by John Verdon
“Lunch?”
“With your father, the day he took you to his cabin.”
“A place by the strip mall. I think it’s a McDonald’s. Or a Burger King. Why?”
“The more facts I have, the better.”
After Gurney ended the call he went into the convenience store. The place had a sour smell of old pizza and burned coffee. The register clerk was a tall, gaunt, vacant-eyed twentysomething male covered with a lacework of arcane tattoos. He had the rotten teeth that came with the use of methamphetamine, rural drug of choice prior to the tidal wave of heroin.
Gurney bought a bottle of water, took it out to the car, and sat there for a while pondering what Payne had told him. It was actually quite a lot. But perhaps most important was the possible explanation of how his fingerprints might have gotten on the brass casings found at both shooting sites as well as on the fast-food wrapper in the Bridge Street apartment. And if the casings and wrapper did in fact come from Payne’s day with his father, then Dell Beckert must have been involved in the framing scheme. It was a scenario that seemed to increase in ugliness the more likely it became.
39
As Gurney drove southwest through a progression of black-cherry copses and open pastures, he was haunted by the empty stare of the convenience store clerk and what it suggested about the rotting underside of rural life in America.
The problems, of course, weren’t just rural. Urban areas were often dirtier and more dangerous to live in. But here the contrast between the verdant beauty of the landscape and the gray hopelessness of so many of the inhabitants was jarring. Worst of all, in an age of vicious polarization, there seemed to be no acceptable way of addressing the problem. Add a few layers of racial animosity, cultural resentment, and political grandstanding, and solutions seemed far out of reach.
As he was sinking into the edgy depression these thoughts generated, his phone rang. “Private Caller” was all the ID screen revealed.
“Gurney here.”
“Dave! So glad I got you. This is Trish Gelter.”
“Trish. Hello.” The first image of her that came to mind was the last glimpse he had caught of her—a memorable rear view of her progress across the room in her slinky dress at the fund-raising party for the animal shelter. “This is a surprise. How are you?”
“That depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“On how soon I can see you.”
“See me?”
“I heard a rumor you were working on that terrible shooting case.”
“Who did you hear that from?”
“I was afraid you’d ask that. I’m terrible with names. Is it true?”
“More or less. Why?”
“I thought the police had it all wrapped up.”
Gurney said nothing.
“But you don’t think so?”
“I’m not sure yet what to think.” He paused. “Is there something you wanted to tell me?”
“Yes. But not on the phone.”
But not on the phone. He wondered for a moment who else had used that phrase, then remembered it was Rick Loomis, when he suggested they meet at the Larvaton Diner—the meeting he was heading to when he was shot.
“How, then?”
“Face-to-face.” She made it sound like her favorite sex position.
He hesitated. “It’s not something you can tell me now?”
“It’s too complicated.” She sounded pouty. “And I’d really like to see you.”
Again he hesitated. “Where would you like to meet?”
“It would have to be here. I’m marooned. My Porsche is in the shop. And Marv took the Ferrari out to the Hamptons for a couple of days.”
When he didn’t answer immediately, she added, “I know Lockenberry is out of your way, but I really feel it’s urgent.”
The combination of her missing husband and urgent was . . . distracting.
“How soon can you come?” she asked.
He thought about it—from multiple angles, some more distracting than others, which made him wonder if he was making the right decision for the right reason. “I’m down in Pennsylvania right now for a meeting. Maybe late this afternoon? Or early evening?”
“Either way is good. I’ll be here. It’ll be really nice to see you again.”
The call from Trish Gelter pushed aside Gurney’s musing over the social and economic desolation of the rural northeast and replaced it with a specific, vivid recollection from the Gelter fund-raiser: Trish coming over to Marv to let him know that Dell Beckert was on the phone, and Marv leaving the party immediately to take the call.
He had wondered then what sort of relationship might exist between Gelter and Beckert, and that same question returned now with additional force. As he considered the possibilities, his GPS guided him into an even remoter area in which the houses were increasingly far apart. Eventually it announced that he had arrived at his destination—the foot of the road that led to Merle Tabor’s house.
Black Mountain Hollow Road was, for all practical purposes, unmarked. Its identifying sign had been used for target practice. The letters that were partly legible among the rust-edged bullet holes could make sense only if you already knew the words they were part of.
The road was narrow, twisty, rutted, and full of rocks and deep puddles. Once it began climbing to higher ground there were no more puddles, but the rocks, ruts, and sharp turns persisted. At three miles in, according to Gurney’s odometer, this rough dirt track emerged from the scrubby forest that had hemmed it in most of the way and entered a grassy clearing, where it ended. On the right side there was a mud-spattered Toyota pickup truck and an old Suzuki motorcycle. Straight ahead there was a larger-than-average log cabin with a green metal roof, a long covered porch, and small windows. The clearing itself was bordered by raspberry brambles.
Gurney parked behind the motorcycle. When he got out of the car he heard a sound that was familiar from a gym he used to work out in—the rhythmic thumping of blows on a boxer’s heavy bag. The persistence and power of the impacts got his attention. He started walking toward the sound, which seemed to be coming from the left side of the house.
“Mr. Tabor?” he called out.
The thumping continued.
“Mr. Tabor?”
“Over here.”
He was startled by the closeness of the voice.
The man was standing on the far side of the pickup truck, eyeing Gurney with calm curiosity. A weathered, hardscrabble seventysomething, he was still in good shape, judging from the sinewy arms resting on the truck bed. A thatch of gray hair showed traces of once having been red.
Gurney smiled. “Glad to meet you, sir. My name is Dave Gurney.”
“I know who you are.”
“Oh?”
“News travels fast.”
“From the sheriff’s deputy I spoke to on the phone?”
Tabor said nothing.
“I thought you were unreachable up here.”
Tabor shrugged. “Man’s got a car, I’ve got an address.”
“I didn’t realize my visit would stir up that kind of interest.”
“Harlan looked you up on the internet. You being a big star from the big city. What he didn’t tell me is what the hell interest you have in the ancient history of Butris County.”
“You may be aware of a case up in White River, New York, where two police officers—”
Tabor cut him off. “Heard all about it.”
“Then you know that the case is being investigated by—”
“Dell Beckert. Man gets a lot of attention for a small-city chief.”
“Are you aware that he resigned?”
“I hear he made a show of it, made it sound like a grand gesture. Course he really had no choice, his son being the perp.”
“And are you aware that the acting chief is Judd Turlock?”
Tabor stared at Gurney for a long moment with the un
readable expression of a longtime cop. “I was not aware of that.”
Gurney stepped over to the near side of the pickup, directly across from him. “I’ve been told they go back a long way.”
“That what brings you down here?”
“I’ve been told you might be able to give me some information regarding an incident Turlock was involved in at Bayard-Whitson Academy.”
“Am I missing something here?”
“Sir?”
“Why are you investigating the background of the acting police chief? Is this an official or private matter?”
“I’m acting on behalf of the wives of the slain officers.”
“They have a problem with Turlock?”
“It may be a bigger issue than that. The evidence against Beckert’s son has more holes in it than your road sign.”
Tabor raised a hard-looking hand to his chin and massaged it thoughtfully. “Anybody but you think that?”
“The detective reporting to Turlock is on the fence.”
“You think somebody’s putting the kid in the frame?”
“I do.”
He gave Gurney another expressionless stare. “What’s any of this got to do with what happened in Butris County nearly thirty years ago?”
“I don’t know. I have a bad feeling about Turlock. Maybe I’m looking for something to justify it. Maybe some insight into who he really is.” He paused. “There’s another aspect to this. Beckert is probably going to run for state attorney general. If he wins, Turlock is virtually certain to be deputy AG. Powerful position. Makes me uncomfortable.”
Tabor’s jaw muscles tightened. After a long silence, he seemed to reach a decision. “Let me see your phone.”
Gurney took it out of his pocket and held it up.
“Turn it off.”
He did.
“Lay it down where I can see it.”
Gurney placed it in the truck bed.
“This is not something I want recorded,” said Tabor. He paused, staring down at his hands. “I haven’t talked about this in years. Of course, it still comes to mind. Even came to me in a nightmare once.”
He paused again, longer this time, then met Gurney’s gaze. “Judd Turlock talked a retarded black man into hanging himself.”
“What?”
“There was a creek with a swimming hole off the back of the Bayard-Whitson campus. There was a high bank with a big elm tree. Branch went out over the swimming hole. Boys used to tie a rope to it, swing out over the water, let go. One day Turlock and Beckert were there. There was a third boy sitting a little ways down the bank. And there was George Montgomery, sitting in his underwear in a shallow part of the creek. George was twenty years old, mentally maybe five or six, son of one of the kitchen help. There’s two stories of what happened next. One story, told by the boy sitting on the bank, is that Turlock called to George to come up and join them. George came up, shy like, and Turlock showed him how he could take the rope and swing out over the water. Except he went on to show him it would be safer if he tied the loose end of the rope around his neck, so it wouldn’t get in the way. George did like he was told. Then he swung out over the creek.” Tabor paused before adding in a strained voice. “That was that. George hung there, out over the middle of the swimming hole, kicking, strangling. Until he was dead.”
“What was Turlock’s version?”
“That he never said a word to George, that George came up on the bank, wanting to use the rope like he’d seen other people do. He somehow got all tangled up in it, and once he swung himself out there, they had no way of reaching him.”
“And Beckert told the same story?”
“Of course.”
“Then what?”
“The kid on the bank took a lie detector test and passed. We considered him a highly credible witness. The prosecutor agreed we should charge Turlock with manslaughter and petition to have him tried as an adult.”
“So at trial it was Turlock’s and Beckert’s word against the word of the kid on the bank?”
“Never got that far. The kid changed his story. Said he didn’t actually hear what was being said. Maybe Turlock was saying to George not to put the rope around his neck. Or maybe he wasn’t saying anything at all.”
“Someone got to him?”
“The Turlock family. Lots of money. Long history of corrupt construction deals with the county board. Judge dismissed our case and sealed the file. And Judd Turlock walked away from a sadistic murder without a goddamn scratch. There were times . . . times I must admit I came damn close to ending his life the way he ended George’s. Used to think about him strangling on the end of a goddamn rope. Thinking about it right now makes me wish I’d done it.”
“Sounds like Beckert was as much a part of it as Turlock.”
“That’s a fact. While we were thinking we had a case, we went back and forth on how to deal with him, but it all fell apart before we decided anything.”
“Did it occur to you at the time that it might have been Beckert’s idea?”
“Lot of things occurred to us.”
A silence fell between them, broken by Gurney. “If you don’t mind my asking, why did you move up here?”
“Wasn’t so much about moving here as leaving there. The Montgomery case changed everything. I approached it pretty aggressively. I didn’t leave any doubt with the Turlocks how I felt about their piece-of-shit son. They got the local racists riled up, claiming I was favoring a retarded black man over a nice white boy. Meanwhile my daughter was seeing a black man, who she ended up marrying, and the local reaction was ugly. I was counting the days till I could get my pension. I knew I had to get out of there before I killed someone.”
In the ensuing silence the thumping of the heavy bag seemed to grow louder.
“My granddaughter,” said Tabor.
“It sounds like she knows what she’s doing.”
Tabor nodded, came around from behind the pickup bed and gestured for Gurney to follow him to the corner of the big cabin.
There, in a level shaded area scuffed free of any grass, a wiry young girl in gym shorts and a tee shirt was delivering a series of hard right and left hooks to a leather heavy bag suspended from the branch of an oak tree.
“Used to be where her swing was hung.”
Gurney watched the flurry of punches. “You teach her how to do that?”
There was pride in Tabor’s eyes. “I pointed out a few things.”
The girl, apparently in her early teens, clearly had a mixed racial background. Her natural Afro had in it a hint of Tabor’s red-hair gene. Her skin was a deep caramel, and her eyes were green. Except for a brief assessing glance at Gurney, her attention was centered on the bag.
“She has power,” said Gurney. “She get that from you?”
“She’s better now than I ever was. Straight-A student, too, which I never was.” He paused. “So maybe she’ll survive this world. What do you think her chances are?”
“With that kind of concentration and determination, better than most.”
“You mean better than most black girls?” There was a sudden combativeness in his voice.
“I mean better than most black, white, tan . . . girls, boys, you name it.”
Tabor shook his head. “Might be that way in the right kind of world. But we’re not there. Real world is still the kind of world that killed George Montgomery.”
40
Gurney’s conversation with Merle Tabor gave him a lot to think about during the long drive to the Gelter house in well-tended Lockenberry.
The hanged black man in Judd Turlock’s past set up a disturbing echo with the two men strangled by the ropes tying them to the jungle gym in the Willard Park playground. Gurney couldn’t help thinking that a man who thirty years earlier had been responsible for one such horror might well be capable of two more. This hypothetical link received some support from one fact—the web of trails that made the Willar
d Park site easily reachable from the hunting cabin Turlock shared with Beckert. If one or both of them had seized Jordan and Tooker, or tricked them into meeting on some pretext, the cabin would have been an ideal location for the administration of the benzos and propofol, the beatings, the branding.
His mind leapfrogged to the shootings—specifically to the fact that the red motocross bike racing away from Poulter Street was last seen at the edge of Willard Park, within a short distance of those same trails leading to the Beckert-Turlock cabin.
Might Turlock have been the second man at Poulter Street, the one who actually shot Loomis? Wasn’t it at least conceivable that Turlock had engineered and carried out, for reasons yet to be determined, both the police and the BDA murders? It had seemed to Gurney all along that the Jordan-Tooker executions were too smoothly organized to have been a spur-of-the-moment response to the first shooting. The planning required for the acquisition of the propofol alone would preclude that.
Thinking about the propofol angle gave Gurney a little jolt. He pulled over onto the shoulder of the road and used his phone to access the internet. He wanted to check on the shelf life of propofol. The first pharmaceutical database he came upon provided the answer: two years in an unopened vial, one year in a preloaded hypodermic.
He felt like a fool, realizing he’d been overlooking something obvious. He’d been focusing on Mercy Hospital for its connection to the ice-pick murder of Rick Loomis and ignoring its possible connection to the murders of Jordan and Tooker. And because of his focus on the ice-pick wielder as a possible member of the current staff, he hadn’t bothered looking through the personnel list section containing employees who’d resigned or been terminated prior to Loomis’s hospitalization. But given the likelihood that the Jordan-Tooker murders were planned well in advance of their execution—and given the long shelf life of propofol—the list of former employees could be as relevant as the current list.
In his eagerness to rectify his oversight, he was tempted to postpone his meeting with Trish Gelter. But his desire to find out what she wanted to tell him, and to learn something about her husband’s connection to Dell Beckert, won out. The list research would have to wait. He decided to call Madeleine and let her know about his detour to Lockenberry and that he’d be home later than planned.