It was a game Gurney didn’t enjoy playing. He decided to end it. “They tell us what ‘KRS’ stands for.”
There was a baffled silence around the table. “I see it now,” said Torres finally. He turned to Cloutz. “In the lyrics they call themselves the ‘knights of the rising sun.’ The main initials of that would be ‘KRS.’ ”
“You boys gettin’ all excited over a coincidence of three letters?”
Beckert shook his head. “It’s not just that. The whole website incriminates them. Anarchist insanity. Terroristic threats. Glorification of vigilantism. Plus the final clincher. On a page titled ‘Battle News’ there’s a description of the situation here in White River. That plus ‘KRS’ being branded on the feet of Jordan and Tooker has to be more than a coincidence.”
Kline looked alarmed. “You think these people are here in White River? Do we have any idea who they are?”
“We have a good idea who two of them may be.”
“God Almighty,” cried Cloutz, “don’t tell me it’s the two I’m thinkin’ it is!”
Beckert said nothing.
“Am I right?” asked Cloutz. “Are we talkin’ about the goddamn twins?”
“Judd is looking into that right now.”
“By payin’ them a visit?”
“You could put it that way.”
“God Almighty!” Cloutz repeated with the unseemly excitement of a man anticipating a spectacular calamity. “I hope Judd realizes them boys are stone-cold crazy.”
“He knows who he’s dealing with,” said Beckert calmly.
Kline looked from Beckert to Cloutz and back again. “Who the hell are the twins?”
Cloutz emitted a nasty little laugh. “Fire, brimstone, explosions, every kinda insane shit you can imagine. You got anything you want to add to that, Dell, to flesh out the picture for Sheridan here? I know them boys have a special place in your head.”
“The Gort twins look like cartoons of mountain men. But there’s nothing funny about them.” There was acid in Beckert’s voice. “Gorts, Haddocks, and Flemms have been inbreeding and raising havoc in this part of the state for two hundred years. The extended clan is huge. Hundreds of people in this county are connected to it in one way or another. Some are successful, normal people. Some are well-armed survivalists. A few are moonshiners, or meth manufacturers. The worst of them all are the twins. Vicious racists, probable extortionists, possible murderers.”
“What am I missing here?” said Kline to Beckert. “I’m the county prosecutor. Why haven’t these people been brought to my attention before?”
“Because this is the first time we’ve been in a position to have a real chance of putting them away.”
“The first time? After what you and Goodson just said about them?”
This was the closest Gurney had seen Kline come to challenging Beckert about anything.
“Theoretically, we could have arrested them a number of times. The arrests would have been followed by dismissals or weak prosecutions and no convictions.”
“Weak? What do you mean by—”
“I mean people who make accusations against the Gorts invariably retract them or disappear. At best, you’d have a case that would be dismissed immediately or fall apart halfway through. Maybe you’re thinking that we could have put more pressure on them . . . brought them in every week for questioning . . . provoked them into hotheaded, ill-advised reactions. That might be a workable approach with someone other than the Gorts. But there’s an aspect to this I haven’t mentioned. In the polarized world of White River, the Gorts’ racial opinions have made them folk heroes to a large part of the white population. And, of course, there’s the religious angle. The twins are joint pastors of the Catskill Mountain White Heritage Church. And one of their devoted parishioners is our ever-popular home-bred white supremacist Garson Pike.”
“Jesus,” said Kline.
The name Garson Pike rang a bell with Gurney. For a moment he couldn’t place it. Then he remembered the RAM-TV debate between Blaze Lovely Jackson and a stiff-looking man with an intermittent stutter—a man whose main point was that blacks were responsible for all the problems in America.
Kline looked troubled. “The decision not to go after them was essentially political?”
Beckert answered without hesitation. “All our decisions are ultimately political. That’s the reality of democracy. Government by the will of the people. Attacking popular heroes does no one any good. It just raises everyone’s anger level. Especially when evidence evaporates and there’s no chance of getting a conviction.”
Kline looked less than satisfied, a mark of some intelligence in Gurney’s opinion. “What’s so different now?” he asked.
“Meaning?”
“You said Turlock was going after the Gort twins. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“With a warrant?”
“Yes.”
Kline’s frown was deepening. “Issued on what basis?”
“Reasonable certitude that the Gorts are members of a vigilante group called Knights of the Rising Sun, that they may have been directly involved in the Willard Park homicides, and that we expect to find evidence supporting both assertions in the Gorts’ private compound.”
“What changed the political calculation that kept them off-limits until now?”
“Popular as the Gorts may be in certain quarters, leaving dead bodies in a children’s playground is a game changer. It makes their arrest and prosecution acceptable to a majority of our citizens. And achievable—as long as we act quickly.”
“And as long as you find some hard evidence linking them to this Knights of the Rising Sun group. And to the murders.”
“I’m sure we’ll find what we need. But it will still be essential to describe the situation in the right terms. Clear, simple, moral terms that leave no doubt that justice will be done.”
“Biblical terms would be the best,” said the sheriff. “Folks hereabouts have a fondness for the Bible.”
“An interesting point,” said Beckert. “And while we’re on the subject—”
The soft bing of an arriving text stopped him in midsentence. He picked up his phone, and the message on its screen captured his full attention.
Torres, Kline, and Gurney were watching him.
Beckert looked up and announced with an unreadable expression, “Judd Turlock and his team have entered and secured the Gort compound out in Clapp Hollow. They’ve conducted a preliminary examination of the site, which appears to have been recently vacated. We’ll have Judd’s initial status report shortly, with on-site photos.”
“Gort boys slipped away, did they?” said the sheriff, his tone suggesting this was a predictable event.
“No individuals have been located on the property,” said Beckert. “We’ll know more soon.” He looked at his phone screen. “We’ll reconvene at one fifty.” He stood up from the table and left the room.
Gurney had a sudden thought about how he could use the free half hour, and he pursued Beckert out into the corridor, calling after him.
Beckert stopped and turned with an impatiently questioning look.
“I thought I’d take a quick run over to that place on the edge of Willard Park where John Steele was shot,” said Gurney. “To get a feel for the geography. Any problem with that?”
“No. Why would that be a problem?” Clearly annoyed by the interruption, he turned and strode down the corridor without waiting for an answer.
21
Gurney brought the Outback to a stop at the same barricade of yellow sawhorses where he’d parked earlier. Again he ignored the several Police Line Do Not Cross warnings and proceeded to the sidewalk that ran along the border of the field.