White River Burning

by John Verdon

  Then the bullet struck, knocking Steele facedown onto the sidewalk. Even though Gurney knew it was coming, he flinched. The reassuring words of a wise man he’d once known came back to him: Flinching at another’s injury is the essence of empathy, and empathy is the essence of humanity.

  At a gesture from Beckert, Turlock stopped the video and switched off the monitor.

  The silence in the room was broken by Mayor Shucker. “The damage being done to the businesspeople of this city by that damn RAM-CAM video is just awful. They run the damn thing over and over. Makes our little city look like a war zone. A place to avoid. We have restaurants, B and Bs, the museum, kayak rentals—the tourist season about to start, and not a damn customer in sight. This media thing is killing us.”

  Beckert showed no reaction. He looked toward the opposite end of the table. “Goodson? I know the video’s already been described to you in detail. Comments?”

  Cloutz fingered his white cane with an unpleasant smile. “I do appreciate Shucks’s business concerns. Natural for a man invested in the economy of the city to feel that way. On the other hand, I do see some value in givin’ folks around the state a glimpse of the barbarian shit we’re facin’ here. Folks need to see it to appreciate the steps we need to take.”

  Gurney thought he detected a nod of agreement from Beckert. “Other comments?”

  Kline shook his head. “Not at the moment.”

  “How about our new investigator?”

  Gurney shrugged, his voice casual. “Why do you think it took the shooter so long?”

  Beckert frowned. “Long?”

  “The dot from the laser sight was on Steele’s head for quite a while.”

  Beckert shrugged. “I doubt that it matters. Let’s move on to the next agenda item, the ME’s report. Copies of the full report will be available shortly, but Dr. Thrasher has provided me with the salient points.”

  He removed a sheet of paper from his briefcase and read aloud: “‘In re John Steele, DOA, Mercy Hospital. Cause of death: catastrophic damage to medulla oblongata, cerebellum, and posterior cerebral artery, leading to immediate failure of heart and respiratory functions. Damage initiated by the passage of a bullet through the occipital bone at the base of the skull, through critical brain and brain-stem regions, emerging through the lacrimal bone structure.’”

  He replaced the paper in his briefcase. “Dr. Thrasher further estimated, informally, that the bullet was probably a thirty-caliber high-energy FMJ. That estimate has now been confirmed by preliminary ballistic analysis of the bullet recovered at the Willard Park site. Any questions?”

  Shucker sniffled. “What the hell’s an FMJ?”

  “Full metal jacket. Keeps the bullet from expanding or fragmenting, so it passes through the target intact. Plus side is that it preserves the rifling marks for ballistics, so we can match the bullet to the weapon that fired it.”

  “Assuming you recover the weapon?”

  “Assuming we recover it. Any other questions?”

  Kline steepled his fingers. “Any progress finding the shooter site?”

  Beckert looked at Torres. “Ball’s in your court, Mark.”

  The young CIO looked pleased at the handoff. “We’re narrowing the possibilities, sir. Aligning the position of the victim’s head in the video frame that captured the impact with the position of the recovered bullet gave us a general vector for the bullet’s path. We’ve laid that vector out on a map of the area to identify possible sites. Priority goes to those farthest from the victim, since the shot wasn’t heard at the site, and no audible traces were picked up by the RAM-CAMs. We have patrol officers out now doing door-to-doors.”

  Cloutz was idly stroking his cane. “And you ain’t gettin’ diddly-shit cooperation from our minority citizens. Am I right?”

  Gurney noted that the sheriff’s fingernails were nicely manicured.

  Torres frowned, his jaw muscles tightening. “The level of cooperation so far has been uneven.”

  Kline continued. “Apart from the door-to-doors, Mark, what else is under way?”

  Torres leaned forward. “We’re collecting and reviewing video data from the security, traffic, and media cameras in the area. A careful examination of that data is likely to—”

  Mayor Shucker broke in. “What I want to know is, do we have any real leads on them sons of bitches on the run? That’s gotta have priority. Catch ’em, incarcerate ’em, and put this goddamn nightmare to rest.”

  There was a hard edge to Beckert’s voice. “Jordan and Tooker are at the top of our list. We’re going to get them. That’s a personal guarantee.”

  Shucker seemed mollified.

  Kline steepled his fingers again. “Can we tie them directly to the shooting?”

  “We know from reliable informers that they were involved. And we just heard from a credible source that a third person may have been involved along with them—possibly a white male.”

  Kline appeared startled. “I didn’t think the BDA had white members.”

  “They don’t. Not technically. But they do have some white enablers, even financial supporters.”

  “Leftie loonies, need to have their goddamn heads examined,” interjected the sheriff.

  Kline looked pained.

  Beckert exhibited no reaction at all. “We hope to identify that third person and have Jordan and Tooker in custody within the next forty-eight hours. And we expect that Mark and his people will have conclusive physical evidence very soon—from the shooter site, from BDA materials seized in the raid, and from cooperating BDA members.”

  “Speakin’ of which,” said the sheriff, “I would hope that Sheridan here will be askin’ the judge to set bail high enough on our BDA detainees so they don’t go flyin’ out free as fuckin’ birds. More time we have them in custody, better our chances of gettin’ what we need.”

  Gurney knew what the sheriff was talking about. He’d no doubt already separated the detainees from each other and put them in cells with jailhouse snitches who might be eager to trade incriminating information for sentence reductions. It was one of the rottenest parts of a rotten system.

  Beckert glanced at his watch. “Any further questions?”

  Gurney spoke with bland curiosity. “Do you think there’s any chance your hypothesis might not be correct?”

  “What hypothesis?”

  “That the Black Defense Alliance is responsible for the shooting.”

  Beckert stared at him. “What makes you ask that?”

  “I’ve made some mistakes myself by getting too sure too soon. I stopped asking questions because I thought I had all the answers.”

  “Is this a general concern, or do you have a specific pebble in your shoe?”

  “I had a visit this morning from Kim Steele, John Steele’s widow.”

  “And?”

  “She showed me an odd text that was sent to her husband’s personal phone the night he was shot. I made a note of it.” Gurney brought it up on his phone and slid it across the table.

  Beckert read through the text, frowning. “You’ve seen this, Sheridan?”

  “Dave discussed it with me before we came in.”

  It struck Gurney that wielding the truth deceptively was one of Kline’s talents.

  Beckert passed the phone on to Turlock, who gazed expressionlessly at the message and then passed it back.

  The sheriff spoke up in an oily voice. “Could someone kindly enlighten me?”

  Beckert read aloud from the screen with obvious contempt for the street-slanginess of the text. “ ‘Watch ur back. EZ nite for mfs to ice ur ass n blame the BDA.’ ”

  “Hell’s that all about?”

  Ignoring the question, Beckert gave Gurney a long look. “Did you take possession of Steele’s phone?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mrs. Steele wasn’t ready to hand it over, and I had no standing to demand it.”

 
Beckert tilted his head speculatively. “Why would she bring this matter to you?”

  “She referred to some work I’d done on another case.”

  “What work?”

  “I helped exonerate a woman who’d been framed for murder by a corrupt cop.”

  “What relevance does that have here?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Really? None at all?”

  “I’m determined to keep an open mind.”

  Beckert held Gurney’s gaze for a long moment. “We need that phone.”

  “I know.”

  “Will she surrender it willingly, or do we have to hit her with a warrant?”

  “I’ll talk to her. If I can persuade her, that would be a better route.”

  “You do that. In the meantime Judd will get a warrant. In case we need it.”

  Turlock, who had been flexing his fingers and examining his knuckles, nodded.

  “Okay,” said Beckert. “That wraps it up for now. Just a final word. Procedure is key. Lack of orderly procedure produces chaos, chaos produces failure, and failure is not an option. All communications will be routed through Judd here. He’ll be the hub of the wheel. Everything flows in to him, and everything flows out from him. Any questions?”

  There were none.

  It struck Gurney as a strange arrangement, since that central role normally would be filled by the CIO, in this case Mark Torres. And the tone of bureaucratic rigidity seemed like anything but a plus. But this need for control was obviously coming from a central point in Beckert’s personality, and Gurney didn’t want to strain his relationship with the man any further by probing the matter. At least not for the moment.

  14

  Kline and Gurney left the building together, saying nothing until they reached their cars. Kline glanced around like a man wary of being overheard.

  “I want to clarify something, David. I don’t want you thinking I’m being less than totally honest with you. In the meeting you explained that you couldn’t ask Kim Steele for the phone because at that point you had no official standing in the case. Well, that’s exactly why I couldn’t tell you she’d come to me. You can understand the sensitivity of the thing.”

  “The same sensitivity that kept you from telling Beckert about it?”

  “I was delaying slightly on that—mainly out of respect for Kim’s concerns. But one thing leads to another. The best of intentions can create problems.”

  “What problems?”

  “Well, the simple fact of any delay at all. If that came to light, it could create the impression that I shared Kim’s mistrust of the department. That’s why I chose to handle it the way I did—not out of any desire to mislead you. By the way, how you handled the phone business in the meeting—that was ideal.”

  “It was the truth.”

  “Of course. And the truth can be very useful. The more truth, within reason, the better.” There were beads of sweat on Kline’s forehead.

  From their first meeting back at the start of the Mellery case, Gurney was aware that there were two distinct layers in Kline’s construction: the veneer of a confident politician with his eye on the gold ring and, beneath it, a frightened little man. What struck Gurney now was the increasing visibility of the fear.

  Kline looked around the lot again and checked his watch. “You see or hear anything in that meeting that surprised you?”

  “The possible involvement of a third person was interesting.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “Too soon to say.”

  “What’s your next step?”

  “I’d like more information.”

  “Like what?”

  “You want me to email you a list?”

  “Easier this way.” He took out his phone and tapped a couple of icons. “It’s recording.”

  “I’d like to see the incident report; crime-scene photos; copies of the video we just saw; ballistics report; victim bio; Jordan’s and Tooker’s criminal records; anything you can pry out of Beckert regarding his informants; and I’d like to know what’s behind his obvious hatred for Jordan and Tooker.”

  Kline shut off the Record function of his phone. “That last one I can answer right now. Beckert’s strengths as a law enforcer come with a passion for maintaining order. He sees Jordan, Tooker, the whole BDA organization as agents of anarchy. Dell Beckert and the BDA are like matter and antimatter—a huge explosion waiting to happen.”

  As he began his drive home, Gurney had two things on his mind. The first was Kline’s obvious anxiety. It suggested that he mistrusted the handling of the case by the department or by Beckert himself. He wondered if the source of that mistrust ran deeper than the phone text. The second was the motorcycle that had been maintaining a consistent position about a hundred yards behind the Outback since he’d left White River.

  He slowed from seventy to sixty and noted that the motorcycle did the same.

  He increased his speed from sixty to seventy-five with a similar result.

  A few minutes later, as he passed a sign indicating a rest stop one mile ahead, the motorcycle accelerated into the left lane, rapidly coming abreast of the Outback. The rider, unidentifiable in a helmet with a face shield, extended his hand—holding a gold detective’s shield—and gestured toward the upcoming exit ramp.

  The rest area turned out to be nothing more than a row of parking spaces in front of a small brick building that housed a pair of restrooms. The area was isolated from the highway by a line of overgrown shrubbery. As the motorcycle pulled in and stopped a couple of spaces away, the loneliness of the place prompted Gurney to move his Beretta handgun from his glove compartment to his jacket pocket.

  When the rider stepped off the machine and removed his helmet, Gurney was surprised to see that it was Mark Torres.

  “Sorry if you thought I was following you. I live out this way, my wife and I, in Larvaton. The next exit.”

  “And?”

  “I wanted to talk to you. I’m not sure whether it’s okay to be speaking to you directly, I mean privately like this. I don’t like going outside channels—with everything supposed to be going through Deputy Chief Turlock—but then I decided it would be sort of okay, since we’ve met before.”

  “We have?”

  “You probably wouldn’t remember, but I attended a seminar you gave at the academy a couple of years ago on investigative procedures. It was really amazing.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it, but . . .”

  “I should get to the point.” He looked like the idea was causing him physical pain. “The thing is . . . I kind of feel in this case like I’m in a little over my head.”

  Gurney waited as a series of heavy trucks roared by on the far side of the bushes. “In what way?”

  “I just got promoted from patrol to the detective bureau six months ago. To be put in this position on a case like this, with so much at stake . . .” He shook his head. “To be honest, I’m a little uncomfortable.” The hint of an accent was creeping into his voice.

  “With the responsibility? Or something else?”

  Torres hesitated. “Well, it’s sort of like I’m the case CIO and sort of not. Chief Beckert seems to be running it. Like this thing of staying focused on Jordan and Tooker, like he’s positive they’re guilty. But I don’t see enough evidence to be that positive about it myself. Is this a big mistake, talking to you directly about this?”

  “That depends on what you want from me.”

  “Maybe just your phone number? I’d love to be able to bounce things off you. Unless that’s a problem.”

  Gurney saw no reason to refuse, regardless of how rigid Beckert might be about the flow of information. He shrugged and gave the young detective his cell number.

  Torres thanked him, and then was gone—leaving Gurney to muse over the encounter. Like everything else in the case, it felt not quite right. He wondered if the secrecy surrounding the request was the produc
t of Torres’s insecurity, the White River police culture, or something nastier altogether.

  His musings were interrupted by the passing shadows of a pair of vultures circling over the weedy field adjacent to the restrooms. It was interesting, he thought, that vultures, nurturing themselves only from the bodies of dead animals, harming no living thing, had become in popular parlance predators devouring the defenseless. More evidence that the popular mind was rarely distracted by the truth.

  These musings were interrupted in turn by the ringing of his phone.

  It was Hardwick.

  “Gurney here.”

  “Damn! That text you sent me from Steele’s phone? Could be a legit warning. Or something pretending to be a legit warning. Or some other fucking thing entirely. You know where the call came from?”

  “We can pursue that when we get possession of the phone from Steele’s wife. But I’m sure the pursuit will dead-end at an anonymous prepaid cell. You have anything on Beckert or Turlock?”

  “A bit more than before. I called in a favor from a guy at NYSP headquarters with access to old recruitment archives—the original forms with the CV data provided by applicants. Beckert’s and Turlock’s applications reveal a very early connection. They both attended the same military prep school in Butris County, Virginia. Beckert was a year ahead of Turlock, but it was a small school, and they would have trained together.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Also interesting is a notation on Turlock’s application indicating that he had legal problems back at that school. ‘Juvenile court hearing, proceedings sealed. Applicant explanation, supported by Butris County sheriff’s affidavit, deemed adequate for application to proceed at this time.’ That’s all the notation says.”