by John Verdon
“Agreed to it? He loves it.”
“Jesus.”
“Another piece of news. You asked about the locations of the phones that received calls from the alarm system at Beckert’s cabin when you and Hardwick were there. The calls went to Beckert’s phone, to Turlock’s, and to an anonymous prepaid. Beckert’s was turned off at the time, which makes sense if he was already on the run, so we have no location on that. Turlock’s was on, and the call was received through the Larvaton cell tower, which is the closest one to his house. It would explain why he showed up at the gun club that morning. No surprise there. The interesting one is the call to the prepaid. It was received through the White River tower, and thirty seconds later a call was made from that same prepaid to a phone registered to Ezechias Gort.”
This was no surprise to Gurney, having assumed that someone with reason to believe that Turlock would be present had notified one of the Gorts, but having it confirmed was encouraging. “Thanks for pursuing that, Mark. It’s a nice change of pace when something in this damn case makes sense.”
At the sound of another vehicle coming up the hill, they ended the call.
A maroon Escalade entered the clearing and came to a stop next to the Crown Victoria. A sheriff’s deputy got out of the driver’s seat and tapped on Torres’s window. After conferring for a few moments, he got back in the Escalade. For the ensuing quarter of an hour there was no other activity in the line of vehicles and no sound but the persistent hum of the generator and, at least to Gurney’s ear, the almost subliminal intonations of a cable news program.
Then Kline arrived in his Navigator, got out with a brisk man-in-command air about him, and paid a quick visit to each of the other vehicles. He was wearing a too-large windbreaker made of the stiff dark-blue fabric favored by most law-enforcement agencies. Across the back in bold letters were the words DISTRICT ATTORNEY.
He returned to the Navigator and stood in front of it, feet planted wide apart—the image of a conquering hero, had it not been for the oversize jacket making him look unusually small. Gurney was watching closely from his spot at the near edge of the woods as Kline took out his phone.
Gurney’s phone vibrated. He looked at the screen and took the call. “Hello, Sheridan. What’s the plan?”
Kline looked around the clearing. “Where are you?”
“Out of sight, keeping an eye on the house.”
“This is a surrender, not a battle.”
“Has he confessed to anything?”
“To everything. Everything except the Turlock homicide.”
“Why would he confess?”
“What difference does it make? The fact is, he did. We have it in writing.”
“In writing? How—”
Kline broke in impatiently. “Phone text. Electronic thumbprint attached.”
“Did you ever actually speak to him?”
“On the phone, briefly. There was noise in the background—probably that generator—which made it hard to hear him. I didn’t want any future disputes over what was said. So I told him to spell it out in a text, and that’s what he did.”
“And in that text he confessed to six murders?”
“He did.”
“You have no concerns about that?”
“I’m delighted with it. Obviously you’re not. Is that because it makes your idea that he was a helpless victim, framed by some Machiavellian genius, sound totally ridiculous?”
Gurney ignored the snark. “I’m concerned about it for two reasons. First, whatever else Beckert may be, he isn’t stupid. But confessing to multiple murders with no deal on the table is very stupid. It makes me wonder what’s going on. Second, I’ve been thinking about what drew me into this case to begin with—that message on Steele’s phone. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t what it seemed to be.”
Kline’s voice on the phone was clipped and angry. “It was exactly what it seemed to be—a warning to watch his back, which turned out to be very good advice. He just didn’t get it in time.”
“Maybe he wasn’t meant to.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The message was sent to his personal phone after he left for work—where he used the department-issued BlackBerry. So maybe the message wasn’t meant to be found until after he was killed.”
“After? For what purpose?”
“To point us toward the WRPD, and ultimately Beckert. Of course that would mean that the sender knew in advance that Steele would be killed. The so-called warning could have been the first subtle piece in the plot to incriminate Beckert.”
“Very clever. That’s what you’re all about, Gurney, isn’t it? One damn clever theory after another. Too bad this one is obvious nonsense. Maybe you didn’t hear me. WE HAVE A CONFESSION! Do I need to keep repeating that?”
In the hope that he might be able to better communicate his concerns face-to-face, Gurney ended the call and made his way out of his concealed position in the woods—which was starting to feel a bit ridiculous—and made his way over to Kline, whose exasperated expression offered zero encouragement.
“Look, Sheridan, I appreciate your position,” Gurney began, trying to sound as accommodating as possible. “I just think—”
He was interrupted by the deep growl of a finely tuned twelve-cylinder engine. It was Marv Gelter arriving in his classic red Ferrari.
The instant Kline saw Gelter he gave Gurney a dismissive wave of his hand and strode over to the Ferrari. When Gelter got out of the car, they engaged in a brief frowning discussion, Kline gesturing in an explanatory way toward the house. Then Gelter spotted Gurney and came over to him, leaving Kline staring after him.
His smile was as hard-edged as the scraping timbre of his voice. “Time flies, my friend. You owe me an answer. I hope it’s the right one.”
Gurney responded to the man’s intensity with a bland shrug. “The truth is, I’m afraid I’d make a lousy candidate and an even worse attorney general.”
“Hah! That’s exactly the kind of statement that’ll get you elected. The reluctant hero. No pretenses. Like a humble fucking astronaut. What a gift! And you don’t even know you have it. That’s the magic of it.”
Before Gurney could articulate a more definitive refusal, a large satellite-transmission media van pulled into the clearing, followed by a big Chevy SUV, both bearing the same promotional identification in red-white-and-blue lettering:
RAM-TV—ON THE SPOT
WHERE NEWS IS BREAKING!
As Stacey Kilbrick stepped out of the SUV, Kline hurried over to greet her.
“Circus time,” said Gelter. With a wink at Gurney he went over to join Kline and Kilbrick.
A restless breeze was beginning to stir. Gurney looked up and saw that a bank of clouds was slowly moving in from the west. The darkening sky lent a chilling visual effect to a situation that was making him increasingly uneasy. The fact that no one seemed to share his apprehension was only making it worse.
59
What went on for the next fifteen or twenty minutes looked to Gurney a lot more like the choreography of a media event than the securing of a site for a police operation.
As Kline, Gelter, and Kilbrick were conferring, one of her assistants was fussing with her hair, and a member of the TV crew was affixing a microphone to the collar of her blazer. Another crew member was working with the camera operator to pick a spot for her to stand that would show the house and the array of flower baskets in the background.
Meanwhile Mayor Shucker and Sheriff Cloutz had emerged from the Escalade and were standing next to it. Cloutz was rocking his white cane back and forth like a metronome. Shucker was eating a doughnut. Captain Beltz was leaning on the open door of his Explorer, smoking a cigarette with fierce inhalations.
Kilbrick took her place in front of the camera, adopted a highly energized and concerned expression, cleared her throat, gave the camera operator a nod, and began speaking.
“This i
s Stacey Kilbrick on location with a special edition of NewsBreakers. Due to a startling development in the White River multiple-murder case, we’re delaying until this evening the celebratory Mother’s Day interviews originally scheduled for this time slot. Instead, we’re bringing you—live and unedited—the final bizarre twist in this sensational case. We’ve just learned that fugitive police chief Dell Beckert, allegedly responsible for at least six of the seven recent White River homicides, is about to turn himself in to District Attorney Sheridan Kline—who’s here with me right now.”
Kline straightened his large jacket and, following a crew member’s silent direction, took a position on Kilbrick’s right.
She turned toward him. “I understand the hunt for Dell Beckert may be over.”
Kline produced a grim smile. “It looks that way. We’ve been closing in on him, and I guess he saw the writing on the wall.”
“Is it true that you’ve secured a confession?”
“Yes. A bare-bones confession. We have the essentials, and we expect he’ll be providing the details in the days to come.”
“When do you expect him to come out of the house and be taken into custody?”
“As soon as his wife arrives. His agreement to surrender peacefully and make a full confession came with the request that it occur in the presence of trustworthy witnesses. It’s quite an irony that this man who was willing to take the law into his own hands is now afraid that someone might do the same thing to him.”
As Kline was speaking, two more vehicles entered the clearing. They were stopped by Torres, who conferred briefly with each driver and then directed them to the end of the row of vehicles already present. Gurney recognized Haley Beauville Beckert’s imposing green Range Rover. The second car was a beige Camry. It had the look of a rental.
Cory Payne emerged from it, caught Gurney’s eye, and raised his hand in an urgent gesture. They made their way toward each other and met beside the RAM-TV van.
Payne looked agitated, running on nervous energy. “I got this weird message from my father. It sounds like he’s gone totally crazy.”
He showed Gurney the text on the screen of his iPhone, reading it aloud at the same time. “I’ve done what I’ve done for a greater good. Men of principle must act. I will surrender and explain everything on the top of Rapture Hill at 3:00 PM.”
Gurney found the message as disconcerting in its brevity as in its content. Before he could comment on it, Kline came striding over, demanding to know why Payne was there.
He showed him the text.
Kline read it twice and shook his head. His agitation level seemed to be rising by the minute. “Look, there’s obviously something going on with him. Mentally. Emotionally. Whatever. But that’s neither here nor there. The fact is he’s surrendering. That’s the part that matters. Let’s not get distracted. Cory, I’d advise you to stay back out of the way. In fact, that’s an order. I don’t want any surprises.” He took a deep breath and looked around the clearing. “The people Beckert requested have all arrived. In another few minutes we’ll be gathering them in front of the house. At that point he should present himself . . . and this goddamn nightmare will be over!”
He took another deep breath and headed over to the Range Rover to greet Beckert’s wife.
Kilbrick, meanwhile, was interviewing Dwayne Shucker in the area staked out by the TV crew about fifty feet from the house. Seeing Kline gesturing to her, Kilbrick concluded the interview and looked directly into the camera. “After these important announcements, we’ll be back with the event we’ve all been waiting for—the dramatic surrender of the White River killer.”
Kilbrick went to join Kline along with the three members of her crew. From their gestures and the way they were sizing up the large area in front of the house, Gurney concluded they were deciding on how the imminent appearance of Beckert, the positioning of the witnesses, and the actual movement of the man into Kline’s custody should be stage-managed for maximum clarity and dramatic impact. At one point he overheard the camera operator questioning how much screen space should be devoted to the floral display.
At the same time, Torres was talking to Beckert’s requested safe-passage committee—his wife, Haley; Sheriff Cloutz; Captain Beltz; Marv Gelter; and Mayor Shucker, fresh from his truncated interview with Kilbrick.
The four SWAT team members had come out of their unmarked van and were leaning against it with alert, impassive expressions. The sky was growing darker, and the petunia baskets were moving ever so slightly in the shifting breezes. The generator continued to hum in the background, nearly extinguishing that faint sound of a television voice.
There was something profoundly wrong about it all that had Gurney on edge.
The media aspect, of course, was surreal. But that was the least of it. The whole situation had a warped feeling about it—more like a bad dream than the culmination of a successful investigation.
Just then he overheard Kline telling Kilbrick and her crew that he was going to move his vehicle into a better position to receive Beckert when he was escorted from the front door of the house.
When Kline stepped away and headed for the Navigator, Gurney intercepted him. As disorganized as his thoughts were and as closed-minded as Kline had become, he felt compelled to share his concerns.
“Sheridan, we need to talk.”
Kline eyed him coldly. “What now?”
“Listen. Tell me what you hear.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Two sounds. The generator. And a television.”
Kline looked furious. But he listened, then nodded impatiently. “Okay, I hear something. A radio, television, something. What of it?”
“I’m certain it’s the sound of a television. And it’s obviously coming from the house.”
“Fine. What’s your point?”
“Doesn’t it seem odd to you that Beckert would be spending the last few minutes of his life as a free man watching television?”
“Maybe he’s watching the news, seeing what’s being said about him.”
“That can’t be very pleasant. He’s being excoriated. Publicly ripped to pieces. Portrayed as a serial murderer, a self-righteous maniac, a framer of innocent people, a complete law-and-order fraud. The image that meant everything to him is being flushed down the toilet. The world is being told that Dell Beckert is a despicable criminal nutcase, and that his life was a total lie. You think that’s what he wants to listen to?”
“Jesus Christ, Gurney. How should I know what he wants to listen to? Maybe it’s a form of self-hatred. Self-punishment. Who the hell knows. I’m about to take this man into custody. End of story.”
Kline brushed past Gurney and got into the Navigator. Easing it out of its position in the row of vehicles, he moved it to a spot where the camera could follow Beckert’s progress from the front door through the floral area and across fifty or sixty feet of lawn to the Navigator’s open rear door.
As he watched Kline making his preparations for his moment of televised law-enforcement glory, Gurney’s uneasiness increased, and the what-ifs multiplied in his mind.
What if all this, including Beckert’s confession, was some sort of elaborate ruse?
What if Kline’s view of the case and Gurney’s own view of it were both wrong?
What if Beckert wasn’t even in that house?
As his list of what-ifs grew longer, he eventually came to a particularly troubling one that an early mentor in the NYPD had drilled into him. He could picture the man’s hard Irish face and bright-blue eyes. He could hear the ironic challenge in his voice:
What if the perp intended you to discover everything you’ve discovered in order to lead you to where you are right now?
As Kline was making his way back to Kilbrick, Gurney stopped him again with a rising sense of urgency. “Sheridan, you need to reconsider the level of risk here. It may be higher than you think.”
“If you’re w
orried about your safety, feel free to leave.”
“I’m worried about the safety of everyone here.”
As they were speaking, Torres was ushering the chosen five witnesses toward the house. A concerned backward glance from Haley Beckert suggested she’d heard Gurney’s comment.
“Christ,” muttered Kline, “keep your voice down.”
“Keeping my voice down won’t diminish the risk.”
Kline bridled visibly. “I have a fully equipped SWAT team here. Plus Captain Beltz. Plus Detective Torres. I have my own sidearm. I presume you do as well. I think we’re in a position to handle any surprises.” He started to walk away.
Gurney called after him. “Has it occurred to you that Beckert’s main supporters are all here?”
Kline stopped and turned. “So what?”
“Suppose they’re not here for the reason you think they are. Suppose you’re dead wrong about the whole point of this.”
Kline took a step toward Gurney and lowered his voice. “I’m warning you—if you sabotage our arrangements, if you do anything that impedes Beckert’s surrender, I’ll personally prosecute you for obstruction of justice.”
“Sheridan, the confession makes no sense. The surrender makes no sense. Something god-awful is going on that we’re not seeing.”
“Damnit! One more word . . . one more syllable of this craziness . . . and I’ll have you removed.”
Gurney said nothing. He saw Haley Beckert watching him with an intensely curious frown. She detached herself from the group Torres had assembled in a semicircle around the entrance to the house and walked back across the lawn toward Gurney and Kline.
A second later, the world exploded.
60
It took Gurney a moment to grasp the nature of the event.
A deafening blast, a physical shock wave slamming the side of his body facing the house, the stinging impact of what felt like birdshot to the side of his face and neck, the air full of flying dirt and dust and the caustic odor of dynamite—all this at once—followed by a sharp ringing in his ears that made the cries around him sound far away.
