“And you’re thinking whoever left it there might be a witness?” asked Kline.
“It’s a possibility, sir. We rushed it to Albany. We might get a hit on CODIS and get an ID. It’s a long shot, but . . .”
Beckert nodded. “Anything more to show us?”
“Some satellite views of the area to identify possible site entry and exit routes. Judging from the leaves partly off the trees, the photos were probably taken last autumn.”
Centered on the jungle gym, the first photo encompassed the immediate area of the crime scene—the kayak rental building, the reedy shore of the lake, some of the surrounding trees. Torres pointed out the locations of the tire tracks.
The next two photos showed more of the park and more of the wooded areas. The final shot showed the entire park, bordered on three sides by city streets and on the fourth by an extensive wilderness area into which some of the park’s trails extended.
A couple of miles into that wilderness area another lake was visible. Along its shore were a number of small clearings. Torres explained that the White River Gun Club owned the lake and the land around it, and in the clearings there were cabins owned by club members. “Mostly White River cops, as far as I know,” he added. He glanced at Beckert and Turlock as if for confirmation, but neither man responded.
“The dog walker who discovered the bodies,” said Kline, “where did he come from?”
Torres got up, went over to the screen, and traced the route as he was describing it. “He came into the park through the entrance on the east side, crossed the main field, passed the statue of Colonel Willard, and headed down toward the lake. Because of the fog this morning, he got within about fifty feet of the bodies before he realized what he was looking at. Was still a nervous wreck when we arrived.”
Beckert pointed at the screen. “That large field he crossed, the one taking up the northeast quadrant of the park—that’s where the BDA demonstration was held and where our officer was shot. I don’t think it’s just a coincidence that Jordan and Tooker were executed in that same park. Clearly a symbolic action. Which reinforces the importance of our maintaining control of the narrative. It’s vital that any new piece of evidence, information, rumor—anything at all with any bearing on any of the three killings—be reported at once to Judd or to me directly.”
Evidently satisfied that silence meant agreement, Beckert moved on. “Given the pressures of dealing with two explosive crimes—and the need to make rapid progress on both fronts at once—I’m dividing the investigative duties. Detective Torres, your primary responsibility will be the Steele sniper shooting. With our first two suspects out of the picture, your focus will be identifying and locating the third man—the actual shooter.”
Gurney was struck by the insinuation in Beckert’s choice of words—how the third man being the “actual” shooter subtly maintained, in some non-trigger-pulling capacity, the involvement of Jordan and Tooker.
Beckert went on, “Because of its complex public relations dimensions, I’ll assume personal responsibility for the investigation into these playground homicides. The case file, incident report, site sketches, and photos should be turned over to me as soon as we’re finished here. Including the memory chips from Paul Aziz’s cameras. Understood?”
Torres looked puzzled by the shift in responsibility. “Yes, sir.”
“Then that’s all for now. Except for one thing.” He looked at Gurney. “The phone. Is Steele’s wife going to hand it over voluntarily or not?”
“We’ll see. I left a message for her.”
“She has until tomorrow morning. Either she hands it over by then, or we visit her with a warrant and take it. Questions, anyone? No? Good. We’ll meet here tomorrow the same time.”
He placed his hands on the table, pushed back his chair, and stood up decisively—the very image of determination. Behind him, the picture window displayed its panorama of stone buildings with spirals of razor wire gleaming in the afternoon sun.
17
When Gurney came out into the police headquarters parking lot and headed for his Outback, he saw Kline standing next to it, taking a deep drag on a cigarette. He exhaled slowly, the hand holding the cigarette moving in a wide arc down to his side.
Déjà vu—a disturbing decades-old image of Gurney’s mother. Her bursts of nervous chain-smoking. The desperate pursuit of peace revealing a terrible anxiety.
When Kline saw Gurney approaching, he took a final drag, threw the butt to the ground, and stepped on it as if it were a wasp that had just stung him.
There was a briefcase at his feet. He reached down and pulled a large manila envelope out of it. “Everything you asked for yesterday. Full copy of the Steele case file. Incident and interview reports, crime-scene photos and sketches, ballistics report. Plus Jordan’s and Tooker’s past arrests and your temporary credentials—special senior investigator, office of the district attorney.” He handed the envelope to Gurney.
“Anything on the so-called third man?”
“If there’s anything on that, Beckert’s keeping it to himself.”
“Like the identities of his informants?”
“Right.” He took out another cigarette, hurriedly lit it, and took a particularly long drag before continuing. “So . . . what are your observations so far?”
“You look like an extremely worried man.”
Kline said nothing.
That in itself said something.
Gurney decided to push further. “The obvious interpretation of the message on Steele’s phone is that someone in the department might take advantage of the chaos in the streets to get rid of him. If that someone turned out to be Turlock, or even Beckert—”
“Jesus!” Kline raised his hand. “You have any evidence for what you’re saying?”
“None. But I don’t have any evidence that points to a third man from the BDA either.”
“What about these two new homicides? You have any thoughts?”
“Only that they may not be what they seem to be.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Thrasher’s comments about the damage to the bodies.”
Kline was looking increasingly miserable. “If they aren’t what they seem to be, what the hell are they?”
“I need time to think about that.”
“While you’re thinking about Steele?”
“I guess.”
“So which case is your priority?”
“The Steele shooting.”
“Why?”
“Because it came first, and something in it may explain the odd aspects of the other.”
Kline frowned, evidently trying to digest this. Then he pointed to the manila envelope in Gurney’s hand. “Let me know if anything in the case file pops out at you. You have my personal cell number. Call me anytime. Day or night.”
Away from the depressing environs of White River, the countryside had a bucolic timelessness, displaying the glories of early May. Black Angus cows dotted the hillsides. Apple trees were in blossom. The black earth of freshly tilled cornfields alternated with fields of emerald grass and buttercups. Only dimly aware of the beauty around him, Gurney spent the drive home pondering the strange facts of both cases. Despite his decision to focus on the sniper attack, he found it difficult to keep Thrasher’s comments about the beatings and brandings from intruding into his thoughts.
As he arrived at the narrow road that led to his hilltop property, his attention switched to a more pressing issue. Having told Madeleine that he’d sleep on the question of whether to continue his involvement with Kline, he felt the need to make a decision. On the one hand, there was the growing challenge of the situation itself and the accelerating pressure to avert an escalation of violence. Daunting as that sounded, it was the kind of challenge he was built for. On the other hand, there was his discomfort with the district attorney himself.