He waved a finger at Gurney. “You gotta squash the little crap so they understand they can’t get away with the big crap. We ought to do what they do other places. Shoot them. Why not? Shoot the scumbags. Shoot the drug dealers. Leave the bodies where they fall. Same with terrorists. Leave them where they fall. Send a message.”
Gurney waited to be sure the spiel had run its course.
“Mr. Vitter, I have a question for you.”
The man cocked his head to the side. “Yeah?”
“Earlier this afternoon, did you hear a motorcycle leaving the property next door?”
Vitter’s demeanor brightened. “Motocross, small displacement, high compression. Something like a Yamaha Dual Sport. That’s a guess. But I’m a good guesser.”
“You saw it?”
“No need to. I told your fella with the shaved head I was taking a shit, but I have a good ear. Nothing I don’t know about bikes, including how they sound.”
“When you heard it, did you happen to notice the time?”
“I don’t keep a clock in the shitter.”
“Any idea who it might have been?”
He looked from side to side and lowered his voice. “Probably one of them.”
“Them?”
“Infiltrators. They come into our country illegally and disappear. Disappear into ordinary American life. They stay there, lurking around, waiting until they get the word to launch a terrorist attack. You don’t hear about this on regular news. It’s all hushed up.”
Gurney paused. “Have you ever seen anyone next door?”
“Never,” he said, giving the word a fraught significance.
Gurney recognized that familiar quirk of the mind that can transform a lack of evidence into the most convincing evidence of all. In a computer program that logic circuit would be a disabling flaw. In people, however, it was amazingly common.
Gurney thanked the man for his time and headed back to the Crown Vic to wait for Torres and the techs to reappear. He checked the time on his phone and saw that more than an hour had passed since he dropped Heather off at the emergency room. He assumed that Rick Loomis, if he were still alive, would likely be in one of the operating rooms. If he were a very lucky man, he might be having the side of his head reassembled in a way that would make his life livable. Heather would probably be in one of the waiting rooms—sitting, standing, pacing—besieging every passing nurse and doctor for news about what was happening. Gurney had questions he needed to ask her but was hesitant to ask, since none of them could compare in weight to the unknowns facing her at that moment.
Still, on countless occasions in his homicide career, the need for timely information had forced him to interview people in emotional pain. He’d always hesitated before plunging in. But in the end he always came to the same conclusion—that the need for information trumped the potential disturbance his questions might cause.
He got the hospital’s number from the internet, called it, explained who he needed to reach, was transferred three times, was put on hold for several minutes, and was about to give up when Heather was finally brought to the phone.
“Hello?” Her voice sounded thin and exhausted.
“This is Dave Gurney. How is Rick?”
“He’s in surgery. They can’t tell me anything yet.”
In the background Gurney could hear a series of little dings, a sound that brought back memories of ICU monitors, injured cops, long vigils in hospital corridors. “I need to ask you a couple of questions. Is that all right?”
“Go ahead.”
“When I went to the diner to meet Rick, they told me he’d called to say he’d be late. Do you know why?”
“I think . . . I think he checked with someone. Maybe to ask about meeting with you? Something like that?”
“Do you have any idea who it was?”
“No. But I think whoever Rick was talking to wanted to come with him to your meeting . . . but he had to take care of something first, and then Rick was going to pick him up? I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying much attention—” Her voice was stifled by a little sob.
“It’s okay, Heather.”
“I don’t know what else I can tell you about that.”
“What you’ve told me is very helpful. I was just wondering . . . you referred to the person Rick was talking to as ‘him.’ Are you sure that the person Rick talked to was a man?”
“I don’t really know. It never occurred to me that it might not be a man.”
“Do you know if the person was a police officer?”
She hesitated. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Rick’s voice. There’s a certain way he talks to other cops. I think this sounded different.”
“That’s a good observation, Heather. I know this is a frightening time for you, and I appreciate your willingness to talk to me.”
“I want to help you. I appreciate what you did. The risk you took. Getting in Judd Turlock’s face like that to bring me here . . . when you didn’t even know my name.” Her voice was starting to quaver. “Most people . . . wouldn’t do that. Something like that . . . takes more than courage. It takes . . . goodness.”
A brief silence fell between them. It was broken by Gurney, clearing his throat and trying to speak in a matter-of-fact way. “Turlock and other WRPD people will be questioning you about what happened today. Not just about the shooting itself, but—”
“I know how the process works.”
“Are you going to tell them that Rick was on his way to meet me when he was shot?”
“No.”
“Or that he and I had spoken on the phone?”
“No.”
He paused. “You really don’t trust the department, do you?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Do you know if Rick or John Steele had uncovered any evidence of criminal actions?”
“I think . . . they were getting close.”
“Was anyone helping them?”
“Rick didn’t like to bring those details home. But I did have the impression that someone was giving them information, telling them which cases they should look into.”
“Someone inside the department?”
“Rick never said.”
“Do you know if it was information about individuals who’d been framed?”
“I think so.”
“Framed by Turlock?”
“Probably. He seems like an awful man.”
“And Beckert?”
She hesitated. “Probably not directly. According to Rick, he’s the sort of person who makes everything turn out the way he wants it, without leaving his fingerprints on anything.”
“I was told he has political ambitions. Do you know anything about that?”
“No, but I’m not surprised. He has that kind of—” She let out a sharp little cry. “Have to go. The doctor’s here.”
He felt a sudden tightness in his chest, perhaps a contagious germ of her fear. He hoped with all his heart she’d be able to handle whatever the doctor was about to tell her.
He was just slipping the phone back in his pocket when a call arrived from Sheridan Kline. He was tempted to let it go to voicemail; but he knew that delaying the conversation would accomplish nothing—that procrastination only increased the weight of things that needed to be done.
“Gurney here.”
“What on earth is going on?”
“Is there a problem?”
“I was told that you barged into the Loomis crime scene and removed a key witness before she could be interviewed by a senior WRPD officer.”