Chapter Twenty Seven
Brooke dreaded Friday nights almost as much as the working man looked forward to them. The night when the very darkest side of the underworld should freely emerge in all its corrupted radiance was invariably neutralized by the presence of tourists from the work-a-day world who so rarely showed their faces after dark between Sunday and Thursday. Family men from the suburbs, out with their wives; escapee yuppies; desperate singles, and fresh faced teenagers – dressed to kill, their eyes glazed by the latest drug and the flash of neon.
On Fridays Brooke usually stayed home, keeping company with a few beers and the small army of psychologically tormented profilers who had lately invaded the TV air waves to investigate the most bizarre and evasive serial killers their dem
