by John Verdon
The man ignored the compliment and gestured toward the playground. “You one of the cops looking into this thing?”
Gurney stopped. “That’s right. Do you have any information about it?”
“Couple of the brothahs got what they deserved.”
“How do you figure that?”
“White River used to be a nice place to live. Great place to bring up kids. Safe little town. Look at it now. Street I live on used to be beautiful. You should see it today. Section Eight housing. Free rent for freeloaders. Next door I got a crazy son of a bitch in a dashiki. Like he’s actually from Africa. Lives with his two baby mamas. You and I pay for that! And here’s the thing. He’s got this black rooster. And white hens. That’s a hostile message. Every year he slaughters the white hens. In his backyard. Where I can see it. Chops their heads off. But never the black rooster. What do you call that?”
“What do you call it?”
“What it is. A terroristic threat. That’s what you should be worried about.”
“Do you want to make a complaint?”
“That’s what I’m doing. Right here. Right now.”
“To make a formal complaint, you need to visit police headquarters and fill out—”
The man interrupted with a disgusted wave of his hand. “Waste of time. Everybody knows that.” He turned away abruptly, gave a tug on the dogs’ leashes, and strode out into the field, muttering obscenities.
Gurney proceeded along the path to his car, reminded once more of the fear and loathing in the melting pot of America.
Once he was sitting in the Outback, it occurred to him that he should pass along to Mark Torres the fact that the murders of Jordan and Tooker could have been managed by one person. He placed the call. As usual, Torres picked up quickly and sounded eager to hear whatever Gurney had to say.
He explained his one-man theory.
Torres was quiet for a moment. “Do you think this should change our focus?”
“For now we just need to keep the possibility in mind and see how it fits with whatever else we learn. Speaking of which, have we found out if Beckert and Turlock have alibis for the night of the Jordan-Tooker murders or the night of the sniper shootings?”
“So far, no one we’ve spoken to recalls being with them on those occasions. But that’s not surprising. They didn’t exactly hang out with the troops. Turlock reported only to Beckert, and Beckert reports only to the mayor. You met Dwayne Shucker, so you can imagine there wasn’t much actual reporting going on there. Beckert’s wife’s been no help. Apparently has a busy social life, isn’t home much, and doesn’t keep tabs on her husband. As for Turlock, he lives alone. Nearest neighbor is a mile away and claims to know nothing about him.”
The Outback was getting hot in the afternoon sun in the unshaded parking area, and Gurney opened the windows. “The Jordan-Tooker file shows no real interviews after the murders, other than a couple of cryptic notations about tips from unnamed informants and a brief statement from the guy who found the bodies. Am I missing something?”
“Not as far as I know. Remember, I had the case for less than a day. Once Turlock took it over, it was all about the Gorts.”
“None of Jordan’s or Tooker’s associates were interviewed?”
“The only associates either of them seemed to have were the BDA members who were arrested in the raid on their headquarters. With charges pending, they were advised by counsel not to make any statements at all to the police.”
“What about Jordan’s wife?”
“She refused to talk to Turlock.” Torres paused. “Some people here see us as an occupying army.”
“Actually, I spoke to her today.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“I told her I thought that someone in law enforcement might go down for the killing. She liked that idea.”
“I bet. Did she say anything useful?”
“She made it pretty clear that Marcel had gotten sexually involved with Blaze Jackson. And that Blaze is a nasty piece of work.”
“Wait, hold on a second.”
Gurney could hear an indistinct conversation in the background. When Torres got back on the line he sounded upbeat. “That was Shelby Towns. She said that a pair of boots found in the cabin are a perfect tread match for the boot prints found on the stairs in the Poulter Street house.”
“Are they Turlock’s or Beckert’s? Or could she tell?”
“Turlock’s. She could tell by the size. Looks like he was the Loomis shooter. So this is coming together in a way that—sorry, hold on again.”
After another background conversation, Torres returned. “Shelby says that Cory Payne’s fingerprints are on all those cartridges you found with the rifle.”
“That’s consistent with Cory’s story of helping his father with the reloading process. Any other news?”
“Just that the DA will be appearing this evening on NewsBreakers.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the lead-in program to RAM’s Battleground Tonight. Should be interesting to watch Kline explaining how his godlike hero turned into a devil overnight.”
Gurney agreed. Since Kline couldn’t keep the media at bay forever, he’d evidently decided to jump in with both feet in a desperate effort to shape the narrative.
47
Just before 6:00 PM Gurney opened his laptop and went to the RAM website. As it was loading, something caught his eye through the window next to his desk—a spot of fuchsia moving along the top of the high pasture. He realized it was Madeleine in her bright windbreaker mowing the grass swath that separated the pasture from the woods. He watched as she turned the riding mower onto a path that led down to the house. Then he went to the “Live Stream” page and clicked on View Now. A moment later the screen was filled with bright-blue words flashing against a black background:
RAM NEWSBREAKERS
SPECIAL EARLY EDITION
WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW NOW
The words exploded into pieces, then the pieces flew back together to form new words:
THE HUNTER BECOMES
THE HUNTED
IN STUNNING REVERSAL
Those words in turn exploded, only to be immediately reconstituted in another headline:
TOP COP
NOW PRIME SUSPECT
IN SENSATIONAL WHITE RIVER MURDERS
On a final drumbeat the scene switched to a shot of a male and female news team, making a show of jotting down last-minute notes at their RAM-TV news desk. The female member was the first to put down her pen and look directly into the camera.
“Good evening. I’m Stacey Kilbrick.”
Gurney noted that her default expression of serious professional concern had been ratcheted up into a grim intensity. He was momentarily distracted by the ringing of his phone. He saw that it was Thrasher and he let it go to voicemail.
The male on the screen put down his pen. Neat and petulant, he looked like a flight attendant with a grievance. “Good evening. I’m Rory Kronck. We have a big story for you tonight—a NewsBreakers exclusive report on the mind-boggling developments in White River, New York. Lay out the facts for our viewers, Stacey.”
“As you were saying, Rory, those facts are nothing short of amazing. The hunter has become the hunted. Disturbing new evidence is linking Dell Beckert, former White River police chief and nationally known law-and-order advocate, to four shocking murders that his own department was investigating. And now it appears that he’s taken off for parts unknown, under a heavy cloud of suspicion.” She turned toward Kronck. “We’ve covered our share of wild stories over the years, Rory, but I’ve never seen the likes of this. Have you?”
“Never, Stacey. And the vanishing chief is just part of it. The deputy chief, we’ve just learned, has turned up dead. And we’re talking about the kind of grisly murder that’s usually reserved for horror movies.”
Kilbrick produced a theatrical look of revulsion. “
Apart from the gory details, the real shocker to me is the way the whole case has been flipped upside down. Don’t you agree?”
“Totally.”
“I understand a lot of the credit goes to the district attorney and to a very special homicide detective attached to his department.”
“That’s absolutely true. In fact, just before this program I had a revealing conversation with DA Kline.”
“Great, Rory. Let’s run that tape right now.”
Gurney heard the side door out by the mudroom open and close. A minute later Madeleine came into the den.
She peered at his laptop screen. “What are you watching?”
“Live interview with Kline.”
She pulled a chair over and sat down.
The scene on the screen had shifted to a bare-bones interview setting. Kline and Kronck were sitting in chairs facing each other with a bookcase in the background. Kline appeared to have just gotten a haircut.
Kronck was leaning forward, in the middle of a sentence. “. . . a word that’s on everyone’s mind: ‘shocker’! Top cop becomes top suspect. And his son, who was your top suspect, has essentially been declared innocent. Our heads are spinning. Let me ask you the obvious question. If your view of the case today is right, how could you have been so wrong yesterday?”
Kline’s reaction was a pained smile. “That sounds like a simple question, Rory, but the reality isn’t simple at all. You have to remember that the earlier case hypothesis that zeroed in on Cory Payne for the sniper shootings and the Gort twins for the playground murders was a willful deception created by our current suspect. From the very beginning there was a concerted effort by WRPD leadership to mislead my office. This is not a matter of our misreading the case. What we’re dealing with is a vicious and devious betrayal of the public trust by a man whose sworn duty it was to treat that trust as sacred.”
“You make it sound like an act of real treachery.”
“I see it as a form of moral decay.”
“How deep in the department might that decay go?”
“That’s something we’re actively looking into.”
“Your resources must be stretched pretty thin. With so many unanswered questions about these terrible crimes, and who’s trustworthy and who’s not, not to mention the ongoing racial unrest in parts of White River, where’s the necessary manpower coming from?”
Kline moved uncomfortably in his chair. “The situation is actually well in hand.”
“Are there any plans to bring in the state police? Or the FBI, considering the possible hate-crime angle?”
“Not at this time.”
“So you’re saying you have all the resources you need?”
“I’m not just saying it, Rory, I know it for a fact.”
“You sound amazingly confident, considering what you’re facing. Four sensational murders—five now, counting the deputy chief. Wouldn’t it make sense to bring in the kind of expertise that the state police could offer? With all due respect, sir, yours is a rural county in which the typical crimes are drunk driving, minor drug offenses, and disturbing the peace. What you’re facing now is infinitely more complicated. Doesn’t that worry you?”
Kline took a deep breath. “Normally we don’t reveal staffing details, Rory, but for the sake of public confidence I want to put this expertise issue to rest. The fact is, our level of investigatory sophistication right now is unsurpassed. A key member of my current team happens to be Dave Gurney, the highly decorated detective who holds the record for the largest number of cleared homicide cases in the history of the New York City Police Department. I’m talking about close to a hundred homicides solved personally by this man—including famous serial murder cases. It’s through his relentless questioning and his insights that we’ve arrived at our current understanding of the situation in White River. You asked why I wasn’t bringing in state police investigators. The fact is, Dave Gurney has given advanced seminars on homicide investigation at the state police academy. So in the matter of expertise, we take a back seat to no one. We have the best there is.”
“That’s fascinating news. I’m impressed.”
Kline said nothing.
“I appreciate that your time is limited, sir, and I know you have a final message you want to leave with our viewers.”
“Yes, I do.” He gazed sternly into the camera. “Our top priority right now is locating Dell Beckert.”
A phone number appeared at the bottom of the screen.
Kline continued, “If you know anything about his whereabouts, or if you know anyone who does, please call this number. He may be driving a black Dodge Durango, New York plate number CBIIWRPD.”
The screen displayed the plate number, a photograph of Beckert in his police uniform, and the phone number.
Kline concluded, “If you have any information that might help us find this man, please call this number now. You don’t need to identify yourself unless you wish to. We just want whatever information you can provide. Thank you.”
The screen was filled briefly with just the phone number, which was then replaced by a live shot of Stacey Kilbrick and Rory Kronck at their news desk.
“Wow,” said Kilbrick. “The DA has some big-city talent in his little upstate department.”
“So it seems,” said Kronck.
“Hmm. How much do we know about this Dave Gurney?”
“We know that New York magazine ran a front-page profile on him a few years ago. The article title was ‘Supercop’—which I guess says it all.”
“So there’s no end to the surprises in this story. Great job, Rory.”
He produced a self-satisfied smirk.
“I’m Stacey Kilbrick for NewsBreakers. After these important messages I’ll be back with the latest battle over transgender troops serving in the U.S. Marine Corps.”
Gurney closed the “Live Stream” page and left the RAM website.
Madeleine was watching him. “Are you concerned about Kline going public with your involvement?”
He turned up his palms in a gesture of resignation. “I’d rather he hadn’t. But I don’t think he’s any happier about it than I am.”
“What do you mean?”
“Kline is not a credit sharer. He did it because he was trapped. Kronck was poking at the weakness of his resources and implying that he ought to bring in an outside agency, which Kline absolutely doesn’t want to do. He’s afraid it would be portrayed as a surrender on his part, and he wants to come out of this with a personal victory. Bragging about my background was a way to beat back Kronck’s suggestion that his department couldn’t handle the challenge.”
“I bet that Kilbrick woman tries to get you on her program.”
“It’ll be a snowy day in hell when I say yes to that.” He glanced at the time in the corner of the screen. “It’s twenty past six. You have any ideas about dinner?”
She frowned. “Tonight is my dinner meeting with the town political action group. You remember I told you about this, right?”
“I forgot it was tonight.”
“I may be late. Our discussions have a way of going on and on. There’s all sorts of stuff in the fridge. And pasta in the yellow cabinet.”
An hour later—as he was finishing the plate of spaghetti, diced tomatoes, zucchini, and Parmesan cheese he’d prepared for himself—he got a call from Cory Payne. There was a level of excitement in the young man’s voice that Gurney hadn’t heard before.
“Dave! Are you seeing the news stories on the internet?”
“About what?”
“The case! It started with RAM News announcing that you guys are focused on my father—who’s disappeared. The DA gave an interview about it, and all the other news sites are picking it up. Wild headlines are popping up. ‘Son Innocent, Father Guilty’—stuff like that. It’s all turned around. I’m not the target anymore. You must know all this, right?”
“I know some significant discoveries
have been made.”
“That’s a mild way of putting it. I feel like I owe you my life!”
“It’s not over yet.”
“But it sounds like everything’s finally going in the right direction. Jesus, God, what a relief!” He paused. “Is this because of stuff you found at his cabin?”
“I can’t talk about that. Evidence disclosures would need to come from the DA. But that reminds me—why didn’t you tell me about the second key?”
“What?”
“You told me about the key for the cabin, but not the other one for the shed.”
“You just lost me.”
“The shed behind the cabin.”
“I don’t know anything about a shed. I’ve only been to his cabin.” Payne sounded mystified.
“Did he show you the cabin basement?”
“No. I didn’t realize it had one.”
“Where did he set up his reloading equipment?”
“On a dinner table in the middle of the room.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Maybe a flannel shirt. I don’t know about his pants. Maybe chinos? He never wore jeans. Oh, and some kind of disposable gloves, like doctors wear. I think to keep the gunpowder off his hands.”
“Since you came to live in White River, how much contact have you had with Judd Turlock?”
“I’ve seen him with my father. He wasn’t the sort of person you’d want to get to know. Even making eye contact with him was scary. One of the news stories said that he was found murdered at the gun club. Are you the one who found him?”
“I was there.”
“How was he killed?”
“Sorry, that’s another one for the DA to answer.”
“I understand.” He paused. “Well, the main reason I called was to thank you. Thank you for giving me back my life.”
Now Gurney paused. “I have another question. When you were a kid, before you got sent to that boarding school, did your father try to interest you in guns or hunting or anything like that?”