Sorry Now? Page 4

  The icy glare they got would have stopped a herd of stampeding mammoths in their tracks. She said, “The reverend loved his daughter.”

  Turner cleared his throat and asked, “About the threats during the senate campaign in California. We’ll need lists of names and organizations, anything you have.”

  “Unfortunately, none of that is available.”

  “You won’t let us have it?” Fenwick asked.

  “I’d be happy to give it to you. I’m saying it doesn’t exist. What records we kept were destroyed along with the other debris of the campaign.”

  “Don’t you want to catch the people who make the threats?” Turner asked.

  “What can such weak and mindless people do?” she asked.

  “Murder,” Turner said.

  For the first time her cold exterior contained a hint of doubt. “We don’t have them. Perhaps we should have saved them.”

  A few minutes later, having gained little information, they rose to leave. Gazing out the window, Turner saw the expanse of beach below. He said, “Anyone looking out the windows this morning could have seen it happen.”

  “As far as I know, Dr. Johnson and Donald were the only ones in the suite at that hour of the morning.”

  Turner and Fenwick would have to double-check that statement with the cops who had canvassed the building.

  Mrs. Mucklewrath led them back to the room in which they’d seen the others. The reverend stood between Donald and Johnson. He read them the paper in his hand, a press release:

  “I am widely hated. Civil libertarians, liberals, communists, anti-Americans, flag burners, criminals, anti-death penalty groups, people on welfare, perverts of every kind. The list is extensive. Those doing the Lord’s work must accept the burdens the Lord places on us. The greatest threat to my campaign comes from the godless infidels in San Francisco, my sworn enemies, who have tried to organize boycotts and demonstrations against me, who have tried to disrupt my campaigns and destroy me at every turn. There is where the world will find my daughter’s murderer.”

  Mrs. Mucklewrath said, “That will be released to the press immediately.”

  Donald let them out. As he did, they asked him if anyone else had been in the suite that morning. He told them no.

  In the elevator Fenwick said, “Hell of a statement.”

  “He’s not the first politician who tried to get election mileage out of bashing the gay community.”

  Downstairs Turner used the phone to call the police district. He wanted to know if any of the other tenants had seen anyone in the rooms or had seen anything suspicious.

  He got the squad room and talked to Carruthers. Before Turner could stop him, the overachiever smacked down the phone, after promising to run down to the front desk to see who had been in charge of talking to people at the Oak Street Arms.

  While Turner held his hand over the receiver, Fenwick said, “I vote Mrs. M. for the role of evil stepmother in any fairy tale.”

  Turner shrugged. “Death and grief can cause strange reactions.” He listened to distant noises in the station.

  Fenwick asked him what the hell was taking so long. Turner explained. “Double fuck” was what Fenwick said.

  Finally the answer came back: “Nobody saw anything suspicious.”

  “Did they talk to the help?” Turner asked.

  “They didn’t say.” Carruthers added, “You know you got a callback from that California cop? That Mrs. Mucklewrath you’re looking for? She’s in Chicago.”

  “We know. She flew in about an hour ago. We just talked to her.”

  “No, no,” Carruthers said. “This is the first Mrs. Mucklewrath, the first wife. She lives in Chicago.” Carruthers gave them the address.

  Turner extricated himself from the conversation a few minutes later. He and Fenwick found the hotel manager and told him they needed to talk to the employees who had any contact with the Mucklewraths.

  The manager, Boris Thatcher, a bald man with a minor scar where his harelip had once been, told them what Carruthers hadn’t been able to: that the police hadn’t interviewed all the help yet; they’d barely finished the guests. “They did tell me that they established that no one saw anyone except the reverend and his daughter enter or leave this morning.” The manager added, “Of course, no one was really watching, either. Anyone could have gotten in or out without being seen fairly easily.”

  Turner heard Fenwick heave a large sigh. Turner said, “For now we’d like to talk to any people who dealt with the Mucklewraths. People who served them meals, that kind of thing.”

  The manager returned from his office moments later with several lists of people on the shifts for the previous day. He cross-checked the names and jobs and came up with four people. “These are the two maids who would have cleaned their rooms, and these are the two room-service people who would have delivered to their floor, one from each shift last night and this morning.”

  They caught the two maids just as they were leaving for the day. The Mucklewraths had given no trouble. They’d seen nothing unusual or odd in the Mucklewrath party’s behaviors or routines. The maids were used to dealing with demanding guests. The Mucklewraths had been a pleasant change.

  Thatcher retrieved the addresses of the two room-service people. Turner and Fenwick stood in the lobby. “Do we see these two now, go talk to the first Mrs. Mucklewrath, or do callbacks?” Fenwick asked.

  “Let’s see if we can’t get the beat cops to do the callbacks.” Turner checked addresses. “They’re all the hell and gone over the city. Let’s try the ex-wife. She’s closest.”

  The heat blasted into them as soon as they left the building. Many times in summer a breeze from the lake saved at least some of the inhabitants of Chicago from the miseries of mind-numbing humidity. Not today. A strong south wind pumped cubic meters of warmth through the city and out over the lake.

  Mrs. Mucklewrath lived on School Street just west of Clark. The Cubs had a home game that afternoon, and Turner and Fenwick got caught in the after-game traffic. That they were traveling toward the park instead of away from it helped a little, but what normally would have been a ten-minute trip turned into a half hour of sweat-dripping frustration. “Why don’t they air-condition these cars?” Fenwick asked. Turner knew he didn’t expect an answer so didn’t give one.

  They found the address, a town house built within the past two or three years. Besides the numerous freshly painted and rehabbed homes, Wrigleyville had experienced a building boom in housing in the past few years.

  They parked in an alley. At the address they found a tiny gray-haired woman plucking weeds from a flowerbed in front of the house. In one hand she flourished a trowel, in the other she held an empty flowerpot.

  “Excuse me,” Turner said.

  The woman straightened up and looked at them. She wore a straw hat, a pair of begrimed work gloves, and a shirt that said MARIGOLD LANES on the back. She smiled at them.

  “We’re looking for Mrs. Mucklewrath,” Turner said.

  Her smile became broader. “That’s me.” She spoke in pleasing, mellow tones.

  They showed her their stars.

  She invited them into her home, and took them to a sparkling kitchen that overlooked a small backyard with a red brick patio lined with flower beds. After she made them iced tea they sat there in well-cushioned lawn chairs under the shade of an old elm that the builders had found no excuse to destroy.

  After they sat down she said, “You’re here because that poor child died. I heard it on the noon news.”

  The officers nodded.

  She spoke without prodding. “I’ve had very little to do with the reverend in nearly twenty years. I haven’t missed him. As a husband, he was ghastly. I still marvel that it took me so long to see through him.” She shook her head. They had divorced; the settlement left her with half of his property and wealth. “I’ve managed to live very comfortably because of him. I went back to school. I earned a library-science degree. I volunteer at the l
ocal branch a few times a week. I work in my garden. I’m quite content.”

  “Do you see your son?” Turner said.

  “Donald the disappointment? I saw him at the last hearing for the divorce when the decree became final.”

  “Why don’t you see him?” Fenwick asked.

  “It’s more that he doesn’t want to see me. I called him a hypocrite to his face. I brought him up as well as I could in the environment my husband set up. I had far too little influence. I don’t lecture the poor lad.” She gave a pleasant mirth-filled laugh. “I just tell him the truth about himself and his father. He doesn’t like to hear it.”

  “What truth?” Turner asked. He liked her.

  “That the good reverend is in it for the money. God, and the people, and his causes are nice, but it’s the amount of cash that comes in that counts. We managed to find many of the hidden bank accounts during the divorce proceedings. I suspect there are lots more.”

  “They hide money?” Fenwick asked.

  She leaned over and patted his knee gently. “Yes, dear. Do you still believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny? I married the man because he was the most handsome and eligible man in Enid, Oklahoma. About the only thing good that came out of the relationship was that he got me away from there. He’s got cash coming out of every orifice in his body and stuffed in any number of places. I read the papers. I’m sure the empire continues to grow. If he avoids any major foul-ups, he’ll be fine.”

  “Mrs. Mucklewrath, you mentioned the environment he created,” Turner said.

  “I went back to my maiden name,” she said. “Jill Fondell. Call me Jill.”

  Turner nodded.

  “You asked about environment?” She mused a moment, then her face darkened. She sat forward and spoke quickly and precisely. “Hate. Secrecy. Never trust a soul. Inform on your enemies. Always be suspicious. Above all, Mucklewrath is all-wise, all-seeing, all-good, all full of …” Her voice trailed off.

  “Are his employees loyal?”

  “You must have talked to some. How did they seem to you? Did you get an answer that was of any assistance in your work?”

  They shook their heads.

  She continued, “I felt very sorry for the daughter. I saw some of the publicity that they managed to get on the newscasts during his campaign six years ago. At every rally the high point was when he trotted out that family. At prayer meetings when Donald was little, he used to hold him on his shoulder at the end. I was so proud then. I’m sure he did the same with the daughter. While we were married, I’d go to every rally, appear on every TV show with him. I was his trophy, his prize.”

  She smiled and brushed back her gray hair. “Back then I was a size six and spent hours making myself beautiful.” She sighed. “You cannot imagine the atmosphere they create around themselves. They pray incessantly. They thank God if they walk through a patch of sunlight. They praise the Lord when the rain starts and when it stops. I doubt if as a little girl she had one minute to play. I doubt if she had any toys, or even a doll. At six years of age they had her on TV preaching! That takes intense coaching. Being perfect at that age must have been hell. Don’t be surprised if the solution to your murder is that they sacrificed her for the ultimate publicity coup of the good reverend’s career.”

  Turner asked. “You really think he’d murder his own daughter?”

  She considered this carefully before she answered. “He’s a bully and a coward in a lot of ways. I doubt if he could pull the trigger. Doesn’t mean somebody in the organization wouldn’t. You met the current wife?”

  They nodded.

  “I’ve met her twice. Lovely woman. I’d put my money on her.”

  “She wasn’t in town.”

  “She could order it done.”

  In the car Fenwick said, “Could she have done it?”

  “The embittered ex-wife?” Turner shrugged powerful shoulders, rotated his neck. “Maybe; I doubt it at the moment. At least she gave us some decent background.”

  “The whole crowd sounds like a bunch of double fucks. Who would do such things to their kids?”

  “Remember she hasn’t seen her own in years.”

  Cubs traffic had let up, but as they drove north to Rogers Park and their next interview they got caught in the heart of rush hour. There’d been a minor accident where Lake Shore Drive ended at Hollywood, and it took them half an hour to get off the Drive.

  They found Dirk Lowell, the food-service employee from the hotel, in a second-floor apartment on West Loyola Avenue. He’d been on duty but no one from the Mucklewrath party had requested anything while his shift lasted.

  Their last interviewee lived in what used to be Eddie Vrdolyak Tenth Ward, on the far southeast side of the city. Tempted as Fenwick always was to use the siren and put the red flashing light on top of the car, there was little point. It was still rush hour and the backup through Grant Park on Lake Shore Drive wasn’t going to move any faster with a cop car squealing and flashing behind it.

  Turner made no comment as Fenwick tried to skirt the traffic on the Drive by crossing over to Michigan Avenue. No luck. Another of one of Chicago’s many summertime ethnic parades hadn’t finished its trek down Michigan Avenue before the required cutoff time. Amazingly Fenwick didn’t even get to the double-fuck level the whole time.

  Frank Karenski met them at the door of a red brick bungalow on Ninety-second Place. He wore a white muscle T-shirt, cut-off jeans, and no shoes, and he carried a beer. They identified themselves and he let them in. He turned a White Sox game down on the radio and sat with them in the living room. Someone had covered all the major pieces of furniture with wide swatches of clear plastic. Turner felt as if he could slide off any moment.

  Karenski apologized for the furniture, saying that with two younger brothers still at home, Mom insisted. “You’re lucky they’re all out getting hamburgers for dinner,” he said.

  They explained why’d they’d come.

  “Sure,” he said. “I brought up a tray of stuff. Around three this morning. Somebody wanted eggs, bacon, and toast, no butter or jelly. And cigarettes. I had to run around to find them because everything in the hotel was closed.”

  “You’re sure about the cigarettes?” Turner asked.

  “Yeah. When she called down at that hour, I knew it would be a hassle. Usually it’s because somebody’s sick. Then I have to run to the drugstore. I keep aspirin and Maalox on hand now. Saves me lots of trips.”

  “‘She’?” Turner said.

  “Yeah,” Karenski waved his beer at them. “Definitely. Why, is there something wrong with that?”

  Turner didn’t remember any women besides the daughter being listed among the inhabitants of the suites.

  “Who answered the door when you brought the food up?”

  “Some guy. An older guy. Maybe in his sixties. I don’t know any of those people by sight.”

  “Bald or blond haired?” Turner asked.

  “Bald.”

  Johnson. They’d need to pay him a little visit.

  Fenwick said as they drove back, “Our preacher’s group entertained ladies of the evening.”

  “Or Mrs. Mucklewrath was not in California this morning,” Turner said, “but I don’t see her as the smoking type. Whatever it is, let’s get it done. I want to get home.”

  With rush hour over, the drive back to the Oak Street Arms took only fifteen minutes. They rode up the elevator to the sixth floor and found Johnson among a group just leaving for Soldier Field and that night’s rally. The reverend was not with them.

  The others left, and the policemen stood in the foyer with Johnson. Fenwick asked the questions. “Who was the woman up here last night?”

  Johnson turned slightly pale. “There was no woman,” he said.

  Fenwick looked bored and disgusted as he asked again, “Who was the woman up here?”

  Johnson, pink restored to his cheeks, repeated his denial.

  “We got a witness says there was.”

>   “He’s lying.”

  “Let’s go to the station and talk about it,” Fenwick said.

  “What for? You can’t do that.”

  “Sure we can,” Fenwick said. “Why can’t we?”

  Johnson’s firm-jawed stare wavered. Suddenly he plopped onto an overstuffed chair. “How did you? You can’t tell anyone. Oh, my God.”

  The officers waited.

  “You mustn’t tell the reverend. This has nothing to do with him or what happened to Christina. It will only start a scandal. We’ve never had any scandal about the reverend.” He held out his arms to them, pleading. “You won’t tell anyone?”

  “Convince us why we shouldn’t,” Fenwick said.

  Johnson pulled out a pink silk handkerchief and patted his forehead. He began speaking with the hankie still against his face. “Few people believe this, but the reverend is exactly as he seems. He believes.” He took the handkerchief away from his face and gave them a brief look before staring out the window to the lake far below. “He should not suffer because those of us around him are less than perfect. I admit I stray on occasion. My wife never joins us on the reverend’s speaking tours. She’d be furious if she knew.”

  “As angry as the reverend?” Turner asked.

  He thought a minute. Finally he said, “I don’t know which would be worse. Forgiveness is difficult for the reverend. He expects a great deal of those nearest to him.”

  “He’s gotten rid of other people for these kinds of indiscretions?” Fenwick asked.

  “A few. Mostly lower-level staffers. Kids who sign on for the campaigns and don’t believe we’re serious about enforcing the rules.”

  “Any top-level people?” Fenwick asked.

  Johnson told them, between thorough moppings of his forehead, about a Jason Thurmond, who’d been the Reverend Mucklewrath’s campaign coordinator up to his most recent run for office. “It ended in great bitterness, all because the reverend found him in a bar drinking with some reporters.”

  “Where is he now?” Fenwick asked.

  “Thurmond? I don’t know.”

  Turner said, “If the consequences were so severe, how did you have the nerve to bring a woman up here?”