by John Verdon
She ignored the edge in his voice, kissed him, and headed out past the asparagus patch just as her exuberant fellow therapist, Geraldine Mirkle, lowered her car window and cried, “Andiamo! The maniacs await us!” She winked at Gurney. “I’m referring to the staff!”
He watched as they drove, bumpily, through the pasture, around the barn, and out of sight onto the town road.
He sighed. That resistance in his response to Madeleine’s chicken reminder was childish. A silly way of trying to be in control when there was no reason for delay. His first wife had complained that he was a control freak. In his early twenties he couldn’t see it. But now it was obvious. Madeleine generally had no reaction to it other than amusement, which made it feel even more childish.
He went out to the henhouse and opened the little door into the fenced-in run. He tossed some commercial chicken feed, corn kernels, and sunflower seeds onto the ground, and the four hens came running out and started pecking at it. He stood there for a moment observing them. He doubted he would ever be as fascinated by them as Madeleine was.
A few minutes before nine he sat down at the breakfast table, opened his laptop, and went to the “Live Stream” section of the RAM website. As he was waiting for the promised press conference to begin, his phone rang. The number on the screen was vaguely familiar.
“Gurney here.”
“This is Walter Thrasher. You’ve discovered something of historical importance?”
“Your judgment on that would be sounder than mine. Would you be interested in taking a look at the site?”
“Did you say something about teeth? And a black-handled knife?”
“Among other things. Pieces of chains, hinges, a glass jar.”
“Pre-Revolution?”
“I think so. The foundation is Dutch-style laid stone.”
“Not dispositive by itself. I’ll take a look. Tomorrow. Early morning. That work for you?”
“I can make it work.”
“See you then, assuming nobody else on my turf gets shot in the meantime.”
Thrasher ended the call first, with no good-bye.
As the RAM news anchor was announcing that the press conference was about to begin, a line of bold type crawled across the bottom of the screen:
OFFICIALS REVEAL SHOCKING NEW DEVELOPMENTS
The scene shifted from the anchor, with her hybrid expression of steadiness and concern, to three conservatively suited men at a table facing the camera. In front of each was a tent card bearing his name and title. Mayor Shucker, Chief Beckert, District Attorney Kline.
Gurney’s attention was drawn to Beckert, a casting director’s fast-tracked Marine general. In his midforties, lean and square-jawed with an unblinking gaze, salt-and-pepper hair in a crisp military crew cut, he was the group’s clear center of gravity.
Mayor Shucker was a corpulent man with pudgy lips, suspicious eyes, and a comb-over dyed the color of rust.
Kline, on the other side of Beckert, looked more conflicted than ever. The determined set of his mouth was belied every few seconds by tiny tremors that reminded Gurney, rather fancifully, of those minuscule vibrations along the San Andreas Fault that create shimmers of unease on the surface of still water.
CRISIS UPDATE began to flash repeatedly on the screen, and the camera moved in on Beckert. When the blinking phrase disappeared, he began to speak. His voice was clear, dry, unaccented. There was also something familiar about it that Gurney couldn’t quite place.
“One hour ago the White River Police Department Special Weapons and Tactics Unit carried out a successful assault on the headquarters of the Black Defense Alliance. Pursuant to appropriate warrants, the premises have been secured and are currently being searched. Files, computers, phones, and other potential evidentiary materials are being gathered for forensic examination. Fourteen individuals have been arrested at the location on charges including felony assault, harassment, obstruction, drug possession, and weapons violations. This process is being conducted pursuant to our receipt of credible information regarding the shooting death of patrol officer John Steele. Be assured that our full investigatory resources are being applied to the apprehension of those responsible for the heinous murder of one of White River’s finest officers, a man who earned my deepest respect and admiration.” He lowered his head for a respectful moment before going on.
“I have an important request. Two high-ranking members of the BDA organization, Marcel Jordan and Virgil Tooker, were observed leaving the Willard Park demonstration just half an hour prior to the shooting of Officer Steele. We are eager to ascertain their whereabouts at the time of the shooting. We also have reason to believe that these same individuals slipped away from BDA headquarters prior to this morning’s raid. It’s vital that we find these two men. If you know where they are, or have information that could lead us to them, please call us anytime, day or night.”
An 800 number began flashing on the screen next to the words POLICE HOTLINE as Beckert continued, “This savage attack on civilized society will be met with all necessary force. We will not allow jungle law to triumph. We will do whatever it takes to end this anarchy. I promise you—order will prevail.”
Concluding with a gaze of fierce determination, Beckert turned toward Shucker.
“Mayor, you have a few words for us?”
Shucker blinked, looked down at a sheet of paper in his hands, then back up at the camera. “First, Mrs. Steele, my condolences for this tragedy.” He looked down again at the paper. “Those who set out to terrify our community with wanton violence and attack the heroes who protect us are the worst kind of criminals. Their reprehensible acts must be halted to restore peace to our wonderful city. Our prayers go out to the Steele family and to White River’s brave protectors.” He folded his sheet of paper and looked up. “God bless America!”
Beckert turned toward Kline. “Sheridan?”
The district attorney spoke with iron resolve. “Nothing challenges the rule of law like an attack on the men and women sworn to uphold it. My office is applying the full weight of its resources to a thorough investigation, the discovery of the truth, and the achievement of justice for the Steele family and for our whole community.”
The video cut to the female news anchor. “Thank you, gentlemen. Now we go to our follow-up questions from the RAM Issue Analysis Team.” The video cut back to the three men at the table as questions were posed by off-camera voices.
First Male Voice: “Chief Beckert, are you suggesting that Jordan and Tooker are the prime suspects in the sniper shooting?”
Beckert replied expressionlessly: “They’re definitely persons of interest in our investigation.”
Second Male Voice: “Do you consider them fugitives?”
Beckert, in the same flat tone: “We have a high degree of interest in finding them, they have not come forward, and their whereabouts are currently unknown.”
First Female Voice: “Do you have evidence of their involvement in the shooting?”
Beckert: “As I said, we have a high degree of interest in finding them. We are focusing significant resources on that objective.”
Same Female Voice: “Do you think Jordan and Tooker were tipped off prior to the raid?”
Beckert: “A reasonable person might reach that conclusion.”
First Male Voice: “What’s your plan for addressing the ongoing chaos? Fires are still breaking out in the Grinton area.”
Beckert: “Our plan is full-force pushback. We will not tolerate disorder or anyone who threatens disorder. For anyone tempted to use political protest as a cover for looting, burning, hear this: I have instructed my officers to use lethal force wherever necessary to protect the lives of our law-abiding citizens.”
Another male voice asked Chief Beckert if his SWAT team had encountered armed resistance by BDA members. He replied that weapons were present during the operation and more facts would be released after the filing of formal charges.
> The same voice asked if injuries had been sustained on either side of the confrontation. As Beckert was giving another “more information later” nonanswer, Gurney noted the time on his computer screen. It was nine fifteen, meaning he needed to leave for his nine thirty meeting with Hardwick. Although he was curious about what might be revealed during the remainder of the press conference, he knew RAM programming was routinely archived for later viewing. He closed his laptop, grabbed his phone, and headed for the Outback.
9
Formerly a creaky old country store with a distinctly musty smell, Abelard’s had been taken over by a transplant from the Brooklyn art scene by the name of Marika. An abstract expressionist, she was an intense thirtysomething woman with a dramatic figure she wasn’t shy about showing off, numerous piercings and tattoos, and a startling array of hair colors.
When she wasn’t painting or sculpting, she’d been gentrifying the place. She’d removed the live-bait cooler and the displays of turkey jerky. She’d sanded and refinished the wide-board floors. She’d installed a new cooler full of things organic and free-range; a bin for locally baked breads; a high-end espresso machine; and four funky cafe tables with hand-painted chairs. The hammered-tin ceiling, pendant-globe light fixtures, and rough-hewn shelving had been left intact.
Gurney parked next to Hardwick’s classic muscle car—a red 1970 GTO. As soon as he entered the store he spotted Hardwick sitting in the back at one of the little round tables. He was wearing the black tee shirt and black jeans that had become his de facto uniform ever since he’d been forced out of the state police for offending his superiors too many times. This combative man with the pale-blue eyes of an Alaskan sled dog, a razor-keen mind, a sour wit, and a fondness for obscenity was definitely an acquired taste—one you could almost get to like if you didn’t choke on it first.
His muscular arms were resting on the table, which seemed too flimsy to support them. He was talking to Marika, who was laughing. Her hair that day was a spiky patchwork of iridescent pink and metallic blue.
“Coffee?” she asked when Gurney arrived at the table. Her striking contralto voice always got his attention.
“Sure. Double espresso.”
With an approving nod she headed for the machine. He took the chair opposite Hardwick, who was watching her departure.
When she disappeared behind the far counter, he turned to Gurney. “Sweet girl, not as batshit as she looks. Or half as batshit as you are if you’re planning to get involved in that White River insanity.”
“Bad idea?”
Hardwick uttered a grunt of a laugh, picked up his mug of coffee, took a long sip, and laid it down with the care one might give an explosive. “Too many virtuous people involved. All with high opinions of their own visions of justice. Nothing in this world worse than a pack of crazy fuckers who know—absolutely know—they’re right.”
“You referring to the Black Defense Alliance?”
“They’re part of it. But only part. Depends on what you want to believe.”
“Tell me more.”
“Where should I start?”
“With anything that would explain Kline’s desire to get me involved.”
Hardwick thought for a moment. “That would probably be Dell Beckert.”
“Why on earth would Beckert want me involved?”
“He wouldn’t. What I mean is, Beckert might be Kline’s problem.”
Before going on, Hardwick made a face like the subject had a bad taste. “I know what the fucker was like when I worked with him ten years ago in the Bureau. That was before he became the big deal he is today. But even then he was on his way. See, that’s the thing—Beckert is always on his way to something. Eye on the goal. He’s got that win-at-any-cost fixation that has a way of turning people into scumbags.”
“From what I’ve heard, his reputation is more law-and-order than scumbag.”
“Like a lot of high-class scumbags, he’s good at nurturing and polishing that reputation. Beckert has an instinct for turning everything to his advantage, even negative shit. Maybe I should say, especially negative shit.”
“Like what?”
“Like his family life. Back then, it was a fucking mess. His son, who was maybe thirteen at the time, was a nasty little bastard. Hated his father. Did everything he could to embarrass him. Painted swastikas on police cars. Told Child Protective Services that his father was selling confiscated drugs. Then the kid tried to set fire to a Marine recruiting office, probably because his father had been a marine. That’s when Dad made his move. Sent the kid off to a super-tough behavior-modification boarding school somewhere down South—more like a prison than a school. And then . . .” Hardwick inserted a dramatic pause.
Gurney stared at him. “And then . . . what?”
“And then Dell Beckert revealed his true talent. He turned the whole stinking pile of crap into gold. Most cops try to keep their domestic problems private. But Beckert did the opposite. He spoke to parent groups. Gave media interviews. Appeared on talk shows. Got well known within the world of parents with shithead kids. The tough-love cop who did what had to be done. And when his painkiller-addicted wife died about a year later of a heroin overdose, he even turned that into a plus. He became the drug-fighting cop whose zero-tolerance attacks on drug dealers came from the heart, from his own painful experience.”
Gurney was getting a bad taste in his mouth. “Sounds like a formidable character.”
“Cold as they come. But he’s managed to position himself as the perfect hard-ass cop every white citizen can love. And vote for.”
“Vote for?”
“There hasn’t been any official statement. But the blue grapevine says he’ll be running for state attorney general in the special election.”
“Kline mentioned the same rumor.”
“It would be the perfect next star on his precious résumé.”
Marika delivered Gurney’s double espresso. Hardwick continued, “That résumé, by the way, is fucking impressive. Highest score in every NYSP promotion exam he took. After a few hot-shit years in the Bureau, during which he picked up a master’s degree in public administration, he took over the top spot in the Professional Standards Unit. Then he moved into the private sector and set up a consulting organization to work with police departments around the state—assessing the psychological status of cops involved in violent confrontations, counseling them, and educating department brass on the nature and causes of violent incidents.”
“How’d that work out?”
“Great for Beckert. Hugely expanded his contacts in the law-enforcement world.”
“But?”
“Legal activists claimed the purpose of his ‘consulting’ was to help the police describe questionable incidents in ways that would minimize their exposure to criminal or civil actions.”
Gurney took a sip of his very strong coffee. “Interesting. So how’d this rising star get to be police chief in White River?”
“Three, four years ago—just before you moved up here—there was a corruption scandal. The then-chief’s phone was hacked, and a lot of embarrassing shit came out. Seems that the chief, one of the captains, and three guys in the detective bureau were on the take from a gang running Mexican heroin into upstate New York. WRPD public relations disaster. Cried out for a new team. And what better guy than Beckert—with his Professional Standards background and hardline image—to fumigate the place, reassure the citizenry, rebuild the department.”
“Another success?”
“Most people thought so. After dumping the tainted guys, he brought in his own people—allies from the state police and his consulting company.” Hardwick’s jaw muscle twitched. “Including a particularly close ally, Judd Turlock, who he installed as deputy chief.”
“How close, exactly?”
“Turlock went through the academy with him, reported to him in the Bureau, and was his number two in the consulting outfit. They’d even b
een in the fucking Marines together.”
“You don’t sound fond of this guy.”
“Difficult to be fond of a sociopathic attack dog.”
Gurney considered this over another sip of coffee. “Is Beckert’s tenure at White River being viewed as a success?”
“Depends on your point of view. He cleaned up the streets. Put away a lot of drug dealers. Reduced the number of break-ins, muggings, violent crimes.”
“But . . .”
“There’ve been some incidents. Right after he took over, couple years before the Laxton Jones thing, there was a traffic stop that escalated into the beating and arrest of the young black driver. Nelson Tuggle. The cop claimed he found a handgun and a bag of coke under the front seat and that Tuggle took a swing at him. Tuggle asked for a lie detector test. His lawyer got very aggressive with that, even got some media attention by publicly demanding that his client and the cop both be polygraphed. Two days later Tuggle was found dead in his cell. Heroin overdose, according to the ME. Got hold of some jail contraband, was how the COs explained it. Couple of street acquaintances said that was bullshit, that Tuggle might’ve done a little pot now and then, but no hard stuff.”
“Anyone pursue the case?”
“Tuggle had no family. There were no witnesses. No friends. Nobody gave a shit.”
“Is there a pattern? People claiming White River PD plays by its own rules?”
“Most of the convicted drug dealers claim exactly that. Course none of them can prove it. The judges and juries around here are overwhelmingly pro-cop. But the thing is, those popularity points Beckert’s been winning on the white side of White River he’s been losing on the black side. It isn’t that they don’t want to get rid of the criminal element, but they have the feeling the man is playing God and dropping the hammer extra hard on black people to make a point.”
“So the pressure cooker’s been heating up?”
“Big time. Unfortunately for Beckert, resentment that couldn’t really be expressed in support of drug dealers found a perfect outlet in the case of Laxton Jones. The difference between Jones and Tuggle is that Jones wasn’t alone. He had a girlfriend who witnessed what happened and was hell-bent to do something about it. Blaze Lovely Jackson.”
