Let the Devil Sleep

Chapter 23



Suspicion





Surprised by her reaction, Gurney hesitated.

“Robby!” she cried. “Damn it, Robby told you, didn’t he? But if he told you, why are you asking if it means anything to me?”

“I’d like to hear about it from you.”

“This isn’t making any sense.”

“Two nights ago in your basement, I heard something.” Kim’s expression froze. “What?”

“A voice. A whisper, actually.”

The color drained from her skin. “What kind of whisper?”

“Not a very pleasant one.”

“Oh, my God!” She swallowed. “There was someone in the basement? Oh, my God! Was it a man or a woman?”

“Hard to tell. But a man, I think. It was dark. I couldn’t see.”

“Oh, my God! What did he say?”

“ ‘Let the devil sleep.’ ”

“Oh, my God!” Her frightened eyes seemed to be roving over some perilous terrain.

“What does that mean to you?”

“It’s … the end of a story my father told me when I was little. The most frightening story I ever heard.”

Gurney noticed that she was digging the fingernail of her middle finger into the cuticle of her thumb as she spoke, trying to gouge away bits of skin. “Sit down,” he said. “Relax. You’re going to be okay.”

“Relax?”

He smiled, spoke gently. “Can you tell us the story?”

She steadied herself by holding on to the back of the nearest chair at the table. Then she closed her eyes and took a series of deep breaths.

After a minute or so, she opened her eyes and began in a shaky voice. “The story … was actually pretty short and simple, but when I was little, it seemed so … big. So scary. A world I got pulled into. Like a nightmare. My father called it a fairy tale. But he told it like it was real.” She swallowed. “There was a king, and he made a law that once a year all the bad children in the kingdom had to be brought to his castle—all the children who’d gotten in trouble, who’d lied or been disobedient. Children who were so bad that their parents didn’t want them anymore. The king kept them in the castle for a whole year. They had good food and clothes and comfortable beds, and they were free to do whatever they wanted to do. With one exception. There was a room in the deepest, darkest part of the castle basement that they were warned to stay away from. It was a small, cold room, and there was only one thing in it. A long, moldy wooden chest. The chest was actually an old, rotting coffin. The king told the children that it held a sleeping devil—the most evil devil in all the world. Each night after the children got into their beds, the king would walk from bed to bed, whispering in the ear of each child: ‘Never go down to the darkest room. Stay far away from the rotting coffin. If you want to live through the night, let the devil sleep.’ But not all the children were wise enough to obey the king. Some of them suspected he made up the story about the devil in the chest because the chest was where he hid his jewels, and once in a while a child would get up in the night and sneak down into that dark room and open the rotting chest that looked like a coffin. Then a piercing shriek would rise through the castle, like the scream of an animal caught in the jaws of a wolf. And the child would never be seen again.”

There was a stunned silence around the table.

Kyle was the first to speak. “Holy shit! That was the bedtime story your father told you when you were a little kid?”

“He didn’t tell it that often, but every time he did, it terrified me.” She looked at Gurney. “When you said ‘Let the devil sleep’ just now, that cold feeling came rushing back to me. But … I don’t understand how someone could have been waiting for you in the basement. Or why whoever it was would have whispered that in your ear. What sense does it make?”

Madeleine plainly had a question that was troubling her as well. But before she could ask it, there was a firm knock at the side door.

When Gurney went and opened it, the arson investigator was standing there. The man was older, heavier, grayer-haired, and considerably less athletic-looking than most BCI detectives. The outside corners of his unsympathetic eyes seemed permanently drawn down by a lifetime of disappointment in human beings.

“I’ve completed my initial inspection of the site.” His weary voice complemented his expression. “Now I need to get some information from you.”

“Come in,” said Gurney.

The man wiped his feet carefully, almost obsessively, on the doormat, then followed Gurney past the little mudroom into the kitchen. He glanced around with an air of disinterest that Gurney was sure veiled a habit of suspicious scrutiny. The arson investigators he’d known in the city were all keenly observant.

“As I just informed Mr. Gurney, I need to get some information from each of you.”

“What’s your name again?” asked Kyle. “I missed it when you arrived this morning.”

The man looked at him blankly—no doubt, thought Gurney, assessing the aggressive edge in the young man’s tone. After a moment he said, “Investigator Kramden.”

“Really? Like Ralph?”

Another blank look.

“Ralph? In The Honeymooners?”

The man shook his head in a way that seemed more a dismissal of the question than an answer. He turned to Gurney. “I can conduct these interviews in my van or here in the house, if there’s an appropriate area.”

“Right here at the table would be good.”

“I have to conduct them individually, without everyone present, to avoid one witness’s recollections being influenced by another’s.”

“That’s fine with me. Whether my wife and son and Ms. Corazon agree is up to them.”

“It’s fine with me, too,” said Madeleine, although her tone was not very agreeable.

“I have … no objection,” said Kim uncertainly.

“Sounds like Investigator Kramden is thinking we might turn out to be suspects,” said Kyle, sounding eager for an argument.

The man withdrew a small iPod-like recording device from his pocket and studied it as though it were far more interesting than Kyle’s comment.

Gurney smiled. “I wouldn’t blame him. In arson, owners are usually prime suspects.”

“Not always,” said Kramden mildly.

“Did you get a good soil sample?” asked Gurney.

“Why do you ask?”

“Why do I ask? Because someone set fire to my barn last night, and I’d like to know whether the two hours you spent down there were productive.”

“I’d say so.” He paused. “What we need to do right now is complete these interviews.”

“In what sequence?”

Kramden blinked again. “You first.”

“I guess the rest of us should go into the den,” said Madeleine coolly, “and wait for our turns?”

“If you don’t mind.”

As Kyle and Kim were leaving the room with her, she turned in the doorway. “I assume, Investigator Kramden, that you’ll share with us at some point what, if anything, you’ve discovered about our barn?”

“We’ll share whatever we can.”

It was an answer so devoid of meaning that Gurney nearly laughed out loud. It was an answer he’d given countless times himself over the years.

“I’m delighted to hear that,” said Madeleine with a blatant lack of delight. Then she followed Kim and Kyle down the hall to the den.

Gurney stepped over to the breakfast table, sat in one of the chairs, and motioned Kramden toward one across from it.

The man laid the recorder on the table, pushed a button, sat down, and began to speak in a flat, bureaucratic voice. “Investigator Everett Kramden, Albany Regional Headquarters, BCI … Recorded interview initiated ten-seventeen A.M., March twenty-fourth, 2010 … Interview subject is David Gurney … Interview location is the subject’s house in Walnut Crossing. Interview purpose is to gather information regarding a suspicious fire in a secondary structure on the Gurney property, designated as a barn, approximately two hundred yards southeast of the main house. Transcript and affidavits to follow.”

He regarded Gurney with a gaze as colorless as his tone. “At what time did you first become aware of the fire?”

“I didn’t look at the clock. I’d guess it was between eight-twenty and eight-forty.”

“Who was the first to notice it?”

“Ms. Corazon.”

“What drew her attention to it?”

“I don’t know. She looked out through these glass doors for some reason and saw the flames.”

“Do you know why she looked out to begin with?”

“No.”

“What did she do when she saw the flames?”

“Shouted something.”

“What did she shout?”

“I think ‘My God, what’s that?’ or something similar.”

“What did you do?”

“I came over from the dining table where I’d been sitting, saw the fire, rushed to the phone, called 911.”

“Did you make any other calls?”

“No.”

“Did anyone else in the house make any calls?”

“Not that I observed.”

“Then what did you do?”

“Put on my shoes, ran down to the barn.”

“In the dark?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“With my son. He was right behind me.”

“The one named Kyle, who was just here?”

“Yes, my … only son.”

“What was the color of the fire?”

“Predominantly orange. Fast-burning, very hot, loud.”

“Burning mainly in one place or more than one?”

“Burning almost everywhere.”

“Did you notice if the barn windows were open or shut?”

“Open.”

“All of them?”

“I believe so.”

“Is that the way you’d left them?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Any unusual odors?”

“A petroleum distillate. Almost certainly gasoline.”

“You have personal experience with accelerants?”

“Prior to my NYPD Homicide assignment, I cross-trained briefly with a fire-department arson unit.”

Nearly invisible tremors in Kramden’s bleak expression seemed to register a rapid succession of unspoken thoughts.

“I assume,” Gurney went on, “that you and your sniffer dog found accelerant evidence along the inside base of the walls—as well as in your soil sample?”

“We made a thorough examination of the site.”

Gurney smiled at the nonanswer. “And you’re running your soil sample through a portable GLC in your van right now. Am I right?”

Kramden’s only reaction to this speculation was a transient bulge in his jaw muscle, followed by a short pause before his next question. “Did you make any effort to put out the fire or enter the building before the arrival of the first responders?”

“No.”

“You made no effort to remove anything of value from the building?”

“No. The fire was too intense.”

“What would you have removed if you could have?”

“Tools … an electric wood splitter … our kayaks … my wife’s bicycle … some spare furniture.”

“Was anything of value removed from the building during the month preceding the fire?”

“No.”

“Were the building and its contents insured?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of policy?”

“Homeowners.”

“I’ll need an inventory of the building’s contents, plus your policy number, broker’s name, and the insurance company’s name. Were there any recent increases in coverage?”

“No. Not unless there was an automatic inflationary adjustment that I’m not aware of.”

“Wouldn’t they notify you if there was one?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you have more than one policy covering fire damage?”

“No.”

“Have you had any previous insured losses of any kind?”

Gurney thought for a moment. “A theft-insurance payment. I had a motorcycle that was stolen in the city about thirty years ago.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Are you involved in any conflicts with neighbors, relatives, business associates, anyone at all?”

“It seems that we may have a conflict that we weren’t aware of—with the firebug who tore down our No Hunting signs.”

“When were they put up?”

“My wife put them up a couple of years ago, shortly after we moved here.”

“Any other conflicts?”

It occurred to Gurney that having a step sawed out from under him and a bizarre warning whispered in his ear might be construed as evidence of a conflict. On the other hand, there was no proof that either the sabotage or the warning was meant for him personally. He cleared his throat. “No other conflicts I know of.”

“Did you leave the house at any time during the two hours preceding the discovery of the fire?”

“Yes. I went down and sat on the bench by the pond after dinner.”

“When was that?”

“I was down there right after dark, so … maybe around eight?”

“Why did you go there?”

“To sit on the bench, as I said. Relax. Unwind.”

“In the dark?”

“Yes.”

“You were upset?”

“Tired, impatient.”

“About what?”

“A private business matter.”

“Involving money?”

“Not really.”

Kramden leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on a small spot on the table. He touched it curiously with his finger. “And while you were sitting there in the dark, relaxing, did you see or hear anything?”

“I heard a couple of sounds in the woods behind the barn.”

“What kind of sounds?”

“Maybe small branches breaking? I couldn’t say for sure.”

“Was anyone else out of the house during the two hours preceding the fire?”

“My son came down to the bench for a while. And Ms. Corazon also stepped out for a while, I’m not sure for how long.”

“Where did she go?”

“I don’t know.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t ask?”

“No.”

“How about your son? Do you know if he went anywhere other than back and forth between the house and the bench?”

“Just to the bench and back to the house.”

“How can you be sure?”

“He had a lit flashlight in his hand.”

“How about your wife?”

“What about her?”

“Did she leave the house at all?”

“Not that I know of.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“Not absolutely sure.”

Kramden nodded slowly, as though these facts were forming some kind of coherent pattern. He ran his fingernail over the tiny black imperfection in the tabletop.

“Did you set the fire?” he asked, still staring at the spot.

Gurney knew that this was one of several standard arson-investigation questions that had to be asked.

“No.”

“Did you cause it to be set by someone else?”

“No.”

“Do you know who did set it?”

“No.”

“Do you know anyone who might have had a reason to set it?”

“No.”

“Do you have any other information at all that might help in the investigation?”

“Not right now.”

Kramden stared at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means that right now I don’t have any other information that could help in the investigation.”

There was the tiniest flash of anger in the man’s suspicious eyes. “Meaning you plan to have some relevant information in the future?”

“Oh, yes, Everett, I will definitely have some relevant information in the future. You can count on it.”