Let the Devil Sleep

“Maybe some drunk thinks it is.”

“Pleasant thought.”

She glared at the arrow, then shrugged. “You look exhausted. Come, sit down.” She gestured toward the table by the French doors. “Tell me about your day.”

When he had recounted everything he could remember, including Kim’s request to hire him to accompany her to two meetings the following day, he searched Madeleine’s face for a reaction. But instead of commenting on his narrative, she changed the subject.

“I had kind of a weighty day, too.” She leaned forward as she spoke, her elbows on the table, and pressed her palms together in front of her face, resting her chin on her thumbs. She closed her eyes and, for what seemed like a very long time, said nothing.

Then she opened her eyes, put her hands in her lap, straightened her back. “Do you remember me mentioning the mathematician?”

“Vaguely.”

“The math professor who was a client at the clinic?”

“Oh. Right.”

“He was originally referred to us as the result of a second DWI. Had career problems leading to no career at all, nasty divorce, alienation from his children, problems with the neighbors. Dark outlook, trouble sleeping, obsessed with the negative aspects of every situation he was involved in. Brilliant mind, but trapped in a downward spiral of depression. He came to three group sessions a week, plus one individual session. He was generally willing to talk. Or maybe I should say he was willing to complain, willing to blame everyone for everything. But never willing to do anything. Not even willing to leave the house, unless it was court-mandated. Wouldn’t take antidepressant medication, because that would mean accepting the fact that his own mental chemistry might be part of all his other problems. It’s almost funny. He was determined to do everything his way, and his way was to do nothing.” She smiled sadly and gazed out the window.

“What happened?”

“Last night he shot himself.”

They sat quietly at the table for a long while, looking out over the hills from the crossed angles of their individual chairs. Gurney felt strangely unhooked from time and place.

“So,” she said, turning back to him, “the little lady wants to hire you. And all you have to do is follow her around and tell her how you think she’s handling herself?”

“That’s what she says.”

“You’re wondering if there might be more to it?”

“If today was any indication, there might be a few hidden twists.”

She gave him one of those long, thoughtful looks of hers that felt like explorations of his soul. Then, with evident effort, she constructed a bright smile. “With you on the job, I don’t imagine they’ll stay hidden long.”

Chapter 6

Twists and Turns

As the sun set, they had a quiet dinner of sweet-potato soup and spinach salad. Afterward, Madeleine built a small fire in the old woodstove at the far end of the room and settled into her favorite armchair with a book- War and Peace, a tome she’d been plodding through, on and off, for nearly a year now.

He noted that she hadn’t bothered to get her reading glasses and the book rested in her lap unopened. He felt the need to say something. “When did you find out about the…?”

“The suicide? Late this morning.”

“Someone called?”

“The director. She wanted everyone who’d had contact with him to come in for a meeting. Ostensibly to share information, absorb the shock together. Which, of course, was nonsense. It was all about ass covering, damage control, whatever you want to call it.”

“How long did the meeting last?”

“I don’t know. What difference does it make?”

He didn’t answer, really had no answer, didn’t even know why he’d asked. She opened her book, seemingly at random, stared down at it.

After a minute or two, Gurney got Kim’s project folder from the sideboard and brought it back to the table. He flipped past the sections titled “Concept” and “Documentary Overview” and quickly scanned the “Style and Methodology” section, pausing only to read more carefully a sentence that Kim had emphasized by typing it with an underscore: Interviews will examine the lasting effects of the original murders, exploring deeply all the ways in which the lives of the families were altered.

He skimmed through several more sections, slowing down when he came to one titled “Contact Summaries and Status.” It was organized in the sequence of the six Good Shepherd shootings. The information was laid out in the form of a spreadsheet, with columns under three headings: Attack Victims, Available Family Members, Current Attitude Toward Participation.

His eye ran down the victim list: Bruno and Carmella Mellani, Carl Rotker, Ian Sterne, Sharon Stone, Dr. James Brewster, Harold Blum. After Carmella Mellani’s name, there was an asterisk with a corresponding footnote that read, “Survived massive cranial trauma during attack, remains in persistent vegetative coma.”

He skipped over the second column, which provided a detailed list of family members (with their locations, life situations, ages, and personal descriptions), and glanced at the third-column summaries of their “current attitudes.”

The widow of Harold Blum was said to be “totally cooperative, grateful for the interest being shown, deeply emotional, still cries during discussion of the subject.”

The son of Dr. Brewster was described as “abusive toward the memory of his father, in open sympathy with the philosophy of TGS, obsessed with the evils of materialism.”

The son of Ian Sterne, dental entrepreneur, was “low-key, resistant to participating, concerned about the project’s disruptive emotional effects, skeptical of the intentions of RAM-TV, critical of the relentless sensationalism of their original coverage of the shootings.”

The son of real-estate broker Sharon Stone “expressed great enthusiasm for the project, spoke eagerly about his mother’s strengths, the horror of her death, the devastating effect on his own life, the intolerable injustice of the killer’s escape.”

There were more family members and more status descriptions, followed by the transcripts of two interviews-with Jimi Brewster and with Ruth Blum-and a twenty-page copy of the Good Shepherd’s “Memorandum of Intent.” As Gurney was about to put the folder aside, he noticed that there was a final page that had not been cataloged in the table of contents-a page headlined “Contacts for Background Information.”

There were three names on it, with e-mail addresses and phone numbers for each: FBI Special Agent in Charge Matthew Trout, (Former) NYSP Senior Investigator Max Clinter, and NYSP Senior Investigator Jack Hardwick.

He stared with surprise at the third name. Jack Hardwick was a super-smart, super-abrasive detective with whom Dave had a complex relationship-having crossed Hardwick’s path in bizarre and contentious circumstances.

Gurney headed for the phone to call Kim. He was interested in talking to Hardwick, but before he did, he wanted to find out why she’d listed the man as an information source.

She picked up immediately. “Dave?”

“Yes.”

“I was just going to call you.” Her voice sounded more strained than pleased. “Your conversation with Schiff got things pretty stirred up.”

“How so?”

“He came here to my apartment, I guess right after you spoke to him. He wanted to see everything you’d told