[Harbinger 01.0] Plain Jane

by Carolyn McCray

  His concern had been premature, as the medical examiner’s van hydroplaned into the parking lot. A spray of dirty water washed over him as the transport skidded to a stop. Kent did not even bother to wipe the grunge off. His renewed pinpoint focus would not let him. Nothing else mattered.

  Joann, or what was left of Joann, had arrived.

  A young morgue attendant, one who Kent did not recognize from two years ago, rushed out the thick double doors. Protecting a “Slipknot” leather choker, the slim attendant pulled his white coat over his head.

  The storm’s fury had withered to a sprinkle as the driver, wearing a beat-up and stained, yet officially licensed, NASCAR jacket, got out of the van and opened the door.

  “Got another one for you.”

  “Man, would people stop dying or what? It’s going to be a week before we process all these stiffs.”

  The driver seemed unimpressed by the younger man’s bluster. “They want a preliminary report this morning.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “By 9:00 a.m.”

  The wiry attendant did a double take before he answered, “Are they huffing formaldehyde?” When the driver did not respond, he continued, “I’ve got three homicides for McGregor to cut before this one.”

  “They want to know if she got sliced by Plain Jane.”

  “Oh man, you’re kidding!”

  “Nope,” the driver said flatly. “They need to know first thing if he took his usual trophy or not.”

  Kent recognized the look on the attendant’s face. His expression held a respect that almost bordered on fascination. He had felt it earlier this evening, huddled in that storefront, waiting for Joann to pass.

  “Wow, this is my most favorite corpse to date.” He opened the bag and passed his finger along her slit throat.

  As perverse as it sounded, Kent felt a dagger of jealousy. No one should touch Joann like that. No one.

  “Don’t worry, babe. You are first on the hit parade.”

  “You are one sick bastard.” With that, the driver got back into the van, leaving the attendant to wheel the body back toward the morgue.

  Kent’s muscles tensed.

  The long wait was forgotten.

  Soon he would be with Joann.

  CHAPTER 8

  With the wagon gone and the kid heading inside, Kent made his move. Keeping between the stucco wall of the morgue and the thick foliage, he made sure the security cameras could only register his shoulder.

  Then Kent’s luck changed for the good. The heavy-metal-loving attendant pushed two Shure noise-canceling earbuds into his ears. Kent knew because he owned three pairs of the same brand. They were the only things that kept his neighbor’s late-night amorous adventures to a reasonable level. Now Kent just needed to keep out of view of the cameras.

  As the attendant keyed in the door’s security code, he began air-guitaring. With this guy’s ADD, breaking into the morgue was like stealing candy from a preemie. Timing it perfectly, Kent crept in alongside the gurney as the attendant half pulled the body behind him and half stomped to some unheard beat.

  As the rich air of the rainstorm met the acrid odor of death, Kent’s nostrils clamped down. The stench of formaldehyde vied for supremacy over bitter antiseptics.

  His masterful break-in almost complete, Harbinger felt his trench coat catch in the closing doors. He jerked the garment, but it was stuck. If he delayed any longer, even the head-banger was going to notice his much unauthorized presence. Trusting the kid’s iPod to mask the sound, Kent ripped the edge of his coat off.

  Kent slunk forward. He had to keep the gurney between him and the camera positioned above the intake desk. Another few feet and he could take the first sharp right and be free of the attendant.

  “Boy, what are you dragging in here?”

  Freezing, the profiler knew that voice. O’Fallon, the world’s oldest security guard. Kent and the gaunt gentleman had locked horns before.

  O’Fallon jerked the plugs from the kid’s ears. Kent had to scramble to stay out of the old man’s line of sight, which brought him dangerously close to the camera’s view.

  The kid nearly shouted his answer. “Just rolling in another satisfied customer, O’Fallon.”

  Kent kept low under the gurney. O’Fallon might have been hard of hearing but for an octogenarian, he had surprisingly good eyesight.

  “Then what’s that in the door, boy?”

  “Just some crap kicked up by the storm, old man.”

  Tensing as the security guard’s heavy footsteps approached, Kent glanced around for an escape route. A hiding place. A nook. A cranny. Anything. He did not need much wiggle room.

  Kent had won plenty of bets back at Quantico by nearly disappearing into thin air.

  Unfortunately, this morgue’s tile floors and stainless steel-lined walls were all sharp angles and open space. Even the nearest air vent was a good ten feet away.

  “I’ll have no cursing, boy,” O’Fallon warned as he made his way around the gurney.

  Kent cursed as he shoved the gurney into the attendant, forcing the kid to stumble into the aged guard. Head down and tilted away from the camera, the profiler sprinted the length of the hallway as the two untangled themselves.

  “Harbinger!” The guard shouted. “You just violated your TRO!”

  It appeared the old man’s memory was as sharp as his eyesight. Fortunately, Kent had an even better sense of recall. Without hesitation, the profiler took a left, then a fast right for eight paces, then another quick left to a door that led to the back parking lot. A photographic memory came in handy, given his frequent run-ins with local law enforcement.

  Even though a sign over the emergency exit warned an alarm would sound, the profiler hit it at a full run. No bells. No buzzer. Harbinger was glad to see they took security of the building as seriously as they had two years ago.

  Kent burst into the renewed storm and made for the tree line. He could hear muffled shouts, yet he did not worry. The video surveillance would show his break-in. But enough evidence to pin it on him?

  Never.

  There was no proof he had ever been inside the morgue. No proof except the small, torn corner of his overcoat. Proof that he violated a restraining order.

  Given his abject failure to protect Joann, Kent could not give the DA any other excuse to pull him from the case.

  Despite the nearly hail-like rain, he shrugged off his torn coat. He did not bother to bury the evidence. The weather would wash away any DNA. Sometimes, granted rarely, but sometimes it came in extremely handy to think like a criminal.

  Making his way into the wooded park, Kent glanced back at the morgue. Despite his initial failure, this night was not over. He still needed time alone with Joann’s body. As much as he hated to admit it, he would need help.

  Her help.

  CHAPTER 9

  Across from Glick, Nicole sat as if she were a statue upon the chair. Her waist at a perfect right angle. Her knees bent at another ninety-degree angle. Her left ankle crossed over the right. Both hands lay in her lap, atop an FBI textbook Harbinger had written on the apprehension of serial killers.

  After the cold alley, Glick’s office practically steamed. Too humid. Too claustrophobic. Crowding the small room were the captain’s pseudo-wood desk, five dented file cabinets, and an old-fashioned radiator. For a city council that insisted it was tough on crime, they certainly did not fund the fight very well.

  The detective wished she could take off her jacket, but with Ruben sitting right next to her, she did not want to draw attention to herself. His anger, frustration, and distrust of Harbinger already carried over in waves.

  Nicole gripped Kent’s book tighter. She wanted plenty of ammunition to counteract any accusations Ruben might hurl. Without Kent at her side, his book was the next best thing.

  Even though Nicole knew the statistics from the text by heart, it still hurt to lose Joann. Knowing that it could take officials months or even years to realize that they
had a serial killer on their hands did not make Nicole feel any better.

  Nor did the fact that once you identified a serialism, you were destined to lose another five, maybe six more victims before even coming close to capturing a proficient killer. Sometimes the number doubled. Sometimes decades elapsed. Sometimes the bastards eluded capture completely.

  But not with Harbinger. The most victims this profiler had ever lost before on a case numbered three. Joann shattered that record to bring the total to four. Though an outsider would never know it to look at him, Nicole knew Kent felt regret. Guilt. Even shame. She could see it in his eyes. Joann’s death had shaken him.

  It turned out that his arrogance was a double-edged sword. It carried Kent to victory after victory, but in defeat it drove him to obsession. The investigation became oh-so-personal. He was no longer a cop after a suspect. It was now Kent against the Killer.

  Worse, when Harbinger felt guilt he became reckless. Defying authority more than usual. Breaking laws even more than usual. Keeping her at an emotional arm’s length way more than usual.

  Nicole dragged her thoughts out of the past. They had enough problems now that she did not need to dredge their history for more. Her gaze flickered up to make sure Glick had not finished with the report. His salt-and-pepper hair seemed to have gained more salt over the past few months to the point where his bushy mustache was nearly white. His heavily-lidded eyes scanned the document, giving it his customary diligence.

  Well, his newfound diligence.

  It wasn’t two years ago that the captain would have railed at them like any worthwhile superior officer. But after three heart attacks, two following altercations with Kent, Glick must have realized the bluster just was not worth it.

  With his dark blue tie loosened and the top button of his shirt open, you could see the tip of his scar. A quadruple, triple bypass. Heart surgery did not get much more serious than that.

  Which was why it pained Nicole to have failed her captain. You could see by the way his jaw worked that Glick’s frustration doubled her own. While she only had the victim’s family to answer to, he had an entire city.

  Worse, an entire city council had been none too subtle about their displeasure. Being splashed across the news that their fair city was the serial killer capital of the world was not doing the tourist trade any good.

  Ironically it had been this heightened level of political pressure that had allowed Nicole to convince Glick they needed Kent on the case. She had thought she was doing her captain a favor by bringing in the lauded profiler, but by the vein throbbing on his forehead, Nicole was not so sure.

  On numerous occasions, usually right after she said she had a headache and did not want to spend the night at his place, Ruben accused her of pulling Harbinger out of retirement for her own personal reasons.

  Had she?

  A few months ago she might have vehemently disagreed, but now? Now, all she could think about was Kent. Think of where he might be right this minute. Think of what trouble he could be stirring up. Think of how she should be out there with him hunting a predator rather than in here performing damage control.

  Nicole knew the rumors that circulated the bullpen. Her colleagues thought Kent to be some sort of Svengali. Using his nearly mythical intellect and stubbled good looks, Kent had mesmerized her so deeply that she could look past all his flaws.

  What no one seemed to understand was that it was exactly those flaws that called to her. She had gone to an Ivy League college. She had been around enough brainiacs to not be so easily impressed by sheer intellect alone. Plus, if you put Kent and the other men she had dated over the years in a lineup, the profiler’s looks did not even crack the top five.

  No, only Nicole knew the real basis of her fascination. She was not exactly proud of it, so she did not broadcast it to the world. It was almost safer to let other people think she could be so easily seduced by success.

  For it was not what Kent gave that attracted Nicole, but what he withheld. The profiler would give her mere glimpses of his genius, but hold back that most vital detail. He kept her coming back for more. Professionally and emotionally.

  She knew the impulse was dysfunctional, but a single backhanded compliment from Kent meant more to her than all of Ruben’s declarations of devotion.

  CHAPTER 10

  Ruben tried to keep his eyes forward, watching Glick read their very preliminary report filled with even more preliminary conclusions, but no matter how much he willed his stare ahead, his eyes flickered to Nicole.

  Even though his partner dressed in a stern pantsuit, there was no mistaking Usher for anything but a woman. Her open blazer allowed a bit of cleavage to show. And it was truly a miracle that she could run in those three-inch heels. But just try to take them away from her. Nicole was sensitive about her height. She did not want to look small. Frail.

  How anyone could look into those green eyes and think her weak, Ruben would never know. He waited for her to glance over, but Nicole was far more successful at keeping her gaze across the desk at their captain.

  A mumble from outside the office drew Ruben’s attention. At least half a dozen uniforms still hung around the bullpen, mostly officers fresh from being released from their TO. These young bucks certainly weren’t waiting for Ruben, Nicole, or even Glick. The word must have gotten out that Harbinger had been summoned to the captain’s office. The naïve officers hoped for a sighting of the famous profiler.

  Famous, my ass, Ruben wanted to retort, but that remark would pretty much prove him as unstable as Kent.

  A grunt from the captain brought Ruben’s attention back to the room. Glick must have gotten to the part where Nicole tried to justify why Harbinger hadn’t called for backup.

  Again, Ruben’s eyes strayed to his partner. Her eyes were cast down, fixated on the hands crossed in her lap, where a finger toyed with a single string from her bookmark. Over and over again she entwined the thread around her fingertip, then released it. A nervous habit. One that she only displayed when Harbinger invaded her life.

  How he hated seeing her like this. Her heel tapped ever so quietly, like a schoolgirl nervous about being called to the principal’s office.

  By the set of her lips, Ruben knew how alone she felt. Once again, Kent had fucked up and, once again, left Nicole to clean up the mess. After her difficult childhood, raising her younger sister, and then working her way through college, she deserved far better than this. Far better than a profiler who abandoned her at every turn.

  Tonight though, she proved that, yet again, she could not abandon Harbinger. While Ruben took the statement from Officer Macaine, he had watched Kent’s and Nicole’s argument. Ruben knew the depth of her fury at Harbinger, yet within a few words, he witnessed the profiler turn Nicole from a self-assured, professional, experienced detective into an uncertain, defensive, and worst of all, submissive woman.

  Although Ruben had to admit that Harbinger had that effect on just about anybody the profiler decided to go up against.

  Kent was an ass, but an ass with a résumé to rival Holmes. Even the FBI had been too small a pond for the profiler. With half a dozen high-profile arrests under his belt by the age of twenty-five, the boy wonder had been recruited into a classified think tank.

  Damn it, why couldn’t the bastard have just stayed tucked away with those other eggheads? But no, someone had to go and randomly poison the nation’s beef supply, forcing the president to personally ask Kent to come out of retirement to solve the apparently unsolvable crime.

  A laugh rose from the bullpen behind him, and then just as quickly, the titter died. Despite Kent’s abject failure to save another victim, the station was still abuzz at the very idea that Harbinger would deign to make an appearance. However, even the most junior officer knew that tonight was not for levity.

  It galled Ruben that whatever social skills Kent lacked, he made up for in reputation. How the profiler had cracked the beef poisoning case was the stuff law enforcement legends were ma
de of.

  After the president’s desperate call, Harbinger had boarded a plane in Chicago completely ignorant of the facts, yet by the time he landed in Washington, D.C., Kent had solved the crime.

  Yep, the prick had cracked a masterful scheme that had brought the stock market tumbling a thousand points and dropped the meat industry to its knees while he sipped champagne in first class.

  Without any fanfare, Kent had come off the tarmac and handed the agents, who were waiting to whisk him off to Quantico, a list of leads scribbled on a napkin.

  Despite the president’s orders, the profiler refused to go back to headquarters with them. Instead, as only Harbinger could, Kent went into an airport restaurant and ordered a steak.

  Rare.

  The bastard had been that damn sure he knew the pattern of the poisonings, he ordered a fucking porterhouse. Before Kent had finished his meal, a group of domestic terrorists, who had evaded seven separate task forces for over eleven months and traveled all over the country undetected, had been arrested.

  But the story did not end there. When Harbinger received the congratulatory call from the director of the FBI himself, Kent told his old boss that he was billing the agency for a full day’s wages and taking the afternoon off so that he could go comic book shopping.

  Ruben sighed. It was probably that last part that had sealed Harbinger’s reputation with the young officers.

  It truly was a great story. Who else but the profiler could have realized that the terrorists had spiked poison into the anti-bacterial fluid that meat handlers used to sanitize their hands? And not every bag, but every third one delivered.

  He might have had a begrudging respect for the profiler, had he not met the man behind the legend.

  Having to actually work with that level of genius made him just want to punch the guy rather than worship him.

  How could anyone put a theory forward or think to disagree with a man whose advice had been sought by presidents and kings alike?