White River Burning

by John Verdon

  Gurney could feel his chest tightening in anticipation of what he was about to see. No matter how many times he’d come upon it in his career, the sight of violent death always jarred him.

  This time was no exception.

  As the camera panned slowly across the front of the jungle gym, the bodies of the two victims were gradually revealed. They were tied to the structure in standing positions, side by side—secured in place by ropes around their legs, stomachs, and necks. Both men were African American. Both were stripped naked. Both bodies showed obvious signs of having been beaten. Their faces were swollen, their expressions grotesque. Between the feet of one there appeared to be a deposit of feces.

  “Christ Almighty,” murmured Shucker.

  Kline’s lips drew back in revulsion.

  Turlock was gazing at the screen with icy detachment.

  Beckert turned to Torres, who was looking sick. “Who has custody of this material?”

  “Sir?”

  “This video and whatever still shots were taken of the bodies—who has possession of the original digital files?”

  “I do.”

  “In what form?”

  “The memory chips from the cameras Paul used.”

  “Did he make copies?”

  “I don’t think so. He warned me not to lose the chips.”

  “If one frame of that leaks onto the internet, we’ll have a race war on our hands.”

  “I’m aware of the risk, sir.”

  “We’ll come back to that,” said Beckert. “Let’s move on to the details.”

  “Right.” Torres took a deep breath and continued. “Our initial inspection of the victims revealed livor mortis. We left both bodies in situ, pending the ME’s—”

  Shucker interrupted him. “That the same as what they call rigor mortis?”

  “No, sir. Rigor refers to the stiffening of the deceased’s muscles, usually two or three hours after death. Livor mortis occurs sooner. It refers to the pooling of the blood in the lowest parts of the body, once the heart stops beating. In this case it was observable in their feet.” He tapped a computer key several times, scrolling rapidly through a series of photos and stopping when the screen showed a close-up of the victims’ legs from the knees down. The skin tone was brown except on the feet, where it was a dark purple. There were bruises on the shins and abrasions on the ankles.

  Shucker’s expression suggested he’d been given more information than he’d wanted.

  Torres continued. “In a few minutes, we’ll come back to some marks on the feet that could be very significant. But first we’ll proceed in the normal order of our victim close-ups, starting at the head and working our way down.”

  Displaying photos of both men in a split-screen format as he spoke, he pointed out numerous contusions on their faces, torsos, and legs. His voice was tight with an apparent effort to control his distress—but the details of his commentary were vivid enough to provoke a response from the blind sheriff.

  “It does sound like them boys truly got the shit beat out of them.” To say his tone was uncaring would overestimate its warmth.

  Torres stared at him. He tapped a key and brought up a final pair of photos on the split screen—closeup shots of the soles of the victims’ feet.

  Kline leaned forward. “Jesus, what on God’s earth . . . ?”

  Turlock gazed at the screen with no more reaction than a boulder.

  A frown darkened Beckert’s face—a cloud passing over Mount Rushmore.

  The mayor looked confused and worried.

  Burned deeply into the sole of each victim’s left foot were three capital letters, a grotesque monogram. It brought to Gurney’s mind an image from an old Western—red-hot letters on the end of a branding iron, smoking and hissing into the side of a steer.

  KRS

  16

  The sheriff broke the fraught silence. “The hell y’all gone quiet for?”

  Torres described the photo.

  “Shit,” muttered the sheriff.

  Shucker looked around the table. “KRS? What the hell’s that, somebody’s initials?”

  “Could be,” said Beckert.

  Gurney was pretty sure it was something else. He knew from experience that initials left at murder scenes generally stood for an organization the killer considered himself part of or for a title he’d given himself.

  “KRS brings to mind KKK,” said the sheriff. “If this damn thing gets pegged as a white-supremacist hate crime, we’ll get overrun by the feds, which is unpleasant to contemplate. You got any thoughts on that, Dell?”

  “I’m sure we can postpone FBI intrusion for a while. After all, this could be a personal revenge killing rather a racial act—a tricky argument to make, I know, but it could serve our purposes.”

  “BDA agitators’ll be screamin’ for federal intervention.”

  “No doubt. To keep control of the process, we need to—number one—craft the right public message. And—number two—demonstrate rapid progress toward an arrest. Those are both achievable objectives—so long as we adhere to procedures, manage our communications carefully, and avoid stupid mistakes.”

  Shucker looked miserable. “I just hope to God we don’t start hearing on TV that White River’s got Ku Kluxers running around killing people in public parks. The tourist-dependent members of the Chamber would go—”

  Shucker’s worry was cut off by three loud raps at the conference room door. Before anyone could respond, it was thrust open and the lanky medical examiner strode in and hefted his fat briefcase onto the chair next to Kline’s.

  “Hate being late, gentlemen, but there’s been more autopsies in the past three days than in three normal months.”

  Beckert told him to proceed.

  Thrasher removed a sheet of paper from his briefcase, perused it for a few seconds, and put it back. He pushed his horn-rimmed glasses higher on the bridge of his nose and surveyed the group around the table. His gaze hesitated for only a moment at Gurney before he launched into a summary of his findings.

  “Both victims suffered death by asphyxiation, consistent with strangulation. Multiple contusions on face, torso, arms, and legs are consistent with a methodical assault, utilizing at least two distinct club-like instruments.”

  Torres asked, “Like baseball bats?”

  “One of them, possibly. There were also contusions caused by something the approximate diameter of a police nightstick.”

  “So,” Kline mused, “at least two assailants.”

  Thrasher nodded. “A reasonable inference.”

  Torres looked uncomfortable. “You say one of them used a nightstick?”

  “Or something similar. Typical nightsticks have circular grooves at one or both ends to improve the wielder’s grip. Welts across the lower back of the victims display patterns consistent with grooves.”

  The sheriff spoke up. “Anyone can get anything these days on the internet. So I hope we ain’t assumin’ the presence of a nightstick implies the presence of a police officer.”

  Beckert nodded. “There are people who’d gladly leap to that conclusion, so we’ll stick to the word ‘club’ rather than ‘nightstick’ in any press statements.”

  Thrasher continued. “Interestingly, the injuries show a remarkable similarity in the number and placement of the blows to the two bodies.”

  Kline looked puzzled. “Similarity?”

  “In my experience as an emergency room physician and as a pathologist, I’ve examined hundreds of victims of assaults. Such injuries tend to be of a more random nature—random in placement and in force.”

  Torres looked as puzzled as Kline. “What are you getting at?”

  “These blows were not delivered in the heat of passion characteristic of assaults in general. Their similar distribution on each body, the similar force with which they were delivered, and their similar number—twenty-one distinct contusions on Tooker, twenty-two on Jordan—are consis
tent with a methodical approach.”

  “Designed to achieve what?”

  “That’s what you gentlemen are paid to figure out. I merely observe and report.”

  Kline asked if he’d noted any other oddities.

  “Well, naturally the burn marks on the feet. They’re consistent with the application of a custom-made branding iron—like a hobbyist’s wood-burning instrument. An unusual element in itself, even without the additional peculiarity.”

  “What peculiarity?”

  “The burned-in letters have perfectly sharp borders.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “During the application of the red-hot iron the feet remained perfectly motionless.”

  Torres spoke up. “I saw ligature marks on the ankles, meaning they were tied together. Also, one of the assailants could have been holding them down. Wouldn’t that account for it?”

  “Not completely. The application of the hot iron to a sensitive area of the foot would have produced a spasm, creating observable blurring at the border of the impression.”

  “So that means what? That they were unconscious?”

  “Almost certainly. Yet none of the cranial injuries appear to be sufficient to cause loss of consciousness.”

  “So they were drugged?”

  “Yes. To the point of zero physical sensation. Something to think about.”

  Beckert nodded thoughtfully. “When you think about that—the difficulties that would pose, the possible motives—what comes to mind?”

  “That question moves beyond medical facts into the area of criminal hypothesizing—your specialty, not mine. I wish you the best of luck.” He picked up his briefcase and headed for the door. “My office will forward you the initial autopsy report later this afternoon. The simple opiate screens were negative, by the way. Alcohol screens were above the legal limit for driving, but hardly consistent with anesthesia. Full tox screens will be available in another day or two.”

  After Thrasher’s parting comment the mayor spoke up. “What the hell was he getting at—that business about the beating they got not being normal?”

  The sheriff was the first to respond. “He implied it was done with a high degree of plannin’ and purpose.”

  “What kinda purpose?”

  “Sounded a little like he didn’t know, and a lot like he didn’t want to say.”

  Beckert addressed the table in general. “Our ME has a habit of making dramatic entrances, stirring the pot, and dashing off. We’ll stick to his professional observations, evaluate them in the light of all the other evidence, and form our own conclusions.” He turned to Torres. “Let’s take a look at what you discovered at the crime scene.”

  Torres tapped a couple of computer keys, resuming his description of the evidence photos as they appeared. “These are the ropes that were used to tie the victims to the crossbars of the jungle gym. We preserved the knots and the rope-end cuts for eventual matching if we can find the source.”

  “How come you saved the knots?” Shucker asked.

  “They would have been handled the most, so they’d be most likely to have retained abraded skin cells.” He went on to the next photo. “We found these tire tracks approaching the jungle gym structure and stopping in front of it . . . and we found these similar tracks on one of the trails in the adjacent woods. The forensics team—”

  Kline interrupted. “Have you determined the type of vehicle?”

  “We believe it was a full-size UTV, something like a Kawasaki Mule. Forensics is looking to match the tread pattern and width to a specific model and year. Actually, we had a piece of luck with those tires. They dropped some compacted soil on the ground near the swing set, soil that had been trapped in the tread grooves. And it doesn’t appear to be native to that part of the park.”

  Gurney smiled. “Nice, Mark. A possible link to the primary crime scene.”

  The mayor looked bewildered. “What primary crime scene?”

  “The location where Jordan and Tooker were drugged, stripped, beaten, and branded,” explained Gurney. “Because that earlier site would be where most of the violence took place, it would be the most promising site for recovering physical evidence.” He turned to Torres. “If I were you, I’d have that tread soil analyzed. There may be something distinctive about it.”

  The sheriff cleared his throat. “Assumin’ it ain’t horseshit.”

  Torres blinked. “Sir?”

  “Folks ride horses on them trails.”

  Torres continued, “We found several items in the immediate area that may be related to the incident. Human hairs, a lottery ticket, two cigarette butts, a flashlight battery, and an item of special interest—a used condom. It was discovered in a grassy area about a hundred feet from the bodies, partly sheltered by a row of bushes. It didn’t look like it had been there very long.”

  “And you’re thinking whoever left it there might be a witness?” asked Kline.

  “It’s a possibility, sir. We rushed it to Albany. We might get a hit on CODIS and get an ID. It’s a long shot, but . . .”

  Beckert nodded. “Anything more to show us?”

  “Some satellite views of the area to identify possible site entry and exit routes. Judging from the leaves partly off the trees, the photos were probably taken last autumn.”

  Centered on the jungle gym, the first photo encompassed the immediate area of the crime scene—the kayak rental building, the reedy shore of the lake, some of the surrounding trees. Torres pointed out the locations of the tire tracks.

  The next two photos showed more of the park and more of the wooded areas. The final shot showed the entire park, bordered on three sides by city streets and on the fourth by an extensive wilderness area into which some of the park’s trails extended.

  A couple of miles into that wilderness area another lake was visible. Along its shore were a number of small clearings. Torres explained that the White River Gun Club owned the lake and the land around it, and in the clearings there were cabins owned by club members. “Mostly White River cops, as far as I know,” he added. He glanced at Beckert and Turlock as if for confirmation, but neither man responded.

  “The dog walker who discovered the bodies,” said Kline, “where did he come from?”

  Torres got up, went over to the screen, and traced the route as he was describing it. “He came into the park through the entrance on the east side, crossed the main field, passed the statue of Colonel Willard, and headed down toward the lake. Because of the fog this morning, he got within about fifty feet of the bodies before he realized what he was looking at. Was still a nervous wreck when we arrived.”

  Beckert pointed at the screen. “That large field he crossed, the one taking up the northeast quadrant of the park—that’s where the BDA demonstration was held and where our officer was shot. I don’t think it’s just a coincidence that Jordan and Tooker were executed in that same park. Clearly a symbolic action. Which reinforces the importance of our maintaining control of the narrative. It’s vital that any new piece of evidence, information, rumor—anything at all with any bearing on any of the three killings—be reported at once to Judd or to me directly.”

  Evidently satisfied that silence meant agreement, Beckert moved on. “Given the pressures of dealing with two explosive crimes—and the need to make rapid progress on both fronts at once—I’m dividing the investigative duties. Detective Torres, your primary responsibility will be the Steele sniper shooting. With our first two suspects out of the picture, your focus will be identifying and locating the third man—the actual shooter.”

  Gurney was struck by the insinuation in Beckert’s choice of words—how the third man being the “actual” shooter subtly maintained, in some non-trigger-pulling capacity, the involvement of Jordan and Tooker.

  Beckert went on, “Because of its complex public relations dimensions, I’ll assume personal responsibility for the investigation into these playground homicides. The case file, i
ncident report, site sketches, and photos should be turned over to me as soon as we’re finished here. Including the memory chips from Paul Aziz’s cameras. Understood?”

  Torres looked puzzled by the shift in responsibility. “Yes, sir.”

  “Then that’s all for now. Except for one thing.” He looked at Gurney. “The phone. Is Steele’s wife going to hand it over voluntarily or not?”

  “We’ll see. I left a message for her.”

  “She has until tomorrow morning. Either she hands it over by then, or we visit her with a warrant and take it. Questions, anyone? No? Good. We’ll meet here tomorrow the same time.”

  He placed his hands on the table, pushed back his chair, and stood up decisively—the very image of determination. Behind him, the picture window displayed its panorama of stone buildings with spirals of razor wire gleaming in the afternoon sun.

  17

  When Gurney came out into the police headquarters parking lot and headed for his Outback, he saw Kline standing next to it, taking a deep drag on a cigarette. He exhaled slowly, the hand holding the cigarette moving in a wide arc down to his side.

  Déjà vu—a disturbing decades-old image of Gurney’s mother. Her bursts of nervous chain-smoking. The desperate pursuit of peace revealing a terrible anxiety.

  When Kline saw Gurney approaching, he took a final drag, threw the butt to the ground, and stepped on it as if it were a wasp that had just stung him.

  There was a briefcase at his feet. He reached down and pulled a large manila envelope out of it. “Everything you asked for yesterday. Full copy of the Steele case file. Incident and interview reports, crime-scene photos and sketches, ballistics report. Plus Jordan’s and Tooker’s past arrests and your temporary credentials—special senior investigator, office of the district attorney.” He handed the envelope to Gurney.

  “Anything on the so-called third man?”

  “If there’s anything on that, Beckert’s keeping it to himself.”

  “Like the identities of his informants?”

  “Right.” He took out another cigarette, hurriedly lit it, and took a particularly long drag before continuing. “So . . . what are your observations so far?”