Sorry Now? Read online

  “We’ll have to check with your mission here,” Turner said quietly.

  “Of course. I’ve had no time to call them to warn them, although I would hope they would speak honestly with you, no matter what.”

  “Your first wife said you hid a lot of money.”

  “The records of the divorce are open. You are welcome to hunt through them.”

  After talking to the reverend, they interviewed the shaken Donald, who smelled suspiciously like bourbon. An emotional basket case, he was unable to give them any useful information about himself or his father.

  In the car Fenwick said, “The reverend is a hypocritical, lying bastard. The guy is a double fuck if I ever met one.”

  “I think he told us the truth,” Turner said calmly.

  Fenwick ignored the comment and said, “And the rest of the family is for shit.”

  “No doubt about that,” Turner said, then added: “They don’t seem to be exceptionally broken up about Chistina’s death. Except the reverend.”

  “You believe he doesn’t know what the killers meant when they said, ‘Sorry now, aren’t you?’”

  Turner reflected a minute. “No, I don’t think he knows, at least not consciously. He’s caught up with God and his cause. If we could get him down to the human level, we could possibly get something. I doubt it.”

  They drove to the address the Reverend gave them. At the Mission of Eternal Salvation on west Madison Street, they found numerous workers eager to confirm the Reverend Mucklewrath’s presence late Thursday and early Friday. As a check on the mission worker’s story, they spent some time afterward finding the cop on the beat, who gave them the names of a few of the regulars at the mission. After a half-hour search, they found one of the homeless lounging on a bench outside the Chicago Police Academy on Jackson. His name was Daren Brudasinski. He claimed to have talked to the reverend around two in the morning when he entered the mission.

  Fenwick said as they drove back to the station, “Maybe Mucklewrath told the truth. Maybe he really doesn’t know and doesn’t have anything to do with the murder.”

  “If he doesn’t, then that crowd around him sure must know something,” Turner said, “and they haven’t told us shit. It sure feels like they’re hiding something. I’m going to try California again. I want to know about the campaign manager and the other preachers around the country.”

  It was nearly four when they pulled up at the station. It had rained briefly while they were in the mission, but instead of washing the atmosphere clean with fresh cool air, it had added to the mugginess. Turner sat in his shirtsleeves and turned the fan on full blast.

  At their desks, Roosevelt and Wilson were each interviewing a white male. From listening, Turner thought they might have finally arrested the men in a series of robberies that had plagued the near North Side. Two men had made a science of attacking people using outdoor banking machines from the Chicago River to Rogers Park.

  Roosevelt passed by Fenwick’s and Turner’s desks on the way to the small kitchen-storage room they had.

  “Finally catch the bank guys?” Fenwick asked.

  “Yeah, they tried a place at Michigan and Ontario. They got caught in traffic and their car overheated,” Roosevelt said. “I never thought I’d be grateful to one of the parades down Michigan Avenue for making my life easier.”

  By the time he came back a minute later carrying a can of grape soda, Turner was already on the phone to California. This time he caught Sergeant Dooley at home.

  He asked about the campaign manager, Jason Thurmond.

  She said, “A nice guy. Not hard to work with. Of the whole crowd he was the most accessible. It wasn’t surprising he quit.”

  “A lot of bad feeling when he left?”

  “Not against the reverend, or at least none that he mentioned. It was pretty well known that his beef was with Mrs. Mucklewrath and the son. For all their supposed expertise, they’re really political amateurs. I think it drove him nuts, and the reverend believes in family and trusting them. I can’t see Thurmond being angry enough to murder the kid, and I certainly can’t see any other motivation.”

  That was one thing that was driving Turner nuts in the investigation. So far no one in the inner circle had a reason to murder Christina. The other problem was that outside the organization, there could be millions of Mucklewrath-haters and just plain nutcases who could have done it.

  “How about other preachers out there? Do any of them have a special hate for Mucklewrath?” Turner asked Dooley.

  “That’s tougher. You’d have to be able to check nationwide. Out here I don’t remember anyone being especially nice or nasty. I think those guys are a pretty independent lot. One of them tried to get a national conference of preachers going, but then they had all those scandals and everybody bailed out.”

  Turner glanced at the time. Saturday at five o’clock. Nearly thirty-three hours since the murder and they didn’t have a lot of clues.

  Feeling a little foolish, Turner put in a call to Schaumburg. The guy who answered growled unpleasantly, but talked to him, barely checking his identification. In gruff, terse words he told Turner they didn’t consider the case anything significant, beyond the obvious that some people ate something and got sick. Turner was inclined to agree. He got almost the same reaction from his call to Kankakee.

  Fenwick brought over the lab paperwork. It didn’t tell them any more than they already knew. The crime lab had found nothing—other than the bullet—to indicate who might have done the killing. Turner and Fenwick spent an hour going over the reports from the cops who’d interviewed the people in the high-rises facing Oak Street beach. They still had numerous callbacks to make, but so far they’d turned up zip. Not even a glimmer.

  At seven they gave it up. Spending all of Saturday night in frustration wouldn’t help. Block, the case sergeant on duty, came through and told them to go home.

  At the admitting desk downstairs Charlie Grimwald motioned for Turner to join him. Grimwald said, “Did you hear the news?”

  Turner shook his head. Normally Charlie liked to talk and usually Turner didn’t mind giving him some time, but he was in a hurry.

  Grimwald said, “They found an old guy in the river this afternoon near Roosevelt Road.”

  “Who was it?” Turner asked.

  “They aren’t sure, but from the description, I think it might have been Wilmer. They said they found some little toy cars in his pocket. You know, the metal kind they’ve got for kids.”

  Turner gaped at him.

  “You okay?” Grimwald asked.

  Turner mumbled a yeah and asked that Grimwald be sure to let him know when they got a positive identification and get him any other information. Turner told him he would call sometime on Sunday.

  Paul planned to meet Ian at the ticket booth at the west end of Navy Pier. He’d parked near Olive Park and walked the half block over. Staring up at the expanse of Lake Point Towers, he adjusted his collar and bow tie for the hundredth time. Brian and Jeff had teased him about going out. Ian had been trying to get him attached. Turner felt: If it happened, fine. He’d dated some nice guys over the years, but none seriously in a long while. He wouldn’t go out of his way, but he wouldn’t reject somebody interesting out of hand. He had two boys to rear and a hectic job. Enough for anyone.

  A hand brushed his arm. A throaty voice said, “Hello, handsome.”

  Paul turned to see his friend attired in a similar tuxedo, but with a Mickey Mouse-motif dress shirt and bow tie.

  “I like the understated look,” Paul said.

  “People are looking at you, my friend. You are fresh meat. And you are gorgeous. You should have let me put you up for auction. You would have grabbed the highest bids of the night.”

  Paul found himself blushing for the first time since second grade, when Monica Planifar had accused him of trying to look under her dress. Sister Suzanne had made him stand up in front of the whole class and apologize.

  “I’m not
looking for a husband, and I don’t want to be auctioned off,” Paul said. “Why don’t you have them bid on your more famous columns?”

  “This is supposed to make money,” Ian said. He took his friend’s arm and propelled him through the gate and along the pier. “There’s enough husband material out here for any man to find somebody. Even the most responsible parent in the city might find Mr. Right.”

  Numerous excursion boats and a few private yachts were berthed along the pier.

  Their destination was the boat Heart of Michigan, the largest excursion boat in the harbor. It had four levels. The top, open to air, was the smallest. The second and third levels actually combined to surround a small stage on which were staged minor musical productions. From the third level one could walk onto an open space on the stern of the ship. The fourth level was completely enclosed. The interior of the second, third, and fourth levels contained tables, set for elegant dining in a cruise-ship motif.

  They walked up a gangplank to be greeted by smiling young men saying “Welcome aboard” and giving out cards that gave them a number by which they would be recognized if they chose to bid on one of the bachelors. Mobs of elegantly dressed men thronged the interior of the second and third decks.

  Paul Turner dated and spent enough time in gay bars to recognize the stares of interest he got. Comfortable with people he knew, yet relatively shy with strangers, he wasn’t all that thrilled about telling someone what he did. Saying he was a cop could lead to inappropriate fantasies, or immediate huffy disinterest on the part of potential dates. Once in a while the newly acquainted became belligerent. One of the hazards of being a cop.

  One of his wife Gail’s secrets had been the ability to talk to a handsome athletic teenage boy and make him comfortable in social situations. He thought, at eighteen, that the sex part would grow as they got to know each other. He’d been woefully ignorant and had put down his lack of performance expertise to lack of experience, not lack of interest. As the years had passed he’d realized it had been the latter and not the former.

  He and Ian squeezed to the bar and managed to grab a couple beers. They left the air-conditioned interior and made their way to the top deck. Here the cool lake made their formal tuxes less uncomfortable. The heat of the day was at least bearable.

  A group of men stood arguing animatedly in the stern. Ian waved to them and walked forward. Paul followed. Five of them greeted Ian eagerly, demanding to know his opinion of the chances of electing a gay or lesbian candidate to the state legislature.

  Ian introduced Paul. He caught most of their names, but remembered one. A man with golden hair, short on the sides but hanging to his collar in the back, stood slightly apart. Ian introduced him as Dr. George Manfred. Paul guessed him to be in his early thirties. He might have been five foot six or seven. Paul saw bright blue eyes and smooth, tanned skin. The doctor caught his look and smiled at him. Beautiful, even teeth.

  The others switched topics to the Reverend Mucklewrath and the murder. The discussion became quite heated. Finally one of them, Paul thought he remembered his name as Tighe, said, “I wish they’d killed him. I feel sorry for the daughter, but that shit-for-brains hatemonger deserves everything rotten that could happen to him. They should have killed him.” Most of the men nodded agreement.

  One of the others said, “I can think of a whole list of other people who it’d be great to get rid of. Think of it. A world without homophobes.”

  Paul listened, not contributing. Fortunately Ian had not introduced him as a cop. He didn’t want to have to listen to their pet theories if they found out he was assigned to solve the murder. He felt out of place at moments like this. Briefly, he wished he hadn’t come. When he turned into them again, they’d gotten onto the topic of Chicago politics. He felt his elbow brushed gently. Dr. Manfred smiled up at him. Paul had noticed him standing on the other side of the circle, also not contributing to the conversation.

  Minutes later Paul found himself at the railing, deep in conversation. He could never remember what George Manfred first said to him. After fifteen minutes he realized he hadn’t been this comfortable since the first days with Gail. He found out George was thirty-two years old. Born in southern Illinois, he had gone to college and medical school, and then completed his residency at Chicago City Hospital. He now devoted his practice to people with AIDS, especially those gay men too poor to afford decent care.

  The doctor didn’t comment when Paul told him he was a cop. Turner found himself talking about his sons, his hopes and dreams for them, Jeff’s being born with spina bifida, and Gail’s death.

  Manfred sympathized quietly, then asked, “Did she know you were gay?”

  “I’m not sure I did. Being gay would have put an end to the marriage eventually, more because Gail had a right to be sexually fulfilled. I’d begun to doubt my sexuality before Gail’s pregnancy with Jeff. Then when he was born with spina bifida, and she died …” He drew a deep breath, then continued. “I’d known Ian. He helped a lot. We became lovers. He’s a good man. We broke up, but he’s still my best friend.”

  The boat cruised south on the lake with the Chicago skyline on their right. Paul had never seen the city he grew up in so spectacularly displayed. The lights of the skyscrapers soared above the twirling mass of cars rushing along Lake Shore Drive. “It’s so beautiful,” he said, and felt like a little kid.

  George put his arm on Paul’s shoulder, let it linger. Eventually the doctor talked about his boyhood in a small town. He talked about trudging to a one-room schoolhouse that had only twenty-two other kids. He talked about isolation and feeling different. Manfred didn’t hear the word “gay” until he was in his senior year of high school. He spoke of the relief of escape, of going to college and medical school in St. Louis. He mentioned how seldom he dated because of his intensive studies in school and his exhausting routine now.

  Paul didn’t know if he wanted a major involvement at this point in his life, but on first impression George Manfred was certainly someone he’d like to get to know.

  As Ian and Paul walked down the gangway the reporter pumped him for information about George. “Is it a relationship? Are you going out with him? He’s a great guy. He’s got a phenomenal reputation in the community. He can step into any meeting of warring factions and in minutes he’s got them working together. I’ve seen him step in between two hissing queens and restore calm almost instantly. He’s got those dreamy good looks and a personality to die for. Are you in love?”

  “We exchanged phone numbers,” Paul said.

  “That’s absolutely boring,” Ian said. “Are you going to call him?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Let’s see if he calls me.”

  “Paul, nowhere is it written that the other guy has to call you first. You could call him.”

  “I am a cop with two kids, one of whom requires more than a moderate amount of parental care.”

  Ian grabbed him, turned him around, and put his nose an inch away from Paul’s. “I have heard you say that so many times. What bullshit! He’s nice. He’s good-looking. He’s got a career. Rumor has it he’s independently wealthy. What more do you want?”

  Paul shrugged off Ian’s grip. “I didn’t say I wanted more. I didn’t say I wouldn’t call him. I don’t notice you waltzing off with Mr. Right.”

  “At this point I’ll settle for Mr. Fairly Adequate,” Ian said.

  On Sunday morning Paul took his two boys to Sunday mass. They walked the three blocks to St. Felicitas’. Paul thought it hypocritical of a gay man to attend any kind of religious services, the churches having abandoned gay people long before Paul thought God might have. But he felt it was right for his boys. A year or so ago Brian declared he wasn’t going anymore. Paul told him that when he graduated from high school he could make a choice about church attendance. Until then he had to attend. Occasionally, if Jeff felt the walk would be too much, they would push him in a wheelchair. In rain or winter Paul drove them to mass.

&n
bsp; He and Jeff spent the afternoon at Brian’s baseball game. They sat in the stands in the shade of an ancient oak that had survived years of neighborhood abuse. Brian pitched and played first base for the St. Felicitas High School team. Paul couldn’t often make his son’s games, but he got to as many as he could.

  Jeff’s spina bifida meant that at birth his spinal cord and nerves protruded in a sac from his back, near the bottom of his spine. He was born with bladder and bowel dysfunction and paralysis of his legs. Paul felt, and the doctors concurred, that it was better for Jeff to be treated as much like a normal child as possible. It was too easy for a parent, in guilt or remorse, to pamper, spoil, or overprotect a kid. Paul had seen the results when he’d gone on field trips with Jeff’s classes before Jeff had been mainstreamed into a regular classroom in second grade. Many of the kids acted out, put on a show, or simply grossly manipulated parents too befuddled to cope. Not spoiling Jeff had been hard at first. Feeling sorry and monumentally guilty overwhelmed many parents of these kids. Turner’s own common sense, along with Mrs. Talucci’s realism, had gotten him over that.

  They’d been fortunate the past two years. Jeff had gone to the yearly doctor’s appointments and been reported in good health. Paul was glad for this, but knew he had to be continually watchful. Children with spina bifida could require emergency hospitalization, especially if the shunt placed in their head to drain fluid became clogged or had other problems. No amount of checkups or parental watchfulness could prevent such an occurrence.

  Paul was enjoying the game and watching Brian run gracefully, in good health. He felt pride in Brian’s natural ability. Having some of the same musculature as Brian enabled his younger son to master physical tasks far sooner than others with the same defect. Paul enjoyed sitting next to Jeff, observing the younger boy’s adulation of his older brother and evident joy when Brian made a good play. Of course, Paul needed to take Jeff to the washroom so the boy could perform his ritual of urination. Jeff didn’t complain, and Paul brought him back to the stands after the briefest of pauses. He talked to neighbors and friends. Kids stopped by to talk to Jeff.