Seeing Gurney looking at them, Coolidge offered an explanation. “I prefer contemporary incarnations of goodness to the bizarre and dogmatic characters of the Middle Ages.” He gestured toward one of the armchairs. When Gurney was seated he took the one facing it. “You said on the phone you were involved in the investigation of this awful violence. May I ask in what capacity?”
Something in his tone suggested that he’d checked and discovered the severing of Gurney’s official ties to the case.
“The wives of the murdered officers have asked me to look into the circumstances of their deaths. They want to be sure they’re getting the truth, whatever it turns out to be.”
Coolidge cocked his head curiously. “I was under the impression that our police department had already arrived at the truth. Am I mistaken?”
“I’m not sure the confidence the police seem to have in their hypothesis is justified by the facts.”
Gurney’s answer appeared to have a positive effect. The tense creases at the corners of Coolidge’s eyes began to relax. His smile became more natural.
“Always a pleasure to meet a man with an open mind. What can I do for you?”
“I’m searching for information. With a wide net. Because I don’t know yet what will be important. Perhaps you could start by telling me what you know about Jordan and Tooker?”
“Marcel and Virgil.” He made the emendation sound like a mild reprimand. “They were slandered. Even now they continue to be slandered with the implication that they were somehow involved in Officer Steele’s murder. There is, to my knowledge, no evidence of that whatsoever.”
“I understand they were with you the night Officer Steele was shot.”
Coolidge paused for a moment before going on. “They were here in this very room. Marcel in the chair you now occupy. Virgil in the one next to it. I sat where I am now. It was our third meeting.”
“Third? Was there an agenda for these meetings?”
“Peace, progress, legal process.”
“Meaning?”
“The idea was to channel negative energy toward positive goals. They were angry young men, understandably so, but not bomb throwers. Certainly not killers. They were justice seekers. Truth seekers. Perhaps like you in that way.”
“What truth were they seeking?”
“They wanted to expose the numerous criminal actions and cover-ups in our police department. The pattern of abuse.”
“They knew of specific instances? With evidence to back up their charges?”
“They knew of instances in which African Americans had been framed, illegally detained, even killed. They were pursuing the necessary corroboration, case files, et cetera.”
“How?”
“They were being helped.”
“Helped?”
“Correct.”
“That doesn’t tell me much.”
Coolidge turned his gaze to the small blue flames flickering up from the coals in the fireplace. “I’ll just say that their desire for justice was shared, and they were optimistic.”
“Perhaps you could be just a bit more specific?”
Coolidge looked pained. “There’s nothing more I can say without discussing the implications with . . . those who might be affected.”
“I can understand that. In the meantime, can you tell me how Marcel and Virgil happened to come to you?”
Coolidge hesitated. “They were brought to me by an interested party.”
“Whose name you can’t reveal without further consultation?”
“That’s right.”
“Were you aware that John Steele and Rick Loomis wanted to establish some level of dialogue with the Black Defense Alliance?”
“I’d rather not get on the slippery slope of saying what I was or wasn’t aware of. We live in a dangerous world. Confidences must be respected.”
“True.” In Gurney’s experience, agreeing with someone he was interviewing often produced more information than questioning him. He sat back in his chair. “Very true.”
Coolidge sighed. “I’m a student of history. I realize that political divisions are nothing new in America. We’ve had angry disagreements over all sorts of things. But the current state of polarization is worse than anything I’ve seen in my lifetime. It’s stunningly ironic that the explosion of available information on the internet has led to the irrelevance of actual facts. More communication has led to more isolation. Political discourse has become nothing but shouts and lies and threats. Political loyalties are about who you hate, not who you love. And all this ignorant bile is justified by making up nonsensical ‘facts.’ The crazier the belief, the more strongly it’s held. The political center, the rational center, has been driven to extinction. And the justice system . . .”
He shook his head, his hands opening and closing into fists. “The justice system! Sweet Jesus, what a misnomer!”
“In White River in particular?”
Coolidge was silent for a long moment, staring into the remnants of the fire. When he spoke again his voice was calmer, but a bitterness remained. “There used to be a car wash out in Larvaton. In cold weather, when there was salt on the roads and cars needed washing, the mechanism was either not operating at all or doing crazy things. Soaping when it should be rinsing. Rinsing when it should be soaping. Squirting wax on the tires. Freezing shut with the sprayers on full blast, turning the car into a block of ice. With the driver trapped inside. The blowers were so powerful they’d sometimes rip the trim off a car.”
He looked away from the fire and met Gurney’s puzzled gaze. “That’s our court system. Our justice system. An unpredictable farce in the best of times. A disaster in times of crisis. Seeing what happens to vulnerable people pushed into the maw of that insane machine can make you cry.”
“So . . . where does all this take you?”
Before Coolidge could respond, Gurney’s phone rang. He took it out, saw that it was Torres, silenced it, and put it back in his pocket. “Sorry about that.”
“Where does all this take me? It takes me in the direction of Maynard Biggs—in the upcoming election for state attorney general.”
“Why Biggs?”
Coolidge leaned forward in his chair, his hands on his knees. “He’s a reasonable man. A principled man. He listens. He begins with what is. He believes in the common good.” He sank back in his chair, turning up his palms in a gesture of frustration. “I realize, of course, that these qualities are severe disabilities in today’s political climate, but we must stand up for sanity and decency. Move from darkness toward the light. Maynard Biggs is a step in the right direction, and Dell Beckert is not!”
Gurney was surprised at the sudden venom in the rector’s voice.
“You don’t regard Beckert’s resignation speech as his withdrawal from public life?”
“Hah! The world should be so fortunate! Obviously you didn’t catch the latest news.”
“What news?”
“A flash-polling outfit connected to RAM-TV asked registered voters who they would be likely to vote for in a hypothetical election matchup between Beckert and Biggs. It was a statistical tie—a frightening fact, given that Beckert hasn’t officially entered the race.”
“You sound like you’ve had unpleasant encounters with him.”
“Not personally. But I’ve heard horror stories.”
“What kind?”
Coolidge appeared to be choosing his words carefully. “He has a double standard for judging criminal behavior. Crimes that arise from passion, weakness, addiction, deprivation, injustice—all those are dealt with severely, often violently. But crimes committed by the police in the name of maintaining order are ignored, even encouraged.”
“For instance?”
“It wouldn’t be unusual for a minority resident who dared to talk back to a cop to be arrested for harassment and jailed for weeks if he wasn’t able to make bail—or beaten within an inch of his life if he of
fered the slightest resistance. But a cop who gets into a confrontation and ends up killing some homeless drug addict suffers zero consequences. I mean zero. Exhibit a human failing Beckert doesn’t like and you’re crushed. But wear a badge and shoot someone at a traffic stop, and you’re barely questioned. That’s the vile—dare I say fascist—culture Beckert has installed in our police department, which he seems to consider his private army.”
Gurney nodded thoughtfully. Under other circumstances, he might have probed Coolidge’s generalizations, but right now he had other priorities.
“Do you know Cory Payne?”
Coolidge hesitated. “Yes. I do.”
“Did you know that he was Beckert’s son?”
“How could I?”
“You tell me.”
Coolidge’s expression hardened. “That sounds like an accusation.”
“Sorry. Just trying to find out as much as I can. What’s your opinion of Payne?”
“People in my line of work hear thousands of confessions. Confessions of every crime imaginable. People bare their souls. Their thoughts. Their motives. Over the years, all those revelations make one a good judge of character. And I’ll tell you this—the notion that Cory Payne murdered two police officers is nonsense. Cory is all talk. Angry, overheated, accusatory—I’ll grant you that—but it’s just talk.”
“The thing is,” said Gurney, “there’s extensive video and fingerprint evidence that he was in the right place at the right time for each shooting. And he fled the scene after each one.”
“If that’s true, there must be an explanation other than the one you’re assuming. The idea that Cory Payne killed anyone in cold blood is ridiculous.”
“You know him well enough to say that?”
“White political progressives in this part of the state are a rare breed. We get to know each other.” Coolidge looked at his watch, frowned, and stood up abruptly. “We’re out of time. I need to get ready for that baptism. Come.”
Gesturing for Gurney to follow him, he led the way out through the churchyard to the parking lot. “Pray for courage and caution,” he said as they reached the Outback.
“An unusual combination.”
“It’s an unusual situation.”
Gurney nodded but made no move to get into his car.
Coolidge looked again at his watch. “Is there something else?”
“I’d like to meet Payne. Is that something you could arrange?”
“So you could arrest him?”
“I have no authority to arrest anyone. I’m a free agent.”
Coolidge gave him a long look. “With no agenda other than gathering information for the wives of the dead officers?”
“That’s right.”
“And you think Cory should trust you?”
“He doesn’t have to trust me. We can talk on the phone. I just have one question for him. What was he doing at those sniper locations if he wasn’t involved?”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” Gurney could easily think of a dozen other questions, but this was no time for complications.
Coolidge nodded uncertainly. “I’ll think about it.”
They shook hands. The man’s large, soft palm felt sweaty.
Gurney looked up at the redbrick edifice. “Saint Thomas the Apostle—wasn’t he the so-called doubting one?”
“He was. But in my humble opinion, he should have been called the sane one.”
31
If doubt was an indication of sanity, Gurney mused as he drove out of the church parking lot, he had an abundance of sanity, and it was a very uncomfortable attribute.
He was filled with questions. Were Coolidge’s statements fact-based conclusions or the reflex expression of his political views? Had Jordan and Tooker been well-meaning solution seekers or had they been running a con job on the rector to gain his approval and an aura of respectability? Was Beckert an evil control freak or a champion of law and order in a pitched battle with criminals and chaos? And then there was Judd Turlock. Was he the tough cop advertised by the set of his jaw, or was he the hit man dwelling behind emotionless eyes? And what about Mark Torres? Were the young detective’s efforts to stay in communication to be taken at face value? Or were they signs of something more manipulative—possibly even an assignment he’d been given?
Thinking of Torres reminded Gurney that he’d received a call from him during his meeting with the rector. He pulled over to the curb on a burned-out street at the edge of Grinton and listened to the message.
“This is Mark. Just wanted to let you know there’s been a setback up in the quarries. I’ll tell you more when we talk.”
Curious to discover if the setback would be throwing yet another aspect of the case into doubt, Gurney returned the call.
Torres sounded apologetic. “The situation is kind of sensitive. I didn’t want to spell it out in a message.”
“What’s the problem?”
“The K9 dog was killed.”
“The one tracking the Gorts?”
“Right. Just below the abandoned quarries.”
“Killed how?”
“A crossbow arrow through the head. Pretty weird. Kind of reminds me of their gate sign.”
Gurney remembered it vividly—the human skull hanging there from a crossbow arrow through an eye socket. As a Keep Out message, it was hard to beat.
“Anything happen to the dog’s handler?”
“No. Just the dog. Arrow came out of nowhere. Another dog is on the way. And a state helicopter with infrared spotting equipment. And a backup assault team.”
“Any official statement to the media?”
“Not a word. They want to keep the lid on—make sure it doesn’t look like things are getting out of control.”
“So the Gorts are still out there with their crossbows and pit bulls and dynamite?”
“Looks that way.”
Torres fell silent, but Gurney had the impression their conversation wasn’t over. “Anything else you want to talk about?”
Torres cleared his throat. “I’m not comfortable suggesting things I have no evidence for.”
“But . . .”
“Well, I guess it’s no secret that Chief Beckert hates the Gorts.”
“And . . .”
“This thing with the dog seems to have tripled it.”
“So?”
“If the Gorts are captured, I have a feeling something will happen. Judd Turlock is going out to the quarries to direct the operation personally.”
“You think the Gorts will be killed? Because of the way Beckert feels about them?”
“I could be wrong.”
“I thought Beckert left the department.”
“He did, technically. Turlock will be acting chief until there’s an official appointment. But the thing is, Turlock always does what Beckert wants. Nobody here believes that’s going to change.”
“That worries you?”
“It always worries me when the face of a situation is different from the truth. A resignation should mean that you’re actually gone. Not just pretending to be gone. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Perfectly.” Not only was an appearance-reality gap a worrisome thing, it was the basic challenge in every investigation—breaking through the shell of a situation to discover what was really there. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
“That’s it for now.”
As Gurney ended the call he noted that he still had one message he hadn’t listened to yet—from Dr. Walter Thrasher. Now, while he was still parked, was as good a time as any.
“David, this is Walt Thrasher. Based on what you’ve found so far, that excavation of yours may turn out to be of considerable historical interest. I’d like your permission to probe the area further. Please get back to me as soon as you can.”
Whatever it was that might be of interest to Thrasher was at that moment of little int
erest to Gurney. But a phone conversation with the ME could provide an opportunity to address other subjects.
He placed the call.
The man answered on the first ring. “Thrasher.”
“I got your message. About the dig.”
“Ah, yes. The dig. I’d like to scrape around a bit, see what’s there.”
“Are you looking for something in particular?”
“Yes. But I’d rather not say what—not yet, anyway.”
“Something of value?”
“Not in the normal sense. No buried treasure.”
“Why all the secrecy?”
“I hate speculation. I have a fondness for hard evidence.”
That was, Gurney thought, as good an opening as he was likely to get. “Speaking of evidence, when do you expect to get your tox screens on Jordan and Tooker back from the lab?”
“I emailed the report to Turlock yesterday afternoon.”
“To Turlock?”
“He’s still the CIO on that case, is he not?”
“Yes, he is,” said Gurney confidently, trying not to expose any out-of-the-loop uncertainty. “He’ll probably forward your report to the DA’s office, and I’ll get a copy from Sheridan. Is there anything I should pay special attention to?”
“I report facts. Prioritizing them is up to you.”
“And the facts in this instance are . . .”
“Alcohol, midazolam, propofol.”
“Propofol . . . as in the Michael Jackson OD?”
“Correct.”
“Propofol’s administered intravenously, right?”
“Right.”
“I didn’t think it was commonly available on the street.”
“It’s not. It would be a tricky substance for the average addict to deal with.”
“How so?”
“It’s a powerful sedative with a narrow therapeutic window.”
“Meaning?”
“The recommended dosage level is relatively close to the level of toxicity.”
“So it’s easy to OD on it?”