Kilbrick nodded grimly. “On the other hand, Cory Payne, son of the mysteriously missing police chief, was very forthcoming with his own view of the situation.”
“You can say that again, Stacey! I overheard your interview with him, and that young man certainly doesn’t pull his punches. Let’s show our viewers what we’re talking about.”
The scene shifted to the simple setting in which Gurney recalled seeing Kronck interviewing Kline. The most conspicuous difference now was the camera being positioned to include the interviewer’s short red skirt and long, shapely legs.
Payne appeared somewhat academic in a brown tweed sport jacket, a pale-blue shirt open at the neck, and tan slacks. His hair was still pulled back in a ponytail, but it looked more carefully combed than Gurney remembered. His face looked freshly shaved.
“What are you watching?”
Madeleine’s voice behind him at the den door surprised him. He hadn’t heard her come in.
“Cory Payne. Being interviewed. On that NewsBreakers program.”
She pulled a second chair over to the desk and peered intently at the screen.
Kilbrick was resting a clipboard and a pen on her crossed legs. She leaned forward with an expression of painful earnestness. “Welcome to NewsBreakers, Cory. I appreciate your coming here today. You’ve been at the center of the most disturbing criminal case I’ve ever encountered as a journalist. Among other horrible events, your own father accused you of murder on national television. I can’t imagine how that must have felt. We sometimes use the term ‘worst moment of my life’ loosely. But in this instance, would you say that was true?”
“No.”
“No?” Kilbrick blinked, evidently nonplussed.
“It was the most infuriating,” explained Payne, “but far from the worst.”
“Well . . . that does raise an obvious question.”
He waited for her to ask it.
“Tell us, Cory, what was the worst moment of your life?”
“The moment at boarding school when I was told that my mother had died. That was the worst. Nothing has ever come close to that.”
Kilbrick consulted her clipboard. “That was when you were fourteen?”
“Yes.”
“Your father was already prominent in law enforcement at that time. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And he made a number of public statements blaming illegal drugs, specifically heroin, for her death.” She looked up from her clipboard. “Was that true?”
Payne’s gaze turned icy. “As true as blaming a rope for the death of a hanged man.”
Kilbrick looked excited. “Interesting answer. Could you expand on that?”
“Heroin is just a thing. Like a rope. Or a bullet.”
“Are you saying there was more to your mother’s death than a simple overdose?”
Payne spoke softly. “I’m saying that he killed her.”
“Your father killed your mother?”
“Yes.”
“With drugs?”
“Yes.”
Kilbrick looked stunned. “Why?”
“For the same reason he killed John Steele, Rick Loomis, Marcel Jordan, Virgil Tooker, Blaze Jackson, Chalise Creel, and Judd Turlock.”
She stared at him.
“They threatened his future, the way he wanted things to turn out.”
“Threatened all of that . . . how?”
“They knew things about him.”
“What did they know?”
“That he wasn’t what he seemed to be. That he was dishonest, cruel, manipulative. That he extorted confessions, tampered with evidence, and destroyed people’s lives to build his own reputation. To ensure his own security. To prove to himself how powerful he was. He was a truly evil man. A killer. A monster.”
Kilbrick was staring at him now in amazement. She looked down at her clipboard, then back at him. “You said . . . I believe . . . that he killed Judd Turlock?”
“Yes.”
“The information we have from the DA’s office is that the Gort brothers are being sought in connection with the Turlock homicide.”
“My father has always used other people to do his dirty work. The Gorts were convenient tools for dealing with Turlock.”
“We were told that Judd Turlock was your father’s longtime friend. Why would—”
Payne cut her off. “Longtime tool and strong-arm man. Not friend. He had no friends. Friendship requires caring about another human being. My father never cared about anyone but himself. If you want to know why he would have arranged for Turlock to be killed, the answer is simple. He outlived his usefulness.”
Kilbrick nodded, glancing up out of the frame as though checking the time. “This has been . . . remarkable. I have no more questions. Is there anything you’d like to add before we wrap this up?”
“Yes.” He looked directly into the camera. “I want to thank Detective David Gurney with all my heart and soul. He was the one who saw through the framework of false evidence that made it look as though I’d killed those two police officers. Without his insight and persistence, the world might never have known the truth about Dell Beckert, the truth of what he is and what he always was. A destroyer of lives. A controlling monster, a corrupter, a killer. I want to thank Detective Gurney for the truth, and I want the world to know that I owe him my life.”
Gurney grimaced.
The scene shifted back to the studio news desk.
Kronck turned to Kilbrick. “Wow, Stacey, astounding interview!”
“Payne certainly had a lot to say, and he wasn’t shy about saying it.”
“I noticed the name David Gurney came up again—in a very favorable way—just like it did in my interview with Sheridan Kline.”
Kilbrick nodded. “I noticed that, too. And you know what I’m thinking right now? It’s kind of a wild possibility . . . but I’m thinking David Gurney might be a great choice for our next attorney general. What do you think?”
“I think that’s a fabulous idea!”
“Okay!” said Kilbrick, smiling, turning to the camera. “Stay with us. Our next guest—”
Gurney closed the video window and turned to Madeleine. “I have a creepy feeling that Gelter is using Kilbrick and Kronck to push his AG idea.”
“You think he has that kind of influence at RAM-TV?”
“I suspect he may own it.”
53
The weather the following morning matched Gurney’s mood—gray and unsettled. Restless breezes kept changing direction, pushing the asparagus ferns this way and that. Even Madeleine seemed at odds. A mottled overcast was obscuring the sun, and Gurney was surprised to see by the old regulator clock on the kitchen wall that it was already past nine. As they were finishing their oatmeal, Madeleine frowned and tilted her head toward the French doors.
“What is it?” he asked. His hearing was normal, but hers was extraordinary and she was usually aware of approaching sounds before he was.
“Someone’s coming.”
He opened the doors and soon he heard it—a vehicle coming up the town road. As he watched, a large SUV came into view. It slowed and came to a stop between the barn and the pond. When he went out on the patio for a clearer view he saw that it was a dark-green Range Rover, its polish glistening even in the sunless light.
The driver emerged, a solid-looking man in a blue blazer and gray slacks. He opened the rear door, and a woman stepped out. She was wearing a khaki jacket, riding breeches, and knee-high boots. She stood there for a few moments, looking around at the fields and woods and up across the pasture to the Gurney house. After lighting a cigarette, she and her driver got back in the big green vehicle.