His first choice for devil’s advocacy was Hardwick. He took out his phone and placed the call. When it went to voice mail, he left a brief message. “Hey, Jack. I have a slant on the case that I’d like your reaction to. Call me.”

He checked to make sure his phone was still set on vibrate. He wasn’t sure what the night had in store for him, but in the scenarios he imagined, a ringing phone could be a problem.

His next devil’s-advocate choice was Lieutenant Bullard. He didn’t know where she stood at this point, but the need he felt for feedback outweighed his concern about the politics. Besides, if his insight into the case was correct, it could tilt the politics back in his favor. That call also went into voice mail, and he left essentially the same message for her that he’d left for Hardwick.

Not knowing when Hardwick or Bullard might get back to him and still wanting to expose his new perspective to a live listener, he decided, with mixed feelings, to call Clinter. After the third ring, the man himself answered.

“Hey, laddie, trouble on your big night? You calling for help?”

“No trouble. Just an idea I want to bounce off you. Might have holes in it, or it might be significant.”

“I’m all ears.”

It suddenly struck Gurney that there was a sizable psychic overlap between Clinter and Hardwick. Clinter was Hardwick gone over the edge. The thought, strangely, made him both more and less comfortable.

Gurney explained his idea. Twice.

There was no response. As he waited, he gazed out the window at the broad, marshy pond. The full moon had risen, giving the dead trees looming above the marsh grass an eerie presence. “You there, Max?”

“I’m absorbing, laddie, absorbing. I find no fatal fault with what you say. It does, of course, raise questions.”

“Of course.”

“To be sure I understand, you’re saying that only one of the murders mattered?”

“Correct.”

“And the other five were protective cover?”

“Correct.”

“And none of the murders had a damn thing to do with the ills of society?”

“Correct.”

“And the fancy cars were targeted … why?”

“Maybe because the one victim that mattered drove one. A big, black, expensive Mercedes. Maybe that’s where the whole concept came from.”

“And the other five people were shot essentially at random? Shot because they had the same kind of car? To make it look like there was a pattern.”

“Correct. I don’t think the killer knew or cared anything about the other victims.”

“Which would make him a rather chilly fucker, wouldn’t it?”

“Correct.”

“So now the big question: Which victim was the one that mattered?”

“When I meet the Good Shepherd, I’ll ask him.”

“And you think that’ll happen tonight?” Clinter’s voice was pulsing with excitement.