John Verdon - Let the Devil Sleep

“That’s right.”

“There some reason he should be here?”

Gurney sighed wearily. “I’m working on an investigation that could involve Ruth Blum. Hardwick’s aware of it.”

The trooper looked like he was having trouble deciphering that answer. “What’s your name?”

“Dave Gurney.”

The man eyed him with the combination of surface politeness and instinctive distrust with which most cops regard strangers. “Pull in right there.” He pointed to a space on the shoulder between the evidence van and one of the TV vans. “Stay in your car.” He turned away crisply and approached three figures engaged in an intense discussion next to the driveway. The individual to whom he spoke was a heavyset woman with short brown hair. She was wearing a navy blue jacket and matching pants. The gray-haired man on her right was in white coveralls. The younger man on her left wore a dark suit, white shirt, dark tie-the standard outfit shared by detectives, funeral directors, and Mormons. His heavily muscled shoulders, wide neck, and buzz cut made it clear which of those groups he belonged to.

As the traffic trooper was talking to them, the three looked over at Gurney in unison. The young man began grinning and speaking rapidly to the woman while gesturing in Gurney’s direction.

The grin rang a distant bell.

“Detective!” the woman called out, raising her hand to get his attention. “Detective Gurney.”

He got out of his car. As he did, he was greeted by the loud throb of a helicopter overhead. He looked up and through the treetops caught glimpses of the slowly circling craft. Giant white letters, RAM, painted on the bottom of the cabin caught his eye and provoked an involuntary grimace.

“Lieutenant Bullard wants to talk to you.” The trooper had come back over to Gurney and was lifting the police tape for him to enter the enclosed area. His tone made the tape gesture seem more proprietary than courteous.

Gurney bent forward to pass under the tape. As he did so, he couldn’t help noticing a deposit of roadway dirt that had settled into a long expansion crack separating the tarred driveway from the rougher composite pavement of the road shoulder. As he paused for a moment to take a closer look, the trooper let the tape drop on him and returned to his traffic duty.

When Gurney straightened up, the slightly familiar young man in the dark suit was walking toward him.

“Sir, you probably don’t remember me. I’m Andrew Clegg. We met during your investigation of-”

Gurney broke in warmly, “I remember you, Andy. Looks like you’ve been promoted.”

Again the grin. It turned him into a teenager. “Last month. Finally made it into BCI. You were one of my inspirations.” As he spoke, he was leading Gurney to the solidly built woman, who was talking to the departing tech in the white suit.

“If you want to bag the rug and bring it in, that’s fine, too. It’s up to you.” She turned toward Gurney. Her expression was alert and pleasantly businesslike. “Andy tells me that you and Jack Hardwick worked together on Piggert. Is that a fact?”

“That’s a fact.”

“Congrats. Big victory for the good guys.”

“Thank you.”

“His Satanic Santa case was even bigger,” said Clegg.

“Satanic…?” Now it was her turn to look as if a distant memory bell was ringing. “Was that the psycho who was cutting people up and mailing the pieces to the local cops?”

“In gift wrapping! As Christmas presents!” cried Clegg, clearly more captivated than horrified.

She stared at Gurney in amazement. “And you…?”

“Just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“That’s remarkable.” She extended her hand. “I’m Lieutenant Bullard. And you’re obviously a man who needs no further introduction. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“This situation with Ruth Blum.”

“How so?”

“Did you see the program with her last night on RAM?”

“I’m aware of it. Why do you ask?”

“It might help you to understand what happened here.”

“How?”

“The program was the first of a series, dealing with the aftereffects of the six murders committed by the Good Shepherd back in 2000. What happened here was almost certainly the seventh Good Shepherd murder. And there may be more coming.”

Whatever cordiality had been in her expression had given way to cool assessment. “What exactly are you doing here?”

He began to consider his words carefully-but then thought to hell with that. “I’m here because I believe the FBI got the case backwards from day one, and what happened here may prove it.”

Her expression was hard to read. “Have you told them what you think?”

He gave her a quick smile. “It didn’t go over very well.”

She shook her head. “I’m not quite getting what you’re telling me. I don’t know on whose behalf or on whose authority you’ve come here.” She glanced at Clegg, who shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “Andy told me you were retired. We’re in the crucial first hours of a murder investigation. Unless you can make your presence and purpose plain to me, you’re going to have to leave. I hope I’m being clear without being rude.”

“I understand.” He took a deep breath. “I was hired as a consultant to the woman who interviewed Ruth Blum, and I’ve been taking a close look at the Good Shepherd case. I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s a major flaw in the prevailing view. I’m hoping the investigation of this murder won’t get screwed up like the first six. But, unfortunately, there already seems to be a problem.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He didn’t park in the driveway.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The man who killed Ruth Blum didn’t park in this driveway. If you believe he did, you’ll never understand what happened here.”

She shot a glance in Clegg’s direction, perhaps to see if he knew more about this unexpected challenge than she did, but his eyes showed only surprise and confusion. She looked back at Gurney, then at her watch. “Come inside. I’ll give you exactly five minutes to make some sense. Meanwhile, Andy, you stay here and keep an eye on the TV vultures. They are not to put one toe on our side of the tape.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She led Gurney down a sloping lawn by the side of the house and up the steps of the rear deck-which he recognized as the location of Kim’s outdoor interview with Ruth Blum. He followed her through a back door that connected the deck with a large eat-in kitchen. A photographer was sitting at a table in a breakfast nook, downloading pictures from a digital SLR onto a laptop.

She looked around the kitchen, but it didn’t offer much opportunity for privacy. “Excuse me, Chuck, can you give us a few minutes here?”

“No problem, Lieutenant. I can finish this in the van.” He picked up his equipment and a moment later was gone.

The lieutenant sat in one of the chairs at the vacated table and motioned Gurney to the one directly opposite. “Okay,” she said evenly. “I’ve had a long day so far, and it’s nowhere near over. I have no time to waste. I’d appreciate some clarity and brevity. Speak.”

“What makes you think he parked in the driveway?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I do?”

“The way the three of you were standing carefully to the side of it when I arrived. The way everybody avoided walking on it, even though your tech crew must have already gone over it. So I figure it’s being saved for a more thorough microscopic analysis. How come you’re convinced he parked there?”

She studied him for a while before a cynical little smile appeared on her lips. “You already know something, don’t you? Where’s the leak?”