Let the Devil Sleep (27 page)

“Was anything of value removed from the building during the month preceding the fire?”

“No.”

“Were the building and its contents insured?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of policy?”

“Homeowners.”

“I’ll need an inventory of the building’s contents, plus your policy number, broker’s name, and the insurance company’s name. Were there any recent increases in coverage?”

“No. Not unless there was an automatic inflationary adjustment that I’m not aware of.”

“Wouldn’t they notify you if there was one?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you have more than one policy covering fire damage?”

“No.”

“Have you had any previous insured losses of any kind?”

Gurney thought for a moment. “A theft-insurance payment. I had a motorcycle that was stolen in the city about thirty years ago.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Are you involved in any conflicts with neighbors, relatives, business associates, anyone at all?”

“It seems that we may have a conflict that we weren’t aware of—with the firebug who tore down our No Hunting signs.”

“When were they put up?”

“My wife put them up a couple of years ago, shortly after we moved here.”

“Any other conflicts?”

It occurred to Gurney that having a step sawed out from under him and a bizarre warning whispered in his ear might be construed as evidence of a conflict. On the other hand, there was no proof that either the sabotage or the warning was meant for him personally. He cleared his throat. “No other conflicts I know of.”

“Did you leave the house at any time during the two hours preceding the discovery of the fire?”

“Yes. I went down and sat on the bench by the pond after dinner.”

“When was that?”

“I was down there right after dark, so … maybe around eight?”

“Why did you go there?”

“To sit on the bench, as I said. Relax. Unwind.”

“In the dark?”

“Yes.”

“You were upset?”

“Tired, impatient.”

“About what?”

“A private business matter.”

“Involving money?”

“Not really.”

Kramden leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on a small spot on the table. He touched it curiously with his finger. “And while you were sitting there in the dark, relaxing, did you see or hear anything?”

“I heard a couple of sounds in the woods behind the barn.”

“What kind of sounds?”

“Maybe small branches breaking? I couldn’t say for sure.”

“Was anyone else out of the house during the two hours preceding the fire?”

“My son came down to the bench for a while. And Ms. Corazon also stepped out for a while, I’m not sure for how long.”

“Where did she go?”

“I don’t know.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t ask?”

“No.”

“How about your son? Do you know if he went anywhere other than back and forth between the house and the bench?”

“Just to the bench and back to the house.”

“How can you be sure?”

“He had a lit flashlight in his hand.”

“How about your wife?”

“What about her?”

“Did she leave the house at all?”

“Not that I know of.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“Not absolutely sure.”

Kramden nodded slowly, as though these facts were forming some kind of coherent pattern. He ran his fingernail over the tiny black imperfection in the tabletop.

“Did you set the fire?” he asked, still staring at the spot.

Gurney knew that this was one of several standard arson-investigation questions that had to be asked.

“No.”

“Did you cause it to be set by someone else?”

“No.”

“Do you know who did set it?”

“No.”

“Do you know anyone who might have had a reason to set it?”

“No.”

“Do you have any other information at all that might help in the investigation?”

“Not right now.”

Kramden stared at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means that
right now
I don’t have any other information that could help in the investigation.”

There was the tiniest flash of anger in the man’s suspicious eyes. “Meaning you plan to have some relevant information in the future?”

“Oh, yes, Everett, I will definitely have some relevant information in the future. You can count on it.”

K
ramden devoted only about twenty minutes each to his interviews with Madeleine and Kyle but then spent over an hour with Kim.

At that point it was nearly noon. Madeleine offered the man lunch, but he declined with a look that was more sour than gracious. Without explanation he left the house, walked down the pasture slope, and got into his van, which was parked halfway between the pond and the wreckage of the barn.

The morning fog had dissipated, and the day had brightened somewhat under a high overcast. Gurney and Kim were sitting at the table, while Madeleine was washing mushrooms for omelets. Kyle was looking out the kitchen window. “What the hell’s he up to now?”

“Probably checking on the progress of his gas-liquid chromatograph,” said Gurney.

“Or eating his own private sandwich,” said Madeleine with a touch of resentment.

“Once you get a GLC set up,” Gurney continued, “it takes about an hour for it to run an analysis.”

“How much can it tell him?”

“A lot. A GLC can break any accelerant down into its components—the precise amounts of each—which essentially produces a fingerprint of the chemical by type, sometimes even by brand if it’s a distinctive formula. It can be pretty specific.”

“Too bad it can’t be specific about the son of a bitch who set the fire,” said Madeleine, chopping a large mushroom with considerable force, the knife banging against the cutting board.

“Well,” said Kyle, “Investigator Kramden may have a smart machine, but he’s an asshole. Kept asking me about my flashlight, exactly what path I took to and from the house, how long I was down by the pond with Dad. He seemed to be suggesting that maybe I was lying about not knowing who started the fire. Jerk.” He looked over at Kim. “He kept you the longest. What was that all about?”

“He seemed to want to know all about
The Orphans of Murder
.”

“Your TV thing? Why would he want to know about that?”

She shrugged. “Maybe he thinks the two things are connected?”

“Did he already know about
Orphans
?” asked Gurney. “Or did you tell him about it?”

“I told him about it—when he asked how I was connected to you, how I happened to be here.”

“What did you tell him about my role in the project?”

“That you were acting as a technical adviser on issues related to the Good Shepherd case.”

“That’s all?”

“Pretty much.”

“Did you tell him about Robby Meese?”

“Yes, he asked about that.”

“About what?”

“About whether I had any conflicts with anyone.”

“So you told him about the … the peculiar things that have been happening?”

“He was very persistent.”

“And about the staircase? And the whisper?”

“The stairs, yes. The whisper, no. I didn’t personally hear it, so I figured that was up to you.”

“What else?”

“That’s about it. Oh, he wanted to know exactly where I was when I stepped out of the house last night. Did I hear anything, did I see you, see Kyle, see anyone else, stuff like that.”

Gurney felt a slow wave of uneasiness rising in his chest. There was in any crime interview or interrogation a wide spectrum of data that might or might not be disclosed. At one end of the spectrum were irrelevant personal details that no reasonable officer would expect someone to volunteer. At the other end were major facts crucial to
understanding the crime, facts whose concealment would constitute obstruction of justice.

In the middle was a gray area subject to debate and rationalization.

The question here was whether the personal conflict in Kim’s life could be viewed, because of the basement incident, as a conflict in Gurney’s life as well. If she reported a potential connection between her sawed step and his burned barn, shouldn’t he have reported it as well?

More to the point, why hadn’t he? Was it simply his ingrained cop inclination to control situations by controlling information?

Or was it the elephant in the room? His too-slow recovery from his injury. His fear that his abilities had been diminished—that he wasn’t as strong, as sharp, as quick as he had once been—that there was a time when he wouldn’t have fallen on his face, wouldn’t have let the whisperer escape.

“You’ll figure it out,” said Madeleine, sliding a cutting board’s worth of chopped mushrooms and onions into a large skillet on the stove.

He realized she’d been watching him and was demonstrating yet again her uncanny ability to read his mind—to see his thoughts and feelings in his eyes as clearly as if he’d spoken them. Earlier in their marriage, he’d found this faculty of hers almost frightening. Now he had come to regard it as one of the most benign and precious realities of their life together.

The skillet began to sizzle, and a pleasant aroma drifted across the room.

“Hey, that reminds me,” said Kyle, looking around. “Dad’s birthday present—he never finished opening it at dinner last night.”

Madeleine pointed to the sideboard. The box, still in its light blue wrapping, lay next to the arrow. Kyle, grinning, retrieved it and placed it on the table in front of his father.

“Well …” said Gurney, vaguely embarrassed. He began removing the paper.

“David, for Godsake,” said Madeleine, “you look like you’re defusing a bomb.”

He laughed nervously, pulled off the remaining paper, and opened the box, which was a matching blue. After unfolding several layers of crinkly white tissue paper, he found a handsome eight-by-ten
sterling-silver frame. In the frame was a newspaper clipping, beginning to yellow with age. He stared at it, blinking.

“Read it out loud,” said Kyle.

“I … uh … I don’t have my reading glasses.”

Madeleine regarded him with a combination of curiosity and concern. She turned down the gas under the skillet, came across the room, and took the framed clipping from him. She glanced through it quickly.

“It’s an article from the
New York Daily News
. The headline reads, ‘Serial Monster Nabbed by Newly Promoted Detective.’ The article goes on: ‘David Gurney, one of the city’s youngest homicide detectives, put an end last night to the horrifying murder career of Charles Lermer, aka “The Slicer.” Gurney’s superiors give him the lion’s share of the credit for the clever pursuit, identification, and final takedown of the monster said to be responsible for at least seventeen murders involving cannibalism and dismemberment over the past twelve years. “He came up with a radical new approach to the case that led to the breakthrough,” explained Lieutenant Scott Barry, an NYPD spokesperson. “We can all sleep easier tonight,” said Barry, declining to comment further, indicating that the pending legal process made it impossible to release full details at this time. Gurney himself was unreachable for comment. The hero detective is “allergic to publicity,” according to a department colleague.’ It’s dated June first, 1987.”

Madeleine handed the framed article back to Gurney.

He held it carefully, with what he hoped was an appearance of suitable appreciation. The problem was, he didn’t enjoy receiving gifts—especially expensive gifts. He also disliked being the center of attention, was ambivalent about praise, and lacked any sense of nostalgia.

“Thank you,” he said. “What a thoughtful gift.” He frowned at the blue box. “Is this silver frame from where I think it’s from?”

Kyle smiled proudly. “Tiffany has great stuff.”

“Jesus. Well. I don’t know what to say. Thank you. How on earth did you get that old article?”

“I’ve had it pretty much all my life. I’m amazed it didn’t fall apart years ago. I used to show it to all my friends.”

Gurney was blindsided by a surge of emotion. He cleared his throat loudly.

“Here, let me have that,” said Madeleine, taking it from him. “We’ll have to find a nice prominent place for it.”

Kim was watching with fascination. “You don’t like being a hero, do you?”

Gurney’s emotion burst out in the form of rough laughter. “I’m no hero.”

“A lot of people see you that way.”

He shook his head. “Heroes are fictional. They’re invented to serve a purpose in stories. Media storytellers create heroes. And once they create them, they destroy them.”

The observation created an awkward silence.

“Sometimes heroes are real,” said Kyle.

Madeleine had taken the framed article to the far end of the room and was propping it up on the fireplace mantel. “By the way,” she said, “there’s a handwritten inscription on the matte border that I didn’t read out loud before: ‘Happy birthday to the world’s greatest detective.’ ”

There was a sharp knock at the side door, which brought Gurney immediately to his feet. “I’ll get it,” he announced—he hoped not too eagerly. Exchanges of sentiment were not his strong suit, but neither did he want to appear to be in full flight from the generous emotions of others.

The stony pessimism etched into Everett Kramden’s face was, perversely, less upsetting to him than was Kyle’s filial enthusiasm. The man was standing several feet back from the door when Gurney opened it, almost as if some reverse magnetic force had repelled him.

“Sir, may I ask you to step outside for a moment?” It wasn’t really a question.

Gurney complied—surprised by the man’s tone but offering no visible reaction.

“Sir, do you own a five-gallon polyethylene gasoline container?”

“Yes. Two, in fact.”

“I see. And where do you keep them?”

“One over there, for the tractor.” Gurney pointed toward a weathered
shed on the far side of the asparagus patch. “And one in the open lean-to structure at the back of the—” He stopped for a second. “I mean, where the back of the barn used to be.”

“I see. Would you please come over to the van now and tell me if this gas container is one of yours?”