“You leave everything like it was. You get a warrant from Judge Puckett, specifying what you expect to find, claiming it was based on reliable tips from two sources. Then you go back and find it. All neat and legal.”
“You’ve done this?”
“No. I’m not comfortable with it. But I know some guys have.”
“And they have no problem with it?”
“They don’t seem to. It’s blessed from the top. That means a lot.”
Gurney couldn’t disagree with that. “So the bad guys get put away or run out of town. Acme has fewer problems, and their business is more profitable. Meanwhile, Beckert gets credit for reducing the population of undesirables and cleaning up White River. He becomes a champion of law and order. Everybody wins.”
Torres nodded. “That’s pretty much the way it works.”
“Okay. Big question. Do you know of situations where evidence was planted by the same officer who later found it?”
Torres was staring down into the coffee mug he was still grasping with both hands. “I couldn’t say for sure. All I know is what I’m telling you.”
“But you’re uncomfortable with all that illegal access?”
“I guess so. Maybe I’m in the wrong line of work.”
“Law enforcement?”
“The reality of it. The version you learn in the academy is fine. But it’s a whole other thing out on the street. It’s like you have to break the law to uphold it.”
He was gripping his mug so tightly now his knuckles were white. “I mean, what’s ‘due process’ anyway? Is that supposed to be a real thing? Or do we just pretend it’s a real thing? Are we supposed to respect it even when it’s inconvenient, or only when it doesn’t get in the way of what we want to achieve?”
“Where do you think Dell Beckert stands on that question?”
“Beckert is all about the result. The final product. Period.”
“And how he gets there doesn’t matter?”
“It sure doesn’t seem to. It’s like there’s no standard other than what that man wants.” He sighed and met Gurney’s gaze. “You think maybe I should be in another profession?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I hate the conflicts that are part of the job.”
“Part of the job? Part of this peculiar case? Part of working in a racially divided city? Or just part of working for Beckert?”
“Maybe all of those. Plus . . . being a Latino in a very Anglo department can get a little tense. Sometimes more than a little.”
“Let me ask you something. Why did you become a cop to begin with?”
“To be helpful. Make a difference. Do the right thing.”
“And you don’t think that’s what you’re doing?”
“I’m trying. But I feel like I’m in a minefield. Take this situation with the toilet handle. I mean, if Payne is being set up by someone in the department . . .” His voice trailed off. He looked down at his watch. “Christ, I better get going.”
Gurney walked out with him to the parking area.
Torres opened his car door, but didn’t immediately get in. He uttered a small humorless laugh. “I just said in there that I wanted to be helpful. But I don’t have a clue how to do that. It seems that the longer this case goes on, the less I know.”
“That’s not the worst thing in the world. Realizing you have no idea what’s going on is a hell of a lot better than being totally sure about everything—and totally wrong.”
37
Three minutes later, as Torres’s Crown Victoria was pulling out onto the county road, Hardwick’s growling red GTO was pulling in.
Hardwick got out and swung the heavy door shut with the crashing thump that only vintage Detroit cars make. He cast a sideways glance at the departing sedan. “Who’s the dick in the Vic?”
“Mark Torres,” said Gurney. “CIO on the Steele and Loomis cases.”
“Just the shootings? Who caught the playground murders?”
“He did, for about ten minutes. Then Beckert took over and handed them off to Turlock.”
Hardwick shrugged. “Like it’s always been. Dell calls the shots, the Turd does the work.”
Gurney led the way back inside to the table he’d occupied with Torres. Marika came over and Gurney ordered another double espresso. Hardwick ordered a large mug of Abelard’s special dark roast.
“What did you learn about Beckert?” Gurney asked.
“Here’s what I was told—mostly secondhand stuff, rumors, bullshit. Some of it might be partly true. No telling which part.”
“You inspire confidence.”
“Confidence is my middle name. So here’s the story. ‘Dell’ is a shortened form of ‘Cordell.’ Specifically, Cordell Beckert the Second. Known to some of his associates as CB-Two. Meaning there was another Cordell Beckert somewhere in the family tree. Cory Payne was actually christened Cordell Beckert the Third.
“Dell was born in Utica forty-six years ago. His father was a cop, disabled in a shootout with a drug dealer. Quadriplegic. Died when Dell was ten. After grammar school—I already told you some of this—Dell got a scholarship to a military prep school in the redneck end of Virginia. Bayard-Whitson Academy. Where he met Judd Turlock. And where Judd had his juvie legal problem. I’ll come back to that in a minute. After Bayard-Whitson, he went to—”
Gurney interrupted. “It’s interesting that Beckert never used what happened to his father as a credential for his war on drugs, like he did with his wife’s death.”
Hardwick shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t give a shit about the old man.”
“Or the opposite. Some people never mention the things that affect them the most.”
Marika arrived at the table with Hardwick’s coffee, then left.
When she was out of earshot, he continued. “After Bayard-Whitson, Dell went to Choake Christian College, where he met and married his first wife, Melissa Payne. Cory was born right after he graduated from Choake’s ROTC program. He joined the Marines as a lieutenant, completed a four-year tour, came out as a captain, then joined the NYSP. With his Marine officer background he moved up quickly during the next seven or eight years. The job was first, family a distant second. Along the way Melissa fell in love with painkillers and Cory became a festering thorn in his side, which I told you about.”
“Culminating in the attempted torching of the recruiting office?”
“Right. But there’s something else I was just told by someone who knew the family back then. But it might be total bullshit. See, to do you a fucking favor, I’ve been making a giant pain in the ass of myself, calling people I haven’t spoken to in years, annoying them with one goddamn question after another. They may be making up crap to get rid of me.”
“You love making a giant pain in the ass of yourself. What did you find out?”
“Two, three months before Dad finally sent the little bastard away to the boot-camp boarding-school prison—whatever the fuck you want to call it—Cory supposedly had a druggie girlfriend. He was a large, aggressive twelve. She was maybe fourteen and dealing a little pot here and there. Dell had her picked up and tossed into juvie detention for possession and intent—to make a point to Cory about what happens when you hang out with people Dad doesn’t approve of. Problem is, she was raped in the detention center, supposedly by a couple of COs, and hanged herself. Or so the story goes. Anyway, it was after that that Cory went totally batshit and got sent away to the discipline farm.”
“No blowback on Beckert from the kid’s death?”
“Not even a breeze.”
Gurney nodded thoughtfully, sipping his espresso. “So he puts his son’s girlfriend in a place where she gets raped and ends up dead, and when the kid reacts, he sticks him in some behavior-mod hellhole. His desperate addict wife either accidentally or not-so-accidentally ODs on heroin, and he uses that to sanctify his image as a determined drug fighter. Fast-forward to the present. Two White River cops get killed, he’s handed some shaky evidence that his son may have been involved, and he appears on one of the most popular interview shows in the country to announce not only that he’s ordered his son’s arrest for murder but that he’s sacrificing his outstanding police career in the interest of justice. You know something, Jack? This guy makes me want to throw up.”