Let the Devil Sleep

Perhaps it was because he went through the photos in a different order, or perhaps because his mind at that instant was more receptive… but whatever the reason, he noticed something now he hadn’t noticed the first time. The entry wounds in two of the heads appeared to be in exactly the same place.

He rooted through his desk drawer for an erasable marker, couldn’t find one, went out to the kitchen, finally found one in the sideboard drawer.

“You look like you’re hot on the trail of something,” remarked Kyle. He and Kim were sitting by the fireplace, in armchairs that Gurney noted had been pulled a bit closer together.

He nodded without replying.

Back in the den, on his computer screen, using a credit card as a straightedge, he drew a tight rectangle around one of the two heads that had matching wounds. Then he drew intersecting lines through the middle of the rectangle, connecting its diagonally opposite corners, in order to establish its center point and confirm what he suspected would be the case: The lines crossed over the middle of the entry wound. He hurriedly wiped the screen clean with the sleeve of his shirt and repeated the exercise on the other photo-with the same result.

He called Hardwick and left a message: “Gurney here. Need to ask you a fast question about the autopsy photos. Thanks.”

Then, one by one, he carefully examined the other four photos. When he was on the fourth, Hardwick called back.

“Hey, ace, what’s up?”

“Just wondering about something. In at least two cases that I can verify, the entry wound is dead center on the profile. I can’t tell about the other four, because it appears that those heads might have been in the process of turning toward the side window at the instant of impact. The entry wounds in those may be dead center also, relative to the direction of the shot. But since they aren’t aligned to the autopsy camera at the same angle they were aligned to the gun barrel, I can’t be positive.”

“Not sure I’m getting your point here.”

“I’m wondering if the various MEs took more wound-position and angle measurements than are included in the summaries you sent me. Because if-”

Hardwick interrupted. “Hold it! Hold it right there. Please remember, my boy, whatever data you have in your possession came into your possession some other way. It would be an actionable violation for me to have sent you any official material from the Good Shepherd files. That’s clear, right?”

“Absolutely. Now let me finish. What I’m looking for is a set of numbers that will locate the entry-wound position on each face relative to the position of that face to the side window at the moment of the bullet’s impact.”

“Why?”

“Because two of the photos show shots that struck the precise center of the profile as presented to the shooter. If the victim’s head had been a paper target, the shot in each of those two cases would have been a perfect bull’s-eye. I mean perfect. In lousy conditions, in moving vehicles, with virtually zero visibility.”

“And this means what to you?”

“I’d rather wait until I know about the other four. I’m hoping you might have access to the complete original autopsy notes, or access to someone who does, or that you might know one of the MEs well enough to pose the question.”

“You’d rather wait until I creep around researching the other four for you before you tell me what the point is? I suggest you get to the fucking point now, or the answer I’m seriously contemplating is ‘Fuck you.’ ”

Gurney was accustomed to Hardwick’s manner and never let it get in the way of anything important. “The point,” he replied calmly, “is that accuracy of that degree, firing through the window of a moving vehicle with nothing to illuminate the victim except minimal dashboard light-especially if the shooter managed it in all six instances-means that he has a decent set of night-vision goggles, a very steady hand, and ice water in his veins.”

“So what? Night-vision equipment is available to anyone who wants it. There are a hundred sites on the Internet.”

“That’s not what I’m getting at. My problem is that the more pieces of data I have on the Good Shepherd, the less clear the picture gets. Who the hell is this guy? He’s a super marksman-but he uses a comic-book cannon of a handgun. His manifesto is full of fiery little outbursts of biblical ranting-but his planning is as cool, consistent, and reasonable as it gets. He embarks on an all-consuming mission to kill every greedy person in the world-but he stops at six. His stated objective is insane-but he seems highly intelligent, logical, and risk-averse.”

“Risk-averse?” Hardwick’s rasping voice was even more skeptical than usual. “Racing around unlit roads at night shooting at people doesn’t strike me as risk-averse.”

“But what about the fact that he made every shot on the kind of curve that would minimize the chance of a collision, that he intercepted each victim’s car at the same approximate midpoint of each curve, that he apparently discarded each gun after it was used, that he managed never to be caught on any surveillance camera and never to be seen by any witness? That way of doing things requires thought, time, and money. Jesus, Jack, discarding a pricey Desert Eagle after a single use? That alone looks to me like a very serious investment in risk control.”

Hardwick grunted. “So you’re saying on the one hand we have a Bible-waving drive-by lunatic boiling over with hate for the rich guys who are fucking up the world…”

“… and on the other,” said Gurney, completing the thought, “we have a stone-cold hit man who’s apparently rich enough to toss fifteen-hundred-dollar handguns out the window.”

A prolonged silence suggested that Hardwick was mulling this over. “And you want the autopsy data… to prove what?”

“Not to prove anything. Just to give me some idea of whether I’m on the right track with my sense of contradictions in this case.”

“That’s the whole reason? You know, ace, I’m thinking there might be something else.”

Gurney couldn’t help smiling at Hardwick’s acuity. The man could be-and frequently was-a smirky, abrasive, boorish pain in the ass. But he was far from stupid.

“Yeah, there might be something else. I’ve been poking a sharp little stick at the accepted theory of the Good Shepherd murders. I intend to keep doing that. In the event that some FBI hornets come swarming out at me, I’d like to surround myself with as much data as I can.”

Hardwick’s interest rose a noticeable notch. He had an allergic reaction to authority, to bureaucracy, to procedure, to men in suits and ties-in other words, to organizations like the FBI. Poking a sharp stick in that direction was an activity he would naturally approve of. “You’ve stirred up a little conflict with our fed brothers, have you?” he asked, almost hopefully.

“Not yet,” said Gurney. “But I may be about to.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Hardwick disconnected without saying good-bye, which was not unusual.

Chapter 25

Love and Hate

Gurney was slipping his phone back into his pocket when there was a light knock at the open den door behind him. He turned and saw Kim standing there. “Could I interrupt you for just a minute?”

“Come in. You’re not interrupting anything.”

“I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?

“For taking that ride on the back of Kyle’s motorcycle.”

“Apologize?”

“It wasn’t the right thing to do. I mean, my timing was really thoughtless-going out for a silly motorcycle ride- when there’s all this serious stuff going on. You must think I’m a selfish airhead.”

“Taking a little break in the middle of a big mess seems pretty reasonable to me.”