“Serious serious, according to her. Said Blaze don’t play well with others. Not big on sharin’ power. Way she put it, Blaze is a vicious homicidal bitch, fond of usin’ a straight razor to end disputes. Suggested there could be some connection between her homicidal nature and the fate of her coleaders.”
“We’re now ninety-nine percent certain the Gorts were responsible for the killings. I find it hard to believe that a black female could have had any involvement in what we saw in that playground.”
Cloutz moistened his lips. “That would be my feeling too. But my little lady did say with great conviction that Blaze Lovely Jackson was capable of anything.
Beckert said nothing. His own thoughts now seemed to be absorbing his full attention.
When the meeting broke up, Gurney headed out immediately. He didn’t want to be late for his three thirty meeting with Rick Loomis at the Lucky Larvaton Diner. But before he could get in his car, he heard footsteps hurrying toward him.
It was Kline coming across the parking lot, radiating an odd mixture of excitement and anxiety. “Where are you rushing off to?”
“I’m meeting someone for coffee. Did you need me for something?”
“I’d like some explanation of your reactions in there.”
“You sound concerned.”
“The news we got was all good. Rapid progress on all fronts. Videos of the ‘third man’ coming and going from the sniper site. The car traced to a BDA member, creating a clear BDA tie-in to Steele’s murder. Plus an equally clear vigilante group tie-in to the murder of the BDA leaders. The discovery of solid evidence in both cases. Situation under control. Risk of chaos reduced. A solid victory for law and order.” He looked at Gurney expectantly.
“What’s your question?”
“Given what I just said, why do you have that doubtful look on your face?”
“I’m a natural skeptic. It’s the way my mind works.”
“Even when the news is overwhelmingly positive?”
“Is that the way you’d describe it?”
Kline held Gurney’s gaze for a few seconds, then reached into his jacket pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one up with a vintage Zippo, took a deep drag, and slowly exhaled, watching the smoke dissipate into White River’s still-acrid air.
“Those concerns you seemed to have about the depth of the water under the Grinton Bridge . . . the way you were asking about the USB drive—all that worries me. It worries me not knowing what you’re thinking. What you’re
“The truth is, in both of these cases I’m having trouble getting my head around the thought processes of the killers.”
Kline took another drag on his cigarette. “I don’t find that very enlightening.”
“I find it helpful to put myself in the criminal’s position. To see the world from his point of view. I do that by studying what he’s done. I immerse myself in his preparations, his execution of his plan, his likely actions afterward. This usually gives me a sense of how the perp thinks, how he makes decisions. But this time it’s not happening.”
“Why not?”
“Half the actions in these cases contradict the other half. The perps are very careful and very careless. Take the sniper. He was careful not to get his fingerprints on the outer door, the window, the bathroom door. But he left a perfect print on the toilet’s flush handle. His marksmanship and location planning suggest he’s a real pro. But he drives an easily traceable car. He goes to the trouble of ditching the tripod. But he tosses it in water so shallow it’s easily visible.”
“You’re expecting these crazy killers to be totally logical?”
“No. I just think the possible significance of the discrepancies is being ignored. The same sort of peculiar questions arise in the Jordan-Tooker case. The cool and methodical nature of the beatings supposedly administered by crazy, hate-driven, white-supremacist vigilantes. The suspects’ prudently removing their computer, but foolishly leaving behind their USB drive with the incriminating website content.”
“That USB drive wasn’t just left behind. It was hidden under a desk drawer.”
“It was hidden in the first place any detective would look for it. Like the tripod, in a way. Hidden where it could easily be found.”
Kline sighed in frustration, dropping what was left of his cigarette onto the pavement and staring down at it. “So what’s your bottom line? That everybody but you is wrong? That none of our progress is really progress at all?”
“I don’t have a bottom line, Sheridan. I just have questions.”
Kline sighed again, ground out his cigarette, got into his SUV, and drove away.
The old Route Ten Bypass in Angina ran through a wide green valley dotted with weathered red barns. The sunny slopes of the south-facing hillsides were covered with alternating swaths of clover and buttercups. This idyllic landscape was pockmarked, however, by the detritus of a collapsed economy—abandoned homes, shuttered shops, closed schools.
