John Verdon - Let the Devil Sleep

“Read it out loud,” said Kyle.

“I… uh… I don’t have my reading glasses.”

Madeleine regarded him with a combination of curiosity and concern. She turned down the gas under the skillet, came across the room, and took the framed clipping from him. She glanced through it quickly.

“It’s an article from the New York Daily News . The headline reads, ‘Serial Monster Nabbed by Newly Promoted Detective.’ The article goes on: ‘David Gurney, one of the city’s youngest homicide detectives, put an end last night to the horrifying murder career of Charles Lermer, aka “The Slicer.” Gurney’s superiors give him the lion’s share of the credit for the clever pursuit, identification, and final takedown of the monster said to be responsible for at least seventeen murders involving cannibalism and dismemberment over the past twelve years. “He came up with a radical new approach to the case that led to the breakthrough,” explained Lieutenant Scott Barry, an NYPD spokesperson. “We can all sleep easier tonight,” said Barry, declining to comment further, indicating that the pending legal process made it impossible to release full details at this time. Gurney himself was unreachable for comment. The hero detective is “allergic to publicity,” according to a department colleague.’ It’s dated June first, 1987.”

Madeleine handed the framed article back to Gurney.

He held it carefully, with what he hoped was an appearance of suitable appreciation. The problem was, he didn’t enjoy receiving gifts-especially expensive gifts. He also disliked being the center of attention, was ambivalent about praise, and lacked any sense of nostalgia.

“Thank you,” he said. “What a thoughtful gift.” He frowned at the blue box. “Is this silver frame from where I think it’s from?”

Kyle smiled proudly. “Tiffany has great stuff.”

“Jesus. Well. I don’t know what to say. Thank you. How on earth did you get that old article?”

“I’ve had it pretty much all my life. I’m amazed it didn’t fall apart years ago. I used to show it to all my friends.”

Gurney was blindsided by a surge of emotion. He cleared his throat loudly.

“Here, let me have that,” said Madeleine, taking it from him. “We’ll have to find a nice prominent place for it.”

Kim was watching with fascination. “You don’t like being a hero, do you?”

Gurney’s emotion burst out in the form of rough laughter. “I’m no hero.”

“A lot of people see you that way.”

He shook his head. “Heroes are fictional. They’re invented to serve a purpose in stories. Media storytellers create heroes. And once they create them, they destroy them.”

The observation created an awkward silence.

“Sometimes heroes are real,” said Kyle.

Madeleine had taken the framed article to the far end of the room and was propping it up on the fireplace mantel. “By the way,” she said, “there’s a handwritten inscription on the matte border that I didn’t read out loud before: ‘Happy birthday to the world’s greatest detective.’ ”

There was a sharp knock at the side door, which brought Gurney immediately to his feet. “I’ll get it,” he announced-he hoped not too eagerly. Exchanges of sentiment were not his strong suit, but neither did he want to appear to be in full flight from the generous emotions of others.

The stony pessimism etched into Everett Kramden’s face was, perversely, less upsetting to him than was Kyle’s filial enthusiasm. The man was standing several feet back from the door when Gurney opened it, almost as if some reverse magnetic force had repelled him.

“Sir, may I ask you to step outside for a moment?” It wasn’t really a question.

Gurney complied-surprised by the man’s tone but offering no visible reaction.

“Sir, do you own a five-gallon polyethylene gasoline container?”

“Yes. Two, in fact.”

“I see. And where do you keep them?”

“One over there, for the tractor.” Gurney pointed toward a weathered shed on the far side of the asparagus patch. “And one in the open lean-to structure at the back of the-” He stopped for a second. “I mean, where the back of the barn used to be.”

“I see. Would you please come over to the van now and tell me if this gas container is one of yours?”

Kramden had parked his arson-unit vehicle in back of Gurney’s car. He opened the rear door, and Gurney immediately identified the container inside.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. There’s a visible nick in the handle. No doubt about it.”

Kramden nodded. “When did you last use it?”

“I don’t use it that often. It’s mainly for the weed whacker I keep down there. So… not since last fall.”

“How much gas did you have in it?”

“I have no idea.”

“Where did you last see it?”

“Probably in back of the barn.”

“When did you last touch it?”

“Again, I have no idea. Possibly not since last fall. Possibly more recently, if I had to move it to get to something else. I have no specific recollection.”

“Do you use a two-cycle oil additive in the gas?”

“Yes.”

“What brand?”

“Brand? Homelite, I think.”

“Do you have any idea why the gas container was concealed in a culvert?”

“Concealed? What culvert?”

“Let me rephrase the question. Do you have any idea why this gas container would be anywhere other than at the location where you said you left it?”

“No, I don’t. Where exactly did you find it? What culvert are you talking about?”

“Unfortunately, I can’t share any more detail on that. Is there anything you haven’t told me, relative to the fire or to this investigation, that you wish to tell me at this time?”

“No, there isn’t.”

“Then we’re finished for now. Do you have any other questions, sir?”

“None you’d be willing to answer.”

Two minutes later Investigator Everett Kramden’s van was heading slowly down the town road, out of sight.

The air was perfectly still. There was no hint of movement in the tall, brown grass, nor even in the smallest branches at the tops of the trees. The only sound was that faint, continuous ringing in Gurney’s ears-the sound the neurologist had explained wasn’t really a “sound” at all.

As he turned to go back into the house, the side door opened and Kyle and Kim emerged. “Is the asshole gone?” asked Kyle.

“Appears to be.”

“While Madeleine has the omelets baking, I’m giving Kim a two-minute ride on the bike.” He sounded excited. She looked pleased.

By the time Gurney reached the kitchen, the throaty twin-carbureted engine was in full, minimally muffled roar.

Madeleine was setting the timer on the oven. She looked over at him. “Did you ever see the French movie The Man with the Black Umbrella ?”

“I don’t think so.”

“There’s a clever scene in it. A man, dressed in a black raincoat and carrying a folded-up black umbrella, is being followed by a team of assassins with sniper rifles. They’re following him through the winding cobblestone streets of an old town. It’s a misty Sunday morning, and church bells are ringing in the background. Every time the two assassins try to line up the man with the umbrella in the sights of their rifles, he disappears around another corner. Then they come to an open plaza with a big stone church. Just as the assassins are aiming their rifles, the man hurries up the steps and slips into the church. So the assassins decide to take up positions on both sides of the plaza, where they can watch the church doors and wait for him to come out. Some time passes, it starts to rain, the church doors open. The assassins get ready to shoot. But instead of just the man who went in, two men come out, both dressed in black raincoats, and they both open up black umbrellas, so the assassins can’t see their faces clearly. After a couple of seconds of confusion, the assassins decide to shoot both of them. But then another man comes out in a black raincoat with a black umbrella, and then another, and then ten or twenty more, and eventually the whole plaza is full of people under black umbrellas. It becomes rather surreal-the expanding pattern of umbrellas in the plaza. And the assassins are just standing there in the rain, getting soaked, with no idea what to do.”