John Verdon - Let the Devil Sleep

“You first,” said Gurney.

Kyle grinned. It was his mother’s mouth but his father’s teeth. “Kim was telling me about this TV thing you’re involved in.”

“I’m not involved directly in the TV aspect. In fact, I’d like to stay as far away from that part of it as possible.”

“What other part is there?”

Such a simple question, thought Gurney, as he tried to think of a simple answer. “The case itself, I guess.”

“The Shepherd murders?”

“The murders, the victims, the evidence, the MO, the rationale presented in the manifesto, the investigative premise.”

Kyle looked surprised. “You have doubts about any of that?”

“Doubts? I don’t know. Maybe just some curiosity.”

“I thought all that Good Shepherd stuff was analyzed to death ten years ago.”

“Maybe I just have doubts about the basis for nobody’s having any doubts. Plus, some odd little things have been happening.”

“Like her crazy ex sabotaging the stairs?”

“Is that the way she described what happened?”

Kyle frowned. “There’s another way?”

“Who knows? Like I said, I just have some curiosity.” He paused. “On the other hand, this so-called curiosity of mine may be nothing more than mental indigestion. We’ll see. There’s an FBI agent I’d like to talk to.”

“How come?”

“I’m pretty confident that I know as much as the state police know, but our friends at the fed level have a habit of keeping the occasional tidbit to themselves-especially the individual who was running the case.”

“And you think you can get whatever it is out of him?”

“Maybe not, but I’d like to give it a shot.”

There was a sharp clatter of breaking glass.

“Damn!” cried Madeleine at the other end of the room, raising her hand from the sink and staring at it.

“You all right?” asked Gurney.

She tore a piece of paper towel off the roll that stood on the sink island. The roll toppled over and fell to the floor. She ignored it, along with the question, and began dabbing at the heel of her left hand.

“You need some help?” He got up and headed over to look at her hand. He picked up the towel roll and set it back on the countertop. “Let me see.”

Kyle followed him over.

“Why don’t you gentlemen return to your seats,” she said, frowning uncomfortably at the attention. “I think I can handle this. Just a little blood, nothing serious. All it needs is peroxide and a Band-Aid.” She flashed a chilly smile and walked out of the room.

The two men looked at each other, producing identical little shrugs.

“You want some coffee?” asked Gurney.

Kyle shook his head. “I was trying to remember… It became an FBI case because of the Massachusetts guy, right? The heart surgeon?” Gurney blinked. “How the hell did you remember that?”

“It was a giant homicide case.”

Something in Kyle’s expression suddenly got through to Gurney: the implication that of course Kyle would pay attention to something like that, because that was the world in which his father was an expert.

“Right,” said Gurney, feeling the small stab of an unfamiliar emotion. “You sure you don’t want any coffee?”

“Maybe I will. I mean, if you’re having some, too.”

As the coffee was brewing, they stood looking out through the French doors. The yellow afternoon sun was slanting across the stubbly pasture.

After a long silence, Kyle said, “So what do you think about this thing she’s involved in?”

“Kim?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a big question. I guess everything depends on the final execution.”

“The way she explained it to me, it sounds like she really wants it to be an honest portrayal of the people involved.”

“What she wants it to be and what RAM turns it into may be two different things.”

Kyle blinked, looked worried. “They sure as hell did a job on the original events. Twenty-four/seven bullshit, week after week.”

“You remember that?”

“It was all that was on. The shootings happened right after I moved out of Mom’s to live at Stacey Marx’s house.”

“When you were… fifteen?”

“Sixteen. When Mom started going with Tom Gerard, the big real-estate guy.” A bright, brittle emotion flashed in his eyes as he added with antic emphasis, “Mom ’n’ Tom.”

“So,” said Gurney quickly, “you remember the television coverage?”

“Stacey’s parents had the TV on all the time. RAM News, all the time . God, I can still picture the reconstructions.”

“Of the shootings?”

“Right. They had an ominous-sounding announcer delivering a dramatic voice-over narration, based very loosely on the facts-while some actor was shown driving a shiny black car on a lonely road. They’d go through the whole thing like that-right up to the gunshot and the car careening off the road-with a tiny one-word ‘reenactment’ disclaimer flashed on the screen for half a second. It was like reality TV without the reality. Day after day. They got so much mileage out of that crap they should’ve been paying the Shepherd.”

“I remember now,” said Gurney. “All part of the RAM carnival.”

“Speaking of the carnival, you ever watch Cops ? That was pretty big on TV around that same time.”

“I saw part of one episode.”

“I don’t think I ever told you this, but there was an asshole in junior year of high school who knew you were with the NYPD, and he always used to ask me, ‘Is that what your cop dad does for a living-busts down doors in trailer parks?’ Complete asshole. I used to tell him, ‘No, asshole, that’s not what he does. And by the way, asshole, he’s not just a cop, he’s a homicide detective.’ Detective first class, right, Dad?”

“Right.” Kyle sounded so young to him right then, like such a kid, it brought a tightness to his chest. He looked away, down the hill at the barn.

“I wish that New York magazine article about you had come out back then. That would have shut him up fast. That article was fantastic!”

“I guess Kim told you that her mother wrote that article?”

“Yeah, she did-when I asked how she knew you. She really likes you.”

“Who?”

“Kim. At least Kim, maybe her mother, too.” Kyle grinned and looked sixteen again. “That gold detective shield dazzles them, right?”

Gurney managed a small laugh.

A cloud passed slowly in front of the sun, and the pasture faded from golden tan to grayish beige. For a wrenching second, something about it reminded Gurney of the skin of a corpse. A particular corpse. A Dominican hit man whose sunny complexion had drained away with his blood on a Harlem sidewalk. Gurney cleared his throat, as if to dispel the image.

Then he became aware of a low thumping in the air. It grew louder, soon becoming recognizable as a helicopter. Half a minute later, it passed, visible only partially and only briefly behind the treetops along the ridge. The distinct, heavy thudding of the rotor faded away, and all was silent again.

“You have a military base up here?” asked Kyle.

“No, just reservoirs for the city.”

“Reservoirs?” He seemed to be considering this. “So you think the helicopter is some kind of Homeland Security thing?”

“Most likely.”

They were sitting at the Shaker-style cherry trestle table that separated the kitchen area of the long room from the sitting area by the fireplace. They’d started eating, and Kim and Kyle had complimented Madeleine enthusiastically on her spiced shrimp-and-rice dish. Gurney had offered a preoccupied echo of their comments, after which they ate for a while without speaking.