Let the Devil Sleep

Chapter 9



A Reticent Orphan





“What are you thinking?” asked Kim, glancing nervously over at Gurney as she made another adjustment in the speed of her wipers.

They’d just crossed the Ashokan Reservoir causeway and were heading south toward Stone Ridge. It was a little after two. The afternoon had remained gray and sporadically misty.

When he didn’t answer, she added, “You look pretty grim.”

“Listening to your business associate brought back some memories of how RAM handled the Good Shepherd case. I’m sure you don’t remember. I doubt you were watching much TV news at the age of thirteen.”

She blinked, stared ahead at the wet road. “How did they cover it?”

“Overheated fear pieces, twenty-four/seven. Kept putting different names on the shooter—Mercedes Madman, Midnight Madman, Midnight Murderer—until he sent his manifesto out to the media, signed ‘The Good Shepherd.’ After that, that’s what they called him. RAM zeroed in on the anti-greed message in the manifesto and started whipping up a panic that the shootings were the start of some kind of revolution—a socialist guerrilla campaign against America, against capitalism. It was loony stuff. Twenty-four hours a day, they had their talking-head ‘experts’ ranting about the horrible possibilities, the things that might happen, the conspiracies that might be behind it all. They had ‘security consultants’ saying it was time for every American to be armed—a gun in your house, gun in your car, gun in your pocket. The time had come to stop coddling anti-American criminals. The time had come to put an end to ‘criminal rights.’ Even when the shootings stopped, RAM just kept going. Kept talking about class warfare—how it had gone underground, how it was sure to break out again in a more horrendous way. They beat that drum for another year and a half. The ultimate RAM mission was clear: generate maximum anger and maximum panic in the service of audience numbers and ad revenue. Sad thing is, it worked. RAM coverage of the Good Shepherd case created the ultimate trash model for cable news: mindless debates, amplification of conflict, ugly conspiracy theories, the glorification of outrage, blame-based explanations for everything. And Rudy Getz seems perfectly happy to take credit for it.”

Kim’s hands were tight on the steering wheel. “What you’re saying is, this is not someone I should be dealing with?”

“I’m not saying anything about Getz that wasn’t obvious in the meeting we just had.”

“If you were in my position, would you deal with him?”

“You’re smart enough to know that’s a meaningless question.”

“No it’s not. Just imagine you were in the same situation I’m in.”

“You’re asking me what kind of decision I’d make if I weren’t me—with my background, my feelings, my thoughts, my family, my priorities, my life. Don’t you see? My life couldn’t possibly put me in your position. It’s a nonsensical statement.”

She blinked, looked perplexed. “What are you so angry about?”

That question took him by surprise. She was right. He was angry. It would be easy to say that amoral reptiles like Getz made him angry, that the transformation of the news media from relatively harmless information sources into cynical engines of polarization made him angry, that turning murder into “reality” entertainment made him angry. But he knew enough about himself to know that external reasons for his anger were often excuses for internal ones.

A wise man had once told him, Anger is like a buoy on the surface of the water. What you think you’re angry about is only the tip of the issue. You have to follow the chain all the way down in order to discover what it’s attached to, what’s holding it in place.

He decided to follow the chain. He turned to Kim. “Why did you bring me to that meeting?”

“I explained that to you.”

“You mean I was there to look over your shoulder? To observe?”

“And to give me your perspective on what you saw, on how I handled things.”

“I can’t evaluate your performance if I don’t know what your goal was.”

“I didn’t have a goal.”

“Really?”

She turned toward him. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Watch your driving.” His voice was stern, parental.

When she looked back at the road, he continued. “How come Rudy Getz doesn’t know you only hired me for one day? How come he thinks I’m more involved in this thing than I really am?”

“I don’t know. It’s not because of anything I said.” Her lips tightened.

Gurney had the impression she was trying not to cry. He said calmly, “I want to know the whole story. I want to know why I’m here.”

She nodded almost imperceptibly, but at least another minute elapsed before she replied. “After my thesis adviser submitted my proposal and initial interviews to Getz, things started moving very fast. I never thought he’d actually buy it, and when he did, I sort of panicked. This huge thing was being offered to me, and I didn’t want it to be taken away. I thought, suppose the RAM people suddenly wake up and say to themselves, ‘This is just a twenty-three-year-old kid. What does she know about murder cases? What does she know about anything?’ Connie and I thought that if someone with real experience was involved, a real-life expert, it would make everything more solid. We both thought of you. Connie said that nobody knew more than you did about murder, and that the article she’d written about you had made you sort of famous. So you’d be perfect.”

“Did you show the article to Getz?”

“When I called him yesterday to tell him about your agreeing to help me, I think I did mention it.”

“And what about Robby Meese?”

“What about him?”

“Were you hoping I might help you deal with him, too?”

“Maybe. Maybe I’m more scared of him than I said.”

Gurney’s long experience as a cop had taught him that deception comes in various packages, some wrapped elaborately, some hastily; but there is a bareness and spareness about the truth. Regardless of the complexities of life, the truth is usually simple. He sensed that simplicity now in Kim’s voice. It made him smile.

“So I’m supposed to be your expert murder consultant, a celebrity detective, a provider of credibility, a reality-show cohost, an anti-stalker bodyguard. Anything else?”

She hesitated. “As long as I’m being exposed as a manipulative idiot, I should confess to another crazy hope. I was thinking that your presence at the meeting we’re on our way to now—with Larry Sterne—might convince him to participate after all.”

“Why?”

“This is going to sound really underhanded. I was thinking, since you were a famous homicide detective, he might think the hunt for the killer was being revived—and having new hope of the killer’s being caught might persuade him to take part.”

“So in addition to everything else, I’m supposed to be your cold-case specialist on the trail of the Good Shepherd?”

She sighed. “Stupid, right?”

He didn’t volunteer an answer, and she didn’t press for one.

Somewhere high above them in the dense overcast, the heavy, thumping heartbeat of a helicopter grew stronger, then weaker, then dwindled away to nothing.


In contrast to Rudy Getz’s dramatic eagles, Larry Sterne’s driveway was marked by an ordinary mailbox next to an opening in a low fieldstone wall. The house, one of the eighteenth-century stone cottages typical of the area, was set back about two hundred feet behind a casual country lawn. Kim parked the Miata outside a detached garage.

The front door of the house was open when they got to it. The man standing just inside was of medium build and medium height, and appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. He was dressed in a golf shirt, a rumpled cardigan, loose slacks, and expensive-looking loafers—all in shades of tan that blended seamlessly with his light brown hair.

According to Gurney’s recollection of the information in Kim’s blue folder, Larry Sterne was, like his murder-victim father whose practice he’d taken over, a top-shelf dentist.

“Kim,” he said smilingly, “nice to see you again. This would be Detective Gurney?”

“Retired,” emphasized Gurney.

Sterne nodded pleasantly, as though happy with the distinction. “Come in, we’ll use this room here.” As he spoke, he led them into a bright sitting room with wide-board floors and tasteful antique furniture. “I don’t mean to be rude, Kim, but I don’t have much time today, so I hope we can get right to the point.”

They sat in wing chairs arranged around a circular rug in front of a stone fireplace. The red-coal remnants of a fire made the room pleasantly warm.

“I know how you feel about RAM News,” said Kim with great earnestness, “but I felt it was important to try one more time to address your objections.”

Sterne smiled patiently. He spoke as one might to a child. “I’m always willing to listen to you. I hope you’re equally willing to listen to me.”

The man’s gentle tone of voice reminded Gurney of someone he couldn’t place.

“Of course,” said Kim, unconvincingly.

Sterne leaned a little forward, the picture of polite attention. “You go first.”

“Okay. Number one, I’ll be the person responsible for shaping the format and style of the series. So it’s not like you’d be dealing with some faceless media corporation. I’ll be conducting the interviews, asking the questions. Number two, the children of the victims—people like you—will be providing ninety-five percent of the content. Your answers to my questions are what it’s all about. The substance of the series will be made up almost entirely of your own words. Number three, I have no personal interest in anything but the truth—the true impact of murder on a family. Number four, RAM News may have its own corporate agenda, but in this case they are just the venue, just the communications channel. They are the medium. You are the message.”

Sterne smiled patiently. “Very eloquent, Kim. However, my concerns haven’t gone away. I’ll borrow your numbering technique to make my own points. Number one, RAM is not a nice organization. They’re at the cutting edge of everything that’s wrong with the media today. They’ve become a megaphone for the ugliest and most divisive sentiments in society. They glorify aggressiveness and make a virtue of ignorance. Your priority may be to convey the truth, but that’s not their priority. Number two, they have more experience in manipulating people like you than you have in managing people like them. There’s no realistic chance of your maintaining control over your series. I know you’re asking your participants to sign exclusivity agreements with you, but don’t be surprised if RAM finds some way around that. Number three, even if RAM didn’t have a poisonous agenda, I’d still advise you to abort your project. You have an interesting premise, but you also have the potential for generating great pain. The price of your project outweighs its rewards. You have good intentions, but good intentions can create suffering—especially when you publicize private feelings. Number four, my personal experience still remains, after all these years, vivid proof of everything I’m saying. I’ve alluded to this before, Kim, but perhaps I should be more specific. Nineteen years ago, when I was in dental school, a close friend at another university was killed. I remember the media coverage as hysterical, shallow, cheap, utterly disgusting. And utterly typical. The sad fact is that the underlying imperatives of the media business favor the production of trash. The market for trash is larger than the market for sensitive, intelligent comment. That’s simply the nature of the business, the nature of the audience. Media Economics 101.”

They went back and forth a few more times, both restating the thoughts they’d already expressed, the edges of their disagreement muffled by cordiality. The exchange ended when Sterne checked the time and apologized for not being able to continue.

“Do you commute from here to your practice in the city?” asked Gurney.

“Only one or two days a week. I do very little hands-on work anymore. The practice in reality is a substantial dental-medical corporation, and I’m more like the chairman of the board than a working dentist. I’m blessed with good partners and efficient managers. So I spend most of my time involved with outside medical and dental organizations—charities and suchlike. In that respect I’m a very fortunate man.”

“Larry, dear …”

In the doorway of the sitting room stood a tall, very shapely, almond-eyed woman, pointing at a delicate gold watch on her wrist.

“Yes, Lila, I know. My guests are just leaving.”

She smiled and retreated.

As Sterne accompanied Kim and Gurney to the front door, he urged her to keep an open mind and invited her to stay in touch with him. Shaking hands with Gurney, smiling politely, he said, “I hope at some time in the future we have an opportunity to talk about your police career. The article by Kim’s mother made it sound quite fascinating.”

It was then that Gurney realized who the man reminded him of.

Mister Rogers.

Mister Rogers with a wife from a sultan’s harem.