Let the Devil Sleep (45 page)

But he had another motive for silence, a less objective one. He didn’t want to appear too familiar with Clinter, too allied with him, too much on his wavelength. He didn’t want to be tarred by the association. Holdenfield had tossed that PTSD diagnosis into his lap during their lunch in Branville. At some point Max Clinter had also gotten a PTSD diagnosis. Gurney didn’t like the echo effect.

Clegg was winding up his report. “Tire-tread impressions made in the parking lot of Lakeside Collision are being processed, photos have been sent to vehicle forensics for original equipment and aftermarket matches. We got a decent side-to-side double impression. Crossing our fingers for a unique axle-width measurement.” He looked up from the
screen of the device from which he’d been reading. “That’s as much as I’m aware of at the moment, Lieutenant.”

“Any promised callback time on the physical analysis of the Shepherd message—ink, paper, printer data, latents on the address form, inner envelope, et cetera?”

“They said they’d have a better idea within the next hour.”

Bullard nodded. “And the outgoing notifications?”

“Just starting that process. We have a preliminary list of family members in the background materials provided by Agent Daker. I believe Ms. Corazon is being contacted now for her own list of current phone numbers, per Mr. Gurney’s suggestion. Carly Madden in Public Information is helping to formulate an appropriate message.”

“She understands the communications objective
—serious alert without panic
—and the importance of getting it just right?”

“She’s been made aware of that.”

“Good. I’d like to see the draft before the live calls. Let’s move on that front ASAP.”

Gurney’s sense of the woman was firming up. She devoured stress like vitamins. Her job was probably her sole addiction. “ASAP” was almost certainly the way she wanted everything to happen. And adversaries should take care.

She looked around the table. “Questions?”

“You seem to have your fingers on a lot of buttons at the same time,” said Trout.

“So what else is new?”

“What I’m saying is that there’s a point beyond which we all need some help.”

“No doubt. Feel free to call me if you ever find yourself in that position.”

Trout laughed—a sound as warm and musical as a car starter with a dying battery. “I just wanted to remind you that we have some resources at the federal level that you may not have in Auburn or Sasparilla. And the fact is, the clearer the linkage between this new homicide and the old case becomes, the greater the institutional pressure will be on both of us to bring federal resources to the table.”

“That might happen tomorrow. But today is today. One day at a time.”

Trout smiled—a mechanical expression consistent with his laugh. “I’m not a philosopher, Lieutenant. Just a realist pointing out how things are and where this case is bound to end up. I suppose you can choose to ignore that, until the moment it occurs. But we do need to spell out some ground rules and lines of communication, starting now.”

Bullard glanced at her watch. “Actually, what’s starting now is a brief lunch break. Twelve noon on the dot. I suggest we reconvene at twelve forty-five to discuss those ground rules and lines of communication—and then do some actual work, ground rules permitting.” Her sarcasm was softened by a smile. “The coffee and the snack machines in this building are pretty awful. Would you Albany folks like a recommendation for a local lunch place?”

“No need for that. We’ll be fine,” Trout answered.

Holdenfield looked pensive, restless, far from fine.

Daker looked like he felt nothing at all—beyond a general desire to liquidate all the troublemakers in the world, painfully, one by one.

B
ullard and Gurney were seated in a horseshoe-shaped booth in a small Italian restaurant with a bar and three inescapable television screens.

They each had a small antipasto and were sharing a pizza. Clegg had remained at the unit to monitor progress on the multiple initiatives that had been put in motion. Bullard had been quiet since they’d arrived. She was segregating the hot peppers on the rim of her salad plate. Once she’d uncovered and moved the last of them, her gaze rose to Gurney’s eyes. “So, Dave, tell me. What the hell are you up to?”

“Put a finer point on that question and I’ll be happy to answer it.”

She looked down at her salad, speared one of the hot peppers with her fork, popped it into her mouth, chewed it and swallowed it without a hint of discomfort. “I sense a lot of energy in your involvement.
A lot
. This is more than just a favor you’re doing for some kid with a hot idea. So what is it? I need to know.”

He smiled. “Did Daker by any chance tell you that RAM wants me to do a program of critical commentaries on failed police investigations?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, I have no intention of doing it.”

She gave him a long, appraising look. “Okay. Do you have any other financial or career interests in the current situation that you haven’t told me about?”

“None.”

“Okay. What is it, then? What’s the attraction?”

“There’s a hole in the case big enough to drive a truck through. Also big enough to keep me awake nights. And peculiar things have happened that I believe were designed to discourage Kim’s pursuit of her project and to discourage my participation. I have a perverse reaction to efforts like that. Pushing me toward the door makes me want to stay in the room.”

“I told you something similar about myself.” She said this so evenly that it was hard to tell if it was meant as a token of comradeship or as a warning not to try to manipulate her. Before he could decide which it was, she continued. “But I have a feeling there’s something else. Am I right?”

He was wondering how open he should be. “There’s more. I’m reluctant to tell you what it is, because it makes me look silly, small, and resentful.”

Bullard shrugged. “One of life’s basic choices, isn’t it? We can look hip, slick, and cool. Or we can tell the truth.”

“When I first started looking into the Good Shepherd case for Kim Corazon, I asked Holdenfield if she thought Agent Trout would be willing to listen to my views on the case.”

“And she said that he wouldn’t, because you were no longer an active member of law enforcement?”

“Worse. ‘You must be joking.’ That’s what she said. One little comment. One aggravating little comment. Must seem like a crazy reason for me to tighten my grip on this thing and refuse to let go.”

“Of course it’s a crazy reason. But at least now I know what’s behind all the tenacity.” She ate a second hot pepper. “Getting back to that hole in the case that keeps you awake nights. What questions do you find yourself struggling with at two
A.M.
?”

He didn’t have to think long about the answer. “Three big ones. First, the time factor. Why did the murders start when they did, back in the spring of 2000? Second, what lines of inquiry were aborted, or
never initiated, because of the arrival of the manifesto? Third, what made ‘Killing the Greedy Rich’ the right cover story to conceal whatever was really going on?”

Bullard raised a challenging eyebrow. “Assuming that something
was
going on other than ‘Killing the Greedy Rich’—an assumption you’re a hell of a lot more committed to than I am.”

“It’ll grow on you. As a matter of fact—”

“The Good Shepherd is back!”
The unnerving aptness of the announcement from the television above the bar stopped Gurney in midsentence. One of RAM’s melodramatic news anchors was sharing a split screen with a well-known gray-pompadoured evangelist, the Reverend Emmet Prunk.

“According to reliable sources, the dreaded upstate New York serial murderer is back. The monster is haunting the rural landscape once again. Ten years ago the Good Shepherd ended Harold Blum’s life with a bullet in the head. Two nights ago the killer returned. Returned to the home of Harold’s widow, Ruth. He entered her residence in the middle of the night and drove an ice pick through her heart.” The man’s overdone delivery was as attention-getting as it was repulsive. “This is so … so inhuman … so beyond the bounds … Sorry, folks, there are things in this world that just plain leave me speechless.” He shook his head grimly and turned toward the other half of the split screen, as though the TV evangelist were actually sitting next to him in the studio. “Reverend Prunk, you always seem to have the right words, the right insight. Help us out. What’s your perspective on this terrifying development?”

“Well, Dan, like any normal human being, I find that my feelings here run the gamut from horror to outrage. But I do believe that in God’s economy there is a purpose in every event, however dreadful that event may seem to our merely human way of seeing. ‘But, Reverend Prunk,’ someone might ask me, ‘what could be the purpose in this nightmare?’ And I would say to him that in the demonstration of so much evil there is much to be learned about the nature of evil in our world today. This monster has no respect for his victims. They are chaff to be blown away in the wind of his willfulness. They are nothing. A wisp of smoke. A piece of dirt. This is the lesson the Lord has placed before our eyes. He is showing us the true nature of evil. To
extinguish life, to blow it away like a wisp of smoke, to trample it like a piece of dirt, that is the essence of evil! This is the lesson the Lord raises up for the righteous to see in the deeds of the devil.”

“Thank you, sir.” The anchor turned back to the camera. “As always, wise words from the Reverend Emmet Prunk. And now some important information from the good people who make RAM News possible.”

A sequence of loud, hyperactive commercials took the place of the talking heads.

“Jesus,” muttered Gurney, looking across the table at Bullard.

She met his gaze. “Tell me again that you’re not doing business with those people.”

“I’m not doing business with those people.”

She held his gaze a little longer, then made the kind of face she might make if one of the peppers were repeating on her. “Let’s back up to your point about certain lines of inquiry being aborted by the arrival of the manifesto. Have you given any thought to what they might be?”

“The obvious stuff. To start with, cui bono? The simple question of who might have profited in a practical way from all six murders has to top the list of things that were never pursued once the manifesto got everyone pointed in the mission-killer direction.”

“Okay, I hear you. What else?”

“A connection. Some background linkage among the victims.”

“Other than the Mercedes thing?”

“Right.”

She looked skeptical. “Problem with that is that it would make the cars secondary. If they weren’t the primary criterion for the attacks, then they must have been coincidental. Hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

Her objection was a direct echo of Jack Hardwick’s. Gurney had had no answer for it then, and he still didn’t.

“What else?” she asked.

“In-depth investigations of each individual case.”

“What do you mean?”

“Once the serial pattern was evident, it dictated the nature of the investigation.”

“Of course it did. How else—”

“I’m just listing paths not explored. I’m not saying they
should
have been explored—only that they weren’t.”

“Give me an example.”

“If the murders had been investigated as individual crimes, the process would have been totally different. In any case of premeditated murder without an obvious motive or suspect, you know as well as I do what would happen. The exploration would begin with the victim’s life and relationships—friends, lovers, enemies, criminal connections, criminal record, bad habits, bad marriages, ugly divorces, business conflicts, will and estate provisions, debts, financial pressures and opportunities. In other words, we’d root around in the victim’s life looking for situations and people of interest. But in this case—”

“Yes, yes, of course, in this case none of that happened. If someone is driving around shooting through random Mercedes windows in the middle of the night, you don’t spend time and money checking on each victim’s personal problems.”

“Obviously. A psychopathological pattern, especially with a simple trigger like a shiny black car, makes finding the psycho perp the sole focus. The victims are just generic components of the pattern.”

She gave him a hard stare. “Tell me you’re not suggesting that the Good Shepherd murders had six different motives arising from the individual lives of the six victims.”

“That would be absurd, right?”

“Yes. Just as absurd as the idea of the six similar cars being coincidental.”

“I can’t argue with you on that.”

“Okay, then. So much for the paths not taken. A little while ago, you mentioned the time factor as one of the questions on your restless mind. You have specific thoughts about that?”

“Nothing specific right now. Sometimes a close look at
when
something occurred can be a back door into understanding
why
it occurred. By the way, your reference to my restless nights reminded me of something I wanted to tell you. Paul Mellani, son of Bruno Mellani and a participant in Kim’s
Orphans
project, happens to have a permit for a Desert Eagle pistol.”

“When did he get it?”

“I don’t have access to that information.”

“Really?” She paused. “Speaking of your access to information, I believe Agent Trout has taken an interest in that subject.”

“I know. He’s wasting his time. But thank you for mentioning it.”

“He’s also taken an interest in your barn.”

“How do you know that?”

“Daker told me that your barn burned down under suspicious circumstances, that an arson investigator found your gas can hidden somewhere, and that I should exercise appropriate caution in dealing with you.”

“And what did
that
tell you?”

“That they don’t like you very much.”

“What a revelation!”

“Matthew Trout could be a troublesome enemy.”

“Into each life a little rain must fall.” Bullard nodded, almost smiled.