Let the Devil Sleep (35 page)

Trout’s eyes hardened. “You mentioned that you’d read the profile?”

Gurney grinned. “Which sounds to you like more proof of illegal access to precious files? Actually, that’s not what I said. I
referred
to the profile, but I didn’t say I’d
read
it. Let me just speculate for a minute. I bet the profile tries to explain how the killer is both efficient and inefficient, stable and crazy, atheistic and biblical. How am I doing?”

Trout sighed impatiently. “No comment.”

“The problem is, you accepted the killer’s manifesto as a legitimate expression of his thinking—because it confirmed your own thinking. It validated the ideas you were already forming about the case. It never occurred to you that the manifesto was a charade, that you were being played for fools. The Good Shepherd was telling you your conclusions were right. So of course you believed him.”

Trout shook his head in a bad imitation of sad resignation. “I’m afraid we’re on different planets here. I’d have thought from your background that we’d be on the same side.”

“Nice thought. Bit out of touch with reality.”

The head shaking continued. “The FBI goal with the Good Shepherd case—as it is with every case, and as it should be with every honest law-enforcement officer on every case—is to discover the truth. If we shared the integrity of our profession, then we’d be on the same side.”

“You believe that?”

“It’s the foundation of everything we do.”

“Look, Trout, I’ve been around as long as you have, maybe longer. You’re talking to a cop, not the goddamn Rotary Club. Sure, the goal is to discover the truth—except when another goal gets in the way. In most cases we don’t get to the truth. What we get to, if we’re lucky, is a satisfactory conclusion. We get to a credible way of characterizing something. We get to a way of convicting someone. You know damn well that the real-world structure of police agencies doesn’t reward the pursuit of truth and justice. It rewards satisfactory conclusions. The goal in the heart of an individual cop may be to get to the truth. But the goal he’s rewarded for is clearing the case. Hand the DA’s office a perp to prosecute, preferably with a coherent narrative of fact and motive, best of all with a signed confession—that’s the real game.”

Trout rolled his eyes and looked at his watch.

“The point is,” said Gurney, leaning forward, “you had a coherent narrative. In a way you had a signed confession—the manifesto. Of course, the fly in the ointment was the elusiveness of the perp. But what the hell. You came up with your offender profile. You had his detailed statement of intent. You had six murders that were consistent with what you and your Behavioral Analysis Unit
knew
about the Good Shepherd. Solid work, logical conclusions. Coherent, professional, defensible.”

“What, precisely, is your problem with that?”

“Unless you have evidence you haven’t revealed, everything you think you know is based on fiction. I’m hoping, by the way, that I’m wrong. Tell me you’ve got stuff in your files that nobody knows about.”

“You’re not making sense, Gurney. And I’m out of time. So if you don’t mind—”

“Ask yourself two questions, Trout. First, what other theory of the case might you have developed if you’d never received the manifesto? Second, what if every word of that precious document is bullshit?”

“Interesting questions, I’m sure. Let me ask you one before you leave.” The steepled hands returned to his chin. It was a professorial pose. “Considering your lack of any official standing or any basis for being involved in this in any way … where does all this hostile theorizing take you, other than into a world of trouble?”

Perhaps it was the threat in Trout’s gaze. Or the smirk on Daker’s lips as he leaned against the doorpost. Or the nettling reminder of his
own lack of a badge. Whatever the root of the impulse, it pushed Gurney to say something he hadn’t planned to say.

“It may force me to accept an offer I hadn’t considered seriously until now. An opportunity at RAM News. They want to build a program segment around me.”

“Around
you
?”

“Yes. Or my image. Using my arrest statistics.”

Trout glanced curiously at Daker, who shrugged but said nothing.

“They seem to be overly impressed by the fact that I had the highest homicide-clearing rate in the history of the department.”

Trout’s mouth opened, but he closed it again without speaking.

“They want me to review famous unsolved cases and offer my opinion on where I think the investigations went off the tracks. Starting with the Good Shepherd case. They plan to call the series
In the Absence of Justice
. Catchy, eh?”

Trout examined his steepled fingers for a long minute, concluding with another sad shake of his head. “Everything keeps bringing me back to the problem of leaked documents, unauthorized access, transmission of confidential information, violations of regulations, violations of federal and state laws. Endless unpleasant complications.”

“Small price to pay. After all, as you said before, the main thing is justice. Or was it truth? Something like that, right?”

Trout gave him a cold stare and repeated with slow emphasis, “Endless … unpleasant … complications.” His gaze traveled to the mounted wildcats on the mantel. “Not such a small price. Not something I’d want to be in your shoes for. Especially not right now. Not on top of having to deal with that arson business.”

“Excuse me?”

“I heard about your barn.”

“How does that relate to what we’re talking about?”

“Just another kind of pressure in your life, that’s all. Another complication.” He made a show of consulting his watch again. “We’re definitely out of time.” He stood up.

So did Gurney. So did Holdenfield.

Trout’s mouth widened into an empty smile. “Thank you for sharing your concerns with us, Mr. Gurney. Daker will get you back to
your car.” He turned to Holdenfield. “Can you stay for a few minutes? I have a few items I need to discuss with you.”

“Certainly.” She stepped between Trout and Gurney and extended her hand. “Nice to see you again. Someday you’ll have to tell me more about your barn problem. First I’ve heard of it.”

When he took her hand, he felt a folded piece of paper being pressed against his palm. He accepted it, keeping it out of sight.

Daker was watching him but showed no sign of noticing the transfer. He pointed at the front door. “Time to go.”

Gurney didn’t take the paper out of his pocket until he was in his car, the engine was running, and Daker had disappeared back up the trail in the Kawasaki.

Unfolded, it was barely two inches across. There was one sentence on it:
“Wait for me in Branville at the Eagle’s Nest.”

He’d never been to the Eagle’s Nest. He’d heard it was a new restaurant, part of Branville’s struggling renaissance from rural slum to quaint hamlet. It was convenient enough, located on a route he’d be taking anyway.

T
he main street of Branville was at the bottom of a valley next to a picturesque stream that provided the place with its sole source of charm, as well as occasional ruinous floods. The county road that connected Branville with the interstate made a long, winding descent from a line of hills and teed into the main street just a block from the Eagle’s Nest. Although it was close to noon when Gurney walked in, only one of its dozen tables was occupied. He sat at a table for two by a bay window looking out on the street and ordered—a rarity for him—a Bloody Mary. He was still surprised by his choice when the server delivered it a few minutes later.

It was a generous drink, in a tall glass. It tasted exactly the way he expected it would. It brought a pleasant smile to his lips—another rarity in recent months. He savored it slowly, finishing it at 12:15.

At 12:16 Rebecca walked in. She sat down immediately. “Hope you weren’t waiting too long.” The way she smiled emphasized the taut contours of her mouth. Everything about her was controlled and alert.

“Just got here a few minutes ago.”

She glanced around the room with that cool assessment with which she always greeted her surroundings. “What are you drinking?”

“Bloody Mary.”

“Perfect.” She turned and waved to the young female server.

When the girl arrived with a pair of menus, Holdenfield gave her a skeptical look. “Are you old enough to be serving drinks?”

“I’m twenty-three,” she announced, sounding baffled by the question and depressed by the number.

“That old?” said Holdenfield with unappreciated irony. “I’ll have a Bloody Mary.” She pointed at Gurney’s glass with a question mark in her eyes.

“No more for me.”

The server departed.

Holdenfield, as usual, didn’t waste any time getting to the point. “How come you were so aggressive with our FBI friends? And what was all that stuff about sniper goggles, the disposing of the guns, problems with the profile?”

“Just trying to nudge him off balance.”

“Nudge? More like an elbow in the face.”

“I’m a little frustrated.”

“And where do you think your frustration is coming from?”

“I’m getting sick of explaining it.”

“Humor me.”

“You’re all treating the manifesto like holy writ. It’s not. It’s a pose. Actions speak louder than words. The actions of this killer were super-rational, steady as a rock. The planning was patient and pragmatic. The manifesto is another matter altogether. It’s a work of fiction, an effort to create a persona and a set of motivations that you and your buddies in the Behavioral Analysis Unit could analyze and regurgitate into that sophomoric profile.”

“Look, David—”

“Just a second, I’m still ‘humoring’ you. The fiction took on a life of its own. There was something in it for everyone. Endless articles in the
American Journal of Theoretical Bullshit
. And now no one can back down. You’re all desperate to shore up the house of cards. If it collapses, careers collapse with it.”

“Finished?”

“You asked me to explain my frustration.”

She leaned toward him and spoke softly. “David, I don’t think I’m the one who’s ‘desperate’ here.” She paused and sat back up straight as the server arrived with her Bloody Mary. When the young woman retreated to the back of the room, she continued. “I’ve worked with you before. You were always the calmest, most reasonable person in the room. The Dave Gurney I remember wouldn’t have threatened a senior FBI agent this morning. He wouldn’t be claiming that my professional opinions are bullshit. Accusing me of dishonesty and stupidity. It makes me wonder what’s
really
going on in your head. To be perfectly honest with you, this new Dave Gurney worries me.”

“Is that so? You think the bullet that creased my brain knocked out a few logic circuits?”

“All I’m saying is that your thought process is being driven by a bigger emotional component than it used to be. Do you disagree with that?”

“What I disagree with is your effort to make my thought process the issue when the real problem is that you and your colleagues attached your names and reputations to a crock of shit that allowed a mass murderer to escape.”

“That’s colorful, David. You know who else speaks about the case in colorful terms? Max Clinter.”

“Is that supposed to be a devastating criticism?”

She sipped her drink. “Just popped into my mind. Free association. So many similarities. Both of you seriously injured, both incapacitated for at least a month, both intensely distrustful of others, both with your official police days behind you, both obsessed with proving that the accepted view of the Good Shepherd case is wrong, both natural-born hunters who hate being marginalized.” She took another sip. “Have you ever been evaluated for PTSD?”

He stared at her. The question took him by surprise, although it shouldn’t have, not after her comparing him to Clinter. “Is that what you’re doing here? Checking off diagnostic boxes? Did you and Trout discuss my emotional stability?”

She returned the stare. “I’ve never felt this kind of hostility from you before.”

“Let me ask you something. Why did you want to meet me here?”

She blinked, looked down at the table, took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Our phone conversation the other day? It was very disturbing. Frankly, I’m concerned about you.” She picked up her Bloody Mary and drank down more than half of it.

When their eyes met again, she spoke in a softened voice. “Being shot is a shock. Our minds keep reliving that moment, the threat, the impact. Our natural reactions are fear and anger. Most men would rather be angry than afraid. They find it easier to express anger. I think the discovery of your own vulnerability, the fact that you’re not perfect, not superman … has made you absolutely furious. And the slowness of your recovery is stoking that fury.”

Was this earnest psychologist as authentic as she sounded at that moment? Was she offering him her honest and caring opinion? Did she actually give a damn? Or was this another step in an increasingly ugly effort to make him question himself rather than the case theory?

Searching for the answer, he looked into her eyes.

Her intelligent gaze was steady, unblinking.

He started to feel the fury she had mentioned. It was time to get the hell out of there before he said something he’d regret.