Free Sex and Murder.com: A Paul Turner Mystery by Mark Richard Zubro Page A

be an explosive. The printing of his name and the address of the station was tiny and precise.
    “Maybe it’s from Ben,” Turner said.
    “He would send you something like that here without putting his name on it?”
    “I’d prefer to think it was him. I’m sending it to be analyzed.” Even if it simply contained a piece of chocolate, he was not about to eat a piece of food that mysteriously appeared on his desk.
    While Turner was on the phone, Fenwick made several calls to get pictures of Lenzati and Werberg that he and Turner could use as they interrogated those connected with the dead man.
    Turner flipped on the computer on his desk. He actually seldom used it. Mostly he left it in the sleep mode. A message on the screen said HOW MANY INNOCENT PEOPLE HAVE YOU KILLED TODAY?
    “What the hell?” he muttered.
    “What’s up?” Fenwick asked.
    Turner moved the screen so Fenwick could read the message.
    “What the hell?” Fenwick said.
    “Exactly my words,” Turner said. He could find no one who would admit to being at his desk or using his computer. Nor had anyone seen a stranger at his desk.
    “Could someone have turned this on from another location?” Turner asked.
    “We’ll have to get Micetic up here and ask him. Don’t erase the message.”
    They called Micetic and asked him to stop by.
    Fenwick and Turner methodically began working through mounds of paperwork. They would be in the next day on a Saturday, probably for more hours than either cared to admit.
    As Fenwick finished writing in his Daily Major Incident Log, Randy Carruthers entered the squad room. Turner knew that Carruther’s partner, Harold Rodriguez, had taken to working by himself in an unused and unheated cubicle on the fourth floor. Rodriguez claimed the cold was better than putting up with his partner. No one doubted this. No one had told Carruthers of this secret location. With the warren of rooms throughout the old building, it was easy to get lost or stay out of sight.
    Rodriguez had made a deal, which Turner understood involved large quantities of pastries from a nearby restaurant, with the clerk nearest to the stairs on the fourth floor. The clerk would signal Rodriguez of Carruther’s possible approach, and Rodriguez would quietly slip out. The porcine and unpopular young detective was forced to wait long intervals for his partner to appear. As he saw him less and less often, Carruthers became more and more frustrated and upset. Rodriguez was pleased with this, and turned a deaf ear to his partner’s requests to disclose his whereabouts.
    The rest of the cops on the shift were getting annoyed by Rodriguez’s ploy. The less time Rodriguez had to put up with Carruthers, the more time the rest of them had to. Carruthers always seemed to need to find somebody to talk to, check a fact with, compare a sports anecdote with, tell a boring story about his personal life to—in short, to share. Normal conversational give and take, which others found so natural, Carruthers found forced. Turner thought this sad, but not sad enough to feel more than a trifle sorry for the guy, and not sorry enough to pay a lot of attention to him.
    Carruthers marched up to Turner’s and Fenwick’s desks. “Have you guys heard the news?”
    Turner did his best to show polite disinterest. Without looking up and while reaching for more forms to fill out, Fenwick said, “We saw the story. A bunch of cops dead around the country. A vast conspiracy to do in the best detectives in each city. Not a shred of concrete evidence to back up the reporter’s suspicions. It sounds like all in a day’s work for the newspapers in this town. You don’t need to worry, Carruthers. No one would confuse you with someone who was competent.”
    “I’m talking about the pool downstairs among the beat cops.”
    Turner and Fenwick actually looked up. If there was a sporting event, Fenwick was the one in the building who put together the pool. Almost everybody from the