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.
“Fuck’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.”
“Fuck 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 fucking 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
“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
