The document was clearer and less digressive than the Unabomber’s manifesto. The logical nexus between the stated problem and the murderous solution was more direct than Ted Kaczynski’s messy letter bombs to victims whose relevance to the issue was questionable at best.

The Good Shepherd had neatly summed up his approach in the first two numbered statements in his memorandum: “1. If the love of money, which is greed, is the root of all evil, then it follows that the greatest good will be achieved by its eradication. 2. Since greed does not exist in a vacuum but exists in its human carriers, it follows that the way to eradicate greed is to eradicate its carriers.”

What could be more direct than that?

And the Good Shepherd murder spree was inherently memorable. It had the elements of riveting theater: a simple premise, a concentrated time frame, high suspense, a vivid threat, a dramatic assault on wealth and privilege, easily defined victims, horrific moments of confrontation. It was the stuff of legend, and it occupied a natural place in people’s minds. In fact, it occupied at least two natural places: To those who felt threatened by an attack on wealth, the Good Shepherd was the incarnation of the bomb-throwing revolutionary, intent on bringing down the structure of history’s greatest society. To those who viewed the rich as pigs, the Good Shepherd was an idealist, a Robin Hood, rectifying the worst injustice of an unjust world.

It made sense that the case had over the years become a favorite in psychology and criminology classes. Professors would enjoy presenting it, because it made the points they wanted to make about a certain kind of murderer and—a rare blessing in the soft sciences—it made those points unambiguously. Students would enjoy hearing about it, because, like many simple horrors, it was grotesquely entertaining. Even the killer’s escape into the night became a plus—giving the affair an open-ended currency that had a tingly appeal.

As Gurney closed the folder, pondering the visceral power of the case narrative, he found himself with mixed feelings.

“Problem?”

He looked up, saw Madeleine gazing across the room at him, her knitting needles resting in her lap.

He shook his head. “Probably just my constitutional crankiness.”

She was still looking at him. He knew she was waiting for a better answer.

“Kim’s documentary is all about the Good Shepherd case.”

Madeleine frowned. “Hasn’t that been done to death? Back when it happened, it was pretty much the only thing on television.”

“She has her own angle on it. Back then it was all about the manifesto and the hunt for the killer and theories about his hypothetical background, hypothetical education, where he might be hiding, violence in America, lax gun laws, blah, blah, blah. But Kim is ignoring all that and zeroing in on the permanent damage to the victims’ families—how their lives were changed.”