On Harrow Hill

Next up was MICHAEL KRACKOWER, MALWARE CONSULTANT, a gimlet-­eyed fast talker. The white lettering on his black tee shirt said TRUST NO ONE. He claimed that the events in Larchfield were the tip of a vast iceberg, that Billy Tate’s return to life was linked to CIA experiments with “resurrection drugs,” that artificial-intelligence life-forms were infiltrating the media, and that malignant government forces were manipulating the weather, the stock market, and the avocado industry. He said that the police department reference to three murders was an obvious lie, the truth being at least triple that.

The next three contributors described post-resurrection sightings of Tate in which his body was smoldering, he was urinating a shower of sparks, and he was speaking in tongues.

Kasak appeared again with the facade of St. Giles behind him. “Wow! What a frightening picture we’re getting of Billy Tate, the Larchfield Slasher, before and after that fateful lightning bolt—which we’ll hear about now from Dr. Elmer Bird, a leading researcher on the mind-blowing effects lightning can have on the human psyche.”

Bird, an octogenarian in a rumpled white shirt, tilting red bow tie, and thick glasses, sat behind a desk. “You ask me about what lightning could do.” He sniffled loudly and cleared his throat. “A lot, I’ll say. First, it could kill you. Burn you, blind you, paralyze you. Tremendous voltage. The power to reorganize the electrochemistry of the brain, or destroy it completely. Not frequent, once in a while, this has effects we cannot imagine.”

Kasak was back on the screen. “There you have it. Scientific information. We still have some big unanswered questions. We’ll be taking a deep dive into those questions in the next installment of Crimes Beyond Reason—when we’ll be joined by the controversial Mars Brothers, Clinton and Delbert, who’ve achieved worldwide fame as zombie hunters! Now, here’s a frightening image I want to leave you with—the message Billy Tate left in the homes of two female victims. Some say the message was meant for them. Some say it was intended for all of us. Take a look . . . and pray that it doesn’t give you nightmares.

The image that came into focus on the screen, accompanied by horror-movie music, was the message on Mary Kane’s living room wall:

I AM

THE DARK ANGEL

WHO ROSE

FROM THE DEAD

The entire screen turned blood-red. With a succession of drumbeats, it faded to black. An announcer’s voice intoned, “RAM-TV. We deliver reality.”

Aspern tapped an icon on his phone, and the screen went blank. He slammed his hand down on the table. “That video of the Dark Angel claptrap on the victim’s wall—I want to know who leaked that to Kasak. If we can’t keep control of something like that, what can we control?”

Irate mutterings of agreement went around the table.

Aspern aimed his next question at Morgan. “Crime-scene photos—they’re taken by people who report to you. Am I right?”

Morgan nodded.

“And they’re shared on an as-needed basis with people who report to you?”

“Yes.”

“Then someone who reports to you must be the damn leaker.”

“I suppose that’s . . . possible.”

“Possible?! It sounds like an obvious conclusion!”

Morgan shifted in his chair and cleared his throat.

Gurney had an aversion to triangulating a confrontation, but a greater aversion to the bullying arrogance in Aspern’s voice. He spoke up calmly. “It’s not that obvious.”

Aspern glared at the challenge. “What are you talking about?”

“What makes you so sure that the leaked video is the one the police took at the scene?”

“Well, who the hell else . . .” Aspern’s angry tone faded, as it evidently dawned on him that the limb he was out on was fragile. “Are you saying someone else had access to the scene?”

Gurney waited patiently.

Hilda Russell leaned forward. “Chandler, for goodness’ sake, isn’t it obvious?”

Aspern looked like he’d regurgitated something bitter. “You’re saying the leaked video may have come from Billy Tate?”

Gurney nodded. “Kyra Barstow documented the message on the wall with individual photos, not a motion video.”

Aspern rechanneled his anger. “So, what the hell is Tate up to?”

“He wants attention,” said Gurney. “And apparently knows how to get it.”

“Speaking of attention,” interjected Hilda Russell, looking down the table toward Morgan, “I’m wondering if our police department has the resources to give these multiple murders the attention they require. Are you any closer to making an arrest today than you were yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that?”

In Gurney’s opinion, the honest answer to the question would be no. Instead, Morgan sidled around it like a politician. “Right now, Hilda, we’re focusing on a locale where Tate may be holed up. We’ve got ten extra officers coming over from Bastenburg to join our guys in a major sweep of the Harrow Hill area.”

Aspern leaned forward. “What do you mean by major—”