by John Verdon
“No menu here, David. They do the classics. Fantastic cassoulet. Coq au vin. Confit de canard. Boeuf bourguignon. Whatever you like.”
Gurney looked up at the Nordic beauty, who seemed faintly amused.
“The beef,” he said.
She smiled and left the room.
He looked at Gelter. “You’re not eating?”
“They know what I like.” He took another swig of his drink and grinned with more adrenaline than warmth. “So. You triggered an earthquake. How’s it feel?”
“Unfinished.”
“Hah! Unfinished. I like that. A man who’s never satisfied. Always moving forward. Good! Very good!” He eyed Gurney with a glittery intensity. “So here we are. Dell Beckert, God rest his soul, is a dead issue. Even if he’s alive, he’s dead. You saw to that. Fine. The question is, what’s next?”
“Next for who?”
“You, David. You’re the one I’m having lunch with. What’s next for you?”
Gurney shrugged. “Mow my fields, feed my chickens, build a bigger woodshed.”
Gelter pursed his lips unpleasantly. “Kline’ll probably make you an offer. Maybe to run his investigation department. That something you’d like?”
“No.”
“I don’t blame you. Waste of your talents. Which are more substantial than you know.” The adrenaline grin returned. “You’ve got a shitload of modesty. Shitload of integrity. Big balls. You walked into that White River cesspool where nobody knew what the fuck was going on, you figured it out, showed the district attorney which end was up. That’s impressive.” He paused. “You know what else it is? It’s a story. A story with a hero. A cool, smart, straight-shooter hero. Supercop. That’s what that magazine called you, am I right?”
Gurney nodded uncomfortably.
“Damn, David, you are the man! You even have those old blue-eyed cowboy good looks. A goddamn real-life hero. You know how deep a hunger there is out there for a real hero?”
Gurney stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
“The hell you think I’m talking about? Beckert’s out, Gurney’s in!”
“In what?”
“The office of the attorney general.”
The Nordic beauty appeared with two delicate china plates. The one with an artfully arranged antipasto she placed in front of Gurney. The one with a dozen or so mandarin orange segments arranged in a circle around a small finger bowl she placed in front of Gelter. She left the room as quietly as she’d entered it.
Gurney’s tone matched his incredulous expression. “You’re suggesting I compete in the special election?”
“I can see you winning it by a bigger margin than Beckert would have.”
Gurney was silent for a long moment. “You don’t seem upset by what’s happened.”
“I was extremely upset. For ten minutes. More than that’s a self-indulgent waste of time. Then I asked myself the only sane question. What now? It doesn’t matter what life puts in front of us. Could be a gold mine. Could be a pile of crap. The question’s the same. What now?”
“Does it bother you that you were so wrong about Beckert?”
Gelter picked up a little wedge of orange and examined it before popping it in his mouth. “Life goes on. If people disappoint you, fuck ’em. Problems can become solutions. Like this situation right here. You’re better than Beckert, which I might not have realized if he was still around. That worthless lump of socialist shit, Maynard Biggs, won’t have a chance against you.”
“You hate him that much?”
He examined another orange wedge before devouring it. “I don’t hate him. Don’t give a flying fuck about him. What I hate is what he stands for. The philosophy. The belief system. The entitlement.”
“The entitlement?”
“With a capital fucking E. These useless fuckers have rights! Rights to whatever they want. No need to work, save, support their own children. No need to do a damn thing—because they had a great-great-great-great-fucking-grandfather who three hundred fucking years ago got sold by some African scumbag to a slave trader. This ancient history, you see, entitles them to the fruits of my current labor.” He turned his head to the side and spit an orange seed out onto the Oriental carpet.
Gurney shrugged. “The one time I saw Biggs on television his statements on the racial divide seemed mild and reasonable.”
“Pretty wrapping on a box of scorpions.”
“And you see me as some sort of solution to this?”
“I see you as a way to keep the levers of power out of the wrong hands.”
“If I were to be elected with your help, what would I owe you?”
“Nada. The defeat of Maynard Biggs would be my payment.”
“I’ll sleep on it.”
“Fine, but don’t sleep too long. There’s a filing deadline three days from now. Say yes, and I promise you you’ll win.”
“You really don’t think Biggs has a chance?”
“Not against you. And I could always turn up a few students who might recall instances of inappropriate advances from their professor.” Gelter smiled venomously.
Gelter’s main course arrived, a colorful bouillabaisse, followed by Gurney’s boeuf bourguignon. They ate, mostly in silence, and both declined dessert.
The subject of their meeting wasn’t mentioned again until they were out in front of the restaurant, about to get into their cars.
“As soon as you say yes,” said Gelter, “we’ll put you on NewsBreakers and have Kilbrick and Kronck introduce you to the world. They’re both dying to talk to you.” When Gurney didn’t reply, he continued. “Just think about what you could do with the power and influence of the AG title. All the right contacts. Whole new world. I know people who’d kill for that spot!”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Opportunity of a lifetime,” Gelter added, flashing his adrenaline-charged grin one more time as he stepped into his red Ferrari.
51
Gurney sipped the cup of coffee he’d made the minute he’d arrived home from Lockenberry. Purple finches were busy at the feeder Madeleine had set up at the edge of the patio. She was at the sink island chopping onions for soup.
“So,” she said lightly, “what did he want?”
“He wants me to run for attorney general.”
The knife paused on the cutting board, but she didn’t look as surprised as he’d expected. “In place of Dell Beckert?”
“Exactly.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “I guess he wants a real law-and-order hero to replace the one that blew up in his face.”
“That’s pretty much what he said.”
“He didn’t waste any time.”
“No.”
“Clever, cold, and calculating.”
“All of that.”
“And it goes without saying that he has the connections to get you in the race?”
“Not just that. He told me I’d win.”
“What did you say to that?”
“That I’d sleep on it.”
“What were you thinking when you said it?”
“I was thinking that after two minutes of feeling flattered, I’d ponder the unknowns, imagine the problems, talk to you about it, then turn it down.”
She laughed. “Interesting process. What does the attorney general do, anyway?”
“I’m sure there’s a description of responsibilities on the state website, but what a real live person might choose to spend his time on is another matter. The last occupant of the office is rumored to have fucked himself to death with a Las Vegas hooker.”
“So you’re really not interested?”
“In jumping into a political shark tank? With the backing of a man I don’t even like being in the same room with?”
Madeleine raised a curious eyebrow. “You did agree to have lunch with him.”
“To find out why he wanted to have lunch with me.”
“Now I know—unless his agenda is more twisted than I realize.”
She gave him one of her searching looks, and a silence fell between them.
“Oh, by the way,” he said as he was finishing his coffee, “I crossed paths with Walter Thrasher at the crime scene in White River last night. He said he’d drop by around five today to talk about our archaeology project.”
“What is there to talk about?”
Gurney realized he hadn’t shared Thrasher’s phone message with her. “He’s done some research on the objects I found. His comments have been rather strange. I’m hoping he’ll clarify the situation this afternoon.”
Madeleine’s silence eloquently conveyed her hostility to the project.
Thinking of Thrasher reminded him of the Jackson-Creel apartment. Madeleine reacted to the look on his face.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. Just . . . a little jolt from last night. I’m fine.”
“You want to tell me about it?”
He didn’t want to, but he’d learned over the years that describing something that was disturbing him loosened its grip on his mind. So he told her the story, beginning with his discovery on the hospital personnel list that Blaze Jackson and Chalise Creel shared an address and ending with the scene in the apartment—the decomposing bodies, the propofol hypodermics, the money, and the fingerprint link to Dell Beckert.
She smiled. “You must feel good about that.”
“About what?” There was sourness in his voice.
“Being right about Beckert. You were uncomfortable with him from the beginning. And now you’ve amassed all this evidence of his involvement in . . . how many murders?”
“At least four. Six, if he killed those two women. Seven, if he set up Judd Turlock.”
“If it wasn’t for you, that Payne boy would probably be in jail.”
He shook his head. “I doubt it. A good defense lawyer would have seen that the evidence against him was a setup. As for the evidence against Beckert, we got lucky out at the gun club.”
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit. You’re the one who decided to go there and check it out. You’re the one who turned the whole case around. You’re the one who’s gotten to the truth.”
“We’ve had some luck. Recoverable bullets. Clean ballistics. Clear evidence that—”
She interrupted him. “You don’t sound very proud of what you’ve accomplished.”
“And you sound like you’re talking to one of your clients at the clinic.”
She sighed. “I’m just wondering why you don’t feel better about the progress you’ve made.”
“I’ll feel better when it’s all over.”
Thrasher arrived at five twenty, negotiating the uneven lane up through the pasture with obvious care in his pristine Audi. After getting out of the car he stood for a few moments surveying the surrounding landscape, then came over to the open French doors.
“Damned construction workers on the interstate, busily doing nothing except impeding traffic,” he said as Gurney let him in.
From his position in the breakfast nook he looked around the big farmhouse kitchen with an appraising eye. His gaze lingered on the fireplace at the far end. “Nice old mantel. Chestnut. Unique color. Style of the hearth appears to be early eighteen hundreds. You research the provenance of the house when you bought it?”
“No. Do you think there’s some connection between this house and—”
“The remains of the house down by the pond? Lord, no. That predates this by more than a hundred years.” He put his briefcase down on the dining table.
Madeleine, who’d been upstairs practicing a Bach piece on her cello, came in from the hallway.
Gurney introduced her.
“Asparagus,” said Thrasher. “Wise choice.”
“Excuse me?”
“I noticed your asparagus bed out there. Only vegetable worth the trouble of growing at home. Freshness. Huge difference.” He glanced around again. “Might be a good idea to have a seat.”
“How about right here,” suggested Gurney, gesturing to the chairs at the table. He added, “We’re eager to find out what this is all about.”
“Good. I’m hoping your interest will survive the answer.”
With curious frowns, Gurney and Madeleine took seats next to each other at the table.
Thrasher remained standing on the opposite side. “First, a bit of background. As you know, my vocation is forensic pathology, with a focus on determining the causes of untimely death. My avocation, however, is the examination of northeastern Colonial life, with a focus on its darker aspects, particularly the malignant synergy of slavery and psychopathology. I’m sure you’re aware that slavery was not an exclusively Southern phenomenon. In Colonial New York City in seventeen hundred, nearly half the households owned at least one slave. Chattel slavery—the buying and selling of human beings over whom the owner had absolute control—was widely accepted.”
“We’re aware of the history,” said Madeleine.
“A glaring defect of history as it is commonly taught is that the events of an era are often seen acting upon one another in only very large terms—for example, the interaction between advances in mechanization and the movement of populations to manufacturing centers. We read about these interactions and think we’re grasping the essence of an age. Or we read about slavery in the context of agricultural economics and we think we understand it—when, in fact, nothing could be further from the truth. It’s possible to read a dozen books about it and never feel the horror of it—never even glimpse the malignant synergy I mentioned a moment ago.”
“What synergy?” asked Madeleine.
“The appalling ways in which some of society’s ills combine with others.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I wrote an article on the subject last year for a journal of cultural psychology. The title was ‘Victims for Sale: Torture, Sexual Abuse, and Serial Murder in Colonial America.’ I’m working on another right now—detailing the confluence of psychopathic disorders and a legal system that permitted one person to own another.”
“What does this have to do with us?”
“I’m coming to that. The average American’s image of Colonial America doesn’t run much deeper than stolid-looking Pilgrims in big black hats, happy Indians, brotherly love, religious freedom, and occasional hardship. Colonial reality, of course, was something else entirely. Filth, fear, starvation, ignorance, disease, superstition, the practice of witchcraft and the torture and hanging of witches, heresy trials, cruel punishments, banishments, absurd medical practices, pain and death everywhere. And of course, all the major mental disorders and predatory behaviors—all rampant, all misunderstood. Psychopaths who—”
Madeleine broke in impatiently. “Dr. Thrasher . . .”
He ignored the interruption. “The convergence of two great ills. The desire of the psychopath to exert total control over another person—to use, to abuse, to kill. Imagine that urge combined with the institution of slavery—a system that enabled the easy purchase of potential victims at a public market. Men, women, and children for sale. Objects to be employed at the owner’s pleasure. Human beings with hardly any more rights than farm animals. Human beings with virtually no effective legal protection against constant rape, and worse. Men, women, and children whose deaths, accidental or intentional, few authorities would bother to seriously investigate.”
“Enough!” said Madeleine. “I asked you a question. What does this have to do with us?”
Thrasher blinked in surprise, then replied matter-of-factly. “The old foundation David uncovered dates, in my opinion, to the very early seventeen hundreds. There were no settlements in this part of the state at that time. This was a frontier wilderness, the essence of the unknown—a place of savagery, danger, and isolation. No one would have chosen to live here, this far from a protect
ive community, unless they were under constraint.”
“Constraint?”
“The people who came here would have done so for one of two reasons. One, they were engaging in practices that would have been considered abhorrent to their community and so came here to avoid possible exposure. Or two, they were exposed—and banished.”
There was a silence, broken by Gurney.
“What kind of practices are you talking about?”
“The objects you found indicate some involvement with witchcraft. That may have been the reason they were driven out of their original community. But I believe that witchcraft was the least of their transgressions. I believe the essence of what was happening in that house by your pond three hundred years ago was what we would define today as serial murder.”
Madeleine’s eyes widened. “What?!”
“Two years ago I was called in to examine the buried remains of an early-eighteenth-century house over by Marley Mountain. I found some items related to sorcery rituals; but more significantly, there were iron shackles and other evidence of individuals having been held in captivity. There were several devices typically used in the torture of prisoners, including implements for breaking bones, extracting fingernails and teeth. An excavation of the grounds around that foundation uncovered partial skeletal remains of at least ten children. DNA testing of their extracted teeth traced their genetic lineage to West Africa. In other words, to the slave trade.”
Madeleine’s gaze was fixed on Thrasher with a growing revulsion.
Gurney broke the silence. “Are you suggesting a connection between the house you’re talking about and what we found here?”
“The similarities between your excavation, even in this early stage, and the Marley Mountain site are striking.”
“What are you suggesting we do?”
“I’m suggesting we bring in the appropriate archaeological equipment and personnel to explore the site with the thoroughness it deserves. The more hard evidence we can find to document the existence of psychopathic elements in the treatment of slaves, the more accurate the historical picture becomes.”
