Ring of Silence Page 10

“I’ve been expecting something. Nothing so far.”

  Again Fenwick rattled the box of electronics. “Can you do anything else with all this shit?”

  Fong said, “Like always, I’ll do my best with all of it. There’s more news. You guys know that Carruthers’ dashboard cam has been reported as missing and has been reported as not working at the time?”

  “So which is it?”

  “People are scrambling madly. If I can, I’ll get copies of all of what they’ve got, and/or what there is, and put something together for you.”

  Fenwick said, “Cover up.”

  Fong asked, “By whom about what?”

  Everybody shrugged.

  They gave him their bags of equipment gathered from several scenes. Turner said, “Some of this stuff might answer some of the questions you just asked.”

  “Or give us new ones,” Fong said.

  “Maybe,” Turner said.

  Fong said he’d begin working on all the cameras on the city streets or in any local businesses around the Carruthers scene, the shooting scene, and the bullet-in-the car scene. “It’s going to take me a while to look into the phones, listening devices, and dash cams you just gave me.”

  Friday 12:37 A.M.

  At their desks, fans turned to high, Fenwick leaned back in his chair and perused the brochure from the convention. After a few moments, he said, “Every angry cliché is represented here at this event. Why? Was that planned? Or they invited all the angriest groups of protesters here? Or just leaders of the angriest groups? Anti-government officials left and right? Good people trying to help the world? Inarticulate boobs? Screamers? People ready to lose their tempers? Who gains? The right wing? Are we saying they organized all their enemies just so those enemies would come to town and make fools of themselves? Or they’d get all their enemies to town and commit murder? Or both sides had the same goal, death and destruction? Both sides already treat each other with disdain. If you pile cliché upon cliché, what have you gained?”

  Turner said, “I’m not sure they care about what they gain. Think about it, whoever you are, say you’re in the middle of a huge rally by the opposition. And you stand up and start screaming. There’s one of you and ten thousand opponents. What do you expect to gain? If you’re that kind of person, are you really capable of that kind of thinking ahead?” He opened his laptop. “Let’s get paperwork done and go home.”

  Fenwick grunted.

  Fifteen minutes later, Rodriguez walked in. He clumped over to their desks and plunked himself into a chair. He looked at each of them then said, “I just got done talking to Fong. He told me about the threat. I heard you guys had a hell of a night as well.”

  They swapped stories.

  “All this to protect Carruthers?” Rodriguez said. “I’ve worked with him for years, and there’s always been a certain arrogance in his behavior, but this is nuts. His career, presumably, is over, and the problem that he was, or the problems that he caused, don’t go the fuck away? This is nuts.”

  “Got that right,” Fenwick said.

  Rodriguez nodded at Turner. “Carruthers wanted to talk to me like he talked to you.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. I figured it was useless.”

  Turner said, “It pretty much was.”

  Rodriguez stood up. “I’m going home.”

  After exchanging ‘hang in theres’ and ‘everything’s going to be all rights,’ he left.

  They finished the essentials of their paperwork in half an hour and left.

  In the parking lot, Paul walked around his car to check for any problems. No key marks. Nothing obvious. Too paranoid? Too tired? He started the car and was pleased it didn’t blow up. He smiled at himself. Too melodramatic? Not frightened enough? More frightened than he needed to be?

  Friday 1:07 A.M.

  It was just after one when Paul pulled into his driveway. Ben sat on the front porch. He stood up as Paul strode up the sidewalk. They met on the bottom step. Paul felt the fierce embrace and a feeling of safety washed over him. He could feel Ben’s chest and legs solid and firm through their clothes. He took a deep whiff of Ben’s after work smell, sweat, grease, the warmth of his skin on the June summer night, and a hint of deodorant. Early in their relationship, Paul had asked Ben if he would not shower after work. The aroma of all of him was a turn on, but it also reminded him of his husband, a scent of intimacy he could carry in his memory for when they were apart. Right now was a thousand times better than the few moments they’d had in the hospital.

  In a few moments, Ben leaned back and said, “He’s started another textbook.”

  “What this time?” Their younger son, Jeff, had a habit in times of stress of quantifying things. As a child who had dealt with spina bifida every instant of his existence, Jeff was sensitive to showing any sign of weakness, no matter how often his dads told him how proud they were of him, that physical strength wasn’t the only kind of strength, and that there were lots of ways to be strong and brave.

  It often didn’t matter what Jeff counted. When he was three, it was railroad cars. In kindergarten, he moved on from counting random items to math textbooks. He’d go through a whole book, finishing every problem in every chapter. Checking his answers. These days, when under heavy stress, he worked on calculus textbooks.

  Ben said, “More calculus, but this time he’s saving articles too, anything to do with police.”

  “He and I have talked about me being in a dangerous profession.”

  “I’ve talked with him too, but with all the recent events, his anxiety has gone up.” Ben paused for a moment then said, “So has mine.”

  They embraced again. This was a discussion they had as often as they needed to help relieve each other’s anxieties, as well as those of their kids.

  “How’s Brian?”

  “Probably holding it in like he always does.” The older boy tended to hold in his emotions in what he thought was a macho-male mode of reticence.

  They entered the house. The air-conditioning hummed below the level of consciousness. Brian was sprawled on the couch. He’d fallen asleep with the first Harry Potter book on his chest and his head resting on Jeff’s left thigh. He and Jeff had been reading the books out loud to each other. The whole family had read them when they came out, but the boys had decided reading them out loud again would be a good gift to give to each other before Brian left for college in the fall. Brian wore baggy soccer shorts and a deep purple ASOS sleeveless side-cut T-shirt with extreme dropped armholes. With one arm thrown across his eyes, his damp under-arm hair shone and glistened.

  Jeff was wide awake. The boy seemed to relish outré sleep habits during summer vacations. As long as they didn’t spill over into the school year, Turner didn’t mind. Other than his large, athletic brother, Jeff’s wheelchair and every other surface was covered with textbooks and strewn with paper. Jeff liked to switch from computer to textbook to hard copy as he worked the more difficult problems.

  He looked up when his dads came in.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Paul gave him a brief hug and said, “Yeah.”

  Brian shook himself awake. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Jeff asked, “Were you scared?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you know what to do?”

  “I just acted.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “I just acted.”

  The kid could be more persistent than a well-trained reporter.

  Jeff held up his iPad. He asked, “Why is everyone so angry?”

  Ben said, “It’s very late. We’re all tired. Why don’t we discuss all this in the morning?”

  Everybody headed for bedrooms.

  Friday 1:27 A.M.

  As Turner perched on the side of their bed, he eyed the bulge in Ben’s black boxer briefs. He felt a stirring of interest. Ben was placing his well-worn and freshly stained work clothes in their special hamper. Ben took direc
t interest in fixing the foreign oddities his car, truck, and motorcycle shop specialized in. Paul loved the smell of grease, grime, grit, and sweat.

  Ben sat next to him and gazed into his eyes. “You faced bullets today. From one of your own. Are you okay?”

  Paul’s phone buzzed. Late night calls seldom boded well. He glanced at it then over at Ben. He said, “Ian is on the front porch.”

  Ben said, “Something must be wrong.”

  Turner nodded. He threw on a pair of jeans and hurried down stairs.

  Even at this hour, the air outside continued humid-sticky. Ian sat on a swing on the far south side of the porch. He wore his slouch fedora low on his forehead, legs stretched out far in front of him, khaki pants winkled after a full day.

  Ian said, “Mrs. Talucci let me pass.”

  “For some reason, she likes you.”

  “For that, I’m glad.”

  Paul glanced at his neighbor’s house. He heard a faint rocking from the darkened and shadowed front porch. Mrs. Talucci would be there reigning magisterially over her street. She told Paul once that she didn’t sleep much anymore. Just lots of naps while knitting in her favorite chair. Late at night when out on her porch, she might have her knitting in her lap and her shotgun propped next to her. She said she did that mostly for effect to keep up her reputation as this was one of the safer neighborhoods in the city. Or at least her part of it was.

  Ian stared from under his hat brim at the nearest street light. He said, “I went there to kill Shaitan.”

  Turner gazed at his old friend and former lover. “What stopped you?”

  “He was already dead.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me and Fenwick this earlier?”

  “I’m not as perfect as I presume I am.”

  Paul sat in the empty portion of the swing and gazed at his friend. “Why did you want to kill him?”

  “He deserved to die. And don’t quote that Tolkien shit to me. Not now. Not again.”

  Turner knew Ian was referring to Gandalf’s words in the Lord of the Rings, “Some die that deserve life. Can you give that to them? Then be not too eager to hand out death in the name of justice, even the wise cannot see all ends.” Turner believed that, although he could see why Ian was tempted in this case.

  Paul said, “How about if you tell me your story, with all of the parts this time, and make sure all the parts are true.”

  For a moment, Ian lifted his hat brim with one finger on one hand, turned to Paul, caught his eye in the dim light. He said, “You know me too well.”

  One of the reasons they’d broken up many years ago was Ian’s infidelity, and the rigmarole of lies he invented to disguise his perfidy.

  Ian said, “I was going to meet Preston Shaitan.”

  “What was Bettencourt doing there?”

  “I really did have a meeting with him but set for much later.” Ian shrugged. “Maybe he was just unlucky showing up when he did. I’ve met Bettencourt. He’s worse than you. He thinks if people talk about things, they can resolve their differences. In the past, he’s talked about meeting with Preston Shaitan to establish a new paradigm for opposites getting along.” Ian hesitated, took off his hat, and placed it on the porch. He rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t get there and find them dead. The door to the roof?” He hesitated.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d just opened it when the shots were fired. I saw the blood. The violence. I saw them die.”

  Paul watched his old friend. “You couldn’t have stopped it.”

  “I know, and yes, I know I saw violence and the results of it when I was on the job. I know. I know. Maybe I’m no longer used to it. Maybe I never was. It was...” He sighed. “I was frightened.”

  Paul patted his old friend’s shoulder. “You’ll be okay.”

  “I guess.” After a few moments of silence, Ian said, “I had sex with them both. Not tonight,” he rushed to add at Paul’s look.

  “You’d met them both before.” Now Paul was angry.

  “I know. I lied.”

  “You’re still so good at it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Paul’s voice was clipped and short. “Tell me about it. Everything.”

  “I did preliminary interviews in my hotel room.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m staying at the Park Hyatt. I got a room with a view of the Water Tower. I like to stay there if I’m working on a story, and when I can afford it. It’s like a vacation. Preston and I were in my room. It was late at night. For half an hour, he bragged about what a shit he was, and how he loved being a shit to the world, how he loved shitting on everyone and making them miserable. I’d read about him for years. And then he started coming on to me.” Ian shook his head. “He bragged and bounced. I couldn’t resist making him think I was giving in to him.”

  “I didn’t know you were a celebrity fucker.”

  “I’m usually not, but I let him think he was seducing me. I needed the story. Things aren’t bad at the paper. They’re awful. By the end of next week, I think half the staff is going to be let go. I needed this story. I wanted the two of them to meet. I wanted an historic get together.”

  “Of two unknowns? Who cares about these two except masters of the esoteric protest?”

  “Please, let me explain.”

  Turner subsided.

  “I wanted a connection with them. I worked my charm. He seemed to think he was working his charm on me. I let him think so.”

  Ian was still an attractive man who worked out five days a week.

  Ian continued. “The foreplay was disappointing. The actual play was anemic at best.” Ian sighed. “I wanted to find out what he was up to. Was he as big a charlatan as I supposed? He certainly was sexually.”

  “You know he had fifty thousand dollars in his closet in his hotel room?”

  “Yeah. He told me about it.”

  “You didn’t think we’d be interested in knowing that?”

  “You gonna berate me or let me talk? You used to let me talk.”

  “You used to not be this big of an asshole. You were willing to sacrifice our friendship to your job?”

  Ian hung his head. “I apologize. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But I can make it up.” He glanced up at Turner and corrected, “Begin to make it up to you. I will apologize for as long and as often as you like.” He sighed. “When he told me about the money, it was like he was showing off. Like he was going to bribe the city into a riotous holocaust all by his devious doing. So I met with Bettencourt around four in the morning. He wasn’t staying in town until the day of the murder. He was quite friendly. He was quite good sex, actually fun. He was comfortable enough to sleep there for a few hours after we finished.”

  He cleared his throat. “So, I told him about all that money, and the bribes, and the chicanery. Bettencourt’s people were taking actions of their own. Of course, they both knew about each side trying chicanery, but not how extensive it was. I wanted to get the two of them together as flashpoints of stupidity against each other.” He gave a deeper sigh. “So yes, I was a shit, so yes, I should have told you, so yes, I may have ruined the most important friendship in my life for a piece of crap story, no matter how newsworthy it might have been. But see there’s more.”

  “More? They’re dead.” Paul sighed, “Why bother?”

  “Why not? I thought having had sex with either of them was something I could use later.”

  “How?”

  “Who knows? I like to keep things in reserve.”

  Ian’s devious streak had been another problem when they were a couple.

  Ian continued, “Shaitan wouldn’t kiss. Turned his head away when our lips got close.” Ian leaned forward. “He had a three inch dick fully hard. I almost laughed at him. He came as soon as I entered him then just lay there. I did some in and out for about a minute, but he was so unresponsive. I never came.”

  “What about Bettencourt?”

  “It was a friendly, funny interview.
He was a lot of fun. We sat on the couch, and I sat a little close, and he didn’t back away, and I moved a little closer, then I set my glass of soda down and touched his leg as I put it on the table. And one thing led to another. I think he just liked fun. He was ten inches and a great kisser. When I entered him he said, ‘You’re big, go slow.’ He’s married to a woman, so I guess he might be straight, but either way, he was a fun guy.”

  “How do you run into so many who are willing?”

  “I just don’t tell you about all the ones who aren’t.”

  “You knew both intimately, and you were on the scene when it happened?”

  Ian asked, “Are you going to arrest me?”

  “I’m going to be pissed off at you for quite a while. Really pissed off.”

  “I’m so, so sorry. I know I fucked up.”

  “And I have no forensic evidence that you killed them. You know that. You knew that before you came here.”

  “Lecture me about being unprofessional?”

  “Would it do any good?”

  “No.”

  “And part of why you came to me is, you know, no matter how pissed I am, it isn’t my style to lecture.”

  “You are kind that way.”

  “As Fenwick would say, it’s a curse.”

  “I’ve also gone to a couple of Shatain’s talks. I was there at the one where most of the crowd sat there in unmoving silence. I nearly busted out laughing. The guy looked frightened.”

  “It might have been fun to see.”

  “Shaitan was a danger to others and himself for that matter. We are justified in our paranoia. He fueled the hatred and was one of our own.”

  “And you’d sacrifice the rest of your life to kill him?”

  “I didn’t say I was thinking logically. That closeted guy who tried to shoot up a gay street fair in Chicago a few weeks ago considers this guy a hero. I wrote an article on that guy. I wanted an article on this guy.” He pulled in a deep breath. “I didn’t want an article. I wanted this guy to realize that he was causing pain and suffering.”

  “He knew he was. He wanted you to be angry. Did they say anything about each other?”