9. Single shot to the driver’s head, massive brain damage, relatively instant fatality.
10. Estimated shooter-to-victim distance in each instance: 6–12 feet.
11. All recovered rounds Action Express .50 caliber—unique to Desert Eagle handgun.
12. Plastic animals from popular child’s play set deposited at crime scenes. Order of appearance: lion, giraffe, leopard, zebra, monkey, elephant.
13. Driver-victim male in 5 of 6 attacks.
Almost every item on the list raised a question or two in Gurney’s mind. He closed Common Elements and opened Pre-Autopsy Vic Pics—grimacing at the thought of what he’d be looking at. There were twelve photographs, two of each victim: one taken in the vehicle at the crime scene and one taken full-face on the autopsy table.
Gurney gritted his teeth and proceeded through the horror gallery of photos. He was reminded again that cops and ER personnel share the dubious privilege of knowing something that 99 percent of the population never will: what a large hollow-point bullet can do to a human head. It can reduce it to something appallingly, nauseatingly ridiculous. It can reshape a skull into a shattered helmet, a scalp into a crazy hat askew on the forehead. It can rearrange a face into a mockery of humor or surprise. Bend it into a comic-book expression of idiocy or outrage. Or blast it away completely—leaving only a pulpy terrain of brains and holes and teeth.
Gurney closed the photo file, quit the e-mail program, and picked up his coffee. It was cold. He took a few sips anyway, then put it aside and called Hardwick.
“Fuck’s up now, Sherlock?”
“Thanks for the data. That was quick.”
“Right. What do you want now?”
“I called to thank you.”
“Bullshit. What do you want?”
“I want whatever isn’t written down.”
“You seem to think I know more than I do.”
“I’ve never met anyone who’s got a better memory than you. Shit just seems to stick in your brain, Jack. It may be your greatest talent.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, can you please paint me a quick picture of the victims, maybe where they were coming from when they were shot?”
“First attack, Bruno Mellani. Bruno and his wife, Carmella, were on their way from a christening on Long Island to their country estate in Chatham, New York. The christening was really about paying respects to business associates. Bruno was all about money and business. There were rumors that he may have been connected, but probably no more so than a lot of guys in the New York construction industry, and the rumors probably did him some good. Bullet came through the side window of his Mercedes, took away about a third of his head, hit Carmella, and put her in a coma. Son, Paul, and daughter, Paula, in their late twenties at the time, seemed legitimately broken up, so maybe Dad had some good qualities. This the kind of crap you’re looking for?”
“Whatever comes to mind.”
“Okay. Second attack. Carl Rotker was heading home to a gated community near Bolton Landing on the west shore of Lake George from his giant plumbing-supply outlet in Schenectady. As was often the case with Carl, his route had been lengthened by a detour to the condo of a Brazilian woman half his age. Carl had his Mercedes sound system cranked way up, playing a Sinatra CD. We know this because the fucking thing was still blasting ‘I Did It My Way’ when the trooper found the car flipped over next to the road, with most of Carl’s blood pooling on the inside of the roof. You want more?”
“As much as you can give me.”
“Third one. Ian Sterne was a very successful dentist—owner, operator, and chief promoter of a highly profitable practice employing over a dozen professionals on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Orthodontics, cosmetic prosthodontics, maxillofacial and plastic surgery—essentially, a factory that turned out perfect smiles and perfect cheekbones for people eager to trade the money they had for the beauty they lacked. The doctor himself, a wizened little creature, looked like a clever lizard. Had a nice artistic relationship going with a young Russian piano major at Juilliard. Rumors of marriage. Amusing finale—when the big bullet shattered Ian’s cerebral cortex and the big black S-Class Mercedes ended up hubcap-deep in a nearby stream, the first thing the first responder saw clearly—just above the water, illuminated by the flashing hazard lights switched on by the impact—was Ian’s license plate: A SMILE 4U. Had enough yet?”
“Far from it, Jack. You’re a born storyteller.”
“Number four. Sharon Stone, hotshot real-estate broker with a helluva name, was heading home to the chic little village of Barkham Dell from a big party with powerful friends in state government. Lived in a gorgeous antique Colonial with her gay twenty-seven-year-old son and a muscular gardener widely rumored to be involved with both mother and son. Ms. Stone was the owner of the misplaced earlobe I told you about before.” Hardwick paused, as though waiting for a reaction.
“Onward,” said Gurney.
“Five was James Brewster, a big cardiac surgeon. The man’s skill, hot rep, and workaholic schedule made him rich, ended his first two marriages, and turned his son into a bitter, off-the-grid recluse who hadn’t spoken to him for years and seemed happy that he was dead. On that final night, he was heading from the Albany Medical Center to his home in the gently rolling, genteelly moneyed hills outside Williamstown, Massachusetts. With the cruise control on his Mercedes AMG coupe set precisely at the speed limit, the doctor was dictating his response to an invitation to keynote an Aspen meeting of cardiac surgeons. The shards of the recording device he was using were spattered with his brains all over the passenger seat of the car. The fact that it happened a couple of miles over the Massachusetts state line was what finally brought the FBI circus to town.”
“BCI didn’t see that as a big plus?”
This time the laugh sounded tubercular. “Which brings us to the grand finale. Number six. Harold Blum, Esquire, was far from the top of the law profession and, at the age of fifty-five, wasn’t about to rise any higher. Harold was the kind of guy who strove to give the impression that all his striving was paying off. According to his wife, Ruthie, who had a lot to say, Harold was the perfect consumer, always making purchases beyond his means, as though those possessions might make a difference—or at least attract a better class of clients. She seemed pretty fond of him. He was on his way that night from his office in Horseheads to his home on Lake Cayuga, driving his gleaming new Mercedes sedan, whose lease payment, the wife said, was already choking him. According to the accident reconstruction, the Good Shepherd, true to form, came up on his left side and fired a single shot. Harold’s visual cortex was probably blown to pieces before it could even register the muzzle flash.”
“And that’s when Max Clinter enters the picture?”
“Enters the picture with tires squealing. Maxie hears the shot that killed Blum loud and clear. He looks out the window of his parked car in time to glimpse Blum’s Mercedes skidding onto the shoulder and the taillights of the second vehicle speeding away. So he jams his 320 HP Camaro SS into drive and swerves out from behind a rhododendron bush onto the state road in rubber-burning pursuit of the taillights. Problem is, Max isn’t alone, and he isn’t sober. Although he’s married with three kids, in the passenger seat is a twenty-one-year-old he met an hour earlier in one of Ithaca’s college bars and with whom he was having awkward, drunken sex in his car behind the rhododendron. He has the accelerator floored now, the Camaro’s doing about a hundred and ten—but he has no plan, no cell phone, no rational idea of where this is going. This is pure, primitive, animal pursuit. The young woman starts to cry. He tells her to shut up. The guy ahead of him is getting away. Maxie’s out of his mind now on alcohol, ego, and adrenaline. He reaches under his jacket, pulls out his .40-caliber Glock, lowers his window, and starts firing at the vehicle ahead of him. An insane thing to do. Insanely high-risk, insanely illegal. The girl is screaming, Maxie is losing it completely, the Camaro is fishtailing.”
“You sound like you were in the backseat.”
“He told the story to a lot of people. It got around. Hell of a story.”
“A hell of a career ender, you mean.”
“That’s the way it turned out. But if Max had gotten lucky and one of those shots had brought the Shepherd down, if no innocent parties had been injured, or if the injuries had been less serious, if his blood-alcohol level hadn’t been three times the legal limit … maybe the lunacy of firing fifteen shots in eight seconds from a moving vehicle at a poorly defined target on a dark road, occupant or occupants unknown, while proceeding at a recklessly endangering speed … maybe all that could have been softened or reexpressed in a way that wouldn’t have completely fucked him. But that isn’t what happened. What happened was that everything went south at once. As the Camaro fishtailed into the oncoming lane, a motorcyclist came over a blind rise with too little space to get out of the way. The bike went down, rider was thrown. Max’s car did a one-eighty at ninety miles an hour, skidding backward on the tarmac and up an embankment into a jutting rock ledge. The impact fractured Max’s back in two places, broke the young woman’s neck and both her arms, and blasted the windshield into their faces. The Shepherd escaped. Maxie did not escape. That night cost him his career, his marriage, his home, his relationship with his children, his reputation, and, according to some people, his mental and emotional balance. But that’s a whole other issue.”
“That was a hell of a memory feat, Jack. You ought to donate your brain to science.”
“Question is, what are you going to do with the information?”
“I don’t know.”
“So you called to waste my time?”
“Not exactly. I just have a funny feeling.”
“About what?”
“The whole Good Shepherd thing. I feel like I’m missing something. On the one hand, it’s all so simple. Shoot the rich guys, make the world a better place. Classic mission-driven nutcase. On the other hand …”
“On the other hand, what?”
“I don’t know. Something’s wrong. Can’t put my finger on it.”
“Davey boy, I am in awe of you, absolutely in awe.” Hardwick was in his snide mode.
“Why is that, Jack?”
“You are aware, no doubt, that what you refer to as ‘the whole Good Shepherd thing’ has been pondered and repondered, analyzed and reanalyzed by the best and the brightest. Shit, even your hot little psychologist friend had her say.”
“What?”
“You didn’t know that?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Shit, now I really am in awe. Exactly how many Ph.D. hotties are you involved with?”
“Jack, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“I think Dr. Holdenfield would be hurt by your attitude.”
“Rebecca Holdenfield? Are you out of your mind?” Gurney knew he was overreacting—not because of any actual misbehavior on his part but perhaps because he had, during the two cases on which they’d worked together, paid a bit more attention than he should have to the forensic psychologist’s undeniable attractiveness.
He also realized that his overreaction had been Hardwick’s aim. The man had an exquisite sensitivity to other people’s discomforts and a keen appetite for enhancing them.
“Her work is footnoted in the FBI profile of the Good Shepherd,” said Hardwick.
“You have a copy of that?”
“Yes and no.”
“Meaning?”
“No, because it’s an FBI document that they’ve declared confidential, with controlled distribution on a need-to-know basis, which is a need I don’t currently have and therefore I don’t officially have access to the profile.”
“Wasn’t it published in all the big newspapers right after the six murders?”
“An abstract was released to the media, not the profile itself. Our big FBI brothers are touchy about who gets to see the unedited products of their special wisdom. They definitely see themselves as the Deciders, with a capital D.”
“But would it be possible somehow …?”
“Anything is possible somehow. Given enough time. And motivation. Isn’t that like a law of logic?”
Gurney knew Hardwick well enough to know how to play this game. “I wouldn’t want you to get in big trouble with the Fucking Blithering Idiots.”
A thoughtful silence stretched out between them, pregnant with possibilities. It was finally broken by Hardwick.
“So, Davey boy, there anything else I can do for you today?”
“Sure, Jack. You can shove that ‘Davey boy’ stuff up your ass.”
Hardwick laughed long and hard. Like a tiger with bronchitis.
The man’s peculiar saving grace was that he was just as fond of receiving abuse as he was of dishing it out.
It seemed to be his idea of a healthy relationship.
Chapter 14
A Strange Visit to an Agitated Man
After ending his conversation with Hardwick, Gurney finished what was left of his cold coffee, entered the address Kim had given him for Robby Meese into his GPS, pulled out onto the county route, and headed for Syracuse. He used the drive time to consider ways of approaching the young man—the various interview personas he might adopt. In the end he settled on a semifactual way of presenting himself and the purpose of his visit. Once they were talking, he’d follow the lay of the land and maneuver however he needed to.
The western approach to the city, as much as he could see from the car, was depressing. The area was scarred by dead, dying, and generally ugly industrial and commercial enterprises. Zoning seemed an iffy matter, a patchwork quilt at best. The voice of his GPS directed him off the main route through a neighborhood of small, poorly tended houses that seemed to have had the color, life, and individuality drained out of them long ago. It reminded Gurney of the neighborhood he’d grown up in—a defensive place of narrow achievement, ignorance, racism, and an insular sort of pride. How small a place it had been, small in so many ways, sad in so many ways.
Another instruction from his GPS brought Gurney back to the task at hand. He made a left, went a block, crossed a major thoroughfare, went another block, and found himself in a different sort of neighborhood—one with more trees, bigger houses, neater lawns, cleaner sidewalks. Some of the houses had been divided into apartments, and even these had a well-kept appearance.
The GPS announced his “arrival at destination” as he drove past a large multicolored Victorian. He continued another hundred yards to the end of the block, turned around, and parked on the opposite side of the street in a position from which he could see the porch and the main door.
As he started to get out of the car, his phone emitted its text ring. He stopped and checked it, saw that it was from Kim: PROJECT IS A TOTAL GO!! NEED TO TALK ASAP!! PLEASE!!
Gurney considered “ASAP” a flexible concept, stretchable at least to sometime after his meeting with Meese. He got out of the car and walked down the block to the big Victorian.
The front door opened from the wide porch into a tiled foyer with two more doors. Two mailboxes were mounted on the wall between them. The box on the right was labeled “R. Montague.” Gurney knocked on the door, waited, knocked again more firmly. There was no response. He took out his phone, found Meese’s number, and called it—putting his ear to the door to see if he could hear a ring. There was no detectable sound. When the call went into voice mail, he broke the connection and returned to his car.
He reclined the seat a few inches and relaxed. Then he spent the next hour skimming through the lengthy incident reports and supplementary annexes describing the movements of the victims in the hours prior to the shootings. He was immersing himself in the details, instinctively scanning for anything striking, anything the original investigators might have missed in that mass of data.
Nothing jumped out. There were no conspicuous connections among the victims, nor any conspicuous similarities beyond a cer
tain level of financial ability, a shared preference for the Mercedes brand, and a primary or secondary residence within a certain fifty-mile-by-two-hundred-mile rectangle. Beyond their occupational facts, next of kin, and movements the night of each shooting, not much background information had been gathered on the victims themselves—understandably, in a case in which the obvious victim-selection criterion turned out to be their vehicle. If the Mercedes badge was the shooter’s target, it mattered little who wore it or where they’d gone to high school.
But what did I expect to find? And what is it about the Good Shepherd murders that’s making me so damn itchy?
Not only was he itchy, he was thirsty. Gurney remembered seeing some kind of store a block or two back on the main drag. He locked the car and headed for it on foot. It turned out to be a shabby grocery store with high prices, no customers, dusty shelves, and an unpleasant odor. The drinks cooler smelled of sour milk, although there was no milk in it. Gurney bought a bottle of water, paid the bored counter girl, and got out of there as quickly as possible.
Back in the car, as he was opening the water, his phone rang. It was another text from Hardwick: CHECK YOUR E-MAIL. TGS PROFILE. NOTE REFERENCE TO THE BEAUTIFUL BECCA.
He retrieved the e-mail, opened the attachment, and read slowly.
The Federal Bureau of Investigation
Critical Incidents Response Group
National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime
Behavioral Analysis Unit-2
ACCESS: RESTRICTED, NCAVC, CODE B-7
Criminal Investigative Analysis Service Category: Offender Profile
Date: April 25, 2000
Subject: Unknown
Alias: “The Good Shepherd”
Conclusions based on inductive and deductive profiling methodologies, employing factual, physical, historical, linguistic, and psychological analyses of unsub’s “Memorandum of Intent”; forensic study of crime-scene evidence, photographic documentation, timing, and organization; and victim-selection criteria.
SUMMARY OPINION REGARDING UNKNOWN SUBJECT