John Verdon: Let the Devil Sleep

Hardwick strode into Gurney’s room a minute before noon. After giving Madeleine a grin and a reassuring wink, he gave Gurney a frowning once-over and burst into laughter-more of a rhythmic growling than an expression of merriment. “Jesus, man, what the hell did you do to your eyebrows?”

“I decided to burn them off and start over.”

“Did you also decide to turn your face into a fucking pomegranate?”

“Nice of you to drop by, Jack. I need the encouragement.”

“Christ, on the TV you look like James Bond. Here you look like-”

“What do you mean, on TV?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it.”

“Seen what?”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The man instigates the Third World War and pleads ignorance. The whole damn thing from last night has been running on RAM News all morning. Sterne coming out of the cabin. That bloody flame-thrower mounted on Maxie’s hood. Sterne being incinerated. Maxie machine-gunning the Ramcopter out of the sky. Your heroic self charging out into the night to risk your life. The Ramcopter crash-followed by what the talking RAM heads keep calling ‘the horrible tragic fireball.’ It’s one hell of a show, Davey boy.”

“Hold on a second, Jack. The helicopter got shot down. So where did the footage of the crash come from?”

“The fuckers had two choppers out there. One Ramcopter went down, the other Ramcopter just moved into position and kept filming. Tragic fireballs are good for ratings. Especially with two people being burned to death in the process.”

Gurney was grimacing, Max Clinter’s fiery death still painfully vivid. “And this is on television?”

“Damn thing’s been running all morning. Showbiz, my friend, it’s fucking showbiz!”

“Those helicopters-how did they happen to be there to begin with?”

“Your friend Clinter gave RAM News a heads-up. Called earlier and told them that something really big was about to go down that night with the Good Shepherd, and they should position themselves in the area, ready to come swooping in. He called them again right before he made his move. Max always hated RAM for the nasty way they covered his original debacle with the Shepherd. Seems that shooting down the chopper was part of his plan.”

As Gurney was absorbing this, Hardwick left the room and crossed a large open area to the nurses’ station, where he interrupted a young woman working at a computer.

He returned with a triumphant gleam in his eye. “They’ve got a couple of TVs on rollers. The little peach with the big tits is gonna get us one. You should see this crap for yourself.”

Madeleine sighed and closed her eyes.

“In the meantime, Sherlock, two questions: How the hell did Larry the dentist get so good with a gun?”

“My impression is that he had a passion for precision that was off the charts. People like that have a way of getting good at things.”

“Too bad we can’t bottle that and sell it to sane people. Second question, a bit more personal: Did you have any idea what you were walking into at Clinter’s place?”

Gurney glanced at Madeleine. Her eyes were on him, waiting for his answer.

“I expected to meet the Shepherd. The disaster was unanticipated.”

“You sure about that?”

“The hell does that mean?”

“Did you really believe that Clinter would stay away like you told him to?”

Gurney paused. “How did you know I told him to stay away?”

Hardwick parried the question with another question. “Why do you think he showed up when he did?”

That little mystery had been in the back of Gurney’s own mind. The timing had been too perfect, relative to the nasty turn of events inside the cabin. The explanation now seemed obvious. “He bugged his own house?”

“Of course.”

“And he had the receiver in the Humvee?”

“Yes.”

“So he was listening in on my conversation with Larry Sterne?”

“Naturally.”

“And his receiver recorded everything that was said in the cabin, including my phone call to him. And somewhere along the line, you guys got the recording-which is how you know that I told him to stay away. But the Humvee went up in flames, so how did you get-”

“We got it directly from the man himself. He e-mailed BCI the audio file just before he cranked up that flame-thrower of his. Seems he knew how the dance might end. It also seems that he wanted us to have something concrete that vindicated your view of the case.”

Gurney felt a burst of gratitude to Clinter. Larry Sterne’s comments and admissions would bury the “manifesto” fiction once and for all. “That’s going to make a lot of people very unhappy.”

Hardwick grinned. “Fuck ’em.”

There was a long silence, during which Gurney realized that his involvement in the Good Shepherd case had essentially come to an end. The crime was solved. The danger was over.

A lot of people in law enforcement and forensic psychology would soon be engaged in an orgy of frantic finger-pointing, insisting that OPM-other people’s mistakes-had led them astray. Gurney himself might, at some point after the dust had settled, receive some small recognition for his contribution. But recognition was a mixed blessing. It often had too high a price.

“By the way,” said Hardwick, “Paul Mellani shot himself.”

Gurney blinked. “What?”

“Shot himself with his Desert Eagle. Apparently a few days ago. Woman in the adjoining storefront yesterday afternoon reported getting a bad smell through the ventilation system.”

“No doubt about its being a suicide?”

“None.”

“Jesus.”

Madeleine looked stricken. “Is that the poor man you talked to last week?”

“Yes.” He turned to Hardwick. “Were you able to find out how long he’d owned the gun?”

“Less than a year.”

“Jesus,” said Gurney again, talking more to himself than to Hardwick. “Of all the possible weapons he could have used, why a Desert Eagle?”

Hardwick shrugged. “A Desert Eagle killed his father. Maybe he wanted to go the same way.”

“He hated his father.”

“Maybe that was the sin he had to atone for.”

Gurney stared at Hardwick. Sometimes the man said the damnedest things.

“Speaking of fathers,” said Gurney, “any trace at all of Emilio Corazon?”

“More than a trace.”

“Huh?”

“When you have some time, you might want to think about how to handle this.”

“Handle what?”

“Emilio Corazon is a late-stage alcoholic and heroin addict living in a Salvation Army shelter in Ventura, California. He panhandles to get money for booze and heroin. He’s changed his name half a dozen times. He doesn’t want to be found. He needs a liver transplant to stay alive, but he can’t stay sober long enough to get on the list. He’s getting dementia from the ammonia levels in his blood. The people at the shelter think he’ll be dead in three months. Maybe sooner.”

Gurney felt like he should say something.

But his mind was blank.

He felt empty.

Aching, sad, and empty.

“Mr. Gurney?”

He looked up. Lieutenant Bullard was standing in the doorway.

“Sorry if I’m interrupting something. I just… I just wanted to thank you… and make sure you were all right.”

“Come in.”

“No, no. I just…” She looked at Madeleine. “Are you Mrs. Gurney?”

“Yes, I am. And you…?”

“Georgia Bullard. Your husband is a remarkable man. But of course you know that.” She looked at Gurney. “Maybe, after all this gets sorted out, I was wondering, maybe I could treat you and your wife to lunch? I know a little Italian restaurant in Sasparilla.”

Gurney laughed. “I look forward to it.”