Gurney gave him a puzzled look. “Beckert’s got the whole White River Police Department at his disposal. You’ve got your own investigative staff. If that’s not enough, you could leverage the racial element of the situation and bring in the FBI.”
He shook his head quickly. “No, no, no. Once the FBI comes in, we lose control. They talk a cooperative game, but they don’t play one. They’ve got their own agenda. Christ, you ought to know how the feds operate. Last thing we want to do is lose our ability to manage the process.”
“Okay, forget the FBI. Between your staff and Beckert’s, you’ve still got plenty of manpower.”
“Might seem like we do, but the fact is my staff is at an all-time low. My right-hand guy, Fred Stimmel, hit his magic pension number six months ago and headed for Florida. My two female investigators are both on maternity leave. And the rest of the crew are locked into assignments I can’t pull them away from—not without a major prosecution going down the tubes. You may think I’ve got ample staff. Fact is I’ve got zip. I know what you’re thinking. That the investigation belongs to the White River PD in any event, not the county DA. The ball is in Beckert’s court, so let him handle it through his own famously effective detective bureau. Right? But I’m telling you there’s way too much at stake to play this game with anything other than a full-court press. That means with all I can muster on my side as well as Beckert’s—period!” A small vein in Kline’s temple was becoming more prominent as he spoke.
“You’d like me to join your staff as some sort of adjunct investigator?”
“Something like that. We’ll work out the details. I have the authority and contingency funds. We’ve worked together before, David. You made huge contributions to the Mellery and Perry cases. And the stakes in this case are sky-high. We need to get to the bottom of this police killing fast—and we need to get it right, so nothing comes back later to bite us in the ass. Get it wrong and it’s chaos time. What do you say? Can I rely on you?”
Gurney leaned back in his chair, watching the vultures soaring lazily above the north ridge.
Kline’s smile tightened into a grimace. “Do you have any concerns?”
“I need to sleep on this, discuss it with my wife.”
Kline chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. “Okay. Just let me repeat that there’s a hell of a lot at stake here. More than you might think. The right outcome could be enormously beneficial for all concerned.”
He got up from his chair, straightened his tie, and put on his jacket. He pulled out a business card and handed it to Gurney. The politician’s smile reappeared in full force. “My personal cell number is on the card. Call me tomorrow. Or tonight if you can. I know you’ll do the right thing—for all of us.”
Two minutes later the big black Navigator passed between the pond and the barn, heading down onto the town road. The crunch of the tires on the gravel surface soon faded into silence.
The soaring vultures had disappeared. The sky was a piercing blue, the hillside a painter’s palette of greens. Next to the patio, in the raised planting bed, the day’s growth of asparagus was awaiting harvest. Above the tender new shoots the airy asparagus ferns were swaying in an almost imperceptible breeze.
The overall picture of spring perfection was tainted only by the slightest hint of something acrid in the air.
4
Gurney spent the next hour visiting various internet sites, trying to get a broader view of the White River crisis than the perspective Kline had presented. He had the feeling that he was being manipulated with a carefully arranged account of the situation.
Countering an impulse to go to the most recent news of the shooting, he decided to search first for coverage of the original incident—to refresh his recollection of the fatal shooting that occurred the previous May and that the Black Defense Alliance demonstrations were commemorating.
He located an early newspaper report in the online archive of the Quad-County Star. The front-page headline was one that had become disturbingly common: “Minor Traffic Stop Turns Deadly.” A brief description of the incident followed:
At approximately 11:30 PM on Tuesday White River Police Officer Kieran Goddard stopped a car with two occupants near the intersection of Second Street and Sliwak Avenue in the Grinton section of White River for failing to signal prior to changing lanes. According to a police spokesman, the driver of the vehicle, Laxton Jones, disputed the officer’s observation and refused several requests to present his license and registration. Officer Goddard then directed Jones to switch off the ignition and step out of the vehicle. Jones responded with a series of obscenities, put the vehicle in reverse, and began backing away in an erratic fashion. Officer Goddard ordered him to stop. Jones then placed the vehicle in drive and accelerated toward the officer, who drew his service weapon and fired through the windshield of the approaching vehicle. He subsequently called for an ambulance as well as appropriate supervisory and support personnel. Jones was declared dead on arrival at Mercy Hospital. The second occupant of the vehicle, a twenty-six-year-old female identified as Blaze Lovely Jackson, was detained in connection with an outstanding warrant and the discovery of a controlled substance in the vehicle.
The next relevant article in the Star appeared two days later on page five. It quoted a statement issued by Marcel Jordan, a community activist, in which he claimed that the police version of the shooting was “a fabrication designed to justify the execution of a man who had embarrassed them—a man dedicated to uncovering and publicizing the false arrests, perjury, and brutality rampant in the White River Police Department. The officer’s claim that Laxton was attempting to run him down is an outright lie. He posed no threat whatever to that officer. Laxton Jones was murdered in cold blood.”
The Star’s next mention of the event appeared a week later. It described a tense scene at Laxton Jones’s funeral, an angry confrontation between mourners and police. The funeral was followed immediately by a press conference at which the activist Marcel Jordan—flanked by Blaze Lovely Jackson, out on bail, and Devalon Jones, brother of the deceased—announced the formation of the Black Defense Alliance, an organization whose mission would be “the protection of our brothers and sisters from the routine abuse, mayhem, and murder carried out by the racist law-enforcement establishment.”
The article concluded with a response from White River Police Chief Dell Beckert. “The negative statement issued by the group calling themselves the ‘Black Defense Alliance’ is unfortunate, unhelpful, and untrue. It demeans honest men and women who have dedicated themselves to the safety and welfare of their fellow citizens. This cynical grandstanding deepens the misconceptions that are destroying our society.”
Gurney found little in other upstate papers and virtually nothing in the national press regarding the shooting of Laxton Jones or the activities of the Black Defense Alliance for the next eleven months—until the BDA’s announcement of demonstrations to mark the one-year anniversary of the shooting and to “raise awareness of racist police practices.”
According to the ensuing media coverage, an initial peaceful demonstration was followed by sporadic instances of violence throughout the Grinton section of White River. The unrest had been going on for a week, becoming more confrontational and destructive with each passing day and generating increasingly dramatic media coverage.
The fact that he’d been only partially aware of this was the result of his and Madeleine’s decision to leave their TV behind when they moved from the city to Walnut Crossing and to avoid internet news sites. They felt that “news” was too often a term for manufactured controversy, superficial half-truths, and events about which they could do nothing. This meant he had some catching up to do.
There was no shortage of current coverage of what one media website was calling “White River in Flames.” He decided to make his way through the local and national reports in the sequence in which they’d been posted. The rising hysteria evident in the changing tone of th
e headlines as the week progressed suggested a situation spinning out of control:
UPSTATE CITY DEBATES YEAR-OLD CONTROVERSY
BDA PROTEST OPENS OLD WOUNDS
WHITE RIVER MAYOR CALLS FOR CALM IN FACE OF PROVOCATIONS
BDA FIREBRAND MARCEL JORDAN CALLS POLICE MURDERERS
DOZENS INJURED AS DEMONSTRATIONS TURN UGLY
JORDAN TO BECKERT: “YOU HAVE BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS”
WHITE RIVER ON THE EDGE OF CHAOS
ROCK-THROWING, ARSON, LOOTING
PROTESTERS BEATEN, ARRESTED IN CLASH WITH POLICE
SNIPER KILLS LOCAL COP—POLICE DECLARE WAR ON BDA
Gurney’s reading of the articles added little to the information in the overheated headlines. His quick perusal of the comments section after each article reinforced his belief that these “reader involvement” features were mainly invitations to idiocy.
His main feeling, however, was a growing sense of unease at Kline’s eagerness to pull him into the gathering storm.
5
When Madeleine returned from her hike, radiating the satisfaction and exhilaration she derived from the outdoors, Gurney was still in his den, hunched over his computer screen. Having moved on from the internet news sites, he was exploring the physical reality of White River with the help of Google Street View.
Although it was only an hour’s drive from Walnut Crossing, he’d never had a compelling reason to go there. He had a sense that the place was emblematic of the decline of upstate New York cities and towns, suffering from industrial collapse, agricultural relocation, a shrinking middle-class population, political mismanagement, the spreading heroin epidemic, troubled schools, eroding infrastructure—with the added element of strained police relations with a sizable minority community, a problem now vividly underscored.
The image of White River was further clouded, ironically, by the looming presence of the area’s largest employer and supplier of much of its economic lifeblood: the White River Correctional Facility. Or, as it was known locally, Rivcor.
What Gurney could see, as Google Street View led him along the city’s main avenues, supported his negative preconceptions. There was even a clichéd set of railroad tracks dividing the good section of town from the bad.
Madeleine was standing next to him now, frowning at the screen. “What town is that?”
“White River.”
“Where all the trouble is?”
“Yes.”
Her frown deepened. “It’s about that traffic-stop shooting of a black motorist last year, right?”
“Yes.”
“And some statue they want removed?”
Gurney looked up at her. “What statue?”
“A couple of people were talking about it at the clinic the other day. A statue of someone connected to the early days of the prison.”
“That part I wasn’t aware of.”
She cocked her head curiously. “Does this have something to do with your call from Sheridan Kline?”
“Actually the call turned out to be a visit. By the man himself.”
“Oh?”
“He said something about not being that far away and preferring face-to-face meetings. But I suspect that coming here was always his plan.”
“Why didn’t he say that from the beginning?”
“Knowing how manipulative and paranoid he is, I’d guess he wanted to take me by surprise to keep me from recording our meeting.”
“The subject was that sensitive?”
Gurney shrugged. “Didn’t seem so to me. But it would be hard to know for sure without knowing what he wants from me.”
“He came all this way and didn’t tell you what he wants?”
“Yes and no. He says he wants my help investigating a fatal shooting. Claims he’s short-staffed, running out of time, with the city on the verge of Armageddon, et cetera.”
“But . . .”
“But it doesn’t add up. Procedurally, the investigation of homicides is strictly a police matter. If there’s a need for more personnel, that’s a police command decision. There are channels for that. It’s not up to the DA or his investigatory staff to take this sort of initiative—unless there’s something he’s not telling me.”
“You said there was a fatal shooting. Who was killed?”
Gurney hesitated. Law-enforcement deaths had always been a sensitive subject with Madeleine, and more so since he himself was wounded two years earlier at the end of the Jillian Perry case. “A White River cop was hit last night by a sniper at a Black Defense Alliance demonstration.”
Her expression froze. “He wants you to find the sniper?”
“That’s what he says.”
“But you don’t believe him?”
“I have the feeling I haven’t gotten the whole story yet.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I haven’t decided.”
She gave him one of those probing looks that made him feel as if his soul were on display, then switched gears. “You remember that we’re going to the big LORA fund-raiser tonight at the Gelters’, right?”
“That thing is tonight?”
“You might actually enjoy it. I understand the Gelters’ house is something to see.”
“I’d rather see it when it isn’t full of idiots.”
“What are you so angry about?”
“I’m not angry. I’m just not looking forward to spending time with those people.”
“Some of those people are quite nice.”
“I find the whole LORA thing a little nuts. Like that logo on their letterhead. A goddamn groundhog standing on its hind legs and leaning on a crutch. Jesus.”
“It’s an injured-animal rehabilitation center. What do you think their logo should be?”
“Better question: Why do we have to attend a fund-raiser for limping groundhogs?”
“When we’re asked to take part in a community event, it’s nice to say yes once in a while. And don’t tell me you’re not angry. You’re obviously angry, and it has nothing to do with groundhogs.”
He sighed and gazed out the den window.
Her expression suddenly brightened in one of those transformations that was part of her emotional wiring. “Want to take the pasture walk with me?” she asked, referring to the grassy path they kept mowed around the perimeter of the field on the slope above the house.
He screwed up his face in disbelief. “You just got back from a two-hour trek on the ridge, and you want to go out again?”
“You spend too much time bent over that computer screen. How about it?”
His first reaction went unvoiced. No, he didn’t want to waste time trudging pointlessly around that old pasture. He had urgent things to think about—the protests verging on all-out riots, the cop killing, Kline’s not-quite-believable story.
Then he reconsidered—remembering that whenever he took one of Madeleine’s annoying suggestions, the result always turned out better than he’d anticipated.
“Maybe just once around the field.”
“Great! We might even find a little creature with a limp—for you to bring to the party.”
As they reached the end of the path, Gurney suggested they go on to his archaeological project in the cherry woods above the pond.
When they reached the partly exposed foundation, he began pointing out where he’d uncovered the various iron and glass artifacts he’d catalogued on his computer. As he was indicating the spot where he’d found the teeth, Madeleine broke in with a sharp exclamation.
“Oh my God, look at that!”
He followed her gaze up into the treetops. “What do you see?”
“The leaves, the sun shining through them, the glowing greens. That light!”
He nodded. He tried not to let his irritation show. “What I’m doing here bothers you, doesn’t it?”
“I guess I’m not as enthusiastic about it as you are.”
“I
t’s more than that. What is it about my digging here that annoys you so much?”
She didn’t answer.
“Maddie?”
“You want to solve the mystery.”
“What do you mean?”
“The mystery of who lived here, when they lived here, why they lived here. Right?”
“More or less.”
“You want to solve the mystery of what brought them here, what kept them here.”
“I suppose so.”
“That’s what bothers me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Not everything has to be figured out . . . dug up, torn apart, evaluated. Some things should be left alone, in peace, respected.”
He considered this. “You think the remains of this old house fall into that category?”
“Yes,” she said. “Like a grave.”
At 5:35 PM, they got in the Outback and set out for the LORA fund-raiser at Marv and Trish Gelter’s famously unique residence, located on a hilltop in the chic hamlet of Lockenberry.
From what Gurney had heard, Lockenberry was close enough to Woodstock to attract a similar crowd of artsy weekenders from Manhattan and Brooklyn, yet far enough away to have its own independent cachet, derived from the poets’ colony at its core. Known simply as the Colony, it was founded by the town’s eponymous whale-oil heiress, Mildred Lockenberry, whose own poetry was revered for its impenetrability.
Just as the value of property within Lockenberry was affected by how close it was to the Colony, the value of any property in the eastern part of the county was affected by how close it was to Lockenberry—a phenomenon Gurney noted in the postcard perfection of the nineteenth-century homes, barns, and stone walls lining the last few miles of the road leading into the hamlet. The restoration and maintenance of these structures could not be inexpensive.
Although the natural endowments of the land and buildings in the immediate vicinity of Lockenberry had been groomed and highlighted, the entire route from Walnut Crossing, winding through a succession of rolling hills and long river valleys, was, in its uncultivated and unpolished way, amazingly beautiful—with wild purple irises, white anemones, yellow lupines, and shockingly blue grape hyacinths scattered among the delicate greens of the spring grasses. It was enough to make him understand, if not feel as deeply, Madeleine’s enthusiasm for the display of sunlit leaves over his excavation by their pond.