcove to the right of the front door.

  Smithers shook his head. “Hear that?”

  Turner and Fenwick nodded.

  “The mother. Got home fifteen minutes ago. She and the husband had a breakfast political meeting. Left this morning at six. Their kid was alive.”

  “What happened?”

  “Worst I’ve ever seen.” He led them to a set of double doors and pushed them further open.

  If it had been their first homicide, Turner and Fenwick would have gasped and one or both would have run to the washroom to lose their breakfast.

  From a chandelier in the middle of a two-story foyer/living room hung a naked body. Thick ribbons of flesh and muscle hung from great gashes in the torso and every limb. Some of the cuts had gone deep enough and several of the gouges were sufficiently wide to reveal bones and organs inside. An enormous pool of blood covered a white and purple Persian rug. In the middle of the blood was a pair of briefs completely soaked in blood.

  Smithers turned away.

  Fenwick muttered in Turner’s ear, “Let’s have another one, just like the other one.”

  Turner barely kept his composure.

  Smithers said, “My boss will be here soon. I’ve never handled anything like this.”

  Since this was Kane County, the people who examined the crime scene were unfamiliar to Turner and Fenwick. After the Chicago detectives were introduced, and explanations given for their presence, Turner and Fenwick described what they had found so far.

  “You really think that’s the solution?” a tanned male in his early thirties asked.

  “Best we’ve got,” Fenwick said. “What do you have?”

  “We’re just starting.”

  “What happened to him?” Fenwick asked.

  “Didn’t die from being hung. That just kept him in place while the killer worked. Only blood in the house is on the rug here. I think it was the cut that sliced his back nearly in half that actually killed him. Won’t know for sure until I get him to the lab. Tape around ankles and wrists kept him immobile.”

  “Who called it in?” Turner asked.

  “Friend who was supposed to pick him up for school walked in.”

  “He had a key?”

  “Don’t lock up much out here.”

  “So that’s how the killer got in.”

  “No forced entry evident.”

  “Any struggle in the house?”

  “His bedroom’s a mess.”

  “What’d the parents say?”

  “Mom hasn’t stopped shrieking. Dad keeps mumbling, ‘We were so happy.’ Have to wait a while on them.”

  “She’s running for Congress from this district,” Smithers said.

  “Anything on the friend who found him?”

  “In total shock. Can barely talk. They were best friends since kindergarten.”

  “What about the dead boy? Good kid? Creep?”

  “I knew him,” Smithers said. “I coached him on his little league team years ago. Nicest, most polite kid you’d ever want to meet. Town made a big thing out of it when he got the big write-up in the Tribune.”

  “Killer here used several different knives. Cuts are different sizes. No hacking or sawing. Really sharp knives. From the angle I’d say killer was probably right-handed.”

  “Neighbors see anything?”

  “Canvass of the immediate neighbors is done. We have to get back to the ones who weren’t home. So far only one person saw anything unusual. Pickup truck in the driveway about six-thirty. Didn’t see anybody. Might have been new. Was not a dark color.”

  Turner told them about the three different descriptions they’d gotten so far on vehicles.

  “At least it was a truck,” Fenwick said. “Closest we’ve had to a match so far.”

  They asked them to check to see if the boy’s testicles were crushed.

  As he drove back to Chicago, Fenwick asked, “Is this our killer?”

  “I hate the goddamn MOs being different.”

  “We may have a very, very smart serial killer. Maybe he read all the books that are out about organized and disorganized killers and patterns of behavior.”

  “It’d have to be three in this area in less than a week. Why kill one in random cities over a number of years and then increase it here?”

  “We don’t know how many he’s killed here or anywhere else.”

  “He’s gone crazier? That’s part of the profile. They do more and more. Isn’t it supposed to be the more they do, the more they want to get caught?”

  “Think so,” Fenwick said.

  “That could have been my boy,” Turner said. “Maybe the killer got frustrated because of his failure last night and this is the result. My boy is alive and this kid is dead.”

  “Only thing we can do is focus on catching the guy before he tries again.”

  “Or before he flees the area. Anything here help us catch our guy?”

  “Says he might still be in the area.”

  “We better contact the media damn quick.”

  “There’ll be plenty of them around the station. Better see what the Commander’s come up with first.”

  Before returning to the station, they made three sto
ps to show their photo lineup. The fast-food worker at McDonald’s said flat out no, none of them was the guy. At the school of the kid who had found the body, each boy frowned seriously. Two picked out cops who’d been on duty that night.

  Last, they stopped at the new fitness center down from where they found Jake Goldstein’s body.

  Drew Riley let them in.

  “Thought you might be working on the north side today,” Turner said.

  “My day off. Just finished fixing up a room in the back where I can live. I shower and shave at the health club.”

  He looked carefully at all the photos. “Nobody I recognize. Is one of them the killer?”

  “We don’t know,” Fenwick said. “Could any of them be the person you saw in the car that night?”

  Riley hesitated over Waverly’s photo.

  The cops waited patiently.

  Finally Riley shook his head. “No, none of these.”

  “You hesitated on one of them,” Fenwick said.

  “I don’t want to say unless I’m absolutely certain.”

  It was no good to press him. You don’t put a witness on the stand who isn’t absolutely certain, but Turner and Fenwick’s level of suspicion about Waverly rose another notch.

  The media frenzy outside Area Ten headquarters was incredible. The sea of reporters swamped their car as they came to a halt.

  “Why couldn’t we have an early season ten-inch snowfall?” Fenwick asked. “That would get their butts out of here, or I could put the car in reverse and there would be lots of new openings in journalism for hardworking college kids.”

  Suddenly Fenwick rammed open his car door. People jumped back and a ripple effect opened a small path for a few seconds. Turner shoved open his door.

  They heard, “Is this new killing connected? What are the police going to do? Are all the departments cooperating? Why wasn’t this killing prevented? Is the mayor going to intervene?”

  Side by side, slowly, carefully, and silently, Turner and Fenwick made their way into the station.

  The commander met them on the first floor. “We’re having another press conference.”

  “I’ll never keep my temper,” Fenwick said.

  “You’re not going to be here.” The commander motioned them over to a corner away from the admitting desk. “You’re going to Kenitkamette. One of the high school kids, Arnie Pantera, is confessing.”