“The playground murders were carefully planned and executed. They required knowledge of the victims’ movements, a flawless double kidnapping, and the sophisticated administration of propofol. And Thrasher told me the tox screens on the victims included not only propofol but alcohol and benzodiazepines. That suggests a scenario that began with a friendly meeting over a few drinks—something I can’t imagine occurring between the BDA leaders and the Gorts.”
“What about the evidence they keep talking about on TV—the rope they found in the Gorts’ compound, and the computer drive with the KRS website elements on it?”
“Both could have been as easily planted as the items they’re trying to hang Cory with.”
“Christ, if we had to exclude every piece of evidence that
Gurney said nothing.
Hardwick stared at him. “This fixation you have on Beckert—what’s that really based on, besides his crazy son blaming him for everything?”
“Just a feeling at this point. Which is why I want to find out everything I can about the man’s history. A few minutes ago you alluded to Turlock’s juvie legal problem when he was in school with Beckert. Were you able to find out anything more about that?”
Hardwick paused. When he finally spoke, his tone had become less argumentative. “Maybe something, maybe nothing. I called the Bayard-Whitson Academy and got the headmaster’s assistant. I told her I was interested in speaking with any staff members who’d been at the school thirty years ago. She wanted to know why. I said that one of their eminent graduates, Dell Beckert, who was a student at that time, could be the next New York State attorney general—and that I was writing an article about him for a journalism course I was taking, and I’d love to be able to include the perspective of any of his teachers who might be willing to share an anecdote or two.”
“She bought this?”
“She did. In fact, after a little more back-and-forth, she told me that she had been there herself, as assistant to the previous headmaster, when Beckert was a student.”
“She say anything about him?”
“Yep. Cold, calculating, clever, ambitious. Was awarded ‘Top Cadet’ distinction in every one of his four years there.”
“He must have made a big impression on her for it to last thirty years.”
“Judd Turlock apparently made a bigger one. When I mentioned his name, there was total silence. I thought the call was cut off. She finally said she had no desire to talk about Turlock, because in all her time at Bayard he was the only student who’d made her feel uneasy. I asked if she knew of any trouble he’d gotten into, and there was another dead silence. Then she told me to hang on a minute. When she came back to the phone she gave me an address in Pennsylvania. She said it belonged to a detective by the name of Merle Tabor. Said if anyone could tell me anything about the incident involving Turlock, it would be Merle.”
“The
“No. My mention of Turlock pretty much shut her down. Seemed like after she gave me that address, she just wanted to get off the phone.”
“Quite a reaction after thirty years.”
Hardwick picked up his coffee mug and took a long swallow. “There’s something unnerving about the Turd. He tends to stick in the mind.”
“Interesting. You plan to follow up with Merle Tabor?”
“Hell, no. According to the school lady, Merle’s an off-the-grid kind of guy. No phone, no email, no computer, no electricity. You can pay him a visit and find out for yourself, if the spirit moves you. Probably no more than a four-hour trip, assuming you don’t get lost in the woods.”
Hardwick pulled a scrap of notepaper out of his pocket and slid it across the table. There was an address of sorts scrawled on it in his nearly indecipherable handwriting—BLACK MOUNTAIN HOLLOW, PARKSTON, PA. “Who knows? Couple of old retired farts like you might hit it off. Merle could end up handing you the key to the whole goddamn mess.”
It was clear from his tone that he considered such an outcome unlikely. Gurney saw no reason to disagree.
After Hardwick roared off in his eco-hostile muscle car, Gurney stayed at Abelard’s for a little while to finish his coffee and organize the rest of his day.
Merle Tabor had suddenly become the elephant in the room, and despite Gurney’s mixed feelings about the usefulness of a visit to Black Mountain Hollow, he found it impossible to dismiss. He took out his phone and went to a Google satellite view of Parkston, Pennsylvania. There wasn’t much to see. The place appeared to be a crossroads in the middle of nowhere. He typed in “Black Mountain Hollow” and discovered that it was a narrow dirt road proceeding from a county route three miles up into the hills. There was one house on it, at the very end.
