Chapter Thirty Eight

Sheryl Harmon didn’t make it home that night. The soccer coach called Harold at six when Sheryl didn’t pick up their son from practice. He had to cook dinner and put their son to bed. Then he started making phone calls.

The following evening, Rene was watching her partner as he scowled and bit on the end of his pen as if his life depended on it. It grieved her to see him like this, as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. He took every Mummy Man victim personally, as if it were somehow his fault. Her heart ached for him, really. Perhaps retirement would be the only escape for him. Couldn’t he see it wasn’t his fault? After all, he wasn’t the caped superhero of Louisville, Kentucky.

She finally said what had to be said: “David, you can’t blame yourself for a troubled city and the sick fuck who’s killing the women in it.”

“It’s ‘Agent Turner’ when we’re at work. You know that,” he growled, then immediately regretted it.

The phone rang and he took the call while shooting her a chastened look. It wasn’t her fault there was a psycho causing mayhem in their city and they couldn’t find him. He didn’t apologize, though. There’d be plenty of time for apologies and maybe a little retribution later.

“This is Turner.”

“We’ve got a body and it looks fresh.”

“You need to work on your communication skills, asshole. Is that the only thing you know how to say?”

“Don’t blame me if a serial killer has this city by the balls,” the defensive voice on the other end of the line said. “Just get the fuck down here, Turner.”

Agent Turner slammed the landline receiver back on its cradle, shaking his head in disbelief. He’d aged ten years since the Mummy Man had started terrorizing the city and it was taking a toll on his partner as well as himself. The sooner they could figure this guy out and get him off the street, the better.

“We’ve got another warm one, Rene. Let’s go.”

As he stood from his desk and strode angrily toward the door, she looked at him in disbelief. He never called her by her first name at work. “Hey,” she said softly. “You can’t blame yourself for what a serial killer is doing. You just can’t keep doing this to yourself. It’s aging you.”

“What?” he smirked. “Are you concerned about my looks now?”

“No, of course not. But this level of stress is going to take years off your life. And I’m greedy where time with you is concerned.”

His eyes softened. She was right; not being able to identify the one common denominator in the Mummy Man equation was weighing on him. He was missing something. It was right there in front of him but he couldn’t see it. Fucking forest for the trees.

Women would keep dying if he didn’t figure out that one thing all the murders had in common. Rene could tell him all day long that none of it was his fault, but wasn’t his job to keep the city safe? He didn’t want to be so egotistical as to ask what Louisville, Kentucky, would do without him when he retired. But, hell, the thought had crossed his mind.