When Kline saw Gurney approaching, he took a final drag, threw the butt to the ground, and stepped on it as if it were a wasp that had just stung him.
There was a briefcase at his feet. He reached down and pulled a large manila envelope out of it. “Everything you asked for yesterday. Full copy of the Steele case file. Incident and interview reports, crime-scene photos and sketches, ballistics report. Plus Jordan’s and Tooker’s past arrests and your temporary credentials—special senior investigator, office of the district attorney.” He handed the envelope to Gurney.
“Anything on the so-called third man?”
“If there’s anything on that, Beckert’s keeping it to himself.”
“Like the identities of his informants?”
“Right.” He took out another cigarette, hurriedly lit it, and took a particularly long drag before continuing. “So . . . what are your observations so far?”
“You look like an extremely worried man.”
Kline said nothing.
That in itself said something.
Gurney decided to push further. “The obvious interpretation of the message on Steele’s phone is that someone in the department might take advantage of the chaos in the streets to get rid of him. If that someone turned out to be Turlock, or even Beckert—”
“Jesus!” Kline raised his hand. “You have any evidence for what you’re saying?”
“None. But I don’t have any evidence that points to a third man from the BDA either.”
“What about these two new homicides? You have any thoughts?”
“Only that they may not be what they seem to be.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Thrasher’s comments about the damage to the bodies.”
Kline was looking increasingly miserable. “If they aren’t what they seem to be, what the hell are they?”
“I need time to think about that.”
“While you’re thinking about Steele?”
“I guess.”
“So which case is your priority?”
“The Steele shooting.”
“Why?”
“Because it came first, and something in it may explain the odd aspects of the other.”
Kline frowned, evidently trying to digest this. Then he pointed to the manila envelope in Gurney’s hand. “Let me know if anything in the case file pops out at you. You have my personal cell number. Call me anytime. Day or night.”
Away from the depressing environs of White River, the countryside had a bucolic timelessness, displaying the glories of early May. Black Angus cows dotted the hillsides. Apple trees were in blossom. The black earth of freshly tilled cornfields alternated with fields of emerald grass and buttercups. Only dimly aware of the beauty around him, Gurney spent the drive home pondering the strange facts of both cases. Despite his decision to focus on the sniper attack, he found it difficult to keep Thrasher’s comments about the beatings and brandings from intruding into his thoughts.
As he arrived at the narrow road that led to his hilltop property, his attention switched to a more pressing issue. Having told Madeleine that he’d sleep on the question of whether to continue his involvement with Kline, he felt the need to make a decision. On the one hand, there was the growing challenge of the situation itself and the accelerating pressure to avert an escalation of violence. Daunting as that sounded, it was the kind of challenge he was built for. On the other hand, there was his discomfort with the district attorney himself.
He felt as if he were locked in a loop of indecision. Each time he was about to conclude that the importance of the case might outweigh the risk of trusting Kline, the memory of Madeleine’s question intervened.
As he was parking by the side door of the old farmhouse, still wrestling with his dilemma, his phone rang.
“Gurney here.”
“Thanks for picking up. It’s Mark Torres. Do you have a minute?”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling about the photos Paul Aziz took at Willard Park. I was wondering if you might want to see them.”
“The photos you showed at the meeting today?”
“I just showed the ones I thought were most important. Paul took over two hundred shots. Before I turned the camera chips over to Chief Beckert, I downloaded everything to my laptop.”
“And you want me to have all that?”
“As you know, I’ve been taken off the Jordan-Tooker case to concentrate on the Steele shooting. But I figured you’d still have an interest in both cases and the photos might be helpful to you.”
“You don’t think Beckert will share them with me?”
Torres hesitated. “I couldn’t say.”
Gurney wondered if Torres was suffering from the same distrust of the WRPD brass that seemed to have infected Kline. In any event, it wouldn’t hurt to take a look at Aziz’s photos. “How do you want to get them to me?”
“Through a file-sharing service. As soon as I get it set up, I’ll email you.”
Viewing this minor involvement with the photos as a separate matter from any decision about his overall commitment, Gurney thanked Torres and said he’d watch for the email. He ended the call, got out of the car, and went into the house.
