“Right. We often get them reversed—the means and the end. The actions of the Unabomber and the Good Shepherd make perfect sense—if you base them on the assumption that the killing itself was the real goal—the emotional payoff—and the so-called manifestos were the enabling justifications.”

She blinked, looked like she was trying to grasp the implications for her project. “But how much would that mean … from the point of view of the victim?”

“From the point of view of the victim, it wouldn’t mean anything. For the victim, motive is irrelevant. Especially when there’s no prior personal connection between victim and killer. On a dark road, from an anonymous passing car, a bullet in the head is a bullet in the head, regardless of the motive.”

“And the families?”

“Ah, the families. Well …”

Gurney closed his eyes, thinking back slowly over his homicide career to one sad conversation after another. So many of them over the years. Over the decades. Parents. Wives. Lovers. Children. Stunned faces. Refusals to believe the dreadful news. Desperate questions. Screams. Groans. Wails. Rage. Accusations. Wild threats. Fists smashing into walls. Drunken stares. Empty stares. Old people whimpering like children. A man staggering backward as if punched. And worst of all, the ones with no reactions. Frozen faces, dead eyes. Uncomprehending, speechless, emotionless. Turning away, lighting a cigarette.

“Well …” he continued after a while, “I’ve always felt that the truth was the best thing. So I guess having a slightly better understanding of why someone they loved was killed might be a good thing for surviving family members. But remember, I’m not saying I know why the Unabomber and the Good Shepherd did what they did. They probably don’t know the reason themselves. I just know it’s not the reason they said it was.”

She gazed across the coffee table at him and seemed about to ask another question—was starting to open her mouth—when a light thump somewhere in the upper wall of the house stopped her. She sat stiffly, listening. “What do you think that was?” she asked after several long seconds, pointing toward the source of the sound.

“No idea. Maybe a knock in a hot-water pipe?”

“That’s what that would sound like?”

He shrugged. “What do you think it is?”

When she didn’t answer, he asked, “Who lives upstairs?”

“No one. At least no one is supposed to be living there. They were evicted, then they came back, the cops raided the apartment, shithead drug dealers, so they were all arrested, but they’re probably out by now anyway, so who the hell knows? This city is pretty sucky.”

“So the upstairs is vacant?”

“Yeah. Supposedly.” She looked at the coffee table, focusing on the open pizza box. “Jeez. That’s looking nasty. Should I reheat it?”