The sheriff cleared his throat. “Assumin’ it ain’t horseshit.”
Torres blinked. “Sir?”
“Folks ride horses on them trails.”
Torres continued, “We found several items in the immediate area that may be related to the incident. Human hairs, a lottery ticket, two cigarette butts, a flashlight battery, and an item of special interest—a used condom. It was discovered in a grassy area about a hundred feet from the bodies, partly sheltered by a row of bushes. It didn’t look like it had been there very long.”
“And you’re thinking whoever left it there might be a witness?” asked Kline.
“It’s a possibility, sir. We rushed it to Albany. We might get a hit on CODIS and get an ID. It’s a long shot, but . . .”
Beckert nodded. “Anything more to show us?”
“Some satellite views of the area to identify possible site entry and exit routes. Judging from the leaves partly off the trees, the photos were probably taken last autumn.”
Centered on the jungle gym, the first photo encompassed the immediate area of the crime scene—the kayak rental building, the reedy shore of the lake, some of the surrounding trees. Torres pointed out the locations of the tire tracks.
The next two photos showed more of the park and more of the wooded areas. The final shot showed the entire park, bordered on three sides by city streets and on the fourth by an extensive wilderness area into which some of the park’s trails extended.
A couple of miles into that wilderness area another lake was visible. Along its shore were a number of small clearings. Torres explained that the White River Gun Club owned the lake and the land around it, and in the clearings there were cabins owned by club members. “Mostly White River cops, as far as I know,” he added. He glanced at Beckert and Turlock as if for confirmation, but neither man responded.
“The dog walker who discovered the bodies,” said Kline, “where did he come from?”
Torres got up, went over to the screen, and traced the route as he was describing it. “He came into the park through the entrance on the east side, crossed the main field, passed the statue of Colonel Willard, and headed down toward the lake. Because of the fog this morning, he got within about fifty feet of the bodies before he realized what he was looking at. Was still a nervous wreck when we arrived.”
Beckert pointed at the screen. “That large field he crossed, the one taking up the northeast quadrant of the park—that’s where the BDA demonstration was held and where our officer was shot. I don’t think it’s just a coincidence that Jordan and Tooker were executed in that same park. Clearly a symbolic action. Which reinforces the importance of our maintaining control of the narrative. It’s vital that any new piece of evidence, information, rumor—anything at all with any bearing on any of the three killings—be reported at once to Judd or to me directly.”
Evidently satisfied that silence meant agreement, Beckert moved on. “Given the pressures of dealing with two explosive crimes—and the need to make rapid progress on both fronts at once—I’m dividing the investigative duties. Detective Torres, your primary responsibility will be the Steele sniper shooting. With our first two suspects out of the picture, your focus will be identifying and locating the third man—the actual shooter.”
Gurney was struck by the insinuation in Beckert’s choice of words—how the third man being the “actual” shooter subtly maintained, in some non-trigger-pulling capacity, the involvement of Jordan and Tooker.
Beckert went on, “Because of its complex public relations dimensions, I’ll assume personal responsibility for the investigation into these playground homicides. The case file, incident report, site sketches, and photos should be turned over to me as soon as we’re finished here. Including the memory chips from Paul Aziz’s cameras. Understood?”
Torres looked puzzled by the shift in responsibility. “Yes, sir.”
“Then that’s all for now. Except for one thing.” He looked at Gurney. “The phone. Is Steele’s wife going to hand it over voluntarily or not?”
“We’ll see. I left a message for her.”
“She has until tomorrow morning. Either she hands it over by then, or we visit her with a warrant and take it. Questions, anyone? No? Good. We’ll meet here tomorrow the same time.”
He placed his hands on the table, pushed back his chair, and stood up decisively—the very image of determination. Behind him, the picture window displayed its panorama of stone buildings with spirals of razor wire gleaming in the afternoon sun.
When Gurney came out into the police headquarters parking lot and headed for his Outback, he saw Kline standing next to it, taking a deep drag on a cigarette. He exhaled slowly, the hand holding the cigarette moving in a wide arc down to his side.
Déjà vu—a disturbing decades-old image of Gurney’s mother. Her bursts of nervous chain-smoking. The desperate pursuit of peace revealing a terrible anxiety.
