“The thing is,” said Gurney, “there’s extensive video and fingerprint evidence that he was in the right place at the right time for each shooting. And he fled the scene after each one.”
“If that’s true, there must be an explanation other than the one you’re assuming. The idea that Cory Payne killed anyone in cold blood is ridiculous.”
“You know him well enough to say that?”
“White political progressives in this part of the state are a rare breed. We get to know each other.” Coolidge looked at his watch, frowned, and stood up abruptly. “We’re out of time. I need to get ready for that baptism. Come.”
Gesturing for Gurney to follow him, he led the way out through the churchyard to the parking lot. “Pray for courage and caution,” he said as they reached the Outback.
“An unusual combination.”
“It’s an unusual situation.”
Gurney nodded but made no move to get into his car.
Coolidge looked again at his watch. “Is there something else?”
“I’d like to meet Payne. Is that something you could arrange?”
“So you could arrest him?”
“I have no authority to arrest anyone. I’m a free agent.”
Coolidge gave him a long look. “With no agenda other than gathering information for the wives of the dead officers?”
“That’s right.”
“And you think Cory should trust you?”
“He doesn’t have to trust me. We can talk on the phone. I just have one question for him. What was he doing at those sniper locations if he wasn’t involved?”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” Gurney could easily think of a dozen other questions, but this was no time for complications.
Coolidge nodded uncertainly. “I’ll think about it.”
They shook hands. The man’s large, soft palm felt sweaty.
Gurney looked up at the redbrick edifice. “Saint Thomas the Apostle—wasn’t he the so-called doubting one?”
“He was. But in my humble opinion, he should have been called the sane one.”
31
If doubt was an indication of sanity, Gurney mused as he drove out of the church parking lot, he had an abundance of sanity, and it was a very uncomfortable attribute.
He was filled with questions. Were Coolidge’s statements fact-based conclusions or the reflex expression of his political views? Had Jordan and Tooker been well-meaning solution seekers or had they been running a con job on the rector to gain his approval and an aura of respectability? Was Beckert an evil control freak or a champion of law and order in a pitched battle with criminals and chaos? And then there was Judd Turlock. Was he the tough cop advertised by the set of his jaw, or was he the hit man dwelling behind emotionless eyes? And what about Mark Torres? Were the young detective’s efforts to stay in communication to be taken at face value? Or were they signs of something more manipulative—possibly even an assignment he’d been given?
Thinking of Torres reminded Gurney that he’d received a call from him during his meeting with the rector. He pulled over to the curb on a burned-out street at the edge of Grinton and listened to the message.
“This is Mark. Just wanted to let you know there’s been a setback up in the quarries. I’ll tell you more when we talk.”
Curious to discover if the setback would be throwing yet another aspect of the case into doubt, Gurney returned the call.
Torres sounded apologetic. “The situation is kind of sensitive. I didn’t want to spell it out in a message.”
“What’s the problem?”
“The K9 dog was killed.”
“The one tracking the Gorts?”
“Right. Just below the abandoned quarries.”
“Killed how?”
“A crossbow arrow through the head. Pretty weird. Kind of reminds me of their gate sign.”
Gurney remembered it vividly—the human skull hanging there from a crossbow arrow through an eye socket. As a Keep Out message, it was hard to beat.
“Anything happen to the dog’s handler?”
“No. Just the dog. Arrow came out of nowhere. Another dog is on the way. And a state helicopter with infrared spotting equipment. And a backup assault team.”
“Any official statement to the media?”
“Not a word. They want to keep the lid on—make sure it doesn’t look like things are getting out of control.”
“So the Gorts are still out there with their crossbows and pit bulls and dynamite?”
“Looks that way.”
Torres fell silent, but Gurney had the impression their conversation wasn’t over. “Anything else you want to talk about?”
Torres cleared his throat. “I’m not comfortable suggesting things I have no evidence for.”
“But . . .”
“Well, I guess it’s no secret that Chief Beckert hates the Gorts.”
“And . . .”
“This thing with the dog seems to have tripled it.”
“So?”
“If the Gorts are captured, I have a feeling something will happen. Judd Turlock is going out to the quarries to direct the operation personally.”
“You think the Gorts will be killed? Because of the way Beckert feels about them?”
“I could be wrong.”
“I thought Beckert left the department.”
“He did, technically. Turlock will be acting chief until there’s an official appointment. But the thing is, Turlock always does what Beckert wants. Nobody here believes that’s going to change.”
“That worries you?”
“It always worries me when the face of a situation is different from the truth. A resignation should mean that you’re actually gone. Not just pretending to be gone. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Perfectly.” Not only was an appearance-reality gap a worrisome thing, it was the basic challenge in every investigation—breaking through the shell of a situation to discover what was really there. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
“That’s it for now.”
As Gurney ended the call he noted that he still had one message he hadn’t listened to yet—from Dr. Walter Thrasher. Now, while he was still parked, was as good a time as any.
“David, this is Walt Thrasher. Based on what you’ve found so far, that excavation of yours may turn out to be of considerable historical interest. I’d like your permission to probe the area further. Please get back to me as soon as you can.”
Whatever it was that might be of interest to Thrasher was at that moment of little interest to Gurney. But a phone conversation with the ME could provide an opportunity to address other subjects.
He placed the call.
The man answered on the first ring. “Thrasher.”
“I got your message. About the dig.”
“Ah, yes. The dig. I’d like to scrape around a bit, see what’s there.”
“Are you looking for something in particular?”
“Yes. But I’d rather not say what—not yet, anyway.”
“Something of value?”
“Not in the normal sense. No buried treasure.”
“Why all the secrecy?”
“I hate speculation. I have a fondness for hard evidence.”
That was, Gurney thought, as good an opening as he was likely to get. “Speaking of evidence, when do you expect to get your tox screens on Jordan and Tooker back from the lab?”