He turned his attention to the manila envelope, pulled out the case file, and spread out its contents on the den desk. He saw the standard items—the incident report, witness statements, site photos and sketches, early progress reports, various updates and addenda—none of which at first glance were especially helpful or surprising. There was also a DVD. It was labeled RAM-CAM VIDEO, WILLARD PARK, STEELE HOMICIDE. He pushed aside the other items and inserted it in his laptop’s external drive.
The video was as he remembered it from the big-screen TV at the Gelters’ party and again at the first CSMT meeting. Presumably excerpted from a longer recording, the segment began about three minutes prior to the shot and continued for about two minutes after it. During this viewing, Gurney timed the appearance of the red laser dot on the back of Steele’s head, confirming his initial estimate that it preceded the fatal shot by just over two minutes. The precision with which the dot followed Steele’s movements confirmed his impression that the rifle that fired the shot was mounted on a tripod, possibly one with a motion-dampening mechanism of the kind used in filmmaking.
He watched the video three times. On the third viewing he noted an oddity that hadn’t struck him before. When Steele was shot he was moving to a new position on the sidewalk. But for nearly twenty seconds leading up to that he’d been standing still. Why had the shooter bypassed that easy opportunity in favor of a riskier moving target?
He continued going through the file until he came to a computer printout labeled “Potential Shooter Sites Defined by Bullet Trajectory Parameters.” The printout displayed a narrow, triangular outline overlaid on a map of White River. The tip of the triangle touched the spot at the edge of the park where Steele was shot. The outline extended out from that point approximately a quarter of a mile across the center of the city—enclosing the likely area from which the shot had come, based on the calculated trajectory.
Although there was no indication in the file what was being done with this diagram, it was obvious to Gurney that the next step would be to narrow the possibilities by going to the spot where Steele was standing at the moment of impact and with binoculars survey the area contained within the triangle to find the clear lines of sight to windows, rooftops, and open areas not obscured by other structures. Since the target had to be visible to the sniper, the sniper’s location would have to be visible from the target’s location. Taking this simple step would dramatically limit the areas that needed to be searched.
He was tempted to call Mark Torres and make sure this was happening. But something told him not to interfere. The sniper’s location would soon be identified and turned over to the crime-scene team with their cameras, vacuums, evidence bags, and fingerprint kits. In the interim there was plenty for him to do that didn’t involve stepping on other people’s toes.
Another face-to-face conversation with Kim Steele, for example, might be a more productive use of his time. During her visit earlier that day Kim had given Madeleine her address, email, and phone number.
He picked up his phone and entered Kim’s number.
“Yes?” Her voice was leaden.
“Kim, this is Dave Gurney.”
“Yes?”
“I have a meeting in White River tomorrow. I was wondering if I could stop by on my way and talk to you.”
“Tomorrow?”
“It would be sometime in the morning. Is that all right?”
“It’s all right. I’m here.”
He wondered whether her monotone responses were coming from the exhaustion of grief or an emotion-deadening medication. “Thank you, Kim. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
That night, for the first time in more than a year, he had the dream—a dreadful, disjointed replaying of the accident, long ago, that killed his four-year-old son.
On their way to the playground on a sunny day.
Danny walking in front of him.
Following a pigeon on the sidewalk.
He himself only partly present.
Pondering a twist in a murder case he was working on.
Distracted by a bright idea, a possible solution.
The pigeon stepping off the curb into the street.
Danny following the pigeon.
The sickening, heart-stopping thump.
Danny’s body tossed through the air, hitting the pavement, rolling.
Rolling.
The red BMW racing away.
Screeching around a corner.
Gone.
Gurney awoke in an agony of grief. In the gray light of dawn. Madeleine holding his hand. She knew about the dream. He’d been having it, on and off, for nearly twenty years.
When the lingering images had subsided and the worst of the feeling had passed, he got up, took a shower, and dressed.
At 7:00 AM Kline’s man arrived as promised, accepted Steele’s cell phone, and departed with hardly a word.
At 7:45 AM Geraldine Mirkle arrived to pick up Madeleine for one of their same-schedule days at the clinic.
At 8:30 AM Gurney left for his meeting with Kim Steele.
His GPS directed him off the interstate at the Larvaton-Badminton exit onto Fishers Road heading north toward Angina. A few miles later it directed him onto Dry Brook Lane, a gravelly road that rose in a series of S curves through an old hardwood forest. At a driveway marked by a brightly painted mailbox, his GPS announced he had reached his destination. The driveway brought him into a clearing, at the center of which stood a small farmhouse surrounded by flower beds and lush spring grass. A red barn with a metal roof stood at the edge of the clearing. Kim Steele’s small white car was parked by the house, and he parked next to it.
He knocked on the side door and waited. He knocked again. After a third attempt he went around to the back door, with the same result. While he was puzzling over the situation, he looked out over the back field toward the barn and noticed a riding mower next to the barn door.
As he headed across the field, Kim Steele emerged from the barn toting a large red gas can. She carried it to the mower and was in the process of opening the gas tank when she saw him. She watched him approaching, then returned to her task, hefting the can into position and wrestling its stiff spout into the tank opening. She spoke without looking up.
“Things have to get done.”
“Can I help?”
She seemed not to hear him. Appearing marginally more organized than the last time he’d seen her, she was wearing the same shirt, but the buttons were now aligned. Her hair seemed neater, shinier.
“They called him in on his day off,” she said, trying to balance the big can over the tank. “He wanted to mow this field. He said it was important to mow it at least once a week. Or the grass would clog the mower. Once it gets clogged . . .”
“Let me help you with that.” He reached for the can.
“No! This is my job.”
“Okay.” He paused. “You were saying they called him in?”
She nodded.
“Because of the demonstration?”
“They were calling everyone in.”
“Did he say who in the department called him?”
She shook her head.
“Do you remember if there were any other calls for him that day?”
“The day he was killed?” It wasn’t a question so much as a burst of anger.
He paused again. “I know it’s horrible to think about this—”
She cut him off. “It’s all I think about. There’s nothing else I can think about. So ask whatever you want.”
He nodded. “I’m just wondering if John got any other calls that day, other than the message you found on his phone.”