For the first time in the interview, Hardwick’s contempt for Bork began to seep into his expression. “How would I feel about it? Feeling has nothing to do with it. What I would know would be exactly the same as what I know now: that the legal process was rotten. Rotten from start to finish. And the people responsible know who they are.”
Bork looked up as if checking the time, then gazed into the camera. “Okay, my friends, you heard it here.” The half of the split screen devoted to him expanded to the full screen. Putting on the face of a brave witness to dire events, he invited his viewers to pay close attention to some important messages from his sponsors. He concluded, “Stay with us. We’ll be back in two minutes with news of a nasty new reproductive rights clash headed for a Supreme Court showdown. In the meantime, this is Brian Bork for Criminal Conflict, your nightly ringside seat at today’s most explosive legal battles.”
Gurney closed the video window, shut down the computer, and sat back in his chair.
“So what do you think of that?” Madeleine’s voice, close behind his chair, startled him.
He turned to face her. “I’m trying to figure it out.”
“Figure what out?”
“Why he appeared on that program.”
“You mean, apart from the fact that it offered him a big platform to take a free swing at his enemies—the folks who bounced him out of his job?”
“Yes, apart from that.”
“I guess, if all those accusations had a purpose beyond venting, it might be to attract maximum media attention—drag in as many investigative reporters as he can, get them all digging into the Spalter case and keeping it in the headlines as long as possible. You think that’s what it was all about?”
“Or he might want to provoke a lawsuit for slander, defamation, libel—a lawsuit he’s confident he could win. Or put the NYSP in a corner—knowing the individuals involved can’t sue him because he would win—and his real goal is to force the organization to toss Klemper to the wolves to cut their losses.”
Madeleine looked skeptical. “I wouldn’t have thought his motives would be that subtle. You’re sure it’s not just plain old anger looking for something to smash?”
Gurney shook his head. “Jack likes presenting himself as a blunt instrument. But there’s nothing blunt about the mind wielding the baseball bat.”
Madeleine still looked skeptical.
Gurney went on. “I’m not saying that he isn’t motivated by resentment. He is, clearly. He can’t stand the idea that he was forced out of a career he loved by people he despised. Now he despises them even more. He’s mad as hell, he wants revenge—that’s all true. I’m just saying that he isn’t stupid, and his tactics can be smarter than they appear to be.”
That comment produced a brief silence, broken by Madeleine. “By the way, you didn’t tell me about … that … final little horror.”
He looked at her quizzically.
She mimicked the look. “I think you know what I’m talking about.”
“Oh. The thing about the missing head? No … I didn’t tell you about that.”
“Why not?”
“It seemed … too grisly.”
“You were afraid I might find it upsetting?”
“Something like that.”
“Information management?”
“Pardon?”
“I remember an oily politician once explaining that he never engaged in deception; he merely managed the flow of information in an orderly manner to avoid confusing the public.”
Gurney was tempted to argue that this was a different situation altogether, that his motive was truly noble and caring, but she upset his balance with a surprising little wink, as if to let him off the hook—and immediately another temptation took its place.
Smart women tended to have an erotic effect on him, and Madeleine was a very smart woman indeed.
Chapter 43. Video Evidence
Every so often in his life as a detective, Gurney got the feeling that he was juggling hand grenades.
He knew he had no one to blame but himself for his current situation. From the beginning, it was evident that the mission was likely to be warped in unpredictable ways by Hardwick’s personal agenda. But he’d signed on anyway, driven by his own obsessive motives—motives that Madeleine had seen clearly enough, while he had chosen to insist he was only returning a favor owed. Having tricked himself into participating in a three-ring circus with no ringmaster, he was now experiencing the inevitable disarray built into that arrangement.
He tried telling himself that his unwillingness to walk away from it—now that the reversal of Kay’s conviction was all but certain and thus his ostensible duty to Hardwick was done—arose from a noble truth-seeking trait. But he couldn’t make himself believe it. He knew his addiction to his profession had roots deeper than anything noble.
He also tried telling himself that the discomfort he was feeling over Hardwick’s excoriation of Mick Klemper (not named but easily identified) on Criminal Conflict arose from another high-minded notion—that all agreements, even with conniving creeps, are sacred. He suspected, however, that his unease actually arose from his belated realization that he had promised Klemper more than he could deliver. The idea that he’d be able to cushion the man’s fall by characterizing his lapses as the products of foolish error rather than felonious intent now seemed like little more than a convenient fantasy.
He saw that he had unconsciously maneuvered himself once again into a dangerous and untenable position with no direction out—except forward. Madeleine was right. The pattern was undeniable. Clearly, there was something wrong with him. Simply understanding that, however, opened no new doors. The only path he could see was still straight ahead, hand grenades and all.
He woke up his computer and went to the video files from the Long Falls security cameras.
It took him almost an hour to find what he’d hoped would be there—an image of a rather diminutive individual coming along Axton Avenue toward the camera. As Gurney watched, he, or conceivably she, disappeared into the building entrance. Gender identification was stymied by a puffy winter jacket; a wide skier’s headband that covered ears, forehead, and hairline; oversized sunglasses; and a thick winter scarf that concealed not only the neck but much of the chin and jawline. What remained of the face to be seen—a sharp, slightly hooked nose and a smallish mouth—appeared consistent with the face of the Flowers by Florence delivery person Gurney had seen on the security video at Emmerling Oaks. In fact, the headband, sunglasses, and scarf appeared identical to those in the earlier video.
Gurney reversed the video, backing it up a minute or so, and replayed the individual’s progress along the street and entry into the building. Unlike the Emmerling Oaks video, there were no flowers. But there was a package. A narrow package, between three and four feet long, wrapped in red and green Christmas paper with a big decorative bow in the middle. Gurney smiled. It was probably the most innocent-looking way one could transport a sniper rifle on a city street in the holiday shopping season.
He made a note of the actual clock time embedded in the frame as the individual turned into the building. It was 10:03 a.m. Just seventeen minutes before the shot that felled Carl Spalter.
The same individual emerged onto the street at 10:22 a.m.—just two minutes after the shot was fired—turned and walked calmly away, continuing along Axton Avenue until passing out of the camera’s field of view.