by John Verdon
“Easier than with most street drugs. And there’s no antidote—no equivalent to Narcan for opiates—no way to bring you back once you go over the edge.”
“Could a propofol OD have been the cause of death?”
“Direct cause of death for both individuals was strangulation, leading to heart and respiratory failure. I’d say the propofol was administered earlier for its sedative rather than toxic effects.”
“To eliminate the pain of the branding? To keep the victims quiet and manageable?”
“The sedative effect would be consistent with those outcomes.”
“This case gets more interesting every day, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed. In fact, your call caught me on my way from the autopsy table back to my office.”
“Autopsy on who?”
“Officer Loomis.”
“I assume his death was the result of the complications you’d expect from a bullet to the temporal lobe?”
“The temporal lobe was creased but not perforated. He almost certainly would have recovered from that, possibly with some ongoing deficits. Of course, one can never be sure with brain injuries. His death was actually caused by complications arising from tissue destruction, sepsis, and hemorrhaging in critical brain-stem structures, primarily within the medulla oblongata.”
Gurney was puzzled. “What’s the connection between that area and the part of his head where he was shot?”
“No connection relevant to the outcome.”
“I’m confused. Are you saying that his death was not caused by the delayed effects of the gunshot to his temple?”
“His death was caused by the delayed effects of an ice pick driven into his brain stem.”
32
Gurney didn’t have time to ask Thrasher all the questions that came to mind. He settled for three big ones.
First question: How long before Loomis’s deteriorating condition was noted could the stabbing have occurred?
The answer was that it could have occurred anywhere from one to twenty-four hours prior to the onset of symptoms. There was no way of being more specific without a more extensive analysis of the affected area of the brain—which would be undertaken if requested by the WRPD or the office of the district attorney.
Second question: Why hadn’t one of the monitor alarms sounded at the moment of the stabbing itself?
The answer was that the deep sedation brought about by Loomis’s barbiturate coma would have substantially blunted any immediate physiological reaction. The monitors would register the ensuing symptoms of heart and respiratory failure only as they developed during the course of the gradual brain-stem hemorrhaging, deterioration, and sepsis.
Third question: Wouldn’t a crude instrument like an ice pick have produced a bleeding wound that the nursing staff would have noticed?
The answer was that bleeding could be avoided by angling the entry pathway to avoid the principal neck arteries and veins, which is exactly what the autopsy revealed had been done. With some medical knowledge and a good anatomical diagram, it would not be all that difficult. In addition, a small Band-Aid had been applied to the puncture site.
Gurney couldn’t help but be impressed by the simplicity of that last touch.
Thrasher went on to explain that his medical intern would soon be transcribing the audio recording of the detailed comments he’d made during the autopsy procedure. He would review the report, mark it “Preliminary, Subject to Revision,” and send an electronic copy to Mark Torres, the official CIO on the Loomis case.
Gurney knew that Torres would then share it up the chain of command to Turlock, who would in turn share it with Beckert. At some point in that process it would occur to someone to go to the hospital and request a list of all personnel and ICU visitors who could have had access to Loomis during the broad time period in which the stabbing could have occurred.
Gurney’s own goal was to get to the hospital, secure the same list, and get out of there before anyone knew he’d been deprived of his official standing.
The elegant lady with the white permanent and bright-blue eyes was again at the welcome desk, and she remembered him. She smiled, with a touch of sadness. “So sorry about your associate.”
“Thank you.”
She sighed. “I wish more people appreciated the sacrifices made by you people in law enforcement.”
He nodded.
She smiled. “What can we do for you today?”
He spoke in a confidential tone. “We’re going to need a list of hospital personnel and visitors who may have had contact with Rick Loomis.”
She looked alarmed. “My goodness, why . . .”
“Routine. In the event that he may have regained consciousness temporarily and said something in someone’s presence that could be helpful.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” She looked relieved. “You’ll need to see Abby Marsh. Let me call to make sure she’s in. Do you have something with your exact title on it?”
He handed her his DA credentials.
She laid them in front of her as she entered an extension number on her desk phone.
“Hello, Marge? Is Abby in? I have a special senior investigator here from the district attorney’s office . . . That’s right . . . Yes, he’s one of the officers who was here before . . . A personnel list . . . He can explain it better than I can . . . All right . . . I’ll send him in.”
She handed back his credentials and gave him directions to the office of Mercy Hospital’s director of human resources.
He was greeted by Abby Marsh at her office door. Her handshake was firm and brief. She was as tall as Gurney, probably in her late forties, thin with brown hair cropped so short it suggested recent chemotherapy. Her harried expression suggested that the days were long gone when a personnel job was a stress-free sinecure. An expanding minefield of regulations, entitlements, resentments, and lawsuits had turned the position into a bureaucratic nightmare.
He explained what he needed. She asked to see his credentials and studied them in a distracted way. She told him she could provide a list of names with addresses, phone numbers, job titles, and dates of employment, but no other file information. As for indicating specific staff members with ICU access, that was impossible since staff access to that area was neither restricted nor monitored.
She looked hurriedly at her watch. Did he prefer a paper printout or a digital file?
Digital.
Did he want it emailed to the DA’s office, or did he want it now on a USB drive?
Now on a USB.
It was as simple as that.
He hoped his lack of candor in getting what he needed wouldn’t create problems for her. There could be repercussions arising from his having presented credentials that were arguably no longer valid, but he figured that any blowback from that would be directed at him, not her.
His plan was to head home and review the list she’d given him. Not that he thought it would produce any sudden insights, but it couldn’t hurt to gain a familiarity with the names in the event that one popped up later in a related context. And there was a fair chance that someone on that list had been sufficiently afraid of Loomis’s possible recovery, afraid of what he might reveal, to make sure it wouldn’t happen.
The sequence of letters and numbers on the index card flashed through Gurney’s mind. If those obscure characters did in fact represent the information that Loomis had been shot and then fatally stabbed with an ice pick to prevent him from divulging, it was now more vital than ever to decipher their meaning.
As he was passing the Larvaton exit on the interstate on his way back to Walnut Crossing, wondering if the digits in the message, 13111, might be a postal box number, his phone rang.
It was Whittaker Coolidge.
His voice was tight. Gurney couldn’t tell whether from excitement or fear.
“I was able to get in touch with the individual you were asking about. I think some communication can be a
rranged.”
“Good. Is there a next step?”
“Are you still here in town?”
“I can be back there in twenty minutes.”
“Come to my office. I’ll know then how to proceed.”
Gurney exited at the next cloverleaf and headed back to White River. He parked in the same space by the graveyard, and went into the church building by the back door.
Coolidge was in his office, seated at his desk. He was in his clerical uniform—black suit, dark-gray shirt, white collar. His sandy hair was combed and parted.
“Have a seat.” He pointed to a wooden chair by his desk.
Gurney remained standing. The room felt chillier than it had earlier. Perhaps because the fire in the grate had gone out. Coolidge interlaced his fingers. The gesture looked half prayerful, half anxious.
“I spoke to Cory Payne.”
“And . . .”
“I think he wants to talk to you as much as you want to talk to him.”
“Why?”
“Because of the murder charge. He sounds furious and frightened.”
“When do we meet?”
“There’s an intermediate step. I’m supposed to call a number he gave me and put the phone on speaker. He wants to ask some questions before you get together. Is that okay?”
Gurney nodded.
Coolidge picked up his landline handset, tapped in a number, and held it to his ear. A few seconds later he said, “Yes . . . all set . . . I’m putting you on speaker.” He pressed a button and returned the handset to its base. “Go ahead.”
A sharp, edgy voice from the speaker said, “This is Cory Payne. David Gurney? Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“I have questions for you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you agree with what Dell Beckert has been saying about the shootings and the Black Defense Alliance?”
“I don’t have enough facts to agree or disagree.”
“Do you agree with his accusation against me?”
“Same answer.”
“Have you ever shot anyone?”
“Yes. A couple of psychotic murderers who were pointing guns at me.”
“How about shootings that weren’t so easily justifiable?”
“There were no others. And ‘justifiable’ has never meant much to me.”
“You don’t care if a killing is justifiable?”
“To kill or not to kill is a question of necessity, not justification.”
“Really? When is killing another human being necessary?”
“When it will save a life that there’s no other way of saving.”
“Including your own?”
“Including my own.”
“And you’re the sole judge of that necessity?”
“In most cases there’s no opportunity for a broader discussion.”
“Have you ever framed an innocent person?”
“No.”
“Have you ever framed a guilty person—someone you were sure was guilty but you didn’t have enough legitimate evidence to prove it in court?”
“No.”
“Have you ever wanted to?”
“Many times.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I hate liars, and I don’t want to hate myself.”
There was a silence, lasting long enough that Gurney thought the connection might have been broken.
Eventually Coolidge intervened. “Cory? You still there?”
“I’m thinking about Mr. Gurney’s answers.”
There was another silence, not quite so long.
“Okay,” said the voice on the speaker. “We can go ahead with this.”
“As planned?” asked Coolidge.
“As planned.”
Coolidge pressed a button on the handset to end the call. He looked relieved if not quite relaxed. “That went well.”
“Now what?”
“Now we talk.” The sharp, edgy voice came from behind Gurney.
33
Cory Payne’s lean body in the doorway appeared poised to spring—but whether toward or away from Gurney was unclear. There were traces of Dell Beckert in his athletic physique, chiseled face, and unblinking stare. But there was something else in his eyes as well, an acid in place of his father’s arrogance.
Payne and Gurney were facing each other. Coolidge was sitting behind his desk. He pushed his chair back, but remained seated—as if by some peculiar calculation he had decided that the available standing room was already occupied.
Gurney spoke first. “I appreciate your willingness to talk to me.”
“It’s not a favor. I need to know what the hell is going on.”
Coolidge eased his chair back a few more inches and gestured toward the armchairs by the fireplace. “Would you gentlemen like to sit down?”
Without taking his eyes off Gurney, Payne moved cautiously to the brown leather chair on the far side of the hearth. Gurney took the matching one facing it.
Gurney studied Payne’s face. “You resemble your father.”
His mouth twitched. “The man who’s calling me a murderer.”
Gurney paused, struck by the young man’s voice. The timbre was the same as his father’s, but the tone was tighter, angrier.
“When did you change your name from Beckert to Payne?”
“As soon as I could.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because that patriarchal thing is bullshit. I had a mother as well as a father. Her name was Payne. I preferred it. What difference does it make? I thought we were going to talk about these murders I’m being accused of.”
“We are.”
“Well?”
“Did you commit them?”
“No! That’s ridiculous! A stupid, disgusting idea.”
“Why is it ridiculous?”
“It just is. Steele and Loomis were good people. Not like the rest of that stinking department. What’s happening now scares the shit out of me.”
“Why?”
“Look at who’s dead. Look at who’s being blamed. Who do you think will be next?”
“I’m not following you.”
Payne counted the names off on his fingers with increasing agitation. “Steele . . . Loomis . . . Jordan . . . Tooker. All dead. And who’s being blamed? The Gort brothers. And me. You see the pattern?”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“Seven people with one thing in common! We’ve all created problems for the sainted police chief. He’d be much happier if none of us existed. And now he’s got four of us out of the way.”
“Are you claiming that your father—?”
“Not with his own hands. That’s what he has Judd Turlock for. It’s amazing how many people have been killed or put in the hospital for ‘resisting arrest’ since Turlock and the great Dell Beckert came to White River. That’s all I can think about. The minute I heard my name on that Flynn thing last night, that was my thought—I’m next. It’s like living in some gangster dictatorship. Whatever the big man wants, somebody makes it happen. Whoever gets in his way ends up dead.”
“If you’re afraid of being tracked down and shot in a manufactured confrontation, why not get yourself a good lawyer and turn yourself in?”
Payne burst out in a harsh laugh. “Turn myself in and sit for God knows how long in Goodson Cloutz’s jail? That would just make it easier for them. In case you haven’t noticed, Cloutz is a slimy piece of shit. And there are people in that fucking jail who’d actually pay him for the chance to kill a police chief’s son!”
Gurney nodded thoughtfully. He sat back in his chair and let his gaze drift out the far window into the churchyard. In addition to giving himself a moment to consider the implications of what Payne was saying, he wanted to create an emotional break to let the young man’s level of agitation subside before moving on to another subject.
Coolidge’s v
oice interrupted the silence, asking if they’d like some coffee.
Gurney accepted. Payne declined.
Coolidge went to prepare it, and Gurney resumed his inquiry.
“We need to address some evidence issues. There’s video footage of you driving a black Corolla to and from both sniper locations.”
“The apartment building in Grinton and the private house up in Bluestone?”
“Yes.”
“When they showed those places on the news this morning, I almost threw up.”
“Why?”
“Because I recognized the buildings. I’d been there. To both of them.”
“Why?”
“To meet someone.”
“Who?”
He shook his head, looking both angry and scared. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know who you were meeting?”
“I have no idea. People contact me. It’s no secret where I stand politically. I founded White Men for Black Justice. I’ve been on TV. I ask for information. I publicize my phone number. Sometimes I get anonymous tips from people who want to help me.”
“Help you do what?”
“Expose the rot in our fascist police establishment.”
“That’s why you went to those places? To meet someone who promised to help you?”
“He said he had a video—the actual dashboard video from the police car at the Laxton Jones shooting. A video that would expose what really happened—and expose the police story as total bullshit.”
“It was a man’s voice?”
“It was a text. I guess I just assumed it was from a guy. There was no name on it.”
“So you got this anonymous text offering you the video?”
“Yes.”
“Telling you to go to that apartment building on Bridge Street to get it?”
“Yes.”
“This was the evening of the BDA demonstration in the park?”
“Yes. I was supposed to drive into the alley behind the building and wait.”
“And you did that.”
“I followed the directions. I’m there in the alley at the right time, waiting. I’m there maybe twenty minutes. Then I get a text changing the plan, telling me I should drive to the far side of the Grinton Bridge. So I do. And I wait. After a couple of minutes, I get a third text. This one expresses some concern about surveillance, says we need to postpone the meeting until it’s safer. I drive home to my apartment. I’m thinking, that’s the end of that. Until I get a new text a couple of days later. This time it’s a big rush. I have to drive immediately to a house up on Poulter Street in Bluestone. I’m supposed to drive straight into the garage and wait. I manage to get there on time; and I’m waiting, waiting, waiting. After a while I’m thinking maybe I misunderstood. Maybe whoever’s got the video is waiting in the house. I get out of the car and go to the side door. It’s unlocked. I open it. Then I hear a sound that could be a gunshot. From somewhere in the house. So I get the hell out. I jump in my car. Tear out of there. Drive home. End of story.”