White River Burning. John Verdon

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ part of what got him elected.

      Torres, after an unpleasant glance in Cloutz’s direction, returned to his presentation. “Paul provided us with more than we need for the purpose of documenting the crime scene, but his video coverage of possible approach and departure paths from the location of the bodies could be useful. And it shows the visual limitations of the weather conditions.”

      Kline frowned. “What limitations?”

      “Fog. Began around midnight. Didn’t clear up till around ten this morning. You can see for yourself in this opening segment of the video.” Torres tapped a computer key and pointed to the monitor on the wall.

      At first, all that was visible was the fog itself, a formless gray mass that seemed to be moving in slow motion past the camera. As the dark branches of nearby trees began to emerge from the murky background on both sides of the screen, it became evident that the camera operator was proceeding along a heavily wooded trail. Gurney thought he could hear footsteps and the sound of someone breathing. As he leaned forward to listen more carefully, he was startled by a sudden high-pitched shriek.

      “Jesus!” said Kline. “What the hell . . .”

      “Blackbirds,” said Torres. “Paul was recording audio along with the video.”

      “Damn things,” said the sheriff. “On that twisty little trail that touches the south corner of the lake, am I right?”

      The mayor frowned. “How’d you know that?”

      “I’m blind, I ain’t deaf. Fact I hear better’n most. The wife takes me for walks on that trail sometimes, knowin’ I hate the screamin’ of them damn birds. I been tryin’ to get Clifford Merganthaller to exterminate them in pursuit of peace and quiet. For an animal control officer, he’s woefully unwillin’ to exert any control at all. Boy’s ’bout as useless as them damn birds that don’t do nothin’ but scream and shit.”

      The mayor leaned forward. “Glory be to God, you can hear them shit?”

      “Don’t need to hear ’em doin’ what I know they’re doin’. Every livin’ bein’ shits. Some of ’em a hell of a lot more ’n others.” The antic observation had a nasty undertone.

      Beckert glanced at Torres. “Let’s move this along.”

      “We’re coming up to the place where the trail comes out into the clearing.”

      The shrieks of the birds on the audio track were growing more insistent.

      Out of the dark constriction of the trail, the screen now displayed an open area where the fog had thinned enough for Gurney to make out a wide expanse of lakeside reeds and a shedlike building. As the camera moved forward he was able to read a sign on the building listing hourly rates for kayak rentals.

      The black form of a bird swooped through the camera’s field of view.

      As the camera moved on, the ghostlike shapes of playground equipment began to come into view—a tall slide, a pair of seesaws, the angled braces of a swing set, and finally the geometrical structure of a large jungle gym.

      Gurney could feel his chest tightening in anticipation of what he was about to see. No matter how many times he’d come upon it in his career, the sight of violent death always jarred him.

      This time was no exception.

      As the camera panned slowly across the front of the jungle gym, the bodies of the two victims were gradually revealed. They were tied to the structure in standing positions, side by side—secured in place by ropes around their legs, stomachs, and necks. Both men were African American. Both were stripped naked. Both bodies showed obvious signs of having been beaten. Their faces were swollen, their expressions grotesque. Between the feet of one there appeared to be a deposit of feces.

      “Christ Almighty,” murmured Shucker.

      Kline’s lips drew back in revulsion.

      Turlock was gazing at the screen with icy detachment.

      Beckert turned to Torres, who was looking sick. “Who has custody of this material?”

      “Sir?”

      “This video and whatever still shots were taken of the bodies—who has possession of the original digital files?”

      “I do.”

      “In what form?”

      “The memory chips from the cameras Paul used.”

      “Did he make copies?”

      “I don’t think so. He warned me not to lose the chips.”

      “If one frame of that leaks onto the internet, we’ll have a race war on our hands.”

      “I’m aware of the risk, sir.”

      “We’ll come back to that,” said Beckert. “Let’s move on to the details.”

      “Right.” Torres took a deep breath and continued. “Our initial inspection of the victims revealed livor mortis. We left both bodies in situ, pending the ME’s—”

      Shucker interrupted him. “That the same as what they call rigor mortis?”

      “No, sir. Rigor refers to the stiffening of the deceased’s muscles, usually two or three hours after death. Livor mortis occurs sooner. It refers to the pooling of the blood in the lowest parts of the body, once the heart stops beating. In this case it was observable in their feet.” He tapped a computer key several times, scrolling rapidly through a series of photos and stopping when the screen showed a close-up of the victims’ legs from the knees down. The skin tone was brown except on the feet, where it was a dark purple. There were bruises on the shins and abrasions on the ankles.

      Shucker’s expression suggested he’d been given more information than he’d wanted.

      Torres continued. “In a few minutes, we’ll come back to some marks on the feet that could be very significant. But first we’ll proceed in the normal order of our victim close-ups, starting at the head and working our way down.”

      Displaying photos of both men in a split-screen format as he spoke, he pointed out numerous contusions on their faces, torsos, and legs. His voice was tight with an apparent effort to control his distress—but the details of his commentary were vivid enough to provoke a response from the blind sheriff.

      “It does sound like them boys truly got the shit beat out of them.” To say his tone was uncaring would overestimate its warmth.

      Torres stared at him. He tapped a key and brought up a final pair of photos on the split screen—closeup shots of the soles of the victims’ feet.

      Kline leaned forward. “Jesus, what on God’s earth . . . ?”

      Turlock gazed at the screen with no more reaction than a boulder.

      A frown darkened Beckert’s face—a cloud passing over Mount Rushmore.

      The mayor looked confused and worried.

      Burned СКАЧАТЬ