Sex and Murder.com: A Paul Turner Mystery (13 page)

Turner asked, “Could someone have turned the computer on from another location and worked with it from there?”

“Sure”

Fenwick said, “We need to get a warrant for Werberg’s house.”

Turner asked, “To find out he has nothing on his computer to match the nothing that’s here?”

“There’s got to be a record,” Fenwick said.

“There isn’t one here,” Micetic insisted.

Fenwick said, “Let’s dispense with the computer age and get back to something simpler I do understand. Go to Area Ten. Make enough copies of this to paper the entire Loop. Make sure a stack of them gets to my desk.”

Turner asked, “Have you found a list of the property he owned?”

“Not yet.”

“We’ll probably have to visit all of them,” Turner said.

“I’ll be sure to look out for it,” Micetic said.

Turner asked, “Have you found any reference to his Palm Pilot in all this data?”

“Nothing I’ve seen gives a hint about it,” Micetic said. He took the copy of the encryption and left.

“That son of a bitch knows a hell of a lot more than he’s telling us,” Fenwick said.

“Micetic or Werberg?”

“Probably both. I don’t trust these computer guys.”

11

I love the information age. I can find out more about possible victims than they ever imagine. A click here and there and I get all kinds of data, details, and knowledge they don’t know I have. Before I kill them I want to feel like I have power over them.

The entryway of Area Ten headquarters was a mob scene. Reporters clustered in the foyer, down the hallways, and on the stairs. Fenwick bulled through the maelstrom. Turner followed in his wake.

“What the hell was that all about?” Fenwick asked when they arrived on the second floor.

Bokin, the beat cop who was normally on the front desk, said, “Two things. The Lenzati case, and somebody tried to kill Dwayne Smythe early this morning.”

“How bad is he?” Turner asked.

“All I know is Dwayne was cut up real bad, and he’s still in the hospital.”

“Knifed?” Fenwick and Turner echoed.

“Yep.”

Turner asked, “Has Smythe been able to give any information about what happened?”

Bokin said, “All I know is that I was told to tell you guys to get your butts over to Northwestern Hospital.”

As they rushed to their car, Turner said, “Our guy was knifed.”

“All these cases can’t be connected,” Fenwick said.

“We’ve had odder connections. And be wary of absolutes. Often enough as soon as we use one, the opposite turns out to be true.”

“Cops around the country were knifed,” Fenwick said. “That’s going to be the connection everybody makes.”

Turner said, “We’ve got to find out if it’s a real one or not.”

They hurried to the hospital. Even with the milling groups of cops abounding, the hospital corridors were quiet. Their badges got them up to the fourth floor, where a uniformed officer was on duty. Commander Molton and the deputy superintendent of the department, Calvin Sturm, were in the hallway. Sturm had iron gray hair, cut within a quarter inch of his skull. He was short and fat.

“Is Smythe all right?” Turner asked.

“He’s in and out of consciousness,” Molton said. “He lost a lot of blood. Some of the wounds were to some vital spots. They aren’t sure he’s going to make it.”

“The victim in the Lenzati murder was stabbed numerous times,” Sturm said. “Are the two cases connected?”

“No idea,” Turner said, “but none of us believes in coincidences.”

“Be certain of everything,” Sturm ordered. “We can’t take chances on any mistakes. We’ve got several detectives in Area One working on this attack. Work with them. Don’t talk to the press. We’ll handle all contact with reporters.”

Turner wondered about the universal ability of moronic administrators to speak in commands and imperative sentences as if all underlings were stupid beyond belief. That manner of speaking and that presumption of stupidity were two of the things he hated most in administrators.

Molton said, “It is possible that the attack on Dwayne is connected to the cop murders east of here. We’re going to have a million reporters around trying to horn in.”

“Be extra careful with this case,” Sturm added.

“Where did all this happen?” Turner asked.

Molton said, “A beat cop coming out of the Fraternal Order of Police offices on Washington Avenue found him in a nearby parking lot. He didn’t see the actual attack. There could be other possible suspects. Dwayne’s marriage was in trouble—all this scandal was taking a toll domestically. His wife is unstable and has physically assaulted him several times.”

Turner didn’t ask Molton how he knew this. The police department was a notorious haven for rumors and gossip. Or perhaps Molton had been Dwayne’s’ personal confidant.

“Anybody know where his wife was?” Fenwick asked.

Molton said, “Her alibi’s being checked. Another real possibility is that it was a relative or friend of the boy he’s accused of shooting.”

Fenwick said, “All kinds of people hated Smythe, not just us. I feel better knowing that.”

“Lose the gallows humor, asshole,” Sturm decreed. “He was one of ours.”

Everyone shifted uneasily for a moment. Even Fenwick wasn’t about to directly challenge the deputy superintendent.

Finally, Molton spoke. “He’s been asking for you, Paul. That’s why we sent for you.”

“Why?”

“He wouldn’t say. He didn’t ask for his wife or kids.”

“I’m jealous,” Fenwick said.

Molton said, “We’ve got two active cases that we aren’t sure are connected.”

“Check to see if they are,” Sturm interjected.

Molton said, “That reporter who broke the serial killer story has been hounding half the detectives in the city for interviews. Go ahead and speak with him. He hasn’t given us any more details. You need to have everything he’s got.”

Sturm blustered, “It’s all bullshit speculation. I’d like to string that little bastard up by the balls.”

Turner said, “Maybe he’s really onto something. If he is, we’d catch hell if somebody in this town died and we did nothing to prevent it.”

Sturm thought for a moment. “Talk to him. Only him. Nobody else from the press. Make sure he knows it is not an interview.”

“We definitely don’t want to see him at the paper,” Turner said, “and not at the station. Someplace neutral would be good.”

Molton agreed to work it out.

“Talk to Smythe,” Sturm ordered. “And you need to stop harassing Vinnie Girote.”

Fenwick said, “He’s a suspect. Are you saying if he did it, we should cover it up?”

“I’m saying do your job,” Sturm said.

“Are you sure it’s okay to talk to Smythe?” Turner asked.

Molton said, “He asked for you. The doctor said that if he was awake and willing, we could try but no one should stay very long. One of the most serious wounds was to his throat but he can whisper.” They found a doctor who reiterated permission for a brief visit.

Turner and Fenwick walked into the hospital room. As they entered, Smythe was trying to get out of the bed. He wore only a pair of white boxer shorts and white socks. A hospital gown was around his feet. He desperately clutched one corner of the nightstand. The other was holding onto a bandage on his stomach. Large swatches of cotton covered wide patches of his body. His neck was almost completely encased. His IV cord trailed behind him.

“You supposed to be out of bed?” Turner asked.

“No.” Smythe’s voice was more of a ghastly rattle than a modulated whisper. It didn’t sound even remotely healthy to Turner.

Smythe pointed at the nightstand next to the bed. “Open … drawer … please … what’s in?” He gasped between nearly every syllable. His butt thumped back onto the bed.

Turner hurried over and propped him up. He wondered if they shouldn’t just call the doctor and then turn around and leave.

Dwayne stretched his arm toward the drawer and began to slide off the bed. Turner held him while Fenwick opened the drawer.

Fenwick said, “It’s got your clothes, wallet, keys, some change.”

Almost slipping out of Turner’s grasp, Smythe reached over, slammed the drawer, and fell back on the bed sheets. He closed his eyes. For a few seconds Turner thought he might have passed out. He was about to ring for the nurse when Smythe opened his eyes. Smythe’s efforts in attempting to close the drawer had caused his shorts to ride down nearly to his pubic hair. Even with all the stitches and bandages, Turner noted that it was obvious Smythe must work out often. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his abdomen.

Smythe breathed evenly and deeply for several minutes. His skin was a ghastly pale, his lips dry and cracked. Turner gave him a boost back into the bed. When Dwayne finally spoke, he paused after every phrase, but no longer gasped after every syllable. Turner leaned close to catch the words. The wounded cop said, “I think I’d be better off dead.”

Turner raised an eyebrow.

Smythe pointed at Turner. “I want to talk to just you.”

Fenwick shrugged, spun one hundred eighty degrees, and walked out.

Turner pulled up a chair beside the bed. “Why just me?” he asked.

Smythe spoke haltingly and with much labored breathing. “I talked to you last night. You were honest with me. I need somebody I can trust. Everybody else is out to get me. Fenwick would as soon shoot me as look at me.”

“I don’t think he cares enough about you either way,” Turner said.

“You could try being a little less honest.”

“What is it you wanted to tell me?”

“The attacker got my gun and star.”

“You haven’t told anyone?”

“That’s what I just had you look for. I don’t remember anything until I woke up here. I’ve been woozy for a while. I didn’t know if it was missing.”

“You should concentrate on getting better. You can worry about the gun and your ID later.” The loss of either one of these items alone would be a major hassle in the department, but the loss of both at the same time constituted a minor crisis.

“Everything I do is wrong. Every twist of fate works against me.”

Turner asked, “What happened?”

“This morning I’d just been to see my Fraternal Order of Police rep and the lawyer. I was walking back to my car. I’d parked in a lot a block away. It’s a Saturday morning, so there wasn’t much traffic. I was putting some stuff in my trunk when I felt this searing pain in my left side.”

“You didn’t hear anything?”

“Nothing. I had no warning at all. The fucker just stuck me. I fell half into the trunk, and banged my head pretty hard. I tried to reach for my gun and fight off the guy at the same time. A lot was instinct. The big problem was that I was off guard, off balance, and half in the trunk. Before I could do much of anything, he’d stabbed me a few more times. I couldn’t reach my gun. I had my car keys in my hand, so I pressed the panic button on the key chain. The car alarm must have startled him. I began to pass out. I knew I was losing blood, and still he was stabbing me.”

“Why aren’t you dead?” Turner asked.

“Huh?”

“He could have easily killed you. He kept stabbing you. You were passing out. Why not finish the job?”

“Maybe I was just lucky. Maybe someone was coming. While I was passing out, it felt like he was trying to yank my coat off. I had my winter coat on: a heavy down vest, flannel shirt, and two T-shirts. That’s a lot of material to go through even with a very sharp knife. The doctor said that’s why I’m probably alive.”

Turner said, “I’ll have to check and see if the detectives in Area One have any witnesses. I’m sure they’re working extra hard on this with you being one of us.”

“Am I?” His breathing became more labored than ever. Turner knew he needed to draw the interview to a close.

“Dwayne, you may be a supercilious snot with a huge ego, and you are in deep trouble, but, yeah, you’re still one of us.” To himself he thought,
and you’re badly injured and possibly dying, and I’m wondering how much of a idiot I am for still being here talking to you. I’m also wondering how sad it is that of all the people you know, you asked for me and not someone closer. Or, if I’m the one you feel is closest to you, how dismal your life must be, because I certainly do not feel close to you.

Smythe clutched Turner’s hand, “I’m glad you’re here.” He breathed deeply and evenly for several moments. “I think I was attacked because of the kid I shot. The two older brothers and an uncle threatened to get even.”

“I’m sure somebody’s interviewing them. Were you able to give any kind of description? Did the attacker say anything?”

“He breathed heavy. I thought near the end he said something like, ‘Now you know how it feels.’”

“A male voice?”

“I sure thought it was a guy. From the voice and because the attacker seemed strong. I guess it could have been a strong woman with a deep voice. I can’t even tell you if the guy was white or black. I’m worse than the stupidest witness I’ve ever talked to. I’ve fucked up as a witness. I fuck everything up, and things are only going to get worse.”

Turner didn’t do much wallowing in self-pity. Dwayne and his partner Ashley had turned self-serving angst and self-analysis into a lifestyle. Since Dwayne was possibly dying, Turner was willing to listen to whatever Smythe chose to say at the moment. But the young detective was quiet, eyes shut, breathing more evenly.

After a few moments Turner said softly, “If you think of anything more, let me know.”

Smythe opened his eyes and asked, “Are you going to testify on my behalf?”

Turner said, “I’d worry more about getting well. If they call on me, which I doubt, I will do my best.”

This seemed to satisfy Smythe. He shut his eyes again and murmured, “Thanks.” Turner squeezed the man’s hand gently and left.

Out in the hallway Sturm and Molton were not in sight. Fenwick asked, “So what was the big secret that he couldn’t tell me?”

“He’s been in love with you from the first day he met you, and he didn’t want to reveal his crush.”

“I didn’t know the guy had taste. I may have to reevaluate my poor opinion of him.” Fenwick paused for several seconds. “I’ve reevaluated. He’s still an asshole. Why did he want to talk to you?”