“And she said that he wouldn’t, because you were no longer an active member of law enforcement?”
“Worse. ‘You must be joking.’ That’s what she said. One little comment. One aggravating little comment. Must seem like a crazy reason for me to tighten my grip on this thing and refuse to let go.”
“Of course it’s a crazy reason. But at least now I know what’s behind all the tenacity.” She ate a second hot pepper. “Getting back to that hole in the case that keeps you awake nights. What questions do you find yourself struggling with at two A.M.?”
He didn’t have to think long about the answer. “Three big ones. First, the time factor. Why did the murders start when they did, back in the spring of 2000? Second, what lines of inquiry were aborted, or never initiated, because of the arrival of the manifesto? Third, what made ‘Killing the Greedy Rich’ the right cover story to conceal whatever was really going on?”
Bullard raised a challenging eyebrow. “Assuming that something was going on other than ‘Killing the Greedy Rich’—an assumption you’re a hell of a lot more committed to than I am.”
“It’ll grow on you. As a matter of fact—”
“The Good Shepherd is back!” The unnerving aptness of the announcement from the television above the bar stopped Gurney in midsentence. One of RAM’s melodramatic news anchors was sharing a split screen with a well-known gray-pompadoured evangelist, the Reverend Emmet Prunk.
“According to reliable sources, the dreaded upstate New York serial murderer is back. The monster is haunting the rural landscape once again. Ten years ago the Good Shepherd ended Harold Blum’s life with a bullet in the head. Two nights ago the killer returned. Returned to the home of Harold’s widow, Ruth. He entered her residence in the middle of the night and drove an ice pick through her heart.” The man’s overdone delivery was as attention-getting as it was repulsive. “This is so … so inhuman … so beyond the bounds … Sorry, folks, there are things in this world that just plain leave me speechless.” He shook his head grimly and turned toward the other half of the split screen, as though the TV evangelist were actually sitting next to him in the studio. “Reverend Prunk, you always seem to have the right words, the right insight. Help us out. What’s your perspective on this terrifying development?”
“Well, Dan, like any normal human being, I find that my feelings here run the gamut from horror to outrage. But I do believe that in God’s economy there is a purpose in every event, however dreadful that event may seem to our merely human way of seeing. ‘But, Reverend Prunk,’ someone might ask me, ‘what could be the purpose in this nightmare?’ And I would say to him that in the demonstration of so much evil there is much to be learned about the nature of evil in our world today. This monster has no respect for his victims. They are chaff to be blown away in the wind of his willfulness. They are nothing. A wisp of smoke. A piece of dirt. This is the lesson the Lord has placed before our eyes. He is showing us the true nature of evil. To extinguish life, to blow it away like a wisp of smoke, to trample it like a piece of dirt, that is the essence of evil! This is the lesson the Lord raises up for the righteous to see in the deeds of the devil.”
“Thank you, sir.” The anchor turned back to the camera. “As always, wise words from the Reverend Emmet Prunk. And now some important information from the good people who make RAM News possible.”
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 sm
iled.
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.”
Bullard nodded, her eyes running down the sheet again. “According to this you’ve spoken directly to Ruth Blum’s sister en route from Oregon to Aurora, to Larry Sterne in Stone Ridge, and to Jimi Brewster in Turnwell. What about the rest of the people on this list?”
“Callback requests have been left on the voice mails of Eric Stone, Roberta Rotker, and Paul Mellani.”
“Do we have their e-mail addresses?”
“I believe Kim Corazon supplied them for everyone on her contact list.”
“Then follow up your voice mails immediately with e-mails. Anyone we don’t hear back from within the next half hour, we follow up again. Tell Carly she’s got fifteen minutes to give me a draft. If we don’t get a response to the second message, we need to dispatch troopers to each physical address.”
After Clegg hurried out of the room, Bullard took a deep breath, sat back in her chair, and gazed thoughtfully at Trout. “Getting back to more difficult questions, do you have any ideas regarding the motive behind Ruth Blum’s murder?”
“It’s what I said before. Just look at the Shepherd’s message.”
“I have it memorized.”
“Then you know the motive as well as I do. The debut of The Orphans of Murder on RAM the other night hit his most sensitive nerve and brought the whole kill-the-rich mission back to life.”
“Dr. Holdenfield? You agree with that?”
Rebecca nodded stiffly. “In general, yes. More specifically, I’d say that the TV program brought his resentment back to life. It broke whatever dam had been holding the emotion in check for the past ten years. Then the rage began to flow again into his social-injustice fixation, and the murder was the result.”
“Interesting way of seeing it,” said Bullard. “Dave? How do you see it?”
“Cool, calculated, risk-averse—the opposite of Rebecca’s description. Zero rage. Total rationality.”
“And the totally rational motive for killing Ruth Blum would be …?”
“To stop the work being done on Orphans, because it posed a threat to him.”
“That threat being …?”
“Either something that Kim might discover as she continued the interviewing process or something that a viewer might realize while watching the series on TV.”
Bullard’s skepticism returned. “You mean a link that might connect the victims? Other than their cars? We just discussed the problem with—”
“Maybe it’s not a ‘link’ per se. Kim’s stated goal—widely advertised—was to reveal the effects of murder on the lives of the living. Maybe there’s something in the current lives of those families that the killer doesn’t want revealed—something that might point to his identity.”
Trout yawned.
Perhaps if he hadn’t, Gurney wouldn’t have felt compelled to add a final possibility. “Or maybe the murder, combined with the explanatory message, is an effort to make sure that everyone keeps thinking about the Good Shepherd attacks in the same old way. Maybe it’s an effort to head off the possibility of someone finally launching the kind of investigation that should have been conducted at the time.”
There was fury in Trout’s eyes. “What the hell do you know about what should have been done at the time?”
“What seems clear is that you viewed the case exactly the way the Good Shepherd wanted you to, and you acted accordingly.”
Trout stood up abruptly. “Lieutenant Bullard, as of now this case is coming under federal control. The chaos and crackpot theories you’re encouraging here don’t give me any alternative.” He pointed at Gurney. “This man is here at your invitation. He has no official standing. He has repeatedly voiced a stunning disrespect for the Bureau. He may very well become the central figure in a felony arson case. He may also be the recipient of illegally leaked materials from FBI and BCI files. He has suffered traumatic brain injury and may have physical and psychological impairments to his perception and judgment. I refuse to waste any more time debating anything with him, or in his presence. I’ll be speaking to your Major Forbes about the realignment of investigatory responsibility.”
Daker stood up next to Trout. He looked pleased.
“Sorry you feel that way,” said Bullard calmly. “My purpose in airing contrasting points of view was to test their relative strengths. You don’t think my purpose was achieved?”
“It’s been a waste of time.”
“Trout’s going to be famous,” said Gurney with a chilly grin. Everyone looked at him. “He’s going to go down in FBI history as the only supervising agent who ever took control of the same case twice and managed to screw it up twice.”
There were no farewells, no handshakes.
Thirty seconds later Gurney and Bullard were alone in the room. “How sure are you?” she asked.
“How sure are you that you’re right and everybody else is wrong?”
“About ninety-five percent.”
No sooner did he hear his own words than a profound doubt swept through him. To be that sure of anything in these shadowy circumstances suddenly seemed like manic overconfidence.
He was about to ask her how soon she expected actual control of the process to move to the FBI regional office when Clegg appeared in the doorway. His eyes were wide with the kind of distressed urgency you saw only on the faces of young cops.
Bullard looked up. “Yes, Andy?”
“Another murder. Eric Stone. Just inside his front door. Ice pick to the heart. A little plastic zebra on his lips.”
Chapter 37
Willing to Kill
“Oh, God!” said Madeleine, wincing. “Who found him like that?”
She was standing at the sink island, a half-drained colander of noodles in her hands. Gurney was sitting on a high stool across from her. He’d been relating the low points, difficulties, and conflicts of his day—something that didn’t come naturally to him. Never had. He blamed it on his genes. His father had never admitted to being disturbed by anything, never admitted to experiencing fear or anger or confusion. “Speech is silver, but silence is golden” was his father’s favorite aphorism. In fact, until Gurney learned different in high school, he thought that was the famous “golden rule.”
His first instinct was still to say nothing about anything he felt. But lately he’d been trying to make small advances against this lifelong habit. His injuries last autumn had diminished his tolerance for stress, and he’d discovered that sharing some of his thoughts and feelings with Madeleine seemed to help, seemed to relieve the pressure.
So he sat on the stool by the sink, feeling awkward, narrating the day’s disturbances, answering her questions as best he could.
“One of his customers found him. Stone made a living as a specialty baker for some local inns and B&Bs. One of the inn owners came by to pick up an order of cookies. Gingersnaps. She noticed that the front door wasn’t completely closed. When Stone didn’t answer her knocking, she opened the door herself. And there he was. Just like Ruth Blum. On his back in the entry hall. With the handle of an ice pick protruding just below his sternum.”