Prodigal Son

CHAPTER 74

From the swiveling beacons on the roofs of police cruisers and ambulances, unsynchronized flares of red and white and blue light painted a patriotic phantasmagoria across the face of the apartment building.

Some in pajamas and robes, others dressed and primped for the news cameras, the neighbors gathered on the sidewalk. They gossiped, laughed, drank beer from paper cups, drank beer from cans, ate cold pizza, ate potato chips from the bag, took snapshots of the police and of one another. They seemed to regard the eruption of sudden violence and the presence of a serial killer in their midst as reason for celebration.

At the open trunk of the department sedan, as Carson stowed the shotgun, Michael said, "How can he jump up and run away after a four-story face plant?"

"It's more than gumption."

"And how are we gonna write up this report without landing in a psych ward?"

Slamming the trunk lid, Carson said, "We lie."

A Subaru Outback angled to the curb behind them, and Kathleen Burke got out. "Can you believe-Harker?"

"He always seemed like such a sweetheart," Michael said.

"The moment I saw that suicide note on Roy Pribeaux's computer," Carson informed Kathy, "I didn't believe that he wrote it. Yesterday, ragging Michael and me, Harker used the same phrase that ends Pribeaux's note — 'one level below Hell.'"

Michael confirmed: "Harker told us that to catch this guy, we were going to have to go to a weirder place-one level below Hell."

Surprised, Kathy said, "You mean you think he did it on purpose, he wanted you to tumble to him?"

"Maybe unconsciously," Carson said, "but yeah, he did. He threw the pretty boy off the roof after setting him up to take the rap for both Pribeaux's string of murders and those that Harker himself committed. But with those four words-'one level below Hell'-he lit a fuse to destroy himself."

"Deep inside, they pretty much always want to be caught," Kathy agreed. "But I wouldn't expect Harker's psychology to…"

"To what?"

She shrugged. "To work that way I don't know. I'm babbling. Man, all the time I'm profiling him, the bastard's on my doorstep."

"Don't beat yourself up," Carson advised. "None of us suspected Harker till he all but pointed the finger at himself."

"But maybe I should have," Kathy worried. "Remember the three nightclub murders six months ago?"

"Boogie City," Carson recalled.

"Sounds like a place people go to pick their noses," Michael said.

"Harker and Frye were on that case," Kathy said.

Michael shrugged. "Sure. Harker shot the perp. It was an iffy shoot, but he was cleared."

"After a fatal OIS," Kathy said, "he had six hours of mandatory counseling. He showed up at my office for two of the hours but then never came back."

"No offense, Dr. Burke," Michael said, "but lots of us think mandatory counseling sucks. Just because Harker bailed doesn't mean you should've figured he had severed heads in his refrigerator."

"Yeah, but I knew something was eating him, and I didn't push him hard enough to finish the sessions."

The previous night, Carson had passed on the opportunity to tell Kathy the Spooky Time Theater story about monsters in New Orleans. Now there was no way to explain that she hadn't any reason to feel conscious-stricken, that Harker's psychology was not even human.

Trying to make as light of the situation as possible, Carson said to Michael, "Is she doomed to Hell, or what?"

"She reeks of brimstone."

Kathy managed a rueful smile. "Maybe sometimes I take myself too seriously." Her smile faltered. "But Harker and I seemed to have such… rapport."

A paramedic interrupted. "'Scuse me, detectives, but we've given Ms. Parker first aid, and she's ready for you now."

"She doesn't need to go to the hospital?" Carson asked.

"No. Minor injuries. And that's not a girl who traumatizes easy. She's Mary Poppins with attitude."