“But how do you fit into this?” He flashed an anxious politician’s smile. “David, never in my career have I encountered a greater need to marshal all our available resources. I’m talking about brains—the right kind of brains. The need to understand the angles. See around the corners. I don’t want to get blindsided because we didn’t look into things closely enough.”
“You think Beckert’s department might not be up to the job?”
“No, nothing like that. You won’t hear any criticism of Beckert from me. The man’s a law-and-order icon. Hell of a record of achievement.” He paused. “There’s even a rumor about a run in the special election for state attorney general. Nothing definite, of course.” Another pause. “He could be the perfect candidate, though. Right image. Right connections. Not everyone knows this, he certainly doesn’t advertise it himself, but his current wife happens to be the governor’s cousin. Right man in the right place at the right time.”
“Assuming that everything goes well. Or at least that nothing goes terribly wrong.”
“That goes without saying.”
“So what exactly do you want from me?”
“Your investigative instincts. Your nose for the truth. You’re very good at what you do. Your NYPD homicide record speaks for itself.”
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.”