“A statue some of our citizens would like to see removed. Not without reason.”
Gurney said nothing.
“Well,” said Coolidge after an awkward silence, “why don’t we go into my office, where we can have some privacy.”
Gurney wondered how much more private than a yard full of dead people the office could be, but he nodded and followed the man through the church’s back door into a hallway that smelled of dust and dry wood. Light was spilling from a doorway on the right, and that’s where Coolidge led him.
The room was about twice the size of Gurney’s den. There was a desk at one end with a leather desk chair. At the other end was a small fireplace with a low fire in its final stages. There were two leather armchairs on either side of the hearth. On one wall a window looked out on the part of the churchyard that wrapped around that side of the building. On the opposite wall were two enormous photographic prints—one of Mother Teresa and one of Martin Luther King.
Seeing Gurney looking at them, Coolidge offered an explanation. “I prefer contemporary incarnations of goodness to the bizarre and dogmatic characters of the Middle Ages.” He gestured toward one of the armchairs. When Gurney was seated he took the one facing it. “You said on the phone you were involved in the investigation of this awful violence. May I ask in what capacity?”
Something in his tone suggested that he’d checked and discovered the severing of Gurney’s official ties to the case.
“The wives of the murdered officers have asked me to look into the circumstances of their deaths. They want to be sure they’re getting the truth, whatever it turns out to be.”
Coolidge cocked his head curiously. “I was under the impression that our police department had already arrived at the truth. Am I mistaken?”
“I’m not sure the confidence the police seem to have in their hypothesis is justified by the facts.”
Gurney’s answer appeared to have a positive effect. The tense creases at the corners of Coolidge’s eyes began to relax. His smile became more natural.
“Always a pleasure to meet a man with an open mind. What can I do for you?”
“I’m searching for information. With a wide net. Because I don’t know yet what will be important. Perhaps you could start by telling me what you know about Jordan and Tooker?”
“Marcel and Virgil.” He made the emendation sound like a mild reprimand. “They were slandered. Even now they continue to be slandered with the implication that they were somehow involved in Officer Steele’s murder. There is, to my knowledge, no evidence of that whatsoever.”
“I understand they were with you the night Officer Steele was shot.”
Coolidge paused for a moment before going on. “They were here in this very room. Marcel in the chair you now occupy. Virgil in the one next to it. I sat where I am now. It was our third meeting.”
“Third? Was there an agenda for these meetings?”
“Peace, progress, legal process.”
“Meaning?”
“The idea was to channel negative energy toward positive goals. They were angry young men, understandably so, but not bomb throwers. Certainly not killers. They were justice seekers. Truth seekers. Perhaps like you in that way.”
“What truth were they seeking?”
“They wanted to expose the numerous criminal actions and cover-ups in our police department. The pattern of abuse.”
“They knew of specific instances? With evidence to back up their charges?”
“They knew of instances in which African Americans had been framed, illegally detained, even killed. They were pursuing the necessary corroboration, case files, et cetera.”
“How?”
“They were being helped.”
“Helped?”
“Correct.”
“That doesn’t tell me much.”
Coolidge turned his gaze to the small blue flames flickering up from the coals in the fireplace. “I’ll just say that their desire for justice was shared, and they were optimistic.”
“Perhaps you could be just a bit more specific?”
Coolidge looked pained. “There’s nothing more I can say without discussing the implications with . . . those who might be affected.”
“I can understand that. In the meantime, can you tell me how Marcel and Virgil happened to come to you?”
Coolidge hesitated. “They were brought to me by an interested party.”
“Whose name you can’t reveal without further consultation?”
“That’s right.”
“Were you aware that John Steele and Rick Loomis wanted to establish some level of dialogue with the Black Defense Alliance?”
“I’d rather not get on the slippery slope of saying what I was or wasn’t aware of. We live in a dangerous world. Confidences must be respected.”
“True.” In Gurney’s experience, agreeing with someone he was interviewing often produced more information than questioning him. He sat back in his chair. “Very true.”
