White River Burning. John Verdon

might be stored in it. He avoided using language that sounded peremptory. He knew his best chance of getting her agreement lay in giving her the option of refusing.

      Then he sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and tried to put the jumble of the day behind him. But his mind kept going back to the unusual power dynamic of the White River meeting—Beckert clearly being the man in charge, despite being outranked by the three elected officials at the table—the mayor, the district attorney, and the blind sheriff.

      He was still sitting there on the patio half an hour later, trying to relax in the sweetly scented spring breezes, when he heard Madeleine stepping back onto the patio. He opened his eyes and saw that she was fresh from a shower . . . hair still damp, barefoot, wearing only panties and a tee shirt.

      She smiled. “I thought we should probably get to bed early.”

      It proved to be a wonderful solution to his focus problem.

      The next morning he awoke with a start. He’d been dreaming that he was lying in the bottom of his excavation, shackled by a black-iron chain to the foundation wall. A blind man in dark glasses was standing at the edge of the excavation, brandishing a long white cane. He slashed the cane viciously back and forth, each slash creating a high-pitched scream.

      As Gurney came to his senses in the bed next to Madeleine, the screaming became the ringing of the phone on the nightstand. He picked it up, blinking his eyes to clear his vision. He saw on the screen that the caller was Sheridan Kline.

      He cleared his throat and pressed Talk.

      “Gurney here.”

      Kline’s voice was shrill. “About time you picked up.”

      Gurney glanced at the clock on the night table. It was 7:34 AM. “Is there a problem?”

      “An hour ago Dell Beckert got a call from the pastor of White River’s largest Episcopal church. He was concerned about Beckert’s statement on RAM News.”

      “Meaning what?”

      “It sounded to him like Beckert was saying that Jordan and Tooker were cop killers.”

      “The pastor was upset by that?”

      “Furious.”

      “Because?”

      “Because Marcel Jordan and Virgil Tooker just happened to have been meeting with him in the parish house at the time Steele was shot. Discussing ways to end the violence. Jesus! That’s why they left the demonstration early. Meaning they have what is known as a rock-solid alibi. They didn’t do it. Couldn’t have done it. Not unless we want to believe the most popular white pastor in White River is in the pocket of the BDA.”

      “Okay. So they didn’t do it. They have an alibi. So what?”

      “So what? So what? So they were just found. That’s so what.”

      “Found?”

      “Found. Dead.”

      “What?”

      “Stripped naked, tied to the jungle gym in the Willard Park playground, apparently beaten to death. In the goddamn playground!”

II

      15

      As they waited for Beckert and Turlock, the members of the critical situation management team were in the same seats they’d been in the previous day, but the mood in the room was markedly different. There was no idle talk—in fact, no talk at all.

      Gurney’s mind was seesawing between his promise to reconsider his involvement with Kline and this tectonic shift in the nature of the situation.

      Dwayne Shucker’s eyes were closed, but the tiny tics playing at his eyelids belied any sense of restfulness. Goodson Cloutz’s mouth was drawn into a tight line. Sheridan Kline’s fingers were drumming lightly on the table. Mark Torres was focused on getting his laptop communicating with the screen on the wall above Cloutz’s head. Gurney was struck not so much by everyone’s discomfort, but by their apparent unwillingness to say a word before Beckert delivered his own view of the situation.

      At precisely 2:00 PM Beckert and Turlock strode into the room and took their seats. If the murder of two men Beckert had wrongly implied were cop killers had any effect on his self-confidence, it wasn’t obvious. Turlock looked about as concerned as a sledgehammer.

      Beckert glanced at Torres’s computer. “You have that ready?”

      “Yes, sir.” Torres tapped a key, and the screen on the wall displayed the words WILLARD PARK CRIME SCENE.

      “Just hold it there for a minute. I want to say a few words about perspective. At noon today I was interviewed by RAM News. Just before the camera started recording, the reporter made a comment to me. ‘This new development changes everything, doesn’t it?’ It wasn’t really a question. It was an assumption. A dangerous one. And a false one. What happened last night in Willard Park, far from changing everything, simply narrows our focus.”

      The mayor’s eyes were wide open. The sheriff was leaning forward, as if he’d misheard something. Beckert went on. “We know from our source that three individuals may have been involved in the plot to murder Officer Steele. Two of those conspirators, Jordan and Tooker, provided an alibi covering the time of the shooting. All this means is that the third member of the conspiracy was probably the actual shooter. From a messaging perspective, the focus of our search has been narrowed. Not changed. Even more important, when mentioning Jordan and Tooker, avoid the word ‘innocent.’ There are many ways to be guilty of murder. Pulling a trigger is only one of them.”

      The sheriff was moistening his lips. “I do admire your way with words, Dell.”

      Kline looked uneasy. “Do we know anything more about this third man?”

      “Our source is working on that.”

      “Are they willing to get on the stand, if it comes to that?”

      “One step at a time, Sheridan. Right now, the priority is information. And so far the information from this source has been pure gold. If I mentioned testifying publicly, it would evaporate.”

      Kline didn’t seem surprised by the answer.

      “One more point regarding the Willard Park incident,” said Beckert. “It’s important to avoid incendiary phrases. Let’s agree right now on the proper wording. These two individuals were found dead, details to be determined by autopsy. Do not refer to them as having been beaten to death.”

      Frown lines creased the mayor’s fleshy face. “But if that’s what happened . . . ?”

      Beckert explained patiently. “Found dead is neutral. Beaten to death is emotionally charged in a way that could exacerbate the situation on the street. We can’t prevent the media from using the term, but we should definitely not encourage it.”

      Some puzzlement lingered in the mayor’s expression, and Beckert went on. “It’s the description of an event that the public actually absorbs, the images and emotions conveyed by the words, not the event itself. Words matter.”

      “You’re talking about spin?”

      Beckert frowned. “That term minimizes its importance. Spin isn’t the icing on the cake. It’s the cake. Messaging is everything. It’s politics, Dwayne. And politics is no small thing.”

      Shucker nodded with the dawning grin of a man seeing the light.

      Beckert turned toward Torres. “Okay, bring us up to date.”

      “Yes, sir. At seven ten this morning our 911 center received a call from a local citizen walking his dog—reporting the discovery of two bodies in Willard Park. The 911 center contacted White River PD, and mobile patrol officers were dispatched to the location. First officer on the scene conducted a prelim interview with the caller, observed and confirmed the facts, secured the site, and reported to the duty sergeant, who notified Deputy Chief Turlock,