by John Verdon
He found it surprisingly difficult. His mind was unsettled, moving from one unresolved issue to another. The unreachability of Lex Bincher. The similar unreachability of the three key witnesses. The shots in the night eliminating Hardwick’s lights and phone. The grotesque mutilation of Fat Gus—a warning that the killer’s secret must be kept. But what secret? Was it his or her identity? Or something else?
And, of course, there was the central conundrum of the case from the beginning, the puzzle piece that Gurney felt would eventually make sense of all the others—the contradictory site of the shooting. On the one hand, there was the apartment with the silenced, tripod-fitted rifle and the fresh gunpowder residue with a chemical profile that linked it to a .220 Swift cartridge and the bullet fragments extracted from Carl Spalter’s brain. On the other hand, there was the light pole that made the shot impossible.
It was possible that the killer used a different apartment in that building to make the shot and then transferred the weapon to the apartment where it was found, firing a second shot from that location to produce the powder residue. But that scenario was simpler in the saying than it would have been in the doing. It also involved a much-elevated risk of detection, requiring the shooter to carry the cumbersome combination of rifle, tripod, and suppressor through the public spaces of the building. And why bother? There were, after all, several unoccupied apartments from which the shot could have been fired successfully. So why move the weapon at all? Surely not to create an intellectual puzzle. Murderers are rarely that playful. And professional hitters never are.
That thought brought him full circle to the more immediate matter of Klemper. Was Mick the Dick the thuggish, horny clown that his nickname and general manner seemed to suggest? Or might the man be a darker, colder operator altogether?
Gurney hoped their meeting in the mall would provide some answers.
He needed to focus now on the broadest range of possibilities, think them through—angles, objectives. He straightened the yellow pad on his desk and picked up his pen. He tried to force his thoughts into a logical structure by drawing a branching diagram, beginning with four possibilities.
One posited Alyssa as the prime mover behind Carl’s murder and Kay’s conviction.
The second substituted Jonah Spalter for Alyssa.
The third posited an Unknown as Carl’s murderer, with Alyssa and Klemper as opportunistic conspirators in Kay’s conviction.
The fourth posited Kay as guilty.
He added a second level of branching possibilities under each of these.
“Hello?”
Gurney blinked.
“Hello?” It was Madeleine’s voice calling from the opposite side of the house. From the mudroom, it sounded like.
Bringing his pad and pen with him, he went out to the kitchen. “I’m here.”
She was just coming in from the side-door hallway, carrying two plastic supermarket bags. “I left the trunk open. Maybe you could bring in the cracked corn?”
“The what?”
“I read that chickens love cracked corn.”
He sighed, then tried to regard this in the positive light of a momentary diversion from his darker duties. “Bring it in and put it where?”
“The mudroom would be fine.”
He went out to Madeleine’s car, hefted the fifty-pound bag out of the trunk, struggled for a few seconds with the side door of the house, came in, and dropped the bag in the nearest corner of the mudroom—the positive light fading quickly to a weak flicker.
“You bought a lifetime supply?” he asked when he returned to the kitchen.
“It’s the only size they had. Sorry about that. Are you okay?”
“Fine. I guess I’m a little preoccupied—getting ready to go and meet with someone.”
“Oh—that reminds me—before I forget …” Her tone was pleasantly even. “You have an appointment tomorrow morning with Malcolm.”
“Malcolm Claret?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I called him before I left the clinic. He said he’d just gotten a cancellation and had an opening tomorrow at eleven.”
“No … What I don’t understand is why.”
“Because I’m afraid for you. We’ve discussed that.”
“No, I mean why you made the appointment for me.”
“Because you hadn’t made it yet, and it’s important.”
“So … you just … decided it was up to you?”
“It had to be up to somebody.”
He turned his palms up in a pose of bewilderment. “I don’t quite get that.”
“What is there to get?”
“I wouldn’t make an appointment for you—not unless you asked me to.”
“Even if you thought it might save my life?”
He hesitated. “Don’t you think that’s a little dramatic?”
She met his gaze and answered softly. “No, I don’t.”
His voice was suddenly filled with exasperation. “You honestly believe an appointment with Malcolm Claret is going to save my life?”
Just as suddenly, her voice was filled with a weary sadness. “If you really don’t want to see him, just cancel the appointment.”
If she’d said that in any other tone, he could imagine himself launching into a grand debate over whose responsibility it was to cancel an appointment she had made, and then he might even segue to the lumber pile she’d ordered for the chicken-house project and how she had a way of starting things that he had to finish and how things always had to happen on her schedule.
But the emotion in her eyes short-circuited all of that.
Besides, it was beginning to dawn on him, strangely, that there might not be any harm in seeing Claret after all.
He was saved from going on with the discussion, however, by the ringing of the phone in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the ID. “Kyle Gurney” was displayed for a second before the signal was lost. He was tempted to call him back, but figured his son was likely on the move somewhere, passing through a dead spot, and it would make more sense to wait a while.
He checked the clock. It was later than he’d guessed—4:44 p.m.
It was time to leave for the mall. For the crucial meeting for which he hadn’t yet managed to prepare.
Chapter 34
A Gentlemen’s Agreement
The parking lot at Riverside was, as usual, half empty.
In the mostly deserted expanse beside the T.J. Maxx that anchored one end of the mall, an incongruous flock of seagulls stood silently on the tarmac.
Entering the lot, Gurney slowed for a better look. He estimated the number of birds at fifty or sixty. From his perspective in the car, they appeared motionless, all standing in the same orientation, their backs to the setting sun.
As he drove past them to a parking spot closer to the main concourse, he couldn’t help wondering about this increasingly commonplace migration of seagulls to inland malls—drawn, no doubt, by the droppings of fast-food gobblers. Were these transposed birds developing clogged arteries like their benefactors, making them sedentary, infrequent fliers? Food for thought. But not now. The urgency of his mission returned him to reality. He locked his car and walked through the entrance arch, an oddly festive structure with the words RIVERSIDE CENTER curving over the top in colored lights.
The mall was not a large one. There was one main concourse, with minor offshoots. The bright promise of the entry gave way to a rather bleak interior, which appeared to have been designed decades earlier with little refreshment since. Halfway along one side of the concourse, he sat on a bench in front of an Alpine Sports shop with a window display devoted to shiny, body-clinging cycling attire. A salesperson was lounging in the doorway, frowning at the screen of her cell phone.
He checked his watch. It was 5:33.
He waited.
Klemper appeared at 5:45.
The world of law enforcement, like prison, changes the people wh
o spend time in it. It does this by nourishing certain traits: skepticism, calculation, insularity, toughness. Those traits may develop along lines that are benign or malignant, depending on the character of the individual—on the fundamental orientation of his soul. One cop might end up street-smart, loyal to his fellows, and courageous—determined to do a good job in difficult circumstances. Another might end up poisonously cynical, judgmental, and cruel—determined to screw the world that was screwing him. Gurney figured that the look in Mick Klemper’s eyes as he approached the bench put him squarely in the second category.
He sat at the far end of the bench, several feet from Gurney. He said nothing, just opened a small attaché case on his lap, angling the top to obstruct any view of the contents, and began fiddling with something.
Gurney assumed it was a scanner, probably the multi-function type that could indicate the presence of any transmitting or recording device.
After a minute or so, Klemper closed the case. He did a quick three-sixty visual check of the concourse, then spoke in a rough voice, half through his teeth, his gaze fixed on the floor. “So what the hell kind of game is this?” The man’s truculence seemed a shield for raw nerves, and his massive physique nothing more than excess baggage, a burden responsible for the sheen of sweat on his face. But it would be a mistake to go the extra yard and consider him harmless.
“You can do something for me, and I can do something for you,” said Gurney.
Klemper looked up from the floor with a little snort of a laugh, as if recognizing an interrogation trick.
The young woman in the doorway of Alpine Sports was still frowning at her phone.
“How’s Alyssa?” asked Gurney casually—knowing he was taking a chance playing that card so quickly.
Klemper shot him a sideways glance. “What?”
“The suspect you got tangled up with in a way you shouldn’t have.” He paused. “You still friends?”
“What kind of bullshit is this?” The man’s raw tone told him he’d hit a nerve.
“For you, very expensive bullshit.”
Klemper shook his head, as if trying to convey incomprehension.
Gurney went on. “It’s amazing what ends up getting recorded these days. Can be very embarrassing. But sometimes you get lucky and there’s a way to control the damage. That’s what I want to talk to you about—damage control.”
“I don’t get any of this.” His denial was loud and clear, seemingly for the benefit of a recording device his briefcase scanner might have missed.
“I just wanted to bring you up-to-date on the Kay Spalter appeal.” Gurney was speaking in a flat, matter-of-fact tone. “First, we have enough evidence of … let’s call them flaws … in the original investigation to guarantee a reversal of her conviction. Second, we’re now at a fork in the road, meaning we have a choice in how those flaws are presented to the appellate court. For example, the trial witness who ID’d Kay as a person present at the shooting site could have been coerced into perjury … or he could have been innocently mistaken, as eyewitnesses often are. The con who claimed at the trial that Kay tried to hire him as a hit man could have been coerced … or he could have made up that story on his own, as men in his position often do. Kay’s lover could have been told that the only way to avoid being the prime suspect was to make sure Kay ended up in that position … or he could have arrived at that conclusion on his own. The CIO on the case could have concealed key video evidence and ignored other avenues of inquiry because of an improper relationship with the victim’s daughter … or he could simply have zeroed in on the wrong suspect too soon, as detectives often do.”
Klemper was again staring grimly at the floor. “This is all hypothetical nonsense.”
“The thing of it is, Mick, every flaw in the investigation could be described in either criminal or innocent terms—so long as no definitive proof of that improper relationship falls into the wrong hands.”
“Hypothetical bullshit.”
“Okay. Hypothetically, let’s say I have the definitive proof of that improper relationship—in a very persuasive digital form. And let’s say I wanted something in return for keeping it to myself?”
“Why ask me?”
“Because it’s your career, your pension, your freedom that are on the line.”
“What the fuck are you saying?”
“I want the security video from the electronics store on Axton Avenue.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“If I were to receive that missing video from some anonymous sender, I would be willing to exclude a certain career-ending piece of evidence from the appeal process. I would also be willing to delay indefinitely my plan to provide that same item to the NYSP inspector general. That’s the hypothetical deal. A simple gentlemen’s agreement, based on mutual trust.”
Klemper laughed, or maybe he just grunted and shuddered involuntarily. “This is crazy crap. You sound like some fucking psycho.” He looked over in Gurney’s direction but made no eye contact. “Fantasy bullshit. All fantasy bullshit.” He stood up abruptly, unsteadily, and headed for the nearest exit.
He left in his wake an acrid odor of alcohol and sweat.
Chapter 35
A Mysterious Way
Gurney’s drive home was a journey into anxiety. He attributed it to the emotional free fall that often followed an intense encounter.
As he headed up the final stretch of road toward his barn, however, it struck him that there might be another cause: the ricketiness of his assumptions, not only about Klemper but also about the case as a whole. If Klemper’s failing had been wishful thinking about Kay’s guilt, might not his own failing be wishful thinking about her innocence? Might he and Klemper be equally blind to some more complex scenario that involved Kay in way that hadn’t occurred to either of them?
And what was the significance of Klemper’s drinking? Had he been drinking earlier in the day on the job? Or had he picked up a bottle for a few quick belts in the car on his way to Riverside? Either possibility suggested terrible judgment, great strain, or a serious drinking problem. Any of those issues had the potential to make the man an unpredictable, even explosive piece of the puzzle.
The first thing he noticed after rounding the barn was that Madeleine’s car was gone from its normal spot by the house, which jogged a half-formed memory that this was the evening for one of her board meetings, although he wasn’t sure which one.
Entering the kitchen, he found her absence momentarily comforting—relieving him of the need to immediately decide how much or how little to reveal about his Klemper meeting. It also meant he’d have some undisturbed time to himself to sort the jumbled pieces of a long day into some kind of order.
He was heading into the den for the organizing assistance of a pad and pen when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the ID. It was Kyle.
“Hey, Dad. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Nothing that can’t wait. What’s up?”
“I made some calls, asking around about Jonah Spalter and/or the Cyberspace Cathedral. None of my own contacts knew anything, one thought maybe the name was familiar, thought something might be happening with it, but didn’t know anything specific. I was going to send you an e-mail saying, ‘Sorry, no grapes on the vine.’ But then one of the guys called me back. Told me he’d checked around and discovered a friend of his had handled a venture capital search for Jonah Spalter, the venture being a huge expansion of Spalter’s Cathedral.”
“What kind of expansion?”
“He didn’t get into that beyond the fact that it was going to cost plenty.”
“Interesting.”
“The really interesting part is that Spalter ended the capital search the day after his brother died. Called up the guy who’d been working on it, took him to lunch, cut off the whole process—”
Gurney broke in. “That doesn’t surprise me. I mean, the way that corporation was set up by their f
ather, Carl’s share of Spalter Realty would go directly to Jonah—entirely separate from the rest of his assets, which were covered by his will. So Jonah would have come into some big real estate holdings that he’d be free to sell or mortgage. So he wouldn’t need to raise venture capital to finance whatever expansion he had in mind.”
“You didn’t let me get to the really interesting part.”
“Oh? Sorry. Tell me.”
“Jonah Spalter showed up for lunch half drunk, then got really drunk. And he quoted that saying ‘God works in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform.’ And according to this guy, Spalter kept saying it and laughing, like he found it really funny. Kind of weirded the guy out.”
Gurney was silent for a while, imagining the scene. “You said the Cathedral expansion was going to cost plenty. Any idea how much?”
“The capital search had to be for at least fifty million. The guy Jonah was dealing with wouldn’t touch any deal for an amount less than that.”
“Meaning,” said Gurney, mostly to himself, “that the assets of Spalter Realty must be worth at least that much, if Jonah was willing to cancel the search.”
“So what are you thinking, Dad?” said Kyle conspiratorially. “That fifty million could be a pretty compelling motive for murder?”
“More compelling than most. Did your contact have anything else to say about Spalter?”
“Just that he was super smart, super ambitious—but that’s nothing special, just the nature of the beast.”
“Okay, thanks. That was very helpful.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. More I know, the better my brain works. And there’s no other way I could have come upon that revealing little anecdote. So thank you again.”
“Glad I could help. By the way, you planning to go to the Summer Mountain Fair?”
“Me? No. But Madeleine will be there. She’s helping some friends of hers who have a farm over in Buck Ridge. They bring their alpacas to the fair every year and enter them in … I don’t know … alpaca events, I guess.”
“You don’t sound too revved up about it.”
