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

commander to the newest beat cop got in on them. Someone else doing a pool was unprecedented.
    “What pool?” Turner asked.
    “They tried to keep it a secret. Based on the detectives who work in this building, they’re taking odds on which of them is most likely to be murdered by this serial killer.”
    “Isn’t that a little premature?” Turner said. “If not downright macabre.”
    “Who’s the betting favorite?” Fenwick asked.
    “You,” Carruthers said.
    “I’m honored. This must mean they think I’m the best detective on the squad.”
    “Turner has much worse odds. Only a few guys are taking bets on him.”
    Turner said, “It could mean they don’t like you, Buck.”
    “Kindly, little old me?” Fenwick asked. “I’m sweet. I’m friendly. I bring them chocolate for Christmas. I’m the best at making cute-corpse comments. What’s not to like?”
    “It’s the jokes,” Turner said. “The serial killer is actually a saint who wants to eliminate hideous puns from the face of the earth. Can this be a completely bad thing?”
    “No one appreciates a true artiste of humor.”
    “Perhaps we haven’t met one,” Turner said.
    Fenwick pronounced his most recent, favorite, oftrepeated malediction. “May the next corpse we meet piss in your fur-lined jockstrap.”
    Carruthers said, “I don’t think it’s the humor. I think they don’t like you because you push too hard. You’re too mean to them. You ignore them. You make too many demands. You criticize them too much. You—”
    Fenwick interrupted. “Is this their opinion or yours?”
    Carruthers paused in his declamation. He licked his lips and glanced around the room. His insecurity in the face of Fenwick’s blatantly aggressive personality was palpable. Finally he said, “I’m just telling you what I’ve heard them say.”
    “You mean they confide in you?” Fenwick asked.
    “I’m the one who knew you were their odds-on favorite to be the one the killer picked as the next victim.”
    Fenwick looked at Turner. His partner shrugged.
    Carruthers said, “If you wanted, I think they’d let you guys get in on the pool.”
    Fenwick said, “I wonder if I dare bet against myself.”
    “Thanks for the news, Randy,” Turner said. “We’ll check it out when we get time.” The attempted dismissal didn’t work.
    Carruthers leaned closer to their desks. He whispered, “There’s real news.” His voice had lost its usual timbre, that of a nose whistle being abused. “Rumor is the police board is going to fire Devonshire and Smythe.”
    Ashley Devonshire and Dwayne Smythe were the newest detectives in Area Ten. They’d started as superior know-it-alls, moved on to spiteful envy as most of the others in the squad got more arrests and convictions, and finally graduated to murky scandal blending into abject horror. Late on a dank and foggy night, they had encountered what they had thought was an armed rapist. Both had fired their guns. It turned out they were confronting a twelve-year-old in a wheelchair. They claimed a gleam from the metal on the chair arm had looked like the barrel of a gun. As usual, an immediate investigation had taken place. Rumors of a cover-up persisted. Debate on cable television and talk-show radio continued as to responsibility and blame. Protests in the community, the newspapers, and on every newscast covering the Devonshire/Smythe shooting had been loud, insistent, and incessant.
    There is always an immediate investigation whenever a Chicago police officer discharges a firearm. Immediate, as in before the officer goes home. Representatives of the superintendent’s office, the District, and Area officials, all converge to make a report within hours. Turner had heard of some commanders who insisted that the police look good on any report but he’d never run into the problem.
    Devonshire and Smythe were disliked differently than Carruthers. The cops in Area Ten had worked with Carruthers for years. It was like the