“Cory Payne,” repeated Kline slowly. “I’ve seen him on those RAM debate shows.”
“Nazi storm troopers,” said Shucker.
Kline blinked. “How’s that, Dwayne?”
“That’s what he calls the police,” said Shucker. “Boy’s got a hair up his ass about law enforcement.”
“That strident tone of his always sounded to me like grandstanding,” said Kline. “Adolescent nonsense. That’s all I thought it was. Talk.”
“Have to admit I thought that myself,” said the sheriff. “That boy’s voice on the TV sounded like a little dog barkin’ at big dogs. I never would’ve thought he had the balls to be a shooter.”
“Goes to show you never know before you know,” said Shucker, eyeing the piece of doughnut in his hand. “Sometimes the evilest ones are the last ones you’d ever think to look at. Like that sweet little Doris at the Zippy-Mart that chopped up her husband and kept him in the freezer for ten years.”
“Twelve,” said the sheriff. “Goin’ by the dates of the newspapers the pieces was wrapped in.”
Beckert stood up abruptly, his voice like a tight fist. “Enough, gentlemen. The fact is we were all deceived by Payne’s sophomoric gibberish. The situation is critical and the time element is crucial. Detective Torres, put out an immediate APB on Cory Payne.”
“Suspicion of murder?”
“Yes, in the case of John Steele. Attempted murder in the Loomis case. I’ll have Baylor Puckett issue the warrant. Judd Turlock maintains a file of local agitators. He can give you Payne’s address. Get there ASAP, backed up by an assault team in the event that Payne resists. Seal off the apartment. Seize everything. Get Payne’s prints from his personal items and match them to whatever Garrett and Shelby were able to get from the car and the sniper sites. Any questions from the media, refer them to my office. Keep me informed on an hourly basis. Or immediately with any significant development. Questions?”
“No, sir. “
“Then go!” Beckert had the look of a man whose mind was racing to assess an array of unpleasant possibilities.
Torres picked up his laptop and hurried out of the conference room.
“There some reason you don’t want to arrest the bitch that gave him the car?” asked the sheriff. There was something vaguely insinuating in his tone.
“I’d rather have her watched. We’ll learn more from her movements than from anything she’d be willing to tell us.”
Kline’s eyes lit up. “You don’t suppose that Cory Payne—”
Beckert cut him off. “That Payne might be her secret lover? The rumor that Goodson’s snitch told him about? I think it’s one of the possibilities we need to look into.”
“If it were true, it would give us a damn good motive.”
“We already have a damn good motive,” interjected the sheriff. “Boy hates cops. Boy shoots cops. Simple.”
“This one’s better,” said Kline. “Love-sick white boy shoots cops to impress black-activist girlfriend. Juries love romantic motives. The more depraved the better.”
Beckert was radiating tension. “Gentlemen, we need to get a grip on where we are. I don’t want people whose support could be helpful blindsided by sensational news reports.” He looked at his watch. “Let’s get back together at two o’clock to discuss next steps. I’m sorry if the four-hour gap is inconvenient, but this situation takes priority. Sheridan, you’re the farthest from your regular office. If you wish, you can use the one at the end of the hall.”
Kline thanked him, and, without another word, Beckert left the room.
Gurney was eager to get out of the building, which he was finding increasingly oppressive. He walked out into the parking lot. The sky was still overcast. The air’s acrid, smoky edge was as noticeable as ever, but he found it preferable to the atmosphere in the conference room. He couldn’t quite sort out the primary source of his discomfort—the repugnant people, the bleak fluorescent-lit room, the surreal view from the window, or his persistent feeling that the official approach to the intertwined attacks on the police and the BDA leaders was profoundly wrong.
As Gurney was thinking about how to utilize the long meeting break, Kline came out into the parking lot after him, looking more anxious than usual.
“Come,” he said, gesturing peremptorily toward his SUV.
They got into the front seats. The man seemed to be looking for a place to put his hands, beginning with his lap and ending finally on the steering wheel.
“So,” he said after a fraught silence. “What’s your problem?”
Gurney found the aggressive tone oddly relaxing. “Be more specific.”
Kline’s hands opened and closed on the wheel. He was staring straight ahead. “I listen to what you say in these meetings. The kind of questions you ask. How you ask them. The disbelief, the disrespect. If I’m wrong, tell me.” There was a tic at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m trying to recall a disrespectful question. Give me an example.”
