Читать книгу White River Burning - John Verdon - Страница 16

Tranquility, unfortunately, was not his natural state of mind. During several hours of fitful sleep his innate brain chemistry reasserted itself, bringing with it the low-level anxiety and uneasy dreams to which he was accustomed.

At some point during those hours he awoke briefly, discovering that the rain had stopped, a full moon had appeared behind the thinning clouds, and the coyotes had begun to howl. He went back to sleep.

Another round of howling, closer to the house, woke him once more—from a dream in which Trish Gelter was ambling around a white cube in a field of daffodils. Each time she circled the cube she announced, “I’m the fun one.” A blood-covered man was following her.

Gurney tried to clear the image from his mind and doze off again, but the persistent howling and the need to go to the bathroom finally got him out of bed. He showered, shaved, put on his jeans and an old NYPD tee shirt, and went to the kitchen to make himself some breakfast.

By the time he’d finished his eggs, toast, and two cups of coffee, the sun was rising above the pine-topped eastern ridge. When he opened the French doors to let in the morning air, he could hear the chickens making their morning clucking noises out in the coop by the apple tree. He stepped onto the patio and for a while watched the goldfinches and chickadees visiting the feeders that Madeleine had set up next to the asparagus patch. His gaze moved across the low pasture to the barn, the pond, and the site of his exploratory dig.

When he’d discovered the buried foundation—accidentally, while clearing large rocks from the trail above the pond—and had exposed enough of it to get a sense of its antiquity, it had occurred to him that he might invite Dr. Walter Thrasher to have a look. In addition to being county medical examiner, Thrasher was an avid historian and collector of Colonial artifacts. At the time, Gurney had wavered on whether to involve him, but now he was inclined to do so. The man’s insights into the remains of the old house could be interesting, and having a personal avenue of access to him might prove useful if Gurney decided to accept Kline’s invitation to step into the White River investigation.

He went back into the house, got his phone, and returned to the patio. He scrolled through his list of numbers, found Thrasher’s, and tapped on it. The call went to voicemail. The recorded announcement was nearly as short as Hardwick’s. Rather than gruff, though, the tone was refined. It invited the caller to simply leave a name and number, but Gurney decided to include some details.

“Dr. Thrasher, this is Dave Gurney. We met when you were the medical examiner on the Mellery homicide. Someone mentioned then that you were an expert on the Colonial history and archaeology of upstate New York. I’m calling because I’ve uncovered a site on my property that may date back to the eighteenth century. There are a variety of artifacts—a flesher tool, ebony-handled knife, iron chain links. Plus possible human remains—a child’s teeth, if I’m not mistaken. If you’d like to know more about this, you can reach me on my cell anytime.” Gurney added his number and ended the call.

“Are you talking to someone out there?”

He turned and saw Madeleine at the French doors. Her slacks-and-blazer outfit reminded him it was one of her workdays at the mental health clinic.

“I was on the phone.”

“I thought maybe Gerry had arrived. She’s picking me up today.”

She stepped out onto the patio, raising her face into the slanting morning sunlight. “I hate the idea of being cooped up in an office on a day like this.”

“You don’t have to be cooped up anywhere. We have enough money to—”

She cut him off. “I don’t mean it that way. I just wish we could see our clients outdoors in weather like this. It would be better for them, too. Fresh air. Green grass. Blue sky. Good for the soul.” She cocked her head. “I think I hear Gerry coming up the hill.”

A few moments later, as a yellow VW Beetle made its way up the weedy lane through the low pasture, she added, “You’re going to let the chickens out, right?”

“I’ll get to it.”

She ignored the edge in his voice, kissed him, and headed out past the asparagus patch just as her exuberant fellow therapist, Geraldine Mirkle, lowered her car window and cried, “Andiamo! The maniacs await us!” She winked at Gurney. “I’m referring to the staff!”

He watched as they drove, bumpily, through the pasture, around the barn, and out of sight onto the town road.

He sighed. That resistance in his response to Madeleine’s chicken reminder was childish. A silly way of trying to be in control when there was no reason for delay. His first wife had complained that he was a control freak. In his early twenties he couldn’t see it. But now it was obvious. Madeleine generally had no reaction to it other than amusement, which made it feel even more childish.

He went out to the henhouse and opened the little door into the fenced-in run. He tossed some commercial chicken feed, corn kernels, and sunflower seeds onto the ground, and the four hens came running out and started pecking at it. He stood there for a moment observing them. He doubted he would ever be as fascinated by them as Madeleine was.

A few minutes before nine he sat down at the breakfast table, opened his laptop, and went to the “Live Stream” section of the RAM website. As he was waiting for the promised press conference to begin, his phone rang. The number on the screen was vaguely familiar.

“Gurney here.”

“This is Walter Thrasher. You’ve discovered something of historical importance?”

“Your judgment on that would be sounder than mine. Would you be interested in taking a look at the site?”

“Did you say something about teeth? And a black-handled knife?”

“Among other things. Pieces of chains, hinges, a glass jar.”

“Pre-Revolution?”

“I think so. The foundation is Dutch-style laid stone.”

“Not dispositive by itself. I’ll take a look. Tomorrow. Early morning. That work for you?”

“I can make it work.”

“See you then, assuming nobody else on my turf gets shot in the meantime.”

Thrasher ended the call first, with no good-bye.

As the RAM news anchor was announcing that the press conference was about to begin, a line of bold type crawled across the bottom of the screen:

OFFICIALS REVEAL SHOCKING NEW DEVELOPMENTS

The scene shifted from the anchor, with her hybrid expression of steadiness and concern, to three conservatively suited men at a table facing the camera. In front of each was a tent card bearing his name and title. Mayor Shucker, Chief Beckert, District Attorney Kline.

Gurney’s attention was drawn to Beckert, a casting director’s fast-tracked Marine general. In his midforties, lean and square-jawed with an unblinking gaze, salt-and-pepper hair in a crisp military crew cut, he was the group’s clear center of gravity.

Mayor Shucker was a corpulent man with pudgy lips, suspicious eyes, and a comb-over dyed the color of rust.

Kline, on the other side of Beckert, looked more conflicted than ever. The determined set of his mouth was belied every few seconds by tiny tremors that reminded Gurney, rather fancifully, of those minuscule vibrations along the San Andreas Fault that create shimmers of unease on the surface of still water.

CRISIS UPDATE began to flash repeatedly on the screen, and the camera moved in on Beckert. When the blinking phrase disappeared, he began to speak. His voice was clear, dry, unaccented. There was also something familiar about it that Gurney couldn’t quite place.

“One hour ago the White River Police Department Special Weapons and Tactics Unit carried out a successful assault on the headquarters of the Black Defense Alliance. Pursuant to appropriate warrants, the premises have been secured and are currently being searched. Files, computers, phones, and other potential evidentiary materials are being gathered for forensic examination. Fourteen individuals have been arrested at the location on charges including felony assault, harassment, obstruction, drug possession, and weapons violations. This process is being conducted pursuant to our receipt of credible information regarding the shooting death of patrol officer John Steele. Be assured that our full investigatory resources are being applied to the apprehension of those responsible for the heinous murder of one of White River’s finest officers, a man who earned my deepest respect and admiration.” He lowered his head for a respectful moment before going on.

“I have an important request. Two high-ranking members of the BDA organization, Marcel Jordan and Virgil Tooker, were observed leaving the Willard Park demonstration just half an hour prior to the shooting of Officer Steele. We are eager to ascertain their whereabouts at the time of the shooting. We also have reason to believe that these same individuals slipped away from BDA headquarters prior to this morning’s raid. It’s vital that we find these two men. If you know where they are, or have information that could lead us to them, please call us anytime, day or night.”

An 800 number began flashing on the screen next to the words POLICE HOTLINE as Beckert continued, “This savage attack on civilized society will be met with all necessary force. We will not allow jungle law to triumph. We will do whatever it takes to end this anarchy. I promise you—order will prevail.”

Concluding with a gaze of fierce determination, Beckert turned toward Shucker.

“Mayor, you have a few words for us?”

Shucker blinked, looked down at a sheet of paper in his hands, then back up at the camera. “First, Mrs. Steele, my condolences for this tragedy.” He looked down again at the paper. “Those who set out to terrify our community with wanton violence and attack the heroes who protect us are the worst kind of criminals. Their reprehensible acts must be halted to restore peace to our wonderful city. Our prayers go out to the Steele family and to White River’s brave protectors.” He folded his sheet of paper and looked up. “God bless America!”

Beckert turned toward Kline. “Sheridan?”

The district attorney spoke with iron resolve. “Nothing challenges the rule of law like an attack on the men and women sworn to uphold it. My office is applying the full weight of its resources to a thorough investigation, the discovery of the truth, and the achievement of justice for the Steele family and for our whole community.”

The video cut to the female news anchor. “Thank you, gentlemen. Now we go to our follow-up questions from the RAM Issue Analysis Team.” The video cut back to the three men at the table as questions were posed by off-camera voices.

First Male Voice: “Chief Beckert, are you suggesting that Jordan and Tooker are the prime suspects in the sniper shooting?”

Beckert replied expressionlessly: “They’re definitely persons of interest in our investigation.”

Second Male Voice: “Do you consider them fugitives?”

Beckert, in the same flat tone: “We have a high degree of interest in finding them, they have not come forward, and their whereabouts are currently unknown.”

First Female Voice: “Do you have evidence of their involvement in the shooting?”

Beckert: “As I said, we have a high degree of interest in finding them. We are focusing significant resources on that objective.”

Same Female Voice: “Do you think Jordan and Tooker were tipped off prior to the raid?”

Beckert: “A reasonable person might reach that conclusion.”

First Male Voice: “What’s your plan for addressing the ongoing chaos? Fires are still breaking out in the Grinton area.”

Beckert: “Our plan is full-force pushback. We will not tolerate disorder or anyone who threatens disorder. For anyone tempted to use political protest as a cover for looting, burning, hear this: I have instructed my officers to use lethal force wherever necessary to protect the lives of our law-abiding citizens.”

Another male voice asked Chief Beckert if his SWAT team had encountered armed resistance by BDA members. He replied that weapons were present during the operation and more facts would be released after the filing of formal charges.

The same voice asked if injuries had been sustained on either side of the confrontation. As Beckert was giving another “more information later” nonanswer, Gurney noted the time on his computer screen. It was nine fifteen, meaning he needed to leave for his nine thirty meeting with Hardwick. Although he was curious about what might be revealed during the remainder of the press conference, he knew RAM programming was routinely archived for later viewing. He closed his laptop, grabbed his phone, and headed for the Outback.