Prodigal Son (15 page)

CHAPTER 42

THE QUIET RECEIVING FOYER
featured a baroque frieze instead of traditional crown moldings: deeply carved acanthus leaves punctuated every two feet and at the corners by the heads of angels alternating with gargoyles or perhaps mocking demons.

Inlaid in the forest-green marble floor, a foot-wide circular work of marquetry employed lighter marbles to portray mythological beings—gods, goddesses, and demigods—in perpetual pursuit. Even without dropping to his knees, Michael could see that some of the pursuit involved sexual fondling.

Only in New Orleans would either of these elements have seemed suitable to a funeral home. The house had probably been built around 1850 by nouveau riche newcomers who hadn’t been welcome in the Creole sections of town. In this city, time eventually conferred dignity on what had once been outrageous as well as on what had been classic from the day it had been erected.

Studying a photo of Bobby Allwine that Carson had given him, Taylor Fullbright said, “This is the very gentleman, yes. I felt sorry for the poor soul—so many of his friends were dying. Then I realized he didn’t know any of the deceased.”

Carson said, “He—what?—just got a thrill being around dead people?”

“Nothing that kinky,” said Fullbright. “He just…seemed to be at peace around them.”

“That’s what he said—he was at peace?”

“The only thing I can remember he said was ‘Death can be as much a gift as a curse,’ which is often true.”

“Did you confront him about coming to all these viewings?”

“Confrontation isn’t my style, Detective. Some funeral directors are solemn to the point of seeming stern. I’m more of a hugger and a consoler. Mr. Allwine and his friend, they were never a problem. More melancholy than weird.”

Carson’s phone rang, and when she stepped away to answer it, Michael said to Fullbright, “He came with a friend? Can you give us a description?”

Smiling, nodding, as affable as a cartoon bear, the mortician said, “I can see him as clear in memory as if he were standing here. He was ordinary to a fault. Average height. A little heavier than average weight. Middle-aged. Brown hair—or maybe blond. Blue or green eyes, maybe hazel.”

With a sarcasm that sounded like earnest praise, Michael said, “Amazing. That’s as good as a photo.”

Pleased, Fullbright said, “I’ve got a sharp eye for detail.”

Putting away her phone, Carson turned to Michael: “Jack Rogers wants to see us at the morgue.”

“You might mention to the coroner,” Fullbright said, “that while I don’t extend commissions to those who send us business, I do offer discounts for referrals.”

“I can’t wait to tell him,” Michael said. Pointing to the marble marquetry at their feet, he asked, “Who’s that figure?”

“The one with the winged feet? That’s Mercury.”

“And that one next to him?”

“Aphrodite,” said Fullbright.

“Are they…?”

“Engaged in sodomy?” the mortician asked jovially. “Indeed they are. You’d be amazed how many mourners notice and are cheered by it.”

“I
am
amazed,” Michael agreed.

CHAPTER 43

THE LONGER ROY PRIBEAUX
roamed his expansive loft apartment, gazing out of the tall windows, brooding about his future, the more troubled he became.

When a brief midmorning shower pelted the panes, blurring the city, he felt as if his future also blurred further, until it was a meaningless smear. He might have cried if crying had been his thing.

Never in his young—and getting steadily younger—life had he been without a purpose and a plan. Meaningful work kept the mind sharp and the heart uplifted.

Meaningful work, having a worthwhile purpose, was as crucial to longevity and to enduring youthfulness as were megadoses of Vitamin C and Coenzyme Q
₁₀
.

Without a purpose to inspire him, Roy feared that in spite of a perfect diet, ideally balanced nutritional supplements, an array of exotic emollients, and even purified lamb’s urine, he would begin to grow old mentally. The more he brooded, the more it seemed that the path to senility loomed before him, as steep as a luge chute.

Mind and body were inextricably linked, of course, so a year of mental senescence would inevitably lead to lines at the corners of his eyes, the first gray hairs at his temples. He shuddered.

He tried to muster the desire to take a walk, but if he spent the day in the Quarter, among the throngs of celebratory tourists, and if he failed to encounter the radiant goddess of his destiny, his uneasiness would deepen.

Because he himself was very close to perfect, perhaps now that he had collected all the parts of an ideal woman, he should make it his goal to refine himself that final degree. He could now focus on achieving the perfect metabolism until he ceased to excrete wastes.

Although this was a noble undertaking, it didn’t promise as much
fun
as the quest he had recently completed.

Finally, out of desperation, he found himself wondering—indeed
hoping
—that he had erred when he concluded that he had completed his collection. He might have overlooked an anatomical feature that, while minor, remained essential to beauty’s jigsaw.

For a while he sat at the kitchen table with da Vinci’s famous anatomical charts and several old
Playboy
centerfolds. He studied the female form from every angle, looking for a morsel that he might have overlooked.

When he made no discovery that allowed him to cry
Eureka,
he began to consider the possibility that he had not been sufficiently specific in his collecting. Was it possible that he had collected from too macro a perspective?

Were he to take Elizabeth Lavenza’s lovely pale hands from the freezer and review them critically, he might be surprised to find that they were perfect, yes, in every detail
but one.
Perhaps she had a single thumb that fell short of perfection.

Perhaps the lips he had harvested were not
both
perfect as he had remembered. The upper might be perfect, the lower
not quite.

If he needed to set out on a search for the perfect left thumb to marry to Elizabeth’s otherwise faultlessly fair hands, if he must find a bee-stung lower lip to match the exquisite upper already in his possession, then his quest had not been completed, after all, and he would for a while have meaningful…

“No,” he declared aloud. “That way lies madness.”

Soon he would be reduced to harvesting one toe per donor and killing for mere eyelashes. A thin line separated serious homicidal purpose from buffoonery.

Realizing that a blind alley lay before him, Roy might at that moment have fallen into a swoon of despair, even though at heart he was an optimistic person. Fortunately, he was saved by a new thought.

From his nightstand he retrieved his original list of wanted anatomical delights. He had drawn a line through every item as he acquired it, concluding with
EYES
.

The list was long, and perhaps early in the quest he had crossed off an item out of wishful thinking, before he had taken possession of it. His memory of certain periods in his past was somewhat hazy, not because of any mental deficiency, but solely because he was such a tomorrow-oriented person, focused on the future in which he would grow younger and closer to perfection.

He vaguely recalled, over the years, killing a woman or two for an ideal feature, only to discover, in the intimate presence of the corpse, that the wanted item was minutely flawed and therefore not worth harvesting. Perhaps more than a woman or two. Maybe as many as four had disappointed him. Maybe five.

He supposed it was possible that he had crossed off an item or two on his list only to discover, after the kill, that he had been too easy in his judgment—and then in his busyness had forgotten to restore the needed item to the list.

Either to confirm or eliminate this possibility, he needed to compare the contents of his special freezer to his original list.

Despondency quickly faded and a happy anticipation filled him. He opened a bottle of apple juice and sectioned a raisin muffin to sample as he worked.

All the appliances in his roomy kitchen boasted stainless-steel finishes, including the ovens, microwave, dishwasher, icemaker, Sub-Zero refrigerator, and two enormous freezers.

In the first freezer he stored the parts of the perfect woman. He playfully referred to this as the
love locker.

The second freezer contained an assortment of dairy-free, soy-based ice creams, free-range chicken breasts, and quarts of rhubarb puree. In the event that a major act of terrorism led to a disruption in the distribution of vital nutritional supplements, he also stored five-pound packages of powdered saw palmetto, St. John’s wort, bee pollen, and other items.

When he lifted the lid on the first freezer, a cloud of frosted air wafted past him, crisp with a faint scent vaguely like that of frozen fish. He saw at once that the freezer contained items that did not belong with his collection.

His larger treasures—legs and arms—were tightly sealed in multiple layers of Reynolds Plastic Wrap. The smaller lovelies were sealed first in OneZip bags and then in Tupperware containers with dependably tight lids.

Now he found among his collection three containers that were not Tupperware. They were cheap knockoffs of that desired brand: opaque plastic bottoms with ugly green lids.

This discovery mystified him. Although certain events in the more distant past might be blurry in his memory, these unacceptable containers were set atop the rest of his collection; they could have been placed here only recently. Yet he had never seen them before.

Curious but not yet alarmed, he took the three containers from the freezer. He put them on a nearby counter.

When he opened them, he found what might have been human organs. The first resembled liver. The second might have been a heart. With no real interest in things internal, he couldn’t guess whether the third item was a kidney, spleen, or something even more arcane.

Pausing for some raisin muffin and apple juice, he could not avoid considering that these three specimens might be the souvenirs taken by the
other
killer currently making the news in New Orleans.

Being a Renaissance man who had educated himself in a variety of disciplines, Roy knew more than a little about psychology. He could not help but give some consideration now to the concept of multiple personalities.

He found it interesting to consider that he might be both the original killer
and
the copycat, might have murdered three men while in a fugue state, and that even now, confronted with evidence, he couldn’t remember popping or chopping them. Interesting…but in the end not convincing. He and himself, working separately, were not, together, the Surgeon.

The true explanation eluded him, but he knew that it would prove to be more bizarre than multiple personalities.

Instinct drew his attention to the second freezer.

If the first had contained the unexpected, might not the second hold surprises, too? He might find gallons of high-fat ice cream and pounds of bacon among the herbs and health foods.

Instead, when he opened the lid and blinked away the initial cloud of frosted air, he discovered Candace’s eyeless corpse jammed atop the supplements and foodstuffs.

Roy was certain that he had not brought this cotton-candy person home with him.

CHAPTER 44

LIKE THE SOMEWHAT
disheveled medical examiner himself, Jack Rogers’s private office was a classic example of managed chaos. The desktop overflowed with papers, notebooks, folders, photos. Books were jammed in the shelves everywhichway. Nevertheless, Jack would be able to find anything he needed after mere seconds of searching.

Only partly because of sleep deprivation and too much coffee, Carson’s mind felt as disordered as the office. “Bobby Allwine’s
gone
?”

Jack said, “The cadaver, the tissue samples, the autopsy video—all gone.”

“What about the autopsy report and photos?” Michael asked. “Did you file them under ‘Munster, Herman’ like I suggested?”

“Yeah. They found them, took them.”

“They thought to look under ‘Munster, Herman’?” Michael asked in disbelief. “Since when do grave robbers double as trivia mavens?”

“Judging by the mess in the file room,” Jack said, “I think they just tore through all the drawers till they got what they wanted. We could have filed it under ‘Bell, Tinker,’ and they would have found it. Anyway, they weren’t grave robbers. They didn’t dig Allwine out of the ground. They took him from a morgue drawer.”

“So they’re bodysnatchers,” Michael said. “Getting the term right doesn’t change the fact that your ass is in a sling, Jack.”

“It feels like a barbed-wire thong,” Jack said. “Losing evidence in a capital case? Man, there goes the pension.”

Trying to make sense of the situation, Carson said, “Did the city cut your security budget or what?”

Jack shook his head. “We’re as tight as a prison here. It has to be an inside job.”

Simultaneously, Carson and Michael looked at Luke, who sat on a stool in a corner.

“Hey,” he said, “I never stole a dime in my life, let alone a dead guy.”

“Not Luke,” Jack Rogers assured them. “He couldn’t have pulled it off. He’d have screwed up.”

Luke winced. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Luke and I were here for a while after you two left, but not all night. We hit a wall, needed sleep. Because I’d sent home the night staff to keep the lid on this, the place was deserted.”

“You forget to lock up?” Carson asked.

Jack glowered at her. “No way.”

“Signs of forced entry?”

“None. They must’ve had keys.”

“Somebody knew what you’d find in Allwine,” she said, “because maybe he’s not unique. Maybe there’re others like him.”

“Don’t go off in the Twilight Zone again,” Michael half warned, half pleaded.

“At least one other,” she said. “The friend he went to funerals with. Mr. Average Everything.”

Almost simultaneous with a knock, the door opened, and Frye, Jonathan Harker’s partner, entered. He looked surprised to see them.

“Why so glum?” he asked. “Did somebody die?”

Weariness and caffeine sharpened Carson’s edge. “What don’t you understand about ‘buzz off’?”

“Hey, I’m not here about your case. We’re on that liquor-store shooting.”

“Yeah? Is that right? Is that what you were doing yesterday at Allwine’s apartment—looking for clues in the liquor-store shooting?”

Frye pretended innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. O’Connor, you’re wound as tight as a golf ball’s guts. Get a man, relieve some tension.”

She wanted to shoot him accidentally.

As if reading her mind, Michael said, “A gun can always go off accidentally, but you’d have to explain why you drew it in the first place.”