The back door opened into a narrow hallway that led to an eat-in kitchen. There was a broken dish on the floor by the sink. The khaki jacket she’d worn on her first trip to Gurney’s house was lying across the seat of a chair. The table was covered with a disordered pile of papers. She looked around in dismay. “I didn’t realize . . . what a mess. Let me just . . .” Her voice trailed off.
She gathered the papers together and took them into the next room. She returned, got the jacket, and took that away. She seemed not to notice the broken dish. She gestured toward one of the chairs at the table, and Gurney sat down. Distractedly, she went through the steps of setting up the coffee machine.
While the coffee was brewing, she stood gazing out the window. When it was ready, she poured a mug and brought it to the table.
She sat down across from him and smiled in a way that he found almost unbearably sad. “What do you want to know about John?” she asked.
“What was important to him. His ambitions. How he ended up in the WRPD. When he started getting uncomfortable with it. Any hints of trouble, prior to the text message, that could relate to what happened.”
She gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Interesting questions.”
“In what way?”
“They have nothing to do with the WRPD theory that the attack was a political act by black radicals.”
He smiled at her perceptiveness. “The WRPD theory is being pursued by WRPD people. There’s no point my heading down the same avenue.”
“You mean the same dead end?”
“Too soon to say.” He sipped his coffee. “Tell me about John.”
“He was the nicest, smartest man in the world. We met in college. Ithaca. John was a psych major. Very serious. Very handsome. We got married right after graduation. He’d already taken the state police exam, and a few months later he was inducted. I was pregnant by then. Everything seemed to be going well. He graduated from the academy at the top of his class. Life was perfect. Then, a month after our baby was born, there was an automobile accident. She didn’t survive.” Kim fell silent, biting her lower lip and looking away toward the window. A few moments later she took a deep breath, sat up straight in her chair, and continued.
“He spent the next three years as a state trooper. He got a master’s degree in criminology in his spare time. It was around that time that Dell Beckert was hired to clean up the White River Police Department. He made a big impression—forcing a lot of people out on corruption charges, bringing in fresh faces.”
She paused. When she went on, something rueful, maybe even bitter, entered her voice. “The image Beckert projected—sweeping out the dirt, purifying the place—I think that struck a chord with John. So he moved from the NYSP to the supposedly wonderful new WRPD.”
“When did he realize it might not be as perfect as he’d imagined?”
“It was a gradual thing. His attitude toward the job changed. I remember it getting darker a year ago with the Laxton Jones shooting. After that . . . there was a kind of tension in him that wasn’t there before.”
“How about recently?”
“It was getting worse.”
Gurney took another sip of his coffee. “You said he’d gotten degrees in psychology and criminology?”
She nodded, almost smiled. “Yes. He loved his work and loved learning anything connected with it. In fact, he just started taking some law courses.”
Gurney hesitated. “He was a basic patrol officer, right?”
There was a combative flash in her eyes. “You mean
He shrugged. “Most cops I’ve known who’ve pursued advanced degrees—”
She cut him off. “Pursued them because of career ambitions? The truth is, John has . . .
She lowered her head slowly and began to sob.
Several minutes later, after that wave of grief had run its course, she sat back in her chair and wiped her eyes. “Do you have any more questions?”
“Do you know if he ever received threats or hints of trouble other than the text message?”
She shook her head.
“If something should come to mind—”
“I’ll call you. I promise.”
“Okay. One last thing. Do you think Rick Loomis would talk to me?”
“I’m sure he’ll talk to you. But if you’re asking how open he’ll be about what he and John were working on, that I don’t know.”
“Would you be willing to call him, tell him who I am and that I’d appreciate sitting down with him?”
She cocked her head curiously. “You want me to tell him that he should trust you?”
“Just tell him whatever you’re comfortable telling him. It’s entirely up to you.”
Her eyes met his, and for a moment he had the same feeling he had on the occasions when Madeleine’s gaze seemed to be looking into his soul.
“Yes,” she said. “I can do that.”
