Let the Devil Sleep (40 page)

“How so?”

“Did you see the program with her last night on RAM?”

“I’m aware of it. Why do you ask?”

“It might help you to understand what happened here.”

“How?”

“The program was the first of a series, dealing with the aftereffects of the six murders committed by the Good Shepherd back in 2000. What happened here was almost certainly the seventh Good Shepherd murder. And there may be more coming.”

Whatever cordiality had been in her expression had given way to cool assessment. “What exactly are you doing here?”

He began to consider his words carefully—but then thought to hell with that. “I’m here because I believe the FBI got the case backwards from day one, and what happened here may prove it.”

Her expression was hard to read. “Have you told them what you think?”

He gave her a quick smile. “It didn’t go over very well.”

She shook her head. “I’m not quite getting what you’re telling me. I don’t know on whose behalf or on whose authority you’ve come here.” She glanced at Clegg, who shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “Andy told me you were retired. We’re in the crucial first hours of a murder investigation. Unless you can make your presence and purpose plain to me, you’re going to have to leave. I hope I’m being clear without being rude.”

“I understand.” He took a deep breath. “I was hired as a consultant to the woman who interviewed Ruth Blum, and I’ve been taking a close look at the Good Shepherd case. I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s a major flaw in the prevailing view. I’m hoping the investigation of this murder won’t get screwed up like the first six. But, unfortunately, there already seems to be a problem.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He didn’t park in the driveway.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The man who killed Ruth Blum didn’t park in this driveway. If you believe he did, you’ll never understand what happened here.”

She shot a glance in Clegg’s direction, perhaps to see if he knew more about this unexpected challenge than she did, but his eyes showed only surprise and confusion. She looked back at Gurney, then at her watch. “Come inside. I’ll give you exactly five minutes to make some sense. Meanwhile, Andy, you stay here and keep an eye on the TV vultures. They are not to put one toe on our side of the tape.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She led Gurney down a sloping lawn by the side of the house and up the steps of the rear deck—which he recognized as the location of Kim’s outdoor interview with Ruth Blum. He followed her through a back door that connected the deck with a large eat-in kitchen. A photographer was sitting at a table in a breakfast nook, downloading pictures from a digital SLR onto a laptop.

She looked around the kitchen, but it didn’t offer much opportunity for privacy. “Excuse me, Chuck, can you give us a few minutes here?”

“No problem, Lieutenant. I can finish this in the van.” He picked up his equipment and a moment later was gone.

The lieutenant sat in one of the chairs at the vacated table and motioned Gurney to the one directly opposite. “Okay,” she said evenly. “I’ve had a long day so far, and it’s nowhere near over. I have no time to waste. I’d appreciate some clarity and brevity. Speak.”

“What makes you think he parked in the driveway?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I do?”

“The way the three of you were standing carefully to the side of it when I arrived. The way everybody avoided walking on it, even though your tech crew must have already gone over it. So I figure it’s being saved for a more thorough microscopic analysis. How come you’re convinced he parked there?”

She studied him for a while before a cynical little smile appeared on her lips. “You already know something, don’t you? Where’s the leak?”

“No point in going down that path. That’s the FBI path. Confrontational waste of time.”

She continued to study him, not so long this time, then seemed to arrive at a decision. “The victim posted a message on her Facebook page late last night. After some comments about the RAM program, she described a car that was pulling into her driveway as she was sitting there at her computer. Why do I have a feeling that you already know all this?”

Gurney ignored her question. “What kind of car?”

“Big. Military-looking. No make or model mentioned.”

“Jeep? Land Rover? Hummer? Something like that?” She nodded.

“So the theory is that he parks out in the driveway, walks up to the front door, knocks … and then what? He kills her in the doorway? She lets him in? She knows him? She doesn’t know him?”

“Slow down. You asked me why we believe that the killer—or someone who coincidentally visited her at approximately the time she was killed—parked in the driveway. And I gave you the answer. We believe it because the victim herself told us that’s what happened. It’s the victim’s eyewitness account, posted on her Facebook page, before she was killed.” Lieutenant Bullard’s expression of triumph
was diluted with a pinch of worry. “So now you owe me a brief, clear explanation of why you think Ruth Blum would say those things if they weren’t true.”

“She didn’t.”

“Beg pardon?”

“None of it happened that way. The scenario you’re presenting doesn’t make any sense. First of all, before we get into the logical problem, you’ve got a physical-evidence problem at the end of the driveway.”

“What physical-evidence problem?”

“The ground is fairly dry. How long has it been since the last rain?” He knew when it had rained in Walnut Crossing, but the weather system around the Finger Lakes was often quite different.

She thought for a moment. “It rained yesterday morning. It was over by noon. Why?”

“There’s a strip of dirt in a crevice out there at the edge of the road, maybe an inch wide. Anyone coming into the driveway would have to cross it, unless they drove through the woods and across the lawn. But that little strip of dirt doesn’t seem to have been disturbed, at least not since the last rain.”

“An inch is not necessarily enough to register—”

“Maybe not, but it’s suggestive. Plus, there’s the psychological factor. If the Good Shepherd is back, if this is his seventh victim, then what we already know about him has to figure into it.”

“Like what?”

“One thing we know is that he is extremely cautious, extremely risk-averse. And that short driveway is too exposed. Any vehicle sitting out there—especially anything the size of a Hummer—would have its rear bumper practically on the road. Way too eye-catching, way too identifiable. A local cop cruising by might zero in on a strange car like that, might stop to check it out, might run the plate number.”

Bullard frowned. “But the fact is, Ruth Blum was killed, and if the killer came in a vehicle, he had to park it somewhere. So what are you saying? Where did he park it? On the shoulder of the road? That would be even more exposed.”

“My guess would be at the body shop.”

“The what?”

“Half mile down the state route, back in the direction of Ithaca, there’s an auto-body shop. There are some cars and trucks in a scruffy little parking area beside it, either waiting to be worked on or waiting to be picked up. It’s the one place in the neighborhood where a strange vehicle wouldn’t raise a question—wouldn’t even be noticed. If I were going to kill someone in this house in the middle of the night, I’d park there, and then I’d walk the rest of the way here in that deep swale by the side of the road to avoid being seen by passing drivers.”

She stared down at the tabletop, as though trying to see the possibilities in an imaginary set of scrabble letters. She made a face. “
Theoretically
, that might make sense. Problem is, her Facebook posting specifically refers to a vehicle pulling in—”

“You mean
the
Facebook posting.”

“I don’t get what—”

“You’re assuming it was
her
posting.”

“It was her account, her page, her computer, her password.”

“Couldn’t her murderer have extracted the password from her before he killed her, opened the page, and composed the message himself?”

Bullard redoubled her scrutiny of the tabletop. She shook her head uncertainly. “That’s
conceivable
. But like your body-shop theory, there’s no evidence to support it.”

Gurney smiled at the opening. “After your boys in the white suits confirm that the dirt in the crack at the end of the driveway hasn’t been disturbed, ask them to pay a visit to the body shop. It would be interesting to see if they can find a relatively fresh set of tire tracks that don’t match up with any of the vehicles there.”

“But … why would the killer take the time and trouble to leave a message like that on Facebook?”

“Sand in our eyes. A twist in the maze. He’s very good at that.”

Something in her expression told him she was open to every speck of information she could lay her hands on.

“How much do you know about the original case?” he asked.

“Not as much as I need to,” she admitted. “Someone from the FBI field office is on his way here to give me a briefing. Speaking of which, I’ll need your address, e-mail, phone numbers where you can be reached twenty-four hours a day. You have any problem with that?”

“No problem at all.”

“I’ll give you my e-mail and cell number. I assume you’ll pass along any relevant facts that come your way?”

“Be happy to.”

“Okay. I’m totally out of time here. We’ll talk again.”

As Gurney left the house, the RAM helicopter was still circling noisily, its thumping rotor wash loosening the few dead leaves that were still clinging to the topmost branches of the trees, sending them swirling downward. Before he could reach his car, he was intercepted by the fluffy-coiffed, brightly made-up reporter with a mike in her hand and a video man behind her. “I’m Jill McCoy, Eye on the News, Syracuse!” she cried, her face showing the expression of alarmed curiosity that was a standard feature of her breed. “I’ve been told that you’re Detective Dave Gurney, the man
New York
magazine called the Supercop. Dave, is it true that the Good Shepherd, the infamous mass murderer, has struck again?”

“Excuse me,” said Gurney, forcing his way by her.

She extended the mike toward him, shouting a string of questions at his back as he opened his car door, got in, closed it, turned on the ignition. “Was she killed because of her TV appearance? Something she said? Is this horrible case too big for our local police? Is that why they brought you in? How are you involved? Is it true you have a problem with the FBI? What’s that problem all about, Detective Gurney?”

As he edged out of his parking spot, the video camera was just inches from his side window. The traffic trooper was doing nothing to alleviate the problem. In fact, he was totally absorbed in a conversation with a new arrival on the scene. Pulling out onto the state road, Gurney caught a glimpse of the man—compact, dark-haired, unsmiling. It was just enough of a glimpse for Gurney to recognize him.

It was Daker.

A
s Gurney rounded the first bend in the road, the body shop came into view. He slowed as he passed it, noting the sign on the concrete-block building:
LAKESIDE COLLISION
. He was still convinced it was the perfect place to park a car inconspicuously.

Halfway to Walnut Crossing, he passed a billboard for Verizon Cellular, and it reminded him that he’d switched off his phone when he sat down at the kitchen table with Bullard. He switched it back on to check for messages. The screen said there were seven. Before he had a chance to listen to any of them, a new call came in.

Gurney pressed
TALK
.

The caller was Kyle, and he sounded agitated. “We’ve been trying to reach you for over an hour.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Kim is really freaked out. She’s been trying to get you. She’s already left three messages for you.”

“Is it about Ruth Blum?”

“Mainly that. But also
The Orphans of Murder
thing last night on TV. She hated how they put it together, what they cut and what they added, especially those two jerks. She’s really upset.”

“Where is she?”

“In the bathroom, crying. Again. Wait, no. I hear the door opening. Hold on.”

Gurney heard Kim asking Kyle who he was talking to, Kyle’s voice saying, “My dad.” Kim sniffling in the background, blowing her nose. The sound of the phone being handed from one to the other. Muffled voices. More nose blowing, throat clearing.

Finally she was speaking to him. “Dave?”

“I’m here.”

“This is a nightmare. I can’t believe it’s happening. I want to go to sleep and wake up again and discover that none of it is real.”

“I hope you’re not blaming yourself for what happened to Ruth.”

“Of course I am!”

“You’re not responsible for—”

Kim interrupted, her voice rising. “She wouldn’t be dead if I hadn’t talked her into doing this stupid program!”

“You’re not responsible for her death, and you’re not responsible for what RAM News did with your interview, or what they put in, or how they—”

“They cut my interview in half and surrounded it with all that pompous nonsense from their so-called
experts
.” She made the word sound like someone spitting. “Oh, God, I just want to disappear. I want to erase everything. Erase everything that killed Ruthie.”

“A murderer killed her.”

“But it wouldn’t have happened if—”

“Listen to me, Kim. A murderer killed Ruth Blum. A murderer with his own agenda. Probably the same murderer who killed her husband ten years ago.”

She didn’t say anything. He could hear her breathing. Slow, shaky breaths. When she finally spoke, her near hysteria had declined into plain misery. “It’s what Larry Sterne kept telling me—it all turned out to be true. He said RAM would twist everything and make it cheap and ugly and awful. He said they’d be better at using me than I’d be at using them, that all they cared about was getting the largest possible audience, that the price of my project would outweigh its rewards. And he was right. Totally right.”