Let the Devil Sleep

Chapter 13



Serial Massacre





Once Gurney had departed from Clinter’s outlandish compound—from its real or imagined vipers, its swampy moat, its skeleton sentinel—and had put a few miles behind him, he pulled over into a roadside turnaround. It was near the top of a gentle rise that gave him a view of the northern end of Lake Cayuga, as brilliantly blue as the sky above it.

He took out his phone, entered Jack Hardwick’s number, and got voice mail.

“Hey, Jack, I have questions. Just had a talk with Mr. Clinter. Need your perspective on a couple of things. Call me. Sooner the better. Thanks.”

Then he called Kim.

“Dave?”

“Hi. I’m up in your general neighborhood, looking into a few things. Thought it might make sense to have a word with Robby Meese. You have an address and phone number for him?”

“What … Why do you want to talk to him?”

“Is there a reason you don’t want me to?”

“No. It’s just that … I don’t know … Sure, okay, just a second.” In less than a minute, she picked up again. “He has an apartment in the Tipperary Hill neighborhood, 3003 South Lowell.” Then she read off a cell number, which Dave copied down. “Remember, he’s using the name Montague, not Meese. But … what are you going to do?”

“Just ask questions, see if I can find out anything that makes sense.”

“Sense?”

“The more I learn about this project of yours—or the case it’s based on—the fuzzier it gets. I’m hungry for a little clarity.”

“Clarity? You think you’re going to get that from him?”

“Maybe not directly, but he seems to be a player in our little drama, and I don’t really know who the hell he is. That makes me uncomfortable.”

“I told you everything I know about him.” She sounded hurt, defensive.

“I’m sure you did.”

“Then why—”

“If you want my help, Kim, you need to give me some room.”

She hesitated. “Okay … I guess. Be careful. He’s … weird.”

“Guys with more than one last name often are.”

He ended the call. The phone rang as he was putting it in his pocket. The ID said it was J. Hardwick.

“Hello, Jack, thanks for getting back.”

“I’m just a humble public servant, Sherlock. What can I do for the famous detective today?”

“I’m not sure. What kind of Good Shepherd file stuff can you lay your hands on?”

“Oh, I see.” His voice had the arch tone Gurney hated.

“See what?”

“I sense that some of Sherlock’s retired brain cells are coming back to life.”

Gurney ignored this. “So what do you have access to?”

Hardwick cleared his throat with stomach-turning thoroughness. “Original incident reports, victim ID and background data, photographs of large-caliber bullet damage to faces and skulls—Speaking of which, a colorful anecdote comes to mind. One of the victims, a fancy real-estate lady, lost major portions of her jaw and head to that Desert Eagle cannonball. Young fella on the evidence team, combing the crime scene, made a discovery he’ll never forget. A dime-size piece of the lady’s earlobe was hanging on the branch of a roadside sumac bush, with her big diamond-stud earring still in it. Can you picture it, ace? That’s the kind of thing tends to stick in the memory.” He paused for a moment, as if to permit full appreciation of the image. “So anyway, we got lots of details like that, plus ME findings, evidence-team reports, lab reports up the ass, investigative reports, FBI Behavioral Unit’s profile of the shooter, yadda, yadda, yadda, tons of other shit—some accessible, some not. What are you looking for?”

“How about whatever you can send me without too much trouble?”

Hardwick responded with his sandpaper laugh. “Everything the FBI is involved in is potential trouble. Pack of arrogant, political, control-freak a*sholes.” He paused. “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll send you a couple of things right away, more later. Keep checking your e-mail.” Hardwick was always most obliging when regulations were likely to be broken and sensitive toes stepped on.

“By the way,” said Gurney, “I just came from a meeting with Mr. Clinter.”

The Hardwick laugh erupted again, louder. “Maxie made an impression on you?”

“You ever seen that place of his?”

“Bones, snakes, Hummers, and horseshit. That the place you’re talking about?”

“Sounds like you don’t give Mr. Clinter’s ramblings a lot of weight.”

“You do?”

“I haven’t decided yet what to make of him. There’s a psycho component in the package, but there’s also a performer-pretending-to-be-a-psycho component. It’s hard to pin down the line between them. He said something about PTSD. You happen to know if that came from the drunken crash that got him fired?”

“No. The First Gulf War. Friendly fire from a helicopter blew up a guy next to him. Back then Maxie toughed it out, stuffed it, whatever. But it probably set him up for his big collapse after the Good Shepherd mess. Who knows? Maybe he thought he was shooting at a f*cking helicopter that night.”

“Anyone pay attention to his theories about the case?”

“He didn’t have theories. He had wild-ass ideas, based on whatever shit popped into his head. You ever listen to a nutcase explain how the number of legs on a chair multiplied by the mystical number seven gives you the number of days in a lunar month? Maxie was loaded to the eyeballs with that kind of crap.”

“So you don’t think he has anything real to contribute?”

Hardwick grunted thoughtfully. “The only real things Maxie brings to the table are hatred, obsession, and a crazy kind of smarts.”

It was a combination Gurney had run into before. It was a recipe for disaster.

A quarter of an hour later, just outside Auburn, having cruised through the pastoral hills that separated Cayuga Lake from Owasco Lake, Gurney pulled into a combination gas station/mini-mart to refill his tank with gas and recharge his brain with a large coffee. According to his dashboard clock, it was 1:05 P.M.

After getting his gas receipt, he pulled away from the pump to a corner of the parking area to sip his coffee and plan his interview with Meese-Montague.

His cell phone rang. It was a text message: CHECK YOUR E-MAIL.

When he did, he discovered one from Hardwick. The covering message said, “See attached documents: Incident Reports (6), Prior Movements Supplement, ViCAP Reports, Common Elements Summary, Pre-Autopsy Victim Pics.”

The title of each of the incident documents was composed of a number between one and six, which apparently denoted its place in the series, plus the victim’s surname. Gurney selected the document 1-MELLANI and began scrolling through its fifty-two pages.

Included were the responding officer’s observations, crime-scene diagrams, photographs of the site, an evidence-based event reconstruction with hypothetical narrative, vehicle-damage report, evidence-collection report, list of units and officers responding, ME’s preliminary report, and a list of lab tests.

If this first of six incident reports was representative of the others in length and detail, there would be over three hundred fifty pages to wade through. This was not a task Gurney intended to undertake on the three-inch screen of his cell phone.

He went back to the list of attachments and selected the Common Elements document—the factors linking the six homicides. He was pleased to see one page with thirteen concise points.

1. Attacks occurred on consecutive weekends, between March 18 and April 1, 2000.

2. Attacks occurred within 2-hour window, 9:11 P.M. to 11:10 P.M.

3. Attacks occurred within a 200-mile-by-50-mile rectangle extending across central New York into Massachusetts.

4. Attacks occurred on leftward road curves with good forward visibility.

5. Moderate vehicle speeds (46–58 mph) at time of gunshot.

6. Little to no traffic, no known witnesses, no known surveillance cameras, no nearby commercial or residential structures.

7. Attacks occurred on secondary rural roads linking major highways with upscale communities.

8. Victims’ vehicles: late-model black Mercedeses, super-luxury class (MSRP range $82,400 to $162,7600).

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.

“F*ck’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.”

“F*ck 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 f*cking 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 f*cked 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 F*cking 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.