“Shit!”
The mower’s gas tank was overflowing. She yanked the can away and dropped it on the ground. She appeared close to tears.
The situation touched him in a way that made it difficult for him to speak.
The strong odor of the fuel filled the still air.
“That overflowing-gas thing happens to me all the time,” he said awkwardly.
She said nothing.
“Can I mow the field for you?”
“What?”
“I spend a lot of time mowing at home. I enjoy it. It would be one less thing for you to have to do. I’d be happy to do it.”
She looked at him, blinking as if to clear her vision. “That’s kind of you. But I have to do these things myself.”
A silence fell between them.
He asked, “Have John’s friends from the department been coming by to see you?”
“Some people came. I told them to go away.”
“You didn’t want them here?”
“I can’t bear to even look at them until I know what happened.”
“You don’t trust anyone in the department?”
“No. Only Rick Loomis.”
“He’s different from the others?”
“Rick and John were friends. Allies.”
“Allies suggests they had enemies.”
“Yes. They had enemies.”
“Do you know the names of their enemies?”
“I wish to God I did. But John didn’t believe in bringing the ugly details of his work home. I’m sure he thought he was making my life easier by keeping things to himself.”
“Do you know if Rick Loomis shared your husband’s suspicions about things that were going on in the department?”
“I think so.”
“Was he helping him look into old cases?”
“They were working on something together. I know I sound hopelessly vague.” She sighed, picked up the gas tank cap, and screwed it back on. “If you’d like to come in for a while, I could make some coffee.”
“I’d like that. And I’d like to hear more about your husband—anything you want to tell me. I’d like to understand who he was.” As soon as he said it, he could see in her eyes the impact of that past tense verb, was. He wished he’d found another way of saying it.
She nodded, wiped her hands on her jeans, and led the way across the field to the house.
The back door opened into a narrow hallway that led to an eat-in kitchen. There was a broken dish on the floor by the sink. The khaki jacket she’d worn on her first trip to Gurney’s house was lying across the seat of a chair. The table was covered with a disordered pile of papers. She looked around in dismay. “I didn’t realize . . . what a mess. Let me just . . .” Her voice trailed off.
She gathered the papers together and took them into the next room. She returned, got the jacket, and took that away. She seemed not to notice the broken dish. She gestured toward one of the chairs at the table, and Gurney sat down. Distractedly, she went through the steps of setting up the coffee machine.
While the coffee was brewing, she stood gazing out the window. When it was ready, she poured a mug and brought it to the table.
She sat down across from him and smiled in a way that he found almost unbearably sad. “What do you want to know about John?” she asked.
“What was important to him. His ambitions. How he ended up in the WRPD. When he started getting uncomfortable with it. Any hints of trouble, prior to the text message, that could relate to what happened.”
She gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Interesting questions.”
“In what way?”
“They have nothing to do with the WRPD theory that the attack was a political act by black radicals.”
He smiled at her perceptiveness. “The WRPD theory is being pursued by WRPD people. There’s no point my heading down the same avenue.”
“You mean the same dead end?”
“Too soon to say.” He sipped his coffee. “Tell me about John.”
“He was the nicest, smartest man in the world. We met in college. Ithaca. John was a psych major. Very serious. Very handsome. We got married right after graduation. He’d already taken the state police exam, and a few months later he was inducted. I was pregnant by then. Everything seemed to be going well. He graduated from the academy at the top of his class. Life was perfect. Then, a month after our baby was born, there was an automobile accident. She didn’t survive.” Kim fell silent, biting her lower lip and looking away toward the window. A few moments later she took a deep breath, sat up straight in her chair, and continued.
“He spent the next three years as a state trooper. He got a master’s degree in criminology in his spare time. It was around that time that Dell Beckert was hired to clean up the White River Police Department. He made a big impression—forcing a lot of people out on corruption charges, bringing in fresh faces.”
She paused. When she went on, something rueful, maybe even bitter, entered her voice. “The image Beckert projected—sweeping out the dirt, purifying the place—I think that struck a chord with John. So he moved from the NYSP to the supposedly wonderful new WRPD.”
“When did he realize it might not be as perfect as he’d imagined?”
“It was a gradual thing. His attitude toward the job changed. I remember it getting darker a year ago with the Laxton Jones shooting. After that . . . there was a kind of tension in him that wasn’t there before.”
“How about recently?”
“It was getting worse.”
Gurney took another sip of his coffee. “You said he’d gotten degrees in psychology and criminology?”
She nodded, almost smiled. “Yes. He loved his work and loved learning anything connected with it. In fact, he just started taking some law courses.”
Gurney hesitated. “He was a basic patrol officer, right?”
There was a combative flash in her eyes. “You mean just a basic patrol officer? You’re asking why he wasn’t chasing promotions?”
He shrugged. “Most cops I’ve known who’ve pursued advanced degrees—”
She cut him off. “Pursued them because of career ambitions? The truth is, John has . . . had . . . enormous ambition. But not for promotions. He wanted to be out on the street. That’s what he signed up for. The degrees, all the reading he did, it was to be as good at the job as he could be. His ambition was to lead an honest, useful, positive life. That’s all he ever . . .”
She lowered her head slowly and began to sob.
Several minutes later, after that wave of grief had run its course, she sat back in her chair and wiped her eyes. “Do you have any more questions?”
“Do you know if he ever received threats or hints of trouble other than the text message?”
She shook her head.
“If something should come to mind—”
“I’ll call you. I promise.”
“Okay. One last thing. Do you think Rick Loomis would talk to me?”
“I’m sure he’ll talk to you. But if you’re asking how open he’ll be about what he and John were working on, that I don’t know.”
“Would you be willing to call him, tell him who I am and that I’d appreciate sitting down with him?”
She cocked her head curiously. “You want me to tell him that he should trust you?”
“Just tell him whatever you’re comfortable telling him. It’s entirely up to you.”
Her eyes met his, and for a moment he had the same feeling he had on the occasions when Madeleine’s gaze seemed to be looking into his soul.
“Yes,” she said. “I can do that.”
19
Toward the end of Gurney’s visit with Kim Steele, the vibrating mode on his phone had made him aware of receiving a call, but he’d let it go rather than interrupt the emotional flow of their conversation.