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  “The one holding me said, ‘This is your last look at happiness.’ The other raised the gun. Aimed. The silencer muffled the noise. The bullet …” He stopped for several moments. “I struggled mightily. I tried to cry out. The one holding me squeezed my throat tight enough so that I passed out. The last thing I remember him saying is ‘Sorry now, aren’t you?’ They left enough life in me so I could come back to this horror.”

  “We’re sorry for your loss,” Turner said.

  The man nodded. Turner and Fenwick waited for him to regain control.

  Finally Fenwick asked, “You’re sure he said, ‘Sorry now, aren’t you’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would he say that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you tell us more about your attackers?” Fenwick asked.

  The reverend looked at Fenwick through bleary eyes. “It all happened so quickly,” he said.

  “Were they white, black, Hispanic?” Turner asked.

  “White, I think. They had masks on. It was hard to tell much about them.”

  “Do you remember anything about what they wore? Jogging outfits or dress clothes?”

  “They wore street clothes. I think one wore dress pants, the others jeans. I think they had on sport coats. Dark colored. I don’t remember.”

  “Shoes?”

  “I didn’t notice. Most of the time I was looking at Christina and talking or listening to her.”

  “Even the smallest thing,” Turner prompted. “Maybe the color of hair?”

  Mucklewrath thought a minute. “No. Sorry. I didn’t pay attention.”

  Turner knew the answer to the next question, but he knew he had to ask it anyway. “Reverend, do you have any enemies?”

  Bruce Mucklewrath’s answer to such a question could have filled a Chicago telephone book, white and yellow pages combined. Time magazine had done a cover story about the death threats that became a central theme of the Reverend’s California campaign. He’d viciously attacked any group even slightly to the left of his own positions.

  The preacher said, “Doing the Lord’s work can cause unreasoning hatred in those who haven’t yet seen the light.”

  The sanctimoniousness of the reply grated on Turner’s nerves, but he didn’t let this show as he said, “I meant anyone in particular. Any specific threats?”

  “No. None. I can’t believe anyone would do such a thing.”

  They asked numerous other questions, but got no further information. Fenwick said, “That’s all for now, Reverend. It we think of anything, we’ll get in touch.”

  “Catch them, punish them. I can feel the Lord calling for vengeance.”

  They left after assuring him they’d do their best to catch the killers.

  “He’s gotta know more,” Fenwick said.

  “Give him time,” Turner said. “We can get an enemies list and check it to see if anybody’s in town. We can find out if anybody in Califorina’s got a comprehensive list of the threats, what they found, if anything. Let’s try the witnesses.”

  As they walked up the beach Turner was grateful for the coolness of the nearby water. He could feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

  Fenwick said, “I wonder if anybody on the Drive saw anything as they went by.”

  “The guardrail pretty much blocks the view,” Turner said, “and it’s over fifty feet away. Who’d be paying attention during rush hour? Probably nobody, but we’ll have to check it out, if we can.”

  “They must have been cool heads,” Fenwick said, “to try something this bold. How’d they know they wouldn’t be interrupted or chased? Their exits are limited. Up or down the beach, through the tunnel the way we came in, or a dash across six lanes of traffic on the Drive.” Fenwick paused. “Maybe they had a boat waiting,” he suggested.

  “Let’s try our witnesses,” Turner said.

  The meager group of four witnesses chatted sporadically with each other. A uniformed police officer hovered nearby so none of them would give in to the urge to walk off.

  The two women in their fifties, dressed in red shorts, walking shoes, and Chicago Bears T-shirts, and wearing Walkman radios, explained that they hadn’t heard or seen anything, but had come upon the unconscious reverend and tried to revive him. One woman had bright red hair that didn’t look dyed. The other had black hair that could only have come from a bottle and which she had tied back in a ponytail.

  “We didn’t see the body until a minute later,” the black-haired one said.

  “The sand kind of hid her,” said the red-haired one.

  “We were shocked. I never want to see such a thing again,” the first woman said.

  “Which way did you come from?” Turner asked.

  “Lake Point Towers,” said the redhead. They hadn’t passed anyone on their walk up from the south.

  Neither had approached the body. They hadn’t seen any boats in the water. After a few more questions, which elicited no further facts, Turner and Fenwick moved on to a young jogger who couldn’t have been much over eighteen. His blue and white Chicago Cubs T-shirt still clung to his torso in wet patches. His gauzy jogging shorts fit snugly around his ass and crotch. Paul doubted he wore a jockstrap, but thought he probably should have.

  The boy’s name was Frank Balacci. “I was jogging down from Fullerton. I saw the women and then I spotted something near the kids’ play area. I walked up to the body.” His face turned pale as it must have done at the time. “I didn’t get close, but near enough. I tossed my cookies into the lake. I left the body and came to help the women here. Then I ran to call the cops.” He hadn’t noticed anyone suspicious on his run from the north, definitely not three men together. He’d had a clear view of the lake as he jogged. “Definitely no boats around anywhere,” he told them.

  “That eliminates three directions,” Fenwick said as they turned to the last witness.

  This was a tall thin man with completely gray hair. Even on so warm a day, he wore a sweater and a white shirt buttoned to the collar. Two Afghan hounds sat placidly on either side of him, their leashes held firmly in his right hand. His lisp had to be practiced. Turner noted a large gap between the man’s upper two front teeth.

  “I’m a retired architect,” he explained. “I walk along here every morning at precisely this time. Look at the skyline behind you. I had a hand in designing a significant number of the buildings you are looking at. I own small portions of many of them.”

  His name was Alexander Polk and he’d seen something. “I’d just emerged from the underpass by Oak Street when these men walked past me. I knew something was furtive about them. They moved too fast to be out for a pleasant stroll. They weren’t dressed for jogging, and they weren’t any of the regulars down here. Very suspicious.” He’d paid them little heed after that. Polk could only tell the police he thought they all had dark hair and were white. He couldn’t remember the color of their clothes and hadn’t stopped to watch where they went. He hadn’t seen any others. Polk had then proceeded up the beach and come upon the scene as described by the others.

  None of the witness had seen anyone else. The beach, sparsely traveled at this hour on a weekday, didn’t lend itself to eyewitnesses; that was probably why the killers used this time to strike. After taking down the witnesses’ addresses, Turner and Fenwick told them they could go.

  Fenwick looked at the high-rises that lined Lake Shore Drive. He sighed despondently. “Maybe someone up there saw something.”

  “We’ll need to get some help canvassing all those places,” Turner said.

  The case sergeant, who rarely showed up at a crime scene, approached them from across the sand. Prominent people drew official concern the way shit draws flies. Turner treated each case the same, or as nearly as he could. He figured they were all crimes to be solved. It shouldn’t matter who was involved, whom he liked or disliked. He had a job to do.

  The sergeant looked concerned. This was the face he used when out in public where a report
er or a civilian might see him. He delayed their investigation with exhortations to work hard, cover all bases, interview everybody.

  With this rush of interest, Turner got him to commit an extra four people for the canvass of the high-rises.

  The crowd on the beach had been reduced to a few of the desperate or bored, hoping for some kind of excitement. By this time the pictures had been taken, the schematic drawing of the scene had been made, the fingerprints on the jungle gym had been lifted. A team of men working in large roped-off squares of beach carefully sifted through the sand hunting for any kind of evidence that might lead to the identity of the killers. They would be doing it for a fifty-foot radius around the scene. Turner didn’t think they’d find much.

  Turner tapped his pen on his standard-issue blue notebook. He’d set in clean paper this morning before he left. Seeing eight people grouped around the Reverend Mucklewrath, he nudged Fenwick, and they strolled over.

  The reverend stared fixedly at where police personnel worked around his daughter’s body.

  As they neared the group, Fenwick said, “This had to be extremely well planned, or these guys were really lucky. A jogger, a casual stroller, anybody could have come along and seen everything, or the good reverend is making the whole story up.”

  “I’d thought about that,” Turner said. “We’ll have to see, although our last witness confirms the three suspicious characters.”

  When they got within ten feet of Mucklewrath, a tall man in a dark-gray suit and tie left the crowd and walked to them. “I’m Dr. Hiram Johnson, the spokesperson for the Reverend Mucklewrath. If you need to know anything, I’ll be able to help.”

  Fenwick said, “We’ll need to talk to all the people staying with the Mucklewrath party.”

  Dr. Johnson patted the front of his buttoned suit coat. “It is much more normal for me to deal with the public and any questions.”

  Turner eyed the man’s bald head, which gleamed in the bright June sunlight. Johnson looked totally comfortable in his suit. Turner wished he could take off his own sport coat and loosen his tie, but especially take off his shoes and socks. He could feel the grit of the sand that had seeped into them.

  “Dr. Johnson,” Fenwick said, “this is a murder investigation. We talk to whoever we want whenever we need to.”

  Dr. Johnson did not become indignant as Turner expected. Instead he installed a bland unctuous look on his face. The man said, “I did not mean to imply that I was interfering. I simply meant to be as helpful as possible. Anyone in the Reverend Mucklewrath’s organization is ready to assist the police at this tragic moment.”

  “Where were you this morning, Dr. Johnson?” Fenwick asked.

  “In my hotel room. Making phone calls for the next cities the tour will be in. Setting up last-minute details.”

  “Can you provide us with a list of those calls?” Fenwick asked. They could get them from the hotel easily enough.

  “I’d be happy to, Officer.”

  By the time half Fenwick’s question was asked, Turner knew his partner didn’t like the guy either.

  If Dr. Johnson noticed, he didn’t let on.

  “Where are you all staying?” Fenwick asked finally.

  Johnson pointed across Lake Shore Drive to a building several doors down from the Drake Hotel. “We have several suites at the Oak Street Arms, all interconnected.”

  “Do they look down on the beach here?” Fenwick asked.

  “Yes. And no, I didn’t happen to look out. As far as I know, no one did. We didn’t learn of this until a policeman came up a few minutes ago. We all rushed down here.”

  “Do you know who might have wanted to hurt the Reverend? Someone who held a grudge?” Fenwick asked.

  Dr. Johnson spread his hands out flat, palms up. He said, “The Reverend had many enemies. I’m sure we’ll have a statement available later. There are many servants of Satan who are capable of great evil.”

  Turner said, “I remember the Time magazine article on the threats in the Senate campaign. Can you tell us anything about them, especially if any new threats had been made in the past week or so?”

  “None that I know of. You’ll have to talk to Donald. He deals with the Reverend’s security.” They asked Johnson a few more questions, but he was no further help.

  Johnson beckoned over another man. He introduced him as Donald Mucklewrath, son of the preacher and head of security.

  Donald Mucklewrath wore an impeccable gray suit and a grave frown. He dismissed Johnson with a nod, then shook hands with both cops. The son had to be in his thirties.

  “We’re sorry about your sister’s death,” Turner said.

  “Thank you,” he said softly. Tears sprang from his redrimmed eyes.

  Fenwick said, “We realize this is a difficult time, but we need to check a few things with you. You didn’t happen to look out a window this morning and see anything?”

  “No. I usually sleep late. We don’t finish with the security checks after each prayer meeting until two or three in the morning. We’re very thorough. I didn’t know anything until your men came to the suite.”

  “How does the Reverend’s security work?” Turner asked.

  “Not good enough. If you don’t catch whoever did this, I’m sure there’ll be a network of righteous volunteers prepared to step forward to avenge my sister’s death.”

  “I meant,” Turner said, “the practical details. How many of you are there? That kind of thing.”

  The younger Mucklewrath told them that the permanent staff consisted of himself and three others. They worked in shifts, accompanying the Reverend on official business and always on the podium at his talks and prayer meetings. In each city they supplemented their numbers from among the faithful and sometimes the local police.

  Turner eyed him curiously. At about six feet, Donald Mucklewrath stood an inch or so taller than Turner. His blond hair was swept back from his face, ending in slight curls that stopped at the edge of his suit-coat collar. His suit didn’t try to hide his muscularity.

  Fenwick said, “What you’re saying is that normally someone would not accompany the Reverend and his daughter on a morning walk like this.”

  The younger Mucklewrath moved closer to them. Turner could smell the tang of recently used mint, probably toothpaste, on his breath. The son said, “My father wanted to live as normal a life as possible. He is one of the people. He thought going around with a security detail every minute offended the Lord. My father put his faith in God.”

  “Then what were you for?” Turner asked.

  “Satan can have human agents. Mostly I am in charge of sweeps of public places. We’ve had many bomb threats. We thoroughly examine every place the week before, then the day before, and then finally do a sweep just before my father starts to preach. Everyone who comes to one of my father’s prayer sessions has to pass through a metal detector. All packages are searched.”

  “‘Prayer sessions’?” Fenwick asked.

  “That’s what my father likes to call his meetings with his people and God.”

  “Do you find much in your searches?” Turner asked.

  “Seldom. Believers come to hear the word. His enemies stay away. Are you saved?”

  Fenwick raised an eyebrow. “We prefer to discuss what happened, Mr. Mucklewrath.”

  “Of course, but you should consider accepting Jesus Christ as your savior. It’s his guidance at times like this that helps one pull through.”

  Fenwick said through gritted teeth, “Does your father usually take walks in the morning?”

  “Not often, but Christina sometimes insisted and my father could seldom refuse a request of hers. He always said she was an angel sent from heaven.”

  “How old was Christina?” Turner asked.

  “Twenty-one next month. I’ll be thirty-two in a week. We were half-brother and sister. My father divorced my mother twenty-five years ago.”

  “Where is Christina’s mother?” Fenwick asked.

  “She d
ied in a plane crash fifteen years ago.”

  Turner asked. “Where is your mother?”

  “Who cares? She was an unbeliever. She turned on my father.”

  “And the current Mrs. Mucklewrath? The Reverend said—” Donald interrupted. “She’s back in California organizing part of Father’s next legislative agenda and several other matters. We called. She’s taking the family jet and will be here in a few hours.”

  The son knew of no specific new threats. “They happen a lot during the election campaign. There are always crazy people around. Those who do the Lord’s work are often hated.” He repeated Johnson’s promise of a statement later.

  “Had your father or your sister seemed more worried or fearful lately? Acted in any way unusual?” Fenwick asked.

  “My father fears no man or beast,” Donald said. “He’s been his usual self. No problems. Never happier. We’d prayed together as usual at dinner last night. He was looking forward to a successful run in Chicago. Soldier Field is sold out for the next seven nights.”

  Better than most rock concerts, Turner thought.

  Mucklewrath continued, “My sister has been in the best of spirits.”

  “Will the reverend still go on tonight?” Turner asked.

  “Yes, definitely. He will pray with his people for the soul of his daughter and the destruction of the evil seed who have spawned this hideous tragedy.”

  He had no further useful information for them.

  As they got in their squad car to drive off, Fenwick asked, “Do they always talk like they’re addressing the multitudes?”

  Turner said, “I don’t know. I’ve never been a multitude before.”

  TWO

  The ruts on Wells Street south of River city nearly ripped the guts out of their unmarked car. Fenwick’s tendency to drive twenty miles over the speed limit didn’t help. On principle, he refused to change his mode of driving to accommodate a road. They drove around a crew of city workers standing and staring at numerous potholes in the street, and almost tripped on a heap of new construction materials piled next to the steps leading into the station.