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 River being viewed as a success?”
“Depends on your point of view. He cleaned up the streets. Put away a lot of drug dealers. Reduced the number of break-ins, muggings, violent crimes.”
“But . . .”
“There’ve been some incidents. Right after he took over, couple years before the Laxton Jones thing, there was a traffic stop that escalated into the beating and arrest of the young black driver. Nelson Tuggle. The cop claimed he found a handgun and a bag of coke under the front seat and that Tuggle took a swing at him. Tuggle asked for a lie detector test. His lawyer got very aggressive with that, even got some media attention by publicly demanding that his client and the cop both be polygraphed. Two days later Tuggle was found dead in his cell. Heroin overdose, according to the ME. Got hold of some jail contraband, was how the COs explained it. Couple of street acquaintances said that was bullshit, that Tuggle might’ve done a little pot now and then, but no hard stuff.”
“Anyone pursue the case?”
“Tuggle had no family. There were no witnesses. No friends. Nobody gave a shit.”
“Is there a pattern? People claiming White River PD plays by its own rules?”
“Most of the convicted drug dealers claim exactly that. Course none of them can prove it. The judges and juries around here are overwhelmingly pro-cop. But the thing is, those popularity points Beckert’s been winning on the white side of White River he’s been losing on the black side. It isn’t that they don’t want to get rid of the criminal element, but they have the feeling the man is playing God and dropping the hammer extra hard on black people to make a point.”
“So the pressure cooker’s been heating up?”
“Big time. Unfortunately for Beckert, resentment that couldn’t really be expressed in support of drug dealers found a perfect outlet in the case of Laxton Jones. The difference between Jones and Tuggle is that Jones wasn’t alone. He had a girlfriend who witnessed what happened and was hell-bent to do something about it. Blaze Lovely Jackson.”
“I saw her on that RAM Battleground Tonight program. I’d say she’s an angry woman.”
“Very angry. But also very smart. So there are some damn tricky days ahead for Beckert—sinkholes he needs to avoid to get where he wants to go.”
“You mean the attorney general’s office?”
“And beyond. Fucker might even be picturing himself in the White House someday.”
That seemed a bit of a stretch. But who could say? The man did look the part—more so than a lot of nasty creeps with their eye on the top rung of the ladder. In fact, he had the kind of chiseled face that would be at home on Mount Rushmore.
“In the meantime,” said Gurney, “we have a sniper on the loose. Were you able to find out anything about Steele?”
Hardwick shrugged. “Straight arrow. Everything by the book. Smart. College grad. Going to law school in his spare time. You want me to dig deeper?”
After a thoughtful pause Gurney shook his head. “Not yet.”
Hardwick regarded him curiously. “So what’s next? You signing up for the sniper hunt?”
“I don’t think so. If Kline is worried about Beckert’s methods, that’s his problem, not mine.”
“So you’re going to walk away?”
