White River Burning. John Verdon
name of Marika. An abstract expressionist, she was an intense thirtysomething woman with a dramatic figure she wasn’t shy about showing off, numerous piercings and tattoos, and a startling array of hair colors.
When she wasn’t painting or sculpting, she’d been gentrifying the place. She’d removed the live-bait cooler and the displays of turkey jerky. She’d sanded and refinished the wide-board floors. She’d installed a new cooler full of things organic and free-range; a bin for locally baked breads; a high-end espresso machine; and four funky cafe tables with hand-painted chairs. The hammered-tin ceiling, pendant-globe light fixtures, and rough-hewn shelving had been left intact.
Gurney parked next to Hardwick’s classic muscle car—a red 1970 GTO. As soon as he entered the store he spotted Hardwick sitting in the back at one of the little round tables. He was wearing the black tee shirt and black jeans that had become his de facto uniform ever since he’d been forced out of the state police for offending his superiors too many times. This combative man with the pale-blue eyes of an Alaskan sled dog, a razor-keen mind, a sour wit, and a fondness for obscenity was definitely an acquired taste—one you could almost get to like if you didn’t choke on it first.
His muscular arms were resting on the table, which seemed too flimsy to support them. He was talking to Marika, who was laughing. Her hair that day was a spiky patchwork of iridescent pink and metallic blue.
“Coffee?” she asked when Gurney arrived at the table. Her striking contralto voice always got his attention.
“Sure. Double espresso.”
With an approving nod she headed for the machine. He took the chair opposite Hardwick, who was watching her departure.
When she disappeared behind the far counter, he turned to Gurney. “Sweet girl, not as batshit as she looks. Or half as batshit as you are if you’re planning to get involved in that White River insanity.”
“Bad idea?”
Hardwick uttered a grunt of a laugh, picked up his mug of coffee, took a long sip, and laid it down with the care one might give an explosive. “Too many virtuous people involved. All with high opinions of their own visions of justice. Nothing in this world worse than a pack of crazy fuckers who know—absolutely know—they’re right.”
“You referring to the Black Defense Alliance?”
“They’re part of it. But only part. Depends on what you want to believe.”
“Tell me more.”
“Where should I start?”
“With anything that would explain Kline’s desire to get me involved.”
Hardwick thought for a moment. “That would probably be Dell Beckert.”
“Why on earth would Beckert want me involved?”
“He wouldn’t. What I mean is, Beckert might be Kline’s problem.”
Before going on, Hardwick made a face like the subject had a bad taste. “I know what the fucker was like when I worked with him ten years ago in the Bureau. That was before he became the big deal he is today. But even then he was on his way. See, that’s the thing—Beckert is always on his way to something. Eye on the goal. He’s got that win-at-any-cost fixation that has a way of turning people into scumbags.”
“From what I’ve heard, his reputation is more law-and-order than scumbag.”
“Like a lot of high-class scumbags, he’s good at nurturing and polishing that reputation. Beckert has an instinct for turning everything to his advantage, even negative shit. Maybe I should say, especially negative shit.”
“Like what?”
“Like his family life. Back then, it was a fucking mess. His son, who was maybe thirteen at the time, was a nasty little bastard. Hated his father. Did everything he could to embarrass him. Painted swastikas on police cars. Told Child Protective Services that his father was selling confiscated drugs. Then the kid tried to set fire to a Marine recruiting office, probably because his father had been a marine. That’s when Dad made his move. Sent the kid off to a super-tough behavior-modification boarding school somewhere down South—more like a prison than a school. And then . . .” Hardwick inserted a dramatic pause.
Gurney stared at him. “And then . . . what?”
“And then Dell Beckert revealed his true talent. He turned the whole stinking pile of crap into gold. Most cops try to keep their domestic problems private. But Beckert did the opposite. He spoke to parent groups. Gave media interviews. Appeared on talk shows. Got well known within the world of parents with shithead kids. The tough-love cop who did what had to be done. And when his painkiller-addicted wife died about a year later of a heroin overdose, he even turned that into a plus. He became the drug-fighting cop whose zero-tolerance attacks on drug dealers came from the heart, from his own painful experience.”
Gurney was getting a bad taste in his mouth. “Sounds like a formidable character.”
“Cold as they come. But he’s managed to position himself as the perfect hard-ass cop every white citizen can love. And vote for.”
“Vote for?”
“There hasn’t been any official statement. But the blue grapevine says he’ll be running for state attorney general in the special election.”
“Kline mentioned the same rumor.”
“It would be the perfect next star on his precious résumé.”
Marika delivered Gurney’s double espresso. Hardwick continued, “That résumé, by the way, is fucking impressive. Highest score in every NYSP promotion exam he took. After a few hot-shit years in the Bureau, during which he picked up a master’s degree in public administration, he took over the top spot in the Professional Standards Unit. Then he moved into the private sector and set up a consulting organization to work with police departments around the state—assessing the psychological status of cops involved in violent confrontations, counseling them, and educating department brass on the nature and causes of violent incidents.”
“How’d that work out?”
“Great for Beckert. Hugely expanded his contacts in the law-enforcement world.”
“But?”
“Legal activists claimed the purpose of his ‘consulting’ was to help the police describe questionable incidents in ways that would minimize their exposure to criminal or civil actions.”
Gurney took a sip of his very strong coffee. “Interesting. So how’d this rising star get to be police chief in White River?”
“Three, four years ago—just before you moved up here—there was a corruption scandal. The then-chief’s phone was hacked, and a lot of embarrassing shit came out. Seems that the chief, one of the captains, and three guys in the detective bureau were on the take from a gang running Mexican heroin into upstate New York. WRPD public relations disaster. Cried out for a new team. And what better guy than Beckert—with his Professional Standards background and hardline image—to fumigate the place, reassure the citizenry, rebuild the department.”
“Another success?”
“Most people thought so. After dumping the tainted guys, he brought in his own people—allies from the state police and his consulting company.” Hardwick’s jaw muscle twitched. “Including a particularly close ally, Judd Turlock, who he installed as deputy chief.”
“How close, exactly?”
“Turlock went through the academy with him, reported to him in the Bureau, and was his number two in the consulting outfit. They’d even been in the fucking Marines together.”
“You don’t sound fond of this guy.”
“Difficult to be fond of a sociopathic attack dog.”
Gurney considered this over another sip of coffee. “Is Beckert’s tenure at White