John Verdon - Let the Devil Sleep

A sequence of loud, hyperactive commercials took the place of the talking heads.

“Jesus,” muttered Gurney, looking across the table at Bullard.

She met his gaze. “Tell me again that you’re not doing business with those people.”

“I’m not doing business with those people.”

She held his gaze a little longer, then made the kind of face she might make if one of the peppers were repeating on her. “Let’s back up to your point about certain lines of inquiry being aborted by the arrival of the manifesto. Have you given any thought to what they might be?”

“The obvious stuff. To start with, cui bono? The simple question of who might have profited in a practical way from all six murders has to top the list of things that were never pursued once the manifesto got everyone pointed in the mission-killer direction.”

“Okay, I hear you. What else?”

“A connection. Some background linkage among the victims.”

“Other than the Mercedes thing?”

“Right.”

She looked skeptical. “Problem with that is that it would make the cars secondary. If they weren’t the primary criterion for the attacks, then they must have been coincidental. Hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

Her objection was a direct echo of Jack Hardwick’s. Gurney had had no answer for it then, and he still didn’t.

“What else?” she asked.

“In-depth investigations of each individual case.”

“What do you mean?”

“Once the serial pattern was evident, it dictated the nature of the investigation.”

“Of course it did. How else-”

“I’m just listing paths not explored. I’m not saying they should have been explored-only that they weren’t.”

“Give me an example.”

“If the murders had been investigated as individual crimes, the process would have been totally different. In any case of premeditated murder without an obvious motive or suspect, you know as well as I do what would happen. The exploration would begin with the victim’s life and relationships-friends, lovers, enemies, criminal connections, criminal record, bad habits, bad marriages, ugly divorces, business conflicts, will and estate provisions, debts, financial pressures and opportunities. In other words, we’d root around in the victim’s life looking for situations and people of interest. But in this case-”

“Yes, yes, of course, in this case none of that happened. If someone is driving around shooting through random Mercedes windows in the middle of the night, you don’t spend time and money checking on each victim’s personal problems.”

“Obviously. A psychopathological pattern, especially with a simple trigger like a shiny black car, makes finding the psycho perp the sole focus. The victims are just generic components of the pattern.”

She gave him a hard stare. “Tell me you’re not suggesting that the Good Shepherd murders had six different motives arising from the individual lives of the six victims.”

“That would be absurd, right?”

“Yes. Just as absurd as the idea of the six similar cars being coincidental.”

“I can’t argue with you on that.”

“Okay, then. So much for the paths not taken. A little while ago, you mentioned the time factor as one of the questions on your restless mind. You have specific thoughts about that?”

“Nothing specific right now. Sometimes a close look at when something occurred can be a back door into understanding why it occurred. By the way, your reference to my restless nights reminded me of something I wanted to tell you. Paul Mellani, son of Bruno Mellani and a participant in Kim’s Orphans project, happens to have a permit for a Desert Eagle pistol.”

“When did he get it?”

“I don’t have access to that information.”

“Really?” She paused. “Speaking of your access to information, I believe Agent Trout has taken an interest in that subject.”

“I know. He’s wasting his time. But thank you for mentioning it.”

“He’s also taken an interest in your barn.”

“How do you know that?”

“Daker told me that your barn burned down under suspicious circumstances, that an arson investigator found your gas can hidden somewhere, and that I should exercise appropriate caution in dealing with you.”

“And what did that tell you?”

“That they don’t like you very much.”

“What a revelation!”

“Matthew Trout could be a troublesome enemy.”

“Into each life a little rain must fall.” Bullard nodded, almost smiled.

Then she got on her phone. “Andy? I need you to track down some handgun permit information… Paul Mellani… Yes, the same one… For a Desert Eagle… I’ve been told he has one, but the big question is when did he get it… The original permit date… Right… Thanks.”

They ate silently for a while, finishing their antipasti and most of the pizza, as a series of promos for grotesque RAM reality shows blared from the restaurant’s three TV screens.

One show was called Roller Coaster , and it apparently involved a contest in which four men and four women vied with one another to rack up the largest number of pounds lost or gained, or gained first and then lost, over a twenty-six-week period, during which they were forced to remain in one another’s constant company. A previous winner had gone from 130 pounds up to 261 pounds and back down to 129 pounds, thus earning both the Double-Up and the Half-Down bonus awards.

As Gurney was wondering if America owned a special patent on media insanity or if the whole world had lost its collective mind, his phone rang with a text message from Kim, telling him to check his e-mail for the video file of her conversation with Jimi Brewster.

Seeing her name on his ID screen reminded him of another logistics detail. He looked over at Bullard, who was gesturing to the waiter to bring the bill. “I assume you’ll want to run Kim Corazon’s copy of the Shepherd’s new message through the Albany lab. What do you want her to do with it?”

“Where is she now?”

“In my son’s apartment in Manhattan.”

She hesitated for a second or two, as if filing that fact for later examination. “Have her bring it to the state police liaison office at NYPD headquarters, One Police Plaza. When we get back to the unit, I’ll give you the routing instructions that need to go with it.”

Gurney was about to slip his phone back into his pocket when it occurred to him that Bullard might be interested in the Brewster video.

“By the way, Lieutenant, a while back Kim interviewed Jimi Brewster, one of the so-called Orphans . He’s the one who-”

She nodded. “The one who hated his surgeon father. I read about him in the background pile Daker dumped on me.”

“Right. Well, Kim just e-mailed me a video copy of her interview with him. You want it?”

“Of course I want it. Can you forward it to me right now?”

When they returned to the conference room, Trout, Daker, and Holdenfield were already at the table. Although Gurney and Bullard were just a minute late, Trout shot a sour glance at his watch.

“Got somewhere else you need to be?” asked Gurney, his casual tone and bland smile providing only thin cover for a dangerous level of hostility.

Trout chose not to answer, not even to look up, probing instead with a fingernail for a speck of something between his front teeth.

As soon as Bullard and Gurney had taken their seats, Clegg entered the room and placed a sheet of paper before the lieutenant, which she scanned with a curious frown. “Does this mean you’ve started making the warning calls?”

“Initial calls to establish contact,” said Clegg, “to find out quickly who’s reachable and who isn’t. We’re telling live contacts we’ll be getting back to them within the hour with information related to the case. With our voice-mail contacts, we’re asking for callbacks.”