John Verdon - Let the Devil Sleep

“How does it end?”

“I don’t remember-I saw it so long ago. All I remember clearly are the umbrellas.” She wiped the countertop with a sponge, then took it to the sink and rinsed it out. “What did he want?”

It took Gurney a second to realize what she was asking. “He found the gas container that I usually keep by the barn. The odd thing is, he found it hidden by the road somewhere.”

“Hidden?”

“That’s what he said. Wanted me to identify it. Doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“Why would it be hidden? Did someone use it to start the fire?”

“Maybe. I don’t really know. Investigator Kramden wasn’t very communicative.”

She cocked her head curiously. “The fire obviously was started on purpose. That was no secret, with the pile of No Hunting signs in front of the door, so what would be the point of hiding-”

“I have no idea. Unless, of course, the arsonist was so drunk that hiding the gas can made some kind of sense to him.”

“You really think that’s the explanation?”

He sighed. “Probably not.”

She gave him one of those probing looks that made him feel transparent. “So,” she said lightly, “what’s the next step?”

“I can’t speak for Kramden. Personally, I have to stare at the available facts for a while, figure out what’s connected to what. There are some basic questions I need to get past.”

“Like deciding whether you’re dealing with one adversary or two?”

“Exactly. In some ways I’d prefer it to be two.”

“Why?”

“Because if the same person is behind the intrusions into Kim’s home and this attack on us, then we’re facing something-and someone-a lot more serious than a resentful hunter.”

The oven timer produced three loud dings. Madeleine ignored the summons. “Someone connected with the Good Shepherd case?”

“Or with Robby Meese-whom I may have underestimated.”

The timer rang again.

Madeleine inclined her head toward the window. “I can hear them coming up the road.”

“What?” The word was less a question than an expression of his irritation at the abrupt change of subject. She didn’t bother to respond. He waited, and after a few seconds he, too, could make out the vintage growl of the BSA.

Forty-five minutes later, after the omelets had been consumed and the table cleared, Gurney was in his den, again reviewing the e-mail documents he’d received from Hardwick-hoping he’d find something significant that he’d missed before.

He postponed looking again at the autopsy photos until he’d gone through everything else. He came close to bypassing what he told himself would be a useless, unpleasant experience-especially since the dreadful images were still so vivid in his mind from his first viewing. But he was finally pushed into it by that obsessive-compulsive gene that had been a plus in his career and a wrecking ball in his personal life.

Perhaps it was because he went through the photos in a different order, or perhaps because his mind at that instant was more receptive… but whatever the reason, he noticed something now he hadn’t noticed the first time. The entry wounds in two of the heads appeared to be in exactly the same place.

He rooted through his desk drawer for an erasable marker, couldn’t find one, went out to the kitchen, finally found one in the sideboard drawer.

“You look like you’re hot on the trail of something,” remarked Kyle. He and Kim were sitting by the fireplace, in armchairs that Gurney noted had been pulled a bit closer together.

He nodded without replying.

Back in the den, on his computer screen, using a credit card as a straightedge, he drew a tight rectangle around one of the two heads that had matching wounds. Then he drew intersecting lines through the middle of the rectangle, connecting its diagonally opposite corners, in order to establish its center point and confirm what he suspected would be the case: The lines crossed over the middle of the entry wound. He hurriedly wiped the screen clean with the sleeve of his shirt and repeated the exercise on the other photo-with the same result.

He called Hardwick and left a message: “Gurney here. Need to ask you a fast question about the autopsy photos. Thanks.”

Then, one by one, he carefully examined the other four photos. When he was on the fourth, Hardwick called back.

“Hey, ace, what’s up?”

“Just wondering about something. In at least two cases that I can verify, the entry wound is dead center on the profile. I can’t tell about the other four, because it appears that those heads might have been in the process of turning toward the side window at the instant of impact. The entry wounds in those may be dead center also, relative to the direction of the shot. But since they aren’t aligned to the autopsy camera at the same angle they were aligned to the gun barrel, I can’t be positive.”

“Not sure I’m getting your point here.”

“I’m wondering if the various MEs took more wound-position and angle measurements than are included in the summaries you sent me. Because if-”

Hardwick interrupted. “Hold it! Hold it right there. Please remember, my boy, whatever data you have in your possession came into your possession some other way. It would be an actionable violation for me to have sent you any official material from the Good Shepherd files. That’s clear, right?”

“Absolutely. Now let me finish. What I’m looking for is a set of numbers that will locate the entry-wound position on each face relative to the position of that face to the side window at the moment of the bullet’s impact.”

“Why?”

“Because two of the photos show shots that struck the precise center of the profile as presented to the shooter. If the victim’s head had been a paper target, the shot in each of those two cases would have been a perfect bull’s-eye. I mean perfect . In lousy conditions, in moving vehicles, with virtually zero visibility.”

“And this means what to you?”

“I’d rather wait until I know about the other four. I’m hoping you might have access to the complete original autopsy notes, or access to someone who does, or that you might know one of the MEs well enough to pose the question.”

“You’d rather wait until I creep around researching the other four for you before you tell me what the point is? I suggest you get to the fucking point now, or the answer I’m seriously contemplating is ‘Fuck you.’ ”

Gurney was accustomed to Hardwick’s manner and never let it get in the way of anything important. “The point,” he replied calmly, “is that accuracy of that degree, firing through the window of a moving vehicle with nothing to illuminate the victim except minimal dashboard light-especially if the shooter managed it in all six instances-means that he has a decent set of night-vision goggles, a very steady hand, and ice water in his veins.”

“So what? Night-vision equipment is available to anyone who wants it. There are a hundred sites on the Internet.”

“That’s not what I’m getting at. My problem is that the more pieces of data I have on the Good Shepherd, the less clear the picture gets. Who the hell is this guy? He’s a super marksman-but he uses a comic-book cannon of a handgun. His manifesto is full of fiery little outbursts of biblical ranting-but his planning is as cool, consistent, and reasonable as it gets. He embarks on an all-consuming mission to kill every greedy person in the world-but he stops at six. His stated objective is insane-but he seems highly intelligent, logical, and risk-averse.”

“Risk-averse?” Hardwick’s rasping voice was even more skeptical than usual. “Racing around unlit roads at night shooting at people doesn’t strike me as risk-averse.”