Prodigal Son

situation like this, which had grown from one bizarre homicide to six killings in a matter of weeks, Carson and her partner would not be the only ones in the department assigned to research particular aspects of the case.
        They had caught the first murder, however, and therefore had proprietary interest in associated homicides if and until the killer piled up enough victims to force the establishment of an emergency task force. And at that point, she and Michael would most likely be designated to head that undertaking.
        Harker tended to burn easily-from sunshine, from envy, from imagined slights to his competence, from just about anything. The Southern sun had bleached his blond hair nearly white; it lent his face a perpetually parboiled look.
        His eyes, as blue as a gas flame, as hard as gem-stones, revealed the truth of him that he attempted to disguise with a soft smile. "We needed to move fast, before evidence was lost. In this climate, bodies decompose quickly".
        "Oh, don't be so hard on yourself," Michael said. "With a gym membership and a little determination, you'll be looking good again."
        Carson drew Ned Lohman aside. Michael joined them as she took out her notebook and said, "Gimme the TPO from your involvement."
        "Listen, Detectives, I know you're the whips on this. I told Frye and Harker as much, but they have rank."
        "Not your fault," she assured him. "I should know by now that vultures always get to dead meat first. Let's start with the time."
        He checked his watch. "Call came in at seven forty-two, which makes it thirty-eight minutes ago. Jogger saw the body, called it in. When I showed up, the guy was standing here running in place to keep his heart rate up."
        In recent years, runners with cell phones had found more bodies than any other class of citizens.
        “As for place," Officer Lohman continued, "the body's just where the jogger found it. He made no rescue attempt."
        "The severed hands," Michael suggested, "were probably a clue that CPR wouldn't be effective."
        "The vic is blond, maybe not natural, probably Caucasian. You have any other observations about her?" Carson asked Lohman.
        "No. I didn't go near her either, didn't contaminate anything, if that's what you're trying to find out. Haven't seen the face yet, so I can't guess the age."
        "Time, place-what about occurrence?" she asked Lohman. "Your first impression was…?"
        "Murder. She didn't cut her hands off herself."
        "Maybe one," Michael agreed, "but not both."

CHAPTER 5
        
        THE STREETS OF NEW ORLEANS teemed with possibilities: women of every description. A few were beautiful, but even the most alluring were lacking in one way or another.
        During his years of searching, Roy Pribeaux had yet to encounter one woman who met his standards in every regard.
        He was proud of being a perfectionist. If he had been God, the world would have been a more ordered, less messy place.
        Under Roy Almighty, there would have been no ugly or plain people. No mold. No cockroaches or even mosquitoes. Nothing that smelled bad.
        Under a blue sky that he could not have improved upon, but in cloying humidity he would not have allowed, Roy strolled along the Riverwalk, the site of the 1984 Louisiana World's Fair, which had been refurbished as a public gathering place and shopping pavilion. He was hunting.
        Three young women in tank tops and short shorts sashayed past, laughing together. Two of them checked Roy out.
        He met their eyes, boldly ogled their bodies, then dismissed each of them with a glance.
        Even after years of searching, he remained an optimist. She was out there somewhere, his ideal, and he would find her-even if it had to be one piece at a time.
        In this promiscuous society, Roy remained a virgin at thirty-eight, a fact of which he was proud. He was saving himself. For the perfect woman. For love.
        Meanwhile, he polished his own perfection. He undertook two hours of physical training every day. Regarding himself as a Renaissance man, he read literature for exactly one hour, studied a new subject for exactly one hour, meditated on the great mysteries and the major issues of his time for another hour every day.
        He ate only organic produce. He bought no meat from factory farms. No pollutants tainted him, no pesticides, no