White River Burning

by John Verdon

  The vulture shadows passed again across the pavement and out across the scraggly field. “Hmm. Did Beckert have any problems there?”

  “If so, nobody noticed. Top of his class every year. Clean as Butris County spring water.”

  “Be nice to know what Turlock got banged up for.”

  “We’d need a hell of a good cause to persuade a Virginia judge to open the sealed juvie file of a deputy police chief. And as of now we have no cause at all.”

  “Be nice to find one.”

  “For a guy who’s not sure he wants to get involved, you sound pretty damn involved.”

  Gurney waited for another noisy convoy of trucks to pass. “One little peculiarity seems to lead to another, that’s all.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the relationship Kline has with Beckert. Kline describes him as a law-and-order god. Even told me in a worshipful tone that Beckert is married to the governor’s cousin.”

  “So?”

  “So why doesn’t he trust this paragon of justice?”

  “You don’t think he does?”

  “I think something about Beckert’s approach to this homicide has Kline running scared.”

  “The fuck you think is going on?”

  “I don’t know. Something to do with Beckert’s plan to run for attorney general?”

  Hardwick let out a braying laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Something I just heard. Latest rumor is that the former AG’s passing on to his heavenly reward in a Vegas hotel was more colorful than first revealed. Seems there was a hooker trapped under the fat fucker’s three-hundred-pound corpse.”

  “This has some relevance to Beckert?”

  “It dumps the former AG’s character into the shitter, which is a plus for Mr. Law-and-Order. Clean new broom to sweep out the nasty crap.”

  Gurney thought about this for a moment. “You told me the other day that Beckert’s first wife died of a drug overdose. You have anything more on that?”

  “There was no legal case, so no case records. The fuck would that have to do with anything anyway?”

  “No idea. I’m just asking questions.”

  When Gurney arrived home he found Geraldine Mirkle’s yellow Beetle parked by the asparagus patch. He was led by the sound of female laughter to the patio.

  Geraldine and Madeleine were doubled over. Finally Madeleine got hold of herself and said, “Welcome home, sweetheart. Gerry was just describing an encounter with a client.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Oh, you have no idea!” said Geraldine, her round face a picture of glee. “I’ve got to be going now. Buford gets a little crazy if he doesn’t get his dinner on time.” She stood up, surprisingly nimble for a rotund woman, and hurried off to her Beetle. As she was fitting herself into the driver’s seat she called back, “Thanks for the tea, my dear.” With a burst of giggles she drove off.

  Madeleine responded to Gurney’s quizzical expression with a dismissive little wave of her hand. “Just a bit of dark clinic humor. Hard to explain. You had to be there.” She wiped her face again and cleared her throat. “I thought we’d have dinner out here this evening. The air is pure heaven.”

  He shrugged. “Fine with me.”

  She went into the house and came back ten minutes later with place mats, silverware, and two large bowls brimming with her favorite salad of cold shrimp, avocado, diced tomatoes, red-leaf lettuce, and crumbled blue cheese.

  They were both hungry and hardly spoke until they were finished. The four chickens were pursuing their own daylong meal, pecking in the grass around the edges of the patio.

  “Buford is her cat,” said Madeleine, putting down her fork.

  “I thought it was her husband.”

  “Hasn’t got a husband. Seems happy enough without one.”

  After a pause Gurney launched into a summary of all that had transpired that day, including his meeting with Kline in the parking lot.

  “The more he tells me how open and honest he’s being with me, the less I believe it. So I guess I need to make a decision.”

  Madeleine said nothing, just cocked her head and eyed him incredulously.

  “You think my involvement is a bad idea?” he asked.

  “A bad idea? Is it a bad idea to let yourself be used in a murder investigation by a man you think is lying to you? To put your life in the hands of a man you don’t trust? My God, David, on what planet would that be considered a good idea?”

  Putting his life in Kline’s hands might be an overly dramatic way of looking at it, but she had a point. “I’ll sleep on it.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  In his own mind he was inclined to continue his investigation, at least for a while. What he intended to ‘sleep on’ was his relationship with Kline.

  She gazed at him for a long moment. Then she gathered up their salad bowls and forks and carried them into the house.

  He took out his phone and looked up the number Kim Steele had given him. The call went to her voicemail. He left a message saying it would be helpful for him to have her husband’s phone with whatever digital information might be stored in it. He avoided using language that sounded peremptory. He knew his best chance of getting her agreement lay in giving her the option of refusing.

  Then he sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and tried to put the jumble of the day behind him. But his mind kept going back to the unusual power dynamic of the White River meeting—Beckert clearly being the man in charge, despite being outranked by the three elected officials at the table—the mayor, the district attorney, and the blind sheriff.

  He was still sitting there on the patio half an hour later, trying to relax in the sweetly scented spring breezes, when he heard Madeleine stepping back onto the patio. He opened his eyes and saw that she was fresh from a shower . . . hair still damp, barefoot, wearing only panties and a tee shirt.

  She smiled. “I thought we should probably get to bed early.”

  It proved to be a wonderful solution to his focus problem.

  The next morning he awoke with a start. He’d been dreaming that he was lying in the bottom of his excavation, shackled by a black-iron chain to the foundation wall. A blind man in dark glasses was standing at the edge of the excavation, brandishing a long white cane. He slashed the cane viciously back and forth, each slash creating a high-pitched scream.

  As Gurney came to his senses in the bed next to Madeleine, the screaming became the ringing of the phone on the nightstand. He picked it up, blinking his eyes to clear his vision. He saw on the screen that the caller was Sheridan Kline.

  He cleared his throat and pressed Talk.

  “Gurney here.”

  Kline’s voice was shrill. “About time you picked up.”

  Gurney glanced at the clock on the night table. It was 7:34 AM. “Is there a problem?”

  “An hour ago Dell Beckert got a call from the pastor of White River’s largest Episcopal church. He was concerned about Beckert’s statement on RAM News.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “It sounded to him like Beckert was saying that Jordan and Tooker were cop killers.”

  “The pastor was upset by that?”

  “Furious.”

  “Because?”

  “Because Marcel Jordan and Virgil Tooker just happened to have been meeting with him in the parish house at the time Steele was shot. Discussing ways to end the violence. Jesus! That’s why they left the demonstration early. Meaning they have what is known as a rock-solid alibi. They didn’t do it. Couldn’t have done it. Not unless we want to believe the most popular white pastor in White River is in the pocket of the BDA.”

  “Okay. So they didn’t do it. They have an alibi. So what?”

  “So what? So what? So they were just found. That’s so what.”

  “Found?”

  “Found. Dead.”

  “What?�
�

  “Stripped naked, tied to the jungle gym in the Willard Park playground, apparently beaten to death. In the goddamn playground!”

  II

  THE THIRD MAN

  15

  As they waited for Beckert and Turlock, the members of the critical situation management team were in the same seats they’d been in the previous day, but the mood in the room was markedly different. There was no idle talk—in fact, no talk at all.

  Gurney’s mind was seesawing between his promise to reconsider his involvement with Kline and this tectonic shift in the nature of the situation.

  Dwayne Shucker’s eyes were closed, but the tiny tics playing at his eyelids belied any sense of restfulness. Goodson Cloutz’s mouth was drawn into a tight line. Sheridan Kline’s fingers were drumming lightly on the table. Mark Torres was focused on getting his laptop communicating with the screen on the wall above Cloutz’s head. Gurney was struck not so much by everyone’s discomfort, but by their apparent unwillingness to say a word before Beckert delivered his own view of the situation.

  At precisely 2:00 PM Beckert and Turlock strode into the room and took their seats. If the murder of two men Beckert had wrongly implied were cop killers had any effect on his self-confidence, it wasn’t obvious. Turlock looked about as concerned as a sledgehammer.

  Beckert glanced at Torres’s computer. “You have that ready?”

  “Yes, sir.” Torres tapped a key, and the screen on the wall displayed the words WILLARD PARK CRIME SCENE.

  “Just hold it there for a minute. I want to say a few words about perspective. At noon today I was interviewed by RAM News. Just before the camera started recording, the reporter made a comment to me. ‘This new development changes everything, doesn’t it?’ It wasn’t really a question. It was an assumption. A dangerous one. And a false one. What happened last night in Willard Park, far from changing everything, simply narrows our focus.”

  The mayor’s eyes were wide open. The sheriff was leaning forward, as if he’d misheard something. Beckert went on. “We know from our source that three individuals may have been involved in the plot to murder Officer Steele. Two of those conspirators, Jordan and Tooker, provided an alibi covering the time of the shooting. All this means is that the third member of the conspiracy was probably the actual shooter. From a messaging perspective, the focus of our search has been narrowed. Not changed. Even more important, when mentioning Jordan and Tooker, avoid the word ‘innocent.’ There are many ways to be guilty of murder. Pulling a trigger is only one of them.”

  The sheriff was moistening his lips. “I do admire your way with words, Dell.”

  Kline looked uneasy. “Do we know anything more about this third man?”

  “Our source is working on that.”

  “Are they willing to get on the stand, if it comes to that?”

  “One step at a time, Sheridan. Right now, the priority is information. And so far the information from this source has been pure gold. If I mentioned testifying publicly, it would evaporate.”

  Kline didn’t seem surprised by the answer.

  “One more point regarding the Willard Park incident,” said Beckert. “It’s important to avoid incendiary phrases. Let’s agree right now on the proper wording. These two individuals were found dead, details to be determined by autopsy. Do not refer to them as having been beaten to death.”

  Frown lines creased the mayor’s fleshy face. “But if that’s what happened . . . ?”

  Beckert explained patiently. “Found dead is neutral. Beaten to death is emotionally charged in a way that could exacerbate the situation on the street. We can’t prevent the media from using the term, but we should definitely not encourage it.”

  Some puzzlement lingered in the mayor’s expression, and Beckert went on. “It’s the description of an event that the public actually absorbs, the images and emotions conveyed by the words, not the event itself. Words matter.”

  “You’re talking about spin?”

  Beckert frowned. “That term minimizes its importance. Spin isn’t the icing on the cake. It’s the cake. Messaging is everything. It’s politics, Dwayne. And politics is no small thing.”

  Shucker nodded with the dawning grin of a man seeing the light.

  Beckert turned toward Torres. “Okay, bring us up to date.”

  “Yes, sir. At seven ten this morning our 911 center received a call from a local citizen walking his dog—reporting the discovery of two bodies in Willard Park. The 911 center contacted White River PD, and mobile patrol officers were dispatched to the location. First officer on the scene conducted a prelim interview with the caller, observed and confirmed the facts, secured the site, and reported to the duty sergeant, who notified Deputy Chief Turlock, who notified me. Upon arrival, I contacted our evidence unit, the ME’s office, and the photographer who—”

  Kline interrupted. “You checked the bodies for signs of life?”

  “Yes, sir, as part of my initial observations. As additional mobile patrol units arrived I enlisted their support in taping the scene perimeter. When the evidence officer arrived, I assigned three patrol officers to assist him in a wide-area cross-grid search. I ordered the remaining patrol units to close off vehicular and pedestrian access to the vicinity.”

  The mayor looked worried. “How big a vicinity?”

  “About fifty acres in the no-go zone, but the evidence search is currently concentrated in two or three acres.”

  “How about the media vultures?”

  “They’re subject to the same no-go zone as the general public.”

  “I hate them bastards.”

  “They can be difficult, but we’re keeping them at bay.”

  That got Gurney’s attention. “They showed up at the site this morning?”

  “Yes, sir. First thing. As we were setting up our perimeter tapes.”

  “Your initial communication regarding the incident—it occurred by phone or radio?”

  “By phone, sir.”

  “Interesting.”

  Beckert’s gaze rested on Gurney for a moment before he turned back to Torres. “Let’s move on to your crime-scene assessment.”

  “Yes, sir. It will be clearer if I begin with the photographs and video I just received from Paul Aziz.”

  The sheriff raised his head like a hound catching a scent. “Azeeez? I thought Scotty Maclinter did our forensic photos.”

  “That’s correct, sir, but he suffered an injury last night at the VFW. He’s in the hospital.”

  “What kinda injury?”

  “He fell down the stairs on his way to the men’s room.”

  “Hah. I do believe the boy’s done that before. Be advisable in future for him to pee in the parking lot. Meantime, who’s this Aziz?”

  “One of our dispatchers, who also happens to be a professional photographer. He filled in for Officer Maclinter once before. Excellent work.”

  “Hell kinda name’s Aziz?”

  “I’m not sure, sir. Possibly Jordanian or Syrian?”

  “Well, ain’t that somethin’? Seems like our country’s gettin’ more and more of them kind of people.”

  Gurney was taken aback by Cloutz’s obnoxious tone and depressed by the thought that it was probably a key part of what got him elected.

  Torres, after an unpleasant glance in Cloutz’s direction, returned to his presentation. “Paul provided us with more than we need for the purpose of documenting the crime scene, but his video coverage of possible approach and departure paths from the location of the bodies could be useful. And it shows the visual limitations of the weather conditions.”

  Kline frowned. “What limitations?”

  “Fog. Began around midnight. Didn’t clear up till around ten this morning. You can see for yourself in this opening segment of the video.” Torres tapped a computer key and pointed to the monitor on the wall.

  At first, all that was visible was the fog itself, a formless gray mass that seem
ed to be moving in slow motion past the camera. As the dark branches of nearby trees began to emerge from the murky background on both sides of the screen, it became evident that the camera operator was proceeding along a heavily wooded trail. Gurney thought he could hear footsteps and the sound of someone breathing. As he leaned forward to listen more carefully, he was startled by a sudden high-pitched shriek.

  “Jesus!” said Kline. “What the hell . . .”

  “Blackbirds,” said Torres. “Paul was recording audio along with the video.”

  “Damn things,” said the sheriff. “On that twisty little trail that touches the south corner of the lake, am I right?”

  The mayor frowned. “How’d you know that?”

  “I’m blind, I ain’t deaf. Fact I hear better’n most. The wife takes me for walks on that trail sometimes, knowin’ I hate the screamin’ of them damn birds. I been tryin’ to get Clifford Merganthaller to exterminate them in pursuit of peace and quiet. For an animal control officer, he’s woefully unwillin’ to exert any control at all. Boy’s ’bout as useless as them damn birds that don’t do nothin’ but scream and shit.”

  The mayor leaned forward. “Glory be to God, you can hear them shit?”

  “Don’t need to hear ’em doin’ what I know they’re doin’. Every livin’ bein’ shits. Some of ’em a hell of a lot more ’n others.” The antic observation had a nasty undertone.

  Beckert glanced at Torres. “Let’s move this along.”

  “We’re coming up to the place where the trail comes out into the clearing.”

  The shrieks of the birds on the audio track were growing more insistent.

  Out of the dark constriction of the trail, the screen now displayed an open area where the fog had thinned enough for Gurney to make out a wide expanse of lakeside reeds and a shedlike building. As the camera moved forward he was able to read a sign on the building listing hourly rates for kayak rentals.

  The black form of a bird swooped through the camera’s field of view.

  As the camera moved on, the ghostlike shapes of playground equipment began to come into view—a tall slide, a pair of seesaws, the angled braces of a swing set, and finally the geometrical structure of a large jungle gym.