Gurney stopped. “That’s right. Do you have any information about it?”
“Couple of the brothahs got what they deserved.”
“How do you figure that?”
“White River used to be a nice place to live. Great place to bring up kids. Safe little town. Look at it now. Street I live on used to be beautiful. You should see it today. Section Eight housing. Free rent for freeloaders. Next door I got a crazy son of a bitch in a dashiki. Like he’s actually from Africa. Lives with his two baby mamas. You and I pay for that! And here’s the thing. He’s got this black rooster. And white hens. That’s a hostile message. Every year he slaughters the white hens. In his backyard. Where I can see it. Chops their heads off. But never the black rooster. What do you call that?”
“What do you call it?”
“What it is. A terroristic threat. That’s what you should be worried about.”
“Do you want to make a complaint?”
“That’s what I’m doing. Right here. Right now.”
“To make a formal complaint, you need to visit police headquarters and fill out—”
The man interrupted with a disgusted wave of his hand. “Waste of time. Everybody knows that.” He turned away abruptly, gave a tug on the dogs’ leashes, and strode out into the field, muttering obscenities.
Gurney proceeded along the path to his car, reminded once more of the fear and loathing in the melting pot of America.
Once he was sitting in the Outback, it occurred to him that he should pass along to Mark Torres the fact that the murders of Jordan and Tooker could have been managed by one person. He placed the call. As usual, Torres picked up quickly and sounded eager to hear whatever Gurney had to say.
He explained his one-man theory.
Torres was quiet for a moment. “Do you think this should change our focus?”
“For now we just need to keep the possibility in mind and see how it fits with whatever else we learn. Speaking of which, have we found out if Beckert and Turlock have alibis for the night of the Jordan-Tooker murders or the night of the sniper shootings?”
“So far, no one we’ve spoken to recalls being with them on those occasions. But that’s not surprising. They didn’t exactly hang out with the troops. Turlock reported only to Beckert, and Beckert reports only to the mayor. You met Dwayne Shucker, so you can imagine there wasn’t much actual reporting going on there. Beckert’s wife’s been no help. Apparently has a busy social life, isn’t home much, and doesn’t keep tabs on her husband. As for Turlock, he lives alone. Nearest neighbor is a mile away and claims to know nothing about him.”
The Outback was getting hot in the afternoon sun in the unshaded parking area, and Gurney opened the windows. “The Jordan-Tooker file shows no real interviews after the murders, other than a couple of cryptic notations about tips from unnamed informants and a brief statement from the guy who found the bodies. Am I missing something?”
“Not as far as I know. Remember, I had the case for less than a day. Once Turlock took it over, it was all about the Gorts.”
“None of Jordan’s or Tooker’s associates were interviewed?”
“The only associates either of them seemed to have were the BDA members who were arrested in the raid on their headquarters. With charges pending, they were advised by counsel not to make any statements at all to the police.”
“What about Jordan’s wife?”
“She refused to talk to Turlock.” Torres paused. “Some people here see us as an occupying army.”
“Actually, I spoke to her today.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“I told her I thought that someone in law enforcement might go down for the killing. She liked that idea.”
“I bet. Did she say anything useful?”
“She made it pretty clear that Marcel had gotten sexually involved with Blaze Jackson. And that Blaze is a nasty piece of work.”
“Wait, hold on a second.”
Gurney could hear an indistinct conversation in the background. When Torres got back on the line he sounded upbeat. “That was Shelby Towns. She said that a pair of boots found in the cabin are a perfect tread match for the boot prints found on the stairs in the Poulter Street house.”
“Are they Turlock’s or Beckert’s? Or could she tell?”
“Turlock’s. She could tell by the size. Looks like he was the Loomis shooter. So this is coming together in a way that—sorry, hold on again.”
After another background conversation, Torres returned. “Shelby says that Cory Payne’s fingerprints are on all those cartridges you found with the rifle.”
“That’s consistent with Cory’s story of helping his father with the reloading process. Any other news?”
“Just that the DA will be appearing this evening on NewsBreakers.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the lead-in program to RAM’s Battleground Tonight. Should be interesting to watch Kline explaining how his godlike hero turned into a devil overnight.”
Gurney agreed. Since Kline couldn’t keep the media at bay forever, he’d evidently decided to jump in with both feet in a desperate effort to shape the narrative.
47
Just before 6:00 PM Gurney opened his laptop and went to the RAM website. As it was loading, something caught his eye through the window next to his desk—a spot of fuchsia moving along the top of the high pasture. He realized it was Madeleine in her bright windbreaker mowing the grass swath that separated the pasture from the woods. He watched as she turned the riding mower onto a path that led down to the house. Then he went to the “Live Stream” page and clicked on View Now. A moment later the screen was filled with bright-blue words flashing against a black background:
RAM NEWSBREAKERS
SPECIAL EARLY EDITION
WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW NOW
The words exploded into pieces, then the pieces flew back together to form new words:
THE HUNTER BECOMES
THE HUNTED
IN STUNNING REVERSAL
Those words in turn exploded, only to be immediately reconstituted in another headline:
TOP COP
NOW PRIME SUSPECT
IN SENSATIONAL WHITE RIVER MURDERS
On a final drumbeat the scene switched to a shot of a male and female news team, making a show of jotting down last-minute notes at their RAM-TV news desk. The female member was the first to put down her pen and look directly into the camera.
“Good evening. I’m Stacey Kilbrick.”
Gurney noted that her default expression of serious professional concern had been ratcheted up into a grim intensity. He was momentarily distracted by the ringing of his phone. He saw that it was Thrasher and he let it go to voicemail.
The male on the screen put down his pen. Neat and petulant, he looked like a flight attendant with a grievance. “Good evening. I’m Rory Kronck. We have a big story for you tonight—a NewsBreakers exclusive report on the mind-boggling developments in White River, New York. Lay out the facts for our viewers, Stacey.”
“As you were saying, Rory, those facts are nothing short of amazing. The hunter has become the hunted. Disturbing new evidence is linking Dell Beckert, former White River police chief and nationally known law-and-order advocate, to four shocking murders that his own department was investigating. And now it appears that he’s taken off for parts unknown, under a heavy cloud of suspicion.” She turned toward Kronck. “We’ve covered our share of wild stories over the years, Rory, but I’ve never seen the likes of this. Have you?”
“Never, Stacey. And the vanishing chief is just part of it. The deputy chief, we’ve just learned, has turned up dead. And we’re talking about the kind of grisly murder that’s usually reserved for horror movies.”