“What about the videos?”
“The videos tell us where he was at certain times. They don’t tell us why.”
“Wouldn’t it be a pretty extreme coincidence if he just happened to be in both those places for some other reason when those shots were fired?”
“Not if someone sent him there.”
“To set him up?”
“It’s possible. It would explain why he made no effort to avoid traffic cameras or to obscure his plate number.”
Gurney could imagine Torres’s earnest frown as he considered the implications.
“But how do you explain the fingerprints?”
“There’s an interesting fact about those prints. They’re all on portable objects, with one exception, the outside doorknob of the house on Poulter Street.”
“What do you mean by portable objects? Toilets aren’t that portable.”
“Right. But the print wasn’t on the toilet itself. It was on the flushing lever.”
“Okay, on the lever . . . so . . . where does that take you?”
“An hour ago it took me from the apartment on Bridge Street to Payne’s own apartment. I checked both toilets and took some photos that I’ll send you.”
“Photos that show what?”
“That the flushing levers may have been switched.”
“What?”
“It’s possible that the flushing lever on the Bridge Street toilet—the one with Payne’s prints on it—may have come from his own bathroom.”
“God, if that were true . . . that would turn everything upside down. Are you suggesting all the evidence was planted? The Band-Aid with Payne’s DNA? The cartridge casings with his prints on them? That everything implicating him is part of a giant frame job?” Torres’s tone was stunned and questioning rather than challenging.
“The facts are not inconsistent with that scenario.”
Torres paused. “It sounds like I need to get forensics involved again . . . to take a look at this switched-flusher business . . . but suppose . . . Jesus . . .”
Gurney finished the thought. “But suppose the switch was done by someone in the department?”
Torres said nothing.
“It’s a possibility. So if I were you, I’d keep the flusher issue to myself until we dig a little deeper and you can be sure you’re not discussing it with the wrong person. This case could be a lot nastier than anyone realizes.”
As he ended the call, the text message sent to John Steele the night he was killed came vividly to mind: Watch ur back. EZ nite for mfs to ice ur ass n blame the BDA.
For the next couple of minutes he sat there looking out over the field by the little brick building that housed the restrooms. The local vultures were circling idly on the updrafts from the sun-soaked ground.
He decided to call Hardwick and fill him in on the day’s events.
The man’s first words when he picked up were, for him, not unusual.
“The fuck do you want now?”
“Charm, warmth, and a welcoming voice.”
“You got the wrong number, bro.”
It was always best with Jack to cut to the chase, so Gurney did so. “The ME claims Loomis didn’t die from the aftereffects of the gunshot. Somebody got to him in the hospital with an ice pick.”
“No shit! Bit of a security fuckup. Any leads?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Inside job? Somebody on the hospital staff?”
“Could be. But before we get into that, the ground is shifting under the whole case. It looks like Payne is being . . .” Gurney stopped speaking at the sight in his rearview mirror of a blue Ford Explorer pulling into the rest stop. “Hold on a second, Jack. I may be about to have a little trouble with Judd Turlock.”
“Where are you?”
“Deserted rest stop near the Larvaton exit on the interstate. He just drove in behind me. I didn’t see him following me, so either he planted a tracker on my car or he’s been having my phone pinged for location. Do me a favor. I’m going to leave my phone on. Keep listening in case I need a witness later.”
“You have your weapon?”
“I do.” As he spoke he removed the Beretta from his ankle holster and tucked it under his right leg, flicking off the safety.
“If you feel your life is in danger, just shoot the fucker.”
“That’s what I rely on you for—nuanced advice.”
As Turlock came to the side of the car, Gurney slipped the live phone in his shirt pocket and rolled down his window.
Turlock’s voice was as expressionless as his eyes. “Busy day?”
“Busy enough.”
“You get too busy, you start making stupid mistakes.”
Gurney met his gaze and waited.
“Like with that lady back at the hospital. The credentials you showed her said you were from the DA’s office. But you’re not. Not anymore. I could arrest you for impersonating an officer. Maybe let you spend a little time in Sheriff Cloutz’s hotel. What do you think of that?”
“I think it could create a problem. Actually, two problems. First problem, there’s no expiration date on my credentials, and I have a contract that requires written notice of termination, which I never received. Which means the impersonation charge is groundless. So right off the bat you’d be facing a false arrest charge. Second problem, I heard a rumor that somebody got to Rick Loomis in the ICU.” Turlock’s eyes seemed to widen just a little.
Gurney went on. “The security you provided was inadequate, and I told your skirt-chasing officer in front of witnesses that Loomis was in serious danger. That warning was ignored. Now here’s the thing, Judd. I have no desire to publicize your major screw-up, but when people get threatened with arrest they often do destructive things.”
“Who the hell told you somebody got to Loomis?”
“I have informants. Just like you and Chief Beckert. Except my informants actually know what they’re talking about.”
Something new entered Turlock’s eyes, something like the strange calm before a violent storm. Then his gaze fell on the phone in Gurney’s shirt pocket and the strange look was replaced by something more controlled if no less hostile.
“You fuck up this murder investigation, Gurney, there’s going to be a price to pay. In White River we consider obstruction of justice a serious crime. Very serious.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“I’m glad we understand each other,” said Turlock, staring at him for a long moment with an expression full of stone-cold hatred. He slowly raised his right hand in the shape of a gun, the forefinger pointing at Gurney’s face. He dropped the thumb like a hammer. Without another word, he returned to his big blue SUV and drove out of the rest area.
Gurney took his phone out of his pocket. “You hear all that, Jack?”
“Jesus, was that your idea of nuance? You’re lucky the crazy fucker didn’t kill you.”
“He’d love to. Maybe someday he’ll try to. But right now there are other things I need to talk to you about.” Gurney proceeded to bring Hardwick up to date on the events of the day, beginning with his conversations with Whittaker Coolidge and Cory Payne and ending with his discovery of the possible switching of the flush handles.
Hardwick grunted. “That toilet thing sounds like a stretch.”
“I agree.”
“But if it’s true, we’re dealing with a goddamn elaborate setup.”
“I agree.”
“Shitload of planning.”
“Yep.”
“Big risk would suggest a big payoff.”
“Right.”
“So the questions would be whodunit, and why.”
“There’s another interesting question. If Payne was framed, was that a tactic to divert blame, or was it the goal?”