White River Burning. John Verdon

done to the businesspeople of this city by that damn RAM-CAM video is just awful. They run the damn thing over and over. Makes our little city look like a war zone. A place to avoid. We have restaurants, B and Bs, the museum, kayak rentals—the tourist season about to start, and not a damn customer in sight. This media thing is killing us.”

      Beckert showed no reaction. He looked toward the opposite end of the table. “Goodson? I know the video’s already been described to you in detail. Comments?”

      Cloutz fingered his white cane with an unpleasant smile. “I do appreciate Shucks’s business concerns. Natural for a man invested in the economy of the city to feel that way. On the other hand, I do see some value in givin’ folks around the state a glimpse of the barbarian shit we’re facin’ here. Folks need to see it to appreciate the steps we need to take.”

      Gurney thought he detected a nod of agreement from Beckert. “Other comments?”

      Kline shook his head. “Not at the moment.”

      “How about our new investigator?”

      Gurney shrugged, his voice casual. “Why do you think it took the shooter so long?”

      Beckert frowned. “Long?”

      “The dot from the laser sight was on Steele’s head for quite a while.”

      Beckert shrugged. “I doubt that it matters. Let’s move on to the next agenda item, the ME’s report. Copies of the full report will be available shortly, but Dr. Thrasher has provided me with the salient points.”

      He removed a sheet of paper from his briefcase and read aloud: “‘In re John Steele, DOA, Mercy Hospital. Cause of death: catastrophic damage to medulla oblongata, cerebellum, and posterior cerebral artery, leading to immediate failure of heart and respiratory functions. Damage initiated by the passage of a bullet through the occipital bone at the base of the skull, through critical brain and brain-stem regions, emerging through the lacrimal bone structure.’”

      He replaced the paper in his briefcase. “Dr. Thrasher further estimated, informally, that the bullet was probably a thirty-caliber high-energy FMJ. That estimate has now been confirmed by preliminary ballistic analysis of the bullet recovered at the Willard Park site. Any questions?”

      Shucker sniffled. “What the hell’s an FMJ?”

      “Full metal jacket. Keeps the bullet from expanding or fragmenting, so it passes through the target intact. Plus side is that it preserves the rifling marks for ballistics, so we can match the bullet to the weapon that fired it.”

      “Assuming you recover the weapon?”

      “Assuming we recover it. Any other questions?”

      Kline steepled his fingers. “Any progress finding the shooter site?”

      Beckert looked at Torres. “Ball’s in your court, Mark.”

      The young CIO looked pleased at the handoff. “We’re narrowing the possibilities, sir. Aligning the position of the victim’s head in the video frame that captured the impact with the position of the recovered bullet gave us a general vector for the bullet’s path. We’ve laid that vector out on a map of the area to identify possible sites. Priority goes to those farthest from the victim, since the shot wasn’t heard at the site, and no audible traces were picked up by the RAM-CAMs. We have patrol officers out now doing door-to-doors.”

      Cloutz was idly stroking his cane. “And you ain’t gettin’ diddly-shit cooperation from our minority citizens. Am I right?”

      Gurney noted that the sheriff’s fingernails were nicely manicured.

      Torres frowned, his jaw muscles tightening. “The level of cooperation so far has been uneven.”

      Kline continued. “Apart from the door-to-doors, Mark, what else is under way?”

      Torres leaned forward. “We’re collecting and reviewing video data from the security, traffic, and media cameras in the area. A careful examination of that data is likely to—”

      Mayor Shucker broke in. “What I want to know is, do we have any real leads on them sons of bitches on the run? That’s gotta have priority. Catch ’em, incarcerate ’em, and put this goddamn nightmare to rest.”

      There was a hard edge to Beckert’s voice. “Jordan and Tooker are at the top of our list. We’re going to get them. That’s a personal guarantee.”

      Shucker seemed mollified.

      Kline steepled his fingers again. “Can we tie them directly to the shooting?”

      “We know from reliable informers that they were involved. And we just heard from a credible source that a third person may have been involved along with them—possibly a white male.”

      Kline appeared startled. “I didn’t think the BDA had white members.”

      “They don’t. Not technically. But they do have some white enablers, even financial supporters.”

      “Leftie loonies, need to have their goddamn heads examined,” interjected the sheriff.

      Kline looked pained.

      Beckert exhibited no reaction at all. “We hope to identify that third person and have Jordan and Tooker in custody within the next forty-eight hours. And we expect that Mark and his people will have conclusive physical evidence very soon—from the shooter site, from BDA materials seized in the raid, and from cooperating BDA members.”

      “Speakin’ of which,” said the sheriff, “I would hope that Sheridan here will be askin’ the judge to set bail high enough on our BDA detainees so they don’t go flyin’ out free as fuckin’ birds. More time we have them in custody, better our chances of gettin’ what we need.”

      Gurney knew what the sheriff was talking about. He’d no doubt already separated the detainees from each other and put them in cells with jailhouse snitches who might be eager to trade incriminating information for sentence reductions. It was one of the rottenest parts of a rotten system.

      Beckert glanced at his watch. “Any further questions?”

      Gurney spoke with bland curiosity. “Do you think there’s any chance your hypothesis might not be correct?”

      “What hypothesis?”

      “That the Black Defense Alliance is responsible for the shooting.”

      Beckert stared at him. “What makes you ask that?”

      “I’ve made some mistakes myself by getting too sure too soon. I stopped asking questions because I thought I had all the answers.”

      “Is this a general concern, or do you have a specific pebble in your shoe?”

      “I had a visit this morning from Kim Steele, John Steele’s widow.”

      “And?”

      “She showed me an odd text that was sent to her husband’s personal phone the night he was shot. I made a note of it.” Gurney brought it up on his phone and slid it across the table.

      Beckert read through the text, frowning. “You’ve seen this, Sheridan?”

      “Dave discussed it with me before we came in.”

      It struck Gurney that wielding the truth deceptively was one of Kline’s talents.

      Beckert passed the phone on to Turlock, who gazed expressionlessly at the message and then passed it back.

      The sheriff spoke up in an oily voice. “Could someone kindly enlighten me?”

      Beckert read aloud from the screen with obvious contempt for the street-slanginess of the text. “ ‘Watch ur back. EZ nite for mfs to ice ur ass n blame the BDA.’ ”

      “Hell’s that all about?”

      Ignoring the question, Beckert gave Gurney a long look. “Did you take possession