by John Verdon
“Red motocross with a loud engine.”
“Plate number?”
“Nobody noticed.”
“Any description of the rider?”
“Full leather riding suit, full-coverage helmet and visor, no identifying elements.”
“And you say the bike wasn’t found at the end of the route?”
“The end point shown on the map is just the last place where we have witness observation. It may have cut into the park at that point and taken one of the wilderness trails to just about anywhere.”
“Okay,” said Kline, with prosecutor-like intensity. “If I’ve got this right, we have a load of video on the Corolla and no video at all on the motorcycle, even though its roundabout route covered a lot more ground?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
Shucker took another huge bite out of his doughnut. As he spoke, specks of sugar flew onto the table. “Any of them Corolla videos give us a picture of the driver?”
“I was coming to that, sir. We have partials that were captured under different angle, shadow, and glare conditions. No single video frame provides a usable likeness, but the Albany lab has a composite process that may give us what we need. They can combine the best parts of multiple shots and resolve them into one high-definition image. At least that’s the theory.”
“When?” asked Kline.
“We emailed them the digital files last night, and I spoke to them this morning. If we’re lucky, we may get something back by the end of this meeting.”
Kline looked skeptical. “That’s amazingly fast for Albany.”
The sheriff uttered an unpleasant little laugh. “Upside of an impending race war is we get attention.”
Beckert glanced at his watch. “Let’s keep this moving along, Mark. Where do we stand on tracking down the rental information?”
“Interesting news there, sir. This morning we finally got hold of the records for the locations used as the sniper sites. Both leases are in the name of Marcel Jordan.”
Beckert exhibited a rare fleeting smile. “That eliminates all doubt about BDA involvement.”
Something in Gurney’s expression caught his eye. “You don’t agree?”
“I agree that it provides support for a certain view of the case. As for eliminating all doubt, that’s a leap I wouldn’t make.”
Beckert held his gaze for a moment, then turned mildly to Torres. “Do you have anything else for us?”
“That’s it for now, sir, until we get the enhanced photo from Albany and the report on the Corolla from Garrett.”
“Speaking of Albany,” said Beckert, looking at Kline, “have the computer people gotten back to you regarding Steele’s phone?”
“Not with a full report, which is why I haven’t mentioned it. But I spoke to a tech yesterday, and he told me their initial analysis uncovered nothing of immediate interest. He emailed me a printout of numbers called and received during the past three months. Steele used that phone to call his wife, his sister in Hawaii, local movie theaters, his dentist, an electrician, restaurants around the area, a takeout pizza joint in Angina, a gym in Larvaton, Home Depot, a few other places like that. Apart from his sister, nothing really personal. And apart from that one strange text the night he was killed, no calls or texts from anonymous prepaids or even from blocked numbers. Really not much to follow up on. They’ll be sending us their final report in a day or two.”
Beckert’s fleeting smile made a second appearance. “So. Much ado about nothing.”
“Strange,” said Gurney.
Kline gave him a sharply inquisitive look.
“What’s strange about it?” asked Beckert.
“No mention of calls to or from Rick Loomis.”
“Why is that strange?”
“I got the impression they were in frequent contact.”
“Maybe they preferred email.”
“That must be the answer,” said Gurney, sure that it wasn’t the answer at all.
“Right,” said Beckert with the finality of a slammed door. “If no one else has anything to contribute at this time—”
“I do,” said the sheriff. “Having let certain guests at my facility know I was curious what arrangements Devalon Jones had made for his Corolla during his rehabilitation in Dannemora, I was told he had entrusted said vehicle to Blaze Lovely Jackson. Which makes her the keeper of the shooter’s car, which is a hell of a thing to consider.”
Kline cast an amazed look down the table. “Christ, Goodson, in our last meeting you suggested she might be responsible for the murders of Jordan and Tooker. Now you’re adding Steele and Loomis?”
“Ain’t addin’ nobody on my own wisdom, counselor. Just sayin’ what was said to me by a man with some knowledge of the street.”
Cloutz had gone back to lightly stroking his white cane, a gesture Gurney was finding increasingly repellent. He tried to keep his reaction out of his voice.
“What did he get in return for telling you this?”
“Not a damn thing. I told him we’d assess the value of his information to the investigation, and his reward would be contingent. I always say that with a smile—contingent—like it is a particularly good kind of reward. Works like a charm with the less educated. Worked so good this time, the man wanted to keep tellin’ me things. For instance, he volunteered that Ms. Jackson was fuckin’ someone in secret—which I thought was of considerable interest.”
Kline looked puzzled. “The relevance of her sexual activity is . . .”
“The relevance of her fuckin’ has got no relevance at all. What’s of interest is that she’s tryin’ to keep it a secret. Makes you wonder why.”
Beckert pondered this for a few seconds, then shook his head. “The point that matters here is the expanding evidence of BDA involvement. Making threatening antipolice speeches. Renting the sites from which the shots were fired. Providing the vehicle used by the shooter. Beyond that let’s not complicate things with extraneous details. Complication makes the public dizzy. Are we clear on this?”
“Simpler the better,” said Shucker.
“I prefer my simplicity with a twist,” said Cloutz, making his preference sound lascivious. “But I get your point,” he added. “A simple tale of the law versus the lawless.”
Beckert’s gaze moved on to Gurney.
Gurney said nothing.
In the silence there was a sense of imminent confrontation.
Whatever might have occurred was aborted by the surprisingly loud bing of an email arriving on Torres’s computer.
His eyes widened with excitement. “It’s from the Albany computer lab. There’s an attachment. I think it’s the enhanced Corolla shot we’ve been waiting for.” Two clicks later the screen of the wall monitor was filled by a medium close-up of a young man in the driver’s seat. The photo had been taken through the windshield, but whatever glare may have compromised the raw footage had been removed. The sharpness of the image was impressive. The facial details were clear.
The young man’s reddish-blond hair was pulled back from his forehead into a loose ponytail, emphasizing his deep-set eyes and angular features.
Shucker’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth with the last bit of his doughnut. “That boy looks mighty familiar.”
Kline nodded. “Yes. I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere before.”
Gurney had also seen the face before—on the giant screen at Marv and Trish Gelter’s house—but the name was eluding him. He remembered it just as Beckert announced it—in a voice as icy as the look in his eyes. “Cory Payne.”
“Cory Payne.” The sheriff articulated the name as though it had a foul taste. “Ain’t he the one behind White Morons Spoutin’ Black Bullshit?”
“White Men for Black Justice,” offered Torres mildly.
The sheriff let out a harsh one-syllable laugh.
“Cory Payne,” repeated Kline slowly. “I’ve seen him on those RAM debate shows.”
>
“Nazi storm troopers,” said Shucker.
Kline blinked. “How’s that, Dwayne?”
“That’s what he calls the police,” said Shucker. “Boy’s got a hair up his ass about law enforcement.”
“That strident tone of his always sounded to me like grandstanding,” said Kline. “Adolescent nonsense. That’s all I thought it was. Talk.”
“Have to admit I thought that myself,” said the sheriff. “That boy’s voice on the TV sounded like a little dog barkin’ at big dogs. I never would’ve thought he had the balls to be a shooter.”
“Goes to show you never know before you know,” said Shucker, eyeing the piece of doughnut in his hand. “Sometimes the evilest ones are the last ones you’d ever think to look at. Like that sweet little Doris at the Zippy-Mart that chopped up her husband and kept him in the freezer for ten years.”
“Twelve,” said the sheriff. “Goin’ by the dates of the newspapers the pieces was wrapped in.”
Beckert stood up abruptly, his voice like a tight fist. “Enough, gentlemen. The fact is we were all deceived by Payne’s sophomoric gibberish. The situation is critical and the time element is crucial. Detective Torres, put out an immediate APB on Cory Payne.”
“Suspicion of murder?”
“Yes, in the case of John Steele. Attempted murder in the Loomis case. I’ll have Baylor Puckett issue the warrant. Judd Turlock maintains a file of local agitators. He can give you Payne’s address. Get there ASAP, backed up by an assault team in the event that Payne resists. Seal off the apartment. Seize everything. Get Payne’s prints from his personal items and match them to whatever Garrett and Shelby were able to get from the car and the sniper sites. Any questions from the media, refer them to my office. Keep me informed on an hourly basis. Or immediately with any significant development. Questions?”
“No, sir. “
“Then go!” Beckert had the look of a man whose mind was racing to assess an array of unpleasant possibilities.
Torres picked up his laptop and hurried out of the conference room.
“There some reason you don’t want to arrest the bitch that gave him the car?” asked the sheriff. There was something vaguely insinuating in his tone.
“I’d rather have her watched. We’ll learn more from her movements than from anything she’d be willing to tell us.”
Kline’s eyes lit up. “You don’t suppose that Cory Payne—”
Beckert cut him off. “That Payne might be her secret lover? The rumor that Goodson’s snitch told him about? I think it’s one of the possibilities we need to look into.”
“If it were true, it would give us a damn good motive.”
“We already have a damn good motive,” interjected the sheriff. “Boy hates cops. Boy shoots cops. Simple.”
“This one’s better,” said Kline. “Love-sick white boy shoots cops to impress black-activist girlfriend. Juries love romantic motives. The more depraved the better.”
Beckert was radiating tension. “Gentlemen, we need to get a grip on where we are. I don’t want people whose support could be helpful blindsided by sensational news reports.” He looked at his watch. “Let’s get back together at two o’clock to discuss next steps. I’m sorry if the four-hour gap is inconvenient, but this situation takes priority. Sheridan, you’re the farthest from your regular office. If you wish, you can use the one at the end of the hall.”
Kline thanked him, and, without another word, Beckert left the room.
26
Gurney was eager to get out of the building, which he was finding increasingly oppressive. He walked out into the parking lot. The sky was still overcast. The air’s acrid, smoky edge was as noticeable as ever, but he found it preferable to the atmosphere in the conference room. He couldn’t quite sort out the primary source of his discomfort—the repugnant people, the bleak fluorescent-lit room, the surreal view from the window, or his persistent feeling that the official approach to the intertwined attacks on the police and the BDA leaders was profoundly wrong.
As Gurney was thinking about how to utilize the long meeting break, Kline came out into the parking lot after him, looking more anxious than usual.
“Come,” he said, gesturing peremptorily toward his SUV.
They got into the front seats. The man seemed to be looking for a place to put his hands, beginning with his lap and ending finally on the steering wheel.
“So,” he said after a fraught silence. “What’s your problem?”
Gurney found the aggressive tone oddly relaxing. “Be more specific.”
Kline’s hands opened and closed on the wheel. He was staring straight ahead. “I listen to what you say in these meetings. The kind of questions you ask. How you ask them. The disbelief, the disrespect. If I’m wrong, tell me.” There was a tic at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m trying to recall a disrespectful question. Give me an example.”
“It’s not any one thing. It’s the pattern of nitpicking negativity. How come the red laser dot followed Steele as long as it did? How come he was shot moving instead of standing still? When we find fingerprints, you want to know why we didn’t find more fingerprints. You make a big deal out of there being an odd message on Steele’s phone, then you make a big deal out of there not being more odd messages. You focus on every minuscule detail that isn’t instantly explainable. You totally ignore the big picture.”
“The big picture?”
“Perfectly credible narratives for the Steele-Loomis shootings and the Jordan-Tooker beating and strangling deaths. Overwhelming evidence against Cory Payne for the first. Overwhelming evidence against the Gort twins for the second. Slam-dunk cases. But for some reason you can’t accept that we’ve won. I don’t get it.”
“You’re overestimating the slam-dunk potential. I’ve been pointing out some troubling facts that could undermine—”
Kline interrupted. “The flyspecks you’re pointing out won’t undermine anything, except your own credibility. I mean it, David. The big picture is what matters, and you’re refusing to accept it.”
“I’m sorry you see it that way.”
Kline finally turned to face him. “This is all about Beckert, isn’t it?”
“Beckert?”
“I’ve seen the expression on your face whenever he has anything to say. Is that what this is all about? A personality conflict? You just want him to be wrong? It’s the only explanation.”
Gurney quietly considered what he was about to say.
“If that’s what you think, Sheridan, there’s no way I can be of any further use to you.”
Kline went back to staring straight ahead, hands on the wheel. “Unfortunately, I have to agree.”
Gurney realized that the sense of relaxation he had felt at Kline’s initial aggressiveness came from his anticipation of this moment. What he felt now was pure, unmistakable relief. Relief from a strange burden, never clearly defined, always more or less disquieting. It wasn’t that he had any intention of abandoning the case or the responsibility he felt toward Kim and Heather or those who were killed. He would simply be abandoning his murky relationship with Kline.
“Would you like me to withdraw now?” he asked. “Or shall I stay on board until after the two o’clock meeting?”
“It might be better for you to come to the meeting. Smoother. And the investigation will be that much closer to being concluded. Just a matter of making the final arrests. That’s the way your exit should be positioned. Not an abrupt decision. A natural event at the end of a process. Better for everyone, don’t you think?”
“Sounds very sensible, Sheridan. I’ll see you at two o’clock.”
Neither offered to shake hands.
Gurney got out of the big black Navigator and headed for his modest Outback.
27
The Willard Park playground was deserted. There was a faint smell of lake water in the still air. The blackbirds in the bulrushes were silent. Under the
steel skeleton of the jungle gym the sandy soil was dark and wet from the recent drizzle. Water had beaded on the pipelike crossbars and hung there, ready to drip.
Gurney was using the time available before the afternoon meeting to gain a more visceral sense of the place. He was intrigued by the fact that Willard Park was the location not only where the two BDA victims were found but also where the motorcycle from Poulter Street was last seen. It was the sort of odd little resonance or coincidence that Kline would dismiss as meaningless. But Kline’s opinion had become irrelevant.
Standing with his back to the jungle gym, he looked over toward the field where the demonstration and the Steele shooting had taken place. The intervening space was dominated by Colonel Willard on his martial horse. In Gurney’s mind the statue’s presence—a concrete link to the dark legacy of the Willard slave catchers and the prison itself—cast a pall over the park.
He walked from the playground down to the edge of the lake and gazed out over the glassy gray surface. A trail on his right led into the woods that bordered the lake. He assumed it was the main one shown in the satellite photo Torres had presented—part of a web of trails connecting the park to the wilderness beyond it and to the private preserve of the White River Gun Club, where most of the hunting cabins were owned by White River cops.
It was surely the most tenuous of links . . . but it was possible that the motorcycle fleeing from Poulter Street after the shooting of Rick Loomis may have used the same trails as the UTV that brought Jordan and Tooker to the playground. Gurney wasn’t sure what that might mean, but the possibility that it was more than a coincidence produced a definite frisson.
A moment later the forlorn cry of a bird deep in the woods gave him goose bumps of a different sort. The eerie, keening sound was one he sometimes heard at dusk coming from the pine thicket on the far side of his pond. Although he knew his reaction was irrational, the strangely wavering note never failed to put him in an uneasy frame of mind.
He walked back from the lake to the jungle gym. He pictured Marcel Jordan and Virgil Tooker bound tightly to the tubular bars.
