John Verdon - Let the Devil Sleep

Gurney turned to Sterne. He had two questions vying with each other at the top of his list of forty or fifty. The first was the most urgent.

“What are you going to do now, Larry?”

“Proceed as reasonably as possible.”

The answer, in all its rational tranquillity, couldn’t have sounded crazier.

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“Surrender. Play the game. Prevail.”

Gurney’s fear was that he was witnessing the calm before the storm-that the sweet light of reason and surrender was about to explode in a lunatic bloodbath.

“Prevail?”

“I always have. I always will.”

“But you do… intend to surrender?”

“Of course.” Sterne smiled, as though he were trying to soothe a kindergartner’s fear of getting on the bus. “What were you thinking? That I’d take you hostage, use you as a human shield to make my escape?”

“It’s been done.”

“Not by me, not with you.” He appeared genuinely amused. “Be realistic, Detective. What kind of shield would you make? From what I hear, your professional colleagues would be delighted to have an opportunity to shoot you. I’d be better off shielding myself with a sack of potatoes.”

Gurney was speechless at the man’s composure. Was he totally insane? “You’re pretty cheery for a guy whose case could end the state moratorium on executions. I hear that lethal injections aren’t very pleasant.” Even as he was saying this, frustrated by Sterne’s attitude, he realized how dangerous and inadvisable a comment it was.

Apparently he need not have worried. Sterne just shook his head. “Don’t be silly, Detective. Morons with third-rate lawyers have managed to put off their executions for twenty years or more. I can do better than that. Much better. I have money. A lot of money. I have connections both visible and invisible. Most important of all, I know how the legal system works. How it really works. And I have something of great value to offer that system. Something to trade, shall we say.” He was radiating a composure that fell somewhere between yogic peace and madness.

“What do you have?”

“Knowledge.”

“Of?”

“Certain unsolved cases.”

Outside, five seconds of a pulsing police siren preceded another bullhorn announcement. The wording had become more urgent. “THIS IS THE STATE POLICE… PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS NOW… OPEN THE DOOR NOW… DO IT NOW… PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS IMMEDIATELY AND OPEN THE DOOR… OPEN THE DOOR NOW.”

“Unsolved cases… such as?”

“You were wondering a few minutes ago how many people I might have killed-how many more than you’ve already counted.”

The thudding roar of the helicopter was growing louder above the cabin, its searchlight brighter. Sterne seemed oblivious to it. His attention was entirely on Gurney, who in turn was trying to analyze and respond to the latest twist in what was becoming one of the most unsettling cases of his career.

“I don’t follow the logic, Larry. If they can hang the Good Shepherd murders on you-”

“Big if, by the way.”

“Okay, big if. But if they can, I don’t see how you get much leverage out of confessing to a couple more.”

Sterne smiled his transcendental smile. “I see what you’re doing. You’re ridiculing my offer to get me to show my hand. Silly little ploy. But that’s all right. No secrets among friends. Let me ask you a hypothetical question: How important would it be to a state police agency to clear-again, quite hypothetically-twenty or maybe thirty unsolved cases?”

Gurney was disheartened. Larry Sterne was either flat-out delusional or an impulsive liar with the kind of megalomania that told him he could make up anything and make people believe it.

Sterne seemed to sense Gurney’s skepticism. His reaction was to double down. “I’m thinking that there should be some leverage in putting thirty cases in the ‘solved’ file. Dramatically improving department statistics. Providing closure for the families. If thirty isn’t a big enough number, we might even be able to offer forty. Whatever it takes to make the kind of deal I have in mind.”

“What kind of deal would that be, Larry?”

“Nothing unreasonable. I think you’ll find me the most reasonable man you’ve ever met. No need to get into the specifics at this point. All I’m talking about is an imprisonment with certain fundamental amenities. A comfortable cell of my own. Basic conveniences. The relaxation of only the most unnecessary rules. I wouldn’t ask for anything that men of goodwill couldn’t easily negotiate.”

“And in return for that, you’d be willing to confess to twenty or thirty or forty unsolved murders? With full corroborative details on motive and method?”

“Hypothetically.”

The bullhorn announced, “THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE TO PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND OPEN THE DOOR. YOU MUST DO IT NOW.”

Gurney tried a wild swing from another direction. “Including the White Mountain Strangler case?”

“Hypothetically.”

“And the number of victims is as high as it is because the basic method was always the same-to kill five or six people each time, to obscure the motive for the one that mattered?”

“Hypothetically.”

“I see. But there’s a question I’d like to clear up-just to be sure I understand the risk calculation driving the MO. Wouldn’t it be reasonable to assume that one well-planned murder would pose less chance of exposure than five or six?”

“The answer to that is no. However well planned one murder may be, it still focuses attention on that one victim and the consequences of that one death. There is no escape from the singularity of the event. However, the additional murders remove virtually all risk that the central murder will receive the focus it requires-and they create virtually no additional risk. Murderers are caught primarily because of their connections with their victims. If there are no connections… well, I’m sure you understand the concept.”

“And the cost-the lives ended-that never concerned you?”

Sterne said nothing. His bland smile said it all.

Gurney wondered how long it would take a tough state prison to wipe it off his face.

The smile widened, as Sterne again seemed to sense Gurney’s train of thought. “I’m actually looking forward to my interactions with the penal system and its population. I’m a positive thinker, Detective. I embrace the reality that’s been placed in front of me. A penitentiary is a new world to conquer. I have an ability to attract people who can be of use. You seem to have noted my success with Robby Meese. Think about that. Penal institutions are full of Robby Meeses-susceptible young men looking for a father figure, for someone who understands them, someone who’s on their side, who can channel their energies, their fears, their resentments. Think about it, Detective. With appropriate guidance, young men like that could become a kind of palace guard. It’s an exciting prospect, one I’ve had occasion to think about many times over the years. In short, I believe that prison life will be quite manageable. I might even become a bit of a celebrity. I have a feeling I may become the darling of the psychological community all over again-as they try to rehabilitate themselves with profound new insights into the true story of the Good Shepherd. And don’t forget the books. Authorized and unauthorized biographies. RAM specials. And you know something? I may end up a lot better off than you in the long run. You’ve earned yourself more enemies on the outside than I’ll have on the inside. Not such a great victory for you, when you think about it. I can pay people to watch my back. People who are very good at that sort of thing. But how about your back? If I were you, I’d be concerned.”