by John Verdon
“I’m sure we’ll find what we need. But it will still be essential to describe the situation in the right terms. Clear, simple, moral terms that leave no doubt that justice will be done.”
“Biblical terms would be the best,” said the sheriff. “Folks hereabouts have a fondness for the Bible.”
“An interesting point,” said Beckert. “And while we’re on the subject—”
The soft bing of an arriving text stopped him in midsentence. He picked up his phone, and the message on its screen captured his full attention.
Torres, Kline, and Gurney were watching him.
Beckert looked up and announced with an unreadable expression, “Judd Turlock and his team have entered and secured the Gort compound out in Clapp Hollow. They’ve conducted a preliminary examination of the site, which appears to have been recently vacated. We’ll have Judd’s initial status report shortly, with on-site photos.”
“Gort boys slipped away, did they?” said the sheriff, his tone suggesting this was a predictable event.
“No individuals have been located on the property,” said Beckert. “We’ll know more soon.” He looked at his phone screen. “We’ll reconvene at one fifty.” He stood up from the table and left the room.
Gurney had a sudden thought about how he could use the free half hour, and he pursued Beckert out into the corridor, calling after him.
Beckert stopped and turned with an impatiently questioning look.
“I thought I’d take a quick run over to that place on the edge of Willard Park where John Steele was shot,” said Gurney. “To get a feel for the geography. Any problem with that?”
“No. Why would that be a problem?” Clearly annoyed by the interruption, he turned and strode down the corridor without waiting for an answer.
21
Gurney brought the Outback to a stop at the same barricade of yellow sawhorses where he’d parked earlier. Again he ignored the several Police Line Do Not Cross warnings and proceeded to the sidewalk that ran along the border of the field.
He walked forward slowly, reenacting as best he could the movements of Steele as he remembered them from the RAM-TV videos.
He walked looking to his left—out over the flat, neatly mowed field where the crowd had gathered for the demonstration, their backs to the sidewalk. At the opposite end of the open expanse there was a raised platform, no doubt the one that had been used by the BDA speakers. At the edge of the field loomed the contested statue of Colonel Willard.
He walked on, stopping intermittently, as Steele had, as if to pay closer attention to some part of the crowd. The first four trees he passed as he proceeded along the field’s edge were tall but relatively narrow-trunked. The fifth was the massive pine in which the steel-jacketed bullet had lodged itself after passing through the lower part of Steele’s skull, brain, and facial bone.
Three more times he walked back and forth, retracing Steele’s path to his death, and picturing as he did so the red laser dot of the sniper’s scope that had followed the man every step of the way. Gurney found the mental re-creation of this so vivid he had for a moment the disturbing illusion of feeling that dot on the back of his own head. At the end of his third passage, he stopped at the big pine and aligned himself with Steele’s position at the moment of impact. In his peripheral vision he was aware of the bloodstain where the man had fallen, his life abruptly over. John Steele. Husband of Kim Steele. Someone’s son. Someone’s friend. Someone’s partner. Reduced in one dreadful moment to memories in the minds of some, to pain in the hearts of others, to a brown stain on a concrete sidewalk.
Gurney was seized by a sudden, powerful sense of grief that took him by surprise. His chest and throat felt constricted. His eyes filled with tears.
He wasn’t aware of the cop coming up behind him until he heard a familiar, unpleasant voice. “Okay, buddy, you had a perfectly clear warning this morning about crossing—”
The cop stopped in midsentence when Gurney turned and faced him.
For a few seconds no one said anything.
Gurney wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his hand. “Beckert knows I’m here.”
The cop blinked and stared at him, something about the situation finally dawning on him. “Did you . . . uh . . . know Officer Steele?”
“Yes,” said Gurney. He didn’t feel that the answer was entirely untrue.
Back in the headquarters conference room, Torres and Kline were already in their seats, both checking their phones. The sheriff’s seat was empty. The mayor, however, was in his usual seat at the end of the table, engrossed in eating a piece of apple pie out of a Styrofoam box. His rust-colored comb-over was in slight disarray.
Gurney sat next to Kline. “Have we lost the sheriff?”
“He’s at the jail. Evidently one of the BDA detainees wants to trade information on our so-called third man for a get-out-of-jail-free card. Goodson likes to handle those interviews personally.” It was clear from Kline’s tone it was an appetite he didn’t share.
Gurney turned to the mayor. “I heard you were tied up at a Rotary lunch.”
Shucker swallowed, wiping crumbs from the corners of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger. “Roto-Rooter lunch would’ve been a better name for it.” His tone suggested he considered this comment clever and expected a request to elaborate.
Gurney said nothing.
“Sounds unpleasant,” said Kline.
The door opened and Beckert entered. He sat down, opened the laptop, and checked the time.
“It’s one fifty,” he announced. “Time to reconvene. Our current status is that Judd and his team are continuing their search of the Gorts’ compound. They’ve already found computer evidence that links them to the Knights of the Rising Sun, as well as some physical evidence that may tie them directly to Jordan and Tooker.”
Kline sat up a little straighter. “What’s the physical evidence?”
“We’ll get to that. I want you to see some photos first. They’ll give you some insight into the pair of lunatics we’re dealing with.” He tapped a key on his laptop, and the first photo appeared on the monitor.
It showed a dirt road hemmed in by tangled evergreens, leading to a gate in a high chain-link fence. Affixed to the fence were two square signs. The one to the left of the gate bore two lines of hand-printed words, too far from the camera to be legible. The one to the right, in addition to three lines of printing, had affixed to it what looked like an actual human skull.
The next photo Beckert showed was a close-up of the sign on the left.
THE LAWS OF MAN ARE TOOLS OF SATAN
THE GOVERNMENTS OF MAN ARE DENS OF SERPENTS
The next photo was a close-up of the sign with the skull. Gurney could now see that the skull was attached to the sign with a short arrow whose shaft and feathers protruded from the left eye socket. He recognized it as a crossbow bolt, a more powerful and deadly projectile than a normal arrow. The words printed below it were no more inviting.
CHURCH PROPERTY
ACCESS RESTRICTED
TRESPASSERS BEWARE
Shucker was half watching the screen as he pressed the back of his plastic fork into the corners of his pie container to extract the last few crumbs. “You see that skull, makes you wonder whose it is. And how it ended up there, out in the middle of nowhere. You know what I mean?”
No one responded.
Beckert let a few seconds pass before going on to the next shot. “This is a photo of a photo that Judd found in the tray of a computer printer in the Gorts’ cabin.”
Shucker blinked in confusion. “Say that again?”
Beckert repeated his statement with a slowness someone else might have found insulting, but Shucker just nodded. “Photo of a photo. Got it.”
What appeared on the screen was a picture of three strange figures in a room with log walls and a stone fireplace. Two of the figures were gaunt, bearded men in camo hunting clothes. One was much taller tha
n the other—so much so that Gurney concluded that one must be a giant or the other a midget to account for such a difference. Between them stood a large black bear—although “stood” would not be the most accurate word, since the animal’s body was being held in an upright position by a rope. One end was fashioned into a sort of noose around the bear’s thick neck, and the other end was fastened to a low roof beam. On the mantel above the fireplace were several crossbows fitted with hunting scopes. In a jagged arc above them on the wall were dozens of broadhead hunting bolts.
“The Gorts with their latest trophy,” said Beckert.
“The Gorts?” said Gurney. “I thought you said they were twins.”
“They are. Ezechias is six foot two, and Ezechiel is four foot ten. Apart from that, they’re identical. Same face, same voice, same lunacy.”
“There’s no spring bear-hunting season, is there?” said Kline.
“Absolutely not.”
“So they just do as they please—hunt whenever they feel like it, in or out of season?”
“I’m sure they prefer to do it out of season. One more way to tell the law to go to hell.”
“They fish with dynamite,” said Shucker, pressing his little white fork into another corner of his pie box.
Gurney stared at him. “Dynamite?”
“When the Handsome Brothers stone quarry got shut down after the big explosion, the state auditors discovered someone had made off with a gross of dynamite sticks. Back then, the twins worked there. But every fall folks in the area claim there’s a loud thump up to Clapp Hollow Lake and then the Gort boys spend the next week or two salting fish for the winter. Course it’s hard to know what’s fact or fiction out there in the hollows.”
“We’re in a position now to say with certainty that the Gorts have the stolen dynamite,” said Beckert, “although that’s not something we’ll be saying publicly. Not at this time.”
Kline looked worried. “They have the dynamite? Where is it?”
“Presumably they have it with them. It seems the Gorts were tipped off prior to Judd’s raid, and they left with certain items.”
“How do you know?”
“We know certain things were there and now they’re not. Here’s a photo Judd took an hour ago.”
A new photo replaced the one of the Gorts with the bear. It was taken in the same room—but without the Gorts, without the bear, without the crossbows on the mantel, without the broadhead bolts on the wall.
“I see what’s missing, compared to the other photo,” said Kline, “but how do we know those things weren’t put somewhere else a long time ago? I mean, there’s no proof that the earlier photo of the Gorts with the bear was taken recently. Couldn’t the rearrangement of the room have happened weeks or months ago?”
“We have evidence that suggests a very recent time frame.” Beckert clicked his way rapidly through a number of photos, stopping at one of a fenced area attached to a large shed. He pointed at it. “That’s the kennel. See that material strewn across the ground? That’s what’s left of the bear meat. Evidently the Gorts dumped the carcass in the kennel and their dogs tore it to shreds. Judd also found a fresh bear pelt in a taxidermy shed next to the cabin. So our timing assumptions are valid regarding the removal of the bear and the crossbows—and the Gorts’ dogs as well. They were known to have about a dozen pit bulls that are now missing. But from the condition of the bear meat in the kennel—it’s only just beginning to decay—we know the dogs were there until sometime yesterday.”
Kline looked uneasy. “And the dynamite?”
“It’s likely that the Gorts had in their possession over a hundred sticks. Judd found an empty explosives crate next to a half-empty container of canvas bags. He figures the Gorts transferred the dynamite to the bags to make it easier to carry.”
Now it was Shucker’s turn to look worried. “You’re saying that two of the craziest men in White River have gone underground with a dozen attack dogs, enough arrows to kill off a small village, and enough dynamite to blow up a big one? How come you’re not in a panic?”
“I prefer to focus on the progress we’ve made and the high likelihood of a successful resolution.”
“Earlier you mentioned physical evidence linking the Gorts to Jordan and Tooker,” said Kline. “Can you tell us what that is?”
“The potentially damning item is a coil of rope found in one of their sheds. Judd’s impression is that it’s identical to the rope used in the playground. We’ll be getting a microscopic confirmation of that. If we get a cut match on the end fibers, that’ll clinch it.”
“You also mentioned computer evidence linking them to KRS?”
“Yes. On a thumb drive, taped to the bottom of a desk drawer. It contains the text and the graphic elements used to construct the KRS website. Meaning the Gorts either put the site together themselves or provided the elements to someone who did.”
Kline’s expression brightened. “So we’re really getting somewhere.”
“We are.”
“That thumb drive,” said Gurney, puzzled, “how were its contents examined?”
“On site, with Judd’s laptop. Minutes after it was discovered.”
“The drive wasn’t password-protected?”
“Apparently not,” said Beckert.
“And none of its individual files were password-protected?”
“Apparently not.”
“Did they find the computer that housed the files the thumb drive was backing up?”
“They found a printer, scanner, modem, and router, but not the computer itself.”
“Interesting,” mused Gurney, speaking to no one in particular. “The Gorts took their dogs, crossbows, arrows, explosives, computer, and God-only-knows what else. But they left an unprotected USB drive and a rope that could incriminate them in a double murder.”
Beckert’s voice grew noticeably colder. “We can speculate on the reasons for those lapses in judgment later. But right now there’s a more urgent priority. We need to encapsulate our progress in an appropriate statement. There are aspects to be emphasized and aspects to be avoided. Remember that we’re in the middle of a media minefield. Forgetting it could be fatal.”
Fatal to whom or to what? wondered Gurney. Was this about Beckert’s own political future? Or was something else involved?
Beckert continued. “Regarding our investigations—”
He was interrupted by a tapping at the door.
Torres stood up and opened it.
It was the sheriff. “I hope my return isn’t breakin’ the flow of some brilliant crime analysis.”
“Come in, Goodson,” said Beckert. “We’re just summing up a few key points.”
“The summin’ up is the best part.” He made his way toward his seat at the end of the table.
Beckert began as he had before. “Regarding our investigations into the shooting and subsequent Willard Park homicides, there are three points that must guide all statements made outside this room. Number one, we are making rapid progress on both fronts. Arrests in both cases are anticipated within forty-eight hours. Number two, we have obtained evidence that will support airtight prosecutions and convictions. Number three, we are giving these cases equal priority and resources.” He looked around the table, then abruptly changed the subject. “Goodson, how did your conversation go with your snitch at the jail? Anything useful?”
“Interesting for sure. You can decide if it’s useful.”
“He wanted to trade information for a favor?”
“Of course. But it was a she, not a he. What she said was that Blaze Lovely Jackson, one of the three leaders of the BDA, had a falling out with her two coleaders, Jordan and Tooker.”
“How serious a falling out?”
“Serious serious, according to her. Said Blaze don’t play well with others. Not big on sharin’ power. Way she put it, Blaze is a vicious homicidal bitch, fond of usin’ a straight razor to end disputes. S
uggested there could be some connection between her homicidal nature and the fate of her coleaders.”
“We’re now ninety-nine percent certain the Gorts were responsible for the killings. I find it hard to believe that a black female could have had any involvement in what we saw in that playground.”
Cloutz moistened his lips. “That would be my feeling too. But my little lady did say with great conviction that Blaze Lovely Jackson was capable of anything. Absolutely anything.”
Beckert said nothing. His own thoughts now seemed to be absorbing his full attention.
22
When the meeting broke up, Gurney headed out immediately. He didn’t want to be late for his three thirty meeting with Rick Loomis at the Lucky Larvaton Diner. But before he could get in his car, he heard footsteps hurrying toward him.
It was Kline coming across the parking lot, radiating an odd mixture of excitement and anxiety. “Where are you rushing off to?”
“I’m meeting someone for coffee. Did you need me for something?”
“I’d like some explanation of your reactions in there.”
“You sound concerned.”
“The news we got was all good. Rapid progress on all fronts. Videos of the ‘third man’ coming and going from the sniper site. The car traced to a BDA member, creating a clear BDA tie-in to Steele’s murder. Plus an equally clear vigilante group tie-in to the murder of the BDA leaders. The discovery of solid evidence in both cases. Situation under control. Risk of chaos reduced. A solid victory for law and order.” He looked at Gurney expectantly.
“What’s your question?”
“Given what I just said, why do you have that doubtful look on your face?”
“I’m a natural skeptic. It’s the way my mind works.”
“Even when the news is overwhelmingly positive?”
“Is that the way you’d describe it?”
Kline held Gurney’s gaze for a few seconds, then reached into his jacket pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one up with a vintage Zippo, took a deep drag, and slowly exhaled, watching the smoke dissipate into White River’s still-acrid air.