Let the Devil Sleep

picture the reconstructions.”

“Of the shootings?”

“Right. They had an ominous-sounding announcer delivering a dramatic voice-over narration, based very loosely on the facts-while some actor was shown driving a shiny black car on a lonely road. They’d go through the whole thing like that-right up to the gunshot and the car careening off the road-with a tiny one-word ‘reenactment’ disclaimer flashed on the screen for half a second. It was like reality TV without the reality. Day after day. They got so much mileage out of that crap they should’ve been paying the Shepherd.”

“I remember now,” said Gurney. “All part of the RAM carnival.”

“Speaking of the carnival, you ever watch Cops? That was pretty big on TV around that same time.”

“I saw part of one episode.”

“I don’t think I ever told you this, but there was an asshole in junior year of high school who knew you were with the NYPD, and he always used to ask me, ‘Is that what your cop dad does for a living-busts down doors in trailer parks?’ Complete asshole. I used to tell him, ‘No, asshole, that’s not what he does. And by the way, asshole, he’s not just a cop, he’s a homicide detective.’ Detective first class, right, Dad?”

“Right.” Kyle sounded so young to him right then, like such a kid, it brought a tightness to his chest. He looked away, down the hill at the barn.

“I wish that New York magazine article about you had come out back then. That would have shut him up fast. That article was fantastic!”

“I guess Kim told you that her mother wrote that article?”

“Yeah, she did-when I asked how she knew you. She really likes you.”

“Who?”

“Kim. At least Kim, maybe her mother, too.” Kyle grinned and looked sixteen again. “That gold detective shield dazzles them, right?”

Gurney managed a small laugh.

A cloud passed slowly in front of the sun, and the pasture faded from golden tan to grayish beige. For a wrenching second, something about it reminded Gurney of the skin of a corpse. A particular corpse. A Dominican hit man whose sunny complexion had drained away with his blood on a Harlem sidewalk. Gurney cleared his throat, as if to dispel the image.

Then he became aware of a low thumping in the air. It grew louder, soon becoming recognizable as a helicopter. Half a minute later, it passed, visible only partially and only briefly behind the treetops along the ridge. The distinct, heavy thudding of the rotor faded away, and all was silent again.

“You have a military base up here?” asked Kyle.

“No, just reservoirs for the city.”

“Reservoirs?” He seemed to be considering this. “So you think the helicopter is some kind of Homeland Security thing?”

“Most likely.”

Chapter 21

More Surprises

They were sitting at the Shaker-style cherry trestle table that separated the kitchen area of the long room from the sitting area by the fireplace. They’d started eating, and Kim and Kyle had complimented Madeleine enthusiastically on her spiced shrimp-and-rice dish. Gurney had offered a preoccupied echo of their comments, after which they ate for a while without speaking.

Kyle broke the silence. “These people you’ve been interviewing-do they have much in common?”

Kim chewed thoughtfully, swallowing before she spoke. “Anger.”

“All of them? After all these years?”

“In some it’s more obvious, because they express it more directly. But I think the anger is there in all of them, in some form or other. It would have to be, wouldn’t it?”

Kyle frowned. “I thought anger was a stage of grief that eventually passed.”

“Not if there’s no emotional closure.”

“Because the Good Shepherd was never caught?”

“Never caught, never identified. And after the crazy Max Clinter car chase, he just evaporated into the night. It’s a story without an ending.”

Gurney made a face. “I think the story may lack more than an ending.”

There was a brief silence around the table as everyone looked at him expectantly.

Kyle finally prompted him. “You think the FBI got part of it wrong?”

“That’s what I want to find out.”

Kim looked baffled. “Got what wrong? What part of it?”

“I’m not saying for sure that they got anything wrong. I’m just saying it’s a possibility.”

Kyle’s expression became more excited. “What part might they have gotten wrong?”

“From what little I know at the moment, it’s just possible they got it all wrong.” He glanced at Madeleine. There was a flicker of conflicting emotions on her face, too subtle for him to identify.

Kim looked alarmed. “I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

“I hate using words like this, but the whole thing has kind of a wobbly look. Like a very big building on a very small foundation.”

Kim was shaking her head rapidly in a kind of reflexive disagreement. “But when you say they may have gotten it all wrong, what on earth…?”

Her voice trailed off as the phone in Gurney’s pocket began ringing.

He took it out, glanced at the ID, and smiled. “I have a feeling I’m going to get asked that question again in about five seconds.” He stood up from the table and put the phone to his ear. “Hello, Rebecca. Thanks for getting back to me.”

“ ‘A fatal flaw in the FBI construct’?” There was a cutting edge of anger in her voice. “What was that message all about?”

Gurney stepped away from the table in the direction of the French doors. “Nothing conclusive. I just have questions. There may or may not be a problem, depending on what the answers are.” He stood with his back to the others, looking out toward the western hills and the purple remnants of the sunset without really registering the beauty of what he was seeing. He was focused on one objective: getting invited to a meeting with Agent Trout.

“Questions? What questions?”

“Actually, I have quite a few. You have time to listen?”

“Not really. But I’m curious. Go ahead.”

“The first is the biggest. Did you ever have any doubts about the case?”

“Doubts? Like what?”

“Like what it was really all about.”

“You’re not making sense. Be more specific.”

“You, the FBI, the forensic-psych community, criminologists, sociologists-just about everyone but Max Clinter- all seem to agree on everything. I’ve never seen such a cozy level of consensus around what is essentially an unsolved series of crimes.”

“Cozy?” There was acid in her voice.

“I’m not implying anything corrupt. It just seems as if everyone-with the conspicuous exception of Clinter-is perfectly happy with the existing narrative. All I’m asking is whether this agreement is as universal as it seems and how certain you are about it personally.”

“Look, David, I don’t have all evening for this conversation. Cut to the chase and tell me what’s bothering