by John Verdon
“If you want, I can ask about that for you. Or if you’d rather, I can have Laura Conway call you directly.”
“The second option would be best. Depending on what she says about Jordan, I may have follow-up questions.”
“I’ll see if I can reach her now. Sometimes she works late. Let me get back to you.”
Five minutes later Torres called back.
“Conway is on vacation up in the Maine woods, no cell phone, no internet, no email, but she should be back in the office in three or four days.”
“Do you know if anyone else in the office was involved with those contracts?”
“I asked. The answer was no. Laura handled both of them personally.”
“Okay, I appreciate the effort. You’ll try again when she’s due back?”
“Absolutely.” He hesitated. “You think there’s something wrong with the contracts?”
“I’d like to know whether Jordan himself personally leased those places. By the way, you mentioned the department has a good relationship with Acme. What sort of good relationship?”
“Just . . . good.”
“Mark, you’re not a particularly good liar.”
Torres hesitated. “I have to testify at a trial in Albany tomorrow morning. I need to be there by ten. I could stop off in Walnut Crossing around eight. Could we meet someplace and talk?”
“There’s a place for coffee in Dillweed. It’s called Abelard’s. On the county road in the center of the village. I can be there at eight.”
“I’ll see you then.”
Gurney knew if he gave in to the inclination to speculate, he’d waste a lot of time trying to arrive at an answer that would likely be handed to him the following morning. Instead he placed a call to Jack Hardwick.
It went to voicemail, and he left a message.
“Gurney here. I’m getting some ugly ideas about this case, and I need you to tell me what’s wrong with them. I’m going to be at Abelard’s tomorrow morning to meet with a young detective. He has to get to Albany for a trial, and he’ll need to be on his way by eight thirty. If you can come then, that would be ideal.”
36
When Gurney pulled into the tiny parking area in front of Abelard’s at 7:55 AM, the Crown Vic was already there.
He found Torres at one of the rickety antique tables in the back. Every time he saw the young detective, he looked a little younger and a little more lost. His shoulders were hunched, and he was holding his coffee mug in both hands as if he were trying to give them something to do.
Gurney sat opposite him.
“I remember this place when I was a little kid,” said Torres. His voice conveyed the special tension produced by trying to sound relaxed. “Back then it was a dusty old general store. Used to sell live bait. For fishing. Before it got all fixed up.”
“You grew up in Dillweed?”
“No. Out in Binghamton. But I had an aunt and uncle here. They immigrated from Puerto Rico about ten years before my parents and I came up. They had a small dairy farm. Compared to Binghamton, this was real country. The area hasn’t changed much. Mostly got poorer, more run-down. But this place sure got fixed up.” He paused, lowering his voice. “Have you heard about the latest problem in the search for the Gorts?”
“What now?”
“That second K9 dog they brought in—it got a crossbow arrow through its head, just like the first. And the state police helicopter had to make an emergency landing in one of the old quarries—some kind of mechanical problem. Just the kind of a mess the media loves—and Beckert hates.”
Gurney said nothing. He was waiting for Torres to get to the real point of their meeting. He ordered a double espresso from Marika, whose spiked hair that morning was only one color, a relatively conservative silver blond.
Torres took a deep breath. “Sorry about dragging you out here like this. We probably could have talked on the phone, but . . .” He shook his head. “I guess I’m getting kind of paranoid.”
“I know the feeling.”
Torres’s eyes widened. “You? You seem . . . unshakable.”
“Sometimes I am, sometimes I’m not.”
Torres bit his lower lip. He seemed to be steeling himself for a dive off the high board. “You asked about Acme Realty.”
“About Acme’s relationship with the department.”
“The way I understand it, it’s kind of a reciprocal arrangement.”
“Meaning what?’
“Rental management can be a tough business in some neighborhoods. Not just trying to collect rent from deadbeats, but nastier stuff. Dealers turning the property into a crack house. Illegal activity that can void the owner’s insurance. Tenants threatening to kill landlords. Gangbangers scaring decent tenants away. Apartments getting trashed. You’re a landlord in a tough area like Grinton, you’re going to be dealing with some dangerously crazy tenants.”
“So what’s the reciprocal arrangement?”
“Acme gets the support it needs from the department. Gangbangers, drug dealers, and crazies are persuaded to move on. People who don’t pay their rent are persuaded to do so.”
“What does the department get in return?”
“Access.”
“Access to what?”
“To any rental unit Acme manages.”
“The Poulter Street house?”
“Yes.”
“The Bridge Street apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Cory Payne’s apartment?”
“Yes.”
Marika arrived with his espresso. “God,” she said. “You boys look super serious. Whatever you do for a living, I’m glad I don’t do it. You want sugar with that?”
Gurney shook his head. When she was gone he said, “So, we’re talking about warrantless searches?”
Torres said nothing, just nodded.
“So let’s say you have a vague suspicion there might be some illegal activity in a particular apartment, but nothing concrete. And you know that no one is home during the day. So what then? You call up that Conway woman and ask her for a key?”
Torres looked around nervously. “No, you go to Turlock.”
“And he calls Conway?”
“I don’t know. I just know he’s the one you’d go to, and he’d supply the key.”
“So you take the key, you check out the premises, you see the evidence you guessed might be there. Then what?”
“You leave everything like it was. You get a warrant from Judge Puckett, specifying what you expect to find, claiming it was based on reliable tips from two sources. Then you go back and find it. All neat and legal.”
“You’ve done this?”
“No. I’m not comfortable with it. But I know some guys have.”
“And they have no problem with it?”
“They don’t seem to. It’s blessed from the top. That means a lot.”
Gurney couldn’t disagree with that. “So the bad guys get put away or run out of town. Acme has fewer problems, and their business is more profitable. Meanwhile, Beckert gets credit for reducing the population of undesirables and cleaning up White River. He becomes a champion of law and order. Everybody wins.”
Torres nodded. “That’s pretty much the way it works.”
“Okay. Big question. Do you know of situations where evidence was planted by the same officer who later found it?”
Torres was staring down into the coffee mug he was still grasping with both hands. “I couldn’t say for sure. All I know is what I’m telling you.”
“But you’re uncomfortable with all that illegal access?”
“I guess so. Maybe I’m in the wrong line of work.”
“Law enforcement?”
“The reality of it. The version you learn in the academy is fine. But it’s a whole other thing out on the street. It’s like you have to break the law to uphold it.”
He was gripping his mug so tightly now his knuckles were white. “I m
ean, what’s ‘due process’ anyway? Is that supposed to be a real thing? Or do we just pretend it’s a real thing? Are we supposed to respect it even when it’s inconvenient, or only when it doesn’t get in the way of what we want to achieve?”
“Where do you think Dell Beckert stands on that question?”
“Beckert is all about the result. The final product. Period.”
“And how he gets there doesn’t matter?”
“It sure doesn’t seem to. It’s like there’s no standard other than what that man wants.” He sighed and met Gurney’s gaze. “You think maybe I should be in another profession?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I hate the conflicts that are part of the job.”
“Part of the job? Part of this peculiar case? Part of working in a racially divided city? Or just part of working for Beckert?”
“Maybe all of those. Plus . . . being a Latino in a very Anglo department can get a little tense. Sometimes more than a little.”
“Let me ask you something. Why did you become a cop to begin with?”
“To be helpful. Make a difference. Do the right thing.”
“And you don’t think that’s what you’re doing?”
“I’m trying. But I feel like I’m in a minefield. Take this situation with the toilet handle. I mean, if Payne is being set up by someone in the department . . .” His voice trailed off. He looked down at his watch. “Christ, I better get going.”
Gurney walked out with him to the parking area.
Torres opened his car door, but didn’t immediately get in. He uttered a small humorless laugh. “I just said in there that I wanted to be helpful. But I don’t have a clue how to do that. It seems that the longer this case goes on, the less I know.”
“That’s not the worst thing in the world. Realizing you have no idea what’s going on is a hell of a lot better than being totally sure about everything—and totally wrong.”
37
Three minutes later, as Torres’s Crown Victoria was pulling out onto the county road, Hardwick’s growling red GTO was pulling in.
Hardwick got out and swung the heavy door shut with the crashing thump that only vintage Detroit cars make. He cast a sideways glance at the departing sedan. “Who’s the dick in the Vic?”
“Mark Torres,” said Gurney. “CIO on the Steele and Loomis cases.”
“Just the shootings? Who caught the playground murders?”
“He did, for about ten minutes. Then Beckert took over and handed them off to Turlock.”
Hardwick shrugged. “Like it’s always been. Dell calls the shots, the Turd does the work.”
Gurney led the way back inside to the table he’d occupied with Torres. Marika came over and Gurney ordered another double espresso. Hardwick ordered a large mug of Abelard’s special dark roast.
“What did you learn about Beckert?” Gurney asked.
“Here’s what I was told—mostly secondhand stuff, rumors, bullshit. Some of it might be partly true. No telling which part.”
“You inspire confidence.”
“Confidence is my middle name. So here’s the story. ‘Dell’ is a shortened form of ‘Cordell.’ Specifically, Cordell Beckert the Second. Known to some of his associates as CB-Two. Meaning there was another Cordell Beckert somewhere in the family tree. Cory Payne was actually christened Cordell Beckert the Third.
“Dell was born in Utica forty-six years ago. His father was a cop, disabled in a shootout with a drug dealer. Quadriplegic. Died when Dell was ten. After grammar school—I already told you some of this—Dell got a scholarship to a military prep school in the redneck end of Virginia. Bayard-Whitson Academy. Where he met Judd Turlock. And where Judd had his juvie legal problem. I’ll come back to that in a minute. After Bayard-Whitson, he went to—”
Gurney interrupted. “It’s interesting that Beckert never used what happened to his father as a credential for his war on drugs, like he did with his wife’s death.”
Hardwick shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t give a shit about the old man.”
“Or the opposite. Some people never mention the things that affect them the most.”
Marika arrived at the table with Hardwick’s coffee, then left.
When she was out of earshot, he continued. “After Bayard-Whitson, Dell went to Choake Christian College, where he met and married his first wife, Melissa Payne. Cory was born right after he graduated from Choake’s ROTC program. He joined the Marines as a lieutenant, completed a four-year tour, came out as a captain, then joined the NYSP. With his Marine officer background he moved up quickly during the next seven or eight years. The job was first, family a distant second. Along the way Melissa fell in love with painkillers and Cory became a festering thorn in his side, which I told you about.”
“Culminating in the attempted torching of the recruiting office?”
“Right. But there’s something else I was just told by someone who knew the family back then. But it might be total bullshit. See, to do you a fucking favor, I’ve been making a giant pain in the ass of myself, calling people I haven’t spoken to in years, annoying them with one goddamn question after another. They may be making up crap to get rid of me.”
“You love making a giant pain in the ass of yourself. What did you find out?”
“Two, three months before Dad finally sent the little bastard away to the boot-camp boarding-school prison—whatever the fuck you want to call it—Cory supposedly had a druggie girlfriend. He was a large, aggressive twelve. She was maybe fourteen and dealing a little pot here and there. Dell had her picked up and tossed into juvie detention for possession and intent—to make a point to Cory about what happens when you hang out with people Dad doesn’t approve of. Problem is, she was raped in the detention center, supposedly by a couple of COs, and hanged herself. Or so the story goes. Anyway, it was after that that Cory went totally batshit and got sent away to the discipline farm.”
“No blowback on Beckert from the kid’s death?”
“Not even a breeze.”
Gurney nodded thoughtfully, sipping his espresso. “So he puts his son’s girlfriend in a place where she gets raped and ends up dead, and when the kid reacts, he sticks him in some behavior-mod hellhole. His desperate addict wife either accidentally or not-so-accidentally ODs on heroin, and he uses that to sanctify his image as a determined drug fighter. Fast-forward to the present. Two White River cops get killed, he’s handed some shaky evidence that his son may have been involved, and he appears on one of the most popular interview shows in the country to announce not only that he’s ordered his son’s arrest for murder but that he’s sacrificing his outstanding police career in the interest of justice. You know something, Jack? This guy makes me want to throw up.”
The challenging look that was never completely absent from Hardwick’s eyes sharpened. “You don’t like him because you think he’s accepting shaky evidence against his own son as gospel? Or is it the other way around—you’re seeing the evidence as shaky because you don’t like him?”
“I don’t think I’m being delusional. It’s a simple fact that all the so-called evidence is portable. None of it was found on the interior doors, walls, windows, or any other structural parts of those premises. Doesn’t that strike you as peculiar?”
“Peculiar shit happens all the time. The world is a factory for peculiar shit.”
“One more point. Torres just told me that Turlock has a deal with the rental agent that would have given him easy access to the locations where the so-called evidence was found.”
“Wait a minute. If you’re suggesting that Turlock planted that evidence, you’re really suggesting it was Beckert, since the Turd does nothing without a nod from God.”
“The toilet-handle switch indicates that somebody planted it with the intention of incriminating Cory Payne. There’s no other reasonable interpretation of that. All I’m saying about Turlock and Beckert is that their involvement is possible
.”
Hardwick made his acid-reflux face. “I’ll admit Beckert is a prick. But to frame his own son for murder? What kind of person does that?”
Gurney shrugged. “A blindly ambitious psychopath?”
“But why? Even psychopaths need motives. It makes no fucking sense. And it’s a hell of a shakier premise than Cory being the shooter. Take that weird flush-handle thing out of the equation, and your whole ‘framing’ theory collapses. Couldn’t you be mistaken about the significance of those tool scratches?”
“It’s too big a coincidence for both those handles to have been removed and replaced—with one of them providing a key fingerprint in a murder investigation.”
Hardwick shook his head. “Look at it from the motive angle. Look at what we know about Cory Payne. Radical, unstable, full of rage. Hates his father, hates cops. Has a long history of public rants against law enforcement. One of his favorite lines is the BDA motto: ‘The problem isn’t cop killers, it’s killer cops.’ I was listening to one of his speeches on YouTube. He was talking about the moral duty of the oppressed to take an eye for an eye—which is essentially invoking the Bible to advocate the murder of police officers. And that business about his girlfriend being raped by a couple of COs—can’t you see that festering in his mind? Shit, Gurney, he sounds to me like a prime suspect for exactly what he’s being accused of.”
“There’s just one problem with it. He might have all the motivation in the world, but he’s not an idiot. He wouldn’t leave brass casings with his prints on them at the shooting sites. He wouldn’t leave a Band-Aid floating in the toilet with his DNA on it. He wouldn’t drive an easily traceable car with visible plates past a series of traffic cameras and park it next to each shooting location, unless he were doing it for some other reason. It’s not like he wanted to be caught or to claim responsibility for the shootings—he’s adamantly denying any involvement. And there’s the problem of victim selection. Why would he pick the two cops in the department who were the least like the cops he supposedly hates? Logically and emotionally, none of it makes sense.”
Hardwick turned up his palms in exasperation. “You think Beckert framing his own son makes logical and emotional sense? Why the hell would he do that? And by the way, do what, exactly? I mean, are you suggesting Beckert framed his own son for two murders someone else committed? Or are you saying that Beckert also arranged the murders of two of his own cops? Plus the BDA murders? You seriously believe all that?”