Читать книгу White River Burning - John Verdon - Страница 24

As they waited for Beckert and Turlock, the members of the critical situation management team were in the same seats they’d been in the previous day, but the mood in the room was markedly different. There was no idle talk—in fact, no talk at all.

Gurney’s mind was seesawing between his promise to reconsider his involvement with Kline and this tectonic shift in the nature of the situation.

Dwayne Shucker’s eyes were closed, but the tiny tics playing at his eyelids belied any sense of restfulness. Goodson Cloutz’s mouth was drawn into a tight line. Sheridan Kline’s fingers were drumming lightly on the table. Mark Torres was focused on getting his laptop communicating with the screen on the wall above Cloutz’s head. Gurney was struck not so much by everyone’s discomfort, but by their apparent unwillingness to say a word before Beckert delivered his own view of the situation.

At precisely 2:00 PM Beckert and Turlock strode into the room and took their seats. If the murder of two men Beckert had wrongly implied were cop killers had any effect on his self-confidence, it wasn’t obvious. Turlock looked about as concerned as a sledgehammer.

Beckert glanced at Torres’s computer. “You have that ready?”

“Yes, sir.” Torres tapped a key, and the screen on the wall displayed the words WILLARD PARK CRIME SCENE.

“Just hold it there for a minute. I want to say a few words about perspective. At noon today I was interviewed by RAM News. Just before the camera started recording, the reporter made a comment to me. ‘This new development changes everything, doesn’t it?’ It wasn’t really a question. It was an assumption. A dangerous one. And a false one. What happened last night in Willard Park, far from changing everything, simply narrows our focus.”

The mayor’s eyes were wide open. The sheriff was leaning forward, as if he’d misheard something. Beckert went on. “We know from our source that three individuals may have been involved in the plot to murder Officer Steele. Two of those conspirators, Jordan and Tooker, provided an alibi covering the time of the shooting. All this means is that the third member of the conspiracy was probably the actual shooter. From a messaging perspective, the focus of our search has been narrowed. Not changed. Even more important, when mentioning Jordan and Tooker, avoid the word ‘innocent.’ There are many ways to be guilty of murder. Pulling a trigger is only one of them.”

The sheriff was moistening his lips. “I do admire your way with words, Dell.”

Kline looked uneasy. “Do we know anything more about this third man?”

“Our source is working on that.”

“Are they willing to get on the stand, if it comes to that?”

“One step at a time, Sheridan. Right now, the priority is information. And so far the information from this source has been pure gold. If I mentioned testifying publicly, it would evaporate.”

Kline didn’t seem surprised by the answer.

“One more point regarding the Willard Park incident,” said Beckert. “It’s important to avoid incendiary phrases. Let’s agree right now on the proper wording. These two individuals were found dead, details to be determined by autopsy. Do not refer to them as having been beaten to death.”

Frown lines creased the mayor’s fleshy face. “But if that’s what happened . . . ?”

Beckert explained patiently. “Found dead is neutral. Beaten to death is emotionally charged in a way that could exacerbate the situation on the street. We can’t prevent the media from using the term, but we should definitely not encourage it.”

Some puzzlement lingered in the mayor’s expression, and Beckert went on. “It’s the description of an event that the public actually absorbs, the images and emotions conveyed by the words, not the event itself. Words matter.”

“You’re talking about spin?”

Beckert frowned. “That term minimizes its importance. Spin isn’t the icing on the cake. It’s the cake. Messaging is everything. It’s politics, Dwayne. And politics is no small thing.”

Shucker nodded with the dawning grin of a man seeing the light.

Beckert turned toward Torres. “Okay, bring us up to date.”

“Yes, sir. At seven ten this morning our 911 center received a call from a local citizen walking his dog—reporting the discovery of two bodies in Willard Park. The 911 center contacted White River PD, and mobile patrol officers were dispatched to the location. First officer on the scene conducted a prelim interview with the caller, observed and confirmed the facts, secured the site, and reported to the duty sergeant, who notified Deputy Chief Turlock, who notified me. Upon arrival, I contacted our evidence unit, the ME’s office, and the photographer who—”

Kline interrupted. “You checked the bodies for signs of life?”

“Yes, sir, as part of my initial observations. As additional mobile patrol units arrived I enlisted their support in taping the scene perimeter. When the evidence officer arrived, I assigned three patrol officers to assist him in a wide-area cross-grid search. I ordered the remaining patrol units to close off vehicular and pedestrian access to the vicinity.”

The mayor looked worried. “How big a vicinity?”

“About fifty acres in the no-go zone, but the evidence search is currently concentrated in two or three acres.”

“How about the media vultures?”

“They’re subject to the same no-go zone as the general public.”

“I hate them bastards.”

“They can be difficult, but we’re keeping them at bay.”

That got Gurney’s attention. “They showed up at the site this morning?”

“Yes, sir. First thing. As we were setting up our perimeter tapes.”

“Your initial communication regarding the incident—it occurred by phone or radio?”

“By phone, sir.”

“Interesting.”

Beckert’s gaze rested on Gurney for a moment before he turned back to Torres. “Let’s move on to your crime-scene assessment.”

“Yes, sir. It will be clearer if I begin with the photographs and video I just received from Paul Aziz.”

The sheriff raised his head like a hound catching a scent. “Azeeez? I thought Scotty Maclinter did our forensic photos.”

“That’s correct, sir, but he suffered an injury last night at the VFW. He’s in the hospital.”

“What kinda injury?”

“He fell down the stairs on his way to the men’s room.”

“Hah. I do believe the boy’s done that before. Be advisable in future for him to pee in the parking lot. Meantime, who’s this Aziz?”

“One of our dispatchers, who also happens to be a professional photographer. He filled in for Officer Maclinter once before. Excellent work.”

“Hell kinda name’s Aziz?”

“I’m not sure, sir. Possibly Jordanian or Syrian?”

“Well, ain’t that somethin’? Seems like our country’s gettin’ more and more of them kind of people.”

Gurney was taken aback by Cloutz’s obnoxious tone and depressed by the thought that it was probably a key part of what got him elected.

Torres, after an unpleasant glance in Cloutz’s direction, returned to his presentation. “Paul provided us with more than we need for the purpose of documenting the crime scene, but his video coverage of possible approach and departure paths from the location of the bodies could be useful. And it shows the visual limitations of the weather conditions.”

Kline frowned. “What limitations?”

“Fog. Began around midnight. Didn’t clear up till around ten this morning. You can see for yourself in this opening segment of the video.” Torres tapped a computer key and pointed to the monitor on the wall.

At first, all that was visible was the fog itself, a formless gray mass that seemed to be moving in slow motion past the camera. As the dark branches of nearby trees began to emerge from the murky background on both sides of the screen, it became evident that the camera operator was proceeding along a heavily wooded trail. Gurney thought he could hear footsteps and the sound of someone breathing. As he leaned forward to listen more carefully, he was startled by a sudden high-pitched shriek.

“Jesus!” said Kline. “What the hell . . .”

“Blackbirds,” said Torres. “Paul was recording audio along with the video.”

“Damn things,” said the sheriff. “On that twisty little trail that touches the south corner of the lake, am I right?”

The mayor frowned. “How’d you know that?”

“I’m blind, I ain’t deaf. Fact I hear better’n most. The wife takes me for walks on that trail sometimes, knowin’ I hate the screamin’ of them damn birds. I been tryin’ to get Clifford Merganthaller to exterminate them in pursuit of peace and quiet. For an animal control officer, he’s woefully unwillin’ to exert any control at all. Boy’s ’bout as useless as them damn birds that don’t do nothin’ but scream and shit.”

The mayor leaned forward. “Glory be to God, you can hear them shit?”

“Don’t need to hear ’em doin’ what I know they’re doin’. Every livin’ bein’ shits. Some of ’em a hell of a lot more ’n others.” The antic observation had a nasty undertone.

Beckert glanced at Torres. “Let’s move this along.”

“We’re coming up to the place where the trail comes out into the clearing.”

The shrieks of the birds on the audio track were growing more insistent.

Out of the dark constriction of the trail, the screen now displayed an open area where the fog had thinned enough for Gurney to make out a wide expanse of lakeside reeds and a shedlike building. As the camera moved forward he was able to read a sign on the building listing hourly rates for kayak rentals.

The black form of a bird swooped through the camera’s field of view.

As the camera moved on, the ghostlike shapes of playground equipment began to come into view—a tall slide, a pair of seesaws, the angled braces of a swing set, and finally the geometrical structure of a large jungle gym.

Gurney could feel his chest tightening in anticipation of what he was about to see. No matter how many times he’d come upon it in his career, the sight of violent death always jarred him.

This time was no exception.

As the camera panned slowly across the front of the jungle gym, the bodies of the two victims were gradually revealed. They were tied to the structure in standing positions, side by side—secured in place by ropes around their legs, stomachs, and necks. Both men were African American. Both were stripped naked. Both bodies showed obvious signs of having been beaten. Their faces were swollen, their expressions grotesque. Between the feet of one there appeared to be a deposit of feces.

“Christ Almighty,” murmured Shucker.

Kline’s lips drew back in revulsion.

Turlock was gazing at the screen with icy detachment.

Beckert turned to Torres, who was looking sick. “Who has custody of this material?”

“Sir?”

“This video and whatever still shots were taken of the bodies—who has possession of the original digital files?”

“I do.”

“In what form?”

“The memory chips from the cameras Paul used.”

“Did he make copies?”

“I don’t think so. He warned me not to lose the chips.”

“If one frame of that leaks onto the internet, we’ll have a race war on our hands.”

“I’m aware of the risk, sir.”

“We’ll come back to that,” said Beckert. “Let’s move on to the details.”

“Right.” Torres took a deep breath and continued. “Our initial inspection of the victims revealed livor mortis. We left both bodies in situ, pending the ME’s—”

Shucker interrupted him. “That the same as what they call rigor mortis?”

“No, sir. Rigor refers to the stiffening of the deceased’s muscles, usually two or three hours after death. Livor mortis occurs sooner. It refers to the pooling of the blood in the lowest parts of the body, once the heart stops beating. In this case it was observable in their feet.” He tapped a computer key several times, scrolling rapidly through a series of photos and stopping when the screen showed a close-up of the victims’ legs from the knees down. The skin tone was brown except on the feet, where it was a dark purple. There were bruises on the shins and abrasions on the ankles.

Shucker’s expression suggested he’d been given more information than he’d wanted.

Torres continued. “In a few minutes, we’ll come back to some marks on the feet that could be very significant. But first we’ll proceed in the normal order of our victim close-ups, starting at the head and working our way down.”

Displaying photos of both men in a split-screen format as he spoke, he pointed out numerous contusions on their faces, torsos, and legs. His voice was tight with an apparent effort to control his distress—but the details of his commentary were vivid enough to provoke a response from the blind sheriff.

“It does sound like them boys truly got the shit beat out of them.” To say his tone was uncaring would overestimate its warmth.

Torres stared at him. He tapped a key and brought up a final pair of photos on the split screen—closeup shots of the soles of the victims’ feet.

Kline leaned forward. “Jesus, what on God’s earth . . . ?”

Turlock gazed at the screen with no more reaction than a boulder.

A frown darkened Beckert’s face—a cloud passing over Mount Rushmore.

The mayor looked confused and worried.

Burned deeply into the sole of each victim’s left foot were three capital letters, a grotesque monogram. It brought to Gurney’s mind an image from an old Western—red-hot letters on the end of a branding iron, smoking and hissing into the side of a steer.

KRS