“Are you claiming that your father—?”
“Not with his own hands. That’s what he has Judd Turlock for. It’s amazing how many people have been killed or put in the hospital for ‘resisting arrest’ since Turlock and the great Dell Beckert came to White River. That’s all I can think about. The minute I heard my name on that Flynn thing last night, that was my thought—I’m next. It’s like living in some gangster dictatorship. Whatever the big man wants, somebody makes it happen. Whoever gets in his way ends up dead.”
“If you’re afraid of being tracked down and shot in a manufactured confrontation, why not get yourself a good lawyer and turn yourself in?”
Payne burst out in a harsh laugh. “Turn myself in and sit for God knows how long in Goodson Cloutz’s jail? That would just make it easier for them. In case you haven’t noticed, Cloutz is a slimy piece of shit. And there are people in that fucking jail who’d actually pay him for the chance to kill a police chief’s son!”
Gurney nodded thoughtfully. He sat back in his chair and let his gaze drift out the far window into the churchyard. In addition to giving himself a moment to consider the implications of what Payne was saying, he wanted to create an emotional break to let the young man’s level of agitation subside before moving on to another subject.
Coolidge’s voice interrupted the silence, asking if they’d like some coffee.
Gurney accepted. Payne declined.
Coolidge went to prepare it, and Gurney resumed his inquiry.
“We need to address some evidence issues. There’s video footage of you driving a black Corolla to and from both sniper locations.”
“The apartment building in Grinton and the private house up in Bluestone?”
“Yes.”
“When they showed those places on the news this morning, I almost threw up.”
“Why?”
“Because I recognized the buildings. I’d been there. To both of them.”
“Why?”
“To meet someone.”
“Who?”
He shook his head, looking both angry and scared. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know who you were meeting?”
“I have no idea. People contact me. It’s no secret where I stand politically. I founded White Men for Black Justice. I’ve been on TV. I ask for information. I publicize my phone number. Sometimes I get anonymous tips from people who want to help me.”
“Help you do what?”
“Expose the rot in our fascist police establishment.”
“That’s why you went to those places? To meet someone who promised to help you?”
“He said he had a video—the actual dashboard video from the police car at the Laxton Jones shooting. A video that would expose what really happened—and expose the police story as total bullshit.”
“It was a man’s voice?”
“It was a text. I guess I just assumed it was from a guy. There was no name on it.”
“So you got this anonymous text offering you the video?”
“Yes.”
“Telling you to go to that apartment building on Bridge Street to get it?”
“Yes.”
“This was the evening of the BDA demonstration in the park?”
“Yes. I was supposed to drive into the alley behind the building and wait.”
“And you did that.”
“I followed the directions. I’m there in the alley at the right time, waiting. I’m there maybe twenty minutes. Then I get a text changing the plan, telling me I should drive to the far side of the Grinton Bridge. So I do. And I wait. After a couple of minutes, I get a third text. This one expresses some concern about surveillance, says we need to postpone the meeting until it’s safer. I drive home to my apartment. I’m thinking, that’s the end of that. Until I get a new text a couple of days later. This time it’s a big rush. I have to drive immediately to a house up on Poulter Street in Bluestone. I’m supposed to drive straight into the garage and wait. I manage to get there on time; and I’m waiting, waiting, waiting. After a while I’m thinking maybe I misunderstood. Maybe whoever’s got the video is waiting in the house. I get out of the car and go to the side door. It’s unlocked. I open it. Then I hear a sound that could be a gunshot. From somewhere in the house. So I get the hell out. I jump in my car. Tear out of there. Drive home. End of story.”
“You drove directly to your own apartment?”
“To a parking spot near it. About a block away.”
“Any further messages from your supposed tipster?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you save the texts?”
“No. I wrote down the number they came from, but I deleted the actual texts.”
“Why?”
“A precaution. I’m always afraid of phone hackers or someone getting hold of private information. And this was a supersensitive thing, the dashboard video. If the wrong people found out I was going to be getting it . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Did you ever call the number the texts came from?”
“I tried maybe five, six times. No answer, just anonymous voicemail. I remember thinking maybe they had been in that house after all, and maybe they got shot. Then this morning RAM-TV runs this story on the places where the sniper shots were fired from. Up till then, all they’d talked about was where the cops were when they got shot, not where the bullets came from. But now they showed the apartment building on Bridge Street and the private house on Poulter Street, with some asshole reporter standing in the street pointing at it. I’m thinking, shit, that’s where I was, I was in both of those places. I’m thinking, what the fuck’s going on? I mean it was obvious that something weird was going on. Put that on top of the Flynn bullshit—with the great police chief pointing his goddamn finger at me—and I’m thinking, What the fuck? What the bloody fuck?”
Payne was sitting on the edge of his seat, rubbing his thighs with the palms of his hands as if he were trying to warm them, shaking his head and staring a little wildly at the floor.
“There are fingerprints,” Gurney said mildly, “in both locations.”
“My fingerprints?”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
“That has to be a mistake.”
“Could be.” Gurney shrugged. “If it’s not, do you have any idea how they could have gotten there?”
“The only place my fingerprints could be would be in the car, which I never left, except to open the side door of the house. But I never went inside. And at the apartment building I stayed down in the alley. In the car. I never got out of it.”
“Do you own a gun?”
Payne shook his head, almost violently. “I hate guns.”
“Do you keep any kind of ammunition in your apartment?”
“Bullets? No. Of course not. What would I do with them?” He paused, looking suddenly dumbfounded. “Fuck! Are you saying someone found bullets in my apartment?”
Gurney said nothing.
“Because if someone’s saying they found bullets in my apartment, that’s total bullshit! What the fuck is going on?”
“What do you think is going on?”
Payne closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath. He opened them and met Gurney’s inquisitive gaze with an unblinking Beckert stare. “It would appear that someone is trying to frame me, someone who’s covering up for whoever was actually involved in the shootings.”
“Do you believe your father is trying to frame you?”
He continued staring at Gurney, as if he hadn’t heard the question. Then the hard expression began to break down. There were little tremors around his eyes and mouth. He stood up abruptly, turned away, and walked to the window that looked out on the old graveyard.