A black macadam road, bordered by chain-link fences topped with razor wire, extended out from the police headquarters to another colorless brick building, several times larger but with narrower windows. A black-and-white sign identified it as the Haldon C. Eppert Detention Center, official name of the county lockup. Looming on a rise a few hundred yards beyond it were the massive concrete wall and guard towers of what Gurney recognized as the White River Correctional Facility, the state prison named after its city host. With this bleak tableau serving as a backdrop for the man at the center of the table, it occurred to Gurney that if someone in a fanciful moment should consider those incarceration facilities as a kind of hell, then Beckert had positioned himself as hell’s gatekeeper.
“To keep us on track we have an agenda.” Beckert reached into his briefcase and pulled out some papers. Turlock passed one to each man at the table. Beckert added, “Orderly process is important—especially when we’re confronting an insane level of disorder.”
Gurney scanned the terse list of topics. It was orderly, but revealed little.
“We’ll start with the RAM-CAM videos from the Willard Park homicide site,” said Beckert. “The digital files are being—”
He stopped at the sound of hurried footsteps in the corridor. A moment later a slim, young Hispanic man entered the room, nodded apologetically all around, and took a seat at the table between Gurney and the sheriff. Turlock slid a copy of the agenda across the table, which the young man examined with a thoughtful frown. Gurney extended his hand to him.
“I’m Dave Gurney, with the DA’s office.”
“I know.” He smiled, looking more like an earnest college kid than the chief investigating officer on a major homicide. “I’m Mark Torres. White River PD.”
With a flicker of irritation, Beckert continued, “The original digital files are being enhanced at the forensic computer lab. These will serve our purposes for now.”
He nodded at Turlock, who tapped a few icons on a small tablet computer. A large video monitor high on the wall behind the sheriff came to life.
The first segment of the video was a longer version of the clip Gurney had seen at Marv and Trish Gelter’s house. The extra length consisted of several minutes of additional footage prior to the actual shooting—the period during which Officer Steele was walking back and forth on the sidewalk at the edge of the park, his attention on the crowd. At the side of the crowd, as if preparing to charge into it on his great stone horse, was the larger-than-life statue of Colonel Ezra Willard.
Perhaps because there was less distraction here than at the Gelters’, or because this portion of the video was longer, Gurney noticed something he’d originally missed—a tiny red dot moving on the back of Steele’s head. The dot followed Steele for at least two minutes prior to the fatal shot, stopping when he stopped, moving with him when he moved, centering itself on the base of his skull just below the edge of his protective helmet. The fact that it was obviously the projected dot of a rifle’s laser sight gave Gurney a sick feeling.
Then the bullet struck, knocking Steele facedown onto the sidewalk. Even though Gurney knew it was coming, he flinched. The reassuring words of a wise man he’d once known came back to him:
At a gesture from Beckert, Turlock stopped the video and switched off the monitor.
The silence in the room was broken by Mayor Shucker. “The damage being done to the businesspeople of this city by that damn RAM-CAM video is just awful. They run the damn thing over and over. Makes our little city look like a war zone. A place to avoid. We have restaurants, B and Bs, the museum, kayak rentals—the tourist season about to start, and not a damn customer in sight. This media thing is killing us.”
Beckert showed no reaction. He looked toward the opposite end of the table. “Goodson? I know the video’s already been described to you in detail. Comments?”
Cloutz fingered his white cane with an unpleasant smile. “I do appreciate Shucks’s business concerns. Natural for a man invested in the economy of the city to feel that way. On the other hand, I do see some value in givin’ folks around the state a glimpse of the barbarian shit we’re facin’ here. Folks need to see it to appreciate the steps we need to take.”
Gurney thought he detected a nod of agreement from Beckert. “Other comments?”
Kline shook his head. “Not at the moment.”
“How about our new investigator?”
Gurney shrugged, his voice casual. “Why do you think it took the shooter so long?”
Beckert frowned. “Long?”
“The dot from the laser sight was on Steele’s head for quite a while.”
