by John Verdon
Gurney approached the house on the right. He wanted to hear more about the departure of that motorcycle. He hoped that Hollis Vitter’s questionable mental state hadn’t skewed his perceptions to the point of uselessness.
The house was of a size and style similar to number thirty-eight. The front lawn was bisected by a neat slate path that led to the front door. Centered in the square of lawn on each side of the path was a small spruce. The driveway had recently been swept clean. The garage door was open, revealing the back end of a military-style Hummer from the early nineties. A Confederate flag decal covered the rear window.
When Gurney was still a good ten yards from the house, the front door opened and a heavyset, balding man in camo fatigues came out, holding a Rottweiler on a short leash. Gurney figured that the vehicle, the flag, the fatigues, and the dog added up to an exaggerated need to project a don’t mess with me image.
Gurney produced a polite smile. “Mr. Vitter?”
“Who’s asking?”
He held up his credentials. “Dave Gurney, office of the district attorney. I need to speak to you about events in the house next door to you.”
“You ever hear of the broken-window theory of policing?” he asked in an angry voice.
Gurney was thoroughly familiar with it—a highly confrontational approach to minor incidents in high-crime neighborhoods—from his NYPD days. Every cop in America knew something about it, many departments had tried it, and the results remained a subject of controversy and heated debate.
“I know what it is, sir. Does it have some relevance to the situation next door?”
Vitter pointed to the weedy foot-high grass. “You see that?”
“I see it. What about it?”
Vitter’s eyes narrowed. “The broken-window approach says you guys need to address the little signs of big problems. Infringements.” He articulated the word slowly, with drawn-out distaste. “The idea is zero tolerance. Send a message. What’s wrong with the world today is that all the little crap is ignored. Swept under the table. Nobody wants to take on the minority bullcrap, the sensitivities, the political correctness that’s murdering us.”
He waved a finger at Gurney. “You gotta squash the little crap so they understand they can’t get away with the big crap. We ought to do what they do other places. Shoot them. Why not? Shoot the scumbags. Shoot the drug dealers. Leave the bodies where they fall. Same with terrorists. Leave them where they fall. Send a message.”
Gurney waited to be sure the spiel had run its course.
“Mr. Vitter, I have a question for you.”
The man cocked his head to the side. “Yeah?”
“Earlier this afternoon, did you hear a motorcycle leaving the property next door?”
Vitter’s demeanor brightened. “Motocross, small displacement, high compression. Something like a Yamaha Dual Sport. That’s a guess. But I’m a good guesser.”
“You saw it?”
“No need to. I told your fella with the shaved head I was taking a shit, but I have a good ear. Nothing I don’t know about bikes, including how they sound.”
“When you heard it, did you happen to notice the time?”
“I don’t keep a clock in the shitter.”
“Any idea who it might have been?”
He looked from side to side and lowered his voice. “Probably one of them.”
“Them?”
“Infiltrators. They come into our country illegally and disappear. Disappear into ordinary American life. They stay there, lurking around, waiting until they get the word to launch a terrorist attack. You don’t hear about this on regular news. It’s all hushed up.”
Gurney paused. “Have you ever seen anyone next door?”
“Never,” he said, giving the word a fraught significance.
Gurney recognized that familiar quirk of the mind that can transform a lack of evidence into the most convincing evidence of all. In a computer program that logic circuit would be a disabling flaw. In people, however, it was amazingly common.
Gurney thanked the man for his time and headed back to the Crown Vic to wait for Torres and the techs to reappear. He checked the time on his phone and saw that more than an hour had passed since he dropped Heather off at the emergency room. He assumed that Rick Loomis, if he were still alive, would likely be in one of the operating rooms. If he were a very lucky man, he might be having the side of his head reassembled in a way that would make his life livable. Heather would probably be in one of the waiting rooms—sitting, standing, pacing—besieging every passing nurse and doctor for news about what was happening. Gurney had questions he needed to ask her but was hesitant to ask, since none of them could compare in weight to the unknowns facing her at that moment.
Still, on countless occasions in his homicide career, the need for timely information had forced him to interview people in emotional pain. He’d always hesitated before plunging in. But in the end he always came to the same conclusion—that the need for information trumped the potential disturbance his questions might cause.
He got the hospital’s number from the internet, called it, explained who he needed to reach, was transferred three times, was put on hold for several minutes, and was about to give up when Heather was finally brought to the phone.
“Hello?” Her voice sounded thin and exhausted.
“This is Dave Gurney. How is Rick?”
“He’s in surgery. They can’t tell me anything yet.”
In the background Gurney could hear a series of little dings, a sound that brought back memories of ICU monitors, injured cops, long vigils in hospital corridors. “I need to ask you a couple of questions. Is that all right?”
“Go ahead.”
“When I went to the diner to meet Rick, they told me he’d called to say he’d be late. Do you know why?”
“I think . . . I think he checked with someone. Maybe to ask about meeting with you? Something like that?”
“Do you have any idea who it was?”
“No. But I think whoever Rick was talking to wanted to come with him to your meeting . . . but he had to take care of something first, and then Rick was going to pick him up? I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying much attention—” Her voice was stifled by a little sob.
“It’s okay, Heather.”
“I don’t know what else I can tell you about that.”
“What you’ve told me is very helpful. I was just wondering . . . you referred to the person Rick was talking to as ‘him.’ Are you sure that the person Rick talked to was a man?”
“I don’t really know. It never occurred to me that it might not be a man.”
“Do you know if the person was a police officer?”
She hesitated. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Rick’s voice. There’s a certain way he talks to other cops. I think this sounded different.”
“That’s a good observation, Heather. I know this is a frightening time for you, and I appreciate your willingness to talk to me.”
“I want to help you. I appreciate what you did. The risk you took. Getting in Judd Turlock’s face like that to bring me here . . . when you didn’t even know my name.” Her voice was starting to quaver. “Most people . . . wouldn’t do that. Something like that . . . takes more than courage. It takes . . . goodness.”
A brief silence fell between them. It was broken by Gurney, clearing his throat and trying to speak in a matter-of-fact way. “Turlock and other WRPD people will be questioning you about what happened today. Not just about the shooting itself, but—”
“I know how the process works.”
“Are you going to tell them that Rick was on his way to meet me when he was shot?”
“No.”
“Or that he and I had spoken on the phone?”
“No.”
He paused. “You really don’t trust the department, do you?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Do you know if Rick or John Steele had uncovered any evidence of criminal actions?”
“I think . . . they were getting close.”
“Was anyone helping them?”
“Rick didn’t like to bring those details home. But I did have the impression that someone was giving them information, telling them which cases they should look into.”
“Someone inside the department?”
“Rick never said.”
“Do you know if it was information about individuals who’d been framed?”
“I think so.”
“Framed by Turlock?”
“Probably. He seems like an awful man.”
“And Beckert?”
She hesitated. “Probably not directly. According to Rick, he’s the sort of person who makes everything turn out the way he wants it, without leaving his fingerprints on anything.”
“I was told he has political ambitions. Do you know anything about that?”
“No, but I’m not surprised. He has that kind of—” She let out a sharp little cry. “Have to go. The doctor’s here.”
He felt a sudden tightness in his chest, perhaps a contagious germ of her fear. He hoped with all his heart she’d be able to handle whatever the doctor was about to tell her.
He was just slipping the phone back in his pocket when a call arrived from Sheridan Kline. He was tempted to let it go to voicemail; but he knew that delaying the conversation would accomplish nothing—that procrastination only increased the weight of things that needed to be done.
“Gurney here.”
“What on earth is going on?”
“Is there a problem?”
“I was told that you barged into the Loomis crime scene and removed a key witness before she could be interviewed by a senior WRPD officer.”
“That’s an interesting arrangement of the facts. Let me give you another one. I narrowly averted a public relations disaster that would have had Beckert stumbling all over himself at his next press conference.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that the desperate wife of a downed police officer was being detained—kept from her possibly dying husband—for the interviewing convenience of a deputy police chief with the sensitivity of a stone. How do you think Beckert’s precious media would react to that?”
Kline took so long to reply Gurney began to wonder if they were still connected.
“That’s not the way I heard it,” he finally said, the energy gone from his voice. “And according to the hospital, Loomis is still alive. I understand the shooter site has been located and Garrett Felder’s going over it. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And the Loomis shooter used the same black Corolla used in the Steele case?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“One neighbor saw the Corolla. Another neighbor claims there was another vehicle present, an off-road motorcycle. Hard to say at this point which one the shooter used.”
“What difference does it make? He obviously used one of them. From what you’re saying, it appears that he had some kind of BDA backup.”
“Maybe.”
“I don’t see as how there’s any maybe about it. Two vehicles. One shooter plus one backup.”
Gurney remained silent. There were other possibilities, but he didn’t feel like discussing them with Kline. At least not until he had a chance to think them through.
“Did you observe the site yourself?” asked Kline.
“I did.”
“And?”
“Similar to the first. Some indication that a rifle-support tripod was used. I’m waiting to see what else Garrett and his assistant come up with.”
“Good. With that same Corolla involved, any prints they find ought to corroborate the evidence we’ve gathered on the Steele shooting—which is already a prosecutor’s dream.”
“As long as you don’t think about it too much. Or start wondering why.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Why that laser dot followed the back of Steele’s head as long as it did. Why he was shot while he was moving, rather than while he was standing still. Why the shooter used a full metal jacket, rather than a hollow-point. Things like that keep me awake at night. They ought to keep you awake, too.”
“Nonsense. You’re overcomplicating everything.”
“I thought you wanted my objective view of the case.”
“I do. Of course I do. But right now the case is coming together in an ideal way. I don’t want your obsession with tiny loose ends derailing your thinking or creating problems with White River PD. Stay with the big picture, is all I’m saying. Avoid unnecessary disputes. Let’s move this investigation to a smooth conclusion.”
24
When Torres came out of Gloria Fenwick’s house he filled Gurney in on the few bits of additional information he’d gotten from her.
The Corolla that backed out of the driveway and sped away was, in her words, “shamefully dirty.”
During that year’s March and early April snowfalls, the driveway had not been plowed.
In the months since the owners had moved away and consigned the place to its current renters, she’d never seen a window open or a light on.
Apparently all of the owners’ mail was being forwarded, and the renters were receiving none, since the postman, a very nice man, never stopped there.
The failure to maintain the property, particularly the failure to mow the grass, was, in her opinion, an insult to the residents of Bluestone and typical of the slovenly ways of “the Grinton element.”
“And,” Torres concluded, “she’s absolutely certain about the presence of that car. How sure was the guy on the other side of the house about the motorcycle?”
“Totally.”
“So they’re each positive about one vehicle, and neither was aware of the second. Strange.”
Gurney thought about that. “Not really. In the sniper house, there’s a bathroom by the back door and a living room in the front. The Fenwick and Vitter houses have the same basic design. Vitter says he heard the motorcycle—which was in back of the sniper house—through his bathroom window. Gloria Fenwick was at her living room window. The driveway the car used is on her side of the sniper house. They each noticed what they were closest to.”
Torres looked unconvinced. “I get why Vitter might not have heard the car. But motorcycles can be pretty loud. Shouldn’t she have heard it?”
“Theoretically. But suppose there was a delay of a minute or two between the car leaving and the motorcycle leaving. I doubt she stayed by her window after the car left. She may even have closed it. If there was another engine sound a couple of minutes later down by that back slope, there’s no reason it would have meant anything to her.”
“Wouldn’t she have at least heard it?”
“We hear sounds constantly, but unless they have some significance to us, our brains discard them. Like a spam filter on email. You probably heard hundreds of sounds earlier today—at home, on your way here, down on Oak Street—but I bet you’d have trouble remembering more than a few of them.”
“That may be true, but—”
He was interrupted by a contralto voice. “Either of you have a little spare time?”
It was Shelby Towns, the female half of the evidence-collection team, speaking as she emerged from the front door of the sniper house, facial studs shining in the afternoon sun, white coveralls concealing her GENDERBENDER tee shirt.
“Garrett figures he’ll be tied up inside for another hour or so,” she continued as she approached them, “and I need to lay out a search grid in back. Two people working together can do that four times faster than one. How about it?”
Checking his watch, Torres explained that he was late for a follow-up with the men he’d assigned to canvass the neighborhood.
Gurney offered to give her a hand
, motivated less by a spirit of helpfulness than by the curiosity he always felt at crime scenes.
She pointed to the evidence van. “Suit, gloves, booties—right inside the door. You’ve done this before, right?”
Before Gurney could answer, Torres said, “Jesus, Shel, you’re talking to the man who holds the NYPD record for solved homicides. He’s probably been at more major crime scenes than everyone in our department put together.” He got into the Crown Vic, pulled away from the curb, and was gone.
Shelby Towns gave Gurney a look. “Is that true—the record for solved homicides?”
“They gave me a medal with those words on it. I have no idea whether it’s true.”
Something about her wide-eyed look made him burst out laughing. Before she could ask what he found so funny, he asked how she wanted to set up the grid.
The backyard was only about twice the width of the house, but it was over a hundred feet deep, extending back behind both the house and the detached garage. The downward slope beyond that added about fifty feet of weeds and briars between the overgrown lawn and the street below.
Working together, they’d managed in half an hour to lay out a string grid composed of nearly two hundred six-foot squares covering the lawn and most of the slope. A careful eyes-to-the-ground walk-through took another half hour.
Their discoveries, photographed by Shelby on her tablet, included tire tracks that indicated a motorcycle with knobby motocross tires had been standing on a patch of grassless soil behind the garage and had subsequently crossed the lawn, descended the slope, and turned onto the lower street—confirming Hollis Vitter’s claim. Also behind the garage were boot prints next to the tire marks—and similar prints in the soil at the base of the slope, suggesting that the rider had stopped there, perhaps for passing traffic, before turning onto the street.
At the edge of the lawn by the slope, Gurney spotted a Bic pen. Shelby photographed it in situ before he picked it up, careful not to smudge any prints, and placed it in an evidence bag. As he was filling out the required item-location-date information, his phone was ringing. By the time he got to it, the message was already in voicemail.
On playback it was so broken up it was barely understandable. After listening to it three times, he could be sure only that the caller was Heather Loomis and she wanted him to come to the hospital. The reason was indecipherable, but the urgency was clear.
