The Truth Can Get You Killed Page 8

  Ian led the way up the stairs and down the hall to his office. The heat must have been turned down for the evening, because Turner could feel tendrils of cold.

  “Sorry, they turn the heat off after ten every night. It’s usually pretty comfortable. With this much cold …” Ian shook his head.

  A kid who looked barely to be out of his middle teens sat at Ian’s computer playing chess. He stood up as they entered. Ian introduced him as Carl Schurz.

  His handshake was cold and clammy. He barely glanced at either of the two cops. His eyes roved around the room, as if waiting for monsters to seep out of the woodwork. His arms seemed to be in movement every moment with limp wrists and a bone structure that suggested not one of his muscles had ever done anything more difficult than lift a feather. When he sat back down, either his foot tapped on the floor or the fingers on one hand or the other drummed on the arm of a chair or on the computer keyboard. Some part of his body seemed to be constantly fluttering nervously.

  He was scarecrow-thin in faded blue jeans, a flannel shirt that hung past his knees, and black running shoes.

  He sat back down. His hand went to his mouth. He looked from Turner to the computer screen, then Fenwick, Ian and finally back to Turner.

  “You can’t ever tell anyone you’ve seen me,” the kid began.

  “I don’t know what your story is,” Turner said. “If I can help you, I will. I have no desire to bring trouble to you.”

  “I’m nineteen. Ian’s tried to get me several jobs. I can’t do them right. People get angry. I wish I could …”

  Turner leaned against the same wall he had hours earlier. Carl sat in the chair. Next to the computer, Ian stood facing the kid. Fenwick planted his bulk almost directly behind the kid. Four people in the small room made the atmosphere seem exceptionally close.

  Carl said, “You frighten me.”

  “Why is that?” Turner asked.

  “Both of you are big and strong. You could hurt me if you wanted to. Ian said you wouldn’t hurt me. He said you were gay. Are you really a gay cop? Are you both gay?”

  “I’m a gay police detective.”

  “I saw something last night.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I know there are places in the Kennedy Federal Building in the Loop where you can’t be found. I never tell anyone else because they might try and horn in on me. I’ve kept my identification from when I worked there. I know computer codes. I watched how the building works. I know some of the people who work there. They’re really nice to me.”

  “What did you see?” Turner asked again.

  The kid shivered as if he were outside in the twenty-below weather.

  “Are you all right?” Turner asked.

  “Yes, yes, yes.”

  “Do you take drugs?” Turner asked.

  “No.”

  “What did you want to tell me?”

  “I’m a great piano player. I have an IQ over a zillion. I watch and observe everything. Nobody believes I graduated from high school. Education on this side of the Atlantic is so screwed up. I knew I should have stayed in Paris.”

  At this moment Turner joined him in this last sentiment, unless, of course, he supplied a clue to the murder, or better yet confessed on the spot. The nineteen-year-old shifted his position in Ian’s chair so both legs were pulled under his scrawny butt.

  Fenwick said, “You’re very bright. You studied in Europe. You worked in the Kennedy Federal Building. Fascinating. Don’t let us stop you.”

  “You don’t have to be sarcastic,” Schurz said.

  “Why did you tell Ian you saw Judge Meade in the bar last night?” Turner asked.

  “Oh, that. I was in the dressing room when Billy made the announcement.”

  Ian shouted, “All you heard was the announcement? You didn’t actually see him?”

  “Wait!” Carl said. “I … just listen.” The kid wrapped his arms around his lean torso. Turner noted the nearly fleshless wrists.

  “You were nineteen and working there?” Turner asked.

  “No. I was visiting a friend.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t want to tell you his name.”

  “Did you actually see the judge?” Turner asked.

  “I’m cold.”

  “Are you on drugs now?” Turner asked.

  “No, no, no.”

  Fenwick bashed his hand against the filing cabinet he stood next to. The kid jumped. “What the fuck is this?” Fenwick growled. “It’s cold. It’s late. I haven’t had my after-dinner snack, and you’ve got a chance of being it if you don’t cut the shit.”

  The kid burst into tears.

  Fenwick said, “All right, you’re under arrest for being a sniveling idiot. Hold out your hands.”

  The kid added deep, heart-wrenching sobs to his crying.

  Turner spoke very softly. “Carl, did you kill Judge Meade?”

  Carl snuffled, drew a deep breath, and squeaked out, “No,” and resumed bawling.

  “I’ll be dipped,” Fenwick muttered. He turned to Ian. “You got coffee in this place?”

  “Some instant stuff in a kitchenette down on the second floor.”

  “I’ll be back,” Fenwick said. “If either of you strangles him while I’m gone, I’ll testify that you were in Barbados when it happened.”

  Fenwick’s absence diminished the occupied space in the room considerably.

  The kid wiped snot on his sleeve. Ian handed him a box of tissues. Carl unlimbered his legs, sat up straight, and dabbed at his face.

  Turner let the silence continue as Carl composed himself. Finally the kid said, “Is that other guy coming back?”

  “Yes,” Turner said.

  “I won’t talk. I want to leave.”

  Turner shifted his position so that his butt rested on the edge of Ian’s desk. He put his hand gently on Carl’s. He waited until the kid’s eyes met his. “I need you to help me. Gay people have to stick together. If you can do something to help me find the killer, I would really appreciate it. We don’t have any clues right now. You could be the key to solving the whole thing.”

  The kid’s leg moved so that it brushed Turner’s and stayed resting against his calf.

  Turner glanced up at Ian. Ian shrugged. Turner couldn’t tell if the physical contact was accidental, a mild attempt at seduction, or a yearning for human warmth. He moved his leg so the contact was barely noticeable.

  “I’d like to hear what you have to say,” Turner said.

  “I want to tell this my way,” Carl said.

  “I’m here to listen.”

  “You won’t let that other one hurt me?”

  “No.”

  “Someone like him raped me when I was nine.” For the second time Carl’s eyes met Turner’s. “I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since. When I was thirteen, I tried to rape my little brother and my little sister. I’ve been to lots of therapists. I tried suicide three times. I didn’t have the nerve to finish myself. I ran away from home several times before I was even in high school. The last time I ran away I was sixteen. My parents didn’t try to find me. I met Ian. He was pretty nice to me. He didn’t try to have sex with me. Most everybody else who wanted to help me demanded something in return.”

  “How old are you really?”

  The kid looked down at the floor. He mumbled, “Seventeen.”

  Carl’s leg was now comfortably resting against Turner’s. The detective moved his farther away.

  Carl’s face was red from his crying, but he’d ceased to breathe heavily. He held onto a tissue in one hand.

  Paul said, “Tell me about knowing what the judge looked like.”

  “The Federal Building job Ian got for me was nice, but I’m not very good at things. I’m really bright. I don’t want you to think I’m stupid. I’m not. I did study in Europe for a year. I just can’t seem to concentrate. If I ever studied I got all A’s. I tried lots of jobs. I always get fired.”

  Fenwick
returned to the room. He held a cup of coffee.

  The kid sat up straighter and pulled out another tissue from the box.

  “I don’t want him here,” Carl said.

  Fenwick smiled, said, “My pleasure,” and left. Turner and Fenwick had played the roles of good cop/bad cop for years. Fenwick might not know exactly what was going on, but the lack of cues from Turner to stay was sufficient for him to know it was best to leave the questioning to Turner.

  Carl now had a sense of power and a little more confidence as he spoke. “Like I said, I learned all the secrets of the Federal Building. I know a lot of places in the Loop that throw the homeless out as soon as they step in the door, but I’ve slept in most of them. You’ve got to be smart, resourceful, and sometimes willing to put out. Is that okay to tell you?”

  The kid shifted the swivel chair enough so his knee came into contact with Turner’s knee. This time Turner let the contact linger for a few moments. To move casually away it was necessary for him to move his butt on the desk. If the kid kept this up, Turner would soon fall off the end.

  “I’m not here to get you in trouble,” Turner said.

  “Last night I went to the Federal Building. I kind of hang out there. One of the older security guards, he’s got a wife, two kids, and three grandkids, but he likes to fool around once in a while. His closet is my key to a warm night.”

  “What’s the name of the security guard?”

  “I can’t tell you. He’s been good to me.”

  They’d check it out the next day.

  “So what happened?”

  “I was waiting for my friend in one of the guard rooms. I heard voices outside the room. I got a little scared because only my buddy was supposed to be on duty. I scrunched down behind the console. I could hear everything they said. They were arguing, sounded like they’d been at it for a while. At one point one of them said, ‘Well, so, Judge Meade won’t be so high and mighty after this.” I moved around so I could peek out the door. I could see Judge Meade plainly. When I worked for Ian, I made sure I knew the basic things he wanted. At least I did that right when I worked there.”

  “You’re sure it was Judge Meade?”

  “Absolutely. No doubt.”

  “Nobody else heard them?”

  “It’s a big building. I wasn’t supposed to be where I was.”

  “Did you recognize who he was with?”

  “That was the bizarre thing. I thought I heard three voices, but I only saw two guys. My angle wasn’t very good. Judge Meade said something I couldn’t hear and then the other guy raised his hand as if to hit him. He was cursing and yelling. The judge didn’t flinch, but the guy stopped short of hitting him. He turned around and ran off.”

  “You get a good look at him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “Not then.”

  “What happened next?”

  “The judge left like he was in a hurry. My buddy came down and I took care of him. He gives himself a treat every holiday. Since it was New Year’s Eve, and I said I wanted to go out for a while, he didn’t mind. It’s not like he’s got a crush on me. I’m an outlet for him. So I went to Au Naturel to meet a friend.”

  “What happened there?”

  “It was crazy. I went to the dressing room because my friend is one of the dancers. What I saw was the guy from the Federal Building. The one who was going to hit the judge was one of the dancers.”

  “Did he say or do anything when Billy made his announcement?”

  “He didn’t react either way. I remember he was putting on a chain harness that I thought made him look really hot. He didn’t do anything. I asked my friend who he was. He didn’t know. My buddy just started working there. A lot of the guys are part time, and they don’t usually work there that long.”

  “Describe him for me.”

  “About six feet tall. Sort of reddish-blond hair. Flat stomach. Huge pecs. Red thong.”

  “What’d he wear at the Federal Building?”

  “Long trench coat and jeans. I’m telling mostly what I remember from seeing him when he was dancing.”

  “Did you see the judge in the bar?”

  “Once, just before midnight. This guy I was telling you about was dancing and the judge was in a corner staring at him. I was distracted with my friends and partying, so I didn’t pay much attention. At the time I didn’t care much. I knew Judge Meade was homophobic from what Ian said, but I knew I had a warm place to stay for the night, and I was having a good time. I guess I just thought, here’s another self-hating homosexual. I hate myself a lot of the time, so I thought I understood. He’s got to be a horrible closet case.”

  “Shouldn’t be hard to get the name of the dancer,” Ian said.

  Turner nodded agreement. “None of the ones we interviewed mentioned the judge. Of course, the killer would be understandably hesitant to bring it up. We’ll go back and look at the employee list. Would you be willing to look at the dancers and tell me which one it was?”

  Carl hesitated.

  “Please,” Turner said, “it would really help.”

  Carl smiled and rested his hand on Turner’s. “Sure,” he said, “if it’ll help.”

  The logistics for the rest of the evening were for Carl to sleep on the couch at Ian’s. Turner and Fenwick would go to their respective homes and they would all meet again at nine in the morning to begin trying to identify the dancing boy in question.

  Ian said, “I need to talk to Detective Turner for a minute, Carl. Could you wait down at the front door?”

  “Sure.” Carl hesitated. He got out of the chair and stood in front of Turner. Carl whispered, “Would you hold me?”

  Turner hesitated.

  The boy murmured, “Just for a second. Please. I’m frightened.”

  Turner stood up and embraced him gently. Carl’s return hug was fierce and demanding. Turner felt the youth’s trembling ease. He felt bad for the youngster, but the kid had more needs than Turner wanted to meet even if he could. The kid was a therapist’s nightmare. Turner also reminded himself that he was a cop and this was a possible suspect. He allowed the embrace for a few moments then carefully disengaged himself. Carl hurried out of the room.

  “I hope Fenwick doesn’t eat him,” Ian said.

  “Poor kid is a mess,” Turner said. “Where did you find him?”

  “Meeting some needs of my own.”

  “He said you hadn’t had sex.”

  “Not with someone that young and vulnerable. He brings out a lot of paternal instincts in me. He’s been badly bruised. Being a gay kid is tough enough. A raped and brutalized one has got to be a million times worse. I just hope I can help enough so he doesn’t try to off himself again.”

  “What was that hug about at the end?” Turner asked.

  “I’m not sure. I saw the knee thing. I thought he might end up sitting in your lap.”

  “I don’t need a gay teenager on my hands.”

  “You handled it fine.”

  “Do I believe everything he’s told me? Should I believe everything he told me?”

  “I don’t have reason to doubt it, yet.”

  “Which is not the same as believing him.”

  Fenwick opened the door and poked his head in. “Is it safe?”

  Turner nodded.

  “Anything useful?” Fenwick asked.

  Turner filled him in and finished with, “We’ve heard his side of his terrible life. What the truth is might be hard to decipher. His parents could be sweet people, pining away in front of some suburban fireplace for all we know.”

  Fenwick commented, “Creep, asshole, or holy terror, what he gave us has some possibilities. Whether or not he can identify the dancer, we’ve got the film from the camera at the Federal Building.”

  “Gives another focus point on the judge that night. This is two I owe you Ian.”

  “Does this mean our Judge Meade, homophobe extraordinaire, was a closet-case deluxe?�
� Ian asked.

  “You swallow a dictionary?” Fenwick asked.

  “Sure looks like he is,” Turner said. “Maybe somebody was going to out him?”

  “A ripe case for it,” Fenwick said, “but I thought that ‘outing’ was kind of passé.”

  “It is and it isn’t,” Ian said. “I’d love to be the one to out Judge Meade, but the paper doesn’t publish again for another week. I’m not sure we’ve got absolute certainty, but it sure looks more than fishy to me. Inhabiting a gay dance bar on New Year’s Eve. Meeting with one of the ‘dancers’ prior to, sounds like an assignation to me. I’m going to wait until I can talk to someone who knows more. Somebody who went to bed with him could convince me. Being at a gay bar or talking to a hot young man doesn’t quite meet my criteria for being gay. I need a little more.”

  Turner said, “If he met the guy earlier, why go to the bar and risk being seen? Does a severe closet case go to a bar?”

  “Does a straight judge pick a gay bar to party in on New Year’s Eve when he’s supposed to be in Montreal?”

  “Lots of questions to be answered,” Turner said.

  “This closet crap is such bullshit,” Ian said.

  “How so?” Fenwick asked.

  “Hiding in this day and age, by these kinds of people, is silly.”

  Turner kept his annoyance in check. He and Ian had discussed levels of closetedness before. Years before, Turner’s insistence on keeping silent about himself at work had led to their break up as lovers. He would live an open life to those closest to him whom he could trust. He’d come out more each year.

  Usually Ian and Turner avoided the subject of how out it was politically correct to be. Ian occasionally made cracks as he had just done. Turner wasn’t sure if he did it to irritate him deliberately, or if it was just a comment he was used to making. Turner didn’t much respect someone who crowed about the importance of coming out, if that person, like Ian, worked in a job surrounded by gay people. Ian was also out to his parents and safely indifferent to any negative reactions. For now he let the crack slide. Ian could still piss him off faster than anybody but his own parents or his sons. That was the price you paid for being good friends with an ex-lover.

  Oblivious to these nuances, Fenwick said, “Your buddy Carl was weird.”