John Verdon - Let the Devil Sleep

“No point in going down that path. That’s the FBI path. Confrontational waste of time.”

She continued to study him, not so long this time, then seemed to arrive at a decision. “The victim posted a message on her Facebook page late last night. After some comments about the RAM program, she described a car that was pulling into her driveway as she was sitting there at her computer. Why do I have a feeling that you already know all this?”

Gurney ignored her question. “What kind of car?”

“Big. Military-looking. No make or model mentioned.”

“Jeep? Land Rover? Hummer? Something like that?” She nodded.

“So the theory is that he parks out in the driveway, walks up to the front door, knocks… and then what? He kills her in the doorway? She lets him in? She knows him? She doesn’t know him?”

“Slow down. You asked me why we believe that the killer-or someone who coincidentally visited her at approximately the time she was killed-parked in the driveway. And I gave you the answer. We believe it because the victim herself told us that’s what happened. It’s the victim’s eyewitness account, posted on her Facebook page, before she was killed.” Lieutenant Bullard’s expression of triumph was diluted with a pinch of worry. “So now you owe me a brief, clear explanation of why you think Ruth Blum would say those things if they weren’t true.”

“She didn’t.”

“Beg pardon?”

“None of it happened that way. The scenario you’re presenting doesn’t make any sense. First of all, before we get into the logical problem, you’ve got a physical-evidence problem at the end of the driveway.”

“What physical-evidence problem?”

“The ground is fairly dry. How long has it been since the last rain?” He knew when it had rained in Walnut Crossing, but the weather system around the Finger Lakes was often quite different.

She thought for a moment. “It rained yesterday morning. It was over by noon. Why?”

“There’s a strip of dirt in a crevice out there at the edge of the road, maybe an inch wide. Anyone coming into the driveway would have to cross it, unless they drove through the woods and across the lawn. But that little strip of dirt doesn’t seem to have been disturbed, at least not since the last rain.”

“An inch is not necessarily enough to register-”

“Maybe not, but it’s suggestive. Plus, there’s the psychological factor. If the Good Shepherd is back, if this is his seventh victim, then what we already know about him has to figure into it.”

“Like what?”

“One thing we know is that he is extremely cautious, extremely risk-averse. And that short driveway is too exposed. Any vehicle sitting out there-especially anything the size of a Hummer-would have its rear bumper practically on the road. Way too eye-catching, way too identifiable. A local cop cruising by might zero in on a strange car like that, might stop to check it out, might run the plate number.”

Bullard frowned. “But the fact is, Ruth Blum was killed, and if the killer came in a vehicle, he had to park it somewhere. So what are you saying? Where did he park it? On the shoulder of the road? That would be even more exposed.”

“My guess would be at the body shop.”

“The what?”

“Half mile down the state route, back in the direction of Ithaca, there’s an auto-body shop. There are some cars and trucks in a scruffy little parking area beside it, either waiting to be worked on or waiting to be picked up. It’s the one place in the neighborhood where a strange vehicle wouldn’t raise a question-wouldn’t even be noticed. If I were going to kill someone in this house in the middle of the night, I’d park there, and then I’d walk the rest of the way here in that deep swale by the side of the road to avoid being seen by passing drivers.”

She stared down at the tabletop, as though trying to see the possibilities in an imaginary set of scrabble letters. She made a face. “ Theoretically , that might make sense. Problem is, her Facebook posting specifically refers to a vehicle pulling in-”

“You mean the Facebook posting.”

“I don’t get what-”

“You’re assuming it was her posting.”

“It was her account, her page, her computer, her password.”

“Couldn’t her murderer have extracted the password from her before he killed her, opened the page, and composed the message himself?”

Bullard redoubled her scrutiny of the tabletop. She shook her head uncertainly. “That’s conceivable . But like your body-shop theory, there’s no evidence to support it.”

Gurney smiled at the opening. “After your boys in the white suits confirm that the dirt in the crack at the end of the driveway hasn’t been disturbed, ask them to pay a visit to the body shop. It would be interesting to see if they can find a relatively fresh set of tire tracks that don’t match up with any of the vehicles there.”

“But… why would the killer take the time and trouble to leave a message like that on Facebook?”

“Sand in our eyes. A twist in the maze. He’s very good at that.”

Something in her expression told him she was open to every speck of information she could lay her hands on.

“How much do you know about the original case?” he asked.

“Not as much as I need to,” she admitted. “Someone from the FBI field office is on his way here to give me a briefing. Speaking of which, I’ll need your address, e-mail, phone numbers where you can be reached twenty-four hours a day. You have any problem with that?”

“No problem at all.”

“I’ll give you my e-mail and cell number. I assume you’ll pass along any relevant facts that come your way?”

“Be happy to.”

“Okay. I’m totally out of time here. We’ll talk again.”

As Gurney left the house, the RAM helicopter was still circling noisily, its thumping rotor wash loosening the few dead leaves that were still clinging to the topmost branches of the trees, sending them swirling downward. Before he could reach his car, he was intercepted by the fluffy-coiffed, brightly made-up reporter with a mike in her hand and a video man behind her. “I’m Jill McCoy, Eye on the News, Syracuse!” she cried, her face showing the expression of alarmed curiosity that was a standard feature of her breed. “I’ve been told that you’re Detective Dave Gurney, the man New York magazine called the Supercop. Dave, is it true that the Good Shepherd, the infamous mass murderer, has struck again?”

“Excuse me,” said Gurney, forcing his way by her.

She extended the mike toward him, shouting a string of questions at his back as he opened his car door, got in, closed it, turned on the ignition. “Was she killed because of her TV appearance? Something she said? Is this horrible case too big for our local police? Is that why they brought you in? How are you involved? Is it true you have a problem with the FBI? What’s that problem all about, Detective Gurney?”

As he edged out of his parking spot, the video camera was just inches from his side window. The traffic trooper was doing nothing to alleviate the problem. In fact, he was totally absorbed in a conversation with a new arrival on the scene. Pulling out onto the state road, Gurney caught a glimpse of the man-compact, dark-haired, unsmiling. It was just enough of a glimpse for Gurney to recognize him.

It was Daker.

As Gurney rounded the first bend in the road, the body shop came into view. He slowed as he passed it, noting the sign on the concrete-block building: LAKESIDE COLLISION. He was still convinced it was the perfect place to park a car inconspicuously.