“The one in which the sniper attacks are blamed on black radicals and a demented white boy; and the playground murders are blamed on a pair of backwoods white supremacists; and all the evildoers are captured or killed, order is restored, and Beckert ascends into the political stratosphere—bringing with him his key supporters.”
“If the plan is that clear, why the hell did Kline want you involved in the first place?”
“I think the text message Kim Steele showed him shook him up—with its suggestion of police involvement in her husband’s death. He wanted to get on board the Beckert rocket ship, but he wanted to make sure it wasn’t going to blow up on the launch pad. I was supposed to observe discreetly and warn him of any imminent disasters. But apparently the so-called progress being made on the case has settled his nerves to the point where he’s more concerned about me weakening his relationship with Beckert than about any weakness in the case.”
Hardwick flashed his chilly grin. “Kline the Slime. So what now?”
“Something’s screwy, and I intend to find out what it is.”
“Even though you’ve been fired?”
“Right.”
“One last question. What the fuck am I doing here at the crack of dawn?”
“I was hoping you might be willing to do me a favor.”
“Doing favors for you is the icing on the cake of my perfect life. What is it this time?”
“I thought maybe you could use your old NYSP contacts to dig a little deeper into Beckert’s past.”
“Digging for what?”
“Anything we don’t already know about his relationship with Turlock, his first wife, his son. If a cop’s son starts killing cops, it doesn’t take a genius to suspect there’s something ugly in their past. I’d like to know what it is.”
Hardwick produced another grin.
“What’s funny?”
“Your obvious effort to concoct a theory that blames Beckert for everything.”
“I’m not trying to concoct anything. I just want to know more about these people.”
“Horseshit. You don’t like the tight-ass son of a bitch any more than I do, and you’re searching for a way to slam him.”
The fact that Hardwick was saying essentially what Kline had said gave the notion some extra weight, but he still wasn’t about to agree with it.
Hardwick took a thoughtful sip of his coffee before going on. “What if Beckert is right?”
“About what?”
“About Steele and Loomis. About Jordan and Tooker. About rotten-apple Cory and the crazy Gorts. What if the prick is right about everything?”
“What Beckert’s right about seems to have a way of shifting in the wind. Three days ago he was blaming the Steele shooting on Jordan and Tooker. When it turned out they were with a prominent pastor, he did a little rhetorical dance and said that while they might not have pulled the trigger, they certainly aided and abetted.”
“Which may be true. And by the way, how much do you know about that pastor?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re assuming he’s telling the truth. Maybe you just want to believe him because those alibis he provided embarrassed Dell Beckert.”
Gurney didn’t want to believe his thinking was that twisted, but the suggestion made him uneasy. Up to that point the pastor hadn’t been very high on his mental list of people to interview. Now he was at the top.
The Reverend Whittaker Coolidge, rector of Saint Thomas the Apostle Episcopal Church, agreed to a meeting that morning as long as it could be concluded prior to a scheduled ten thirty baptism. By breaking the speed limit all the way to White River, Gurney arrived at the church at nine forty-five.
It was located on a broad avenue that separated Bluestone from Grinton. An old redbrick building with a steeply angled slate roof, stained-glass windows, and a square bell tower, it was set back from the avenue—surrounded on three sides by an ancient churchyard with moss-covered mausoleums, statues of angels, and weathered gravestones, and on the fourth side by a parking lot.
Gurney parked at the back of the empty lot. From there a path led through the churchyard to a rear door, which Reverend Coolidge had told him to use to get to the office.
A little way along the path, he stopped to pay closer attention to the inscriptions on the gravestones. A few of the birth dates went back as far as the late eighteenth century. Most of the death dates were in the eighteen thirties and forties. Typical of old cemeteries, a number of the stones recorded sadly short lifespans.
“Dave?”
A large sandy-haired man in a short-sleeved shirt, Bermuda shorts, and Birkenstock sandals was standing under the outstretched wing of a stone angel that adorned one of the more elaborate graves. Taking a final drag on a cigarette, he extinguished it on the tip of the angel’s wing and dropped it in a graveside watering can. Then he strode toward Gurney with a toothy smile. “I’m Whit Coolidge. I see you’re intrigued by our slice of history. Some of the folks buried here were contemporaries of the controversial Colonel Ezra Willard. Are you familiar with him?”
“I’m familiar with his statue in the park.”
