When an old colleague comes to him for help solving the mysterious death of his town's most prominent resident, retired NYPD detective Dave Gurney must use all of his analytical skills to hunt a murderer who just might be killing from beyond the grave.The idyllic community of Larchfield is rocked to its core when Angus Russell, its wealthiest and most powerful citizen, is found dead in his mansion on Harrow Hill. A preliminary analysis of DNA gathered at the crime scene points to the guilt of local bad boy Billy Tate, whose hatred for the victim was well known. Except that Tate fell from the roof of a local church and was declared dead by the medical examiner the day before Russell was killed. When police rush to the mortuary, they discover Tate's coffin has been broken open from the inside and the body is gone.A series of murders soon follows as Larchfield loses its collective mind. Gun sales explode. Conspiracy theories and religious fundamentalism spread. The once-peaceful town becomes a magnet for sensation seekers, self-proclaimed zombie hunters, TV producers eager for ratings, and apocalyptic preachers rallying the faithful for the end of days. His quiet retirement shattered, ex-NYPD detective Dave Gurney finds himself not only facing down a murderer, but struggling to restore order to the town rapidly spiraling out of control.
For Naomi
The deadliest flaw in human nature is the ability to hold an unshakable opinion based on inadequate evidence.
“Listen carefully,” said Dave Gurney, “to this eyewitness description of a murder.”
He was standing at the podium in a lecture hall at the state police training academy, conducting a seminar titled “Evaluation of Eyewitness Statements.” There was a projection screen on a low stage behind him. He held a one-page form in his hand. Some eager cadets were leaning forward. All watching him.
“This recorded statement was given to an NYPD transit officer by Maria Santiago, a twenty-two-year-old teacher’s aide at a Bronx public school:
‘I was on the northbound platform at the 138th Street subway station. I was coming home from work, so it was around four o’clock. Not very crowded. There was this skinny, dark teenager, trying to look cool. Crazy clothes, like kids wear now. Near him there were these four older Anglo guys. Like construction guys. They started looking at the kid. Bad looks. One of them, big guy in a black leather jacket, dirty black jeans, said something about the kid’s clothes. Kid said something back. I’m not sure what, but in a Puerto Rican accent, like mine. Big guy suddenly pulled a gun out of his jacket pocket, shot the kid. People were running, shouting, everyone going nuts. Then the cops came.’
“Ms. Santiago’s full statement is longer than that,” said Gurney, looking up from the witness report, “but those are the main details. Anyone want me to go through it one more time?”
A female cadet in the front row raised her hand. “Could you, please?”
He read it again. “Anyone want to hear it a third time?”
No one said anything. He picked up a second report from the podium.
“This next example also comes from the NYPD transit division. It, too, describes a platform homicide. The statement was given by John McIntyre, a forty-five-year-old gas station owner:
‘It was rush hour, crowded, loads of people on the platform. I hate the subway, but once in a while I have to take it. It’s filthy. It stinks. People spit on the floor. So there was this fellow, coming home from work. Tired, stressed like. He was standing there, waiting for the train, minding his own business. And there was this bunch of black gangsta-rap assholes watching him. Scum of the earth. Puffy jackets. Stupid sneakers with the laces hanging off them. Stupid hats with hoodies over them. The leader of the pack has his eye on the guy who’s coming home from work. Evil eye, you could see it, looking for trouble. They say something back and forth. Then the black guy pulls out a gun, they get into a struggle, black guy gets shot with his own gun. Goes down on the platform. Ugly thing. But he asked for it. They call that karma, right? High on some shit. Meth makes them fuckers crazy.’
“Like the other statement,” said Gurney, “this one was edited down to a few essential points. Anyone want to hear it again?”
The same cadet asked for a repeat reading, and Gurney obliged. When he finished, he looked around the room and asked if anyone had any reaction to either statement.
At first the class remained silent. Then someone in the back row said, “Yeah, my reaction is stay the hell away from New York City.”
A few more comments followed from around the room.
Gurney waited. “Anyone have any idea why I chose those two statements?”
Eventually, a blond cadet with an earnest farm-boy face spoke up. “To make us glad we’re not transit cops?”
That was greeted by a few loud laughs.
Gurney waited.
The female cadet in the first row cocked her head and looked at him with a glint of suspicion in her eyes. “Because the two statements are from witnesses to the same homicide?”
Gurney smiled. A student’s leap of intuition always brightened his day.
In a scan of the room he saw expressions of disbelief, confusion, curiosity. A few cadets seemed to be practicing the police art of the neutral stare. He waited for the objections.
The first came from a wiry young man with small eyes and a sour mouth. “So, which one of them was lying?”
“They both took voluntary polygraphs, and the test expert concluded they were both telling the truth.”
“That’s impossible. There are direct contradictions—who had the gun, who was alone, who was part of a group, ethnicity, initial provocation, everything. They can’t both have been right.”
“True,” said Gurney mildly.
“But you said—”
“I said they were both
