John Verdon - Let the Devil Sleep

“If it’s the truth, Kim, it’s never too much! Maybe I’ll follow up with Detective Gurney himself-in time for next week’s installment of The Orphans of Murder . In the meantime I invite our viewers to speak out. React! Share your thoughts with us. Go to our website and speak your mind.”

The Web address-RAM4NEWS.COM-appeared at the bottom of the screen in flashing red and blue letters.

The host leaned toward Kim. “We have one minute left. Can you sum up the essence of the Good Shepherd case in a few words?”

“In a few words?”

“Right. The essence of it.”

She closed her eyes. “Love. Loss. Pain.”

The camera zoomed in to a close-up of the host. “All right, folks. There you have it. Love, loss, and terrible pain. Next week we’ll take a close look at the shattered family of another Good Shepherd victim. And remember, as far as we know, the Good Shepherd is still out there, still walking among us. A man… to whom… human life… means nothing . Stay tuned to RAM News for everything you need to know. Stay alert, my friends. It’s a dangerous world.”

The screen faded to black.

Gurney closed the browser, put the computer to sleep, and sat back in his chair.

Madeleine gave him a gently appraising look. “What’s worrying you?”

“Right this minute? I don’t know.” He shifted in his chair, closed his eyes, and waited for the first troubling object to surface. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the show they’d just watched-as disturbing as it was. “What do you think about this thing with Kim and Kyle?” he said.

“They seem to be attracted to each other. What’s there to think about?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“What Kim said about you at the end of that RAM thing-your doubts about the FBI approach-will that make trouble for you?”

“It could ratchet up the unpleasantness with Agent Trout. Possibly tweak his control-freak nerves to the point of wanting to create some legal inconvenience for me.”

“Is there anything you can do about that? Any way to head it off?”

“Sure. All I have to do is prove that his case is total nonsense. At which point he’ll have bigger problems to worry about than me.”

When Gurney awoke the following morning at seven-thirty, it was raining. It was the kind of light but steady rain that can go on for hours.

As usual, both windows were open a few inches from the top. The air in the bedroom was chilly and damp. Although it was officially almost an hour past sunrise, the skewed rectangle of sky visible from the position of his head on the pillow was the unpromising gray of a wet flagstone.

Madeleine was up before him. He stretched and rubbed his eyes. He had no desire to go back to sleep. His last dream, an uneasy one, had involved a black umbrella. As the umbrella opened, seemingly of its own volition, its unfolding fabric became the wings of an enormous bat. The bat shape-shifted into a black vulture, the curved umbrella handle sharpening into a hooked beak. And then, through the exotic sensory logic of dreams, the vulture was transformed into the cool draft from the open windows-the unpleasant touch of which had been the cause of his awakening.

He pushed himself out of bed, as a way of putting distance between himself and the dream. Then he took a hot shower for its mind-clearing and reality-simplifying benefits, shaved, brushed his teeth, dressed, and went out to the kitchen for coffee.

“Call Jack Hardwick,” said Madeleine from the stove, without looking up, as she added a handful of raisins to something she was simmering in a small pot.

“Why?”

“Because he called here about fifteen minutes ago and wanted to talk to you.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“Said he had a question about your e-mail.”

“Hmm.” He went to the coffeemaker and poured himself a cup. “I was dreaming about a black umbrella.”

“He seemed very eager to talk to you.”

“I’ll call him. But… tell me, how did that movie end?”

Madeleine emptied the little pot into her bowl and brought it to the breakfast table. “I don’t remember.”

“You described that scene in great detail-the guy the snipers were following, how he went into the church, and later, when he came out, they couldn’t tell who he was because everyone else coming out of the church with him was dressed in black and had a black umbrella. What happened after that?”

“I guess he got away. Because the snipers couldn’t shoot everybody.”

“Hmm.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Suppose they did shoot everybody.”

“They didn’t.”

“But suppose they did. Suppose they shot everybody, because that was the only way they could make sure they got the one they were after. And suppose the police arrived later and found all those bodies, all those people who’d been shot dead in the street. What would they think?”

“What would the police think? I have no idea. Maybe that some maniac wanted to kill churchgoers?”

Gurney nodded. “Exactly-especially if they got a letter the same day from someone claiming that religious people were the scum of the earth and he was planning to kill them all.”

“But… wait a minute.” Madeleine looked incredulous. “Are you suggesting that the Good Shepherd killed all those people because he couldn’t tell who his real target was? And that he just kept shooting people in a certain kind of car, until he was sure he got the person he was after?”

“I don’t know. But I intend to figure it out.”

Madeleine shook her head. “I just don’t see how-” She was interrupted by the ring of the landline phone on the countertop next to the refrigerator. “You’d better get that. It’s probably you-know-who.”

He did. And it was.

“You out of that fucking shower yet?”

“Good morning, Jack.”

“Got your e-mail-your investigatory premise, along with your list of questions.”

“And?”

“You’re making the point that there’s a style conflict between the manifesto’s words and the shooter’s deeds?”

“You could put it that way.”

“You’re saying that the shooter’s MO proves he’s way too practical, way too cool, calm, and collected to think the thoughts presented in the manifesto. My little brain got that right?”

“What I’m saying is, there’s a disconnect.”

“Okay. That’s interesting. But it creates a bigger problem than it solves.”

“How?”

“You’re saying the motive for the murders is something other than what’s spelled out in the manifesto.”

“Right.”

“Therefore the victims were chosen for another reason-not because they were conspicuous displayers of luxury goods, greedy bastards who deserved to die?”

“Right.”

“So this super-practical, super-cool genius had an undisclosed pragmatic reason for killing those people?”

“Right.”

“You see the problem?”

“Tell me.”

“If the shooter’s real motive for choosing each victim was something other than the fact that he-or she-was driving a hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes, then we have to believe that driving a hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes was irrelevant. A fucking coincidence. You ever run into anything like that, Davey boy? It would be like discovering that every victim of Bernie Madoff just happened to have a leprechaun tattooed on his ass. You get my point here?”

“I get it, Jack. Anything else in my e-mail bothering you?”

“Matter of fact, yes-another one of your questions. Actually, three questions that all kind of circle around the same issue: Were all the murders equally important? Was the sequence important? Were any of them necessitated by any of the others? You want to tell me, what is it about the case that brings up that issue?”